Enemy in Sight! (34 page)

De Block had handed him a small and finely carved model of a Dutch man-of-war. “To
remind
you, Captain. To give your son perhaps?”

Bolitho had seen him over the side and had watched him rowed back to his lonely existence where he would end his days. It was to be hoped he at least would live the rest of that life in peace.

He straightened his shoulders and said curtly, “Carry on, Mr Inch! Get the ship under way, if you please.”

With the signal to up anchor streaming at her yards the
Hyperion
broke free of her moorings and swung heavily from the thrust of the steady wind. Bolitho gripped the nettings as the ship canted over and lifted his head to watch the topmen strung out above the deck, their arms working in fierce unison as more and more canvas bellied out from the yards. The men at the braces needed no urging, and with her anchor swinging clear of the water the ship went about and gathered way towards the last headland and the dark blue lines of the horizon beyond.

As she pushed steadily abeam of the hill battery Bolitho saw the Dutch flag dipping in salute, and then turned to watch the other ships spreading their topsails and edging clear of the anchor- age in obedience to his signal.

Hermes, Impulsive
and the lithe
Spartan.
The last to clear the headland was the little sloop, her hull almost awash as she fought clear of the reefs before tacking busily to windward of the depleted squadron.

It was not much of a squadron, he thought. But at that par- ticular moment he knew he would not have changed it for a fleet.

The second morning at sea dawned as fine and clear as those which had preceded it, but when Bolitho came on deck after a hasty breakfast he could feel the difference around him like a physical thing. Close-hauled on the larboard tack the ship was leaning steeply from the wind, but the short whitecaps had overnight been replaced by longer, serried ranks of crested rollers which made the motion awkward and more violent.

For during the night they had slipped past Trinidad and were now standing out into the Atlantic itself, with no sight of land to break the horizon in any direction. He glanced at the swing- ing compass and then at the trim of the sails. They were still heading due east, and when he leaned across the rail he saw the
Impulsive
plunging over and down through a lively roller, her hull shining in spray as she followed some three cables in
Hyperion'
s wake. The
Hermes
was almost hidden by the little two-decker's topsails, but he could judge her to be more than two miles astern and already lagging badly.

Inch was waiting for him to complete his morning inspec- tion.

“
Dasher'
s on station to wind'rd, sir.”

Bolitho grunted and walked slowly up the slanting deck. The
Spartan
was already out of sight, probing far ahead of the other ships. As usual he felt slightly envious of Farquhar and his com- plete freedom from the heavier and slower vessels.

“We will alter course in fifteen minutes, Mr Inch. Call all hands!”

He did not feel like talking just now, and his mind was still busy with calculations and the mental picture of his chart.

Gossett touched his battered hat. “Three 'undred an' fifty mile logged already, sir. That's a fair showin'.”

Bolitho looked at him. “We shall see what she can do next.”

“Where do you think the French are now, sir?” Inch was back at his side, his eyes screwed up against the wind as he watched the men hurrying to their stations.

“It is my guess that Lequiller sailed back to Las Mercedes to collect Perez and his mercenaries. I expect the latter will be embarked in the treasure ship as a double security.” He looked up at the masthead pendant. “He will be on his way now, but at slower pace because of the
San Leandro,
I imagine.”

He turned impatiently and gestured to Gossett. “We will alter course seven points and lay her on the opposite tack.” He felt the spray dash across his face and tasted the salt on his tongue.

The master nodded, “Aye, aye, sir.”

To Inch Bolitho added, “When we are on our new course I want the royals on her.” He paused, seeing his words working on Inch's long face. “And
then
you can set the stuns'ls for good measure!”

Inch swallowed. “With all that canvas, sir, the
Hermes'
ll never be able to keep up with us.”

“Just do as I say, Mr Inch.” Bolitho eyed him impassively. “We do not have the trade winds blowing beneath our coat tails this time, so we must drive to the north'rd before we can run for Spain with the westerlies.” He relented slightly. “But the trade winds are still friendly to us, Mr Inch. So be patient.”

He turned away and snapped, “Put the helm down!”

As the two seamen at the double wheel threw their bodies against the spokes Bolitho watched the rush of figures by the forecastle letting go the headsail sheets, while others tensed at the braces in readiness to haul round the straining yards on to the new tack.

“Helm a-lee, sir!”

Labouring and plunging the ship began to swing clumsily across the wind, the sails flapping and cracking with the sounds of gunshots.

Bolitho gripped the rail, letting his body ride with his ship as she continued to turn across and then past the eye of the wind.

“Mainsail
haul!
”

Men scampered in orderly confusion, their tanned bodies shining with blown spray as the sea broke above the starboard bulwark and cascaded over the deck.

Bolitho slapped his palm on the rail, “
Now,
Mr Inch!”

“Let go and haul!” Inch's hat had been knocked awry, but he was managing to make himself heard above the thunder of can- vas and whining rigging.

Bolitho watched with grim satisfaction as the yards began to creak round, the men at the braces hauling like madmen, digging their toes into the slanting deck, their bodies almost par- allel with it.

Overhead the sails boomed angrily and then filled taut and bulging as the ship heeled to the opposite tack, blocks screaming and shrouds vibrating like demons until she had settled on her new course.

Bolitho nodded. “Now get the royals on her!” A quick glance astern told him that Herrick had been ready and waiting. His ship was already plunging round in pursuit, her figurehead and bowsprit concealed in a great mass of bursting spray and spume.

