Enemy in Sight! (32 page)

In the muffled distance Bolitho heard the squeal of pipes, the sounds of boats alongside. The whole cabin seemed to be swim- ming in mist, and the words of anger and scathing retort would not come.

As he stood beside the desk Herrick stepped forward and seized his hands. “Believe me, Richard, I know what you are suf- fering.” He studied his features with sudden determination.
“I know!”

Bolitho looked at him and gave a small shudder. “Thank you, Thomas. I do not know of anything which could ever break our friendship. And speaking your mind to me is not one of them, I am sure of that.”

Herrick nodded but did not release his grip. He said, “I have been a sea officer long enough to learn that it is not the Pelham- Martins of our life who really matter. You, and those like you, who have found the time to think and plan for others will finally decide the rights and wrongs of our cause. And one day, perhaps in our lifetime, we will see a better Service because of that exam- ple. One which men will take as a calling, and not an enforced and heartless existence which can be determined by the whim of mere individuals.” He smiled briefly. “Tyrants and influential nin- compoops have a way of fading in the smoke of real danger.”

Bolitho swallowed hard. “Sometimes I believe that I set you a wrong example, Thomas. You always were an idealist, but now that you have a command you must be sparing with those ideals and be content with the improvements of your own making.” Then he smiled. “Now we will greet the others.” He looked down at the decanter for a long moment then added softly, “There is little solace there either!”

But later as he stood with the other captains around Pelham- Martin's cot he knew it was going to be far worse than he had thought possible.

The small cabin was oppressively hot, with the skylight tightly shut and only one small port partly open to allow the sea air to penetrate. The commodore had apparently enjoyed a large break- fast for there were several empty plates beside the cot, and the atmosphere was sickly with the aromas of brandy and sweat.

Pelham-Martin looked much as before, his round face shin- ing and pink with heat, and his body covered by a sheet right up to his throat, so that it was more like standing around a bloated corpse than awaiting the word of their senior officer.

Bolitho said, “We are all present, sir.” He glanced at the oth- ers, noting their mixed expressions and feeling his own complete sense of detachment, as if he was a mere spectator.

Fitzmaurice looked grimfaced and worried, while Farquhar seemed more irritated than concerned for the commodore's appearance. Beside Herrick's sturdy figure Lambe, the sloop
Dasher'
s young commander, was perhaps the most obviously affected. He appeared quite unable to tear his eyes from Pelham- Martin's face, and was peering into the cot like a man witnessing something entirely beyond his understanding.

Pelham-Martin's tongue moved across his lower lip and then he said thickly, “You have all heard Captain Herrick's news. You will no doubt have realised the impossibility of our present posi- tion.” He gave a hollow sigh. “It was fortunate I despatched the
Nisus
when I did. Others will have to decide on a course of action if Lequiller ever returns to France, or whatever country his orders take him.”

Fitzmaurice asked, “What do you intend for us, sir?”

“Without the rest of my ships, what
can
I do?” His lips tight- ened in a frown, so that for an instant he looked like a fat, petulant child. “I was given an impossible task. I do not intend to further the chances of my enemies by sailing on a wild-goose chase!”

Herrick spoke slowly and carefully. “It is my belief that Captain Bolitho is right, sir. This Perez from Las Mercedes would be an obvious pawn for the French to use to arouse a rebellion, to drive another wedge between us and the Dons.”

The commodore's eyes swivelled towards him. “Are you sug- gesting I should sail this squadron
five thousand miles
on some stupid, unsubstantiated rumour?” He winced and allowed his head to fall back on the sweat-stained pillow. “If you think that, Herrick, you are more stupid than I would have given credit.”

Fitzmaurice glanced at Bolitho as if expecting some lead or example. Then he said shortly, “I think you should take heed of your wound, sir. It is unsafe to leave it untended.”

Pelham-Martin scowled. “Your concern fits you well. It is a pity that others have been so sparing in their attention.”

Bolitho clenched his fists and stared at the bulkhead beyond the cot. The heat in the cabin, and the brandy and the over- whelming sense of defeat left him almost indifferent to the tension around him. As he fixed his eyes on the bulkhead yet another memory flitted through his mind, so that he could almost hear his own despair. It was here, in this very cabin that Cheney had slept during the voyage from Gibraltar to Cozar. In this cabin and in this same cot, while he had stayed at a distance from her, yet had felt drawn closer with every passing hour.

The others looked at him as he said sharply, “There is no alternative. You must give chase.” He kept his eyes above the cot. “Captain Farquhar has some prisoners from the prize, including her captain. We should be able to discover something.”

Pelham-Martin's sudden anger at Bolitho's interruption gave way immediately to something like triumph.

“Did you not know? Farquhar found no documents or sealed orders aboard!”

Farquhar turned as Bolitho looked at him questioningly.

“That is true. Every sort of evidence had been thrown over- board when we closed to give battle. The first lieutenant was killed, and now only the captain knows anything of use, and he will not betray his trust.” He shrugged. “I am sorry, but there was nothing I could do.”

Pelham-Martin wriggled beneath the sheet. “I shall want a new dressing. Send for my servant immediately.” He raised his head to peer above the cot. “That is
all,
gentlemen. I have noth- ing further to add at present.”

They filed out into the stern cabin and stood by the open windows in silence.

Then Farquhar said bitterly, “That seems to be an end to it.”

But still none of them moved away from the windows, and Bolitho could almost feel their uncertainty, the unwillingness of each man to take a first irrevocable step.

