ENEMY IN SIGHT

9. RETREAT

The third day after leaving St. Kruis dawned bright and clear, with the sky empty of cloud and the colour of blue ice. The sea, whipped up by an impatient north-easterly, was broken as far as the horizon in an endless pattern of small wave crests, yellow in the sunlight.

During the night, and in spite of Pelham-Martin's urgent signals, the four ships had scattered, and it took more maddening hours to re-form the line to his satisfaction. Now, close hauled on the larboard tack and leaning heavily to the stiffening wind the ships drove south-east, with the shadowed coastline stretching away on either bow and only the towering hills further inland bathed in sunlight. The bay of Las Mercedes was still hidden and shrouded in drifting haze which swirled above the sea's face like low cloud.

Bolitho stood on the quarterdeck with one hand resting against the hammock nettings, his body chilled in spite of the early warmth, his eyes aching from studying the land as it grew out of the shadows to take on shape and personality for the new day. Since they, had weighed and put to sea with such haste he had thought of little else but this moment. While the ships drove westward, and then under cover of night turned to head more directly towards the land, he had considered what Pelham-Martin might do if the French had already quit the bay and were many miles away, as elusive as before. Or worse, that de. Block's schooner had been misinformed, and Lequiller had never been in the vicinity at all.

If either was true it would be hard to know where to pick up the scent again. To draw two forces of ships together in combat was more guess than planning, and Lequiller might have decided to return to France or carry some scheme of his own to the other ends of the earth.

Around and below him he could feel the hull trembling and creaking as under shortened sail she followed the other ships towards the bank of.pale mist. As soon as it was light enough to read his signals Pelham-Martin had ordered them to prepare for battle, and now, as in the other ships, the Hyperion's company waited in almost complete silence, by their guns or high above the deck, or like Trudgeon, the surgeon, deep in the hull itself, hidden from the sunlight and dependent on others for their own survival.

Several telescopes lifted as if to some silent command, ahd Bolitho saw a pale rectangle of sail detaching itself from the mist far away on the larboard bow. It was the frigate Abdiel which Pelham-Martin had ordered to approach the bay from the opposite side and report any signs of life within its protective headlands.

Lieutenant Roth standing by his quarterdeck ninepounders said loudly, "We'll soon know now, eh?" But fell silent again as Bolitho glared at him.

Midshipman Gascoigne was already in the weather shrouds with his telescope, biting his lower lip with fierce concentration, knowing perhaps the vital importance of that first signal.

Steel scraped on steel with the sound -of a gunshot, and when Bolitho turned his head he saw Allday striding below the poop carrying the old sword in front of him like a talisman.

In spite of his anxiety Bolitho managed to smile as Allday buckled the sword around his waist. He at least seemed to have no doubts as to what the day would bring.

"Abdiel's signalling, sir!" Gascoigne's voice cracked with excitement. "To Indomitable. Four enemy sail anchored inside bay." His lips moved soundlessly as he continued reading. Then he shouted, "Four sail of the line, sir!"

Inch let out a great sigh. "By God, we've found 'em!"

Bolitho pressed his lips together and made himself walk twice from one side of the deck to the other. Four ships. That was only half of Lequiller's force, so where were the rest?

Behind him Gossett muttered, "This mist'll go shortly. Then maybe we'll see the buggers!"

As usual he was right, and when the mist began to roll clear Bolitho raised his glass to study the anchored ships as first one and then the rest hardened into shape. With the sun only just above the hills the four ships looked black and solid, as if they had never, could never break free from their moorings, and as light filtered down above the departing sea mist he saw the reason. They were anchored fore and aft directly across the narrowest part of the bay's entrance, and he could tell from the way in which the water lifted and surged between the nearest ones that there were more hidden cables linking them together into one formidable barrier. Each ship had her ports closed and sails neatly furled, but when more sunlight played across the yards and shrouds he saw tiny figures on every poop and the curling Tricolour – at each gaff. There was no longer any doubt. Whether the French had beaten the Spanish garrison into submission, or had merely frightened them to impotent silence, the facts were the same. They were ready to fight, and what was more to the point, must have known Pelham-Martin's squadron was on its way. It would have taken a good deal of labour and planning to get the heavy two-deckers moored like that, and the French commander would not have wasted either on pure chance.

