Enemy In Sight!

by Alexander Kent

  The vice-admiral snapped, "Tell me, Bolitho, during the past few days since this misfortune, have you at any time wondered at the French admiral's brutality?"

  Bolitho replied, "He could have fought my ship, sir. We would have given a good account of ourselves, but the end would have been inevitable. It was four to one against, and my people are still new to warfare for the most part."

  Cavendish's grey head bobbed impatiently. "Well, don't sit there muttering, get on with what you're thinking, dammit!"

  "He could not have expected defeat, sir." Bolitho took a quick breath. "Therefore he must have feared damage

  to spars and sails." He looked squarely into the other man's eyes. "I believe he must have intended to make a long voyage and not just a quick attack on our ships.

  Cavendish glared at him. "Thank you. The only useful piece of news to come out of all this is that you discovered the name of the French admiral. Lequiller is no clumsy peasant left over from the Revolution. He has an excellent record in battle. He commanded a frigate in the West Indies and fought us time and time again." His eyes fastened on Bolitho. "He helped to form and train the American privateers whom you at least will know were more than effective against us there."

  Bolitho felt dazed. There was still no mention of recriminations, and it was obvious from Pelham-Martin's expression that he had already suffered under Cavendish's tongue.

  Cavendish was saying, "Once it was sufficient to see a flag to know your enemy. But this is a new form of war, and we must live by new methods. Now we must learn to know the man beneath that flag, to study his background and his motives, if we are to survive, let alone win a victory which will last. Admiral de Villaret Joyeuse commands the French fleet at Brest. Even now he is mustering ships and men for a final thrust to overthrow both our fleet and our country. He is a dedicated and intelligent man, and if he has entrusted this Lequiller with a special task, then it must be of some value, and Lequiller worthy of it!"

  Bolitho thought suddenly of the signal gun, of the men dying before his eyes like felons on a gibbet.

  Cavendish eyed him dispassionately. "Maybe Lequiller is using new methods, too." He shrugged with sudden impatience. "But I am more concerned with his intentions. I believe that by now he will have joined with the other ships and is heading westward across the Atlantic. That would be the only explanation for my patrols failing to sight him."

  Bolitho said, "The Caribbean, sir?"

  "I think that is the most probable destination." The vice-admiral turned towards Pelham-Martin. "And what is your opinion, if any?"

  Pelham-Martin came out of his thoughts with a jerk. "Maybe he intends to attack the islands taken from the French by Sir John Jarvis, sir?" He dropped his eyes under Cavendish's fierce stare.

  "He'd need a force three times the size to make that possible!" Cavendish leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "During the American Revolution Lequiller was often sighted in the southern Carribbean. He would have made good use of his time there to make friends and to store his intelligence for some later time."

  Bolitho said slowly, "Most of the islands there are either Spanish or Dutch, sir. They are of course our allies, but it takes little to change sides with the war going as it is."

  Cavendish opened his eyes and watched him bleakly. "True. There is little likelihood of the Dutch staying on our side if their own homeland is finally overrun by the common enemy." He shrugged. "And as for the Spanish, well they are of little help to our cause as it is. They are still brooding over Gibraltar perhaps, or dreaming of past glories."

  "Then, sir, I would suggest that Lequiller has another motive." Bolitho tried to picture the sprawled line of islands which ran from east to west above the great mass of the southern Americas. It was almost as if he was thinking aloud. "To remain our ally Spain needs to stay rich. Much of her wealth comes from the Americas. One such convoy of gold and silver plate is enough to sustain her for a whole year, maybe longer."

  Cavendish's cold eyes gleamed. "Exactly! Also, if it fell into enemy hands it would be more use than ten regiments, as Lequiller must know better than most!"

  Pelham-Martin said uneasily, "It might take months to find Lequiller and bring him to action, sir ..."

  He got no further. For once Cavendish seemed unable to contain his dislike in front of his subordinates.

  "Don't you ever see beyond your quarterdeck? If Lequiller can cause havoc with the Spanish and Dutch trade and supply routes there will be many who will see it as a sign for the future. God knows we are stretched thinly enough now. How long do you think our naval supremacy will last with the whole world against us?"

  The anger seemed to tire him and he added wearily, "Yours is the fastest ship available, Bolitho, that is until the others have returned from overhaul. I have told your Commodore to shift his pendant to Hyperion at once. Together with the two frigates you will sail for the Caribbean with all haste. Indomitable and Hermes with the sloops will follow you, but I want you there as soon as possible, is that clear?"

  Pelham-Martin heaved himself to his feet. "I should like to return to my ship, sir. There are things I must attend to."

  Cavendish remained seated. "The French fleet will be out soon, and I cannot spare another frigate for your use." He added in a sharper tone, "Nor can I go with you myself for the same reason. I want Lequiller found and his ships taken or destroyed. I will have my written orders sent to Hyperion within the hour, by which time I will expect you ready to proceed. You will sail first to the Dutch island of St. Kruis. It has a good harbour and is well placed for you to watch over, the neighbouring islands. It is less than a hundred miles from the mainland and Caracas where most of the plate and bullion is loaded for shipment to Spain."

  He gave a curt nod of dismissal as the commodore left the cabin. Then almost to himself he said, "It is quite a task which I have given him, Bolitho. One which requires each captain to think for himself, yet work in a team. Blockade is only half an answer. It postpones rather than decides, just as it punishes the weak and the innocent along with the guilty. The only way to win this war is to meet the enemy ship to ship, gun to gun, and man to man!"

  He sighed and seemed to relax slightly.

  "Is your ship ready, Bolitho? God knows she should be after a six months' refit."

