ENEMY IN SIGHT

12. MR. SELBY

True to his word, Fox, the gunner's mate, was working wonders with the crude furnace. Using liberal helpings of sprinkled gunpowder and hastily gathered gorse he crawled around its iron door, peering and nodding with satisfaction before running back again to supervise his men.

Bolitho looked at the sun, now clear and vivid above the pointed hill, and then walked to the cliff edge to watch the anchored ships far below. The first, signs of panic had been replaced by orderly preparations for getting under way, but he guessed that all the vessels had been so carefully and strongly moored together it would still take as much as half an hour to complete the operation.

He snapped, "I am going to see Mr. Lang. Inform me when you are ready with the heated shot." With Allday striding at his side he turned and hurried towards the rough track, dazzled by the sea beneath him and conscious of his own mounting desperation.

He found Lang and his men scattered above the narrow track, sheltering as best they could behind fallen rocks, their muskets pointing towards the wide bend which vanished around the side of the hill from which the attack had started.

Lang saw Bolitho and stood up hastily. "We've lost sight of the soldiers, sir. But they'll be coming around that curve at any time now."

Bolitho beckoned to Canyon. "Tell Mr. Quince to send twenty more men at the double!"

To Lang he continued, "We can hold this road for a while provided the soldiers don't infiltrate behind us." He was thinking aloud, trying to see the hillside and the country beyond as it would appear to seasoned troops. It seemed incredible for so many soldiers to be gathered in such a place, and if Lequiller had transported them in strength it was even harder to understand his purpose.

As more armed seamen panted along the track he shouted, "Spread out on the hillside! Do not fire until I give the order!"

Lang shifted his feet uneasily. "Any sign of the squadron, sir?"

Bolitho shook his head. "Not as yet."

He watched the ragged seamen climbing above the track, noting the strain on their faces, the apprehensive glances thrown towards the sea. They would know the impossibility of their position without having to be told. No more rations, and soon the sun would be high overhead to quell their last resistance and will to fight.

Then he heard the new sound, the steady tramp of booted feet beating on the rough track like an army of drums.

The first soldiers swung around the curve in the road, and at a shouted command halted less than a hundred yards from the nearest seaman.

A foot skidded on the stones and Pascoe arrived gasping at Bolitho's elbow. "Mr. Quince says that the first ball is heated and ready, sir!" He peered at the motionless array of soldiers across the track and added thickly, "The French!"

Bolitho lifted his glass and studied the silent soldiers for several seconds. "Only the uniforms are French, Mr. Pascoe." In the small lens he could see the soldiers swaying with fatigue from their forced march, their dark skins and the careless way with which they held their bayoneted muskets. "No French infantryman would slouch like that." He added sharply, "Tell Mr. Quince to open fire on the second ship at once. He will know what to do."

The boy hesitated, his eyes still on the soldiers. "Will you stay here, sir?"

Bolitho thrust the glass into his pocket. "Away with you! There is no time for gossip!" As the boy turned to go he added, "All will be well with us. provided you can hit that ship!"

Lang muttered, "Some of the troops from the rear are making for the hill, sir!"

Bolitho nodded. "Prepare to fire!" He withdrew his sword and rested the blade across his shoulder. "They will try to rush us, Mr. Lang, so keep your wits about you!"

A whistle shrilled from around the bend of the road and the first files of troops began to trot purposefully towards the narrowest part where a small avalanche had cut a deep cleft, the sides of which fell straight down to the sea below.

"Take aim!" Bolitho held the sword over his head, feeling the sweat running down his chest and the parched dryness on his lips. "Fire!"

Forty muskets shattered the silence in a ragged fusilade which came from every piece of cover afforded to the seamen. As smoke swirled out over the bay Bolitho saw the soldiers falling and reeling, some pitching out of sight over the side of the cliff itself.

"Reload!" He tried to keep his voice calm, knowing that any sort of panic would turn his slender defences into a rout. Some of the troops were still coming on, but as they reached the bodies of their fallen comrades hesitated and then paused to kneel and fire blindly towards the hillside. Musket balls whined and ricocheted in all directions at once, and as more troops trotted around the curve Bolitho shouted, "Take aim! Fire!"

