Enemy in Sight! (31 page)

Bolitho glanced down at the commodore's face. “I see. Very well, wait outside.” When the door had closed he bent over the cot and was immediately aware of the overpowering smell of brandy. A half empty decanter was propped by one of the pillows.

“Sir?” He heard the distant shouts and the rumbling creak of steering gear, and knew that Inch was already turning the ship as he had instructed. It would be a slow haul back to St. Kruis, and even if it was unlikely they would meet an enemy, they had to be prepared to defend their battered charges at a moment's notice. He said more urgently, “We are on course for St. Kruis, sir. Do you have any further orders?”

Pelham-Martin opened his eyes and looked at him glassily for several seconds. Then he said faintly, “Lequiller was not there! He has slipped from our hands again!” His head lolled and he peered down at the decanter. “I must rest. I do not wish to talk any further.”

Bolitho stood up. “I would suggest that we hand over the prize to de Block when we reach St. Kruis, sir. The
Telamon
will be useless except for what they can salvage. With the frigate they will at least be able to defend themselves.”

“Do what you like.” Pelham-Martin closed his eyes and sighed. “I am far from well.”

“When we enter the bay I have told Trudgeon what he must do, sir.”

The effect of his words was staggering. Pelham-Martin strug- gled on to his elbow, the sweat pouring down his face and neck in a small flood.

“I'll not have him touch me,
do you hear?
You'd like that, wouldn't you? To see me cut about by that blundering fool while you take over my command?” He sank back breathing hard. “We will return to St. Kruis. I have yet to decide what to do.”

Bolitho studied him gravely. “We still do not know of Lequiller's whereabouts. He has the
San Leandro
and most of his squadron intact. I would think it likely he is ready to proceed with his plan.” He hardened his voice. “We cannot wait any longer, sir.”

But Pelham-Martin turned his face away and remained silent.

Bolitho walked to the door. “I will keep you informed, sir.” As he stepped into the passageway he heard the clink of glass behind him.

On the quarterdeck Inch was waiting, his horseface anxious as Bolitho looked at the compass and then the set of the sails.

He said, “South by west, sir.”

Bolitho nodded absently, his mind still grappling with Pelham- Martin's strange manner. He had expected him to show dismay at being wounded, at the very unfairness which had singled him out from all the rest of the ship's company. It was almost as if he had found his excuse at last. One which nobody could dispute or ques- tion. He had been wounded. In his own view, not badly enough to be relieved of his command, but sufficient to deprive him of any active part in the vital decisions which now confronted him.

Inch said, “I was wondering what we might be asked to do next, sir?”

Bolitho walked past him. “We tread warily, Mr Inch.”

“Sir?”

“Before, we had very little to use for information.” He glanced towards the captured frigate as she yawned astern of the
Spartan,
a bright red ensign flying above her Tricolour. “Now we have some prisoners. We may yet learn something of Lequiller's inten- tions.” He shifted his gaze upwards towards Pelham-Martin's broad pendant. “And when we do, Mr Inch, we will have an edge on
him
for a change.”

He walked to the lee side and peered across the starboard quarter. The sunlight was forcing steadily through the layers of cloud and he could feel the warmth returning to his tired body as he studied the small islands fading into a growing haze. There was much to do, and Farquhar would have more information which might be useful. But it was essential to get the crippled ships and their wounded back to St. Kruis first.

There would be many grieving hearts there when the
Telamon
returned, he thought sadly. It was to be hoped that their great sacrifice was not to be in vain.

By noon the following day there was little sign of the threaten- ing sky and wind which had hastened their departure. As the slow procession of ships entered the bay and dropped anchor the sun blazed down on the clear water as if eager that nothing should be left hidden from the silent watchers on the shore.

Bolitho stood on the poop shading his eyes from the glare as the
Telamon
was warped, listing and with her lower ports under water, to rest on a strip of sand at the foot of the headland. Every available boat had been lowered to take off her wounded, and Bolitho could see tiny figures, mostly women, wading through the shallows to peer into each incoming craft, their grief made no less terrible by distance.

