Enemy in Sight! (3 page)

Inch nodded and then grinned awkwardly. “It was not too badly done, sir, I thought?” He dropped his eyes under Bolitho's stare. “I—I mean . . .”

“You wish to know what I think of your efforts, Mr Inch?” Bolitho saw Gossett keeping his face like a mask. “I thought that considering only half of the men on each yard were doing more than holding on for their lives, and taking into consideration there was a five minute interval between each mast, I would say it was a
fair
beginning.” He frowned. “Do you see it so, Mr Inch?”

Inch nodded humbly. “Aye, sir.”

Bolitho grinned. “Well, that is something, Mr Inch!”

Gossett called, “Ready to alter course, sir!”

The headland, and indeed most of the shoreline, had disap- peared into the grey murk, but the wind was as steady as ever, whipping the crests from the waves and cascading spray above the weather rail like tropical rain.

“Bring her up to a point, Mr Gossett. We will wear ship in four hours and run with the wind in our coat-tails!” He saw Gossett nod cheerfully. “We may have to reef before much longer, but I imagine you want to see how she behaves under full canvas?”

He looked at Inch. “I am going to my cabin. I am sure you do not need me for the moment?” He turned and walked quickly towards the poop before he could reply. Inch had got over the first part quite well. It was only fair to give him his head in open water without his captain watching every move and decision. And Gossett would be quick to see if anything really serious was about to happen.

He saw some of the unemployed seamen watching him as he ducked below the poop and made for his cabin. First impressions were all important and he had to appear quite unconcerned even though he was straining his ears to listen to the creak and whine of shrouds and stays as the ship plunged her way indifferently almost into the teeth of the wind. Faintly he heard Tomlin bel- low, “Not that 'and! Yer
right
'and, I said! The one you fills yer face with!” A pause. “'Ere, let me show you, you clumsy maggot!” Bolitho half smiled. Poor Tomlin, it was starting already.

A marine sentry snapped at attention outside the stern cabin, his eyes unblinking beneath his shako. Bolitho closed the door and leaned his back against it, thankful to be alone for just a few precious moments.

For the remainder of the forenoon and well into the afternoon watch the
Hyperion
drove steadily down channel, her yards bend- ing like great bows as she heeled to the blustering offshore wind. Bolitho spent more time on the quarterdeck than he had first intended as one crisis after another called him from his cabin. Inch had managed to set the topgallants, and under the great pyramids of straining canvas the ship was heeling over at an almost permanent angle, so that working aloft seemed even more hazardous than before to the men on the lee side. Looking down from their dizzy perches the ship appeared to have shrunk in size, while below them there was nothing but the angry wavecrests creaming and spitting from the labouring hull. One man clung to the fore-topgallant yard and would not move at all. Or rather he could not, and his fear was greater than that of an enraged bosun's mate who clung to the mast cursing and threatening, all too aware of his opposite number on the mainmast who was call- ing insults to the delight of his nimble-footed topmen.

Eventually Inch sent a midshipman who had already dis- played a great agility aloft to fetch the wretched man down, and Bolitho had come on deck just as both had arrived on deck breath- less and gasping with exertion.

Lieutenant Stepkyne had yelled, “I'll see you flogged for that, you gutless dolt!”

Bolitho had called, “Bring that man aft!” Then to Inch, “I'll not have a man terrified to no good purpose. Get one of the older hands to go aloft with him now.”

As the man in question had stood shivering below the quar- terdeck ladder Bolitho had asked, “What is your name?”

The man had muttered thickly, “Good, sir.”

Stepkyne had been plucking at his belt with impatience and had said quickly, “He's a fool, sir!”

Bolitho had continued calmly, “Well, Good, you must go back to that yard
now,
do you understand?” He had seen the man peer upward at the foremast again. The yard was over a hundred feet above the deck. “There's no shame in fear, lad, but there's danger in showing it.” He had watched the mixed emotions on the man's pinched features. “Now off with you.”

The man went, and Inch had said admiringly, “Well, that was something, sir.”

Bolitho had looked away as the frightened seaman com- menced to climb up the vibrating ratlines. “You
lead
men, Mr Inch. It never pays to torment them.” To Stepkyne he had added, “We are still shorthanded and need every fit man we can get. To flog that one senseless seems rather pointless, wouldn't you agree?”

