Bolitho said evenly, "Should I fall, Mr. Roth, you will assist the first lieutenant on the quarterdeck to the best of your ability, do you understand?" The man's eyes moved and settled on his face. "Stay with your guns, and give your people every encouragement, even if ..."
He swung round as Inch called hoarsely, "The leading ship's dropped anchor, sir! By the living God, so has the second onel"
Bolitho thrust past him and climbed into the mizzen shrouds. It was incredible, but true. Even as he watched he saw a feather of white spray beneath the bows of the stately three-decker, and knew that she, too, had followed suit. The last ship was too well hidden by her consorts, but he could just make out the flurry of activity on her yards as first one then another sail vanished as if by magic. The captain was killed." He shrugged. "I gave the order to strike. No choice or chance seemed left open to me." His eyes suddenly clouded with despair and anger. "Had I known what would happen, I would have let every one of my men die fighting!" He was shaking violently and tears ran down his grimy cheeks as he said in a choked voice, "The French admiral wishes me to say that unless you weigh and put to sea at once," he paused, suddenly aware of the watching faces around him, "he will hang every one of Ithuriel's people here and now!"
Inch gasped, "Good God, that's not possible!"
The lieutenant stared at him, his eyes dull with fatigue and shock. "But it is, sir. The admiral's name is Lequiller, and he means what he says, believe mel"
A gun boomed dully across the inlet, and then as two small, twisting shapes rose kicking and jerking to the mainyard of the French flagship the Hyperion's hull seemed to quiver to a great groan of horror which came from the watching seamen and marines.
The lieutenant said desperately, "He will hang two men every ten minutes, sir!" He seized Bolitho's arm and sobbed, "For God's sake, there are two hundred British prisoners in Lequiller's hands!"
Bolitho released his arm and tried once more to mask his feelings from those around him. The cold inhumanity, the very horror of the French admiral's ultimatum had made his mind swim with both fury and sick despair. As he glanced along the crowded main deck he could see his own men standing back from the guns, staring up at him or at each other, as if too stunned to move. They had been prepared to fight and die, but to stand by and watch a slow, merciless execution of helpless prisoners had broken their spirit with no less effect than the greatest broadside ever fired.
"And if I obey his demand?" Bolitho forced himself to watch the lieutenant's misery.
"He will land Ithuriel's people and send them under guard to Bordeaux, sir."
Again the gun echoed and re-echoed across the water, and Bolitho turned to hold and keep the picture in his mind. So that he would never forget it. Two small, writhing shapes. What must those men have thought as they had waited with the halters around their necks? Hyperion would have been the last thing they saw on earth.
Bolitho gripped the lieutenant's arm and thrust him to the quarterdeck ladder. "Go back to the flagship, Mr. Roberts!"
The man stared at him, his eyes blinded with tears. "You mean you will sail, sir?" He seemed to imagine he had misheard for he tried to seize his hand as he continued in the same broken tone. "You'll retreat for the sake of our men?"
Bolitho turned away. "Put him in his gig, Mr. Inch, and then have the capstan manned and prepare to get under way!"
He saw Gossett watching him, his face filled with concern and understanding. "Lay a course to clear the headland, if you please!" Bolitho could not face him, nor could he meet Inch's eyes when he hurried back to his place by the rail.
The men had to be pushed and driven to their stations, as if dazed by what was happening. The older and more experienced ones could only stare aft at their captain's slim figure, surrounded yet quite alone, as he stood watching the French ships, for they knew the enormity of his decision, and what it could mean.
But Bolitho saw none of them, and was barely conscious of the confusion and barked orders as hands manned the capstan bars and the topmen swarmed up the ratlines, some still wearing cutlasses with which they had been ready to fight and die.
The gig was pulling back to the French ships as fast as it could against the stiff current, and Bolitho clenched his fingers until the nails bit into his flesh as the gun fired yet again and two more bodies swayed up to the fla . ship's yard.