Anchored below the hilltop battery the captured frigate was already seething with activity as Farquhar prepared to land the prisoners and make good the damage with whatever facilities were still available. Hugh would be returning soon. Bolitho bit his lip. It was strange how his own personal troubles had deserted him in the anxiety of the chase. And there was still the commodore to be roused from his unreachable torpor.

He swung round as a gun boomed dully from the hillside.

Inch clattered up the poop ladder. “They have sighted a ship, sir!”

Bolitho stared towards the open sea beyond the headland. She must be around the point and heading for the bay. A single ship could not be an enemy. He looked at Inch with sudden under- standing. “One of our reinforcements.” He walked quickly to the rail. “At
last!
”

It took another half hour for the incoming vessel to show her- self, and as she tacked slowly towards the bay Bolitho could hardly contain the sensation of relief and hope which her flapping top- sails seemed to offer. She was a two-decker, but smaller than
Hyperion,
and in the bright sunlight he could see the sheen of new paintwork on her spray-dashed side and her figurehead agleam with fresh gilt.

Flags appeared as if by magic on her yards, and he heard Carlyon shouting to the officer of the watch, “She's the
Impulsive,
sixty-four, sir! With despatches for the commodore!”

Inch said, “From England!” It sounded like a cry from the heart.

Bolitho did not speak. The
Impulsive
was here, and with her his friend Thomas Herrick. He could feel his limbs trembling, like the return of his old fever, but he did not care. At last he would have someone to confide in. The one and only man with whom he had ever really shared his hopes and fears. Once his first lieutenant, now as captain of a ship of the line he was
here,
and nothing could ever be so grim as it had seemed before the sound of the signal gun.

He hurried down the ladder, seeing his men crowding the gangways to stare at the new arrival, and like himself accepting her as more than a mere reinforcement. She had come from England. She represented something different to each man, a memory, a village, a green field, or the face of one particular and dear to him.

Lieutenant Roth was already at the entry port mustering the side party.

Bolitho watched as the anchor splashed down beneath the
Impulsive'
s bow and noted the smartness with which the sails van- ished along her yards. Herrick had always been worried by the prospect of command. Bolitho had told him often enough that he had no need to doubt his ability, and the excellent seamanship he had just displayed was surely proof enough.

He heard Inch telling Roth that the captain who was about to be received on board had been
Hyperion'
s first lieutenant before him, and he wondered if Herrick would notice the change which authority and hard work had wrought upon Inch. It would prob- ably seem like a small miracle. He found himself smiling at the prospect of the confrontation.

From the corner of his eye he saw Captain Dawson raise his sword and the paraded marines stiffen to attention as the
Impulsive
's barge hooked on to the chains.

As a cocked hat appeared in the entry port and the pipes shrilled their salute Bolitho stepped forward, his hands out- stretched in welcome.

Captain Thomas Herrick climbed through the port and removed his hat. Then he seized Bolitho's hands and held them for several seconds, his eyes, as clear and bright blue as the first day they had met, studying him with obvious emotion.

Bolitho said warmly, “It is
good
to have you here, Thomas.” He took his arm and led him towards the quarterdeck ladder. “The commodore is suffering from a wound, but I will take you to him directly.” He paused and looked at him again. “How are things in England? Did you manage to visit Cheney before you sailed to join us?”

“I put into Plymouth for stores, then I went overland to visit her.” Herrick swung round and seized his hands, his tone tight with sudden anguish. “In God's name, how can I
tell
you?”

Bolitho stared at him, chilled by Herrick's distress. “What
is
it? Has something happened?”

Herrick looked past him, his eyes blurred as he relived his own part of the nightmare.

“She had been visiting your sister. It was to have been her last journey before the child was born. Close to St. Budock some- thing must have startled the horses, for the berlin went off the road and overturned.” He paused, but when Bolitho said nothing continued, “The coachman was killed, and your steward, Ferguson, who was with her, knocked almost senseless. When he recovered he carried her two miles.” He swallowed hard. “For a one-armed man it must have been like a hundred!” He gripped Bolitho's hands tightly. “But she was dead. I saw the doctor and a surgeon from the garrison who rode from Truro. There was nothing they could do for her.” He dropped his eyes. “Or for the child.”

