ENEMY IN SIGHT

10. CODE OF CONDUCT

The Hyperion's lieutenants and senior warrant officers stood shoulder to shoulder around Bolitho's desk, their faces set in various attitudes of concentration as they watched their captain's chart and listened to the quiet insistence of his voice.

Beyond the stem windows the sea was in total darkness, and while the ship still tugged at her anchor the deck and gangways were alive with busy feet and the creak of tackles as a boat was hoisted outboard to the accompaniment of orders and muffled curses.

Bolitho sat down on the bench seat so that he could see the faces below the lanterns, to try to estimate how much or how little they understood and accepted his plan.

When he had described it earlier before Pel.ham-Martin and the other captains he had been surprised just how clearly the words had come to him. His anger and contempt, as well as his sorrow for Winstanley, had perhaps made his mind extra clear, so that the plan, vague and hazy when he had climbed from the misery of the Indomitable's orlop, had unfolded in time with his words, had hardened into possibility with each passing second.

He said, "We will take four cutters. Two will be ours and the others will come from Hermes. Captain Pitzmaurice will be supplying the bulk of the landing party, as his ship is best supplied with men at present. The importance of timing and discipline are paramount, gentlemen. Also I shall expect every man and each boat to be checked before we leave. Just enough beef and biscuit and no more. Fresh water barricoes for the same period of time, but no extra allowance for accident or mistiming." He looked at each face in turn. "It is going to be a very hard task, and to complete it with any hope of success we must travel light, no matter what the discomfort."

Captain Dawson said gruffly, "I'd be happier if you were taking my marines, sir.

Bolitho smiled. "You will have your chance later." He cocked his head to listen as more thuds and shouts announced the arrival of boats alongside. The rest of his landing party must be here already.

He said quickly, "The Hermes' first lieutenant will be my second in command. That is only fair as his ship is supplying the major part of the force." He saw Inch nod, accepting the sense of the argument, but no doubt realising at the same time that his own prospect of advancement or sudden death had retreated accordingly. Bolitho added, "Mr. Lang will go with us as the other officer."

Lang was the third lieutenant, and had been slightly wounded during the battle at St. Kruis. His wound had healed well enough, but he had seemingly been left with badly stretched nerves, so that his round, open face was now almost permanently set in a puzzled frown.

He bobbed his head. "Thank you, sir." He was still frowning.

Stepkyne said abruptly, "As second lieutenant I think it is my right to take part, sir."

Bolitho had been expecting the protest, and could hardly blame him for making it. Promotion was hard to win at any time, and for a man like him it was doubly difficui.

He said, "This ship is under strength, Mr. Stepkyne. You are very experienced and cannot be spared."

"It is my right, sir!" Stepkyne seemed oblivious to those around him.

Bolitho pushed Stepkyne's problems to the back of his mind. "There is more at stake here than your promotion or my funeral! And I would remind you that what you tend to regard as a right is in fact aa privilege. So let that be an end to it!"

The cabin door opened and Captain Fitzmaurice walked into the lamplight, his first lieutenant at his heels.

He held up his hand. "Forgive the intrusion, Bolitho. I thought I would speak with you before you leave." He nodded curtly to the others. "This is Mr. Quince, my senior."

Quince was a tall, lean lieutenant with a hard mouth and extremely bright eyes. Bolitho had already learned from Fitzmaurice that Quince was ripe for advancement and more than capable should the chance come his way.

Bolitho said, "For the benefit of our guests, gentlemen, I will go over it briefly once again." He straightened the chart across his desk. "The landing party will consist of four cutters and eighty officers and seamen. They will be tightly packed, but to use more boats would deprive the squadron of the ability to provide a diversion elsewhere."

It was not merely for Fitzmaurice's entertainment that he was repeating his instructions. It took time for words to set in men's minds, to translate into probability or solid fact. As he glanced quickly at the men around him he knew he had been right. They were looking at the chart, but the eyes were more relaxed, more thoughtful, as each saw the scene from his own point of vew.

