Enemy in Sight! (35 page)

Bolitho faced him. “Perhaps we will speak again later.”

“I think not.” His brother eyed him calmly. “By the way, I think you are foolish to act as you are now. You should have let Pelham-Martin take the blame and stay at anchor in St. Kruis. Now, whichever way it goes, he may be the victor.”

“Maybe.”

Hugh nodded. “And perhaps I'd have done the same. All Cornishmen are said to be slightly mad, and it seems we are no exception.”

Feet clattered in the passageway and Midshipman Pascoe thrust his head around the door.

“Mr Roth's respects, sir, and may he take in a reef? The wind has freshened slightly.” His eyes moved from Bolitho to Hugh. “Sir?”

Bolitho said, “No, he may not take in a reef, Mr Pascoe. Not now, not at any time, unless we are faced with a hurricane.”

Pascoe nodded. “Aye, aye, sir, I'll tell him at once.”

Then he asked, “Would it be all right for Mr Selby to con- tinue with the sextant instruction, sir? I seem to be slower than the others.”

Bolitho studied him gravely. “Not slower, Mr Pascoe. Just younger.”

Then he looked at his brother. “If you find that convenient with your other duties, Mr Selby, you have my permission.” He added quietly, “In view of our recent conversation, I imagine you can be trusted to make good use of the time?”

Hugh nodded, his eyes suddenly bright. “The time'll be well spent, sir. You have my word on it.”

When they had gone Bolitho rested his head in his hands and stared blindly at the chart. Once he had felt sorry for his brother, and the pointlessness of his future. Now he felt only envy. For even though the boy remained ignorant of his instructor's identity, Hugh would have him to himself, and could cherish the memory and the knowledge that his son would be safe from shame and live to be the extension of the life he had thrown away.

While
he
had nothing. He found his fingers touching the locket again. Only memories, and over the years they too would be as elusive as the wind and offer no comfort.

With a jerk he stood up and reached for his hat. Here was a bad place to be alone. On deck he at least had the ship, and for this mission he would try and make that suffice.

18 AT LAST, THE
S
IGNAL

A
S
B
OLITHO
had anticipated, the first infectious excitement of heading out into the Atlantic soon gave way to strain and long days of backbreaking work for every man aboard. Once clear of the friendly trade winds and into the Horse Latitudes they were beset by maddening and frustrating delays, for in that vast, empty expanse of ocean the winds backed and veered, sometimes twice in a single watch, with all hands fighting to trim and then re- trim the yards so that not even a cupful of power should be lost.

Once the wind fell away altogether and the
Hyperion
idled uncomfortably in a steep swell, her sails flapping and limp for the first time since leaving St. Kruis. Most of the ship's company had been grateful, when at any other time they might have cursed the wind's perversity and the helplessness they felt under such con- ditions. But any hope for a rest was soon dispelled when Bolitho had ordered Inch to turn them to again and use the lull to bend on heavy weather canvas for the change he knew would soon be upon them.

Sixteen days after weighing anchor they picked up a stiff south-westerly and beneath leaden skies tacked and headed east- ward for the final leg of the voyage.

Bolitho knew that many of the seamen cursed his name when- ever the cry, “All hands! All hands aloft and reef tops'ls!” drove their weary bodies to the shrouds and up to the vibrating yards once more. Theirs had become a world of shrieking wind and drenching spray, where they fisted and grappled sodden canvas high above the decks, fingernails torn and bleeding while they struggled to keep from falling to certain death. But he could find little time to spare for their inner feelings, any more than he allowed himself a moment's rest.

At any other period he might have felt elation, even pride for the manner in which the old ship and her company were behav- ing. As the miles rolled away beneath the keel and the sea's face changed to dull grey he knew that such a fast passage would be envied by many captains. As always, whenever he came on deck the
Impulsive
was never far astern, her heavy weather sails giving an appearance of purpose and grim determination. Of the
Hermes
there was no sign at all, and Bolitho had once found himself won- dering if Fitzmaurice had, after all, decided to fall back deliberately and leave him to his own devices. It had been unfair and point- less even to think like that, but he knew it had been because of his own uncertainty, his overpowering need to drive the ship as never before, if only to keep his despair at bay.