Gossett shouted, “Nor' by east, sir! Full an' bye!”

“Very well.” Bolitho felt the deck shiver as more canvas bel- lied out from the yards. Far above the deck the tiny figures seemed beyond reach and invulnerable, but he knew it was another illu- sion. One slip and it would mean instant death, if the man who fell was lucky. If not he would drop into the creaming sea along- side, to be left astern to drown in sight of his ship. For to try and stop the
Hyperion
under such a press of canvas would be to invite disaster. It was possible that such a manoeuvre might even dis- mast her completely.

On the main deck he saw the sailmaker and his mates haul- ing out the studding sails, extra canvas to lash on to the mainyards like great wings, which with luck, might give the ship another knot if the wind held.

The rigging and shrouds seemed black with figures scram- bling back and forth, up and down as they hurried to obey the urgent calls from the warrant officers of their divisions.

Suddenly he saw Pascoe climbing up the futtock shrouds, his slim body lying back above the sea, and held his breath as his foot slipped and a shoe fell lazily down and into the leaping spray. Then the boy regained his hold and continued after the others, his black hair whipping out in the demanding wind.

When he dropped his gaze Bolitho noticed his brother by the foremast, shading his eyes as he too peered up at the midship- man. Then he saw Bolitho watching him and gave what might have been a small shrug. Or it could have been a sigh of relief.

Lieutenant Roth called, “
Hermes
has tacked!” He chuckled. “She's not keeping up at all well!”

Bolitho turned on him hotly. “Don't be so damned smug about it! If the
Hermes
cannot stay with us, you will be seventy- four guns short when you most need them!”

Roth flushed. “Sorry, sir.”

Bolitho walked to the weather side and steadied his body against the nettings. He must get hold of himself. To show resent- ment at such an innocent remark was pointless and stupid. Roth was more intent on showing pride in his own ship than deriding the weed-encrusted
Hermes.
He thought suddenly of his own fret- ting impatience in the Mediterranean when like
Hermes
this ship had been dragging with sea-growth and barnacles, left behind the fleet and with little sympathy from his admiral. But it was use- less to think along those lines.

He said, “Make a signal to
Hermes,
Mr Carlyon!” He frowned, remembering too Fitzmurice's brave gesture to support him.
“Make more sail.”
He hesitated. “That is all.” Fitzmaurice would not appreciate any sympathetic addition to the signal, any more than he would have done. He was as committed as any of them now, and must do more than his best to keep up with the squadron, if it meant knocking the wedges from the masts.

“She's acknowledged, sir.” Carlyon sounded surprised.

Shouts and curses came from the main deck as the larboard studding sail flapped and billowed like a snared sea monster. It was not filling too well, but was better than nothing. In any case it kept the men busy, and they had a long way to go yet.

Inch said, “I have never seen her sail like this, sir.”

“We may find less favourable winds to the north'rd.” Bolitho was thinking aloud. “We must push her all we can and take every advantage of the trades.”

The topmen were already sliding back to the deck, their voices loud, even jubilant at the great display of power which they had released and mastered.

Bolitho said shortly, “I will be in the chartroom, Mr Inch. You may dismiss the watch below.”

In the small cabin he sat at the table and stared fixedly at the chart. Everything was ready, but there seemed nothing to add to his careful calculations. He flicked the pages of his worn log book, each one a small record of miles sailed, ships sighted. Men killed or injured. He closed it with a snap and stood up. He must stop thinking back. Stop remembering, when there was nothing left to hold on to.

There was a rap at the door. “Enter.”

He looked round and saw his brother standing inside the chartroom, watching him with expressionless formality.

Bolitho said, “Shut the door.” Then quietly, “You may speak your mind. There is no one to hear you.”

“I wanted to talk with you about . . .” He faltered and then added flatly, “I heard about your wife. I am sorry. What more can I say?”

Bolitho sighed. “Yes. Thank you.”

“When I was at Cozar with the other convicts I used to see her walking by the old fortress. I think I fell in love with her also.” He smiled sadly. “Do you think you will find the French this time?”

Bolitho looked at him. “Yes.”

“If you do, and fate is kind, what will you do about me?”

“I have not decided.” Bolitho sat down wearily and massaged his eyes. “If we succeed in finding and beating Lequiller . . .”

His brother lifted an eyebrow. “
Beating
him?”

“To cripple him will be sufficient.” It was strange how Hugh

could see what others had not even suspected. A sea fight, per- haps one hundred miles out in the Bay, could mean as much destruction for victor as for vanquished.

He continued abruptly, “I can hand you to the authorities with a plea for pardon. In view of your work in the
Spartan
I do not see how it could be refused.” He held up his hand. “Hear me and
then
speak. But if you wish, I will have you sent ashore on some duty.” He looked away. “Then you can desert and make your own way.”

“Either course leaves you open to criticism and real danger, Dick. The latter more so, because you will have to live with the knowledge that you have at last been influenced from your plain duty by personal bias.”

Bolitho stared at him. “For God's sake, do you think I care about that any more?”

“I do. You are offering me the chance to desert, not only be- cause in your heart you mistrust the leniency of any court martial, but also because you fear the effect on my son if he sees me tried and hanged for treason.” He smiled gently. “I know
you,
Dick!”

“Well?” Bolitho stood up and walked to the chart rack.

“I will take your offer and run.” Hugh sounded suddenly tired. “Not to Cornwall where I might be recognised.” He paused. “But it will be England and not some poxy jail at the other end of the earth.”