Enemy in Sight! (12 page)

Bolitho looked at Inch. “In your opinion, did Mr Pascoe show any insubordination?” His tone hardened. “The
truth,
Mr Inch!”

Inch looked wretched. “Well, sir, he did call the second lieu- tenant a damned liar.”

“I see.” Bolitho locked his fingers behind his back. “Who heard these words, apart from you?”

Inch replied, “Mr Gascoigne and, I think, your coxswain, sir.”

Bolitho nodded coldly. “Very well, Mr Inch, you may award punishment.”

The door closed behind them and Pelham-Martin said cheer- fully, “Well, that was no threat of mutiny, eh? Anyway, a few cuts with a cane never hurt anyone, did it? I lay odds that you kissed the gunner's daughter across the breech of a gun in your youth.”

“Several times, sir.” Bolitho eyed him coldly. “But I do not recall that it did me any good either!”

Pelham-Martin shrugged and got to his feet. “That's as may be. Now I am going to lie down for a while. I have a lot of think- ing to do.”

Bolitho watched him go, irritated with himself for displaying his concern, and with Pelham-Martin's lack of understanding.

Later as he sat in the small chartroom toying with his mid- day meal he tried to concentrate his thoughts on the French ships, to go over what he had gleaned from the commodore's brief con- fidences and then place himself inside the mind of the enemy commander.

There was a rap on the bulkhead and he heard the marine sentry call, “Midshipman of the watch, sir!”

“Enter!” Without turning Bolitho knew it was Pascoe. In the small cabin he could hear his quick breathing, and when he spoke, the pain in his voice.

“Mr Roth's respects, sir, and may he exercise the quarterdeck nine-pounders?”

Bolitho turned in his chair and studied the boy gravely. Six strokes of the bosun's cane would always be hard to take. Tomlin's arm was like the branch of a tree, and Pascoe's slim body was more bones than flesh. In spite of his better judgement Bolitho had been unable to stay away from the cabin skylight when the brief punishment had been carried out, and between each swish of the cane across the boy's buttocks he had found himself grit- ting his teeth, and had discovered a strange sense of pride when there had been not one cry of pain or complaint.

He looked pale and tight-lipped, and as their eyes met across the chart table Bolitho could almost feel the hurt like his own.

As captain he had to stay aloof from his officers, but was expected to see and know everything about them. They must trust and follow him, but he should in no way interfere with their duties when it related to matters of discipline. Unless . . . The word hung in his mind like a rebuke.

“You must understand, Mr Pascoe, that discipline is all impor- tant in a ship-of-war. Without it there is no order and no control when it really counts. At this moment you are at the bottom of a long and precarious ladder. One day, perhaps sooner than you realise, it will be your turn to award punishment, maybe decide upon a man's very life.”

Pascoe remained silent, his dark eyes fixed on Bolitho's mouth. “Mr Stepkyne was right. Gun drill is a contest, but it is no game. The whole survival of this ship and every man aboard will depend on her guns. You can navigate a ship from Plymouth to the ends of the earth, and some may say you have done well. But until you have laid her beside the ship of an enemy and the guns are calling the tune, you will know how thin is the margin between success and failure.”

Pascoe said quietly, “He said my father was a traitor and a rebel, sir. That he'd suffer no argument from another one in his own ship.” His mouth quivered and his eyes filled with angry tears. “I—I told him that my father was a King's officer, sir. But—but he just laughed at me.” He dropped his eyes. “So I called him a liar!”

Bolitho gripped the edge of the table. It had happened, and it was his fault. He should have guessed, have remembered that Stepkyne was also from Falmouth, and would certainly have heard about his brother. But to use his knowledge to get his own back on a boy too young and too ignorant of life at sea to understand the full importance of drill was despicable.

He said slowly, “You took your punishment well, Mr Pascoe.”

“Can I ask you, sir?” Pascoe was staring at him again, his eyes filling his face. “Was it true what he said?”

Bolitho stood up and walked to the racks of rolled charts. “Only partly true.” He heard the boy sob behind him and added, “He had his own reasons for acting as he did, but of one thing I can assure you. He was a brave man. One you'd have been proud to know.” He turned and added, “And I know he would have been proud of you, too.”

Pascoe clenched his fists at his sides. “I was told . . .” he fal- tered, floundered for words. “I was always told . . .” It would not come.

“When we are children we get told many things. As Mr Stepkyne said, you are an officer now and must learn to face real- ity, no matter in what shape it comes.”

As if from far away Pascoe said brokenly, “A traitor! He was a
traitor!
”

Bolitho studied him sadly. “One day you will learn to under- stand, as I did. I'll tell you about him later, and then perhaps you will not feel so bitter.”

Pascoe shook his head so that his hair fell forward over his eyes. “No sir, thank you. I
never
want to know. Never want to hear of him again.”

Bolitho looked away. “Carry on, Mr Pascoe. My compliments to Mr Roth. He can exercise his guns for one hour.”

As the midshipman hurried from the cabin Bolitho still stared at the closed door. He had failed. Given time he could have repaired some of the damage. He sat down angrily. Could he? It was unlikely, and it was stupid to delude himself. But as he thought of Stepkyne's cold accusations and the boy's tormented features, he knew that he must do something.

When he went on deck to watch the drill he saw Gascoigne move to Pascoe's side and put one hand on his shoulder. But the boy shook it off and turned away from him. It had gone even deeper than Bolitho had feared.

Inch crossed the deck. “I am sorry, sir.” He looked miserable.

Bolitho did not know if he was speaking of the boy or of his own new discovery about Bolitho's brother. He kept his face impassive as he replied. “Then let us exercise the quarter-deck guns, Mr Inch. Otherwise we may all be sorry before we are much older.”

