There was rain too, but so great was the sea that it was difficult to distinguish between it and the spray which lifted above the weather bulwarks and soaked the struggling seamen to the skin, or clawed at the feet of the men aloft as they fought to control the glistening sails before they tore themselves from the yards like so much paper.
On the third day Pomfret had come to a decision. While the squadron hauled off to the north-east of St. Clar and hove to until the storm had blown its course, Hyperion was to be detached and would drive southward to patrol the southern approaches of the small port until the moment of entry. Somewhere to the northern side of the inlet the solitary frigate Bat would even now be rolling madly in an effort to cover the opposite extremity.
Herrick cursed angrily as a sheet of spray sighed over the nettings and dashed him full in the face, running instantly down his stomach and legs like ice-rime. The more he allowed himself to think about Pomfret the angrier he became. It was difficult to think of him as he was now, and whenever Herrick tried to examine Pomfret's motives he seemed to see him as he had once been aboard the Phalarope. Moody, evasive, and given to sudden fits of blind, unreasoning rage. It was strange how you never seemed to be able to rid yourself of old enemies in the small, monastic world of the Navy, he thought. Yet friends came and went and their paths hardly ever crossed a second time.
On the previous night as the hands had swarmed aloft yet again to shorten sail, Herrick had confided his thoughts to Bolitho. But he had been unwilling to discuss either the admiral or his motives, and Herrick knew he had been unfair even to mention his own doubts. Bolitho was a true friend, and a man whom Herrick admired more than any other, but he was above all a captain. A man isolated by the weight of his command and unable to discuss either the prowess or the shortcomings of his superior, no matter what he might believe inwardly.
But Herrick firmly persisted in his own belief that Pomfret, whatever skill he might have attained over the years, was a man who never relinquished an old grudge. He was hard and he was ruthless, qualities common enough in the Service, but more than that he had the stubborn, pig-headed conviction that he could never be wrong.
On the voyage out from England Herrick had heard it said that Pomfret was being sent to New Holland more as a punishment than as any sort of reward. It certainly bore thinking about, for it was unlikely with England at war with an overwhelming enemy that anyone of Pomfret's rank and experience would be sent to control a convict settlement, unless it was to keep him out of trouble.
And his present mania for written orders, his signals which allowed little manoeuvre or initiative to his subordinates, all these things seemed to point to a man determined to make good once and for all.
He was certainly an excellent organiser, even Herrick had to give him credit for that. While Bolitho had lain racked with fever in his cabin and he had taken over as first lieutenant, he had seen the evidence on every side. The convicts had been set to work repairing the crumbling defences and building a new stone jetty. And the troops, sweating and red-faced, had been put through one drill after another in readiness for landing at St. Clar. He smiled wryly. Right now the soldiers would be too seasick to do anything, and that would certainly put an edge to Pomfret's temper. And tomorrow was the day. Allowing for the weather, the ships would enter the inlet and take possession of the town, and within a week the whole of Europe might know that the British had made one more prod at a powerful enemy and had actually landed on French soil.
There was a step on the wet planking behind him and he saw Bolitho peering towards the weather rail, his hair plastered to his forehead by the spray. It seemed as if he never slept for more than minutes, but Herrick knew him well enough not to take his constant appearances as a lack of trust in his own ability. It was the way he was. He could never change now.
Bolitho shouted above the wind, 'Any sight of land?'
Herrick shook his head. 'No, sir. I altered course as you ordered, but the visibility has fallen to a bare half-mile!
Bolitho nodded. 'Come to the chartroom.'
After the buffeting confusion of the open deck the small chartroom with its dark polished wood and spiralling lantern seemed quite remote, even peaceful, in spite of the canting beams and creaking furniture.
Bolitho's face was thoughtful as he leaned on his elbows and studied the chart. With the points of the brass dividers he tapped it in time with his words. 'Mr. Gossett is sure that the wind will ease off tomorrow, Thomas. He is rarely wrong.'
