Enemy in Sight! (29 page)

Pelham-Martin walked unsteadily to the rail and gripped it firmly. “I do not want any.” He turned his head, squinting at the low clouds. “Where is the
Hermes?
”

“On station, sir.” Bolitho stepped beside him to shield his face from the others. “She will be able to see your signals directly.”

“And the Dutchman?”

“Not sighted her yet, sir.”

The small head seemed to twist in either direction quite inde- pendently of the massive frame beneath it.

“What?”
Pelham-Martin peered across the tilting main deck below him. “Where is she?” He was shouting. “She must be here!”

Bolitho said, “We had to change tack twice during the mid- dle watch, sir.
Telamon'
s spars may be too old for such violent treatment in this wind. She probably retained her original course at a more favourable pace.” He was speaking quietly, aware of the watching eyes nearby. “But Captain Farquhar will be safe enough. He will have had the lee of the land to protect
his
approach.”

Pelham-Martin did not seem to hear. He was staring at the sea as the growing light opened it up and displayed the harden- ing line of the horizon and the dark untidy cluster of land which seemed to rail from the plunging jib boom like weed.

“Empty!” He groped inside his heavy coat as if to produce his silk handkerchief. “Nothing!”

There was a click as a boy turned over the half-hour glass beside the compass.

Bolitho nodded to Inch. “Send the hands to quarters and clear for action.”

The commodore stared at him, his eyes bare and desperate. “Just two ships!” He fell silent as the drums started to rattle and the seamen and marines poured on deck and scampered to their stations.

Bolitho said, “They will suffice, sir.”

He could almost feel the man's anxiety. It was just as if the sight of this vast expanse of tossing sea and the huddle of islands had finally brought home the reality of his responsibility. In a moment he might lose his last shred of control. Just as young Gascoigne had described his own fear of his first watch on deck unaided, when everything appeared to be running away with him, beyond human control.

He said harshly, “It is a fine day for it, sir. If the French
are
here they'll be asleep most likely when
Spartan
pays them a call.”

Bolitho realised the thumps and bangs below decks had stopped, and when he looked down over the rail he saw the men at their stations, the only movement being made by the ship's boys as they scurried from gun to gun, sanding the decks as they ran. The gunners would need plenty of grip for their feet if the wind rose further.

Pelham-Martin said tonelessly, “Would you send someone for my sword?” He fumbled awkwardly with the heavy coat and then removed it.

Bolitho saw he was wearing the same gleaming dress coat in which he had come aboard. In which he had sat out the night.

One of the seamen on the larboard battery had been about to tie his neckerchief around his ears. Seeing the commodore he waved it over his head and yelled, “A cheer, lads!
Hurrah!
”

Bolitho said quietly, “You see, sir? They look to you today!”

Then he turned away, unable to watch as Allday buckled the sword around the commodore's huge waist. His face seemed to have crumpled at the sound of that solitary cheer, and his expres- sion was that of a man within the shadow of a gibbet.

15 THE
M
ESSAGE

B
OLITHO
straddled his legs and waited until the deck had com- pleted another steep roll and then raised the telescope to his eye. In the fast-growing light he could see the nearest island, its ragged crest grey against the low clouds, and beyond it, overlapping like the prow of some ancient galley, a smaller islet, below which the sea lifted and boiled in continuous movement. Reefs most likely, he thought. Or parts of the cliff worn away by the years to fall as one more natural barrier against would-be intruders.

He lowered the glass, wiping his eye with the back of his sleeve. Around and below him the seamen waited by their guns, watching his face, or merely staring at the sealed ports in readi- ness for the next order.

Pelham-Martin said suddenly, “Surely to God something will happen! Maybe the
Spartan
is aground!” He turned his small head and peered at Bolitho with something like shock.

“We'll know soon, sir.” He walked a few paces clear, unwill- ing to listen in case his own reserve of confidence should fade also.

“Sir!” Carlyon had his hands cupped over his ears. “Gunfire, sir!”

Bolitho looked at him doubtfully. But there was no mistak- ing the expression on the boy's face. He was young and untroubled beyond his own duties, and his ears must have caught the far off sounds before anyone else, in spite of the wind.

“Mr Inch! Pass the order to load! But do not run out 'til I give the word!”

To Gossett he called, “Mark our course well. The reefs sweep right out from that far headland.”

The master nodded. “I've noted 'em, sir. We've a good four mile as yet.”

“Deck there!” The masthead lookout's voice seemed puny in the din of wind and thrashing canvas. “There's a ship breakin' from the channel!”

Bolitho gripped his hands behind him to control the rising excitement. “Mr Inch! Alter course two points to lee'rd! Pipe the hands to the braces!”

