Colours Aloft! by Alexander Kent

avoided the issue. “I’ll speak with her.” He hesitated, “Unless you advise to the contrary?”
    The surgeon led the way towards the small, bright place.
    â€œShe knows where she is, but be patient, I beg you.”
    Keen stepped into the sickbay and saw the girl lying face down on a pillow and covered with a sheet. She appeared to be sleeping, but Keen could tell by her quick breathing that she was pretending. The surgeon pulled down the sheet and Keen saw her back tense.
    Tuson said in his soft, matter-of-fact tones, “The scar is healing, but—” He lifted a loose dressing and Keen saw the deep cut left by the whip. If he had not acted promptly, or had not gone over to the ship at all, she would be crippled or dead. In the lantern light the scar looked black.
    Tuson pointed to hair which was long and dark brown; it was matted and tangled and as he touched it Keen saw her stiffen again.
    He said, “She needs a bath and some fresh clothing.”
    Keen said, “I’ll send a lieutenant over to the Orontes as soon as we anchor. She must have some possessions surely.”
    His words seemed to strike her like the whip and she rolled over violently, covering her breasts with the sheet and oblivious to the immediate droplets of blood which broke from her scar.
    â€œ No, not back there! Please, not back to that, that place!”
    Keen was taken aback by the outburst. The girl was almost beautiful, something which bruises and disordered hair could not conceal. She had small, well-shaped hands, and eyes so wide they were almost starting from her face as she pleaded with him.
    He said, “Easy, girl. Easy now.” He reached out to steady her but saw Tuson give a quick shake of his head.
    The surgeon said, “This is the captain. He saved you from the flogging.”
    She looked at Keen’s anxious face and said, “ You, sir?” It was little more than a whisper. “It was you?”
    She had a soft, West Country voice. It was impossible to imagine her standing trial and being transported in that filthy vessel with the other prisoners.
    â€œYes.” Around him the ship kept up her continuous chorus of creaks and groans with the occasional boom of water beyond the massive timbers as the keel crashed into a trough. But Keen was conscious only of stillness, as if all time had suddenly stopped.
    He heard himself ask, “What’s your name?”
    She glanced quickly at the surgeon, who nodded encouragingly.
    â€œCarwithen.” She clutched the sheet tighter as Tuson readjusted the dressings on her back.
    â€œWhere are you from?”
    â€œDorset, sir, from Lyme.” Her small chin lifted briefly and he saw it tremble. “But I’m Cornish really.”
    Tuson grunted, “Thought so.” He straightened his back. “Now lie still, and don’t open the cut again. I’ll have some food brought down.” He turned to the door and beckoned to his waiting assistant.
    She looked at Keen once more and said in a hoarse whisper, “You really are the captain, sir?”
    Keen knew that her guard was about to break. He had grown up with two younger sisters and knew the first signs. God alone knew, she had suffered enough.
    He moved to the door, pausing as the hull dipped and then reluctantly lifted her eighteen hundred tons for the next challenge. The girl did not take her eyes from his face. “What will you have done with me, sir?”
    Her eyes were shining. He must not be here when the tears broke through.
    Instead he asked bluntly, “What’s your first name?”
    She seemed caught off balance. “Zenoria.”
    He backed away. “Well, Zenoria, do as the surgeon directs. I will ensure that no harm comes to you.”
    He passed the sentry without even seeing him.
    What had he done? How could he promise her anything, and why should he? He did not even know her.
    As he hurried up the first companion ladder he