Enemy In Sight! Page 4

  But it had been a near thing this time. His sword had tangled between his legs, and for a brief moment as the barge had dropped beneath him he had seen the water swirling to pluck him from the ship's side and had heard Allday call out with alarm. Soaked and angry Bolitho managed to pull himself up to the safety of the entry port, and as the pipes shrilled in salute and the side party stiffened to attention he glanced quickly at their wooden expressions, expecting to see amusement or disappointment that he had not indeed fallen, if only to provide a ready topic of gossip for the lower deck.

  Winstanley guided him to the quarterdeck, his resonant voice held down with obvious effort. He was a giant of a man, loose limbed and outwardly ungainly, but gave an immediate impression of great competence. His face was toughened and seamed from countless voyages, but his small twinkling eyes and the mass of crowsfeet around them gave an equal impression of a ready sense of humour.

  The captain of a flagship, even that of a lowly commodore, needed all of that and more, Bolitho thought grimly as he squelched up the ladder and into the shelter of the poop.

  Winstanley was saying gruffly, "I was watching your ship through my glass. She looks a mite different from the last time I saw her. Like new she is." He glanced up .at the commodore's broad pendant which streamed stiffly from the masthead. "The Vectis will sail for Plymouth now that you've arrived to relieve her, and after that it'll be my turn." He gripped Bolitho's arm as they approached the stern cabin. "Next to me you're the senior captain, so I've no doubt Hyperion will wear his pendant in due course."

  He must have seen the question on Bolitho's face for he said quickly, "I'll speak with you later. Pelham-Martin is no man to keep waiting."

  He opened the door and Bolitho followed him into the cabin, his hat jammed beneath his arm, and conscious of the wet footmarks across a rich, pale coloured carpet as he approached a littered table which was arranged to one i side of the stern windows.

  The commodore was seated comfortably at a highbacked chair, seemingly relaxed in spite of the slow, sickening motion around him. He was incredibly broad, but as he got slowly to his feet Bolitho sensed something like shock when he realised that Pelham-Martin was extremely short and his effort at standing made little difference at all. All his bulk seemed to go into his breadth, like Tomlin, the Hyperion's bosun, but there the similarity ended. He had a round, pale complexioned face and his fair hair was cut in a newly fashionable short style. But whereas it may have suited the Navy's younger bloods, it merely made the commodore's head appear even smaller when compared with the great bulk beneath it.

  "Welcome, Captain." His voice was smooth, even gentle. "You must have made a quick passage." His eyes moved calmly over Bolitho's bedraggled appearance, but he did not remark on it. Then he waved to some chairs and pointed to a silver wine casket which swung gently from the deckhead. "A drink perhaps?"

  Across his bulky shoulder Winstanley gave the merest shake of his head and Bolitho said, "No, thank you, sir. Not for the moment."

  He saw Winstanley relax slightly and noticed that Peiham-Martin was smiling. He was grateful for Winstanley's warning, yet at the same time he was irritated at being put to some private test for the commodore's own purpose.

  "Well, I expect you have read all the available reports, Bolitho. Our duty here is to patrol the approaches to the Gironde Estuary and stop any shipping entering or leaving. I have made a signal to Vectis to sail for Plymouth for repairs. She lost her mizzen in a great gale some two weeks back, and spare spars are in great demand here. In a few months' time we will be joined by two more sail of the line, and by then we should know what the Frogs intend to do, eh?" He leaned back comfortably and smiled. He looked more like a rich merchant than a sea officer, Bolitho thought vaguely.

  He heard himself say, "The French will be out before that, sir."

  Pelham-Martin's smile stayed fixed on his small mouth. "You say so? Where did you gather this information?" He leaned forward slightly. "Has the admiral been keeping something from me then?"

  Bolitho smiled. "No, sir. But I have been reading all the available reports, and I consider that the French will have to break out soon if they are to be of any use to their cause."

  Pelham-Martin nodded slowly. "That is a masterpiece of self-deception, Bolitho." He waved one hand towards the windows and through the salt-stained glass Bolitho could see the next ship astern throwing the spray across her bows, yet giving the impression of ponderous indestructibility.

  The commodore added calmly, "These ships will prevent any such foolishness." He seemed to become impatient and dragged a chart from beneath some leatherbound books. "We are here," he stabbed the chart with one pink finger, "and I have placed the two frigates, Spartan and Abdiel, on the southern approaches to warn of any attempt by the enemy to cross into this area from Spanish waters." The finger moved towards the rambling coastline above the Gironde. "Here I have deployed my third frigate, Ithuriel, in the exact area to see and report any French attempt to leave Bordeaux for the north."

  Bolitho looked up. "And the sloops, sir?" Again a quick shake of the head from Captain Winstanley, but Bolitho's anger at Pelham-Martin's easy dismissal of his ideas had thrust caution at one side.

  "Sloops?" Pelham-Martin nodded gravely. "You have indeed read your reports, Bolitho." The smile vanished. "I have despatched them to Vigo for, er, extra stores."

  Bolitho looked away. It was incredible. Vigo, on the north-west coast of Spain, was over four hundred miles away. Further from the Gironde Estuary than Plymouth itself!

  The commodore's hands. began to tap a slow tattoo on the edge of the table. Like two smooth, pink crabs. He asked quietly, "You seem to disapprove?"

  Bolitho kept his tone level. "The frigate Ithuriel is all alone so close inshore, sir. And the other two frigates are too far to the south'rd to assist her if she is attacked."

  Pelham-Martin eyed him for several seconds. "Ithuriel's captain has my orders, my orders, d'you understand, to close the squadron the moment he sights any sign of activity." The smile came back slightly. "I understood that you had been a frigate captain, Bolitho? Surely you do not deny the Ithuriel's captain the chance to prove his worth?"

  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 surprising. 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 matter, 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 surrender 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 viceadmiral 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 contend 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 contemplating 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 danger 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 column!"

  "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 perhaps 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 seventy-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 momentary 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 determination.

  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 instruction 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

  DECEPTION

  As 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 seamen 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 HI yperion, 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

  I 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 throughout 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 sickening. 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.