As the boat shot away from the mole, she sank down in the sternsheets at the side of her companion, who had swooned. On his other side, Blood was kneeling, and the deft fingers of the buccaneer, who once had been a surgeon, located and gropingly examined that wound, high in the shoulder.
'Give yourself peace,' he comforted the girl. 'This is no great matter. A little bloodletting has made him faint. That is all. You'll soon have him well again.'
She breathed a little prayer of thanks, 'Gracias a Dios,' then, with a backward glance in the direction of the mole, urged the men to greater effort.
As the boat sped over the dark water towards a ship's lantern a half–mile away, the Englishman stirred and looked about him.
'What the plague…' he began, and struggled to rise.
Blood's hand restrained him. 'Quiet,' he said. 'There's no need for alarm. We're taking you aboard.'
'Taking me aboard? Who the devil are you?'
'Jorgito,' the girl cried, 'it is the gentleman who saved your life.'
'Odso! You're there, Isabelita?' His next question showed that he took in the situation. 'Are they following?'
When she had reassured him and pointed ahead to the ship's lantern towards which they were heading, he laughed softly, then cursed the Indians.