Enemy in Sight! (5 page)

Bolitho said flatly, “I think he would stand no chance at all, sir.”

Winstanley shifted on his chair. “What Captain Bolitho means is . . .”

Pelham-Martin lifted one hand. “I
know
what he means, Winstanley! Not for him the business of blockade, dear me, no! He wants to drive headlong ashore and seize some wretched ship for prize money, no doubt!”

“No, sir,” Bolitho gripped the arms of his chair. He had made a bad start. Worrying about Inch and Stepkyne, his near fall into the sea from his barge under the eyes of the squadron had pared away his normal reserve when dealing with senior officers. “But I do believe that unless we know exactly what we are blockading we can never take steps to deal with whatever ruse the French will employ.”

The commodore stared at him. “My orders are to patrol this area. That is what I
am
doing. Really, Bolitho, I do not know what you were told aboard Vice-Admiral Cavendish's flagship, but I can assure you we are well aware of the task entrusted to us here.”

“I did not go aboard the flagship, sir.” Bolitho saw a quick flash of surprise in the other man's eyes before the shutter dropped again. He added quietly, “My orders were sent across to me.” It was a lie, but only half a lie.

But the effect of it was instantaneous and more than sur- prising. Pelham-Martin dragged a gold watch from his straining waistcoat and said, “Please me by going on deck, Winstanley. Just make sure that all my despatches were sent across to the
Vectis
before she left the squadron, eh?” As soon as the door closed behind the other captain he continued evenly, “I am sorry if I seemed unwilling to listen to your appraisal of our situation here, Bolitho.” He smiled and lifted a decanter from the silver casket. “Some brandy, eh? Took it from a French coaster a week ago.” He did not wait for a reply but poured it liberally into some glasses which had been concealed below the table. “The fact is, I do not always see eye to eye with Sir Manley, you know.” He watched Bolitho above the rim of his glass. “It is a family mat- ter, a deeply rooted dispute of some standing now.” He wagged the glass. “Not unknown in your family too, I believe?”

Bolitho felt the brandy burning his lips. It seemed as if his brother's memory, his disgrace to the family name would never be allowed to die. And now Pelham-Martin was using it as a comparison with some stupid feud caused by his own brother's cowardice, or whatever it had been which had caused him to sur- render without first warning the ships coming to relieve and sustain his soldiers.

The commodore nodded gravely. “Of course,
my
brother did not actually desert his country, but the end result is the same. He was trying to save his men from useless slaughter.” He sighed deeply. “But history only judges results and not intentions.”

Bolitho said flatly, “I am sure that neither the vice-admiral nor you would jeopardise efficiency over this matter, sir.”

“Quite so.” Pelham-Martin was smiling again. “But as his junior I have to be doubly careful, you understand?” His tone hardened. “And that is why I obey my orders, and nothing more.” He paused before adding, “And so will
you!
”

The interview was over, but as Bolitho rose to his feet Pelham- Martin said easily, “In any case, this tiresome duty will give you ample opportunity to drill your people into shape.” He shook his head. “The sail handling was, to say the least, very poor indeed.”

Bolitho stepped from the cabin and breathed out very slowly. So this was how it was to be. Outwardly everything perfect, but as far as initiative and closing with the enemy were concerned, their hands were to be well tied.

On the quarterdeck Winstanley greeted him with a relieved smile. “Sorry about the warning, Bolitho. Should have told you earlier. The commodore likes to get officers in their cups before he starts his interviews. A nasty little habit which has cost more than one of 'em a quick passage home.” He grinned. “Not me of course. He needs a good old salthorse to run his ship.” He gripped Bolitho's arm. “Just as he'll need you before we're done, my friend!”

Bolitho smiled. “I am afraid I needed no drink to irritate him.”

Winstanley followed him to the quarterdeck rail and together they stared across at the
Hyperion
as she swayed heavily on the steep offshore swell.