"As you have seen, the mouth of the river which protects the rear of Las Mercedes is about a mile wide. You may also have observed it is little more than a swamp, filled with rushes and sandbars, and for that reason is not suitable for large craft. Deeper inland it gets much worse, which is why our four boats must be as light as possible." He let his words sink in. "The landing party has to cover thirty miles in three days. Little enough when walking across Bodmin Moor to visit your mistress." Several smiled, in spite of his words. "But the swamp is uncharted and dangerous. Some might say it is impassable. But we will do it."

Fitzmaurice cleared his throat. "Three days. Not much time."

Bolitho smiled gravely. "Tomorrow the squadron is making a mock attack on Las Mercedes. The French will be expecting us to do something, and unless some sort of action is mounted they will guess what we are about. The sloop Dasher is patrolling the entrance of, the bay this moment, so Lequiller's men will see we mean to try again."

He looked at Captain Dawson. "The rest of the squadron's boats will be used to mount a mock landing below the headland. Every ship will send her marines, and you will take charge overall." Some of Dawson's earlier resentment melted as he added, "Make a good display, but do not risk losing men to no purpose. They will earn their keep later."

He faced the others again. "This diversion will of course be terminated, but by that time the landing party will be well inside the swamp. But in three days from dawn tomorrow the squadron will attack in earnest, gentlemen, so you can see the vital importance of the thirty miles we must travel before we can pave the way to success."

Inch asked, "If you cannot reach there in time, sir, what will happen?"

Bolitho looked at him thoughtfully. "You will have to decide, Mr. Inch. For if that happens, Hyperion will have a new captain, eh?"

Inch stared at him, his jaw hanging open. Now, maybe for the first time, he understood why Bolitho was leaving him behind.

Bolitho added sharply, "Carry on, gentlemen. From our own people I will want a good gunner's mate and a bosun's mate. Also two midshipmen, but not Gascoigne."

Inch asked vaguely, "May I ask why, sir?"

"You may. Mr. Gaseoign is the senior midshipman and well versed in signals. You will have more need of him here when you close the enemy."

He watched them file from the cabin and then said, "Well, Mr. Quince, I hope you have chosen your people carefully?"

Quince showed his teeth in a slow grin. "Aye, sir. All trained men. I picked them myself." The grin widened. "I told them it would take a very brave man to be a coward under your command, sir."

Fitzmaurice coughed politely. He was obviously unused 174

to his subordinate's sudden flash of humour. "Wait on deck, Mr. Quince."

Alone with Bolitho, Captain Fitzmaurice got down to his true reason for coming aboard. "You have heard, I suppose, that Winstanley died of his wounds?" He shrugged. "The surgeon no doubt speeded his end, but his loss is hard to accept nevertheless."

"He was a good captain." Bolitho watched Fitzmaurice's weary features, conscious of the sounds beyond the sealed door, the urgency and need for final appraisal of his sketchy plan. But something in Fitzmaurice's tone told him there was more to come.

"Our commodore has written his orders for the landing, Bolitho. I expect you have read them as carefully as I?"

He nodded. "They are much as I would expect."

"Winstanley is dead. You are now the senior captain. Whatever you do ashore is your responsiblity." He seemed suddenly tired of trying to phrase his words diplomatically. "In his orders Pelham-Martin has stated that he will make an attack in three days' time in support of your action ashore." He spread his hands angrily. "That one word support alters the whole meaning of the written orders! I know it is wrong for me to speak my mind like this, but I cannot stand by and allow you -to take the weight of all responsibility. You are supporting the commodore, and not the other way round."

Bolitho studied him gravely. Fitzmaurice had never struck him as a man of much imagination beyond the limits of duty. He was moved by this sudden concern and understanding, and knew what it must have cost him to make his feelings known. He did not after all know Bolitho, and there were many who might have used Fitzmaurice's display of concern to further their own standing with the commodore. By even hinting at PelhamMartin's deceit he was leaving himself open to grave charges of conspiracy and insubordination.

He replied, "Thank you for speaking so openly. I will not forget it. But I believe we must think only of the task ahead. Of what it means, and the disastrous consequences of failure."

Fitzmaurice eyed him admiringly. "So you realised what was implied without my saying it?" He smiled. "It is a strange service which we follow. If we fail we stand the blame alone. If we succeed there are always those elsewhere who take the credit."