Inch said, "Just as if they've been wanting us to come, sir."

Bolitho closed the glass with a snap. "Just so. I wondered why that West Indiaaman was allowed to proceed after seeing what she did. Lequiller is no fool, Mr. Inch, and I hope the commodore accepts the fact."

Inch nodded doubtfully. "I wonder what he intends, sir?"

Bolitho studied the anchored ships for a full minute, aware of the hum of shrouds and,, rigging, the hissing sluice of water against the hull, yet hearing none of them. It was uncanny to see the ships lying like that, he thought vaguely. They were almost at right-angles to the squadron's line of approach, stretching away on the larboard bow, the furthest vessel still shrouded in mist below the distant headland. If Pelham-Martin maintained this course they would pass astern of the last ship, or he could tack and sail along the anchored line and engage them independently.

Gossett said, "There's plenty o' water at this side of the entrance, sir."

"Yes." Bolitho had already noted that the anchored ships were closer to the other headland, whereas the nearest two-decker was some three cables from the overhanging cliffs which were already bathed in bright sunlight.

Gascoigne yelled, "Indomitable's signalling Abdiel, sir!" He climbed frantically up three more ratlines and then said, "I can't read the hoist, sir! Hermes is blocking my view!"

Inch said, "Abdiel's acknowledged, sir, so we shall see."

Bolitho looked at him gravely. It was the way men could discuss the business of tactics and signals, when by nightfall they could all be dead.

The Abdiel shortened and then lengthened again, as with sails flapping and billowing from her yards she went about and headed for the rear of the French line.

Some of the seamen below the quarterdeck started to cheer her, although it was more to relieve tension than with any hope of reaching the frail frigate.

Bolitho watched in silence. So Pelham-Martin was sending Abdiel in first.

Carried faintly on the wind he heard a trumpet, and as be shaded his eyes against the mounting glare he saw the French ships opening their ports. It was both unhurried and well timed, so that as the double lines of gun muzzles trundled into view it seemed as if one man's hand was in control. A puff of smoke drifted above the Abdiel's bows, followed seconds later by the jarring crash of the shot. A ranging ball, or just sheer high spirits, it was hard to tell. Maybe Abdiel's captain was just loosing off a shot to break the tension. It was a pity that for the second time the lot of closing the enemy was going to Captain Pring and not Farquhar. The Spartan had not been found by the searching sloops, or at least had not yet arrived. Maybe Farquhar had troubles of his own, but just now Bolitho would have wished him in the van rather than Pring. The latter was keen enough, but seemed to lack Farquhar's cold self-control.

More smoke, and this time a ragged broadside, the balls throwing up thin waterspouts abeam of the last French ship, which Bolitho could now recognise as the one he had crippled at St. Kruis. Without a glass he could clearly see the gaping holes in her-bulwark and the crude jury. rig replacing her severed mizzen.

Gaseoign called, "General signal, sir! The commodore intends to pass astern the enemy's line to obtain the weathergage!"

"You may load and run out, Mr. Inch." Bolitho stepped clear of the sudden activity around the quarterdeck guns as the order was passed, and strode to the poop ladder. By standing a few steps above the deck he could see the Indomitable's larboard tumblehome cutting across the rearmost Frenchman. In another two cables Pelham-Martin would cross her stem and then lead the line round and parallel with the anchored ships. The French gunners would not only have the sun in their eyes, but also be deluged with smoke once the firing began.

Overhead the topsails flapped loudly and then refilled to the wind. So close to land it was difficult to keep them drawing well, and Bolitho watched with satisfaction as Tomlin's men manned the braces in readiness for the next order.

Inch touched his hat. "Larboard battery loaded and run out, sir!" In spite of the distant bangs from Abdiel's guns he seemed relaxed and vaguely cheerful. "They knocked a few minutes off their time, too!"

Bolitho saw the Hermes lifting uneasily to some offshore current, and noted that she, too, had run out her larboard battery ready to engage.

He said slowly, "Now the starboard guns, Mr. Inch." He gripped the teak rail as through the criss-cross of rigging he saw the Abdiel's shape shorten until she was stem on, yards braced round to seize the wind, her scarlet ensign streaming from the gaff like a sheet of painted metal.