Stepkyne had touched his hat and strode forward again to supervise his men.

To Inch Bolitho had continued, “There's no easy way. There never was.”

At six bells it was time to wear ship and the whole business started all over again. Dazed and bruised, with bleeding fingers and faces tight with strain the new men were led or dragged out along the yards to shorten sail, for the wind was freshening every minute, and although the land was only ten miles abeam it was hidden in mist and spray.

Bolitho made himself stay silent as he watched the frantic efforts to obey his orders. Time and time again some men had to be shown what to do, even had halyards or braces put into their hands while Tomlin and his assistants scampered from one piece of confusion to another.

Then at last even Gossett seemed satisfied, and with the men straining and sliding at the braces the
Hyperion
turned her bows to the southward, the wind battering across her quarter with relentless force so that two additional men had to be sent to the wheel.

But she was enjoying it, Bolitho thought. Even shortened down to topsails she was leaning forward and down, plunging her bowsprit towards the invisible horizon in great sweeping thrusts as each successive roller cruised against her fat flank and then broke high over her tumblehome, in a welter of frustrated spray.

He gripped the hammock nettings and looked astern, even though he knew there was nothing to see. But somewhere back there was the rugged coast of Cornwall, with his own Falmouth a bare twenty miles to westward. The big house below the bulk of Pendennis Castle would be waiting for Cheney's return. For the birth of their child which he would not see for some time to come.

Another wave roaring hissing over the weather gangway, and he heard Gossett murmur, “A second reef 'll be needed shortly, I'm thinkin'.”

Pipes shrilled as the watch below was dismissed at long last, and Bolitho said, “Keep me informed.” Then he made his way aft once more.

The big stern cabin looked warm and friendly after the windswept quarterdeck. The deckhead lanterns swung in busy unison and cast strange shadows across the green leather chairs and the bench seat below the windows, the old polished desk and table which gleamed in the lamplight like new chestnuts. He stood by the broad windows staring at the distorted panorama of leaping waves and flying spectres of spray. Then he sighed and sat down at his desk and looked at the pile of papers his clerk had left for his inspection. But for once he found he had no stom- ach for it, and the realisation troubled him.

The door opened silently and Allday padded into the cabin, his stocky body appearing to lean at a grotesque angle on the tilt- ing deck.

Allday studied him sadly. “Begging your pardon, Captain, but Petch, your servant, says you've not eaten since you came aboard today.” He ignored Bolitho's frown. “So I've taken the liberty to bring you some game pie.” He held out a plate which he had cov- ered with a silver lid. “Your good lady gave it to me special for you, Captain.”

Bolitho did not protest as Allday laid the plate on the slant- ing desk and busied himself with the cutlery. Game pie. She must have packed it while he was getting dressed that morning.

Allday pretended not to notice the look on Bolitho's face and took the opportunity to retrieve his sword from a chair and hang it in its place on the bulkhead. It shone dully in the spiralling lanterns, and he said quietly, “It'd not be the same without it now.”

But Bolitho did not answer. That sword, his father's and his father's before that was something of a talisman, and a ready topic
of lower-deck conversation whenever Bolitho's exploits were being discussed. It was part of him, part of his background and tradi- tion, but at this moment he could think of nothing but what he was leaving behind. Even now the horses would be trotting along the road from Plymouth. Fifty miles to Falmouth where his housekeeper and his steward, Ferguson, who had lost an arm at the Saintes, would be waiting to greet her. But
he
would not be there. Above the hiss of spray against the windows, the creak of timbers and the over-riding boom of canvas he imagined he could hear her laugh. Imagined perhaps he could feel her touch, the taste of her freshness on his lips.

Oblivious to Allday he opened the front of his shirt and looked at the small locket around his neck. In it was one lock of her hair, a talisman better than any sword.

The door opened and a sodden midshipman said breathlessly, “Mr Inch's respects, sir, and can he have permission to take in a second reef?”

Bolitho stood up, his body swaying to the steady roll. “I'll come.” Then he saw Allday and gave a small smile. “There is lit- tle time for dreaming, it seems.” He followed the midshipman's envious stare and added, “Or for game pie either!”

