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 finding the man in that tossing wilderness. But it made a great impression throughout the ship which even the toughened acceptance 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 during 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 scarlet line of marines swaying to the deck's uneven roll, and the writhing figure spread-eagled on the gratings, gasping and sobbing 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 astonishment, 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 concerned, 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 cruising wavecrests into a deep, sullen swell. The Hyperion's upper deck became crowded with figures as they stared at the grey, undulating 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 company 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 concoction 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 twodeckers 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 PelhamMartin 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 appearances 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 apparently dashed out of Bell lie 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 readiness and so forth." He made it sound so trivial that Bolitho imagined for an instant he had missed something. But Fitzmaurice'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 tomorrow, 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 ViceAdmiral 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 freedom 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, o
f 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
I 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 gaiety, 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."
I i 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 tomorrow 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.
He blurted out suddenly, "I-I got engaged to be married, sir, when we were at Plymouth."
Bolitho poured two full measures of claret.4'Then I am glad to drink your health, Mr. Inch."'
Inch dabbed his mouth and held the glass up to a
lantern. "Daughter of a doctor, sir. A very fine girl." He nodded. "I hope to marry when we put back to England."
Bolitho looked away, remembering suddenly how much a part Inch had played in his life since he had taken command of the old Hyperion. He had even been there in church to see him married to Cheney.
He turned and said quietly, "I wish you every success. It is another good reason to do well and gain advancement." He grinned. "A command of your own, eh?"
Inch looked at his feet. "I-I hope so, sir."
Bolitho had already had quite enough to drink and eat aboard the flagship, but at the same time the thought of being alone, cut off from the rest of the ship by the bulkhead and the marine sentry, was more than he could bear. Not tonight, of all nights. He walked across the cabin and shook the servant by his shoulder. As Petch staggered to his feet Bolitho said, "We will have some more claret. And I think some of that excellent cheese which my wife sent aboard."
Inch said, "She'll be thinking of us tonight, sir."
Bolitho stared at him for several seconds without speaking. Of us. That was what Inch had said, and he was right. He of all people must remember what she had meant to the Hyperion when she had taken passage aboard. When she had served the wounded while the timbers had quaked to the broadsides above her.
He replied quietly, "I am sure she will."
As Petch busied himself at the table Inch watched Bolitho, hardly daring to blink in case he should miss something. He could not recall having seen him like this before. He was sitting on the bench seat below the windows plucking absently at the lock of black hair which Inch knew covered the livid scar from some past action, and although his eyes were on Petch they were unseeing and distant, and somehow defenceless. It was like a discovery or an intrusion, and Inch knew he would always remember it, and keep it to himself.
Even before there was a hint of grey in the sky all hands were called, and with topsails and courses filling and cracking to a moderate wind the Hyperion headed away from her two darkened consorts. As the seamen moved briskly at halyards and braces Bolitho stood by the quarterdeck rail, very conscious of the changed atmosphere which the brief freedom from PelhamMartin's supervision had brought. For the first time in two months since they had left Plymouth Sound he heard the topmen calling and chattering as they worked busily above the vibrating yards, and he could hear the shriller voices of midshipmen who were urging their men in some unofficial and dangerous contest, their behaviour hidden from their superiors by the dark sky and spreading sails above and around them.
Only a few seemed listless and with little to say, and Bolitho guessed that the icy dawn air, in competition with the previous day's rum-soaked food, was to blame rather than any lingering resentment.
He shivered and walked quickly to the compass. In the feeble binnacle light he could see the card swaying but steady. North-east by north. With luck they would close the lonely Ithuriel by noon. If there was nothing to report there might still be time to make use of this rare freedom to sail futher north and beyond the estuary. For in spite of the commodore's confidence and his obvious belief that any possible prize or blockade runner would appear from the south where he had placed his other two. frigates, Bolitho knew from experience that the French were rarely obliging when it came to assisting their own defeat.
Inch crossed the deck and touched his hat. "Shall I set the t'gallants, sir?" He, too, sounded crisper and more alive again.
Bolitho shook his head. "You may send the hands to breakfast, Mr. Inch. They've worked hard and will have gained healthy appetites in this keen air." He wondered briefly if salt pork and iron-hard biscuits would throw half the seamen into a wave of nausea but added, "We'll get more canvas on her as soon as it's daylight." He nodded to Inch and then made his way aft to the cabin.
He threw his threadbare seagoing coat on to a chair-and seated himself at his desk. Petch had laid out a plate and some steaming coffee, and was busy with his master's breakfast in the adjoining pantry. Even Petch seemed to have got used to Bolitho's habit of eating from his desk rather than the dining table.
But Bolitho enjoyed sitting with nothing but the great glass stem windows between him and the open sea. Sometimes he could shut the ship and her teeming company from his thoughts and just stare out and away to nothing. It was a complete delusion, but it was some comfort when he most needed it.
Today it was still too dark to see much beyond the ship's white bubbling wake as it surged clear of the rudder. But he was momentarily content. The ship was alive again, and anything, anything, was better than doing nothing. He pitched his ear to the sounds and strains around him. The vibrating rumble of steering gear, the sluice and thunder of water against the hull, and above all, the great sighing moan of wind through rigging and shrouds as the ship gathered it to her own resources and drove on towards the invisible land.
Petch laid his breakfast on the desk and stood back to watch Bolitho's reactions.
A slice of fat pork, fried pale brown with biscuit crumbs. Two ship's biscuits liberally spread with thick black treacle, and the coffee. It was a spartan enough dish for a captain of a King's ship, but after Pelham-Martin's rich table it was somehow welcome and reassuring.
&nb
sp; But it was all too good to last. Later as he walked slowly on the quarterdeck watching the hands busy with holystones and swabs and the marines going through their mysterious ceremonies of musket drill and inspection, Bolitho had the feeling that things had changed.
Gossett called suddenly, "Wind's veerin', sir!"
Bolitho squinted up at the masthead pendant. Perverse as ever the Bay's weather was changing against him, and already the topsails were shaking and banging with nervous disarray.
He said, "We will alter course two points. Steer northeast by east."
Stepkyne was officer of the watch and looked as if he had been drinking heavily the day before.
"Midshipman of the watch! Pipe the hands to the braces, and lively with it!"
Even as the ship wallowed round on to her new course Bolitho knew it was not going to be enough. The wind was still veering and losing some of its strength, and the masthead pendant, instead of standing out stiffly was cracking and curling like a coachman's whip.
Gossett plodded to his side and murmured, "We'll 'ave to tack, sir." His palm rasped across his jowl. "By my way o' thinkin' the wind'll be blowin' right offshore afore the watch changes."
Bolitho eyed him gravely. Gossett was rarely wrong about the elements.
"Very well. Lay her on the larboard tack. We will have to beat well to the north'rd of the estuary if we are to find Ithuriel today."
He smiled at Gossett, but inwardly he was angry and disappointed. But as the wind went round still further he knew there was nothing else for it. By two bells of the forenoon watch the wind had steadied to the north-east, some ninety degrees from its original bearing. So instead of driving comfortably to some point where they could sight and signal the frigate, they must claw their way well north of the estuary in order to take what small advantage there was from the wind's lessening power.
Enemy In Sight! Page 5