The second morning at sea dawned as fine and clear as those which had preceded it, but when Bolitho came on deck after a hasty breakfast he could feel the difference around him like a physical thing. Close-hauled on the larboard tack the ship was leaning steeply from the wind, but the short whitecaps had overnight been replaced by longer, serried ranks of crested rollers which made the motion awkward and more violent.
For during the night they had slipped past Trinidad and were now standing out into the Atlantic itself, with no sight of land to break the horizon in any direction. He glanced at the swinging compass and then at the trim of the sails. They were still heading due east, and when he leaned across the rail he saw the Impulsive plunging over and down through a lively roller, her hull shining in spray as she followed some three cables in Hyperion's wake. The Hermes -was almost hidden by the little two-decker's topsails, but he could judge her to be more than two miles astern and already lagging badly.
Inch was waiting for him to complete his morning inspection.
"Dasher's on station to wind'rd, sir."
Bolitho grunted and walked slowly up the slanting deck. The Spartan was already out of sight, probing far ahead of the other ships. As usual he felt slightly envious of Farquhar and his complete freedom from the heavier and slower vessels.
"We will alter course in fifteen minutes, Mr. Inch. Call all hands!"
He did not feel like talking just now, and his mind was still busy with calculations and the mental picture of his chart.
Gossett touched his battered hat. "Three 'undred an' fifty mile logged already, sir. That's a fair showin'."
Bolitho looked at him. "We shall see what she can do next." -
"Where do you think the French are now, sir?" Inch was back at his side, his eyes screwed up against the wind as he watched the men hurrying to their stations.
"It is my guess that Lequiller sailed back to Las Mercedes to collect Perez and his mercenaries. I expect the latter will be embarked in the treasure ship as a double security," He looked up at the masthead pendant. "He will be on his way now, but at slower pace because of the San Leandro, I imagine."
He turned impatiently and gestured to Gossett. "We will alter course seven points and lay her on the opposite tack." He felt the spray dash across his face and tasted the salt on his tongue.
The master nodded, "Aye, aye, sir."
To Inch Bolitho added, "When we are on our new course I want the royals on her." He paused, seeing his words working on Inch's long face. "And then you can set the stuns'ls for good measure!"
Inch swallowed. "With all that canvas, sir, the Hermes'll never be able to keep up with us."
"Just do as I say, Mr. Inch." Bolitho eyed him impassively. "We do not have the trade winds blowing beneath our coat tails this time, so we must drive to the north'rd before we can run for Spain with the westerlies." He relented slightly. "But the trade winds are still friendly to us, Mr. Inch. So be patient."
He turned away and snapped, "Put the helm down!"
As the two seamen at the double wheel threw their bodies against the spokes Bolitho watched the rush of figures by the forecastle letting go the headsail sheets, while others tensed at the braces in readiness to haul round the straining yards on to the new tack.
"Helm a-lee, sir!?'
Labouring and plunging the ship began to swing clumsily across the wind, the sails flapping and cracking with the sounds of gunshots.
Bolitho gripped the rail, letting his body ride with his ship as she continued to turn across and then past the eye of the wind.
"Mainsail haul!"
Men scampered in orderly confusion, their tanned bodies shining with blown spray as the sea broke above the starboard bulwark and cascaded over the deck.
Bolitho slapped his palm on the rail, "Now, Mr. Inch!"
"Let go and haul!" Inch's hat had been knocked awry, but he was managing to make himself heard above the thunder of canvas and whining rigging.
Bolitho watched with grim satisfaction as the yards began to creak round, the men at the braces hauling like madmen, digging their toes into the slanting deck, their bodies almost parallel with it.
Overhead the sails boomed angrily and then filled taut and bulging as the ship heeled to the opposite tack, blocks screaming and shrouds vibrating like demons until she had settled on her new course.
Bolitho nodded. "Now get the royals on her!" A quick glance astern told him that Herrick had been ready and waiting. His ship was already plunging round in pursuit, her figurehead and bowsprit concealed in a great mass of bursting spray and spume.
