"Aye, he's gone, Yor Worship. He's a quick one, to be sure." The Scottish infantryman gave only a passing glance as he threw his weight against the oar. "You'll na be catching him, on my faith."
"And what about you?"
"With Yor Worship's leave, I'd as soon be stay in' on with you." He gave another powerful stroke with the oar. "Where’er you're bound, 'tis all one to me."
"What were you before? A seaman?"
"A landsman, Yor Worship, I'll own it. I was took in the battle of Dunbar and impressed into the Roundhead army, made to come out here to the Caribbees. But I've had a bellyful of these Roundheads and their stinking troop ships, I swear it. I kept my pigs better at home. I'd serve you like you was the king himself if you'd give me leave."
"MacEwen, wasn't it?"
"Aye, Yor Worship. At your service."
"Then heave to." Winston pulled at the other oar. Through the dark they could just make out the bobbing form, now neck deep in the surf. She was supporting the black arms of yet another body.
"Senhora!" Winston called through the rain.
The white-clad figure turned and stared blankly toward them. She seemed overcome with exhaustion, unsure even where she was.