Enemy in Sight! (24 page)

They had come thirty miles to do this. Thirty miles of swamp and impossible hardship, yet only once had the morale nearly bro- ken. He watched the hobbling wounded and the ones still left who could stand and fight. There were very few of the latter.

Quince added quietly, “Mr Fox reports that the sloop
Dasher
is anchored below the headland, sir. She's lowering boats to take us off.”

“Very well.” Even speech was too much. “Have the wounded carried down to the foreshore as soon as the last gun is over the edge.” He turned to watch as the heavy cannon rolled over the cliff and plunged into the deep water amidst several bobbing corpses.

When Quince returned he found Bolitho standing alone, his eyes on the ships in the bay.

The lieutenant said, “
Hermes
has lowered boats, sir. I think she is putting a raiding party ashore to add to the Frogs' dis- comfort.”

Resistance had ceased aboard the nearest French ship, and she was already listing badly with her lower ports awash. The second one was burning so fiercely that for one brief moment Bolitho imagined Inch had taken his ship too close to the savage flames and would perish with her. But as
Hyperion'
s topsails filled and hardened on the new tack he saw the sparks and drifting ashes passing well abeam, while some of the French survivors paused in their frantic swimming to tread water and stare up at the slow- moving two-decker with her fierce-eyed figurehead and cheering seamen.

Of the other two French ships there was no sign at all, and he guessed they had weighed and clawed around the far head- land even as the attacking squadron entered the bay at the opposite end.

He saw Pascoe standing by the abandoned furnace, his dirk still in his hand. “Come with me, boy. You have seen and done enough for ten men today.”

Pascoe looked at him gravely. “Thank you, sir,” was all he said.

The lieutenant in charge of the sloop's boats watched the ragged and bleeding survivors with something like horror. “Where are the rest?” He could not even recognise an officer amidst the exhausted figures which waded or were carried into the boats.

Bolitho waited until the last man was aboard and then fol- lowed. He said coldly, “We are the
rest!
” Then he sat in silence watching his party which could hardly fill two boats let alone the four which had been left far behind.

He saw the
Telamon
going about, her yards bedecked with signal flags as she heeled to the fresh breeze from the shore. There was no sign at all of the
Indomitable,
but Bolitho was too weary to care.

Quince said, “That's the signal to withdraw, sir. The com- modore must be aboard the Dutchman.”

Bolitho glanced up, unable to hide the bitterness any longer. “Then for his own safety I hope he stays there!”

Then he looked at his men again. Lang, sobbing quietly, his hands across his bandaged eyes, and the others too spent and drained even to respond to the men who cheered them from the anchored sloop. They had done what had been asked of them, and more beside, but the spark had gone with the last shot, the inner strength quenched as survival and help had driven away the madness and desperate bravery of battle. Now they just sat or lay like mindless beings, their eyes turned inward, examining perhaps the last stricken images, which given time they might recall with pride or terror, with sadness for those left behind, or with thanks- giving for being spared at their expense.

The sloop's young commander met Bolitho and said excit- edly, “Welcome aboard, sir! Is there anything I can do for you before I weigh?”

Bolitho stared past him towards the blazing ship. She was almost gone now, just a few blackened timbers which still defied the fire, and some last buoyancy to keep her afloat and bare her misery to watching eyes.

He replied, “Get me to my ship.” He tried to force his mind to obey him, to hold back the dragging weariness which made his limbs feel like lead. “And see that these men are cared for. They have come a long way and must not suffer to no good pur- pose.”

The commander frowned, uncertain what Bolitho meant. Then he hurried away to pass his orders, his mind busy with what he had witnessed and how he would retell it one day.

Later as the ships sailed from the bay and re-formed into line the smoke was still following them on the wind, the air heavy with ashes and a smell of death.

Lieutenant Inch stepped hesitantly into the stern cabin and blinked at the glare from the sea below the counter.

“You sent for me, sir?”

Bolitho was stripped to the waist and shaving hurriedly, a mirror propped on the top of his desk.

“Yes. Have there been any signals from the
Telamon?
”

Inch watched round-eyed as Bolitho towelled his face vig- orously and then pulled a clean shirt over his head. Bolitho had been back aboard his own ship less than five hours but had hardly paused to take a meal, let alone rest after his return from the swamp and the destruction of the enemy battery.

He answered, “Nothing, sir.”

Bolitho walked to the quarter windows and stared at the haze-shrouded shoreline far away on the starboard beam. On a slow larboard tack the ships were making little progress, and when he peered astern at the
Hermes
he saw that her sails were almost flat and unmoving, her hull shimmering above the haze of her own reflection.

He had expected Pelham-Martin to call his captains aboard the
Telamon
for a conference, or to send some sort of congratu- lations to the exhausted raiding party. Instead, the signal to heave to had been hoisted, and after another frustrating delay boats had shoved off from the
Hermes
loaded to the gunwales with men and headed immediately for the
Hyperion'
s side.

Lieutenant Quince had come with the boats to announce that the
Hermes'
brief raid on the waterfront at Las Mercedes had found and breached the prison and had released some sixty sea- men held prisoner there, fifty of whom Captain Fitzmaurice had sent across to supplement Bolitho's own company. Also, Quince had come aboard to say goodbye. Pelham-Martin had appointed him as acting commander of the disabled
Indomitable,
with orders to make sail forthwith for Antigua, some six hundred miles to the north-east, where English Harbour could afford the necessary facilities for repairs, enough at least for her return to England and the refit she so sorely needed.

