Enemy in Sight! (15 page)

But there was a growing froth beneath her counter, and even as he watched he saw her lean slightly away, gathering wind to her straining sails as she started to pull ahead with increasing power.

Inch muttered, “We'll not catch her, sir. If she can retake the wind-gage she can come at us again
and
cover her consort until
she
is ready to fight too!”

Bolitho ignored him. “Mr Gossett! Helm a'lee!” He held up his hand. “
Easy
now! Steady!” He saw the
Hyperion'
s bowsprit swing very slightly to windward, so that for a few moments she exposed her full broadside to the French ship's quarter.

“As you bear, Mr Stepkyne!” He sliced downwards with his hand.
“Now!”

Stepkyne ran down the length of the main deck, pausing by each gun captain just long enough to watch the enemy through the port.

And down the
Hyperion'
s side the guns fired, two by two, the balls smashing into the enemy's quarter and waterline in an unhur- ried and merciless bombardment.

Someone aboard the
Emeraude
was keeping his head, for she was already turning, pivoting round to keep station on her attacker, so that once more they were drawing parallel.

Then she fired, and along the
Hyperion'
s starboard side the mass of iron smashed and thundered into the stout timbers or screamed through gunports to cause havoc and murder amongst the press of men within.

Through the unending haze Bolitho could see the first ship's topmasts, the bright whip of her masthead pendant as she tacked round and headed back towards the fray, her bowchasers already barking viciously, although whether the shots were hitting or pass- ing overhead and hitting her own consort it was impossible to determine.

Pelham-Martin shouted, “If she gets to grips with us they'll smash us from either beam!” He swung round, his eyes wild. “In the name of God, why did I listen to
you?
”

Bolitho caught a seaman as he slumped back from the net- tings, blood already pumping from his chest. To a white-faced midshipman he snapped, “Here, Mr Penrose! Help this fellow to the main deck!”

Inch was by his side again. “This one'll stand off until his friend arrives.” He winced as a ball ploughed a deep furrow along the starboard gangway and hurled a corpse aside in two halves.

“If we let him, Mr Inch!” Bolitho pointed at the other ship's bows. “Larboard your helm! We'll force him to close with us.”

Very slowly, for her sails were almost in shreds, the
Hyperion
responded to the rudder's thrust. Further and further until the bowsprit seemed to be rising high above the enemy's deck as if to drive straight through her foremast shrouds.

Inch watched in silence as again the main deck guns hurled themselves inboard on their tackles, the figures around them dart- ing through the funnelled smoke, their naked bodies black with powder and shining with sweat as they struggled to obey their officers.

But the salvos were more ragged and less well aimed, and the delay between each shot was growing longer. By comparison the enemy seemed to be firing rapidly and with greater accuracy, and the spread nets above the gunners were jumping madly with sev- ered cordage and ripped sailcloth. And there were more than a dozen bodies across the nets, too. Some limp and jerking to the vibrating crash of gunfire, others twisting and crying out like trapped birds in a snare while they struggled and died unheard and unheeded.

Captain Dawson was waving his sword and yelling to his men in the tops. The marines were shooting as rapidly as before, and here and there a man would drop from the enemy's rigging as proof of their accuracy. Even when a marine fell dead or wounded another would step up to fill his place, while Munro, the huge sergeant, would call out the timing for loading and aiming, beat- ing the air with his half-pike as Bolitho had seen him do at the daily drills since leaving Plymouth.

The French captain was not it seemed prepared to accept the new challenge, but with yards swinging round he steered his ship away yet again, until he had the wind immediately under his stern.

Hicks had fired his other carronade, but again it was a poor shot. It struck the enemy's side, and burst below the main deck gunports to leave a ragged gash in the shape of a giant star.

Bolitho looked down at his own men and bit his lip until the skin almost broke. The heart was going out of them. They had acted and fought better than he had dared hope, but it could not go on like this.

A great chorus of voices made him look up, and with sick horror he saw the main topgallant and royal mast stagger and then bow drunkenly to larboard before ripping through sails and men alike on its way to the deck.

He heard Tomlin's voice bellowing above the din, saw axes flashing in the sunlight, and as if in a dream watched a wild-eyed seaman, naked but for a strip of canvas around his loins, run to the main shrouds and swarm up the ratlines like a monkey, Pelham-Martin's pendant trailing behind him as he scampered aloft to replace it.

The commodore murmured thickly, “My God! Oh, my mer- ciful God!”