Gossett shouted, "Nor' by east, sir! Full an' bye!"
"Very well." Bolitho felt the deck shiver as more canvas bellied out from the yards. Far above the deck the tiny figures seemed beyond reach and invulnerable, but he knew it was another illusion. One slip and it would mean instant death, if the man who fell was lucky. If not he would drop into the creaming sea alongside, to be left astern to drown in sight of his ship. For to try and stop the Hyperion under such a press of canvas would be to invite disaster. It was possible that such a manoeuvre might even dismast her completely.
On the main deck he saw the sailmaker and his mates hauling out the studding sails, extra canvas to lash on to the mainyards like great wings, which with luck, might give the ship another knot if the wind held.
The rigging and shrouds seemed black with figures scrambling back and forth, up and down as they hurried to obey the urgent calls from the warrant officers of their divisions.
Suddenly he saw Pascoe climbing up the futtock shrouds, his slim body lying back above the sea, and held his breath as his foot slipped and a shoe fell lazily down and into the leaping spray. Then the boy regained_ his hold and continued after the others, his black hair whipping out in the demanding wind.
When he dropped his gaze Bolitho noticed his brother by the foremast, shading his eyes as he too peered up at the midshipman. Then he saw Bolitho watching him and gave what might have been a small shrug. Or it could have been a sigh of relief.
Lieutenant Roth called, "Hermes has tacked!" He chuckled. "She's not keeping up at all well!"
Bolitho turned on him hotly. "Don't be so damned smug about it! If the Hermes cannot stay with us, you will be seventy-four guns short when you most need them!"
Roth flushed. "Sorry, sir."
Bolitho walked to the weather side and steadied his body against the nettings. He must get hold of himself. To show resentment at such an innocent remark was pointless and stupid. Roth was more intent on showing pride in his own ship than deriding the weed-encrusted Hermes. He thought suddenly of his own fretting impatience in the Mediterranean when like Hermes this ship had been dragging with sea-growth and barnacles, left behind the fleet and with little sympathy from his admiral. But it was useless to think along those lines.
He said, "Make a signal to Hermes, Mr. Carlyon!" He frowned, remembering too Fitzmaurice's brave gesture to support him. "Make more sail." He hesitated. "That is all." Fitzmaurice would not appreciate any sympathetic addition to the signal, any more than he would have done. He was as committed as any of them now, and must do more than his best to keep up with the squadron, if it meant knocking the wedges from the masts.
"She's acknowledged, sir." Canyon sounded surprised.
Shouts and curses came from the main deck as the larboard studding sail flapped and billowed like a snared sea monster. It was not filling too well, but was better than nothing. In any case it kept the men busy, and they had a long way to go yet.
Inch said, "I have never seen her sail like this, sir."
"We may find less favourable winds to the north'rd." Bolitho was thinking aloud. "We must push her all we can and take every advantage of the trades."
The topmen were already sliding back to the deck, their voices loud, even jubilant at the great display of power which they had released and mastered.
Bolitho said shortly, "I will be in the chartroom, Mr. Inch. You may dismiss the watch below.
"
In the small cabin he sat at the table and stared fixedly at the chart. Everything was ready, but there seemed nothing to add to his careful calculations. He flicked the pages of his worn log book, each one a small record of miles sailed, ships sighted. Men killed or injured. He closed it with a snap and stood up. He must stop thinking back. Stop remembering, when there was nothing left to hold on to.
There was a rap at the door. "Enter."
Fee looked round and saw his brother standing inside the chartroom, watching him with expressionless formality.
Bolitho said, "Shut the door." Then quietly, "You may speak your mind. There is no one to hear you."
"I wanted to talk with you about ..." He faltered and then added flatly, "I heard about your wife. I am sorry. What more can I say?"
Bolitho sighed. "Yes. Thank you."
"When I was at Cozar with the other convicts I used to see her walking by the old fortress. I think I fell in love with her also." He smiled sadly. "Do you think you will find the French this time?"