  "I was fifty men under complement when I recommissioned, sir and I lost ten killed in battle with the frigate."

  The vice-admiral's eyes clouded over. "Ah, yes, the frigate. I am glad you were able to avenge Ithuriel." His tone hardened. "Well, I can spare no men for you. You must obtain them as best you can." Then he heaved himself to his feet and stared at Bolitho searchingly. "I knew your father, and I am aware of your record. But for that, and the fact you dropped anchor before Lequiller's ultimatum, I might have found you guilty of cowardice." He shrugged heavily. "In any case, no matter what I might have believed, the Articles of War make small allowance for past achievements or private confidences. Forty years ago they shot Admiral Byng for making a mistake. They would think very little of hanging a mere captain if the example should serve to encourage others to greater efforts!"

  Surprisingly, he smiled and held out his hand. "Go to your ship, and good luck. We are now in 1795. It could be a profitable year for our cause. Or it could be a disaster. You belong to a generation of sea officers who are the right age and in the right time to avert the latter."

  Bolitho could find no answer than, "Thank you, sir."

  Cavendish suddenly became grave and severe. "I hear you have married?" He glanced at the old sword on Bolitho's hip. "I recall your father wearing that. Maybe your son willl carry it one day." He followed him to the door, adding quietly, "See that it goes to him with the same honour it came to you, eh?"

  Bolitho walked on to the quarterdeck, his mind in a whirl. It was the same scene as when he had come aboard, yet so very different. Even the air tasted cleaner, and it was all he could do to stop himself from running down to his barge.

  The frig
ate's captain was waiting beside the entry port and glanced at him curiously. "Will you have any mail for me to take, sir?"

  Bolitho stared at him. "Yes. I will send it across directly."

  The sudden implication of the question brought him back to reality. He had worried about being so far from Cheney. Now he was going to the other side of the Atlantic. It was close on five thousand miles to that part of the Caribbean. It could be months, even years before he returned. If ever.

  He touched his hat and climbed down to the barge.

  Allday studied his grave features. "Back to the ship, sir?"

  Bolitho looked at him and then smiled. "There's nowhere else to go."

  As the boat pulled strongly towards the Hyperion he tried to, apply his mind to all the countless details and alterations he would have to make in his plans and daily routine. There were problems and shortages, and not least of his worries would be having Pelham-Martin as his constant companion.

  But again and again his thoughts returned to the house in Falmouth, the feeling of distance mounting up and up, until it seemed like part of another world.

  Allday rested his fingers on the tiller and kept an eye on the stroke oar. Buring Bolitho's stay with the vice-admiral Allday had not been idle. A frigate was too small and cramped to hold an important secret, and the lower deck always knew about a change of plans almost as soon as the wardroom.

  The Caribbean again, he thought. And all because of that bloody-minded Frog admiral who had hanged helpless prisoners. It would mean sun and sweat, rancid water, and the constant threat of disease. It might mean a whole lot worse before they were done, he decided.

  Then he studied the set of Bolitho's shoulders and smiled slightly. But at least they still had the captain with them. And to Allday, that was just about all that really mattered.

  Lieutenant Inch sat awkwardly on the edge of a chair, his hat crushed between his knees as he listened intently to Bolitho's news.

  Bolitho said, "So you see, it seems as if your marriage will have to be postponed for a while?"

  Inch nodded, his face screwed into a mask of concentration as if to memorise every word.

  "You may inform the officers of the destination and possible purpose, but I will tell our people as soon as I have a spare moment."

  Bolitho heard the bellow of orders and scrape of feet on the gangway, and guessed that the last of the commodore's personal possessions were being hauled aboard.

  He added, "Pelham-Martin is used to a smart ship, Mr. Inch. Even at short notice he will rightly expect the proper honours."

  Inch came out of his thoughts with a jerk. "I have told Captain Dawson, sir. The guard and bandsmen are already assembled."

  "Good." Bolitho glanced round the cabin. He had already had his own things removed to the chartroom, and Pelham-Martin would enjoy the comfort of these quarters. And the view from the stem windows, too, be thought sadly.

  He continued, "As soon as we get under way I want to see the purser. A full and detailed account of fresh water and lime juice will also be required. It may be months before we can expect to replenish stores with fresh food and fruit, and some of our people will find it hard enough without being plagued with scurvy or worse."

  Inch stood up, his thin body swaying loosely to the uncomfortable motion. "I am very sorry, sir, but I neglected to tell you. We have a new midshipman aboard."

  Bolitho stopped leafing through his neatly written orders and stared at him. "Did he fall from heaven, Mr. Inch?"

  The first lieutenant flushed. "Well, sir, when you were aboard the admiral's frigate I was so troubled that I forgot about it. He was sent across from the frigate with some mail and medical stores. He is straight out of Plymouth, and never before in a King's ship."

  Bolitho leaned back at the desk. "Well, one more midshipman will be very useful later on, no matter what experience at his disposal."

  There was a loud thud from the main deck and Tomlin's voice shattered the air with a stream of curses.

  "Very well, Mr. Inch. Send the young gentleman in, and then go and watch over the commodore's possessions, eh?" He smiled dryly. "It would be an even worse beginning if they were damaged."

  He turned back to his orders again, thinking of what lay ahead, and of the remarks Vice-Admiral Cavendish had privately voiced to him.

  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 initiative 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 experience 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 sudden 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 necessary 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 without delay.

  Bolitho swallowed hard. He could well imagine the consternation 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 packing 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 looking at himself as a boy!<
br />
  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 desertedd 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 looking into things."

  "Aye, she would." Bolitho recalled his sister with sudden clarity, 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 living 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 others ..." 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.