Inch had been with Bolitho long enough not to question his orders, and as his men faltered, off guard, he cupped his hands and yelled, "Load and run out, you idlers! Petty Officer, take that man's name!"

It had the desired effect, and with squeaking trucks the guns lumbered towards the ports, the seamen skidding on the damp planking as the heavy cannon took charge and rolled down the canting deck. Below on the lower gundeck the ports might be nearly awash as the ship leaned dutifully to the wind, but Bolitho breathed more easily. It was going well, but perhaps too well.

He looked at Inch and shrugged. "It is always prudent to be prepared."

Someone aboard the Hermes had apparently found time to drag his eyes from the enemy ships, for seconds later her starboard port lids opened and here and there a gun muzzle poked out, like hastily awakened beasts sniffing the air.

Inch grinned. "That caught 'em, sir!"

One of Indomitable's bow-chasers fired, the flash masked by the ships astern of her, and Bolitho swung round to watch as the ball ricocheted across the cruising

ranks of white horses before ploughing close to the sternmost Frenchman. There was more cheering, – and from one of the ships-Bolitho thought it was the Telamon-came the sounds of drums and fifes.

"Deck there! Abdiel's under fire!"

The masthead lookout's cry was drowned by the ragged crash of cannon fire, and as Bolitho ran to the rail snatching a glass from a startled midshipman, he saw the frigate's hull surrounded by leaping waterspouts.

Inch yelled, "The French must have some stern-chasers out!"

But Bolitho dragged him from the nettings. "Look, man! Those balls are coming from the land to starboard!" He winced as the Abdiel's foremast toppled sideways and plunged towards the deck, and even as he watched he saw her sails quiver as more balls slammed through shrouds and canvas alike, so that the sea around her seemed alive with splintered woodwork and whirling pieces of debris.

Bolitho gritted his teeth. It was a trap, just as he had half feared, half expected. Abdiel was being pounded by several guns at once, the hidden marksmen unhampered by movement or range as they fired again and again at the ship which must be lying below and right across their sights.

"Pring's trying to go about!" Inch was almost weeping with anguish as the Abdiel's mizzen lurched and hung suspended in the tangle of rigging before falling across her quarterdeck, the sound carrying even above the gunfire.

Gascoigne shouted wildly, "General signal! Tack in succession!"

The Indomitable was already turning very slowly to larboard, her jib boom pointing towards the poop of the sternmost French ship as she wallowed round into the face of the wind. For an instant she appeared to be all aback, but as more men ran to the braces she staggered across the short steep waves, her topsails flapping and lifting madly as if to tear themselves from the yards.

Bolitho yelled, "Stand by, Mr. Gossett!" He watched sickened as the moored Frenchman fired a controlled broadside, the paired line of orange tongues licking from her hull as she slammed her double-shotted salvo into the Indomitable's side where the ports still showed shut and useless.

Bolitho raised his hand, his eyes moving swiftly above the crouched gunners, shutting the sounds of splintering timber from his ears, concentrating his full being on the ships ahead of him. No wonder the enemy had waited so patiently and confidently. Instead of receiving a controlled line of ships across their rear they were now faced with something approaching chaos. Indomitable was swinging ponderously across the wind, her jib blowing in ribbons, her foretopmast and main topgallant dangling amidst her littered rigging like savaged trees. She had still not run out her other guns, and Bolitho could imagine the slaughter of that first broadside. Now the next ship was firing, and the sea around Pelham-Martin's flagship was boiling with white spray and falling wreckage.

A voice cried, "Oh, God, Abdiel's ablaze!"

Bolitho tore his eyes from the Hermes' high counter and turned in time to see the frigate broaching to, her sails and forward rigging burning like tinder, the blaze leaping from spar to spar, while small, pitiful figures dropped from the rigging like dead fruit to fall alongside or on to the deck itself.

"General signal!" Gascoigne sounded shrill with despair. "Close around the commodore!"

Bolitho snapped, "Do not acknowledge!" Then to Gossett, "Now! Helm a'lee!"

