Enemy in Sight! (7 page)

It would sound trite to wish him a good New Year, Bolitho thought, but it would be better than nothing.

Stepkyne said, “Well, they've kept her smart enough, in spite of the damn weather.”

Bolitho took Gascoigne's big signal telescope and lifted it above the nettings. The frigate was on the
Hyperion'
s larboard quarter now and he could see the huddled figures on her quarterdeck below the tattered remnant of her ensign. He blinked his eyes rapidly to clear them from strain. He was mistaken. He
had
to be.

His voice was still calm as he snapped, “Make this signal, Mr Gascoigne.
Hermes
to
Ithuriel.
Good luck.”

He ignored the startled look on the midshipman's pale face and rasped, “That's right. I said
Hermes!
” Then he added, “Thank you, Mr Stepkyne.”

Nobody spoke. Those standing near Bolitho even averted their eyes as if unable to watch his madness.

Gascoigne said in a small voice, “She's acknowledged, sir.”

Bolitho looked away. “Lay her on the starboard tack, Mr Gossett. We will steer due west.” Then as the pipes twittered and the men ran to the braces he added harshly, “
Ithuriel
is a thirty- two-gun frigate, gentlemen. That ship is a thirty-
six!
And only a Frenchman would fail to see
we
are not the
Hermes!
”

They were all staring at him now. “Mr Stepkyne saw it first, even though he did not recognise fully what he had discovered. She is
too
smart, too clean after weeks of blockade duty!”

Inch said, “What does it mean, sir?” He seemed stunned. Bolitho watched the yards swinging and the sails filling again to the wind.

“It
means,
gentlemen, that
Ithuriel
has been taken. That explains how those people knew our recognition signals.” It was amazing how calm he sounded. He could not understand it, when every fibre in his body was crying out for them to understand, as he did. He saw Allday leaning against a nine-pounder, staring astern at the frigate as she sidled once more into the haze of spray and growing darkness. He would know how Bolitho felt. He had been aboard his ship, the
Phalarope
when she had been attacked by an American privateer. That, too, had been a British frigate taken as a prize.

Bolitho asked slowly, “Why should the French bother with such a deception? They have taken a good frigate, so why keep it a secret?”

Gossett said, “Seems to me, sir, that they got summat to 'ide.”

Bolitho showed his teeth in a smile. “I believe so, Mr Gossett.” He looked up at the flapping pendant. “There is no time to inform the squadron, even if we could find them.” His tone hardened. “As soon as it is dark we will go about and work to a position north of the estuary again. I have no doubt the frigate's captain, whoever he is, will anchor for the night. He will know it to be unlikely for another ship to come from the squadron for days, even weeks maybe.” He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice. If Pelham-Martin had concentrated his three frigates, and if possible the sloops as well in a tight arc around the patrol area and within visual distance of one another, this could never have happened. He continued in the same flat tone, “We will close the shore as near as we are able. When the first daylight appears I want to have the wind-gage.” He glanced coldly at the nearest guns. “This time I will do the talking first. And with authority!”

As the banks of cloud closed across the horizon and plunged the sea into total darkness Bolitho still paced the quarterdeck. He was soaked to the skin with spray but did not even feel it. He was seeing that frigate again, feeling the arrogance of her captain as he had signalled to the two-decker. And it had been such a
close call.
He felt the anger twisting in his stomach like fire. Another few minutes and they would have parted.
Hyperion
would have informed the commodore there was nothing unusual to report, and he would have been more than willing to accept it.

And the frigate? He paused in his pacing so that the helms- man's eyes blinked anxiously in the compass light as Bolitho stared unseeingly through him. She would be able to tell her masters that the English were deceived. He frowned. But to what pur- pose? He continued his pacing, aware of nothing but his thoughts and what they could mean for him, and his ship.

Hyperion
could have dismasted the frigate with one ill-aimed broadside as they had passed. Suppose she was no longer on her station when dawn came? Pelham-Martin would not even have the satisfaction of knowing an enemy ship had been destroyed when he wrote to Cavendish with the admission of
Ithuriel'
s capture.

Pelham-Martin would not be in any mood to shoulder the blame alone either, Bolitho decided grimly.

But there had to be a reason for the Frenchman's actions. There
had
to be.

At length, worn out and suddenly ice cold, he said wearily, “I will go to my cabin, Mr Stepkyne. Call me half an hour before the morning watch, if you please.” He took Inch by the arm. “Pass the word that I want all hands roused at that time. They will be fed and ready for whatever we must do when light returns.”