The French admiral had not even waited for the gig to return. He had kept to his timing. Had kept his word.
The gig vanished beyond the anchored ships and then Gossett murmured, "One of 'em's shortenin' 'er cable already, sir!"
From forward came the cry, "Anchor's hove short, sir!"
Inch stepped forward to ask permission to get under way, but saw Gossett's grim face and his quick shake of the head. So he turned on his heel and yelled, "Carry on! Loose tops'ls!" Even when he lowered his speaking trumpet towards the deck Bolitho showed no sign of hearing or of taking his eyes from the enemy ships.
"Man the braces! Lively there!" A rattan cracked across a man's shoulders, and from forward came the call, "Anchor's aweigh!"
Slowly, even reluctantly the Hyperion went about and gathered way, the watery sunlight touching her spreading and bellying canvas like silver as she heeled to the offshore wind.
Bolitho walked to the weather side, his eyes still on the ship. Legnfier. He would remember that name. Lequiller.
A master's mate knuckled his forehead. "Beg pardon, sir?"
Bolitho stared at him. He must have spoken aloud. He said, "There will be another day. Be quite sure of that!"
Then he climbed up the poop ladder and said shortly, "You may dismiss your men, Captain Dawson!"
When the last of the marines had clumped past him he started to pace the small deserted deck, his mind empty of everything but that one name.
It was all he had. But one day he would find him and know him, and when that time came there would be neither pity nor quarter until the memory of those small, wretched corpses was avenged.
5
THE CHASE BEGINS
Five days after the Hyperion had rejoined her two consorts Bolitho was sitting in his cabin, his breakfast untouched, the coffee cold in its cup as he stared listlessly through the stem windows at the empty horizon. He could not recall any days so long or so devoid of purpose, and he knew that his own uncertainty was shared by the whole ship, like a sense of foreboding.
When he had boarded the Indomitable within minutes of taking station astern of the other ships he had been conscious of nothing but a sense of failure, and when he had been ushered into the commodore's great cabin he had listened to his own voice as he had made his report, more like a detached onlooker than one who was not only directly involved but also a possible culprit for the chain of events which had followed his retreat from the estuary.
Pelham-Martin had heard him out without a word or an interruption. In fact, looking back Bolitho could recall no expression or reaction of any sort which he could recognise as either anger or apprehension. He had merely said, "Return to your ship, Bolitho. I will draft an immediate report for Sir Manley Cavendish's attention."
Again like an onlooker Bolitho had paced his quarterdeck while signals had broken from the commodore's yards, and for a few hours at least there had been every sign of urgency and purpose. Fortunately, both sloops had returned to the small squadron during Hyperion's brief absence, and as one sped northwards to seek out the vice-admiral's ship, the other had gone about and headed in the opposite direction to recall the two remaining frigates.
But as day followed day with nothing to break the waiting and uncertainty Bolitho knew that a new show of force was less than pointless. The stable door was still open, but it was unlikely there were any more large ships waiting to test the strength of the commodore's vigilance.
Over and over again he asked himself what he could have done. What he should have done. If he had stayed offshore to shadow the emerging French ships PelhamMartin would have remained in ignorance. But by re
turning immediately to the squadron he had allowed the enemy to escape. To vanish into thin air as if they had never been.
The third course he had rejected without hesitation, but as he fretted and brooded in his imposed isolation he could no longer see even that one act in its true value. Humanity and honour were seen quite differently in the cold and austere atmosphere of a court martial assembly. It was ominous that for once Pelham-Martin had not required anyone to witness his report or to know its content.
Several times he had started to write another letter to Cheney. To prepare her for news which at any time could bring her nothing but despair. If Pelham-Martin had worded his report to place the full responsibility on Hyerpion's captain, then it would not be long before Falmouth would learn of Bolitho's disgrace, with all the terrible consequences which would follow.
He sat up as a voice called, "Deck there! Sail on th' weather bow!"