The response was more uneven, for some had not yet had time to reload in their cramped positions, but as the balls swept savagely into the packed soldiers it was more than enough. Firing as they went the soldiers fell back, leaving some dozen dead and wounded on the track, while others had vanished completely into the waiting sea beneath the cliff.

A heavy crash echoed around the hillside and Bolitho said, "I hope Fox still has the range, Mr. Lang." A musket ball whimpered past his face and he jumped down behind the rocks as more shots hammered almost directly from the hillside above the track.

"Skirmishers!" He shaded his eyes to the glare and saw several small shapes darting across the summit, some falling motionless as the seamen returned fire as fast as they could reload.

He gripped the lieutenant's 'shoulder. "Hold on here. I am going to see what is happening at the guns." He saw Lang nod vaguely. "And keep your men in cover no matter what the enemy tries!" Then he turned and ran down the slope, the musket fire and shouts ringing in his ears until the hillside reached out to deaden the sound like a curtain.

He found Quince standing on the cliff edge, just as he had left him. He pointed excitedly towards the ships where the nearest two-decker was fighting to free herself from what appeared to be a fouled hawse, so that she swung helplessly to the wind, her stern held fast by the extra cables. The second ship seemed unchanged, but as he lifted his glass Bolitho saw a telltale plume of smoke rising from her poop and the sudden rush of figures with buckets and axes as the smoke blossomed into a full scale cloud.

Fox was almost beside himself. "A hit!" He swung on the cheering gunners. "Another ball, you buggers!" He ran to the furnace as his men staggered sweating with the unwieldly iron cradle upon which a fat, thirty-two pound shot gleamed with fierce heat.

Bolitho said, "Mr. Lang will not be able to hold out much longer." He felt Quince stiffen. "There must be at least two hundred soldiers on the move, and probably more in the town."

Quince stared at him. "But why, sir? What could Las Mercedes need such a force for?"

Bolitho saw the smoke fading above the French ship as the buckets of water quenched the embedded shot before it could take hold.

Fox seemed oblivious to the closeness of danger as he checked the wad to make sure it was well soaked before he allowed the glowing ball to be cradled into the muzzle.

Bolitho replied, "I am not sure, Mr. Quince. Not yet."

The gun lurched back again, and for a split second Bolitho saw the ball reach the apex of its flight before pitching down towards the anchored ship. Like a black spot on the sun, he thought.

It struck the ship just forward of the quarterdeck on the starboard side, although for a few moments several of the watching gunners imagined it had missed completely. Then as the smoke fanned out and upwards, Bolitho knew it was a fatal shot. He saw the first licking flames beneath her upper gunports, the sudden rush of smoke, as if forced from the tinder-dry timbers by some giant bellows.

"The furthest ships are aweigh at last, sir." Quince banged his fists together as a great tongue of flame shot up the stricken vessel's main shrouds so that the whole centre part of the hull changed in an instant to one terrible torch.

"Shift your target, Mr. Fox!" Bolitho swung round as Canyon appeared at Quince's side. He was cut on both knees and had a gash across his forehead.

"I-I fell, sir!" He winced as the gun banged out behind him. "I ran as fast as I could…" he broke off, his face crumbling with shock and despair.

Bolitho seized his arm and shook him. "What is it?"

"Mr. Lang has been hit, sir! Our people are falling back!" He reeled and would have fallen but for Bolitho's grip. "The troops are all around the hill, sir! We can't hold them any more!"

Bolitho looked at Quince and then shouted, "Train that gun towards the road!" As the men faltered he added harshly, "Lively there!" He gestured to the watching seamen. "Put those prisoners to work and push the other guns over the cliff!" He glared at Quince's grim features. "They'll not fire those again!"

As the first cannon lumbered over the edge he added, "I must go back to our people on the road. Make sure the remaining gun is reloaded and aimed." Then he ran off before Quince could question him further.

When he reached the barrier of fallen boulders, where only hours earlier he had led his men to the attack, he saw the seamen falling back towards him, some shooting their muskets towards the hillside, others dragging themselves on shattered limbs, or holding on to each other in an effort to reach some sort of safety.