“Dead?”
Bolitho pulled his hands free and walked to the rail. Around him the dismissed marines walked chatting to their mess, and high above the deck a seaman was whistling while he worked on the mainyard. Through a mist he saw Allday watching him from the top of the quarterdeck ladder, his shape shortened against the clear sky and his face in shadow. It was not happening. In a moment he would awake, and it would be all as before.

Herrick called, “Allday, see to your captain!”

And as Inch came aft, his face startled and curious, he rapped, “I must have audience with the commodore, wounded or not!” He held up his arm as Inch tried to reach Bolitho's side. “At
once,
Mr Inch!”

Allday walked slowly beside Bolitho until they reached the chartroom, then as Bolitho sank into a chair by the bulkhead he asked quietly, “What is it, Captain?”

“My wife, Allday!
Cheney
. . .”

But the mention of her name was too much. He fell forward across the chart table and buried his face in his arms, unable to control the agony of his despair.

Allday stood stockstill, stunned by his grief and by his own inability to deal with it.

“Just you rest here, Captain.” The words seemed to flood from him. “I'll fetch a drink.” He moved to the door, his eyes on Bolitho's shoulders. “We'll be all right, Captain, just you see . . .” Then he ran from the chartroom, his mind empty of everything but the need to help.

Alone once more Bolitho prised himself from the table and leaned back against the bulkhead. Then, very carefully, he opened the front of his shirt and took out the locket, and held it in the palm of his hand.

16
A
PERSONAL THING

A
LLDAY
walked slowly into the stern cabin and stood the big cof- fee pot carefully on the table. The early morning sunlight threw a bright pattern of shimmering reflections across the beamed deckhead, and for a moment longer he was unable to see Bolitho.

“What do you want?”

He turned and saw Bolitho lying on the bench seat below one of the open windows, his back propped against the heavy frame so that his face was thrown into silhouette by the glitter- ing water beyond. His shirt was crumpled and open to the waist, and his black hair was plastered across his forehead as he stared listlessly towards the distant hills.

Allday bit his lip. It was obvious that he had not slept, and in the clear light he could see the shadows around his eyes, the absolute despair on his tanned features.

He replied, “Brought you some coffee, Captain. I've told Petch to arrange your breakfast just as soon as you're ready for it.” He moved carefully around the table. “You should have turned in. You've not slept since . . .”

“Just leave me alone.” There was neither anger nor impatience in his tone. “If you
must
do something, then fetch some brandy.”

Allday darted a quick glance at the desk. Beside a crumpled letter was one empty glass. Of the decanter there was no sign at all. “It's not wise, Captain.” He faltered as Bolitho turned his head towards him. “Let me get some food now.”

Bolitho did not appear to hear him.

“Do you remember what she said when we left Plymouth, Allday? She told us to take care.” He pressed his shoulders against the frame. “Yet while we were out here, she died.” He brushed vaguely at the rebellious lock of hair above his eye and Allday saw the savage scar white against his skin like the mark of a brand- ing iron. The gesture was so familiar, as was everything about him, that Allday felt strangely moved.

“She wouldn't have wanted you taking on, Captain.” He took a few more steps. “When she was aboard the old
Hyperion
in the Mediterranean she had more courage than many of the men, and never once did I hear her complain when times got bad for us. She'd be distressed to see you all-aback now.

“Then there were those times at Plymouth when we were fit- ting out, Captain. They were good days.” Allday rested his hands on the desk, his voice suddenly pleading. “You must try and think of those times, Captain. For her sake, as well as yours.”

A marine rapped on the cabin door and Allday whirled round with a muffled oath. “Get out, damn you! I gave word that the captain was to be left alone!”

The marine's face was wooden. “Beg pardon, but I'm to inform the captain that there's a barge shovin' off from
Impulsive.
”

Allday strode across the cabin and slammed the door. “I'll tell him!” Then he rubbed his hands on his thighs, his mind busy with what he must do.

A quick glance at the sealed door and the sleeping cabin told him that the commodore was still asleep. His lip curled angrily. Or drunk, more likely. Captain Herrick was coming aboard, and he was a friend. And as far as Allday could see, it seemed as if Herrick was the only one who could help Bolitho now.