He made himself remain seated at his desk until a midshipman brought the news formally that a ship had been sighted to the north-west. Then, in spite of his mounting anxiety, Bolitho pulled on his coat and made his way slowly to the quarterdeck.
Inch hurried to him. "She's a frigate, sir!" He watched Bolitho's face worriedly. "She'll be bringing despatches, sir?"
"Maybe." Bolitho sensed Inch's concern and added quietly, "Have no fear. Your part in all this is made quite clear in my log."
Inch took a pace forward. "I'm not worried about that, sir! It's just, just ..."
Bolitho eyed him calmly, "What is it?"
Inch squared his narrow shoulders. "It's so damned unfair, sir! We all think the same!"
Bolitho watched the gulls lifting and diving above the lee gangway. They were foolish enough to make the long flight from land. There was little enough to eat for the ship's company.
Then he said, "You will not discuss these matters of conjecture in the wardroom, Mr. Inch. You may be required to assume command at any time, for any one of a hundred reasons. To open your heart too much might render you vulnerable when you can least afford it." He saw Inch's crestfallen expression and continued, "But thank you all the same."
When the frigate drew closer it was soon obvious that she carried more than mere despatches. As she shortened sail and went about to drive straight for the slow-moving two-deckers Bolitho saw that she wore a vice-admiral's flag at her foremast, and knew from the sudden flurry of signals that Sir Manley Cavendish had arrived in person to pronounce verdict and penalty with the least possible delay.
Midshipman Gascoigne yelled, "General, sir! Heave to!"
As officers and seamen scampered to their stations he added breathlessly, "Flag to Hyperion. Captain repair on board in thirty minutes!"
"Acknowledge." Bolitho looked at Inch. "Heave to and then call away my barge." He tried to appear relaxed under the eyes around him. "It will give me time to change into my dress coat."
While the ship laboured and swayed in the light wind and Petch busied himself laying out clean shirt and best uniform, Bolitho glanced around the cabin, thinking momentarily of all the dramas and hopes it had witnessed, and would see again. From here captains had gone on deck to die in battle or triumph against one of a dozen of England's enemies. Had left to be promoted or to witness a flogging, to offer help to a ship in distress, or merely to watch the passing of some particular cloud or seascape. It was strange that the same ship which might bring fame and fortune to one, could bring ignominy and disaster to another.
He pulled his neckcloth tight and saw Petch watching him anxiously. He was probably already wondering if by this time tomorrow he would be serving a new master.
Inch stepped into the cabin. "Barge alongside, sir." He paused before adding, "The commodore's already gone over to the frigate, sir."
Bolitho held out his arms for his heavy, gold-laced coat with the white lapels. The one which Cheney admired so much. It was what. he had expected. The two senior officers would need privacy for their own confrontation, he thought grimly.
"Very well, Mr. Inch. I'm ready."
He paused as Petch fumbled with the swordbelt about his waist and then walked quickly to the door.
A great silence seemed to hang over the upper deck as he strode towards the entry port. It was strange to realise there were still so many faces be did not know or recognise. Given time he would have changed that. He looked up at the great web of rigging and the sails which flapped loosely in the wind. Given time, a lot of things might have been different.
The pipes twittered and the marines presented arms as he swung himself outboard and down to the pitching barge below.
He sat stiffly in the sternsheets as the oars picked up the stroke and sent the boat scudding towards the distant frigate. It was then that he noticed every one of his bargemen was dressed in his best checked shirt and Allday was wearing a brass buttoned coat he had not seen before.
Allday kept his eyes on the frigate but said softly, "Just to show 'em, Captain. So they'll all know how we feel!"
Bolitho gripped his sword-hilt and stared fixedly above the seamen's heads. He could not even find the words to speak. Did not trust himself to reply to Allday's simple loyalty.
The bowman made fast to the chains, and without
waiting for Allday to rise to his feet Bolitho hauled himself up the frigate's side and raised his hat to the quarterdeck.
For a moment he looked across at the ship he had just left. Then he straightened his shoulders and nodded curtly to the frigate's young captain.