"Over here!" Bolitho waved his sword towards the stone barrier. "Take cover and reload!" One man tried to run past him and he shouted, "Stand to, or by God I'll kill you myself!"

Allday muttered harshly, "Where is Mr. Pascoe?"

At that moment Bolitho saw him. He was coming down the track with Lang staggering against him, one arm wrapped, tightly around the boy's shoulders. Lang was smeared with blood and his eyes were covered by a rough bandage.

More shots shrieked from the hillside where the enemy had paused to take more careful aim from their advantageous positions. A seaman rolled away from the barrier, and another dropped out of sight without even a cry as a ball found its mark.

Pascoe stumbled gasping into Allday's arms, and while others dragged the wounded lieutenant behind the rocks Bolitho asked, "Are you all right, boy?" He pulled him down against the sunwarmed stones and added, "That was a very brave thing you did."

Lang whimpered, "My eyes! Oh Christ, I can't see!"

Pascoe stared at him fixedly. "A musket ball struck the stones by his face, sir." He shuddered but did not blink. "The splinters hit both eyes… " He turned away suddenly and vomited into the dust.

Bolitho dragged his eyes from the boy's trembling shoulders and looked up as one of the seamen leapt to his feet and ran crazily towards the cliff edge. For an instant he thought the man had gone mad or was making one last futile attempt to escape. But then as the man's frantic cries made others turn to stare he saw a pale shape rising through the smoke from the burning ship, and imagined he could feel a hot wind as the sound of a full broadside thundered across the water and against the cliff face like an avalanche.

The seaman was rocking from side to side, his hands locked together across his chest like someone at prayer. He shouted wildly, "Look, ladsl 'Tis the old Hermes!"

Then he fell headlong over the edge, his death cry lost in the rumble of cannon fire as yet another set of topsails loomed through the smoke. The sight of his own ship coming at last to his aid must have been the last thing he saw.

Bolitho stood up and yelled, "Back, lads! Fall back to the headland!" Shots whimpered around him, and still more men fell as they ran crouching across the long stretch of open ground.

Allday had Lang bodily across his shoulders, and Bolitho saw Pascoe trying not to falter as a seaman by his side whirled round, his scream choking on blood as a ball smashed the back of his skull to pulp and splintered bone.

As the first of the soldiers reached the undefended barrier Fox held the slow-match carefully in place and then jumped aside to watch as the ball cleaved through the packed men like a giant axe.

That last shot and the sight of the ships pushing slowly into the bay were enough. The attack dropped away, and then, in spite of the shrill whistle and bellowed commands, the troops turned and ran headlong towards the hillside. It was likely they would keep running until they reached the town, for fear of being cut off by a fresh landing from the avenging ships.

Quince reached Bolitho and said between deep breaths, "A close call, sir."

Bolitho did not reply for a moment. He was watching his own ship, the old Hyperion, as she tacked slowly around the nearest Frenchman, her gunsmoke masking the destruction and chaos as two by two the muzzles poured their broadside into the helpless enemy. She was too far away to pick out the details, but he could see Inch in his mind's eye, watching and gauging the moment to tack, with Gossett nearby like an immovable English oak. He looked round, suddenly sick of the land, the staring corpses and the huddled cluster of frightened prisoners.

They had come thirty miles to do this. Thirty miles of swamp and impossible hardship, yet only once had the morale nearly broken. He watched the hobbling wounded and the ones still left who could stand and fight. There were very few of the latter.

Quince added quietly, "Mr. Fox reports that the sloop Dasher is anchored below the headland, sir. She's lowering boats to take us off."

"Very well." Even speech was too much. "Have the wounded carried down to the foreshore as soon as the last gun is over the edge." He turned to watch as the heavy cannon rolled over the cliff and plunged into the deep water amidst several bobbing corpses.

When Quince returned he found Bolitho standing alone, his eyes on the ships in the bay.

The lieutenant said, "Hermes has lowered boats, sir. I think she is putting a raiding party ashore to add to the Frogs' discomfort."

– Resistance had ceased aboard the nearest French ship, -and she was already listing badly with her lower ports awash. The second one was burning so fiercely that for one brief moment Bolitho imagined Inch had taken his ship too close to the savage flames and would perish with her. But as Hyperion's topsails filled and hardened on the new tack he saw the sparks and drifting ashes passing well abeam, while some of the French survivors paused in their frantic swimming to tread water and stare up at the slowmoving two-decker with her fierce-eyed figurehead and cheering seamen.

