Enemy In Sight!

by Alexander Kent

  The sloop's young commander met Bolitho and said excitedly, "Welcome aboard, sir! Is there anything I can do for you before I weigh?"

  Bolitho stared past him towards the blazing ship. She was almost gone now, just a few blackened timbers which still defied the fire, and some last buoyancy to keep her afloat and bare her misery to watching eyes.

  He replied, "Get me to my ship." He tried to force his mind to obey him, to hold back the dragging weariness which made his limbs feel like lead. "And see that these men are cared for. They have come a long way and must

  not suffer to no good purpose."

  The commander frowned, uncertain what Bolitho meant. Then he hurried away to pass his orders, his mind busy with what he had witnessed and how he would retell it one day.

  Later as the ships sailed from the bay and re-formed into line the smoke was still following them on the wind, the air heavy with ashes and a smell of death.

  Lieutenant Inch stepped hesitantly into the stem cabin and blinked at the glare from the sea below the counter.

  "You sent for me, sir?"

  Bolitho was stripped to the waist and shaving hurriedly, a mirror propped on the top of his desk.

  "Yes. Have there been any signals from the Telamon?"

  Inch watched round-eyed as Bilitho towelled his face vigorously and then pulled a clean shirt over his head. Bolitho had been back aboard his own ship less than five hours but had hardly paused to take a meal, let alone rest after his return from the swamp and the destruction of the enemy battery.

  He answered, "Nothing, sir."

  Bolitho walked to the quarter windows and stared at the haze-shrouded shoreline far away on the starboard beam. On a slow larboard tack the ships were making little progress, and when he peered astern at the Hermes he saw that her sails were almost flat and unmoving, her hull shimmering above the haze of her own reflection.

  He had expected Pelham-Martin to call his captains aboard the Telamon for a conference, or to send some sort of congratulations to the exhausted raiding party. Instead, the signal to heave 'to had been hoisted, and after another frustrating delay boats had shoved off from the Hermes loaded to the gunwales with men and headed immediately for the Hyperion's side.

  Lieutenant Quince had come with the boats to announce that the Hermes' brief raid on the waterfront at Las Mercedes had found and breached the prison and had released some sixty seamen held prisoner there, fifty of whom Captain Fitzmaurice had sent across to supplement Bolitho's own company. Also, Quince had come aboard to say goodbye. Pelham-Martin had appointed him as acting commander of the disabled Indomitable, with orders to make sail forthwith for Antigua, some six hundred miles to the north-east, where English Harbour could afford the necessary facilities for repairs, enough at least for her return to England and the refit she so sorely needed.

  Bolitho had been on deck to watch the listing seventyfour as she had edged slowly away from her consorts, showing her scars and battered hull, the clanking pumps telling only too well of her struggle to stay afloat. No wonder she had played no part in the final attack on Las Mercedes. One more broadside and she would likely have keeled over and sunk.

  It was good to know Quince had received a reward for his unfailing efforts, and as Bolitho had watched the Indomitable's shape melting into the sea haze, her torn sails and shattered topmasts somehow symbolic of the pain and death within her hull, he had thought of Winstanley, and how pleased he would have been to know his ship was in such good hands.

  But now they were sailing eastward again, with no apparent thought for chasing the two French ships which had escaped the attack, and no intimation at all of what Pelham-Martin intended to do next.

  During his brief visit Quince had said, "It seems that our commodore is well pleased with the results, sir. Two French sail of the line destroyed and the others put to flight."

  Bolitho had replied coldly, "We could have destroyed them alll"

  Quince had been watching him soberly. "You did all that you could, sir. I think the whole squadron knows that, and rightly."

  Bolitho had merely shrugged. "I cannot be content with half measures."

  He laid the razor on the desk and sighed, "Have you sworn in the new men, Mr. Inch?"

  "Aye, sir. I have questioned some of them too, just as you instructed."