He said, “I agree with everything you said about the frigates. I have told him my views repeatedly, yet he still believes the real threat is from the south.” He shook his head. “But if he is indeed wrong then he will have more than an enraged admiral to con- tend with.” He added grimly, “And so will we!”

The wind had eased slightly during the interview and Bolitho had little difficulty in boarding his barge. On the way back to his ship he thought back over every word Pelham-Martin had uttered, and over those he had not spoken.

As he climbed through the entry port he found Inch waiting for him and realised with a start that while he had been con- templating the commodore's strategy the small drama of Inch's clash with Stepkyne had faded from his mind.

He said curtly, “Get the barge inboard and prepare to wear ship, Mr Inch.” He unclipped his swordbelt and handed it to Petch, his servant. Then he dropped his voice and added, “I would suggest that you go around the upperdeck yourself while you have time.” He held Inch's eyes with his own. “Better to be sure now than sorry later.”

Inch nodded, his face so full of gratitude that Bolitho felt ashamed for him, and for himself. He had fully intended to give Inch the greatest reprimand he could muster, and in his heart he knew that it was probably doing him a disservice by not doing it. But after the commodore's attitude to his superior and the dan- ger it could entail for all of them, he could not bring himself to break Inch's last strand of self-confidence.

Even as the barge swung dizzily above the larboard gangway Gascoigne called, “
Flag
to
Hyperion!
Take station astern of col- umn!”

“Acknowledge!” Bolitho clasped his hands behind him. Astern of column, he thought bitterly.
Vectis
had already slipped away into the drizzle and mist, and now there were just three ships, and they too distant from the enemy to do much good. Somewhere, far beyond the flagship was one solitary frigate. He could pity her captain.

The pipes shrilled and men swarmed to their stations, as if each one was fully aware of the flagship's nearness, more so per- haps of their own captain's displeasure.

But in spite of the clumsiness and expected confusion amongst some of the hands the manoeuvre was completed without further incident. The
Hyperion
went about, and showing her copper in a steep swell tacked round to take station astern of the other sev- enty-four,
Hermes,
so that to an onlooker, had there been one, there was nothing to show that a new sentinel had arrived, nor that one was already making full sail for England and a momen- tary rest from blockade.

Eventually Inch crossed the quarterdeck and touched his hat. “Permission to dismiss the watch below, sir?”

Bolitho nodded. Then he said, “In future, Mr Inch, be firm when you are giving your orders. Whether it be to those who know better or merely
think
they know better. Then they will have confidence in you.” The words stuck in his throat as he added, “Just as
I
have confidence in you.” He turned on his heel and walked to the weather side, unable to watch Inch's pathetic deter- mination.

Inch gripped the quarterdeck rail and stared blindly at the milling seamen around the foot of the foremast as they were relieved from duty. He had been dreading Bolitho's return, not because he was going to be told of his failures, for he was better aware of them than anyone. But because he had caused Bolitho displeasure and disappointment, and
that
he could not bear. To Inch's simple mind Bolitho was more like a god than a captain. If hero-worship was a driving force then Inch possessed it more than a will to live.

He pointed suddenly and called, “That man! Come now, you can do better than that!”

The seaman in question looked up guiltily and then turned back to his work. He did not know what he had done wrong, and in any case he was doing his task the only way he knew. Nor could he possibly realise that to the first lieutenant he was just a misty blur, an outline amongst many as Inch stared along the length of the labouring ship seeing his own future come alive once more.

Gossett, writing on his slate beside the helmsman, glanced across at him and then at the captain as he strode up and down, head lowered in thought, his hands behind him, and gave a slow nod of understanding. Poor Inch, he thought. Some captains he had known would never have bothered with an officer like him. But Bolitho seemed to care about everyone. When they failed him he seemed to feel the blame himself, yet when he succeeded he always appeared to share the rewards with them. The old master smiled to himself. Equality, that was the word. It suited Bolitho right well.
Equality Dick.
His features split into a broad grin.