Herrick peered dubiously at the chart and the crisscross of pencilled lines and bearings which showed only too clearly the Hyperion's meandering efforts to patrol up and down the southern approaches to St. Clar.
The inlet where some enterprising fishermen had originally founded St. Clar was like a deep niche cut in the coastline, as if by a giant axe. Guarded to north and south by steep headlands the entrance was about a mile across and afforded a safe and sheltered anchorage to even the largest craft. But further inland it narrowed considerably, until at the innermost extent it petered out by the mouth of a small but powerful river from the hills, beyond. The river served little purpose but to cut the town in half, and traffic to north or south had to use a humped stone bridge at the far end of the harbour.
With unwelcoming cliffs and jagged rocks on either side of the headlands the port was the only safe place for a landing of any size, and if opposed it would take a force ten times that which Pomfret commanded, and even then the result might be failure and terrible loss of life.
Bolitho said slowly, 'It is a great pity we did not make this landing earlier, Thomas. It is a month since my parley with the mayor of St. Clar. The first ardour of conspiracy may, have dulled a little.'
Herrick grunted. 'Sir Edmund apparently made good sure that the Frogs are willing to help us.'
'Maybe. But the parley was arranged on their part so that we could help them, remember that. They will wish to be remembered as patriots and not traitors, no matter how insecure this plan may prove to be.'
Herrick watched him curiously. 'Do you not believe in it then, sir?'
'To help our cause I think it is as good a plan as we could hope for, Lord Hood could never have expected such additional help as this.' He touched the lock of hair with his fingers and frowned. 'But for the mayor and his friends I am afraid it may yet be a fate worse than any defeat.'
There was a clatter of feet in the passageway and Midshipman Piper called breathlessly, 'Captain, sir! Mr. Caswell's respects and we have just sighted a small boat!' He faltered under their combined gaze. 'At least we think it is, sir!'
Herrick said, 'More likely a floating log. There'll be no small craft at sea in this.'
Bolitho smiled briefly. 'It is Mr. Caswell's first sighting report as an acting lieutenant, Thomas. You must learn to be generous!'
Herrick grinned. 'If you say so, sir.'
The wind and rain roared to meet them, and Bolitho clutched at the nettings for support as Caswell shouted against the din and all the while pointed across the larboard bow where the white-toothed waves danced in a profusion of broken rollers as they cruised to meet the Hyperion's challenge.
Herrick called, 'By God, sir, he is right!' He was squinting against the wind, his face and chest streaming as if he had just been hauled from the water.
Bolitho waited for the ship to lift and plunge over the next line of rollers, and as the deck canted steeply beneath him he saw something black against the creaming wavecrests, and for a few moments longer the thrashing triangle of a tan-coloured sail.
Caswell yelled, 'Fishing-boat, sir! He'll capsize unless he beats back to shelter!'
Bolitho replied, 'It is four miles to the nearest land, Mr. Caswell. If he had wanted to find shelter he would not have strayed this far.'
'A light!' A lookout was pointing excitedly. 'He's showing a light!'
Bolitho steadied himself against a nine-pounder. 'Heave to, Mr. Herrick!' He saw the leiutenant's astonishment and added sharply, 'That
craft is drifting with the wind and offshore current, and there is no hope of launching a boat in time to board her.' He stared up at the booming canvas. 'We will let her drift down to us. Detail a party of men to grapple her alongside. It will be a matter of minutes, so get the people from that boat and then cast off!'
Herrick opened his mouth and then closed it. 'Aye, aye, sir.' He pulled himself to the quarterdeck rail yelling, 'Mr. Tomlia, stand by to take that boat alongside!' His voice was almost lost to the hiss of spray and the persistent clatter of blocks and halyards. 'Stand by to heave to! Main tops'! braces there!'
There was a sound like tearing silk as the fore topsail parted down its belly and exploded into wildly flapping streamers. But rising and falling with ponderous indignation the Hyperion edged round into the wind, the sudden change of direction bringing more noise and the instant chorus of orders from petty officers and master's mates.