Something like a great groan floated over the water, and he guessed that the Telamon had collided with the Indomitable's quarter. With so much smoke it was hard to see what was happening.

Forward his men were already loosing the headsail sheets, and as the rudder went over, the bowsprit began to swing slowly and the more rapidly across the Hermes' stem.

"Off tacks and sheets!" It was amazing that men could think, let alone act, and they moved more from rigid training than with any sense of understanding.

Bolitho looked up, holding his breath as the yards came round, the sails in confusion and disarray as the bows. swung across the wind.

"Let go and haul!" Inch was screaming through his trumpet. "Haul!"

"Get the t'gallants on her, Mr. Inch!"

A ball whimpered above the quarterdeck but hardly a man looked up. It was probably a misfire from the embattled Indomitable, but all eyes were on the Hermes as with extra canvas drawing loudly and the deck canting to the opposite thrust the Hyperion surged past her, the seamen coughing as the smoke drifted above them.

Hermes was firing past her two consorts, both of which were locked together in helpless confusion, the Dutchman's jib boom rammed through the Indomitable's shrouds like a lance. And while men ran with axes to hack away rigging and entangled nets, the French maintained a devastating fire at a range of some fifty, yards. Bolitho could see men falling from aloft and others being pared away like so many rags by both grape and canister from the nearest enemy vessels.

As the Hyperion sailed on past her three consorts Bolitho thought he saw Pelham-Martin on his quarterdeck, his gold-laced hat glittering in the sunlight as he strode this way and that, arms flailing, his voice lost in the roar of cannon fire.

The smoke was dense and rising as high as the topsail yards, and Bolitho tried to count the minutes while his ship moved steadily along the hidden enemy line, her yards braced round so far that they were almost fore and aft.

It must be time. It had to be. Desperately he glanced astern and saw Indomitable's ragged outline surrounded by smoke and flickering gun flashes. Smoke hid the Hermes and the snared Dutchman, and the drumming of the enemy's bombardment went on and on without a single break or hesitation.

He yelled, "Stand by to go about!" He saw Inch gripping the rail, his teeth bared as he peered into the smoke.

"Ready ho!"

Bolitho ran to the starboard side. If he had misjudged the distance, or the wind failed him, he would probably drive into the nearest enemy ship and be as helpless as the Telamon.

"Now!"

As the ship started to swing back again across the wind he cupped his hands and shouted at the main deck gunners. "Starboard battery firel"

It was like a double roll of thunder, the lower gundeck being caught unprepared for the order. He felt the ship stagger as gun after gun hurled itself back on its tackles, the flashes masked instantly by the choking smoke which came funnelling inboard through the ports to turn day into night.

He heard the smashing impact of some of the balls striking home, but shouted to the larboard gunners, "Ready, lads!" 1k was grinning wildly, and was only half aware of the ship swinging beneath him, the rigging jerking as if to tear from blocks and yards alike.

While the starboard gunners reloaded with feverish haste the Hyperion continued to turn, until with the suddenness of magic Bolitho saw the topmasts and yards of an anchored ship swinging across the bows barely fifty yards clear.

Then as the wind cleaved the smoke aside he saw the French two-decker clear and stark, some of her guns already firing as the Hyperion pushed out of the drifting smoke and started to sail back along "the line of ships. It was the leading Frenchman, and when Bolitho leaned across the nettings he saw with cold satisfaction that the next astern was smoking from a dozen holes in her bulwark and gangway where his blind broadside had scared several hits.

"Fire as you bear!" The larboard guns were ready and eager, and as captain after captain jerked his lanyard the smoke came back above the gangway in an unbroken wall.

"Deck there! Her mainmast's gain!" A cheer rippled along the shrouded deck, voices breaking in coughs and curses as the lower battery fired once more.

A seaman came running aft, whirled round in his tracks and fell dead at Stepkyne's feet. The lieutenant strode on, pausing merely to step over the corpse as he controlled his gunners in their fighting madness.

Bolitho felt someone grip his sleeve and saw it was Gascoigne. He must have been signalling to him, his voice lost in the din.

"Sir! Signal from Indomitable!" He gasped as a ball shrieked close overhead and parted a handrail like a cotton thread.

