Enemy in Sight! (11 page)

New methods, and a new type of sea officer. It was strange but true that men like Rodney and Howe, names once revered throughout the Navy, were now openly criticised by younger and more zealous officers. Like the young Captain Nelson whom Bolitho had seen over a year back off Toulon, whose personal ini- tiative and daring had taken Bastia from under the very noses of the French army.

At the right age and at the right time, Cavendish had said. Bolitho shut the desk drawer and locked it firmly. We shall see, he thought.

There was a hesitant tap at the door, and when he swung round in the chair Bolitho saw the new midshipman standing uncertainly at the far end of the cabin.

“Come over here so that I can see you.” Bolitho could hardly spare the time to meet the newcomer, but knew from bitter expe- rience what it was like to join a ship already in commission, alone and with no familiar faces to ease the first jolts and scrapes.

The boy stepped forward and halted within feet of the desk. He was tall for his age, slim and dark eyed, with hair as black as Bolitho's. He had a wild, restless appearance about him, which reminded Bolitho of an untrained colt.

He took the heavy envelope from the midshipman's hands and slit it open. It was from the Port Admiral at Plymouth, with the bare facts of the approved appointment to the
Hyperion.
The boy's name was, it appeared, Adam Pascoe.

Bolitho looked up and smiled. “A fellow Cornishman, eh? How old are you, Mr Pascoe?”

“Fourteen, sir.” He sounded taut and on guard.

Bolitho studied him. There was something strange about Pascoe, yet he could not place it. He noted the poor quality of the boy's uniform coat, the cheap gilt on his dirk.

Pascoe did not falter under his scrutiny but dived one hand inside his coat and produced another letter. Quickly he said, “This is for you, sir. I was told to give it to no one else.”

Bolitho slit open a crumpled envelope and turned away slightly. It was common enough to get a private letter under these circumstances. An unwanted son being sent away to sea, a request for special privilege, or merely a fond mother's personal plea for his care in the world she could never share.

The paper quivered in his fingers as he gripped it with sud- den force. The letter was from his own brother-in-law, Lewis Roxby, Falmouth landowner and magistrate, and married to Bolitho's younger sister. The sprawling writing seemed to swim as he read the middle paragraph for the second time.

When the boy came to me for my protection it was of course nec- essary to investigate the value of documents he brought with him. There is no doubt that the claims made on his behalf are genuine. He is the son of your late brother Hugh. There are letters from him to the boy's mother, whom it appears he had some intent upon marrying before he quit the country. He never saw his father of course, and lived until recently with his mother, who was little more than a common whore to all accounts, in the town of Penzance.

There was more, quite a lot more, all of which spoke of excuses and reasons for getting the boy away from Falmouth with- out delay.

Bolitho swallowed hard. He could well imagine the conster- nation the boy's sudden appearance must have caused. He did not really like Roxby, nor could he ever understand his sister's choice for a husband. Roxby loved a good rich life, with all the hunting and bloodsport he could find to fill his day with others of the county whom he might consider as his equals. The thought of being involved with a reborn local scandal would be more than enough to move him to write this letter and send the boy pack- ing to sea.

He turned and looked again at the young midshipman. Letters of proof, Roxby had said. But just to look at him should have been enough. No wonder he had seemed strange. It was like look- ing at himself as a boy!

Pascoe met his gaze, his expression drawn between defiance and anxiety.

Bolitho asked quietly, “Your father, boy, what do you know of him?”

“He was a King's officer, sir, and was killed by a runaway horse in America. My mother often described him to me.” He faltered before adding, “When she was dying she told me to make my way to Falmouth and seek your family, sir. I—I know my mother never married him, sir. I have always known, but . . .” His voice trailed away.

Bolitho nodded. “I understand.” What a lot had been left unsaid. How the boy's mother had managed to keep and clothe him, to protect him from the truth that his father had deserted the Navy and had fought against his country, spoke volumes, and moved Bolitho to say, “As you must know, your father was my brother.” He looked away and hurried on, “And you lived in Penzance, you say?”