Of the other two French ships there was no sign at all, and he guessed they had weighed and clawed around the far headland even as the attacking squadron entered the bay at the opposite end.

He saw Pascoe standing by the abandoned furnace, his dirk still in his hand. "Come with me, boy. You have seen and done enough for ten men today."

Pascoe looked at him gravely. "Thank you, sir," was all he said.

The lieutenant in charge of the sloop's boats watched the ragged and bleeding survivors with something like horror. "Where are the rest?" He could not even recognise an officer amidst the exhausted figures which waded or were carried into the boats.

Bolitho waited until the last man was aboard and then followed. He said coldly, "We are the rest!" Then he sat in silence watching his party which could hardly fill two boats let alone the four which had been left far behind.

He saw the Telamon going about, her yards bedecked with signal flags as she heeled to the fresh breeze from the shore. There was no sign at all of the Indomitable, but Bolitho was too weary to care.

Quince said, "That's the signal to withdraw, sir. The commodore must be aboard the Dutchman."

Bolitho glanced up, unable to hide the bitterness any longer. "Then for his own safety I hope he stays there!"

Then he looked at his men again. Lang, sobbing quietly, his hands across his bandaged eyes, and the others too spent and drained even to respond to the men who cheered them from the anchored sloop. They had done what had been asked of them, and more beside, but the spark had gone with the last shot, the inner strength, quenched as survival and help had driven away the madness and desperate bravery of battle. Now they just sat or lay like mindless beings, their eyes turned inward, examining perhaps the last stricken images, which given time they might recall with pride or terror, with sadness for those left behind, or with thanksgiving for being spared at their expense.

The sloop's young commander met Bolitho and said excitedly, "Welcome aboard, sir! Is there anything I can do for you before I weigh?"

Bolitho stared past him towards the blazing ship. She was almost gone now, just a few blackened timbers which still defied the fire, and some last buoyancy to keep her afloat and bare her misery to watching eyes.

He replied, "Get me to my ship." He tried to force his mind to obey him, to hold back the dragging weariness which made his limbs feel like lead. "And see that these men are cared for. They have come a long way and must

not suffer to no good purpose."

The commander frowned, uncertain what Bolitho meant. Then he hurried away to pass his orders, his mind busy with what he had witnessed and how he would retell it one day.

Later as the ships sailed from the bay and re-formed into line the smoke was still following them on the wind, the air heavy with ashes and a smell of death.

Lieutenant Inch stepped hesitantly into the stem cabin and blinked at the glare from the sea below the counter.

"You sent for me, sir?"

Bolitho was stripped to the waist and shaving hurriedly, a mirror propped on the top of his desk.

"Yes. Have there been any signals from the Telamon?"

Inch watched round-eyed as Bilitho towelled his face vigorously and then pulled a clean shirt over his head. Bolitho had been back aboard his own ship less than five hours but had hardly paused to take a meal, let alone rest after his return from the swamp and the destruction of the enemy battery.

He answered, "Nothing, sir."

Bolitho walked to the quarter windows and stared at the haze-shrouded shoreline far away on the starboard beam. On a slow larboard tack the ships were making little progress, and when he peered astern at the Hermes he saw that her sails were almost flat and unmoving, her hull shimmering above the haze of her own reflection.

He had expected Pelham-Martin to call his captains aboard the Telamon for a conference, or to send some sort of congratulations to the exhausted raiding party. Instead, the signal to heave 'to had been hoisted, and after another frustrating delay boats had shoved off from the Hermes loaded to the gunwales with men and headed immediately for the Hyperion's side.

Lieutenant Quince had come with the boats to announce that the Hermes' brief raid on the waterfront at Las Mercedes had found and breached the prison and had released some sixty seamen held prisoner there, fifty of whom Captain Fitzmaurice had sent across to supplement Bolitho's own company. Also, Quince had come aboard to say goodbye. Pelham-Martin had appointed him as acting commander of the disabled Indomitable, with orders to make sail forthwith for Antigua, some six hundred miles to the north-east, where English Harbour could afford the necessary facilities for repairs, enough at least for her return to England and the refit she so sorely needed.