He set his jaw in a tight line. But not even Herrick would see Bolitho like this. Crumpled and unshaven, with his stomach more full of brandy than he was used to.

He said firmly, “I am going to shave you, Captain. While I'm getting the water from the galley you can be starting on this coffee.” He hesitated before adding, “It was packed by her when we left Plymouth.”

Then he hurried from the cabin before Bolitho could answer.

Bolitho lowered his feet to the deck and then thrust out a hand to steady himself as the nausea flooded through him. He felt dirty, and tired enough to collapse, but something in Allday's last words made him move across to the table.

He gritted his teeth as he poured some coffee into the cup. His hand was shaking so badly that it took two attempts, and he could feel the sweat running down his spine as if he had just emerged from a nightmare. But it was no nightmare, and it could not be broken, now or ever.

He thought of Allday's desperate attempts to rouse him from his anguish, of the glances thrown his way whenever he had shown himself on deck during the night. Some had been pitying and full of compassion, as if, like Allday, they shared his grief in some private fashion of their own. Others had watched him with curiosity and unveiled surprise. Did they imagine that because he was their captain he was beyond suffering and personal despair? That he was above such human feelings, just as he was beyond their world of common submission?

During the night he had moved restlessly about the upper deck, only half aware of what he was doing or the direction his feet had taken him. He had felt some small security from the night sky and the ship's high web of rigging above him, and while he had wandered aimlessly on her deserted decks he had sensed the ship all about him, as if she too was hushed by his torment and loss. It had been then he had returned to the empty cabin and had sat by the open window, drinking the neat brandy with- out tasting it, knowing of the letter on the desk, yet unable to find the courage to read it. Her last written word. So full of hope and confidence, not just for them, but for the future and for the men who shared his everyday life.

Allday padded into the cabin and laid his razor on the desk. Ready, Captain?” He watched as Bolitho moved wearily to his chair. “
Impulsive'
s captain'll be aboard shortly.”

Bolitho nodded and leaned back in the chair, the absolute tiredness rendering him helpless as Allday rubbed his face with soap.

Feet moved overhead and he heard the steady sluice of water as the daily routine of swabbing down commenced. Normally he would have listened, finding strange content in the familiar noises, and would have pictured the men who called to each other, even though they were hidden from view. He felt the razor moving swiftly across his cheek and knew Allday was watching him. Now it was all changed. It was just as if the closed cabin door was not only cutting him off from the ship, but from the world and every- thing in it.

The razor halted in midair and he heard Inch call from the doorway, “Captain Herrick is come aboard, sir. The other cap- tains will be arriving at eight bells.”

Bolitho swallowed and tasted the brandy like fire on his tongue. The other captains? It took physical effort to remember. Hazy faces swept across his blurred mind. Herrick returning from his brief audience with the commodore. Inch, torn between sor- row and concern, and many others which seemed lost in the overall confusion of his thoughts.

Inch added, “There is to be another conference, sir.”

“Yes. Thank you. Please tell Captain Herrick to take some coffee while he is waiting.”

The door closed again and he heard Allday mutter savagely, “And a fat lot of good a conference will do!”

He asked, “Has the commodore been roused yet?”

Allday nodded. “Aye, Captain. Petch is dealing with him now.” He could not keep the bitterness from his tone. “Shall I ask Captain Herrick to explain things to him?” He wiped Bolitho's face with a damp towel. “If you'll pardon the liberty, I think it's wrong that you should have to deal with this meeting.”

Bolitho stood up and allowed Allday to strip the crumpled shirt from his back.

“You are right. That
is
a liberty. Now kindly finish what you are about and leave me in peace.”

Petch came out of the sleeping cabin, Pelham-Martin's dress coat across one arm.

Allday took the coat and held it up to the reflected sunlight. The dried bloodstain looked black in the bright glare, and as he poked a finger through the small splinter hole he said, “Not much bigger'n the point of a rapier.” He threw the coat to Petch with obvious disgust.

Bolitho tightened his neckcloth and felt the clean shirt cool against his skin. His mind recorded all these facts, yet he felt no part of them. The tiny splinter hole, Pelham-Martin's clear intention of remaining an invalid, even the need for some sort of strategy, all seemed beyond his reach and as remote as the horizon.