Bolitho looked at him. "Yes."
"If you do, and the fates are kind, what will you do about me?"
"I have not decided." Bolitho sat down wearily and massaged his eyes. "If we succeed in finding and beating Lequiller . . ."
His brother lifted an eyebrow. "Beating him?"
"To cripple him will be sufficient." It was strange how Hugh could see what others had not even suspected. A sea fight, perhaps one hundred miles out in the Bay, could mean as much destruction for victor as for vanquished.
He continued abruptly, "I can hand you to the authorities with a plea for pardon. In view of your work in the Spartan I do not see how it could be refused." He held up his hand. "Hear me and then speak. But if you wish, I will have you sent ashore on some duty." He looked away. "Then you can desert and make your own way."
"Either course leaves you open to criticism and real danger, Dick. The latter more so, because you will have to live with the knowledge that you have at last been influenced from your plain duty by personal bias-"
Bolitho stared at him. "For God's sake, do you think I care about that any more?"
"I do. You are offering me the chance to desert, not only because in your heart you mistrust the leniency of any court martial, but also because you fear the effect on my son if he sees me tried and hanged for treason." He smiled gently. "I know you, Dick!"
"Well?" Bolitho stood up and walked to the chart rack.
"I will take your offer and run." Hugh sounded suddenly tired. "Not to Cornwall where I might be recognised." He paused. "But it will be England and not some poxy jail at the other end of the earth."
Bolitho faced him. "Perhaps we will speak again later."
"I think not." His brother eyed him calmly. "By the way, I think you are foolish to act as you are now. You should have let Pelham-Martin take the blame and stay at anchor in St. Kruis. Now, whichever way it goes, he may be the victor."
"Maybe."
Hugh nodded. "And perhaps I'd have done the same. All Cornishmen are said to be slightly mad, and it seems we are no, exception."
Feet clattered in the passageway and Midshipman Pascoe thrust his head around the door.
"Mr. Roth's respects, sir, and may he take in a reef? The wind has freshened slightly." His eyes moved from Bolitho to Hugh. "Sir?"
Bolitho said, "No, he may not take in a reef, Mr. Pascoe. Not now, not at any time, unless we are faced with a hurricane."
Pascoe nodded. "Aye, aye, sir, I'll tell him at once." Then he asked, "Would. it be all right for Mr. Selby to
continue with the sextant instruction, sir? I seem to be slower than the others."
Bolitho studied him gravely. "Not slower, Mr. Pascoe. Just younger."
Then he looked at his brother. "If you find that convenient with your other duties, Mr. Selby, you have my permission." He added quietly, "In view of our recent conversation, I imagine you can be trusted to make good use of the time?"
Hugh nodded, his eyes suddenly bright. "The time'll be well spent, sir. You have my word on it."
When they had gone Bolitho rested his head in his hands and stared blindly at the chart. Once he had felt sorry for his brother, and the pointlessness of his future. Now he felt only envy. For even though the boy remained ignorant of his instructor's identity, Hugh would have him to himself, and could cherish the memory and the knowledge that his son would be safe from shame and live to be the extension of the life he had thrown away.
While he had nothing. He found his fingers touching the locket again. Only memories, and over the years they too would be as elusive as the wind and offer no comfort.
With a jerk he stood up and reached for his hat. Here was a bad place to be alone. On deck he at least had the ship, and for this mission he would try and make that suffice.
18
AT LAST, THE SIGNAL
As Bolitho had anticipated, the first infectious excitement of heading out into the Atlantic soon gave way to strain and long days of backbreaking work for every man aboard. Once clear of the friendly trade winds and into the Horse Latitudes they were beset by maddening and frustrating delays, for in that vast, empty expanse of ocean the winds backed and veered, sometimes twice in a single watch, with all hands fighting to trim and then re-trim the yards so that not even a cupful of power should be lost.