Then he snatched a telescope from Carlyon's hands and peered at the clump of islands. They seemed to be pitching like flotsam across the spray-dappled glass, but even as his eye began to water from strain he saw the edge of the slabsided island harden and darken, and where there had been a sliver of broken sea some- thing was moving. A ship.

He heard Gossett call, “Course sou'-west by south”

Inch stared at him. “It's a frigate!” A muscle jumped in his cheek as a sullen rumble of cannon fire echoed across the water. “By God, the Frogs
are
there!”

Bolitho pushed past him. “Shake out those reefs! And set the forecourse and t'gallants!”

He walked to Pelham-Martin's side as Inch dashed to the rail with his speaking trumpet. “Well, sir, there are
some
in the bag today.”

He watched the men dashing out along the yards, the imme- diate response from every stay and shroud as first one then another of the topgallant sails filled to the wind, the thrust making itself felt to the very keel. With the wind almost dead astern the ship seemed to be leaning forward and down, and when the great spread of canvas bellied out from the forecourse Bolitho thought he could hear the sea parting across the bows like water in a mill- race.

“You may run out, Mr Inch!” He watched narrowly as Pelham- Martin craned over the rail to watch the long twelve-pounders squeaking towards the open ports, their crews yelling to each other as if it was another contest.

Inch shouted, “The frigate's cleared the channel, sir!”

Bolitho watched the distant ship, her shape shortening as she turned slowly from the nearest spur of land. With the wind dri- ving down from the north-east she had little room to tack, and being so close inshore she might be in irons and driven back into the channel if she mistimed it. He saw her yards swinging wildly, the spray leaping above her raked stem as he settled once more, this time on converging course with
Hyperion.

A hasty glance astern told him that Fitzmaurice needed no instruction as to what was needed. The
Hermes
was already spread- ing her topgallants, and he could see her leaning sickeningly to the press of canvas as she swung purposefully across the
Hyperion'
s wake. Like the jaws in a trap. When the other French ships broke from the channel they would have to pass between two prepared and eager captains.

He snapped, “Alter course another point! Steer south-west!”

He saw Stepkyne glance up at him from the main deck and then turn his head to speak with a gunner's mate. And there was Tomlin, already pushing his men to the braces again, his voice carrying like a trumpet above the bedlam of sea and canvas.

Now there was more gunfire, louder than before, and Bolitho twisted his head to watch as several columns of water burst close to the frigate's counter.

“Deck there! 'Nother ship comin' out!”

Pelham-Martin was clinging to the rail, his eyes half closed with concentration.

Bolitho said, “Now we shall see!” He ran to the lee side to study the first ship while she clawed away from the treacherous line of reefs and then tilted steeply on the larboard tack. It was a dangerous manoeuvre. At any second she could be all aback and at the mercy of the reefs, but her captain had no choice but to fight clear and give himself searoom.

Bolitho lifted his hand. “Steady as you go!” His eyes watered in the spray and wind but he kept them fixed on the other ship. Two miles only separated them. He heard the grate of handspikes as the gun captains increased their elevation, and wondered momentarily if Fox was remembering the hill battery as he man- aged his own section on the lower deck.

Inch shouted wildly, “Sir, sir! The second ship is the
Spartan!
” He sounded stunned. “She's signalling!”

Bolitho turned away and looked at Pelham-Martin. If
Spartan
was close astern of the enemy it meant one thing only. There were no other ships to attack.

Carlyon yelled, “From
Spartan,
sir! One enemy ship to the south-west!”

He swung round, his mind grappling with the signal as a lookout shouted, “'Nother ship on th' laboard bow, sir!”

Inch squinted up at the masthead. “What the
hell
is he talk- ing about?”

But Bolitho pointed with the telescope, his voice bitter. “She must have found her way through another channel! Look, man, you can see her topmasts!”

He felt fingers locked into his sleeve and swung round to stare into the commodore's wind-reddened face.

“Do you see what you've done? She's escaping, and you can- not catch her now!” He was almost screaming. “I'll see you hung for this, damn you!
Damn you!
”

Bolitho tore his arm free. “Alter course three points to lar- board! Steer south by west!”

The men threw themselves on the braces again, as with her sails booming and wrenching at the yards the
Hyperion
swung heavily towards the second islet, against which the Frenchman's topsails seemed to shine as if in one final mockery.