Bolitho had been on deck to watch the listing seventy-four as she had edged slowly away from her consorts, showing her scars and battered hull, the clanking pumps telling only too well of her struggle to stay afloat. No wonder she had played no part in the final attack on Las Mercedes. One more broadside and she would likely have keeled over and sunk.

It was good to know Quince had received a reward for his unfailing efforts, and as Bolitho had watched the
Indomitable'
s shape melting into the sea haze, her torn sails and shattered top- masts somehow symbolic of the pain and death within her hull, he had thought of Winstanley, and how pleased he would have been to know his ship was in such good hands.

But now they were sailing eastward again, with no apparent thought for chasing the two French ships which had escaped the attack, and no intimation at all of what Pelham-Martin intended to do next.

During his brief visit Quince had said, “It seems that our commodore is well pleased with the results, sir. Two French sail of the line destroyed and the others put to flight.”

Bolitho had replied coldly, “We could have destroyed them all!”

Quince had been watching him soberly. “You did all that you could, sir. I think the whole squadron knows that, and rightly.”

Bolitho had merely shrugged. “I cannot be content with half measures.”

He laid the razor on the desk and sighed, “Have you sworn in the new men, Mr Inch?”

“Aye, sir. I have questioned some of them too, just as you instructed.”

Bolitho walked restlessly to the opposite side and shaded his eyes to stare at the empty horizon. It was like a bright gold line in the late afternoon sunlight. He had wanted to meet and ques- tion these released men himself, but had been unable to face anyone as yet. Like the moment he had returned aboard, the cheers and yells of welcome ringing in his ears as he and the others had climbed from the sloop's jolly boat, the noise and force of the greeting making him more aware of his own complete fatigue.

And Inch most of all. Bobbing and grinning, his anxiety giv- ing way to an almost incoherent flood of pleasure which even Bolitho's false harshness could not dispel.

Inch said suddenly, “All of them are prime seamen, sir. They were survivors of a merchantman,
Bristol Queen,
which was wrecked a while ago in a storm while bound for Caracas. Some of the crew managed to get away in the boats, and eventually reached Las Mercedes where they were thrown into prison.” He grimaced angrily. “The damned Dons have no feeling for ship- wrecked seamen, it seems.”

Bolitho rested his hands on the desk and stared absently at the uppermost chart. “There were no officers saved, I take it?”

“None, sir.” Inch slapped one hand against his thigh. “But there was one strange piece of good fortune, sir. There is a mas- ter's mate amongst them.” He nodded cheerfully in response to Bolitho's unspoken question, “Aye, sir, a Navy man!”

“Well, do not keep me in suspense, Mr Inch.”

“It seems he and another were picked up a few months back. They had been washed overboard from the
Cornelia,
seventy-four, and were clinging to an upturned quarter boat, at least the mas- ter's mate was. The second man had already died, sir.”

Bolitho nodded thoughtfully. “Saved from death to be impris- oned, eh? Well, he will be both welcome and useful aboard, Mr Inch. I trust you made sure they were all able to send messages to their homes by way of the
Indomitable
before she left the squadron?”

“Lieutenant Quince assured me that was so, sir. But the mas- ter's mate sent neither letter nor message. Unlike the others, I suspect he has no life other than shipboard.”

Bolitho listened to the shrill of pipes and the patter of feet overhead as the watch went about its business.

“What is his name?”

“Selby, sir.”

“Well, send Mr Selby to me now. He might have seen or heard something at Las Mercedes. And I am not satisfied we know half enough that is happening there.” He frowned, unaware of Inch's puzzled expression. “All those Spanish soldiers in French uniforms, the readiness of the ships and careful siting of a field battery.” He shook his head firmly. “No, Mr Inch, I am not at all pleased with our lack of knowledge.”

As Inch departed he returned once more to examining the chart. Where was Lequiller now?

He thought suddenly of Lieutenant Lang, now aboard the
Indomitable
with all the other maimed and wounded, en route for Antigua, and thence to England. What would become of him? The surgeon had been brief and without hope. Lang was com- pletely blind. Having neither private means nor influence he was being sent home to certain oblivion. To join the wretched flot- sam which you saw in every port, in every place where the sea was a constant reminder of their uselessness and rejection.

This master's mate was very welcome now. Bolitho would have to promote Gascoigne to acting lieutenant, experienced or not, and one more professional in the afterguard would be worth his weight in gold.

There was a rap on the door and Inch stepped into the reflected sunlight. “Mr Selby, sir.” He stood aside as the other fig- ure moved into view. “There is a signal from the
Telamon,
sir. To reduce sail and retain close station in readiness for the night.”

Bolitho leaned back against the desk, his fingers locked around its edge in an effort to control his limbs. “Thank you, Mr Inch.” His voice seemed to come from a great distance. “Carry on, if you please.”

Inch opened his mouth and then shut it again. With a brief glance at the master's mate he left the cabin and closed the door quietly behind him.

Bolitho could hear his own breathing, yet could feel nothing of his limbs at all but for the pressure of his fingers on the edge of the desk.

The figure across the cabin was badly stooped, and the hair which was pulled back to the nape of his neck was almost completely grey. But there was no mistaking the firm chin, the steady eyes which watched him now with something like resig- nation.

Bolitho's reeling mind seemed to register incredulity and despair, just as he understood the forces of luck and circumstance, of coincidence and fate which had at last drawn them together once again. As if in a dream he could recall exactly his father's tired face when he had told him of Hugh's disgrace, of his deser- tion from the Navy, and of his final disappearance in the Americas.

He could remember, too, that meeting when he had been Hugh's prisoner aboard the American privateer,
Andiron,
and later, nearly two years ago now, when he had been within yards of him during the collapse of the campaign in St. Clar and Cozar, yet had not seen him.