  Bolitho walked restlessly to the opposite side and shaded his eyes to stare at the empty horizon. It was like a bright gold line in the late afternoon sunlight. He had wanted to meet and question these released men himself, but had been unable to face anyone as yet. Like the moment he had returned aboard, the cheers and yells of welcome ringing in his ears as he and the others had climbed from the sloop's jolly boat, the noise and force of the greeting making him more aware of his own complete fatigue.

  And Inch most of all. Bobbing and grinning, his anxiety giving way to an almost incoherent flood of pleasure which even Bolitho's false harshness could not dispel.

  Inch said suddenly, "All of them are prime seamen, sir. They were survivors of a merchantman, Bristol Queen, which was wrecked a while ago in a storm while bound for Caracas. Some of the crew managed to get away in the boats, and eventually reached Las Mercedes es where they were thrown into prison." He grimaced angrily. "The damned Dons have no feeling for shipwrecked seamen, it seems."

  Bolitho rested his hands on the desk and stared absently at the uppermost chart. "There were no officers saved, I take it?"

  "None, sir." Inch slapped one hand against his thigh. "But there was one strange piece of good fortune, sir. There is a master's mate amongst them." He nodded cheerfully in response to Bolitho's unspoken question, "Aye, sir, a Navy man!"

  "Well, do not keep me in suspense, Mr. Inch."

  "It seems he and another were picked up a few months back. They had been washed overboard from the Cornelia, seventy-four, and were clinging to an upturned quarter boat, at least the master's mate was. The second man had already died, sir."

  Bolitho nodded thoughtfully. "Saved from death to be imprisoned, eh? Well, he will be both welcome and useful aboard, Mr. Inch. I trust you made sure they were all able to send messages to their homes by way of the Indomitable before she left the squadron?"

  "Lieutenant Quince assured me that was so, sir. But the master's mate sent neither letter nor message. Unlike the others, I suspect he has no life other than shipboard."

  Bolitho listened to the shrill of pipes and the patter of feet overhead as the watch went about its business.

  "What is his name?"

  "Selby, sir."

  "Well, send Mr. Selby to me now. He might have seen or heard something at Las Mercedes. And I am not satisfied we know half enough that is happening there." He frowned, unaware of Inch's puzzled expression. "All those Spanish soldiers in French uniforms, the readiness of the ships and careful siting of a field battery." He shook his head firmly. "No, Mr. Inch, I am not at all pleased with our lack of knowledge."

  As Inch departed he returned once more to examining the chart. Where was Lequiller now?

  He thought suddenly of Lieutenant Lang, now aboard the Indomitable with all the other maimed and wounded, en route for Antigua, and thence to England. What would become of him? The surgeon had been brief and without hope. Lang was completely blind. Having neither private means nor influence he was being sent home to certain oblivion. To join the wretched flotsam which you saw in every port, in every place where the sea was a constant reminder of their uselessness and rejection.

  This master's mate was very welcome now. Bolitho would have to promote Gascoigne to acting lieutenant, experienced or not, and one more professional in the afterguard would be worth his weight in gold.

  There was a rap on the door and Inch stepped into the reflected sunlight. "Mr. Selby, sir." He stood aside as the other figure moved into view. "There is a signal from the Telamon, sir. To reduce sail and retain close station in readiness for the night."

  Bolitho leaned back against the desk, his fingers locked around its edge in an ef
fort to control his limbs. "Thank you, Mr. Inch." His voice seemed to come from a great distance. "Carry on, if you please."

  Inch opened his mouth and then shut it again. With a brief glance at the master's mate he left the cabin and closed the door quietly behind him.

  Bolitho could hear his own breathing, yet could feel nothing of his limbs at all but for the pressure of his fingers on the edge of the desk.

  The figure across the cabin was badly stooped, and the hair which was pulled back to the nape of his neck was almost completely grey. But there was no mistaking the firm chin, the steady eyes which watched him now with something like resignation.