Bolitho paused at the end of his walk and said sharply, “Mr Gossett, there are six midshipmen aboard this ship whose instruc- tion in the arts of navigation was due to commence some fifteen minutes ago to my reckoning.”

Gossett touched his battered hat, but could not stop grinning. “Aye,
aye,
sir! I will attend to it immediately!”

Bolitho stared after him. It was not like Gossett to daydream.

He recommenced his pacing and returned to his thoughts. No doubt they would all have time for daydreaming under Pelham- Martin's broad pendant, he decided.

3
D
ECEPTION

A
S DAYS
dragged into weeks it seemed to Bolitho as if there was no limit to the merciless cruelty of wind and sea, and the whole world appeared to have shrunk to the inner confines of the ship's hull and the wave-dashed upper deck. Neither was there any let- up in the commodore's orders. Day after day the three ships tacked back and forth in every conceivable kind of weather which the Bay of Biscay could offer. Short, gusty winds would change to the full force of an Atlantic gale within minutes, and as sea- men struggled aloft again and again to fight the icy, frost-hardened canvas station-keeping became a nightmare. For days on end the three ships might ride out a storm under reefed topsails, and when visibility returned they would be greeted by a whole stream of urgent signals from the
Indomitable
to regain formation and begin all over again.

There was no longer any seasickness aboard the
Hyperion,
and when they were released for brief spells from work on deck the hands slumped into their cramped hammocks like dead men, grateful only for the warmth of the other bodies swinging around them as the ship smashed on through the angry offshore currents and screaming winds.

But hardly an hour seemed to pass before the pipes were shrilling again and the cry, “All hands! All hands! Aloft and reef tops'ls!” would be passed from hatch to hatch.

To prevent the ship's company from giving way completely to despair Bolitho used every available opportunity to keep them occupied. Gun drill was carried out whenever possible, with the starboard side competing against the larboard. The gunners from the lower battery had to take turns on the main deck for as yet the weather had been too rough to open the lower ports.

When Bolitho made his regular weekly inspections through- out the ship he was moved by the wretched conditions of the men who lived on the lower gundeck beside and between the thirty twenty-four pounders they would service in action. With the ports sealed and the ship rolling heavily it was like a scene from hell. Some three hundred men lived, ate and slept there, and even allowing for one watch being on deck, the atmosphere was sick- ening. The foul stench of bilge mixed with packed humanity and clothing which was never able to dry was more than enough for the most hardened seaman.

Three weeks after joining Pelham-Martin's command they lost a man overboard, a young seaman who had been pressed in Devon. He had been working on the forecastle with the bosun's party when a great wave had reared high above the jib boom and had hurled him clean over the rail like a piece of canvas. For a few moments he had clung, kicking, to the nettings before another bursting wave had torn him away and carried him screaming down the ship's side.

It had been blowing a gale at the time and it was impossible to heave to without danger of dismasting the ship. Not that there would have been any point. By the time a boat could have fought its way clear of the side there would have been no chance of find- ing the man in that tossing wilderness. But it made a great impression throughout the ship which even the toughened accep- tance of more seasoned men could not dispel.

It had been the ship's first death since leaving Plymouth, and with the weather driving the ship inwards upon her own resources it seemed to hang on the crowded messdecks like a threat. There had been much the same atmosphere over the first flogging, too. A seaman had somehow managed to break into a spirit store, and without telling any of his companions had found a quiet corner deep in the ship's hull and got raving drunk. He had emerged dur- ing the first watch, stark naked and had capered around the darkened deck like an insane ghost screaming taunts and curses at anyone who tried to overpower him. He had even managed to fell a petty officer before others succeeded in hurling him to the deck.

The next day, while the ship wallowed heavily in a rain squall Bolitho had the hands called aft to witness punishment, and after reading the Articles of War ordered the bosun's mates to carry out the award of thirty lashes. By any standard it was a lenient punishment in the Navy's harsh code of discipline. Breaking into the spirit store was bad, but striking a petty officer was liable to court martial and hanging, as everyone knew well enough.