The enemy frigate seeing the
Hyperion
swing back on her original course turned towards the open sea. Her attempted escape could have been a ruse to allow her consort to gain the other channel, or her captain might still have believed he had a chance for his own ship. But as the
Spartan
tacked dangerously around the reefs the
Hermes
began to wear ship. For those with time to watch she was an impressive sight, her sails very white against the dull clouds and her tall side shining with spray as she presented her double line of guns to the French frigate. Then she fired. It was at an extreme range, and when Bolitho turned his eyes from the other ship to look he guessed that Fitzmaurice had fired across more than a mile of tossing water. But it was enough. The frigate's foremast and bowsprit crumpled in the barrage, and as the wind took charge he saw the ripped canvas and broken rigging whip- ping about like things gone mad, while the ship, moments before a picture of grace and beauty, ploughed drunkenly into a deep trough between the waves and began to broach to.

He turned back to look for the other vessel, and felt the anger and despair tugging at his throat as he saw her grow into sharp silhouette beyond the jutting prow of land.

She was a two-decker, probably one of those damaged by
Hyperion'
s blind broadside during the first fruitless attack on Las Mercedes. Now she was clearing the land, and if she got away, as well she might, Lequiller would soon know the failure of this attack and the weakness of Pelham-Martin's squadron.

Gossett said harshly, “We can still catch 'im, sir!” But he sounded wretched.

“Deck there!” Every eye went aloft. Surely nothing worse could happen? “Sail weatherin' the 'eadland!” A brief pause. “It's the Dutchman, sir!”

Bolitho ran to the nettings and jammed his telescope tightly against his eye.

The French ship was well away from the reefs now, but beyond her, her sails yellow in the strange light, he saw the other vessel. It
was
the
Telamon.
There was no mistaking that high poop and the shining splendour of her figurehead. She was close hauled and standing almost into the teeth of the wind, and in the jerking glass appeared to be touching the land itself.

Inch muttered fiercely, “For God's sake, Mulder'll be aground if he's not careful!”

Pelham-Martin seized Inch's glass. “What's happening? Is the
Telamon
going to engage?”

Bolitho closed his telescope with a snap. He could feel the ship straining every spar and timber, and when he looked up he saw the hard-bellied sails gleaming like steel as the ship threw herself in pursuit.

Mulder's ancient command stood no chance at all against the powerful two-decker, and he must know it. Just as he must have seen that if the French ship maintained her present course she could slip around the headland and make for one of a hundred hiding places until further help arrived.

There were more dull explosions from astern and he heard the marines on the poop yelling to the men at the quarterdeck guns. “The frigate's hauled down her colours, lads! She's struck to the
Spartan.
” The responding cheers only added to Bolitho's growing anxiety. To the ship's company any victory was an event, but viewed against the overall pattern it was almost nothing.

Inch said thickly, “God, look at the Dutchman!”

The
Telamon
had changed her tack, and when Bolitho lifted his glass again he saw her swinging wildly across the wind, her sails in confusion and her masthead pendant streaming out abeam like a strip of metal.

“Frenchman's wearing ship, sir!” Inch was hoarse with excite- ment.

It was true. The enemy captain had little alternative now. With the reefs to starboard and the careering
Telamon
swing- ing across his bows, he had to act quickly to avoid collision or grounding his own ship in a last attempt to slip past.

But as the French ship's shape lengthened to overlap that of the
Telamon
everyone on the quarterdeck heard the ragged crash of a full broadside, and watched with dismay as the Dutchman's sails disappeared in a towering pall of dense smoke.

Bolitho pounded the rail, willing Mulder to tack again and break from the deadly embrace. He could hear the
Telamon'
s ancient cannon firing now, disjointed but defiant, the smoke bil- lowing inboard to blind the gunners as Mulder continued to hold a course parallel with his adversary.

Gossett said, “Gawd, the
Telamon'
s given us time to get to grips with the bugger!”

“Stand by on deck!” Bolitho saw Stepkyne touch his hat. “Starboard battery,
ready!
”

He heard Pelham-Martin whisper fervently, “Catch him, Bolitho! In the name of God,
catch him!
”

The French two-decker was still firing with hardly a pause between salvoes, and as the wind drove some of the smoke clear Bolitho saw the
Telamon'
s mizzen vanish in a welter of broken rigging, and imagined he could hear the enemy's weight of iron smashing into her hull.

Lieutenant Roth muttered tightly, “There goes her foremast!”

At the mercy of wind and sea the
Telamon
was already drop- ping past the Frenchman's starboard quarter, and although a gun still fired here and there along her side, she was crippled almost beyond recognition.

Bolitho needed no glass to see the enemy's yards swinging, and while she ploughed past the
Telamon'
s shattered bows men were already aloft as in final desperation her courses broke out to the wind so that she tilted still further, showing her copper in the dull sunlight.