  Bolitho's reeling mind seemed to register incredulity and despair, just as he understood the forces of luck and circumstance, of coincidence and fate which had at last drawn them together once again. As if in a dream he could recall exactly his father's tired face when he had told him of Hugh's disgrace, of his desertion from the Navy, and of his final disappearance in the Americas.

  He could remember, too, that meeting when he had been Hugh's prisoner aboard the American privateer, Andiron, and later, nearly two years ago now, when he had been within yards of him during the collapse of the campaign in St. Clar and Cozar, yet had not seen him.

  He said tonelessly, "I suppose our meeting again is inevitable." He gestured to a chair. "Sit down if you will.

  His brother lowered himself into the chair, his eyes still on Bolitho's face.

  He replied, "I did not want to come, Dick. I thought I was being kept aboard the Hermes. I did not even know your ship was in the Caribbean."

  Bolitho reached out and poured a glass of red wine. "Drink this. Then tell me why you were here." He gestured to his clothes. "How you came to be in the King's service."

  Hugh Bolitho drank deeply and ran his fingers through his hair. "Two years back when I was bound for New Holland as a convict you gave me, albeit unknowingly, another chance. They took most of the convicts back to Gibraltar to await deportation after we left St. Clar." The deep lines around his mouth softened slightly. "I was put aboard a man-o'-war bound for Botany Bay, and during a storm I decided to try and escape. I managed to reach the quarter boat, but was seen and chased by the master's mate of the watch. He climbed down after me." He shrugged, his eyes dreamy as he relived the moment. "There was a fight and the boat came adrift. We both realised the ship had sailed on without knowing we were missing, so we made the best of it. The storm got worse and the boat capsized. We had no water, nothing: When we were picked up, Selby, that was his name, had died. I was almost ready to follow."

  Bolitho passed his hand across his forehead. The fatigue and strain of the past days were taking their toll, and he had to think carefully before each word.

  "But why did you take the other man's identity?" He felt the sweat running down his chest. "You must have known you would be collected by a King's ship in due course?"

  Hugh nodded, the gesture both familiar and yet strange.

  "I was, and am tired of running, Dick. Changing names, and always looking over my shoulder. So I thought, where better to hide than in a King's ship?" He smiled wearily. "But it seems I was wrong even about that."

  On deck a bell chimed and feet shuffled around the poop skylight. At any second someone might enter.

  Bolitho said harshly, "You of all people ought to have known you might meet someone from the past."

  "I wanted to find something familiar where I could hide and wait until that ship reached England." He nodded heavily. "I just wanted to reach home once more. Nothing else seemed important." He stood up suddenly and laid the glass on the desk. "I am sorry about this. More so than I can say. I know you have your duty to do. I've had my luck. I'll not blame you now for putting me in irons until my trial."

  He fell back a pace as someone tapped the door.

  Bolitho could feel his brother's eyes fixed on his face as he called, "Enter!"

  Midshipman Pascoe came into the cabin, a telescope beneath his arm. "Mr. Roth's respects, sir. He wishes permission to take in a second reef. The wind is freshening from the nor'-east, sir."

  Bolitho looked away, the boy's voice ringing in his brain like one more part of the dream.

  "Very well, Mr. Pascoe. I will come up directly." He stopped him as he made for the, door. "This is Mr. Selby, master's mate." He faced his brother impassively. "Mr. Pascoe distinguished himself greatly during the recent raid."

  As the door closed again he added, "That boy has had more to bear from life than you know. His father disgraced him, and he now looks to me for trust and guidance, both of which I am proud to offer."

  "I do not understand?"

  "I will not destroy that boy completely by arresting the man he now believes dead! Whose name is in Falmouth church beside my father's!" He saw his brother stagger but could not control his words. "He walked right across Cornwall, alone and without help, just to see that name. Your name!"

  Hugh's voice was hoarse. "I did not know." He looked up, his eyes suddenly desperate, "His mother?"

  "Dead. Even she had to give her body to some damned landlord to keep her son in clothes and food!"