Bolitho had found no comfort in awarding the minimum punishment. Even the fact that the petty officer had agreed to say he had not in fact been struck at all was no compensation for the flogging. Punishment at any other time was necessary, but it had seemed to him as he had stood by the rail with his officers and the marine drummer boy's sticks had beaten a slow roll between each swishing crack of the cat-o'-nine-tails across the man's naked back, that the whole ship had enough to bear without any extra misery. It had somehow been made worse by the rain, with the watching ship's company huddled together for warmth, the scar- let line of marines swaying to the deck's uneven roll, and the writhing figure spread-eagled on the gratings, gasping and sob- bing as the lash rose and fell in time with the drumbeats.

Occasionally a sloop would seek out the small squadron with despatches from the fleet or stores brought from Vigo, and when weather permitted the commodore would summon his captains aboard the flagship while he read out his own formal report in their presence before signing it, and then to Bolitho's astonish- ment, asking each of the three captains in turn to sign it also.

He had never heard of such a thing before, but he could tell from the wooden faces of his two companions that they were quite used to Pelham-Martin's strange whim. It was increasingly obvious that the commodore had no intention of leaving a single flaw in his plan to keep the vice-admiral's criticism or possible displeasure at bay by causing his three captains to be implicated in everything he did. So far of course he had done nothing at all, except abide by the letter of his orders. Patrol and blockade, and nothing more.

Whenever Bolitho was called aboard the
Indomitable
he found Pelham-Martin to be a lavish entertainer. The sloops which came and went from Vigo apparently kept him well supplied with choice wines, and what was more important as far as Bolitho was con- cerned, a small link with the outside world.

The last occasion Bolitho visited the flagship was on Christmas Day. Curiously enough the weather moderated to a slow north-westerly breeze and the sea eased out its lines of cruis- ing wavecrests into a deep, sullen swell. The
Hyperion'
s upper deck became crowded with figures as they stared at the grey, undulat- ing water and at the other ships as if for the first time. As well they might, for during the eight weeks since joining Pelham- Martin's command the weather had never eased for more than an hour at a time.

Bolitho was irritated at having to visit the flagship. Christmas under these conditions would be wretched enough for his com- pany without his leaving as if to enjoy himself at the commodore's lavish table. The
Hyperion'
s fresh food had long since gone and the Christmas dinner for the lower deck was a strange concoc- tion of hot beef hash well laced with rum, and doubtful-tasting duff, which Gilpin, the one-eyed and villainous-looking cook, assured Bolitho “would set their hearts all aflame.”

But Bolitho knew that the visit to the flagship was not merely for good cheer. A sloop had appeared at first light, using the light airs to dash down on the slow moving two-deckers like a terrier after three ponderous bullocks. She was not one of Pelham- Martin's sloops, but from the main squadron of Lorient, and by the time Bolitho had thrown on his dress coat and called away his barge he saw the sloop's gig already alongside the flagship.

Upon arrival aboard the
Indomitable
he found Pelham-Martin in a very jovial mood. In the great cabin Winstanley was quite expressionless, and Captain Fitzmaurice of the
Hermes
looked openly dismayed.

The news from Lorient was unsettling. Vice-Admiral Cavendish had despatched two frigates to patrol close inshore to check upon any sign of change or movement amongst the mass of anchored shipping within the port. It was a routine task, and one to which both frigate captains were well accustomed. But as they closed the shore their masthead lookouts had reported the startling news that instead of being in ordinary as before, the French ships of the line had their yards crossed, and to all appear- ances seemed fewer in number. So some must have slipped out through the blockade.

The sloop's commander had not been prepared to add much to this news until Pelham-Martin insisted he should take some of his brandy. The young officer's tongue, thus loosened, told the commodore that in addition to all this both frigates had only just missed being overwhelmed by four French ships which had appar- ently dashed out of Belle Ile and had almost caught the two scouts on a lee shore.