The small boat was almost finished, and as she idled clumsily towards the ship's side Bolitho could see the water cascading across her narrow hull and churning unchecked around the crouching figures by the tiller.
The Hyperion hardly quivered - as the boat crashed alongside. Men were cursing and yelling against the wind as 'with a second shudder the boat's mast snapped like a carrot and the sodden sail was torn free to float across the Hyperion's upper deck like a released spectre.
Herrick yelled, 'Lively, men! We'll be all aback in a moment!'
Two pigtailed sailors were already over the side, swinging painfully on lines like bundles of fruit as they struggled down on to the boat. It was breaking up fast, and as Bolitho watched from the quarterdeck he saw the bows begin to push beneath the Hyperion's rounded hull, so that it took some fifty hands at the grapnels to hold her alongside.
Lieutenant Inch staggered to the foot of the ladder and cupped his hands. 'Sir! They've got 'em off! A man and a boyl' He reeled and fell heavily as the ship yawed through a sudden arc, the masts and spars shaking at their stays as if to rear free from the deck.
Bolitho waved his hand. 'Cast off! Bring her back on course, Mr. Herrick!' He blinked the spray from his eyes as the foretopmen swarmed up the shrouds to secure the remains of the sail. The thought of being up there with them made his head swim.
There was a bang like a pistol-shot from forward as one of the grapnel lines parted under the strain, throwing the hauling seamen back into an untidy heap of thrashing limbs. But the boatswain managed to free the second grapnel, and with a groan like a cry of pain the fishing-boat rolled her gunwale under the eager water and disappeared in the foam.
Against the rising and falling backdrop of sea and cloud Bolitho could see his men clutching the two survivors. One was quite limp and the smaller appeared to be struggling.
He called sharply, 'Bring those men aft, Mr. Tomlin!'
At his back he heard the wheel squeaking and grinding against the weight of the helmsmen's combined strength, and then Gossett's voice calling, 'On course, sir! Nor' by westl Full an' bye!'
Herrick sounded out of breath. 'That was close, sir!' He shook the water from his coat like a dog. 'I never thought I'd see a ship of the line behaving like a jolly boat!'
Bolitho did not answer. He was watching the limp figure carried by Ton-din's seamen, and even in the dull light it was possible to see the heavy boots, the sodden uniform and the man's moustache plastered across his face as if it had no right to be there.
Herrick saw him start and asked, 'Who is it, sir?'
Bolitho answered quietly, 'Lieutenant Charlois. The man who arranged the parley.' He called, 'Get the surgeon- and take this man to my cabin at once!'
As the seamen gathered up their limp bundle he turned and stared at the boy. He was about Seton's age, but squareshouldered. and with hair as black as his own. He asked, 'What happened? Do you speak English, boy?'
The boy muttered under his breath and then spat on the quarterdeck.
Tomlin said calmly, 'That won't do at all, lad.' He cuffed him swiftly across the ear and then stared with horror as the boy collapsed sobbing on the deck at his feet. 'Gawd Almighty!'
Bolitho said, 'Take him below, Bosun. Keep him dry and warm. I will speak withh him later. Now I must see Charlois.'
Inch walked straddle-legged up the tilting deck and watched the surgeon hurrying after Bolitho. He said, `Upon my word, Mr. Herrick! If it's not one thing it's another!'
Herrick bit his lip and watched the sails as the ship swooped dizzily into another wide trough. 'One thing is sure, Mr. Inch. Whatever it is which has brought that man out here, it cannot be good!'
Bolitho stood in the doorway of his sleeping cabin and watched as Rowistone clung to the swaying cot and completed his examination of the unconscious Charlois while one of his mates and Allday held extra lanterns above his head.
The surgeon straightened his narrow shoulders and said at length, 'I am sorry, sir.' He shrugged. 'There is a ball lodged beneath his left lung. I do not think I can help him.'
Bolitho moved closer, and stared down at the Frenchman's heavy features and the shallow, painful movements of his chest.
Rowistone added meaningly, 'Had it been earlier, sir, I might have saved him. But this man was shot some while ago. Maybe three days. See that black stain around the wound? It is very bad.'