As he walked into the darkness of the poop he heard a voice mutter admiringly, “Cool as a shark's belly, that one! Sees a bloody Frog under his guns an' don't turn a hair!”

Then Gossett's bass voice. “ 'Old yer yap, damn you! You'll find plenty o' time for noise when the guns begin to crack around yer ears!”

Bolitho entered his cabin and slammed the door. For a few moments he stood quite still, his shoulders pressed against the bulkhead as he stared emptily at the swinging lanterns.

Gossett knew well enough. Less than a quarter of the com- pany had set foot aboard a ship before, let alone known the horror of an enemy broadside.

He closed his eyes tightly and tried to clear his mind of doubt. There was no choice, nor had there been from the moment he had seen through the frigate's calm deception.

And it had nearly worked, that was the worst part in some ways. In spite of all his experience and training he had only seen what he had
expected
to see. The frigate's captain had gambled on this, but he must have known the consequences for failure, must have found each minute like an hour as the
Hyperion
had surged by within two miles of him.

Whatever it was the French were hiding it must be very worth while. Surprisingly the realisation steadied him, and later when Petch padded into the cabin with some coffee he found Bolitho sprawled on the stern bench, his face relaxed in sleep.

Petch was a simple soul, and when he told some of his friends that their captain was so self-assured he was fast asleep already, the tale gained much in the telling.

Allday heard the story and said nothing. He knew Bolitho better than any of them, and guessed that like himself he had probably been thinking of that other time, so many years ago, when a similar ruse had all but cost him his life, and his ship.

Allday examined his heavy cutlass in the dim light of a shaded lantern. If there was going to be a fight, the
Hyperion'
s raw com- pany would need more than confidence. A whole lot more!

4 A
N
AME TO REMEMBER

“C
APTAIN
, sir!”

Bolitho opened his eyes and stared for several seconds at Inch's anxious face. He had been dreaming. There had been some sort of green field with an endless flowered hedgerow, and Cheney had been coming down the road to meet him. He had been run- ning, and so had she, yet they never seemed to draw nearer to one another.

“Well?” He saw Inch pull back nervously and added, “I'm sorry. Is it time?”

Inch nodded, the lantern above the bench seat throwing his face into half-shadow. “There's a mist coming offshore, sir. It's not much, but Mr Gossett says it could make the final approach more difficult.” He jumped aside as Bolitho swung his legs over the side and began to pull on his coat.

Bolitho's mind was quite clear now. “What is our approxi- mate position?”

Inch pouted. “Ten miles nor' nor'-west of the headland, sir.”

“I'm ready.” Bolitho took a last glance around the cabin and then extinguished the lantern.

On the quarterdeck it was very dark, and only when Bolitho looked up did he realise the extent of the mist. It was moving quite fast, so that the sails were still drawing well, but above the mainyard he could see nothing at all, as if some giant hand had sheared away the remainder of sails and spars.

Stepkyne spoke from the darkness. “Galley fire doused, sir.”

There was an air of nervous expectancy on every side, but Bolitho forced himself to ignore the others as he walked aft to the compass again.

“Alter course two points. Steer sou'-east!” He held up his hand. “Make as little sound as possible!”

He crossed to the weather side and peered at the nearest sails. It was a pity he could not reduce the spread of canvas, he thought. The
Hyperion
was creeping very slowly down the enemy coast and at first light any vigilant sentry might be quick to see the ship's topgallants and sound an alarm before Bolitho could cross the last stretch of water and place himself in the best position to find the frigate. But if he was to have enough speed and manoeuvrability to catch the frigate before she could show him her stern, he had to be ready.

He made up his mind. “Hands to quarters, Mr Inch. No pip- ing or any excitement. Just pass the word, and then clear for action.”

If anything it made the business of getting the darkened ship ready for action all the more unnerving. Shadows flitted back and forth, while from below decks came muffled thuds and bangs as screens were removed, lashings cast off from guns, and officers spoke in fierce whispers as they sought out and checked their own men. And all the while the
Hyperion
was gliding through the long tentacles of mist like a phantom ship, her sails wet with spray and drizzle, her rigging and spars creaking as the hull countered the swift current and the lookouts strained their eyes into the unbro- ken darkness around them.