Bolitho thrust out his hand. "I hope we remember that, if ever we reach flag rank."

Fitzmaurice followed him on to the darkened quarterdeck. "I doubt it in my own case. I have often found that the attraction of arriving at some prized destination has overhadowed the effort of reaching it."

Allday spoke from the darkness. "Your sword, Captain."

Bolitho tightened the belt at his waist, letting his eyes become accustomed to the gloom and sensing the watching faces all around him.

I Allday said quietly, "I didn't bring the white flag this time, Captain." His teeth gleamed in his face. "I hope I've done right?"

Bolitho looked away. "If anything should happen to me, what would become of you? No captain in sound mind would tolerate your insolence as I do!"

Inch strode aft, -his head thrust out as he searched for Bolitho amongst the silent figures.

"Boats ready alongside!" He faltered. "Good luck, sir, and God speed."

Bolitho nodded. Suddenly he realised the weight of his mission. He was not merely leaving the ship, but heading for a place which was little more than a vague sketch on his chart. Another world, a different continent, with heaven knows what at the end of it all.

He said, "Take good care, Inch."

Inch looked up at the black tracery of rigging swaying gently against the bright stars. "I'll keep good care of her, sir."

Bolitho walked slowly to the ladder. "I know that. But I meant of yourself."

Then he ran down the ladder to the entry port, brushing past anonymous shapes and watching faces, and very aware of the great silence over the whole ship.

Stepkyne touched his hat, his voice flat and expressionless. "All in the boats, sir. I have detailed Midshipmen Canyon and Pascoe for the duties required. They being the most junior and least needed to work the ship.

Bolitho kept his voice low. "You were most considerate, Mr. Stepkyne."

Without another word he followed Allday's broad shoulders down into the nearest cutter. He should have been more careful and less concerned with his own part in all this. Stepkyne had chosen the only way he knew to show his resentment at being left behind. The one way in which Bolitho was unable to override his choice without showing favouritism.

He settled himself in the sternsheets. "Cast off. Allday, we will lead." He raised his voice as the lines were freed from the other boats. "Mr. Quince, you will follow at the rear and ensure the rest maintain regular distances apart."

The oars dropped into their rowlocks, and at Allday's command dipped and pulled steeply into the choppy wavelets.

In the bows Bolitho could just make out the shape of Shambler, an experienced bosun's mate, crouching with a hand lead and line in readiness to feel the way into the first part of the choked river. The cutter felt heavy and sluggish in the current and between the men's legs he could see the gleam of piled weapons and the sparse rations for the journey.

When he looked astern the next boat was already pulling into line, but when he strained his eyes further he found that the ship had seemingly disappeared into shadow, with not even a single light showing from her hull to betray her activity.

Not that it was likely for anyone to be watching from the shore, he thought grimly. This was a forsaken stretch of coast. A waste-ground which had long defied nature and man alike.

He touched the hilt of his sword and thought suddenly of Cheney. Further and further away. It seemed as if the separation would never be eased. That she had become part of the dream which home and country always represented to the sailor.

He shivered suddenly as if in a cold wind. Next month would bring spring to the hedgerows and fields of Cornwall. And to the house below Pendennis Castle it would bring him a child.

Shambler called hoarsely, "Surf ahead, sir! 'Bout a cable's distance away!"

Bolitho came back from his brief dream. "That'll be the tide across the river mouth. You may begin sounding directly."

A seaman moved his foot, perhaps from cramp, and a musket clattered loudly on the bottom boards.

"Keep those men silent!" Bolitho lifted slightly to peer above the crowded figures as the river mouth opened up on either bow.

"Aye, aye, sir!"

He stiffened. It was Pascoe's voice, and he had not even known he was in this boat.

Allday moved the tiller very slightly and then muttered, "Thought it best to have the young gentleman aboard, Captain. Just to keep an eye on him, so to speak."

Bolitho glanced at him. "No wonder you never married, Allday. You would leave little for a woman to worry about!"

Allday grinned in the darkness. The rasp in Bolitho's tone was as familiar to him as the wind in the shrouds. It was just his way. But in a moment or so the captain would make amends.

