Enemy In Sight! Page 3

  Allday shook his head and walked towards the door. It was bad simply because they all depended on him more than ever before. A captain had no one to share his sadness and nobody to share his blame should he fail.

  He walked past the sentry and climbed through a small hatch. A yam and a glass with the sailmaker might shake him out of his troubled thoughts, he decided. But he doubted it.

  2

  BROAD PENDANT

  Richard Bolitho finished writing his personal log and leaned back wearily in the chair. Even in the sealed cabin the air was chill and damp, and the leather of his desk chair was clammy to the touch. Around him the ship lifted, paused and then staggered forward in a savage corkscrewing motion which made even thinking an effort of will, yet he knew if he returned to the windswept quarterdeck he would find no peace for more than a few minutes.

  He stared through the thick glass of the stem windows, although they were so caked with salt and running spray it was only possible to tell day from night. It was close on noon, but could have been any time. The sky was either black and starless, or like now, the colour of slate. And so it had been as one day followed another and while the Hyperion drove further and further to the south-east, deeper into the Bay of Biscay.

  He had been quite prepared for the discomfort and boredom of blockade duty, and when on the second day out from Plymouth the masthead lookout had sighted ships of the squadron he had already decided to make the best of it. But as he should have known well enough after nearly twenty-five years at sea, nothing in the Navy could ever be taken for granted.

  His orders had stated that he was to join the flag of Vice-Admiral Sir Manley Cavendish, K.B., and take his place with all the other weather-beaten ships, the constant vigilance of which could decide the fate of England, and thereby the whole world. Off every French port these same ships rode out storms or tacked wearily back and forth in a never-ending patrol, while closer inshore, and sometimes within range of enemy batteries, sleek frigates, the eyes of the fleet, reported every movement of shipping, They gathered information from captured coastal craft, or impudently sailed almost into the French harbours themselves in their ceaseless search for intelligence.

  Since Howe's victory of the Glorious First of June the French had shown little inclination for another major clash, but Bolitho, like any other thinking officer, realised that this uneasy calm could not last. Only the Channel lay between the enemy and a full scale invasion of England, yet until the French could muster a powerful fleet that same strip of water might just as well be an ocean.

  In the great naval ports of Brest and Lorient the French ships of the line were unable to move without being seen and reported by the patrolling frigates, while in every harbour on the west coast, down as far as Bordeaux, other ships waited and watched for a chance to slip out and hurry north to join their consorts. One day soon they would make a break for it. When that happened it was essential that news of the enemy's movements was carried swiftly to the heavy squadrons, and more important still, interpreted correctly so that action could be taken to engage and destroy them.

  Under the flagship's lee Bolitho had stood in silence watching the flags soaring up the big three-decker's yards, the frantic efforts of Midshipman Gascoigne and his signal party to keep pace with acknowledgements. It had been then that he had received his first inkling all was not as he had expected.

  Gascoigne had yelled, "Flag to Hyperion. Stand by to receive orders and despatches!"

  Inch had looked as if he was about to voice a question but had held his tongue. The two days out from Plymouth had been difficult ones for him. Within hours of turning south the wind had mounted to something approaching gale force, and under close-reefed topsails, with a fierce quarter-sea making the ship stagger and roll drunkenly from one trough to the next, Inch had been beset with demands and chaos from every side. Many of the new men were almost helpless with seasickness, and most of the others kept continually at work splicing rigging, which like all new cordage was taking this first real strain badly, and the rest were led or driven back and forth either trimming sails or standing relays at the backbreaking work of pumping bilges.

  More than once it had been all that Bolitho could do to refrain from interfering with inch's efforts, yet at the same time he knew that he was solely to blame. Inch was too inexperienced for his work, that was quite apparent now, but if Bolitho showed his true displeasure it might finish Inch for good. Not that Bolitho need say anything. It was quite obvious from Inch's unhappy features that he knew his own shortcomings well enough.

  The next signal from the flagship had been brief. "Prepare to receive Flag Captain."

  It was customary for captains to report in person to receive fresh orders when joining a squadron, although in cases of really bad weather for the sealed bag to be drifted across from ship to ship on a grass line. But this time the admiral was apparently sending his own captain.