"Well, boy?" Bolitho felt the deck quiver and knew that some of the enemy's shots were hitting home.

"Signal says "Discontinue the action", sir!"

Inch came aft wiping his face. "What's that? Discontinue action?" He seemed dazed.

"Acknowledge." Bolitho met his despairing stare. "It means retreat, Mr. Inch." He turned on his heel and walked to the opposite side to watch as the Hermes' bows pushed downwind from the tangle of battle, her sternchasers still firing and all masts intact.

The gunfire suddenly ceased as if every man had been rendered deaf. And when the wind pushed the smoke aside Bolitho saw that already they had moved well clear of the anchored ships, and while the Telamon wallowed round to follow the battered Indomitable, the Hermes was already clawing about to take station astern of her once more.

The Indomitable was a pitiable sight. She had now lost -all her topmasts, and her upper deck and starboard side were splintered and gouged from stem to stem.

Then across the water came the exultant cheering mixed with derisive cries and jeers that seemed to beat on the ears of the Hyperion's seamen and marines like some final damnation.

"General signal, sir." Gascoigne sounded crushed. "Steer south-west." And that was all.

Bolitho climbed the poop ladder and stared across the larboard quarter. Beyond the jubilant French ships he could see a few smouldering remains of the Abdiel and some thrashing survivors, like so many dying fish in a poisoned stream. Then as the headland crept out to hide their misery he found that he was shivering uncontrollably as if from fever.

Allday climbed up beside him. "Are you sick, Captain?"

Bolitho shook his head, almost afraid to speak. "Not sick, just angry!"

He stared unseeingly at the endless panorama of hills and lush green undergrowth above the distant surf. Retreat. It stuck in his mind like a barbed hook. Retreat.

Inch clattered up the ladder and touched his hat. "Two men killed, sir. None wounded."

Bolitho looked at him, not seeing Inch's pain as he recoiled from his captain's cold eyes.

"Two men, eh?" He turned away, the words choking in his throat. They had been outwitted and outgunned, but not beaten. They had not even started to be beaten. He looked forward along the silent men restoring the lashings to their guns. They had been made to slink away because of Pelham-Martin's blind, arrogant stupidity!

Inch asked quietly, "What will we do now, sir?"

"Do?" Bolitho faced him savagely. "Write a bloody report, I shouldn't wonder! Let us hope the Abdiel's people will be satisfied with it!"

With a sudden impulse he unbuckled his sword and handed it to Allday. "Next time we sight the enemy you had best bring me a white flag instead!"

Then he swung on his heel and strode to the ladder. Inch looked at Allday. "I have never seen him so angry."

The coxswain turned the sword over and caught the sunlight on its worn hilt. "Begging your pardon, sir, but it's time someone got angry, if you ask me!"

Then holding the sword against his chest he followed his captain.

As the Hyperion's barge pulled swiftly across the choppy wavelets Bolitho sat motionless in the sternsheets, his eyes fixed on the anchored Indomitable. For four hours after the collapse of Pelham-Martin's attack the ships had continued south-west, following the curving shoulder of coastline, their speed reduced to a painful crawl as the crippled Indomitable endeavoured to maintain her lead.

At a point where the land curved more steeply inshore again and the 'sea's bottom afforded a temporary anchorage the commodore had halted his retreat, and now, tugging above their own reflections the ships lay in an extended and uneven line, their bows pointing towards the land which was less than two miles distant.

Bolitho lifted his gaze to explore the full extent of the Indomitable's damage, and knew that his bargemen were watching his face as if to search out their own fate from his tight expression.

Against the two-decker's battered side the Hyperion's barge crew seemed clean and untouched, as from a sharp command they tossed oars and the bowman hooked on to the chains.

Bolitho said, "Stand off and await my call." He did not look at Allday's concerned face as he reached for the chains. There was enough bitterness aboard his ship without letting the barge crew converse with the Indomitable's people and carry back further gossip to demoralise them to an even greater extent.

He was met at the entry port by a lieutenant with one arm in a crude sling… He said, "Could you make your own way aft, sir?" He jerked his head towards the other ships. "Captain Fitzmaurice and Captain Mulder will be coming aboard at any moment."