“Yes, sir. My mother was sometimes a housekeeper for the squire. When she died I walked to Falmouth.”

Bolitho studied his face thoughtfully. Twenty miles on foot, alone and with no knowledge of what might be waiting for him in a strange town.

The boy said suddenly, “Aunt Nancy was most generous, sir. She took care of me,” he dropped his gaze, “while they were look- ing into things.”

“Aye, she would.” Bolitho recalled his sister with sudden clar- ity, how she had nursed and mothered him when he had lain half dying with fever after his return from the Great South Sea. She would look after the boy better than anyone, he thought.

It was strange to realise that all these years he had been liv- ing a bare twenty miles from Falmouth, and the house, which if not for this cruel twist of fate, would have been his own property one day.

Pascoe said quietly, “When I was in Falmouth, sir, I went to the church and saw my father's plaque there. Beside all those oth- ers . . .” He swallowed hard. “I liked that, sir.”

There was a tap on the door and Midshipman Gascoigne stepped carefully into the cabin. Gascoigne was seventeen and the ship's senior midshipman in the coveted post of looking after the
Hyperion'
s signals, he was next in line for promotion to acting lieutenant. Also, he was the only midshipman who had been at sea before in a King's ship.

He said formally, “Mr Inch's respects, sir, and the barge is putting off from
Indomitable
with the commodore on board.” His eye strayed to the new midshipman, but did not even flicker.

Bolitho stood up, groping for his sword. “Very well, I'll come directly.” He added sharply, “Mr Gascoigne, I will place Mr Pascoe in your charge. See that he is allotted a station and keep a care- ful eye on his progress.”

“Sir?” Gascoigne looked inscrutable.

Bolitho hated favouritism of any kind, and despised those who used it to grant or receive advancement or special treatment. But it seemed little enough now. This poor, wretched boy who was grateful for a chance to make good when he was entirely blameless for the fate which had left him without a father or his proper name, was now in his ship, and from what he could gather from Roxby's letter, likely to have nowhere else to go in the whole world.

He said calmly, “Mr Pascoe is my, er, nephew.”

When he looked again at the boy's face he knew he had been right.

Unable to watch the torment in his dark eyes a moment longer he added harshly, “Now be off with you! There's more than enough work as it is!”

Minutes later as he stood by the entry port to receive the commodore, Bolitho found himself thinking of what the boy's arrival might come to mean. As he glanced casually at the other officers he wondered just how much they knew or considered their captain's background and the one flaw in his family's record.

But their expressions were mixed. Excitement at the voyage ahead, troubled by the thought of leaving someone dear even fur- ther astern, the faces were as varied as their owners. Maybe they were just relieved at being spared from the boredom of blockade, and did not yet fully comprehend the enormity of the ship's true mission. The sudden change of orders seemed to have driven the horror of the hangings, the sharp and fierce clash with the frigate from their minds. Even the handful of seamen killed in the one- sided fight, who had been buried at sea almost before their blood had been scrubbed from the planking, appeared to have faded in memory. Which was just as well, he thought grimly.

As Pelham-Martin's cocked hat appeared up the side and the pipes squealed and the marines' drums and fifes broke into
Heart of Oak,
Bolitho momentarily thrust his personal hopes and mis- givings to the back of his mind.

He stepped forward, removing his hat, knowing from the uplifted eyes of a small sideboy that the broad pendant had bro- ken from the masthead at exactly the right moment, and said formally, “Welcome aboard, sir!”

Pelham-Martin clapped on his hat and peered around at the watching figures. He was perspiring freely, and Bolitho could almost taste the brandy on his breath. Whatever Cavendish had said to him privately had certainly moved Pelham-Martin enough to fortify himself well before coming across to his new flagship.

He said shortly, “Carry on, Bolitho.” Then followed by Petch he waddled aft to the quarterdeck ladder.

