Enemy in Sight! (20 page)

When he looked astern the next boat was already pulling into line, but when he strained his eyes further he found that the ship had seemingly disappeared into shadow, with not even a single light showing from her hull to betray her activity.

Not that it was likely for anyone to be watching from the shore, he thought grimly. This was a forsaken stretch of coast. A waste-ground which had long defied nature and man alike.

He touched the hilt of his sword and thought suddenly of Cheney. Further and further away. It seemed as if the separation would never be eased. That she had become part of the dream which home and country always represented to the sailor.

He shivered suddenly as if in a cold wind. Next month would bring spring to the hedgerows and fields of Cornwall. And to the house below Pendennis Castle it would bring him a child.

Shambler called hoarsely, “Surf ahead, sir! 'Bout a cable's dis- tance away!”

Bolitho came back from his brief dream. “That'll be the tide across the river mouth. You may begin sounding directly.”

A seaman moved his foot, perhaps from cramp, and a mus- ket clattered loudly on the bottom boards.

“Keep those men silent!” Bolitho lifted slightly to peer above the crowded figures as the river mouth opened up on either bow.

“Aye, aye, sir!”

He stiffened. It was Pascoe's voice, and he had not even known he was in this boat.

Allday moved the tiller very slightly and then muttered, “Thought it best to have the young gentleman aboard, Captain. Just to keep an eye on him, so to speak.”

Bolitho glanced at him. “No wonder you never married, Allday. You would leave little for a woman to worry about!”

Allday grinned in the darkness. The rasp in Bolitho's tone was as familiar to him as the wind in the shrouds. It was just his way. But in a moment or so the captain would make amends.

Bolitho dropped back into the sternsheets. “But thank you, Allday, for your concern.”

Without looking at his watch Bolitho knew it was close on noon. The sun which had been in his face since early dawn now blazed down from directly overhead with the fierce heat of an open furnace.

He touched Allday's arm. “We will rest here.” His lips felt cracked and dry, so that even few words were an effort.

“Easy all! Boat your oars!”

The seamen hauled the long oars inboard, while from for- ward came a splash as the bowman hurled a grapnel into the nearest clump of reeds.

Bolitho watched his men lolling across the thwarts and gun- wales like corpses, their eyes closed and faces turned away from the sun which pinned them down in its relentless glare.

Dawn had found the four boats pulling strongly and well in spite of the salt-stained rushes and occasional sandbars. Zigzag- ging between the various obstacles had not been too difficult at first, and at most times the boats were all in sight of each other. Then as the blue sky faded in the mounting glare the stroke became slower, and time after time one boat and then another would lose valuable effort in backing from some hidden wedge of sand, or be thrown into confusion as its oarsmen caught their blades in the encroaching clumps of reeds.

But now, as the next boat pushed slowly through the motion- less fronds to drop a grapnel nearby, Bolitho had forcibly to control his despair. It was like wandering in some insane maze, with only the sun and his small compass to show him the key to the puzzle. The reeds, which had broken and parted so easily near the river mouth, now stood all around the boats, thick and dark green, and in most places higher than the tallest man. If wind there was, the sweating and gasping men gained no relief from it, for the tall reeds and interlaced creepers acted as a cruelly effec- tive barrier, so that the sun blazed down on the boats without pause, making movement unbearable.

Lieutenant Lang leaned across the gunwale of his cutter and rested one hand on the smooth wood for just a few seconds before jerking it away with a curse.

“My God, it's as hot as a musket barrel!” He tugged his shirt open across his chest and added, “How far have we come, sir?”

Bolitho said, “About five miles. We must push forward if we are to make up the time. We will rest all night, otherwise the boats could get scattered and lost.”

He looked down over the side. There was a current of sorts, twisting and turning amidst the reeds in countless tiny rivers. It was a dark, secret world, and the choked water seemed alive with tiny bubbles, released gases from drowned vegetation and rotten roots, but giving the impression of unseen life, or creatures wait- ing for the intruders to pass.

“After this the men will have to work shorter watches. Six men to a side, half an hour at the most.” He wiped his face with the back of his hand and stared at a bright winged insect on his skin. “They will face forrard and paddle. There is no room for rowing now.” He waited until more splashes told him the other boats were drawing close. “Tell the bowmen to use boathooks and
feel
the way through. At the deepest part there seems little more than eight feet or so of water. And it will become shallower, I have no doubt.”

Lieutenant Quince's cutter idled broadside amongst the cling- ing rushes, the men drooping on the oar looms, the hull scarred in many places by the slow tortuous passage.

Quince looked alert enough, and had a strip of canvas across the back of his neck. “I make it five miles, sir.” He stood up in the boat and tried to peer above the nearest clump. “I can't even see a hill. It seems to go on and on forever.”

Bolitho snapped, “Don't let the men sleep!” He shook the oarsman nearest to him. “Wake up, man! Keep those insects from eating you alive or you'll be dead in a matter of days!”

The sailor in question dragged himself upright and half- heartedly slapped aside some of the countless flies and buzzing insects which had been constant companions since daybreak.

Quince said suddenly, “May I suggest you lash an oar upright in your boat, sir? If we get separated it would give us an aiming mark.”

Bolitho nodded. “See to it, Allday.” It was good to know that Quince at least was thinking as well as suffering.

One of the seamen craned over the gunwale and cupped his hands in the sluggish stream. Allday barked, “Avast there!” Then as the man withdrew his hands he dipped his neckcloth in the water and tasted it on his tongue.

He spat savagely across the gunwale. “Muck!” In a calmer tone he added, “Tastes of salt and something else, Captain.” He screwed up his mouth with revulsion. “As if a thousand corpses were buried here.”

