Enemy in Sight! (28 page)

Inch asked, “Are you ready, sir?”

Bolitho glanced along the jetty and saw Farquhar speaking with his first lieutenant while they waited for their boat to arrive. His brother was standing a little apart, arms folded, his eyes on the distant frigate as she rolled uneasily at her cable. Then he saw Bolitho watching him and walked slowly to meet him.

Bolitho waited until Inch and Gossett were out of earshot and then said fiercely, “You fool! You nearly gave yourself away back there!”

“He made me angry. If he did know who I was he'd let his ship founder rather than have me at the helm!” He smiled sadly. “You'll take care of the boy if anything happens to me, won't you?”

Bolitho studied him for several moments. “You know that.” He heard Farquhar yelling, “Bring that boat alongside, damn your eyes!” It made a sudden urgency, and he had to check himself from touching his brother's arm. “Take care of
yourself.
”

Then he turned and walked back to the others.

Inch said cheerfully, “Poor old Selby! Out of one ship into another!”

“Kindly lend your thoughts to receiving the commodore on board, Mr Inch!” Bolitho turned his back to watch the barge drawing nearer and did not see Inch's confusion or Gossett's unsympathetic grin. He knew the brief anger was only to cover his own uncertainty. To hide the fact that he did after all care about his brother, even though he suspected Hugh was really laughing at him in spite of his constant danger. It had always been so between them, and it seemed now that even the threat of arrest and a traitor's rope could change nothing.

Allday stood and removed his hat as the officers scrambled into the barge.

“I shall want you to return and collect the commodore as soon as I'm aboard.”

Allday nodded. “Aye, aye, Captain.” He gestured to the bowman. “Cast off! Out oars there!” He watched the back of Bolitho's head, sensing his mood. “Give way all!
Together!
”

Bolitho sat rigidly in the sternsheets, his eyes fixed on the black silhouette of the
Hyperion'
s upper yards. He had seen the quick exchange of glances between the bargemen, like privileged persons hearing some secret information. How did men such as these really see their commanders? he wondered. A stern face at a flogging or pronouncing punishment, or a man who strode his quarterdeck, aloof and untroubled by the crowded world beneath his feet? And during battle, did they seek out that same shadowy figure with any sort of real understanding or warmth?

He recalled how these same men had reacted when Pelham- Martin had hauled down his broad pendant, their resentment and hurt, as if their ship and therefore they themselves had been slighted. Now they knew the pendant was returning and seemed genuinely pleased by it. He wondered what they would think of the man beneath the command flag. One so beset with inner wor- ries and personal doubt that faced with another reverse he might well break under the strain.

He looked up and saw the hull high above him, the scarlet- coated marines at the entry port, the gleam of harsh sunlight across upraised bosun's pipes.

As Allday guided the barge beneath the ship's lee he thought suddenly of what Hugh had said.
They'd follow you anywhere.
But men who followed must have the right leadership. It was no use feeling sorry for Pelham-Martin merely because he was out of his depth. These men needed leadership. He frowned. No, they should have it as a right.

He climbed up the side, still thinking of Pelham-Martin even as he returned the salutes and made his way aft to the poop.

“Captain, sir?”

Bolitho opened his eyes and stared dully at the chart beneath his forearm. In the enclosed cabin the deckhead lantern was gyrat- ing wildly, throwing shadows back and forth like spirits in torment, and he was immediately conscious of the increased motion around him.

Allday stood beside the table, a giant pot of coffee tightly grasped against his body.

“What time is it?”

“Seven bells, Captain.” Allday took a cup from the rack and poured some black coffee between the ship's uneven plunges.

Seven bells. Bolitho leaned back in the chair and rubbed his eyes. He had been on deck almost continuously since the ships had quit the bay and butted out into a rising wind. Then for per- haps two hours he had tried to rest. To restore his tired mind before first light. He groaned. The middle watch still had half an hour to run.

Allday stood back to watch him drink. Then he said, “Mr Inch's respects, and the wind's freshening.”

“From the nor'-east?”

“Aye.” He slopped more coffee into the cup.

“Well, that's something to give thanks for.” If it veered now they would have to beat further away from the hidden islands. Without searoom, they might still be caught off guard when the enemy made a dash for it. But if the wind got up or shifted they would be seen the moment the sun rose, and the way would be open either for Lequiller to escape or give battle on his own, over- whelming terms.

He slammed down the cup.
If . . . when . . .
He was begin- ning to think like the commodore.

Allday helped him into his coat. “Will I call the commodore, Captain?”

“No.” He walked out of the chartroom and almost tumbled over the cabin servant who was curled up and asleep in the passageway.

He said, “Leave the rest of the coffee with him.” He glanced at the sealed door of the stern cabin, the marine sentry swaying in the lantern light like a toy soldier. “He can give it to the com- modore in a moment.” He's not even asleep, he thought. Probably lying there staring at the deckhead, listening to every sound.

The quarterdeck was in total darkness, and the sudden noise of wind and sea told him instantly of the increasing force behind them.

Inch groped towards him. “We'll have to shorten sail again, sir.” Bolitho walked up the tilting deck and cupped his hand over the compass bowl. South by west. He could picture the desper- ate, struggling course they had taken since leaving St. Kruis. Up and round in a great circle, mostly into the teeth of the wind, with all hands on deck for much of the time. Now they were sail- ing south again, on what was to have been the easiest part. The islands were somewhere across the starboard bow, and with the wind pushing down on the opposite quarter they would have all the advantage if an enemy came out of shelter. It would spoil everything now if they overreached their proper station.

“Very well, Mr Inch. Take in another reef.”