  "I really did not know." There was no more strength in his voice. "You must believe that!"

  Bolitho swung round, his eyes blazing. "I don't care what you knew or believed, d'you hear? I am captain of this ship, and you are Mr. Selby, master's mate in the larboard watch!" He saw his brother's face pale beneath the tan. "If you imagined you could run away from the past, you were mistaken. The man who commands the frigate Spartan was also your prisoner. My second lieutenant and several of the hands are Cornishmen." He shook his head. "You are surrounded by the past, as 1 am!"

  "Thank you for giving me the chance to . . ." His voice trailed away.

  Bolitho walked to the stern windows and stared hard at the slow-moving Hermes.

  "There was never any choice. If we reach England together I will see what can be done, but I make no promises, so remember that!" He gestured curtly to the door. "Carry on, and report to the master." In the glass of the nearest window he saw his brother's stooped shadow reach the bulkhead. He added quietly, "And if you so much as whisper the truth to that boy I will personally have you hanged!"

  The door closed and Bolitho threw himself heavily into the chair. How could this be happening? The commission might last for many more months, even years. It was unbearable, as it was unfair.

  The door opened again and Inch asked anxiously, "Did

  Mr. Pascoe pass the request to take in another reef, sir?" Bolitho stood up, feeling his arms and hands trembling

  in spite of his efforts to control them.

  "Yes, thank you. I will come up."

  Inch walked beside him to the quarterdeck. "Did Mr.

  Selby give you any useful news, sir?"

  Bolitho stared at him, caught off guard. "News? What news?"

  "I'm sorry, sir. I thought . . ." He quailed under Bolitho's fierce stare.

  "Yes, I see." Bolitho walked to the weather side and looked at the tautening rigging. "Very little."

  As the pipes shrilled and the duty watch swarmed up the ratlines Bolitho stood unseeingly by the weather nettings, his fingers playing with the small locket inside his shirt.

  When darkness reached the ships and the small stern lanterns showed their reflections like fireflies on the ruffled water he was still standing in the same place, his eyes clouded while he stared out into the darkness, and far beyond it.

  Only when Gossett, heavy footed and smelling strongly of rum, came on deck to inspect the traverse board and speak with the helmsmen did the spell seem to break. Bolitho walked past them all without a word and entered his cabin.

  Gossett watched him pass and rubbed his heavy jowl with sudden apprehension. Then he looked aloft at the reefed topsails and tapped the hour-glass with one massive finger.

  A new day would wipe away the memories of the battle, he decided. There was not much that a change of wind and weather could not alter for
any man.

  13

  RETURN OF THE "SPARTAN"

  Noon the following day found the depleted squadron one hundred and twenty miles east of Las Mercedes, out of sight of land, and leaning steeply to a brisk north-easterly. The sky was cloudless, and in spite of the wind the heat was almost unbearable, so that men not employed in working ship sought what comfort they could between decks, or in any patch of shadow they could find.

  Bolitho walked to the poop ladder and watched the Hermes as she wallowed some two cables astern. With the wind sweeping almost directly across the larboard bow her yards were braced round at maximum angle, so that every sail showed its hard belly as if to push the ship right on to her beam ends.

  He had just been addressing the newly acquired seamen, and had come aft feeling tired and strangely dispirited. As he had spoken to them he had tried to discover their reactions to his words, to find some spark of enthusiasm or resentment. There was probably more of the latter than anything, he had decided. The first flush of wild excitement at their unexpected rescue from unjust imprisonment had changed to doubtful acceptance, if not actual dismay. They were now faced with the prospect of serving in a King's ship, perhaps for years, and some would never live to know any other life at all.

  Gone were the privileges of comfortable quarters and tolerant routine, of good pay with the chance to return to their homes at the end of each profitable voyage. Their resentment would find little sympathy amongst the Hyperion's company, for as was the way in the Navy, the attitude of the average seaman was that if it had happened to him, then why not to others?