Pelham-Martin's eyes glistened with tears as he laughed, “You see, Bolitho! I
told
you this would happen! These hit and miss affairs are no use for blockade. Patience and a show of strength is all we need.”

Bolitho asked quietly, “Did the sloop bring any new orders, sir?”

Pelham-Martin was still chuckling. It seemed he could have not been more pleased if the fleet had won a great victory, instead of his old enemy having allowed the French to prepare for sea without being discovered.

He said between chuckles, “Sir Manley Cavendish requires a full report of French men-o'-war in this area, their state of readi- ness and so forth.” He made it sound so trivial that Bolitho imagined for an instant he had missed something. But Fitz- maurice's grim face told him otherwise.

Pelham-Martin laid one hand on Bolitho's sleeve. “Never fear, we will send a report in good time.” He cocked his small head on to one shoulder and smiled gently. “You can close inshore tomor- row, Bolitho, and make contact with
Ithuriel.
How does that suit you, eh?”

The commodore had arranged a grand meal in his own cabin for the three captains, after first writing a brief acknowledgement for the sloop to carry back to Vice-Admiral Cavendish. He had obviously been sorely tempted to add something in the nature of a sarcastic condolence, but even he knew that such wording would be taken as what it was, an open sneer at Cavendish's misfortune.

All through the meal Bolitho fretted and fumed at the delay. There might be a few ships near the Gironde Estuary, and again there could be a possibility of taking some action against them. If there was nothing of value he might even use his brief free- dom from Pelham-Martin's apron strings to sweep further along the coast, for information if nothing better was at hand.

Pelham-Martin was obviously well connected, he thought. Throughout the meal he tossed off names and titles of people he knew, of affairs at Court and in Parliament, and if only half true it was no wonder to Bolitho he had been able to survive his admiral's hostility.

He had a maddening way of simplifying or ignoring any sort of danger from the gathering French ships, but at the same time there was something almost likeable about him. Out of his own pocket he had paid for fresh fruit to be sent from Vigo, enough for every man aboard the three ships under his immediate control.

As Bolitho peeled an orange and listened to Fitzmaurice retelling in detail the last moments of Howe's victory on the First of June, he thought of Falmouth, and wondered if Cheney was thinking of him, if the old grey house was covered in snow, if his child would be boy or girl. He did not care which, so long as she was happy.

Eventually, and thankfully, it was over, and Bolitho returned to his ship without further delay. Surprisingly it seemed very quiet, and but for the duty watch the main deck was completely deserted. Only from the wardroom was there any sound of gai- ety, and that merely a deep bass voice raised in some sentimental song beloved of sailors, which obviously belonged to Gossett.

Inch was waiting to receive him, and said in reply to Bolitho's question, “Most of our people have turned into their hammocks, sir.”

Bolitho nodded. After weeks of hardship and wet misery the good hot food and extra rations of spirits would leave little room for further celebrations.

“Good. We will leave them in peace, Mr Inch, until it's time to call the watch on deck.”

He looked suddenly at Inch's drawn face. “Have you dined well today?”

Inch shuffled his feet awkwardly. “I've had a lot to do, sir.”

Bolitho studied him with fresh understanding. Of course Inch would never join in with the others with his captain away in the flagship. He had a sudden picture of Inch bobbing and scurrying from deck to deck, making sure that everything was well. Doing his best.

He said abruptly, “Come aft, Mr Inch.” He walked towards the poop adding, “We will leave the squadron at first light tomor- row and make visual contact with the
Ithuriel.
” He nodded to the marine sentry and led the way into his cabin where Petch was screwed up into a tight ball against the bulkhead, fast asleep.

Bolitho grinned and unbuckled his sword. “A drink with me, Mr Inch.”

Inch took off his hat and clasped it between his hands as he stared round the cabin, probably remembering those other days when he had been a mere fifth lieutenant and Bolitho had come aboard to take command and carry them through one battle after another.