Reluctantly the broken spar slithered free from the gangway and bobbed down the ship's side, a dead topman still tangled in the rigging, his mouth wide in a last cry of damnation or protest.

Midshipman Gascoigne was tying a piece of rag around his wrist, his face pale but determined as he watched the blood seep- ing over his fingers. Amidst the smoke and death, the great patches of blood and whimpering wounded, only Pelham-Martin seemed unharmed and immovable. In his heavy coat he looked more like a big rock than a mere human, and his face was a mask which betrayed little of the man within. Perhaps he was beyond fear or resignation, Bolitho thought dully. Unable to move, he was just standing there waiting to see the end of his hopes, the destruc- tion of himself and all about him.

Bolitho stood stockstill as a figure emerged from the aft hatch- way and stepped over the spread-eagled marine. It was Midshipman Pascoe, his shirt open to the waist, his hair plastered across his forehead as he glanced round, stunned perhaps by the carnage and confusion on every hand. Then he lifted his chin and walked aft to the quarterdeck ladder.

Inch saw him and yelled, “What is it?”

Pascoe replied, “Mr Beauclerk's respects, sir, and he wishes you to know that Mr Lang has been wounded.”

Beauclerk was the fifth and junior lieutenant. It was too much of a task to control those thirty twenty-four-pounders single- handed.

Bolitho shouted, “Mr Roth! Go and take charge below!”

As the lieutenant ran for the ladder he beckoned to the boy. “Are you all right, lad?”

Pascoe looked at him vaguely and then pushed the hair from his eyes. “Aye, sir.” He shuddered, as if suddenly ice cold. “I think so.”

A musket ball, almost spent, struck the deck at his feet, and he would have fallen but for Bolitho's hand.

“Stay with me, lad.” Bolitho held on to his arm, feeling its thinness and the cold clamminess of fear.

The boy looked round, his eyes very bright. “Is it nearly over, sir?”

Overhead another halyard snapped and a heavy block clanged across a gun breech so that a seaman yelled up at the smoke, curs- ing and mouthing meaningless words, until the gun fired and he became part of the panorama again.

Bolitho pulled him towards the hammock nettings. “Not yet, my lad! Not yet!” He showed his teeth to hide his own despair. In a moment they would be at close quarters again with two ships. No matter how much damage they inflicted on them, the end would be certain.

“Captain, sir!” Inch came striding through the smoke. “The enemy's hauling off!” He pointed wildly. “Look, sir! They're both making more sail!”

Bolitho climbed into the mizzen shrouds, his limbs feeling like lead. But it was true. Both ships were turning away, and with the wind astern were already drawing steadily clear, the smoke swirling behind them like an attendant sea mist.

And as a shaft of sunlight cut across the water he saw the frigate, too, was under way, her yards braced round, her sails pock- marked and blackened to show
Abdiel'
s efforts to defeat her.

He snatched a glass and trained it across the quarterdeck as the
Abdiel
emerged hesitantly through the billowing curtain of smoke. All her masts were intact, but the hull was scarred in sev- eral places as she idled into the pale sunshine.

Bolitho was already peering past the little frigate, and as the glass steadied beyond a curving green headland he thought for a moment he had taken leave of his reason.

There was another ship rounding the spur of land, her sails shining and very white in the morning sun, her tall side throw- ing back the sea's dancing reflections as she tacked ponderously across the wind before heading towards the
Hyperion.

Pelham-Martin's voice sounded shaky.
“What is she?”

Already the
Hyperion'
s seamen were leaving their overheated guns to stand on the gangways and stare at the stately newcomer. Then as the
Abdiel'
s people began to cheer, so too it was carried on by the
Hyperion,
until even the cries of the wounded were lost in the wild chorus of relief and excitement.

Bolitho watched the other ship without lowering his glass. He could see the long tricolour flag at her peak, the ornate gilt- encrusted carving around her poop, and knew that if the
Hyperion
was old, then this one was the most ancient vessel he had yet clapped eyes on.

He replied slowly. “She's Dutch.” He lowered the glass and added, “What are your orders, sir?”

Pelham-Martin stared at the Dutch ship as she tacked once more to sail easily under the
Hyperion'
s lee quarter.

“Orders?” He seemed to get a grip on himself, “Enter harbour.”

Bolitho said slowly, “Signal
Abdiel
and inform her we will anchor without delay, Mr Gascoigne.” He walked to the opposite side, his head ringing with the cheers, his mind dazed from the closeness of death and defeat.