As the whistle shrilled for the drill to commence Bolitho walked to the weather side and stared up at the pendant. Wherever he went, no matter what he did, his brother's memory always seemed to hang over him. And now another, one less able to deal with it, had been damaged even more by what should have been left hidden in time.

Some of the gunners seeing his expression worked even faster at their drill. And Inch who stood with his hands clasped behind him as he had seen Bolitho do so often, watched his face and wondered. He could cope with his own shortcomings now for he knew and recognised them. But Bolitho's frown made him feel uneasy and vaguely apprehensive.

Perhaps it was better not to know your captain beyond his protective aura of command, he thought. A captain must be above ordinary contacts, for without some protection he might be seen as an ordinary man.

Bolitho's voice shattered his thoughts. “Mr Inch! If you are quite ready to begin, I would suggest that you stand clear of the guns!”

Inch jumped backwards, grinning with something like relief. This was the Bolitho he understood, and he no longer felt quite so vulnerable.

Four weeks later as the
Hyperion
laboured uncomfortably in a light north-easterly the
Abdiel
signalled that her lookouts had at last sighted the island of St. Kruis. Bolitho received the news with mixed feelings, and found little consolation in achieving a perfect landfall after crossing several thousand miles of ocean without meeting a single ship, friend or enemy. He knew they could have reached their destination days, even a week, earlier but for Pelham- Martin's infuriating inability to keep to a set plan, his apparent unwillingness to make and act on earlier decisions. Off Trinidad, for instance, the
Abdiel
had sighted a solitary sail hull down on the horizon, and after passing a signal via her to the
Spartan
to rejoin her consorts, Pelham-Martin had ordered an alteration of course to intercept the unknown ship. It had been near dusk as it was, and Bolitho had guessed that the sail belonged to one of the local trading vessels, for it was unlikely that Lequiller would dally so near to a Spanish stronghold.

When they resumed their original course after failing to find the ship, Pelham-Martin's dilatory and hesitant mind had caused yet another long delay while he had drafted a despatch to be car- ried by the
Spartan.
Not to St. Kruis, but far to the south-west, to the Spanish Captain-General at Caracas.

Bolitho had stood beside the desk while Pelham-Martin had sealed the heavy envelope, hoping even to the last that he could make the commodore change his mind.

The
Spartan
was more use probing ahead of her two consorts than carrying some wordy and unnecessary message to the Spanish governor. The Spaniards had never been renowned in Bolitho's experience for keeping silent, and the news would soon spread far and wide that English ships were moving into the area, and there were always spies in plenty to pass such intelligence to the quar- ter where it would really count.

And unless Pelham-Martin was prepared to fight, with the larger part of his force still days or even weeks away, he was giv- ing away information which could do little but harm.

But about the
Spartan
Pelham-Martin was adamant. “It is a matter of common courtesy, Bolitho. I know you show little faith or liking when it comes to the Spaniards. But I happen to know that the Captain-General is a man of high birth. A gentleman of the first order.” He had regarded Bolitho with something like pity. “Wars are not just won by powder and shot, you know. Trust and diplomacy play a vital part.” He had held out the envelope. “Pass this to
Spartan
and then resume course. Signal
Abdiel
to remain on her present station.”

Captain Farquhar must have been as relieved as he was sur- prised at his new mission. Almost before the boat had cast off from the
Spartan'
s side to return to
Hyperion
the frigate's sails were spreading and filling and her low hull alive with sudden activity as she went about and headed away from the other ships.

But now at last St. Kruis had been reached. As the harsh mid- day sunlight slowly gave way to the mellow orange glow of evening the
Hyperion'
s own lookouts reported sighting the ridge of pointed hills which cut the small island in half from east to west.

Bolitho stood at the quarterdeck rail and raised his glass to study the purple hazy outline as it rose slowly above the darken- ing horizon. There was not much to know about St. Kruis, but what there was he had collected in his mind like a picture on a chart.

It was some twenty miles by fifteen, with a spacious protected bay on the south-east corner. The large anchorage was in fact the main reason for the Dutch seizing the island in the first place. It had been used constantly by pirates and privateers as a base while waiting to dash out on to some unsuspecting West Indiaman or galleon, and the Dutch had occupied the island more from neces- sity than of the need to extend their colonial possessions.

According to Bolitho's information St. Kruis boasted a gov- ernor, and some form of defence force to protect the island from attack and to make sure that the mixed population of Dutch over- seers and imported slaves could carry on their affairs without interference.

He rested his palms on the rail and looked down at the main deck. Both gangways were crowded with seamen and marines, all peering beyond the slowly corkscrewing bows towards the blurred smudge of land. How strange it must appear to so many of them, he thought. To men used to green fields or town slums, to the crowded world of between decks, or those snatched from their loved ones by the impartial pressgangs, it would seem like another planet. After months at sea on bad food and in all weathers they were coming to a place where their own familiar problems were unknown. The old hands had told them often enough of such islands, but this was a visible part of the sailor's world, which by choice or enforcement they had now joined.

The bare backs and shoulders of the seamen were getting tanned, although some showed savage blisters from working aloft in the relentless glare. But he was thankful that blisters were the worst part of it. With a new ship's company under these condi- tions many a man's back might have been marred with the cruel scars of the cat.

There was a heavy step at his side and he turned to see the commodore staring along the upper deck, his eyes all but hidden in puckered flesh as he squinted against the dying sunlight.

Bolitho said, “Unless the wind drops we will anchor tomor- row morning, sir. There is a two-mile shoulder of reefs on the eastern side of the bay and we will have to tack from the south to avoid them.”