Allday watched him go and then covered the plate with the silver lid.

He had never seen him like this before and he was troubled by it. He looked across at the sword as it swung from its hook, seeing again that same blade gleaming in the sunlight as Bolitho had stormed the French battery at Cozar, had charged across the bloodsoaked planking of an enemy ship, had done so many things so many times. And now Bolitho seemed changed, and Allday cursed the mind which had despatched
Hyperion
to blockade duty and not to a place to do battle.

He thought too of the girl Bolitho had married. They had even met for the first time aboard this ship. He stared round, finding it hard to believe. Perhaps that was what was lacking. She had been part of the ship, had known danger and terror when the old hull had quivered to the broadsides and the scything winds of death. Bolitho would be thinking that too, he decided. Thinking and remembering, and that was bad.

Allday shook his head and walked towards the door. It was bad simply because they all depended on him more than ever before. A captain had no one to share his sadness and nobody to share his blame should he fail.

He walked past the sentry and climbed through a small hatch. A yarn and a glass with the sailmaker might shake him out of his troubled thoughts, he decided. But he doubted it.

2 BROAD
P
ENDANT

R
ICHARD
Bolitho finished writing his personal log and leaned back wearily in the chair. Even in the sealed cabin the air was chill and damp, and the leather of his desk chair was clammy to the touch. Around him the ship lifted, paused and then staggered forward in a savage corkscrewing motion which made even think- ing an effort of will, yet he knew if he returned to the windswept quarterdeck he would find no peace for more than a few minutes.

He stared through the thick glass of the stern windows, although they were so caked with salt and running spray it was only possible to tell day from night. It was close on noon, but could have been any time. The sky was either black and starless, or like now, the colour of slate. And so it had been as one day followed another and while the
Hyperion
drove further and fur- ther to the south-east, deeper into the Bay of Biscay.

He had been quite prepared for the discomfort and boredom of blockade duty, and when on the second day out from Plymouth the masthead lookout had sighted ships of the squadron he had already decided to make the best of it. But as he should have known well enough after nearly twenty-five years at sea, nothing in the Navy could ever be taken for granted.

His orders had stated that he was to join the flag of Vice- Admiral Sir Manley Cavendish, K.B., and take his place with all the other weather-beaten ships, the constant vigilance of which could decide the fate of England, and thereby the whole world. Off every French port these same ships rode out storms or tacked wearily back and forth in a never-ending patrol, while closer inshore, and sometimes within range of enemy batteries, sleek frigates, the eyes of the fleet, reported every movement of ship- ping. They gathered information from captured coastal craft, or impudently sailed almost into the French harbours themselves in their ceaseless search for intelligence.

Since Howe's victory of the Glorious First of June the French had shown little inclination for another major clash, but Bolitho, like any other thinking officer, realised that this uneasy calm could not last. Only the Channel lay between the enemy and a full scale invasion of England, yet until the French could muster a power- ful fleet that same strip of water might just as well be an ocean.

In the great naval ports of Brest and Lorient the French ships of the line were unable to move without being seen and reported by the patrolling frigates, while in every harbour on the west coast, down as far as Bordeaux, other ships waited and watched for a chance to slip out and hurry north to join their consorts. One day soon they would make a break for it. When that hap- pened it was essential that news of the enemy's movements was carried swiftly to the heavy squadrons, and more important still, interpreted correctly so that action could be taken to engage and destroy them.

Under the flagship's lee Bolitho had stood in silence watch- ing the flags soaring up the big three-decker's yards, the frantic efforts of Midshipman Gascoigne and his signal party to keep pace with acknowledgements. It had been then that he had received his first inkling all was not as he had expected.

Gascoigne had yelled, “
Flag
to
Hyperion.
Stand by to receive orders and despatches!”

Inch had looked as if he was about to voice a question but had held his tongue. The two days out from Plymouth had been difficult ones for him. Within hours of turning south the wind had mounted to something approaching gale force, and under close-reefed topsails, with a fierce quarter-sea making the ship stagger and roll drunkenly from one trough to the next, Inch had been beset with demands and chaos from every side. Many of the new men were almost helpless with seasickness, and most of the others kept continually at work splicing rigging, which like all new cordage was taking this first real strain badly, and the rest were led or driven back and forth either trimming sails or stand- ing relays at the backbreaking work of pumping bilges.