Bolitho nodded but did not speak. As he strode towards the quarterdeck ladder he was conscious of the smells of burned wood and charred paintwork, of blistered guns and the sweet, sickly scent of blood.

Since leaving Las Mercedes the Indomitable's hands had been busy, but all around was evidence enough of their plight and their near destruction. Several guns had been unended, and there was blood everywhere, as if some madman had been at work with bucket and brush, while beneath the foremast's trunk the corpses were piled like meat in a slaughterhouse, and as he paused at the top of. the ladder more were carried from below to add to the grisly array.

He walked beneath the poop and thrust open the cabin door. Pelham-Martin was leaning with both hands on his table amidst a litter of charts, watched in silence by a captain of marines and a ship's lieutenant who could not have been much more than nineteen years old.

The commodore glanced up from the charts, his eyes shining in the reflected glare thrown through the shattered stern windows.

Bolitho said flatly, "You sent for me, sir?"

"A conference." Pelham-Martin looked round the littered cabin. "This is a bad business."

Somewhere below decks a man screamed, the sound suddenly terminated as if a great door had been slammed shut.

Bolitho asked, "What do you intend to do?"

The commodore stared at him. "When the others arrive I will make my… "

He swung round as the door opened and a master's mate said, "Beg pardon, sir, but the cap'n is askin' for you."

Pelham-Martin seemed to realise Bolitho was watching him and said heavily, "Winstanley fell as we came clear. He is down on the orlop." He shrugged, the movement painful and despairing. "I am afraid he is done for." Then he gestured to the others. "Apart from the lieutenant on watch, these are the only officers not killed or wounded."

Bolitho replied, "I would like to see Winstanley." He walked to the door and then paused, realising that Pelham-Martin had not moved. "Will you come, sir?"

The commodore looked at the charts and ran his fingers over them vaguely. "Later perhaps."

Bolitho gestured to the two officers. "Wait outside."

The marine captain made as if to protest and then saw Bolitho's eyes.

When the door was closed behind them Bolitho said quietly, "I think you should come, sir." He could feel the bitter anger welling inside him like fire. "It is the least you can do now."

Pelham-Martin stepped back from the table as if he had been struck. "How dare you speak to me in that tone?"

"I dare, sir, because of what you have done!" Bolitho heard his words and could not control them. Nor did he want to any more. "Yours is the honour of commanding these ships and these men. It is also your responsibility. Yet you threw both away, with no more thought than a blind fool!"

"I am warning you, Bolitho!" Pelham-Martin's hands were opening and closing like two crabs. "I will have you court martialled! I will not rest until your name shares the ingnominy of your brother!" He paled as Bolitho took a step towards him and added thickly, "It was a trap, I did not expect…"

Bolitho gripped his hands behind him, feeling the commodore's words in his mind, knowing they were the man's last desperate defence.

He said, "There may be a court martial, sir. We both know whose it will be." He saw it strike home and added 'slowly, "I do not care one way or the other. But I will not stand by and see our people shamed and our cause dishonoured. Not by you, or anyone else who thinks more of his own personal advancement than his duty!"

Without another word he threw open the door and hurried along the sundrenched quarterdeck. At any moment he expected Pelham-Martin to call for the captain of marines and place him under arrest, and if it had happened he did not know how his own fury and contempt would use him.

He did not remember finding his way down to the orlop, and his mind only recorded vague scenes of men working at repairs, faces and bodies still blackened with powder smoke, eyes staring and wild from fatigue and worse.

The orlop was in darkness but for the swinging deckhead lanterns, all of which were clustered above the central spectacle of agony and horror. Around the curved sides of the hull the waiting wounded twisted and sobbed, their faces or broken limbs catching a brief pattern of lamplight before the ship swung again and plunged them into merciful darkness once more.

Captain Winstanley lay propped against one of the stout timbers, one eye covered with a thick dressing, the centre of which gleamed bright red like an additional unwinking stare. He was naked to the waist and his lower body was covered with a square of canvas. Beside it lay his curved hanger which he had been carrying during the action.

Bolitho dropped on one knee, seeing the sweat pouring from Winstanley's broad chest, the slow, heavy breathing which told its own story.