Bolitho dropped back into the sternsheets. "But thank you, Allday, for your concern."

Without looking at his watch Bolitho knew it was close on noon. The sun which had been in his face since early dawn now blazed down from directly overhead with the fierce heat of an open furnace.

He touched Allday's arm. "We will rest here." His lips felt cracked and dry, so that even few words were an effort.

"Easy all! Boat your oars!"

The seamen hauled the long oars inboard, while from forward came a splash as the bowman hurled a grapnel into the nearest clump of reeds.

Bolitho watched his men lolling across the thwarts and gunwales like corpses, their eyes closed and faces turned away from the sun which pinned them down in its relentless glare.

Dawn had found the four boats pulling strongly and well in spite of the salt-stained rushes and occasional sandbars. Zigzagging between the various obstacles had not been too difficult at first, and at most times the boats were all in sight of each other. Then as the blue sky faded in the mounting glare the stroke became slower, and time after time one boat and then another would lose valuable effort in backing from some hidden wedge of sand, or be thrown into confusion as its oarsmen caught their blades in the encroaching clumps of reeds.

But now, as the next boat pushed slowly through the motionless fronds to drop a grapnel nearby, Bolitho had forcibly to control his despair. It was like wandering in some insane maze, with only the sun and his small compass to show – him the key.to the pn771e. The reeds, which had broken and parted so easily near the river mouth, now stood all around the boats, thick and dark green, and in most places higher than the tallest man. If wind there was, the sweating and gasping men gained no relief from it, for the tall reeds and interlaced creepers acted as a cruelly effective barrier, so that the sun blazed down on the boats without pause, making movement unbearable.

Lieutenant Lang leaned across the gunwale of his cutter and rested one hand on the smooth wood for just a few seconds before jerking it away with a curse.

"My God, it's as hot as a musket barrel!" He tugged his shirt open across his chest and added, "How far have we come, sir?"

Bolitho said, "About five miles. We must push forward if we are to make up the time. We will rest all night, otherwise the boats could get scattered and lost."

He looked down over the side. There was a current of sorts, twisting and turning amidst the reeds in countless tiny rivers. It was a dark, secret world, and the choked water seemed alive with tiny bubbles, released gases from drowned vegetation and rotten roots, but giving the impression of unseen life, or creatures waiting for the intruders to pass.

"After this the men will have to work shorter watches. Six men to a side, half an hour at the most." He wiped his face with the back of his hand and stared at a bright winged insect on his skin. "They will face forrard and paddle. There is no room for rowing now." He waited until more splashes told him the other boats were drawing close. "Tell the bowmen to use boathooks and feel the way through. At the deepest part there seems little more than eight feet or so of water. And it will become shallower, I have no doubt."

Lieutenant Quince's cutter idled broadside amongst the clinging rushes, the men drooping on the oar looms, the hull scarred in many places by the slow tortuous passage.

Quince looked alert enough, and had a strip of canvas across the back of his neck. "I make it five miles, sir." He stood up in the boat and tried to peer above the nearest clump. "I can't even see a hill. It seems to go on and on forever."

Bolitho snapped, "Don't let the men sleep!" He shook the oarsman nearest to, him. "Wake up, man! Keep those insects from eating you alive or you'll be dead in a matter of days!"

The sailor in question dragged himself upright and halfheartedly slapped aside some of the countless flies and buzzing insects which had been constant companions since daybreak.

Quince said suddenly, "May I suggest you lash an oar upright in your boat, sir? If we get separated it would give us an aiming mark."

Bolitho nodded. "See to it, Allday." It was good to know that Quince at least was thinking as well as suffering.

One of the seamen craned over the gunwale and cupped his hands in the sluggish stream. Allday barked, "Avast there!" Then as the man withdrew his hands he dipped his neckcloth in the water and tasted it on his tongue.

He spat savagely across the gunwale. "Muck!" In a calmer tone he added, "Tastes of salt and something else, Captain." He screwed up his mouth with revulsion. "As if a thousand corpses were buried here."

Bolitho raised his voice. "D'you hear that? So hang on and wait for the proper issue of fresh water. The stink here is bad enough, so just think what the water would do to your entrails!"