More than once it had been all that Bolitho could do to refrain from interfering with Inch's efforts, yet at the same time he knew that he was solely to blame. Inch was too inexperienced for his work, that was quite apparent now, but if Bolitho showed his true displeasure it might finish Inch for good. Not that Bolitho need say anything. It was quite obvious from Inch's unhappy fea- tures that he knew his own shortcomings well enough.

The next signal from the flagship had been brief.

“Prepare to receive Flag Captain.”

It was customary for captains to report in person to receive fresh orders when joining a squadron, although in cases of really bad weather for the sealed bag to be drifted across from ship to ship on a grass line. But this time the admiral was apparently sending his own captain.

The barge which had brought the flagship's captain across the choppy water had been almost swamped before it eventually hooked on to the main chains, and the thickset officer in his sod- den boat-cloak had hardly glanced at the side party and saluting marines as he had seized Bolitho's hand and growled, “For God's sake let us go below!”

Once within the big cabin the visiting captain had come straight to the point.

“I've brought you fresh orders, Bolitho. You are to continue to the south-east and join the inshore squadron of Commodore Mathias Pelham-Martin. My admiral detached him and his ships some weeks ago for duty off the Gironde Estuary. You'll find a complete list of ships and requirements in your new orders.”

He had spoken quickly, almost offhandedly, but Bolitho had been aware of a warning sensation at the back of his mind. Pelham-Martin. The name had been instantly familiar, yet at the same time he had been unable to recall any sea officer, com- modore or otherwise, who had distinguished or shamed himself enough to warrant this special visit by the flag captain.

The other man had said abruptly, “I do not like deceit, espe- cially with a fellow captain. Things have been very bad between my admiral and the commodore. Pelham-Martin, as you will dis- cover, is a difficult man to serve in some ways.”

“This bad feeling? How did it come about?”

“It all happened a long while ago really. During the American Revolution . . .”

Bolitho's mind had suddenly cleared. “I remember now. A British colonel of infantry surrendered to the Americans with all his men, and when some of our ships arrived with reinforcements they sailed right into a trap.”

The flag captain had grimaced. “The colonel was Pelham- Martin's brother. I do not have to tell you who the officer was who commanded the ships, eh?”

A midshipman had appeared at that moment. “Signal from flagship, sir! Captain to return on board forthwith.”

Bolitho had understood fully at that moment what the visit had really meant for him and his ship. No admiral could voice a lack of confidence to a captain newly joining his command. But through a fellow captain it was just possible to show his displea- sure and his uncertainty.

The flag captain had paused by the cabin door, his eyes search- ing.

“I know your record, Bolitho, and so does Sir Manley Cavendish. When news was received that you were joining the squadron he told me that you were to be sent to Pelham-Martin's sector to the south-east. You are well remembered for your part in the St. Clar invasion last year, although you got precious little credit for it. The commodore's squadron is a small one, but its work and vigilance could prove to be vital. Your viewpoint and presence there could help to break this stupid feud.” He had shrugged heavily. “This is between ourselves naturally. If a word is voiced to me that any suggestion of mistrust or incompetence was made I will of course deny it!” Then with another quick handshake he had left the ship.

Now, sitting at his littered desk, Bolitho found it hard to believe such bitterness could have been allowed to jeopardise the efficiency of the hard-pressed ships and their weary companies. That meeting with the flagship had been four days ago, and while the
Hyperion
had plunged further to the south-east and her com- pany had fought half-heartedly against seasickness and bad weather alike Bolitho had studied his orders carefully, and during his lonely walks on the quarterdeck had tried to estimate their true meaning.

It seemed that Pelham-Martin had three ships of the line and three frigates under his command, as well as two small sloops-of- war. One of the former would be sent to England for overhaul and repairs as soon as she was replaced by
Hyperion,
so it was a very small force indeed.