Inch looked down at Midshipman Pascoe and shook his head. “Take good heed of this morning. Whatever you do or amount to in later years, you'll never see
his
like again!” Then he strode to the rail and began to rally the remnants of his topmen.

Bolitho did not hear Inch's words, nor did he see the look in the boy's eyes. He was watching the strange, outdated ship of the line turning once more to lead them into the bay. But for her arrival . . . he paused and pulled out his watch. For a moment he thought it had stopped, but after another glance he returned it to his pocket.
One hour.
That was all it had taken. Yet it had seemed ten times that long.

He made himself look down at the main deck as the surgeon and his bloodstained assistants emerged to collect the rest of the wounded. So what must it seem like to his men?

With a sigh he pushed his weary body away from the rail and turned towards the poop. He saw the boy watching him, his dark eyes filled with something like wonder.

“See, Mr Pascoe, you can never be sure, can you?” He smiled and walked aft to consult with the commodore.

As he passed the nine-pounders along the weather side some of the gunners stood back to grin and wave to him. He could feel his own lips fixed in a smile, and listened to his voice as he answered their excited greetings, like someone on the outside of himself. An onlooker.

But when he reached the poop and looked again at the full length of his command he sensed something else. Scarred and bloodied she might be, but she was still unbroken. In spite of everything, the damage and mutilation, the terrible sounds and nerve-searing bombardment, something had happened.

She was no longer a ship which contained a mixed collection of human beings. For good or bad, she was one with the men who served her, as if the short, fierce fight had welded them all together into an entity of purpose and survival.

He saw the surgeon hurrying towards him and steeled him- self for what lay ahead. Men had died in the morning sunlight. How many he did not yet know.

As he looked up at the pitted sails and splintered mast he felt strangely grateful to those unknown dead. It was up to him to ensure their sacrifices were not wasted.

8
N
EWS FOR THE COMMODORE

T
HE MARINE
sentry snapped to attention as Bolitho entered the stern cabin and closed the door behind him. He noticed that all the windows were wide open and the deckhead and sides shim- mered with countless reflections from the ruffled water beneath the counter. The
Hyperion
rolled gently at her anchor, and when he glanced through one of the quarter windows he saw the near- est headland dancing in a heat haze, green and remote from the sights he had just left on the upper deck.

Through the door of the sleeping cabin he heard Pelham- Martin call, “Well, what have you to report?”

Bolitho rested his hands on the desk and stared emptily at the clear water below the stern. “Twenty dead, sir. Twenty more badly wounded.” There seemed little point in mentioning all the others. Flesh wounds and burns, or those who had gone deaf, per- haps permanently, from the crash of gunfire.

“I see.” There were sounds of boxes being dragged across the cabin floor, and then Pelham-Martin strode heavily into the reflected sunlight. “The wounded you mentioned. Will they recover?”

Bolitho could only stare at him for several seconds. The
Hyperion
had anchored less than thirty minutes earlier, and while he had been supervising the lowering of boats and checking the extent of damage to hull and rigging, the commodore had, it appeared, been attending to more personal details. He was wear- ing his heavy dress coat, and his white shirt and breeches looked as if they had just arrived from the tailor.

He said at length, “Splinter wounds mostly, sir. But five of them have lost arms or hands.”

Pelham-Martin eyed him severely. “Well, I shall have to go ashore and meet the governor of this, er, place.” He shook his shirt cuffs free of the gold-laced sleeves. “Necessary, I suppose, but a damned nuisance all the same.” He looked around the cabin. “You had better stay here and do what you must to put this ship to rights.” He let his glance rest on Bolitho's torn shirt. “I would suggest that you make some effort on your own behalf, too!”

Bolitho faced him coldly. “I consider there are other things more important which need my attention, sir.”

The commodore shrugged. “It is no use your adopting this attitude. You knew the odds, yet you forced an engagement.”

“If we had been here a week earlier, sir, the battle would never have been necessary, unless on our terms.”

The commodore looked at himself in the bulkhead mirror. “Maybe.” He swung round violently. “However, we did manage to drive the French away, and I will see that your part in the affair is mentioned in my report at some later date. But now I will have to leave you. If I am needed you may send a boat to the town.” He walked to the stern windows and leaned out across the sill. “I must say, it is not at all what I expected.”