Bolitho looked at Inch. “Get the ship under way, if you please.” He glanced aloft at the new pendant. “The wind has backed a trifle, I think. Make a signal to the frigates
Spartan
and
Abdiel
to take station as ordered.” He watched Gascoigne scribbling on his slate, the flags dashing up to the yards. He saw, too, that Pascoe was with Gascoigne, his head bent to catch what his senior was telling him. At that moment the boy looked up, and across the hurrying seamen and jerking halyards their eyes met.

Bolitho nodded curtly, and then gave a brief smile. When he looked again the boy was hidden by the afterguard as they clumped to the mizzen braces.

He said, “We will steer west-south-west, Mr Gossett.”

Later, as the
Hyperion
tilted steeply to the wind and more and more canvas blossomed and thundered from her braced yards, Bolitho walked on to the poop and stared astern. The other two- deckers and the vice-admiral's frigate were already lost in a misty haze, and of France there was no sign at all.

Inch came aft and touched his hat. “It'll be a long chase, sir.”

Bolitho nodded. “Let us hope it may also be a fruitful one.” Then he crossed to the weather side and retreated into his thoughts again.

6 A
K
ING
'
S OFFICER

F
OR THREE
weeks after leaving the rest of the squadron the
Hyperion
and the two frigates drove south-west, and later when the wind backed perversely and mounted to a full gale, due south under all sail which it was safe to carry.

Then, as January drew to a close, they picked up the north- east trade winds and headed out on the longest and final leg of their voyage. Three thousand miles of ocean, with nothing but their own meagre resources to sustain them.

But as far as Bolitho was concerned the weather for the first part of the voyage had been a welcome ally. Barely an hour passed without the hands being called to reef or trim the sails, and the ship's company had found little time to brood over their unex- pected isolation and the great breadth of ocean which greeted their tired eyes at every dawn.

And in spite of the hardships and privations, if not because of them, he was pleased with the way his men were shaping up. As he stood by the quarterdeck rail and watched the hands toil- ing with holystones and swabs he saw the obvious changes which had come about. Gone were the pallid skins and haggard faces. The bodies were still lean, but it was a tough leanness born of hard work and sea air, and they performed their daily tasks with- out the need of constant guidance or harrying. Of course the weather had a lot to do with it. All the colours were different. Blue instead of dull grey, and the rare clouds fleecy and unreach- able as they glided across the clear sky towards an horizon which always seemed as hard and as bright as a sword blade.

While the
Hyperion
took full advantage of the friendly trades so she, too, altered her appearance accordingly. Now in a full suit of light sails to replace the thick heavy-weather canvas, she seemed to lean forward and down across the endless panorama of glit- tering whitecaps, as if she was glad to be throwing off the bleak monotony of blockade duty and eager to reach beyond the sea's edge, and beyond that.

He lifted his telescope and moved it slowly above the net- tings until he found the tiny pyramid of sails far out on the starboard bow, a mere flaw on the horizon to show that the frigate
Abdiel
was on her proper station. The other frigate,
Spartan,
was some twenty miles ahead of her and quite invisible. He closed the glass and handed it to the midshipman of the watch.

At moments like these it was hard to believe he was not still in sole command. Pelham-Martin rarely seemed to come on deck, and remained aloof and unreachable in the stern cabin for most of the time. He would grant Bolitho a brief audience every morn- ing, listen to his comments or ideas, and then confine his comments to, “That seems quite a good plan.” Or, “If you con- sider that to be in the best interest, Bolitho.” It was as if he was saving himself for the real task which still lay ahead, and was con- tent to leave local affairs to his captain.

Up to a point it suited Bolitho, but as far as the true depth and meaning of Pelham-Martin's orders were concerned, he was in complete ignorance.

The commodore still seemed unwilling to place any value on the selection of captains for certain tasks, and left it completely to Bolitho's own judgement, even though he was a stranger to the squadron. Bolitho thought about the far off
Spartan
and how Pelham-Martin seemed almost surprised to learn that he already knew her young captain. But it was only mild surprise and noth- ing more. He appeared to hold personal relationships at arm's length, as if they were of no importance at all.