Here and there a man nodded soberly, but Bolitho knew they would alll have to be watched. He had seen men drink salt water and go raving mad in a matter of hours. In spite of any amount of training and experience, thirst could always be relied on to drive men to taking that first drink, even though they might have just witnessed the horrible death of one so tempted.

Wearily he said, "We will proceed. Raise the grapnel!"

Groaning, the selected seamen rose to their feet and poised the oars along the sides like paddles. It was an uncomfortable way to move, but less wasteful than having the boat halted every few minutes while oars were jerked free from rushes and mud.

And what mud it was. When one of the men withdrew his blade Bolitho saw it was dripping with reeking black filth which shone in the sunlight like boiling pitch. Anxiously he watched as the man dipped his oar again and then breathed more easily. It moved without hindrance this time, and he knew the boat had edged once more into deeper water.

He saw Pascoe squatting on one of the barricoes, his head in his hands as he stared outboard at the passing wall of green fronds. His shirt was torn across one shoulder,

and already the bared skin gleamed dull red through his tan, as if he had been struck by a hot ember.

He called, "Come aft, Mr. Pascoe." He had to repeat the invitation before the boy lifted his head and then climbed slowly above the lolling seamen as if walking in his sleep.

Bolitho said quietly, "Cover your shoulder, lad. You'll be as raw as beef directly if you give the sun its opportunity."

He watched him pulling the torn shirt into place, seeing the fresh sweat breaking across his forehead with the effort. He thought suddenly of Stepkyne and cursed him beneath his breath.

He continued, "I may want you to shin up that oar in the bows tomorrow and take a look around' us. You are the lightest soul aboard, so you had better save your strength."

Pascoe turned his head and looked up at him, his eyes half hidden by his unruly hair. "I can do it, sir." He nodded vaguely. "I will do it."

Bolitho turned away, unable to watch the boy's feverish determination which seemed to dog him every hour of the day. He would never shirk any task, even if it was normally allotted to a hardened seaman, and Bolitho knew he would kill himself rather than admit defeat. It was just as if he nursed his father's shame like a permanent

spur. As if he considered that he must prove himself, if only to wipe away Hugh's disgrace.

As the boy peered astern to look for the following cutter Bolitho stole another glance at him. What would he say if he knew the real truth? That his father was still alive, serving as a convict in New Holland under another man's name? He dismissed the thought immediately. Distance healed nothing, he knew that now. It would only drag out the boy's agony, fill him with new doubts or impossible hopes.

Allday licked his lips, "Change round! Next men on the oars there!"

Bolitho shaded his eyes to look at the bare sky. Only the occasional gurgle of water around the stem made any sense of movement. This jerking, wretched progress seemed endless, as if they would go on and on into green oblivion and die of thrist, their graves the boats in which he had committed all of them to this hopeless gesture.

He groped for the compass and stared at it for a full minute. An insect crawled across the glass cover and he brushed it aside with something like anger. At best they might manage a full ten miles before nightfall. And this was the easiest part of the journey. Tomorrow, and the day after that would bring more hazards as the boats pushed further and further into the swamp. He glanced quickly at the seamen nearest to him. Their unfamiliar faces were strained and apprehensive, and they dropped their eyes when they saw him watching them.

Fighting and if necessary dying they could understand. Surrounded by men and objects aboard their own ship which shared their everyday life the demands of battle were as familiar as the harsh discipline and unquestionable authority which had made them the breed they were. But such standards were born,as much from trust as from any code of conduct. The trust of each other, the measure of skill of their officers who ruled their very existence.

But now, under the command of a man they did not even know, and committed to an operation which must appear as treacherous as their surroundings, they must be feeling their first doubts. And from such uncertainty could grow the beginnings of failure.

He said, "Pass the word to anchor again. We will break out rations and rest for half an hour." He waited for Allday to call to the boat astern before adding, "One cup of water per man, and see that it is taken slowly."

Pascoe asked suddenly, "When we reach the other end of the swamp might we be able to find some more water, sir?" His dark eyes were studying Bolitho with grave contemplation. "Although I expect we will fight first."