But properly deployed it could be well placed to watch over any sudden movement by enemy vessels. It was known that sev- eral large French ships had slipped past Gibraltar and had already found their way into the Bay of Biscay. It was equally well known that although Spain was now an ally of England, it was more from necessity than any real friendship or co-operation. Many of those French ships must have sailed close inshore, around Spain, and some might even have hidden in Spanish ports to avoid being attacked by British patrols. To join the bulk of the French fleet any such ships would probably make first for the Gironde or La Rochelle to receive their orders overland, and then take the first opportunity to follow the coastline to Lorient or Brest.

There was a tap at the door and Midshipman Gascoigne stepped over the coaming. “Mr Stepkyne's respects, sir, and we have just sighted a sail to the east'rd.”

“Very well. I shall come up.”

Bolitho watched the door close and rubbed his chin thought- fully. Whatever the rights or wrongs of the matter, he would not have long to wait now.

He stood up slowly and reached for his hat. He felt the locket rubbing against his chest and thought suddenly of Cheney. He had written a letter to her and sent it across with the flagship's captain for the first homebound sloop. There had not been time to change any of it and she would still believe him to be off Lorient. Not that another two hundred miles made much differ- ence, he thought vaguely.

As he walked to the quarterdeck he saw the officers stiffen into awkward attitudes of attentiveness, and guessed that prior to his appearance they had probably been in deep discussion about the distant ships.

Bolitho looked up at the hard-bellied sails and the whipping tongue of the masthead pendant. The canvas was stiff with rain and salt, and he felt a moment's pity for some of the men who were working high above the swaying hull. The wind was almost directly astern and the sea had changed to an angry panorama of short, steep crests which gleamed like yellow fangs in the harsh light. There was no horizon to speak of, and although he esti- mated they were within twenty miles of the coast there was nothing to be seen.

He took a glass from a midshipman and trained it slowly across the nettings. He knew the others were watching him as if to gauge his reactions, and perhaps their own fate, but kept his face impassive as he picked out the first misty pyramid of sails. He shifted the glass very slightly and waited as the
Hyperion
sidled into a deep trough and then smashed indifferently across another cruising bank of wavecrests. There was a second ship, and possibly a third.

He closed the glass with a snap. “Lay her on the larboard tack and prepare to shorten sail, Mr Stepkyne.”

Stepkyne touched his hat, “Aye, aye, sir.” He rarely said much, unless to use his tongue on some clumsy or careless seaman. He seemed unwilling or unable to share either confidence or casual conversation with his brother officers, and Bolitho knew as little about him now as the first day he had met him. For all that, he was a very capable seaman, and Bolitho had been unable to find fault with any task he had carried out.

Even now he was rapping out orders, his hands on his hips as he watched the men being roused once more to man braces and halyards.

Bolitho shut Stepkyne's cold efficiency and Inch's bumbling efforts from his mind. If the weather moderated, just for a few days, even Inch would get a chance to drill the hands to better results.

He said curtly, “Steer east by south, Mr Gossett.”

The masthead lookout's voice called faintly above the crack- ing canvas, “Three sail o' th' line, sir!” A pause while every unemployed eye peered aloft at the tiny figure outlined against the racing clouds. “Leadin' ship wears a broad pendant, sir!”

A shoe scraped on the deck and Bolitho saw Inch hurrying towards him, some biscuit crumbs clinging to his coat.

He touched his hat. “I am sorry to be late on deck sir.” He glanced round anxiously. “I must have fallen asleep for a moment.”

Bolitho studied him gravely. He would have to do something about Inch, he thought. He looked desperately tired, and there were dark shadows under his eyes.

He said quietly, “You may call all hands now, Mr Inch. We will be up with the squadron directly and may have to wear ship or heave to.” He smiled. “Commodores are no different from admirals when it comes to immediate requirements.”

But Inch merely nodded glumly. “Aye, aye, sir.”

Slowly but surely the other ships grew out of the tossing murk until they stood in line, hulls shining with spray, their reefed top- sails straining and gleaming like pressed steel in the blustering wind.

They were all seventy-fours like
Hyperion,
and to a landsman might look as much alike as peas in a pod. But Bolitho knew from hard experience that even ships launched side by side in the same dockyard could be as unalike as salt from wine, just as their individual captains might choose to make them.