  The barge which had brought the flagship's captain across the choppy water had been almost swamped before it eventually hooked on to the main chains, and the thickset officer in his sodden boatcloak had hardly glanced at the side party and saluting marines as he had seized Bolitho's hand and growled, "For God's sake let us go below!"

  Once within the big cabin the visiting captain had come straight to the point.

  "I've brought you fresh orders, Bolitho. You are to continue to the south-east and join the inshore squadron of Commodore Mathias Pelham-Martin. My admiral detached him and his ships some weeks ago for duty off the Gironde Estuary. You'll find a complete list of ships and requirements in your new orders."

  He had spoken quickly, almost offhandedly, but Bolitho had been aware of a warning sensation at the back of his mind. Pelham-Martin. The name had been instantly familiar, yet at the same time he had been unable to recall any sea officer, commodore or otherwise, who had distinguished or shamed himself enough to warrant this special visit by the flag captain.

  The other man had said abruptly, "I do not like deceit, especially with a fellow captain. Things have been very bad between my admiral and the commodore. PelhamMartin, as you will discover, is a difficult man to serve in some ways."

  "This bad feeling? How did it come about?"

  "It all happened a long while ago really. During the American Revolution ..."

  Bolitho's mind had suddenly cleared. "I remember now. A British colonel of infantry surrendered to the Americans - with all his men, and when some of our ships arrived with reinforcements they sailed right into a trap."

  The flag captain had grimaced. "The colonel was Pelham-Martin's brother. I do not have to tell you who the officer was who commanded the ships, eh?"

  A midshipman had appeared at that moment. "Signal from flagship, sir! Captain to return on board forthwith."

  Bolitho had understood fully at that moment what the visit had really meant for him and his ship. No admiral could voice a lack of confidence to a captain newly joining his command. But through a fellow captain it was just possible to show his displeasure and his uncertainty.

  The flag captain had paused by the cabin door, his eyes searching.

  "I know your record, Bolitho, and so does Sir Manley Cavendish. When news was received that you were joining the squadron he told me that you were to be sent to Pelham-Martin's sector to the south-east. You. are well remembered for your part in the St. Clan invasion last year, although you got precious little credit for it. The commodore's squadron is a small one, but its work and vigilance could prove to be vital. Your viewpoint and presence there could help to break this stupid feud." He had shrugged heavily. "This is between ourselves naturally. If a word is voiced to me that any suggestion of mistrust or incompetence was made I will of course deny it!" Then with another quick handshake he had left the ship.

  Now, sitting at his littered desk, Bolitho found it hard to believe such bitterness could have been allowed to jeopardise the efficiency of the hard-pressed ships and their weary companies. That meeting with the flagship had been
four days ago, and while the Hyperion had plunged further to the south-east and her company had fought half-heartedly against seasickness and bad weather alike Bolitho had studied his orders carefully, and during his lonely walks on the quarterdeck had tried to estimate their true meaning.

  It seemed that Pelham-Martin had three ships of the line and three frigates under his command, as well as two small sloops-of-war. One of the former would be sent to England for overhaul and repairs as soon as she was replaced by Hyperion, so it was a very small force indeed.

  But properly deployed it could be well placed to watch over any sudden movement by enemy vessels. It was known that several large French ships had slipped past Gibraltar and had already found their way into the Bay of Biscay. It was equally well known that although Spain was now an ally of England, it was more from necessity than any real friendship or co-operation. Many of those French ships must, have sailed close inshore around Spain, and some might even have hidden in Spanish ports to avoid being attacked by British patrols. To join the bulk of the French fleet any such ships would probably make first for the Gironde or La Rochelle to receive their orders overland, and then take the first opportunity to follow the coastline to Lorient or Brest.

  There was a tap at the door and Midshipman Gascoigne stepped over the coaming. "Mr. Stepkyne's respects, sir, and we have just sighted a sail to the east'rd."

  "Very well. I shall come up."

  Bolitho watched the door close and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Whatever the rights or wrongs of the matter, he would not have long to wait now.