He said quietly, “To go in the face of the commodore's orders is to overrule him.” He looked at each of them in turn. “The only way to force a change of tactics is to relieve him of his command!” His voice remained quiet, yet each of the other officers seemed stricken by it. “I will not implicate you further by asking what you think or consider our chances of success. The commodore is wounded, how badly we cannot know without a proper exami- nation, and that he will not allow. To relieve him I, as senior captain, must confront him and haul down his broad pendant.” He walked to the desk and touched the lip of the decanter with his fingers. “After that, I am committed, and rightly or wrongly, so are those who would follow my example.”

Herrick said firmly, “
I'm
with you, and here's my hand on it!”

Bolitho smiled. “
Think
before you plunge beyond your depth. If the commodore recovers his health and denounces our action, there will be only one verdict. Even if he does not, it will be seen as disloyalty amounting to mutiny, especially as there is an excel- lent chance of failure at the end of this effort.”

Fitzmaurice studied him grimly. “It is a serious and disturb- ing supposition. I would rather face one hundred broadsides than your decision.”

Bolitho walked away from the desk and paused by the cabin bulkhead below his sword.

“Consider your alternatives carefully. If you remain here at anchor until the commodore recovers sufficiently to change his plans, you might be criticised, but you cannot be harmed for obey- ing his last order. Whereas,” the word hung in the air, “. . . if you join with me now, you could suffer disgrace and worse within the next few weeks.”

Farquhar said calmly, “Then you have already decided?” He crossed to his side and looked up at the old sword. “That brings back a memory or two!” Then he said, “There is no doubt in my mind.” He looked at the others. “I am for going on with the hunt!”

Bolitho turned and studied him gravely. Farquhar, out of all those present had perhaps the most to lose. It was strange to con- sider that he had been a midshipman while Herrick had been his first lieutenant. Now he was a post-captain, with enough youth and ambition to gain whatever heights and honours which might lie before him. Herrick's reaction to his words had been instant and predictable. He saw nothing but immediate loyalty, and had never paused to consider the dreadful consequences of his ready conspiracy. Fitzmaurice would fall in with the rest, while young Lambe was too junior to be seriously implicated, no matter what happened later.

He gripped his hands behind his back and tried to clear the dragging mists from his mind. Was he merely recording their reactions, or had he in fact planned this from the very beginning?

He heard himself ask, “The French captain, is he ashore under guard?”

Farquhar shook his head, his eyes still on Bolitho's face, “No. I have him and the rest of his officers aboard
Spartan.
His name is Poulain and, I suspect, a very hard man.”

Bolitho took down the sword and turned it over in his hands. So many voyages, so many battles against his country's enemies. It appeared in nearly every portrait in the old house in Falmouth. Captains and admirals, gone now like their ships and their con- flicts. There might have been a son to wear it one day. But perhaps it was better as it was. If this sword was to be smeared by dis- grace, it was best forgotten, as he would eventually be.

He said, “Bring Captain Poulain aboard
Hyperion
with his remaining officers.” He paused, seeing the concern on Herrick's face. “I will also want ten of his seamen.”

Herrick said hoarsely, “Then we are agreed?”

“It seems so.” Bolitho nodded slowly. “I hope you will not live to regret your agreement.”

Farquhar picked up his hat and studied it calmly. “At least we know one thing. Lequiller has no frigates now that we have seized the
Thetis.
So what we lack in strength we might make up with agility.” Then he smiled, a brief, humourless movement of his lips. “Poulain will be as curious as I am when he hears of this sum- mons. He seems concerned more for his son, who is a lieutenant under his command, than for the loss of his ship. Lequiller must have instilled a great confidence in victory in his subordinates!” He clapped the hat on his head, adding, “
I
would not take so kindly at losing my ship, no matter what the intention!”

Fitzmaurice watched him leave and then asked, “When will you see the commodore?” He was almost whispering, and Bolitho could find something like compassion for him. Fitzmaurice had no influence outside his rank and personal achievements. It would be little comfort to him to know he was not alone at the moment of decision.

“Presently. Now, if you care to remain here I will go on deck. I must have a word with Allday about a small matter which will not wait.” He returned the sword to its rack and walked towards the door.

As it closed behind him Lambe said fiercely, “My God, how can he be so calm when his own head is at stake?”

Herrick said, “Many is the time I have asked that question.” He thought of Bolitho's eyes and the pain held behind them as he had spoken his thoughts aloud. “I still do not know the answer.”

Less than an hour later, as two bells chimed out from the fore- castle, Bolitho walked slowly on to the quarterdeck and rested momentarily against the rail. The sun was shining brightly and throwing dark shadows from the shrouds and yards, and across the bay he could see the little wavelets cruising towards the anchored ships with the promise of a fresh wind in spite of the growing heat.

The ship seemed strangely quiet, but he was conscious of the watching seamen on the gangways and others working aloft who were staring down, their hands stilled as they waited for the drama to commence.

In the centre of the main deck the selected French prisoners stood surrounded by a scarlet rectangle of marines, their faces curious and apprehensive as they too watched the solitary figure by the quarterdeck rail.

Captain Dawson crossed the deck and touched his hat, his florid features grim and vaguely anxious.

“Ready, sir.”

“Very well.”

Bolitho faced the mounting breeze and took a deep breath. He heard boots clumping behind him and turned to see Farquhar and a marine escort, and with them the French captain. He was old for his rank, but gave an immediate impression of compe- tence and assured self-control. He seemed, above all, a hard man, as Farquhar had described.

“Do you speak English, Captain?” Bolitho faced him, his voice calm, but very conscious of the dryness in his throat and the countless watching eyes.

“When I choose.” Captain Poulain watched him with equal gravity. “But I 'ave nothing to add to what I told your young officer 'ere.”