Bolitho watched him wearily. It was amazing what a change had come over Pelham-Martin since the battle. Of the desperate, pale-faced commodore in a heavy coat there was no sign at all. He looked calm and unruffled, and was even showing some sort of pleasure at what he saw in the distant town.

Bolitho felt the anger stirring his insides like raw spirit. How could Pelham-Martin be so cool and indifferent just now, when any small sign of sympathy and understanding might be of the greatest value to the men who had fought against such odds? Even without the Dutch ship's timely arrival
Hyperion'
s seamen and marines had more than proved their worth.

He said, “I will call away the barge for you, sir.”

Pelham-Martin nodded. “Good. It was lucky it survived. I am surprised you retained all the boats inboard during the action.”

Bolitho looked angrily at the fat shoulders. “There was little enough wind for us to attack twice our number, sir. To tow boats as well would have been too much. And to cast them adrift . . .” He got no further.

Pelham-Martin thrust himself upright and turned to face him. “I am not very interested in excuses, Bolitho. Now kindly attend to my barge!”

On the quarterdeck the sun was already intense and blind- ing, but Bolitho hardly noticed it because of his anger.

Inch said, “All boats alongside, sir. Mr Tomlin is just rigging canvas air ducts above the hatchways, and I've ordered him to open all ports.” He hesitated, aware of Bolitho's grim features. “Sir?”

Bolitho looked past him. The Dutch ship was already sur- rounded by small craft from the shore, while others of all shapes and sizes idled closer to the
Hyperion,
their occupants obviously uncertain whether to come alongside or remain at a discreet dis- tance. The
Hyperion
must present a grim spectacle, he thought bitterly. Shot-scarred and blackened by smoke, with most of her sails too rent and pitted even to furl.

He said, “Get all hands to work repairing damage, Mr Inch.

But first they must be fed. Send an officer and two boats ashore as soon as the commodore has left, and tell him to bring off as much fresh fruit as he can lay hands on. I will arrange for meat and water supplies as soon as I can.”

Inch asked, “May I say something, sir?”

Bolitho looked at him for the first time. “Well?”

“Just that we're all lucky to be alive, sir. But for you . . .”

Bolitho turned to watch as Perks, the sailmaker, and his mates completed the grisly task of sewing up the last of the dead men in readiness for burial.

“Some were not so fortunate, Mr Inch.”

Inch shifted from one foot to the other. “But I'd never have thought that new, untrained men could behave as our people did, sir.”

Bolitho felt some of his anger fading. Inch was so serious, so obviously sincere that it was hard to remain untouched by his concern.

“I agree. They did well.” He paused. “And so did you.” He shaded his eyes to look at the town. “Now man the side for the commodore.”

As Inch hurried away he crossed to the nettings and stared idly at the distant huddle of white buildings. Stark against the hillside beyond, they looked like part of Holland, he thought. The first Dutch garrison or settlers must have clung to the memory of their homeland, and even through the shimmering heat haze it was possible to see the tall, pointed rooftops of the larger houses and the flat-fronted dwellings along the waterfront which could have been part of Rotterdam or any Dutch port.

Midshipman Gascoigne caught his eye. “Signal from
Abdiel,
sir. She lost five killed in the action. No serious damage.”

Bolitho nodded. The heavier French frigate had been more concerned with withdrawing the raiding party and recovering her boats once she had realised the uncertainty of the battle.
Abdiel
had done well, but she had had more than her share of luck.

He said, “Pass my best wishes to Captain Pring, if you please.”

The tired and grimy seamen fell back as the marines clumped to the entry port and fell into line beside the bosun's mates and sideboys. Bolitho looked down at his own rumpled state. The marines were a strange breed, he thought vaguely. Just two hours ago they had been on the quarterdeck and in the tops shooting and yelling, as wild and desperate as all the rest. Now, as Lieutenant Hicks stood at one end of the front rank to check the dressing it was very hard to believe they had been in action at all.

He heard Gossett mutter to someone behind him, “The bul- locks'll always survive so long as they've got their pipeclay an' their bloody boots with 'em!” But there was genuine admiration in his tone.

Pelham-Martin walked slowly into the sunlight adjusting his cocked hat. Bolitho watched him without emotion. The com- modore did not seem to see anyone about him, and when he walked over a wide patch of dried blood where a man had died within feet of him he did not even falter.

Pelham-Martin said, “When will you have a new topmast swayed up?”