Bolitho started to pace slowly up and down, thinking back over the years, to all the faces and memories which made up his service at sea. The
Spartan'
s captain for instance. Charles Farquhar had once been a midshipman under him, and he had been the first to see his value and promote him to acting lieutenant. Now, at twenty-nine, he was a post-captain, and with his aristocratic family background and a long line of naval connections, it was likely he would end his career as an admiral and a very rich man. Curiously, Bolitho had never really liked him but at the same time had recognised right from the start that he was both shrewd and resourceful, just as he was now said to be something of a tyrant when it came to running his own command.

But the
Spartan
was the leading ship, and upon her captain's first quick judgement could depend the success or failure of what- ever Pelham-Martin might intend.

When he had mentioned to Pelham-Martin that Farquhar had once been a fellow prisoner aboard an American privateer the com- modore had merely said, “Very interesting. You must tell me about it sometime.” As he paced busily back and forth Bolitho found time to wonder what Pelham-Martin's reaction would be if he ever discovered that Bolitho's captor had been his own brother!

Inch hovered nearby, trying to catch his eye.

“Well?” Bolitho faced him abruptly, shutting the commodore's strange attitudes from his mind. “What can I do for you?”

Inch said, “Gun drill, sir?” He pulled out his watch. “I am hoping we may do better today.”

Bolitho hid a smile. Inch was so serious these days, but a great improvement as a first lieutenant.

He replied, “Very well. They still take too long to clear for action. I want it done in ten minutes and not a second more. And there are also too many delays in loading and running out.”

Inch nodded glumly. “I know, sir.”

Bolitho half turned as a burst of laughter floated down from the main shrouds. He saw three midshipmen racing each other for the top, one of them he recognised as his nephew. It was strange that in a crowded ship they rarely seemed to meet. It was even harder to enquire of his welfare without appearing to show favouritism, or worse, mistrust.

He said distantly, “You know my standards. Clear for action in ten minutes or less. Then three broadsides every two minutes.” He eyed him calmly. “You know it. Make sure
they
know it, too!” He walked back to the weather side adding casually, “I suggest you give one gun to the midshipmen this morning. It will keep 'em out of mischief, and more to the point will make our people all the more keen. It does them good to know they can beat an officers' crew in timing and efficiency.”

Inch nodded. “I'll attend to it directly . . .” He flushed with embarrassment. “I—I mean
at once,
sir!”

Bolitho continued his pacing, his jaw aching as he tried to stop the grin from spreading across his face. It was just as if Inch was trying to mould himself on his captain, even to the way he spoke.

At two bells precisely he left the quarterdeck and made his way aft to the cabin. Much as usual he found Pelham-Martin seated at the table, a silk napkin under his chin while he con- sumed a final cup of coffee after his late breakfast.

He said, “I have sent the hands to gun drill, sir.”

Pelham-Martin dabbed his small mouth with a corner of the napkin and frowned as the deck trembled to the rumble of gun trucks and stamp of feet.

“So it would appear!” He shifted his bulky frame on the chair. “Is there anything else to report?”

Bolitho eyed him impassively. It was always the same. “We are steering west-south-west, sir, and the wind is steady as before. I have set the royals on her, and with luck we should reach St. Kruis in three weeks.”

Pelham-Martin grimaced. “You sound very confident. But of course you know these waters well.” He glanced towards the litter of papers and charts on the desk. “I hope to God there is some news awaiting us at St. Kruis.” He scowled. “You can never tell with the Dutch, of course.”

Bolitho looked away. “It cannot be easy when you know your own homeland is being conquered, sir.”

The commodore grunted. “That is not my concern. The point is, will they help us?”

“I believe so, sir. The Dutch have always been good friends, just as they have been honourable and courageous foes.”

“Maybe.” Pelham-Martin pulled himself on to his short legs and moved slowly up the tilting deck. At the desk he fiddled with the papers and then said bitterly, “My orders give me no real indi- cation of what I am to expect. No sort of guide . . .” He broke off and swung round as if expecting criticism. “Well? What do
you
think?”