Bolitho raised his voice. “D'you hear that? So hang on and wait for the proper issue of fresh water. The stink here is bad enough, so just think what the water would do to your entrails!”

Here and there a man nodded soberly, but Bolitho knew they would all have to be watched. He had seen men drink salt water and go raving mad in a matter of hours. In spite of any amount of training and experience, thirst could always be relied on to drive men to taking that first drink, even though they might have just witnessed the horrible death of one so tempted.

Wearily he said, “We will proceed. Raise the grapnel!”

Groaning, the selected seamen rose to their feet and poised the oars along the sides like paddles. It was an uncomfortable way to move, but less wasteful than having the boat halted every few minutes while oars were jerked free from rushes and mud.

And what mud it was. When one of the men withdrew his blade Bolitho saw it was dripping with reeking black filth which shone in the sunlight like boiling pitch. Anxiously he watched as the man dipped his oar again and then breathed more easily. It moved without hindrance this time, and he knew the boat had edged once more into deeper water.

He saw Pascoe squatting on one of the barricoes, his head in his hands as he stared outboard at the passing wall of green fronds. His shirt was torn across one shoulder, and already the bared skin gleamed dull red through his tan, as if he had been struck by a hot ember.

He called, “Come aft, Mr Pascoe.” He had to repeat the invi- tation before the boy lifted his head and then climbed slowly above the lolling seamen as if walking in his sleep.

Bolitho said quietly, “Cover your shoulder, lad. You'll be as raw as beef directly if you give the sun its opportunity.”

He watched him pulling the torn shirt into place, seeing the fresh sweat breaking across his forehead with the effort. He thought suddenly of Stepkyne and cursed him beneath his breath.

He continued, “I may want you to shin up that oar in the bows tomorrow and take a look around us. You are the lightest soul aboard, so you had better save your strength.”

Pascoe turned his head and looked up at him, his eyes half hidden by his unruly hair. “I can do it, sir.” He nodded vaguely. “I will do it.”

Bolitho turned, away, unable to watch the boy's feverish deter- mination which seemed to dog him every hour of the day. He would never shirk any task, even if it was normally allotted to a hardened seaman, and Bolitho knew he would kill himself rather than admit defeat. It was just as if he nursed his father's shame like a permanent spur. As if he considered that he must prove himself, if only to wipe away Hugh's disgrace.

As the boy peered astern to look for the following cutter Bolitho stole another glance at him. What would he say if he knew the real truth? That his father was still alive, serving as a convict in New Holland under another man's name? He dismissed the thought immediately. Distance healed nothing, he knew that now. It would only drag out the boy's agony, fill him with new doubts or impossible hopes.

Allday licked his lips, “Change round! Next men on the oars there!”

Bolitho shaded his eyes to look at the bare sky. Only the occa- sional gurgle of water around the stern made any sense of movement. This jerking, wretched progress seemed endless, as if they would go on and on into green oblivion and die of thirst, their graves the boats in which he had committed all of them to this hopeless gesture.

He groped for the compass and stared at it for a full minute. An insect crawled across the glass cover and he brushed it aside with something like anger. At best they might manage a full ten miles before nightfall. And this was the easiest part of the jour- ney. Tomorrow, and the day after that would bring more hazards as the boats pushed further and further into the swamp. He glanced quickly at the seamen nearest to him. Their unfamiliar faces were strained and apprehensive, and they dropped their eyes when they saw him watching them.

Fighting and if necessary dying they could understand. Surrounded by men and objects aboard their own ship which shared their everyday life the demands of battle were as familiar as the harsh discipline and unquestionable authority which had made them the breed they were. But such standards were born as much from trust as from any code of conduct. The trust of each other, the measure of skill of their officers who ruled their very existence.

But now, under the command of a man they did not even know, and committed to an operation which must appear as treach- erous as their surroundings, they must be feeling their first doubts. And from such uncertainty could grow the beginnings of failure.

He said, “Pass the word to anchor again. We will break out rations and rest for half an hour.” He waited for Allday to call to the boat astern before adding, “One cup of water per man, and see that it is taken slowly.”

Pascoe asked suddenly, “When we reach the other end of the swamp might we be able to find some more water, sir?” His dark eyes were studying Bolitho with grave contemplation. “Although I expect we will fight first.”

Bolitho watched the first seaman at the barricoe, the pannikin to his lips while he held back his head to make certain of the last drop. But he was still hearing Pascoe's words, his quiet confidence which at this particular moment did more to steady his thoughts than he would have believed possible.

He replied, “I have no doubt we shall discover both water
and
fighting.” Then he smiled in spite of his parched lips. “So take your drink now, lad, and let the rest come in its own good time.”

It was in the evening that progress ground to a sudden halt. No amount of thrusting or levering would budge the boat from its bed of sludge and rotting weed, and in spite of Shambler's threats and Allday's stubborn efforts the seamen leaned on their oars and stared at the setting sun with something like defiance. They were worn out and ready to collapse, and as Lang's boat lurched close astern Bolitho knew he must act at once if the last hour of daylight was to be used.

“Over the side! Lively there!” He strode along the tilting boat, ignoring the resentful faces and stinging insects. “Get those lines up forrard, Mr Shambler! We will warp her through to the next stretch of deep water!”

As the bosun's mates hauled the coils of rope from the bot- tom boards Bolitho stood in the bows and stripped off his shirt and swordbelt, and then gritting his teeth lowered himself into the pungent water and reached up to take one of the lines.

Allday shouted, “Move yourselves!” And vaulting over the gunwale he took another line and looped it round his shoulders like a halter, before wading after Bolitho without even a glance to see who was following.