Bolitho replied, “Mr Tomlin is already dealing with it, sir. We brought plenty of spare spars from Plymouth.”

“Lucky indeed, Bolitho.”

A seaman shouted, “Boat approaching from the Dutchman, sir!”

Pelham-Martin frowned. “Damn! I suppose I shall have to stay a while longer now!”

Inch hurried to the entry port, thankful for this unexpected interruption. He had seen the returning hardness in Bolitho's eyes, and had inwardly cursed Pelham-Martin for his stupidity and his ignorance. Did he never stop to consider how hard Bolitho had worked and sweated to get those spars from a dockyard which was more than well trained in withholding everything but the most meagre of ship's stores?

He called. “The boat has a captain aboard, sir!” He blinked. “No, sir,
two
captains!”

The commodore grunted. “Coming to gloat over their part in all this, I shouldn't wonder.”

The boat hooked on to the chains, and as the pipes twittered and the marines' bayoneted muskets were brought to the present the first visitor appeared in the open port.

He removed his hat and looked slowly around the crowded main deck, his eyes pausing on the line of sewn-up corpses, the splintered planking and all the litter of broken rigging and cordage. He was an elderly man, probably in his sixties, Bolitho thought, and the left sleeve of his coat was empty and pinned beneath a flashing gold order on his breast. His hair was almost white, but his skin was so tanned that it was almost mahogany in colour, and his step was as sure and light as a cat's.

Then he saw Pelham-Martin and stepped briskly to greet him. “May I welcome you and your ships to St. Kruis! I am Piet de Block, Governor in the name of my country, and your ally!” His English was hesitant but extremely good. “I was visiting another island and returned in time to see your gallant fight.” He paused with obvious emotion. “I can understand what the deci- sion must have cost, and with my own eyes I have witnessed some of your sacrifice. It was incredible! And now,” he waved his hat around the watching faces, “now you can still find the strength and the sense of duty to prepare this welcome for
me!
”

Pelham-Martin swallowed hard and flushed. “I bid you wel- come, sir, and greetings from my Gracious Sovereign King George.” He glanced quickly at Bolitho before adding, “My duty was plain, and I am indeed glad I was able to forestall the enemy's intentions.”

De Block nodded gravely. “And this is Kapitein Willem Mulder of the
Telamon.
He is as eager for battle as your own men, but now I think it wiser to refit your ships first, is that not so?”

The
Telamon'
s captain was slight and wiry, and as tanned as his governor. He, too, was studying the
Hyperion'
s damage, but his face was more controlled than his superior's.

Pelham-Martin said, “And this is
my
captain, Richard Bolitho.”

Bolitho stepped forward, conscious of the watching eyes, of Inch's obvious fury at Pelham-Martin's grand acceptance of credit, but above all of the Dutchman's firm handshake.

De Block studied him for several seconds without releasing his hand. He seemed to find an answer in Bolitho's strained fea- tures for he said suddenly, “As I thought, Kapitein.” He paused. “My
deepest
thanks.”

Pelham-Martin said abruptly, “You speak very good English.”

“Well, there have been many wars.” De Block shrugged expres- sively. “After I lost my arm I had plenty of time to meet with and learn your countrymen's ways and language.”

The commodore eyed him thoughtfully. “You were a prisoner perhaps?” He shook his head indulgently. “These things can hap- pen in war.”

The Dutchman smiled. “After I lost my arm I was put in charge of
our
English prisoners, sir.”

Bolitho coughed quietly. “Perhaps the Governor would like to go to the cabin, sir?”

Pelham-Martin recovered from his sudden confusion and glared at him. “Quite so!”

But the island's governor shook his head. “I would not hear of it. You will come ashore to my house immediately. Kapitein Mulder will remain aboard to give every help at our disposal.” He looked searchingly at Bolitho, the same expression of under- standing in his deepset eyes. “We are well stocked, and I think able to meet your needs.” He held out his hand again. “We are in your debt. We will do our best to repay your courage.”

Then as the pipes shrilled once more he followed Pelham- Martin down into his boat alongside.

Bolitho stood by the port watching as the boat headed strongly for the shore. Most of the oarsmen were either coloured or half- castes, but there was no doubting their bearing or discipline.

Mulder said quietly, “You look tired. It cannot be easy to serve a man so lacking in understanding.”

Bolitho stared at him, but already the other captain was look- ing aloft to where some seamen were reeving lines in readiness for swaying up the new topmast.