Bolitho gripped the nettings and watched the mist sifting through the mainshrouds, like pale liquid, before another clammy gust of wind across the ship's quarter drove it lifting and swirling towards the open sea. Behind him he could hear Captain Dawson speaking with his marines, the occasional click of steel or squeak of equipment as they swayed together in a close-ordered square across the quarterdeck. In the drifting mist their uniforms looked black and their white crossbelts stood out with startling clarity.

Inch appeared, puffing and sweating. “Ship's cleared for action, sir.”

Bolitho grunted. What sort of a fool would he look if the
Hyperion
found the sea empty when daylight came? Any sort of confidence he had managed to build up amongst the barely trained seamen would soon be lost when the word went around that the captain was frightened of his own shadow.

Any other time he might have waited. Experienced men could load and run out, reload and keep on firing while all around them was lost in a nightmare of deafening explosions and screaming men, and if necessary they could do it in total darkness. He thought of all these men now, crouched behind sealed ports, ears cocked to every sound, hearts pounding, and grateful of the darkness if only to hide the fear from their companions. It was not worth the risk. If it came to a choice he would rather his men should laugh behind his back than die because of his conceit.

“Very well, Mr Inch. You may pass the order to load.”

As Inch beckoned urgently to a midshipman Bolitho recalled the other times when he had sailed into action. Every gun dou- ble shotted and loaded with grape for good measure for that first devastating salvo. But with half-trained men fumbling in the gloom of the tween decks it would be inviting disaster. It took experience to gauge those methods. One wrong charge and a gun would explode, killing its complete crew at the very least.

The wind eased slightly, and in the sudden stillness he heard the patter of feet across the sanded decks as the little powder monkeys scampered from gun to gun with the charges newly drawn from the magazine, where Johns, the gunner, in his sparkproof felt slippers would be standing in the one place from which there was no escape should the ship take fire in action. Thank God he was an old hand and unlikely to dwell too much on the skill of those he was supplying from his magazine.

Gossett called, “By my reckonin' we are runnin' about three miles abeam the 'eadland, sir.” He coughed. “O' course, with this current an' the mist, it's a mite 'ard to be sure.”

“All guns loaded, sir!”

Bolitho held his watch against the compass lamp. It should be getting light now. He looked around quickly. Was it in fact brightening slightly, or were his eyes so used to the gloom that the nine-pounders on the lee side appeared black and stark against the bulwark?

He wished he could take one further look at the chart, but there was no more time left. He tried to picture it exactly as he had last seen it, to memorise and recall the headland and the shel- tered water beyond, the soundings and shoals, the deep water, and the swirling current which could turn any foolhardy approach into total ruin.

“Starboard a little!” He stood beside Inch at the quarterdeck rail, his telescope across the weather side as the wheel creaked over.

“Steady as you go!” He could hear Inch breathing noisily, and level with his waist saw one of the quarterdeck gunners kneeling at the breech of a nine-pounder, naked to the waist in spite of the freezing air, a cutlass thrust carelessly through his belt, the hilt black against his bare spine. The length of the man's pigtail told Bolitho he was no novice, and he hoped that at every division of guns there would be a few—other than the petty officers in charge—who would bring stability and order when the time came.

Someone dropped a rammer on the main deck, and when he darted an angry glance forward he realised with a start that he could see the forecastle and the web of rigging around the bowsprit and jib boom beyond. But as the ship regained her personality from the fading darkness the mist appeared to grow thicker and whiter, until at length
Hyperion
seemed to be floating helplessly abeam, the illusion made more complete by the speed with which the wet mist passed through and around the shrouds.

Bolitho said suddenly, “Get aloft, Mr Gascoigne. You've a sharp pair of eyes.”

As the midshipman hurled himself up the ratlines, Inch said, “We could miss the frigate, sir.”

Bolitho saw the main topsail shake in a down eddy, and in those brief seconds noticed a faint patch of blue. Above the mist the sky was already clearing. Bright and cold, which was just as well.

Blocks and halyards clattered nervously, and Gossett mur- mured, “Wind's freshenin', sir.”

It was very slight, but enough. All at once the mist was break- ing up and thinning into low lying vapour, and even as Gascoigne's shrill cry came down to the waiting men, Bolitho saw the other ship's outline.

“Frigate fine on the starboard bow!” Gascoigne was yelling with excitement. “At anchor, sir!”

Inch stared from the other ship to Bolitho, as if unable to believe either.