"Lead the way, if you please."
The frigate's stern cabin was low-beamed and spartan after that in a ship of the line, but to Bolitho was instantly familiar. When he had taken command of a frigate for the first time he had thought his quarters palatial when compared to a small sloop, but now as he ducked his head beneath the deck beams he was equally conscious of the lack of space, made more apparent by the three figures arranged around it.
Vice-Admiral Sir Manley Cavendish was thin and grey haired, and although his features were tanned and weathered, his cheeks looked sunken, and beneath his resplendent dress coat his breathing seemed quick and shallow. Bolitho knew him to be in his sixties, and the fact he had not set foot ashore for more than a few hours during the past two years could have done little to help his obvious poor health. But there was nothing feeble about his voice, and the eyes, close set above an imperious nose, were as bright and searching as any lieutenant's.
"Punctual at least, Bolitho!" He eased himself painfully in his chair. "You had better sit down. This may take some time, and I am not in the habit of repeating myself!"
Bolitho found a chair, conscious the whole time of Pelham-Martin's heavy bulk seated against the opposite side, his pink hands gripped together across his waistcoast as if to hold himself motionless in his enemy's presence. The other occupant was a flag lieutenant, an exprcssionless young man who stared straight at an open log book, his pen poised like a sword above an empty page.
Cavendish said, "I have read the reports, and I have considered what can be done. What must be done."
Bolitho glanced at the pen. It was still motionless.
"I have spoken with your Commodore and heard all that has happened, both before and after the loss of the Ithuriel." He leaned back and eyed Bolitho stonily. "Altogether it is as melancholy as it is dangerous, but before I make my final decision I would like to hear if you have anything to add to your, er, assessment of the situation."
Bolitho knew that Pelham-Martin was staring at him, but looked straight at Cavendish. "Nothing, sir."
The flag lieutenant studied him for the first time. Then Cavendish asked calmly, "No excuses? No blame to be laid elsewhere?"
Bolitho pressed his spine against the chair, holding back the sudden flood of anger and resentment. "I acted as I thought fit, sir. It was my responsibility and I chose what I
thought . . ." he lifted his chin slightly, 11... what I think
was the only course open to me."
The pen scratc
hed busily across the paper.
The admiral nodded slowly. "If you had stayed to fight you would have forfeited your ship, and maybe six hundred men. You say you were prepared so to do?" He crossed his fingers and watched Bolitho's face for several seconds. "Yet you were not prepared to risk the lives of others already lost to us through fault or negligence, eh?"
Bolitho replied, "I was not, sir." He listened to the busy pen and felt his body relax for the first time. He was condemning himself, but could do nothing to prevent it. Not unless he was prepared to slander Pelham-Martin, or to denounce an action he still believed to be right.
Cavendish sighed. "Then that is all there is to be said on the matter." His head twisted sharply as he stared at Pelham-Martin. "Do you wish to make any comment?"
"Captain Bolitho was detached from my supervision, sir." The commodore was speaking quickly, and against the harsh light thrown through the stem windows his round face was shining with sweat. "But I am sure, that is I feel under the circumstances he acted as he thought fit."
Cavendish glanced at his flag lieutenant. It was just a brief moment, but Bolitho thought he saw a flicker of contempt in those cold eyes.
Then he said, "I have already told your Commodore what I intend, but as you are directly concerned I will give you the bones of my conclusions." He turned over some papers on the desk and added curtly, "Four ships avoided my squadron off Lorient, as you are no doubt well aware. Now more have escaped through your own patrols. You think maybe there is no connection?" He tapped the papers with his small wizened hands. "I have had every frigate alerted, questioned every available source, yet there is not one single sign of these ships!" He slapped his hands hard on the desk. "Not one sign."
Bolitho watched him evenly. It was hard to see where this was leading. Did Cavendish intend to place the whole 'blame on Pelham-Martin, and thereby on him?
Enemy In Sight! Page 8