  He stood up slowly and reached for his hat. He felt the locket rubbing against his chest and thought suddenly of Cheney. He had written a letter to her and sent it across with the flagship's captain for the first homebound sloop. There had not been time to change any of it and she would still believe him to be off Lorient. Not that another two hundred miles made much difference, he thought vaguely.

  As he walked to the quarterdeck he saw the officers stiffen into awkward attitudes of attentiveness, and guessed that prior to his appearance they had probably been in deep discussion about the distant ships.

  Bolitho looked up at the hard-bellied sails and the whipping tongue of the masthead pendant. The canvas was stiff with rain and salt, and he felt a moment's pity for some of the men who were working high above the swaying hull. The wind was almost directly astern and the sea had changed to an angry panorama of short, steep crests which gleamed like yellow fangs in the harsh light. There was no horizon to speak of, and although he estimated they were within twenty miles of the coast there was nothing to be seen.

  He took a glass from a midshipman and trained it slowly across the nettings. He knew the others were watching him as if to gauge his reactions, and perhaps their own fate, but kept his face impassive as he picked out the first misty pyramid of sails. He shifted the glass very slightly and waited as the Hyperion sidled into a deep trough and then smashed indifferently across another cruising bank of wavecrests. There was a second ship, and possibly a third.

  He closed the glass with a snap. "Lay her on the larboard tack and prepare to shorten sail, Mr. Stepkyne."

  Stepkyne touched his hat, "Aye, aye, sir." He rarely said much, unless to use his tongue on some clumsy or careless seaman. He seemed unwilling or unable to share either confidence or casual conversation with his brother officers, and Bolitho knew as little about him now as the first day he had met him. For all that, he was a very capable seaman, and Bolitho had been unable to find fault with any task he had carried out.

  Even now he was rapping out orders, his hands on his hips as he watched the men being roused once more to man braces and halyards.

  Bolitho shut Stepkyne's cold efficiency and Inch's bumbling efforts from his mind. If the weather moderated, just for a few days, even Inch would get a chance to drill the hands to better results.

  He said curtly, "Steer east by south, Mr. Gossett."

  The masthead lookout's voice called faintly above the cracking canvas, "Three sail o' th' line, sir!" A pause while every unemployed eye peered aloft at the tiny figure outlined against the racing clouds. "Leadin' ship wears a broad pendant, sir!"

  A shoe scraped on the deck and Bolitho saw Inch hurrying towards him, some biscuit crumbs clinging to his coat.

  He touched his hat. "I am sorry to be late on deck sir." He glanced round anxiously. "I must have fallen asleep for a moment."

  Bolitho studied him gravely. He would have to do something about Inch, he thought. He looked desperately tired, and there were dark shadows under his eyes.

  He said quietly, "You, may call all hands now, Mr. Inch. We will be up with the squadron directly and may have to wear ship or heave to." He smiled. "Commodores are no different from admirals when it comes to immediate requirements."

  But Inch merely nodded glumly. "Aye, aye, sir."

  Slowly but surely the other ships grew out of the tossing murk until they stood in line, hulls shining with spray, their reefed topsails straining and gleaming like pressed steel in the blustering wind.

  They were all seventy-fours like Hyperion, and to a landsman might look as much alike as peas in a pod. But Bolitho knew from hard experience that even ships launched side by side in the same dockyard could be as unalike as salt from wine, just as their individual captains might choose to make them.

  Gossett, who had been studying the leading two-decker, said absently, "I know the commodore's ship well enough, sir. She's the Indomitable, Cap'n Winstanley. I fought alongside 'er in '81." He glanced severely at Midshipman Gascoigne. "You should 'ave seen 'er and reported earlier, young gentleman!'

  Bolitho studied the leading ship through narrowed eyes as flags broke from her yards, and after what seemed like mere seconds the whole line tacked slowly round until the Indomitable was running almost parallel with Hyperion and barely two cables distant. Even without a glass it was possible to see the great streaks of caked salt and sea slime around her beakhead and bows, while as she plunged heavily into a shallow trough her lower gunports were momentarily awash. But her sail drill and manoeuvring were impeccable, and behind him Bolitho heard Gosset murmur, "Cap'n Winstanley 'as the feel of the old lady well enough." From him that was praise of the highest order.