Bolitho said slowly, “I think we must try and inspire some confidence, sir. Be one move ahead of Lequiller's ships and fore- see whatever he tries to do. He will use his strength whenever he can to force others to help and supply him. But at the same time he must realise that his squadron is vulnerable and will want to use it without delay and to the best effect.” He crossed to the charts. “He will know that he is being chased, and will therefore have the advantage.”

Pelham-Martin leaned heavily on the desk. “I know that, dammit!”

“It will be necessary to seek him out, to prevent him from carrying out his intentions,
before
he can act.”

“But in the name of heaven, man, do you know what you're saying?” He sounded shocked. “You are suggesting that I should sail to some mark on a chart and merely sit and wait?”

Bolitho replied calmly, “A chase is always a chase, sir. I have rarely known one group of ships to overhaul another without some piece of extreme luck. To catch a shark you must have a suitable bait, one so rich that even the wiliest cannot resist it.”

Pelham-Martin rubbed his chin. “Treasure ships. You are speaking of those?” He walked unsteadily across the cabin. “It is a terrible risk, Bolitho. If Lequiller intended to attack somewhere else, and we were watching over some ships at the other end of the Caribbean,” he shuddered, “it would be
my
responsibility!”

Perhaps the commodore was only now beginning to realise the full implication of his task, Bolitho thought. Reaching St. Kruis without delay was not even a beginning. There were count- less islands, some almost unknown except to pirates and renegades of every kind. And Lequiller's past experience would have taught him about many of them, of places to hide and water his ships, where he could glean information and sow unrest, and always he had the vast sea areas at his disposal in which to vanish at a moment's warning.

Bolitho could almost feel sorry for Pelham-Martin's dilemma. It was likely that Cavendish had already been reprimanded for his failure to contain the French ships in port. It was even more likely he would soon use Pelham-Martin as a ready scapegoat if any- thing further went wrong.

And yet there was equally great scope in the neatly worded orders. Given the same chance, Bolitho knew he would have jumped at the opportunity of conquering Lequiller and defeating him on his own terms.

There was a tap at the door and Inch stepped over the coam- ing, his hat under his arm.

“Well?”
Bolitho sounded irritated. In another minute it was possible, even likely that Pelham-Martin would have confided in him further.

Inch swallowed. “I am sorry to disturb you, sir.” He looked at Pelham-Martin.

The commodore sank on to a chair and waved one hand. “Please carry on, Mr Inch.” He sounded almost relieved at the interruption.

Inch said, “Mr Stepkyne wishes to award punishment, sir. But under the circumstances . . .” He looked at his feet. “It is Mr Pascoe, sir.”

Pelham-Martin said mildly, “Hardly an affair for your cap- tain, I would have thought?”

Bolitho knew there was much more behind Inch's words. “Send Mr Stepkyne aft, if you please.”

Pelham-Martin murmured, “If you would rather dispense judgement elsewhere, Bolitho, I shall of course understand. It is difficult when one has a relative, no matter how harmless, aboard one's own ship. It is sometimes necessary to show bias, eh?”

Bolitho looked down at him but the commodore's eyes were opaque and devoid of expression.

“I have nothing to hide, thank you, sir.”

Stepkyne entered the cabin, his dark features unsmiling but composed.

Inch said, “It was nothing really, sir.” He added firmly, “During gun drill one of the seamen got his foot crushed when they were running out a twelve-pounder. All the midshipmen had taken turns as gun captain, and Mr Pascoe refused to run out his gun until the man on the other team was replaced. He said it would be an unfair advantage, sir.”

Stepkyne kept his eyes on a point above Bolitho's shoulder. “I ordered him to carry on with the drill, sir. There is no room for childish games in matters of gunnery.” He shrugged, as if it was too trivial to discuss. “He was unwilling to attend my order and I took him off the gun.” His lips tightened. “He will have to be punished, sir.”

Bolitho could feel the commodore watching him, even sense his amusement.

“Is that all that happened?”

Stepkyne nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Inch stepped forward. “The boy was provoked, sir. I am sure he meant no real harm.”

Stepkyne did not flinch. “He is no boy, sir, he is to all intent an officer, and I'll have no insolence from him or anyone else who is my junior!”