Bolitho watched the first seaman at the berricoe, the pannikin to his lips while he held back his head to make certain of the last drop. But he was still hearing Pascoe's words, his quiet confidence which at this particular moment did more to steady his thoughts than he would have believed possible.

He replied, "I have no doubt we shall discover both water and fighting." Then he smiled in spite of his parched lips. "So take your drink now, lad, and let the rest come in its own good time."

It was in the evening that progress ground to a sudden halt. No amount of thrusting or levering would budge the boat from its bed of sludge and rotting weed, and in spite of Shambler's threats and Allday's stubborn efforts the seamen leaned on their oars and stared at the setting sun with something like defiance. They were worn out and ready to collapse, and as Lang's boat lurched close astern Bolitho knew he must act at once if 'the last hour of daylight was to be used.

"Over the side! Lively there!" He strode along the tilting boat, ignoring the resentful faces and stinging insects. "Get those lines up forrard, Mr. Shambler! We will warp her through to the next stretch of deep water!"

As the bosun's mates hauled the coils of rope from the bottom boards Bolitho stood in the bows and stripped off his shirt and swordbelt, and then gritting his teeth lowered himself into the pungent water and reached up to take one of the lines.

Allday shouted, "Move yourselves!" And vaulting over the gunwale he took another line and looped it round his shoulders like a halter, before wading after Bolitho without even a glance to see who was following.

Bolitho strode slowly through the clinging filth, feeling it around his thighs and then his waist as he struggled forward, the line biting his shoulder as it took the full weight of the boat. Then there were other splashes, followed by curses and groans as the men left the boat and one after the other took their places along the two towing lines behind him.

"Heave, lads!" Bolitho strained harder, trying to hold back the nausea as the stinking gases rose about him, making his mind swim as if in a fever. "Together, heave!"

Reluctantly and very slowly the boat slid forward and down into another trough of deeper water. But there was another barrier waiting for their hesitant steps, and more than one slipped spluttering and choking as the sludge clawed his feet from under him.

Then they were through, and shivering and coughing they dragged themselves back into the boat, where yet another horror awaited them.

Most of the men had great leeches fixed to their bodies, and as several tried to drag the slimy creatures free Bolitho shouted, "Mr. Shambler, pass the slowmatch down the boat! Burn each off in turn, you'll not free yourselves otherwise!"

Allday held the slow-match to his leg and cursed as the fat leech dropped to the bottom of the boat. "Drink my blood, would you? Damn your eyes, I'll see you fry first!"

Bolitho stood to watch the dying sun as it painted the tops of the rushes with red gold, so that for an instant the menace and despair were shaded with strange beauty.

The other boats were still following, the crews plunging through the shallows, their bodies pale in the fading light.

He said, "We will moor for the night." He saw Lang nodding to his words from the other boat. "But we will get under way before dawn and try to make up lost time."

He looked down at his own boat, where the seamen lolled together unable to do little more than sit as they had done throughout the day.

"Detail one man for the watch, Allday. We are all so weary that otherwise I fear we would sleep through dawn and beyond."

He lowered himself slowly into the sternsheets again and saw that Pascoe was already asleep, his head on the gunwale and one hand hanging almost to the water. Gently he lifted the boy's arm inboard and then seated himself against the tiller bar.

High overhead the first stars were pale in the sky and the tall rushes around the boat hissed quietly to a sudden breeze. For a few moments it was almost refreshing after the heat and filth of the day, but the impression was merely a passing one.

Bolitho leaned back and watched the stars, trying not to think of the hours and days which still lay ahead.

Near the bows a man groaned in his sleep, and another whispered fervently, "Martha, Martha!" before falling silent once again.

Bolitho drew his knees up to his chin, feeling the caked mud hard against his skin. Who was Martha? he wondered. And was she still remembering the young man who had been snatched from her side to serve in a King's ship? Or maybe she was a daughter. A mere child who perhaps could no longer remember her father's face.

He looked down at Pascoe's limp body. Was he dreaming, tog? Of his father whom he had never seen? Of a memory which had turned his mind to hate and shame?

Then he rested his forehead on his folded arms and was instantly asleep.