The sudden prospect of meeting with the other captains only succeeded in unnerving him again. The watching eyes, the con- dolences and sympathy.

He snapped, “Tell Captain Herrick to come aft.” As Allday made for the door he added sharply, “And I will have another decanter at once.”

He dropped his eyes, unable to watch Allday's anxiety. The man's concern and deep desire to help were almost more painful than contempt. Allday might have cared less for him had he seen him sobbing against the open window. Had he known of his sud- den impulse to hurl himself after the empty decanter and scatter the reflected stars beneath the ship's dark counter.

Herrick stepped into the cabin, his hat beneath his arm, his round face set in a grave smile.

“This is an intrusion, but I thought it best to see you before the others.”

Bolitho pushed a chair towards him. “Thank you, Thomas. Yours is never an intrusion.”

Petch entered the cabin and placed a full decanter on the desk.

Bolitho looked at his friend. “A glass before we begin, eh?” He tried to smile but his mouth felt frozen.

“Aye, I could relish one.” Herrick watched Bolitho's hand as the decanter shook against the glasses.

Then he said quietly, “Before we meet the commodore again there are things which I should tell you.” He sipped at the glass. “The news I brought from England is not good. Our blockade is stretched almost beyond safety limits. Several times in recent months the French have broken out of their harbours, even from Toulon where they were met and repulsed by Vice-Admiral Hotham's squadron.” He sighed. “The war is gaining in pace, and some of our superiors seem left astern by the speed of the enemy's thinking.” His eyes followed the decanter as Bolitho poured another full glass. “Lord Howe has given up the Channel Fleet to Viscount Bridport, so we may be assured of some improve- ment there.”

Bolitho held the glass up to the light. “And what of us, Thomas? When do our reinforcements arrive? In time to hear of Lequiller's final victory, no doubt?”

Herrick watched him gravely. “There
are
no more ships. Mine is the only one to be spared for the squadron.”

Bolitho stared at him and then shook his head. “I imagine that our commodore was
interested
in this piece of news?”

He drank some more brandy and leaned back in the chair as it explored his stomach like a hot iron.

Herrick replied, “I got no impression from him at all.” He placed his glass on the desk but held his hand above as Bolitho made to refill it. “He must be made to act. I have spoken with Fitzmaurice and young Farquhar, and I have heard what you believe of Lequiller's intentions. They make good sense, but time is against us. Unless we can call the French to action we are use- less here and would be better employed with the fleet.”

“So you have been discussing it with them, eh?”

Herrick looked at the desk. “I have.”

“And what else did you discover?”

“That any success this squadron has achieved has been at your doing.” Herrick rose to his feet, his features suddenly stern. “I have been with you in action many times and have sailed by your side in worse conditions than many think exist. You know well enough what out friendship means to me, and that I would die for you here and now if I believed it would help. Because of this, and what we have seen and done together, I feel I have earned the right . . .”

He hesitated as Bolitho asked flatly, “What right is that?”

“The right to speak my mind, even at the risk of destroying that friendship!”

Bolitho looked away. “Well?”

“In all the years I have never seen you like this.” He gestured to the decanter. “Always you have been the one to help and under- stand others, no matter at what cost to your own feelings. Your loss has been a terrible one. She meant much to me also, as I think you know. There is not a man aboard this ship who knew her who does not share your pain at this moment.” He added harshly, “But viewed against what you believe and have taught others to accept in the past, it is a
personal
thing. And one which cannot,
must
not influence your deeds when you are most needed by all of us.”

Bolitho looked at him coldly. “Have you finished?”

“Not quite. Often you told me that responsibility and author- ity are privileges, not the rights of every man for the taking. When we served in frigates there was a world of difference, with little at risk but our own lives. Here, our few ships might decide greater events which we cannot even begin to understand.” He looked hard at the sleeping-cabin door. “And when we require an example, what do we have? A man so filled with self-deception and ignorance that he can see no further than his own skin.” He turned and faced Bolitho again, his eyes troubled but stubborn. “So we will be looking to
you.
As the captain of the
Hyperion,
and a man who has never put self-advancement before honour and duty.” He took a deep breath. “As the man chosen by Cheney Seton for her husband!”