By the time they all became used to the commandeered schooner the whole affair would be over. He tugged down his hat to shade his eyes from the reflected glare and examined her critically. She was about eighty feet in length and twenty at her beam. He stifled a yawn, and it was not even the forenoon watch. They had cast off at an hour most landsmen would still consider the dead of night. Even the sounds had seemed louder: squealing blocks and muffled oaths as they edged away from other, sleeping vessels and hoisted the big gaff-headed mainsail. It had taken time, as all but a handful of Delfim’s original crew were ashore, under lock and key. Culprits or hostages, their fate would be decided later. He tried not to look at the schooner’s master, standing beside Bolitho and an armed seaman. Another footstep interrupted his thoughts. This time it was Murray, the surgeon. They had all been too busy to speak much, but Squire had asked him about Claire Dundas. Murray had evaded the question, saying only in good hands or a very brave young woman.
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