Bolitho watched the frigate impassively as her outline hard- ened against the mist which was already passing her and drifting towards the open sea. There was the headland, blue-grey in the dawn light, and although it was still impossible to see the other side of the estuary he knew he had calculated correctly, and could almost find pity for the first man aboard the frigate to see the slow moving
Hyperion.
Placed between him and safety she would look like a messenger from hell itself, he thought, with her gen- tly flapping topsails and topgallants, her courses clewed up, and that gold-faced, hard-eyed figurehead pointing his trident as if to steer the ship straight on his victim.

Across the strip of swirling water Bolitho heard the sudden blare of a trumpet. A mile yet separated the frigate from the two- decker, but even if she cut her cable it would take time to drive the men to quarters and raise enough canvas to beat clear. Above his head Bolitho heard the topsail billowing like subdued thun- der as the ship glided clear of the headland's shelter. The frigate would not get that time.

He gripped the rail and shouted, “Listen to me!” The men at the guns and braces tore their eyes from the frigate and stared aft as one. “That is a French ship yonder, and I intend to engage her.” Someone cheered, but fell silent under his captain's unsmil- ing stare. “If we can take her as a prize all well and good. But if not we will destroy her!” He let his words sink in and then added, “But do not be deceived by her appearance. She can still give a good account of herself, and I have seen as many men die from overconfidence as from the enemy's accuracy!” Then he smiled, in spite of the steel-hard tension in his stomach. “Do your best, lads! For the ship, and for England!”

He turned back to the nettings as cheers broke out along the lines of guns, to be taken up by the men on the lower deck, until the whole ship was alive with yells and cries of excitement.

Bolitho said quietly “Let them cheer, Mr Inch. At least it might unnerve the Frogs, eh?”

Nearer, nearer, and all the while Bolitho watched the confu- sion aboard the rudely awakened frigate, as first a flapping jib and then the fore-topsail appeared, before a lookout called down, “She's cut 'er cable, sir!” Another yelled, “'E's 'oistin' 'is colours!”

Bolitho watched as the Tricolour broke from the frigate's gaff. Her rightful flag this time. Anyway, it was quite obvious he was not going to give in without a fight.

“Run out, Mr Inch!”

A whistle shrilled, and as the port lids were raised the wait- ing muzzles raced each other down the tilting deck until the
Hyperion
showed her full broadside to the French ship like a dou- ble line of black teeth.

Stepkyne was standing at the foot of the foremast, his sword drawn, his eyes towards the quarterdeck.

On the forecastle Lieutenant Hicks of the marines waited beside the two massive carronades, while the bulk of the redcoats had broken from their neat square to deploy along the poop and quarterdeck nettings, their long muskets already trained on the approaching ship.

“Larboard your helm!” Bolitho held out his hand as if to con- trol his ship. “Steady, lads!” He watched the jib boom settle in line with the frigate's foremast, until it seemed as if the other ves- sel was already pinioned on it like a giant tusk.

“Steady!”
His heart was thumping against his ribs, and he could feel the dryness on his lips like salt. “Stand by, Mr Gossett!”

The enemy captain had probably intended to turn away and run for it. He would not be able to pass the
Hyperion'
s massive armament unscathed, but once in open water could outsail her within minutes.

Bolitho knew that to every captain the enemies were the “ifs” and the “whys”.

Why
had the lookout not seen the
Hyperion
earlier? Or
if only
the mist had not prevented her being sighted, if Bolitho had mis- judged his blind approach, and
if only
the sail could have been loosed just a few minutes quicker. All that and more would be flashing through the Frenchman's mind as he stared now at the gleaming two-decker as she drove straight at the heart of his own command.

There was no time to run for it. To expose his unprotected stern to those twenty-four-pounders would be the end without firing a shot in reply.

Almost dejectedly the frigate's yards swung round, her lar- board guns already running out as she prepared to accept the challenge.

Bolitho snapped,
“Now!”

Gossett bellowed, “Helm a-lee!”

When the double wheel went over, the yards were already creaking round, and as he steadied himself against the rail Bolitho saw the bowsprit swinging further and further, the impetus of wind and rudder turning the old ship to run all but level with the enemy.

“Fire as you bear!”

He watched Stepkyne run to the forward twelve-pounder and crouch beside the gun captain, staring through the open port as the ship wheeled ponderously beneath him and the French frigate glided across the muzzle.