Every day he had visited the commodore in his sleeping cabin, but even that seemed of little value now. Pelham-Martin rarely spoke to him, and merely stared up from his cot without even bothering to disguise his satisfaction at Bolitho's empty reports. In spite of Pelham-Martin's silent hostility, however, Bolitho was worried at his appearance. He was eating less and consuming a good deal of brandy as compensation. He seemed to trust no one near him, and had even driven Petch away with a string of threats when the wretched man tried to bathe his perspiring face.

Strangely, he had sent for Sergeant Munro, a seasoned marine who had once been an inn servant before enlisting and knew something of the ways of his betters. But Bolitho suspected the commodore looked on Munro more as a bodyguard against some imaginary enemy than any sort of lackey.

Pelham-Martin's voice was certainly stronger, but he had refused to allow Trudgeon to inspect, let alone change his dress- ings for over a week, and Bolitho had told himself repeatedly that he was merely shamming and biding his time until he admitted failure.

He had not spoken to his brother again, but during one night when the wind had risen unexpectedly to a full gale he had seen him dashing aloft with some seamen to restrain the mizzen stay- sail which had split from luff to leach with the sound of tearing silk, audible even above the howl of sea and rigging. Pascoe had been with him, and when they had at last returned to the deck Bolitho had seen their quick exchange of grins, like conspirators who shared something private and special.

As day followed day, Bolitho remained aloof from his officers and restricted his contact to the requirements of duty. The south- westerly wind showed no sign of lessening, and while the ship plunged and staggered across the endless expanse of creaming rollers Bolitho paced the quarterdeck, heedless or unaware of his soaked clothing until Allday finally persuaded him to go aft for some warm soup and a brief rest. Everything was damp, and below decks behind shuttered ports the men off watch crouched together in their crowded messes, willing the voyage to end, sleep- ing, or waiting for the next frugal meal. The cooks had little to offer, and in their crazily swaying world, amidst a litter of pots and broached casks of salt pork or beef, it was hard to see what else they could provide without some sort of miracle.

At noon of the twenty-seventh day Bolitho stood by the quar- terdeck rail and watched Inch and Gossett working busily with their sextants. Overhead the sky had cleared a little and the clouds were broken into long, ragged banners, between which the watery sunlight gave an illusion of warmth.

Gossett said slowly, “I'd never 'ave believed it, sir!”

Bolitho handed his own sextant to Carlyon and touched the worn rail with his hand. Twenty-seven days. Three less than the impossible target he had imposed at St. Kruis.

Inch moved to his side and asked quietly, “What now, sir?”

“
Spartan
will have been patrolling for several days, Mr Inch.” Bolitho looked at the blurred horizon. It seemed to shine like gunmetal, yet there was no true division between sky and sea. “We will continue on this tack until dusk. Perhaps by then we might have some news from Captain Farquhar.”

But no news came, nor any sight of a sail to break the unend- ing monotony of broken rollers. At nightfall they went about and under reefed topsails butted almost into the teeth of the wind. There was nothing the next day, or the one after that, and as the masthead lookouts changed and the daily routine dragged out its minutes and hours Bolitho knew that like himself there were few aboard who still retained any hope.

Tempers became frayed, and here and there within the ship's confined world old conflicts flared into open violence. Three men were flogged, and a trusted and well-disciplined bosun's mate was placed in irons for refusing to turn out of his hammock during the night watches. There was no sane reason for his behaviour, it just seemed part of the whole pattern of bitter disappointment and frustration.

Five days after reaching the supposed rendezvous the look- outs sighted the
Spartan
clawing out from the south-east. For a few more moments something of the old excitement returned as men clambered into shrouds and rigging to watch her as she went about and ran down under the
Hyperion'
s lee.

Midshipman Carlyon lowered his glass and looked at Bolitho. “Nothing to report, sir.” He dropped his gaze as if he felt partly to blame. “
Spartan
requests instructions, sir.”

Bolitho knew Inch and the others were watching him, although when he turned his head they immediately appeared engrossed in anything but in his direction.

He replied slowly, “Signal
Spartan
to take station to wind'rd with
Dasher.
”

He saw the frigate falling away, her yards swinging round as Farquhar let the wind carry him clear. The
Spartan
was streaked with salt and there were several figures aloft in her rigging splic- ing and repairing damage caused by the buffeting she had endured. What it must be like aboard the sloop, Bolitho could not imag- ine. But
Dasher
had kept up with them, had smashed through heavy weather and suffered calms, her topsails always visible to greet each morning watch.

Bolitho said, “I am going aft, Mr Inch.”