Bolitho did not have to look close. He could smell it. He asked quietly, 'Gangrene?'
Rowistone nodded. 'How he has lived this long I cannot imagine.'
'Well, see that be is made as comfortable as possible.' Bolitho half-turned and then looked down again as Charlois' lids flickered and then opened. For several seconds the eyes merely stared, unfocused and without comprehension, as if they did not belong in the man's face, which in the lamplight gleamed like tallow.
'Is it you, Captain?' The salt-dried lips moved very slowly, and Bolitho had to stoop to hear the words, his stomach rebelling against the foul stench of the wound.
Charlois closed his eyes again. 'God be praised!'
Bolitho asked, 'I am here. Why did you leave St. Clar? He hated to see the man struggling against his agony to assemble his thoughts, but he had to know.
Charlois said weakly, 'My son? Is he safe?'
Bolitho nodded. 'Safe and well. He was a brave boy to stay alone at the tiller in this storm.'
'A brave son.' Charlois tried to nod. 'But he hates me now. He despises me as a traitor to France!' A tear ran from the comer of his eye but he struggled on, 'He only came with me as a duty to his father, a duty, nothing more!'
The effort. of speaking was taking its toll and Rowistone eyed Bolitho with unspoken warning.
Gently Bolitho persisted, 'But why come out here?'
"I gave you my word, Captain. We made a bargain, you and I. I thought that it would all be over quickly, but your admiral believed otherwise.' He breathed out very slowly. 'Now it is too late. I had to warn you. It was my duty.'
Bolitho said, 'How long have you been at sea?'
Charlois sighed. 'Two, three days, I do not remember. When the ship came to St. Clar I knew it was finished, so I tried to find you. But the boat was fired on. I was hit by some
.' He rolled his head against the rough pillow, his face contorted with pain. 'It is over for us, Captain!'.
'What ship?' Bolitho touched Charlois' shoulder, feeling the clamminess of the flesh. 'Try and speak, man!'
Charlois muttered brokenly, 'She was running from the storm after being damaged in a fight with one of your ships. -She is called Saphir.'
Bolitho watched him sadly. It was ironic that the ship which had unexpectedly arrived at St. Clar was the one which Hyperion had vanquished in battle.
Charlois' voice seemed suddenly stronger. 'Her captain is a little upstart! He owes his command to the blood of his betters that something was wrong. He sent horsemen to Toulouse. There are many soldiers there.' His voice was fainter once who died by order of the Revolution! He was quick to guess more and his breathing short, and in the seated cabin very loud. 'It is over. You must te
ll your admiral.'
Bolitho looked away, seeing in his mind's eye the great wilderness of tossing water, the enclosing darkness around his ship. Somewhere, far off to the north-east, Pomfret's squadron was riding out the storm, It would take all night to find him. It could take longer. By that time it would be too late. Pomfret would sail into the inlet to be met by the concencrated fire of a moored eighty-gun ship. Probably the coastal battery would fire on the squadron also, for they would see no point in doing otherwise with their cause already lost.
And Pomfret would go on with the attack. Losing ships and men which he could ill' afford. His strength was for holding the town, and not taking it against a hostile force who would be expecting reinforcements at any moment from Toulouse. He tried to picture the chart in his mind. It was all of one hundred and twenty miles inland to Toulouse. Horsemen could be there in a day, or allowing for the roads and heavy rain, a day and night, riding hard. And they would ride very hard, he decided grimly. The garrison at Toulouse were professional, fully trained troops, sent there to control the hills and all the roads to the Spanish border. How long would it take them to march on St. Clar? Three days? He thought of French troops landing at Falmouth. How long would it take English soldieis to march against an invader? Very little time at all.
Gossett had assured him that the gale would drop tomorrow. So there would be nothing to stop Pomfret or give him time to find him.
Charlois said, 'They have put a boom across the harbour, Believe me, Captain, they are ready for anything!'
Form Line Of Battle! Page 20