  This time Gascoigne was ready. As more balls soared up the Indomitable's yards and broke stiffly to the wind he yelled, "Flag to Hyperion. Captain repair on board forthwith!"

  Bolitho smiled grimly. No doubt the commodore was impatient to hear what his old enemy had said about him.

  "Heave to, if you please. Call away my barge."

  He stared at the leaping wavecrests and imagined his bargemen cursing the commodore for his early summons.

  With the hands straining at the braces and the sails cracking and booming like cannonshots the Hyperion swung slowly and unwillingly into the wind, while Tomlin bellowed lustily at his boat-handling party to sway Bolitho's barge up and clear of the nettings. One of the steadying lines from the barge caught a young seaman round the throat and he fell heavily against some of the men at the main topsail brace. For an instant there was complete confusion, with the spray-swollen rope screaming out through its block, and bodies falling and scattering like puppets until a bosun's mate hurled himself into the mass of shouting and cursing men and checked it himself.

  Stepkyne, who was in charge of the main deck seized the unfortunate seaman and yelled at him, their faces only inches apart. "You stupid, whimpering bugger! I'll teach you to behave!"

  The seaman held up his hand to his throat which had been flayed raw by the steadying line. "But, sir, I couldn't help it!" He was almost weeping. "Worn't my fault, sir!"

  Stepkyne seemed beside himself. Had the bosun's mate not intervened the confusion might have caused a disaster, especially to the men working aloft on the topsail yard, but with the weight of the boat on one end of the line and the strength of several bargemen on the other, the man was lucky not to have lost his head.

  Inch gripped the quarterdeck r
ail and shouted above the wind, "Fend off that boat! And you can dismiss that man below to the surgeon, Mr. Stepkyne!"

  The wretched seaman scurried for the hatch but Stepkyne stood his ground, his eyes blazing as he stared up at the quarterdeck. "Need never have happened! If these men had been properly drilled that fool would have seen the danger in time!"

  Allday called, "Barge is alongside, Captain!" But his eyes were on Inch and Stepkyne.

  Bolitho ran quickly down the quarterdeck ladder and said coldly, "When I return I will see you in my cabin, Mr. Stepkyne. When an order is passed you will do well to obey it without question, do you understand?"

  He kept his voice low, but knew the damage was done. Stepkyne was wrong to question Inch, let alone criticise his actions. But Bolitho knew too that his anger was justified. Inch should have checked each man before allotting him his station. Especially new and untried ones.

  More than anything else he blamed himself for allowing Inch to remain as first lieutenant.

  Touching his hat briefly he lowered himself through the entry port, and after waiting a few seconds jumped outward and down into the pitching barge.

  As the boat pulled clear of the side Bolitho did not look back. It would all be waiting for him when he returned, by which time he must decide what action to take.

  Captain Amelius Winstanley was ready to receive Bolitho at the Indomitable's entry port, and even before the trilling pipes had fallen silent he stepped forward and gripped his hand and wrung it warmly with obvious relief.

  "A man after my own heart, Bolitho!" He was grinning as Bolitho endeavoured to straighten his cocked hat and readjust his sword. "I never could take a bosun's chair up the side of a strange ship m'self either!"

  Bolithb recovered his breath and tried to ignore the rivulets of water which were running down his chest and legs. The barge had made a rough passage to the flagship, but the last part had been -by far the worst. As the Indomitable's towering side had lifted and. rolled above them he had stood swaying in the sternsheets, his teeth gritted to control his impatience and apprehension as the bowman made one frantic attempt after another to hook on to the ship's main chains and secure the madly tossing boat. Once, when an anxious Allday had reached up to steady his arm he had rasped, "I can manage, damn you!" And it was perhaps his coxswain's obvious lack of confidence in his ability to jump the wide gap to the ship's side which had finally decided him to decline the offer of a bosun's chair. It was far safer, but Bolitho had always considered it undignified when he had watched other captains swaying above a ship's side, legs spiralling, while seamen busily manipulated guide lines as if they were handling so much cargo.