Once the wind fell away altogether and the Hyperion idled uncomfortably in a steep swell, her sails flapping and limp for the first time since leaving St. Kruis. Most of the ship's company had been grateful, when at any other time they might have cursed the wind's perversity and the helplessness they felt under such conditions. But any hope for a rest was soon dispelled when Bolitho had ordered Inch to turn them to again and use the lull to bend on heavy weather canvas for the change he knew would soon be upon them.
Sixteen days after weighing anchor they picked up a stiff south-westerly and beneath leaden skies tacked and .headed eastward for the final leg of the voyage.
Bolitho knew that many of the seamen cursed his name whenever the cry, "All hands! All hands aloft and reef tops'ls!" drove their weary bodies to the shrouds and up to the vibrating yards once more. Theirs had become a world of shrieking wind and drenching spray, where they fisted and grappled sodden canvas high above the decks, fingernails torn and bleeding while they struggled to keep from falling to certain death. But he could find little time to spare for their inner feelings, any more than he allowed himself a moment's rest.
At any other period he might have felt elation, even pride for the manner in which the old ship and her company were behaving. As the miles rolled away beneath the keel and the sea's face changed to dull grey he knew that such a fast passage would be envied by many captains. As always, whenever he came on deck the Impulsive was never far astern, her heavy weather sails giving an appearance of purpose and grim determination. Of the Hermes there was no sign at all, and Bolitho had once found himself wondering if Fitzmaurice had, after all, decided to fall back deliberately and leave him to his own devices. It had been unfair and pointless even to think like that, but he knew it had been because of his own uncertainty, his overpowering need to drive the ship as never before, if only to keep his despair at bay.
Every day he had visited the commodore in his sleeping cabin, but even that seemed of little value now. PelhamMartin rarely spoke to him, and merely stared up from his cot without even bothering to disguise his satisfaction at Bolitho's empty reports. In spite of Pelham-Martin's silent hostility, however, Bolitho was worried at his appearance. He was eating less and consuming a good deal of brandy as compensation. He seemed to trust no one near him, and had even driven Petch away with a string of threats when the wretched man tried to bathe his perspiring face.
Strangely, he had sent for Sergeant Munro, a seasoned marine who had once been an inn servant before enlisting and knew something of the ways of his betters. But Bolitho suspected the commodore looked on Munro more as a bodyguard against some imaginary enemy than any sor
t of lackey.
Pelham-Martin's voice was certainly stronger, but he had refused to allow Trudgeon to inspect, let alone change his dressings for over a week, and Bolitho had told himself repeatedly that he was merely shamming and biding his time until he admitted failure.
He had not spoken to his brother again, but during one night when the wind had risen unexpectedly to a full gale he had seen him dashing aloft with some seamen to restrain the mizzen staysail which had split from luff to leach with the sound of tearing silk, audible even above the howl of sea and rigging. Pascoe had been with him, and when they had at last returned to the deck Bolitho had seen their quick exchange of grins, like conspirators who shared something private and special.
As day followed day, Bolitho remained aloof from his officers and restricted his contact to the requirements of duty. The south-westerly wind showed no sign of lessening, and while the ship plunged and staggered across the endless expanse of creaming rollers Bolitho paced the quarterdeck, heedless or unaware of his soaked clothing until Allday finally persuaded him to go aft for some warm soup and a brief rest. Everything was damp, and below decks behind shuttered ports the men off watch crouched together in their. crowded messes, willing the voyage to end, sleeping, or waiting for the next frugal meal. The cooks had little to offer, and in their crazily swaying world, amidst a litter of pots and broached casks of salt pork or beef, it was hard to see what else they could provide without some sort of miracle.
At noon of the twenty-seventh day Bolitho stood by the quarterdeck rail and watched Inch and Gossett working busily with their sextants. Overhead the sky had cleared a little and the clouds were broken into long, ragged banners, between which the watery sunlight gave an illusion of warmth.
Gossett said slowly, "I'd never 'ave believed it, sir!"
Bolitho handed his own sextant to Canyon and touched the worn rail with his hand. Twenty-seven days. Three less than the impossible target he had imposed at St. Kruis.
Enemy In Sight! Page 31