Gently he took the other captain's hand. The fingers were like ice. "I am here, Winstanley." He saw the remaining eye turn towards him, and then the recognition, as slow as the man's breathing.

The fingers moved slightly., "It was you I wanted." He closed his eye and screwed up his face in sudden agony. Then he added faintly, "I-I was going to tell PelhamMartin… was going to tell him'…" The eye swivelled away and towards a thin man in a long bloodied apron. The Indomitable's surgeon nodded briefly and walked back towards the lanterns, where his assistants were dragging a limp body from his butcher's table.

Winstanley's mouth tried to smile. "Mr. Tree is impatient, Bolitho. He is wasting time on me." He lolled his head to stare around the orlop. "Let him see to these poor fellows. I am done for." Then his fingers tightened over Bolitho's hand like a steel trap. "Don't let him leave my ship to carry his disgrace! In the name of Christ, don't let it happen!" The eye was fixed on Bolitho's face, willing him to answer.

Nearby a young midshipman shrunk back against the ship's side, his eyes wide with terror as the assistant surgeon said curtly, "This one next. His arm will have to come off." The boy rolled on to his side, weeping and struggling as the surgeon's mates loomed from the shadows.

Winstanley gasped, "Be brave lad! Be brave!" But his words went unheard.

Bolitho turned away, sickened. He was thinking of Pascoe, of what might have happened if he had obeyed Pelham-Martin's signal to close around this ship and await complete destruction.

He said, "I have a plan, Winstanley." He shut his ears to the sudden shrill scream at his back. It was like a tortured woman. "I will do what I can for your ship." He tried to smile. "For all of us."

Bolitho felt someone brush his shoulder and looked up to see the surgeon and his assistants standing beside him.

Winstanley said quietly, "It seems I cannot be moved, Bolitho."

The surgeon muttered impatiently, "I am sorry, Captain

Bolitho, you will have to leave now."

Bolitho recoiled as the canvas was dragged aside. Even the attempt at bandaging could not hide the horror of Winstanley's leg and thigh.

He said tightly, "I'll not wait, Winstanley. I will visit you later to explain my plan, eh?"

The other man nodded and let his hand drop beside him. He knew as well as Bolitho there would be no other meeting on earth. And something in the single eye seemed to pass a message of thanks as Bolitho stepped back into the shadows. Thanks for a promise of a plan that even he did not truly understand. Thanks for not staying to watch his final misery and degradation under the knife, which even now gleamed beneath the lowhung lanterns.

On the quarterdeck the sun was hotter and brighter than ever, but the sickness in Bolitho's stomach remained, leaving him cold, like Winstanley's hand.

Some of the seamen watched him pass, their expressions guarded but in some ways defenceless. They had been fond of their captain,, and he had served them well, whereas Bolitho was a stranger.

In the stern cabin he found Fitzmaurice and Mulder waiting with the commodore, their faces towards the door, as if they had all been watching it for some time.

Bolitho said quietly, "I am ready, sir."

Pelham-Martin looked around their faces. "Then I think we shall discuss…"

He glanced up as Fitzmaurice said harshly, "Lequiller's other ships are on the high seas somewhere while we stand here talking! We cannot leave Las Mercedes without destroying those we have just fought." He watched the commodore without emotion. "Yet if we attack again we face the same treatment now that the balance has shifted against us."

The commodore dabbed his forehead automatically. "We tried, gentlemen. No one can say we did not do our best."

Bolitho tugged at his neckcloth. The words, the heat of the cabin were making his head swim.

He said, "There is still a way in which we might surprise the enemy." He watched narrowly as PelhamMartin's features endeavoured to cover his inner confusion. "Time is not on our side and this plan, any plan may prove better than total failure."

The others were watching him, but he did not drop his eyes from the commodore's face. It was like a line stretched between them, and one sign of faltering or uncertainty could finish everything.

As if from far away he heard Pelham-Martin -say, "Very well. Then be so good as to explain it." As he lowered himself into a chair his hands were shaking badly, but there was no hiding the hatred in his eyes.

Bolitho saw the expression and rejected it. He was thinking of Winstanley down there on the orlop. Amongst his men, and suffering the agonising torment of the surgeon's saw.