He wondered if the
Spartan
was near those treacherous approaches yet. Whether his brother could remember so long back . . . he broke off as Inch said, “
Hermes
is still on station, sir. We saw her close astern at six bells.” He was yelling above the wind, his face shining with spray in the dim compass light.

“And the
Telamon?
”

“No sign, sir.” Inch broke off to yell at some men nearby who had not heeded or heard the demanding call of the bosun's pipe.

Overhead the sails cracked and thundered remorselessly as the hands fought to contain them in pitch darkness. Bolitho could well imagine the terror of being up there. Yet it was excellent sail- ing weather. If only they could free themselves from these wretched islands. Sail and fight had been intended, instead of taking the power out of the old ship's sails when she had such strength to offer.

Inch shouted, “How do you think Mr Selby is managing, sir?”

It was an innocent question and he was obviously trying to make amends for what he still imagined was his own lapse whilst waiting for the barge.

“Well enough.”

Inch nodded vaguely. “He has a way with him. Like Captain Farquhar, I thought him familiar at first.”

Bolitho stiffened. Inch couldn't possibly have remembered him also. In St. Clar his brother had passed Inch in the darkness before the final evacuation, had handed him a ring, his mother's ring, to give to him as an only sign of recognition, and to say that he was not dead after all.

Inch said, “It must be something about the man, sir.” He showed his teeth in an uncertain grin. “Young Mr Pascoe's quite taken with him and seemed quite worried when he left the ship. Strange how these things happen.”

Stranger than you know. Aloud he replied, “Now, if you have quite finished, Mr Inch, perhaps you would be good enough to rouse the commodore and inform him of the weather. If the wind mounts further we will wear ship and gain more searoom.”

Inch paused as Bolitho added coldly, “Just tell the commodore the barest details, if you please. I am sure he will be in no mood for light conversation at this time of morning.”

He saw a shadow move by the lee rail and called, “Mr Gascoigne! How do you enjoy your first watch as acting lieu- tenant?”

Gascoigne staggered up the slanting deck, paused and then almost fell as the ship wallowed sickeningly into a steep trough.

“Quite well, sir.” He swallowed hard and added lamely, “Although only when Mr Inch is on deck too, sir. Once when I was left alone I had a great dread that the ship was carrying me and every soul aboard into something solid yet invisible.” He shuddered. “All this fabric and spars, the men below and the great weight of guns, yet I could find no word, even had there
been
danger.”

“That is natural.” Bolitho gripped the rail, feeling it wet and cold under his hand. “Once you are over that sensation you start to learn how to master the ship yourself, without waiting for oth- ers to say and do things for you. You get the
feel
of her. You discover her moods, good or bad, and learn to give her head when the moment offers itself.”

Gascoigne grinned. “I never thought of it like that.” He walked away as Inch reappeared.

“Well?”

Inch replied, “I told him, sir.”

There was something else. He asked more gently, “Was he asleep?”

“No, sir.” He sounded puzzled. “He is just sitting there on the bench seat, the most uncomfortable place in a quarter sea in my opinion. He is fully dressed, sir. Just sitting there.” His voice trailed away.

Bolitho clapped him on the shoulder. “The privilege of rank, my lad!” Then he strode to the weather side before Inch could see his expression.

So it was worse than he had thought. Pelham-Martin was unable to lie down let alone sleep. Figures ran across the main deck and once he heard a man laugh, the sound strangely sad in the chorus of wind and straining rigging. He wanted to pace to quieten his troubled mind, but knew the motion was too savage for that. Here, on this very quarterdeck, two admirals had died within feet of him. One had been brave but stupid, while the other had died uncomplaining of his wound. He had been as courageous as he had been misguided, but never at any time had he faltered from what he thought to be his set duty. And before them perhaps other flag officers had fallen here. The lucky ones to be buried at sea or carried home to weeping relatives in casks of spirits to be laid to rest in some family vault. The unlucky had lingered on to die at a surgeon's hands.

He banged his fist on the rail, his eyes staring into the leap- ing patterns of spray. But none so far had died of fear, yet that was the greatest threat in any battle.

He was still by the rail when two hours later the first grey tentacles of light showed above the horizon far abeam and played across the faces of the men around him.

Allday appeared with a fresh jug. “Coffee, Captain?” He held out the cup, his stocky body swaying at an angle with the deck.

Bolitho sipped it slowly, feeling its rich heat burning into his stomach.

To Gascoigne he said, “See that all our people get a hot drink before they douse the galley fires.” To Inch he added, “We shall go to quarters in half an hour. It will help wake them up and drive the weariness from their bones.”

“Deck there! Land on th' lee bow!”

He threw the cup to Allday. “Aloft with you, Mr Carlyon! Report what you see, and lively with it!”

Gossett ambled across the deck, his hands deep in the pock- ets of his misshapen watchcoat. “A fair landfall, sir.” He sounded vaguely satisfied. “'Bout five mile distant, I would think.”

Carlyon slithered down a backstay and blurted, “Islands, sir. Sou'west of us!”

He realised that Bolitho had remained silent and added, “All overlapping, but there's a great hill on the nearest one.” He rubbed his nose and added doubtfully, “Like a slab of cheese, sir.”

Gossett whispered, “Gawd Almighty!”

Bolitho smiled grimly. “Never mind, Mr Gossett. That was as close a description as fits the chart. A slab of cheese suits it exactly.”

He saw Inch stiffen and turned to see the commodore's bulky figure emerging beneath the poop ladder.

He touched his hat. “We have sighted the islands, sir. I am about to send the hands to quarters.” He paused, seeing the deep shadows around Pelham-Martin's eyes. “Have you had some cof- fee, sir?”