The lieutenant crossed to the weather side and asked hesi- tantly, “Will you see the commodore, sir?” He saw Bolitho's eyes and added, “There is
still
time, sir. We can all ride it out if you give the word.”

Bolitho smiled. “There is no point in enforcing this misery now.” He studied him gravely. “But thank you just the same. You have been given a hard time lately.”

As he strode away he heard Inch say, “
God damn
those Frogs!”

He paused outside the sleeping cabin and then thrust open the door. Pelham-Martin watched him in silence for several sec- onds. Then he asked, “Well? Do you submit now?”

Bolitho gripped his hat tightly beneath his arm. “There is nothing in sight, sir. The rendezvous is overdue.”

Pelham-Martin's eyes gleamed faintly. “Fetch me my writing pad.” He watched Bolitho at the bulkhead bureau. “As of this moment I am going to relieve you of your command. You dis- obeyed my orders, you took advantage of my wound, and I shall write a report to that effect.”

Bolitho placed the pad on the cot and watched him without emotion. His limbs felt light, as if he was drugged, and he could find no involvement in what was happening to him.

The commodore snapped, “Fetch a witness!”

At that moment Inch appeared in the doorway and stared at them curiously.

He said, “The masthead has just sighted the
Hermes,
sir.”

Pelham-Martin struggled beneath the sheet. “Good. Now the whole squadron will be able to return to England.” His eyes moved to Inch. “
You
will be the witness to this document. If you behave yourself I will try to spare your commission at the court martial.”

Inch said thickly, “Sir, there is nothing which has happened that I did not agree . . .”

Bolitho interrupted harshly, “Just witness the document, Mr Inch, and do not be a fool!”

“Quite so!” Pelham-Martin seemed entangled in the sheet. He shouted, “Munro! Come here
at once!
”

The marine sergeant entered the cabin and stood beside the cot.

“Lift me up, damn you!”

As the marine took his shoulder Pelham-Martin gave one ter- rible cry, so that he let him fall back again to the pillow.

Bolitho snapped, “Stand away!” He pulled down the sheet and then stared at the man's shoulder beneath the bandage. “Fetch the surgeon immediately.” He felt sick and appalled. The commodore's upper arm and the visible part of his shoulder glowed hard yel- low, like a ripe melon, and when he touched the skin with his hand it felt as if it was on fire.

Pelham-Martin peered up at him. “What is it? For God's sake,
what are you staring at?
”

Inch muttered, “My God!”

“The wound has become poisoned, sir.”

“You're lying!” The commodore tried to struggle up but fell back with a gasp of pain. “You are just saying that to save your- self.”

Trudgeon pushed past Inch and stared at the discoloured skin in silence. Then he said tonelessly, “It must come off, sir.” He looked at Bolitho, his eyes doubtful. “Even then, I'm not sure . . .”

Pelham-Martin shouted wildly, “You'll not touch me! I am
ordering
you to keep away!”

“It's no use, sir.” Bolitho studied him sadly. “You may have thought such a small splinter could do you no real harm. It was probably some infection from the wood.” His eye rested on the empty decanter. “Or your blood may have become affected.” He looked away, unable to watch the man's growing terror.

You fool. You poor, frightened fool. To avoid a decision, just one decision, he had allowed this terrible thing to happen to himself.

He thought suddenly of the ships and all the men who had been depending on him and added flatly, “There is no other course, sir.” He nodded to Trudgeon. “You have my consent.”

Pelham-Martin screamed, “I am ordering you!” He writhed in the cot, the sweat pouring across his chest as he peered at Inch. “I was dismissing Captain Bolitho from his command!”

There was a clatter of feet on the poop above and then a muf- fled wave of cheering. They looked at each other and then turned to the door as Midshipman Carlyon burst into the cabin.

“Sir!”
He controlled his voice as he saw the stricken com- modore. “
Hermes
is signalling!” He fumbled with his tattered book.
“Strange sail to the nor'west!”

Bolitho stared at him. “Thank you, Mr Carlyon. Now back to your flags at the double!” To Inch he snapped, “I will be on deck directly.” Then he smiled. “And thank you for your loyalty.”

He turned and looked down at the commodore. “It must be Lequiller's squadron, sir. I will keep you informed whenever I am able.” He moved to the door as Trudgeon beckoned his mates to enter.

On deck the air was bracing and clean with light drizzle, and the sun was again covered by cloud. But the wind was still steady from the south-west, and the masthead pendant almost rigid against the dull sky.