Bolitho had been on deck to watch the listing seventyfour as she had edged slowly away from her consorts, showing her scars and battered hull, the clanking pumps telling only too well of her struggle to stay afloat. No wonder she had played no part in the final attack on Las Mercedes. One more broadside and she would likely have keeled over and sunk.

It was good to know Quince had received a reward for his unfailing efforts, and as Bolitho had watched the Indomitable's shape melting into the sea haze, her torn sails and shattered topmasts somehow symbolic of the pain and death within her hull, he had thought of Winstanley, and how pleased he would have been to know his ship was in such good hands.

But now they were sailing eastward again, with no apparent thought for chasing the two French ships which had escaped the attack, and no intimation at all of what Pelham-Martin intended to do next.

During his brief visit Quince had said, "It seems that our commodore is well pleased with the results, sir. Two French sail of the line destroyed and the others put to flight."

Bolitho had replied coldly, "We could have destroyed them alll"

Quince had been watching him soberly. "You did all that you could, sir. I think the whole squadron knows that, and rightly."

Bolitho had merely shrugged. "I cannot be content with half measures."

He laid the razor on the desk and sighed, "Have you sworn in the new men, Mr. Inch?"

"Aye, sir. I have questioned some of them too, just as you instructed."

Bolitho walked restlessly to the opposite side and shaded his eyes to stare at the empty horizon. It was like a bright gold line in the late afternoon sunlight. He had wanted to meet and question these released men himself, but had been unable to face anyone as yet. Like the moment he had returned aboard, the cheers and yells of welcome ringing in his ears as he and the others had climbed from the sloop's jolly boat, the noise and force of the greeting making him more aware of his own complete fatigue.

And Inch most of all. Bobbing and grinning, his anxiety giving way to an almost incoherent flood of pleasure which even Bolitho's false harshness could not dispel.

Inch said suddenly, "All of them are prime seamen, sir. They were survivors of a merchantman, Bristol Queen, which was wrecked a while ago in a storm while bound for Caracas. Some of the crew managed to get away in the boats, and eventually reached Las Mercedes es where they were thrown into prison." He grimaced angrily. "The damned Dons have no feeling for shipwrecked seamen, it seems."

Bolitho rested his hands on the desk and stared absently at the uppermost chart. "There were no officers saved, I take it?"

"None, sir." Inch slapped one hand against his thigh. "But there was one strange piece of good fortune, sir. There is a master's mate amongst them." He nodded cheerfully in response to Bolitho's unspoken question, "Aye, sir, a Navy man!"

"Well, do not keep me in suspense, Mr. Inch."

"It seems he and another were picked up a few months back. They had been washed overboard from the Cornelia, seventy-four, and were clinging to an upturned quarter boat, at least the master's mate was. The second man had already died, sir."

Bolitho nodded thoughtfully. "Saved from death to be imprisoned, eh? Well, he will be both welcome and useful aboard, Mr. Inch. I trust you made sure they were all able to send messages to their homes by way of the Indomitable before she left the squadron?"

"Lieutenant Quince assured me that was so, sir. But the master's mate sent neither letter nor message. Unlike the others, I suspect he has no life other than shipboard."

Bolitho listened to the shrill of pipes and the patter of feet overhead as the watch went about its business.

"What is his name?"

"Selby, sir."

"Well, send Mr. Selby to me now. He might have seen or heard something at Las Mercedes. And I am not satisfied we know half enough that is happening there." He frowned, unaware of Inch's puzzled expression. "All those Spanish soldiers in French uniforms, the readiness of the ships and careful siting of a field battery." He shook his head firmly. "No, Mr. Inch, I am not at all pleased with our lack of knowledge."

As Inch departed he returned once more to examining the chart. Where was Lequiller now?

He thought suddenly of Lieutenant Lang, now aboard the Indomitable with all the other maimed and wounded, en route for Antigua, and thence to England. What would become of him? The surgeon had been brief and without hope. Lang was completely blind. Having neither private means nor influence he was being sent home to certain oblivion. To join the wretched flotsam which you saw in every port, in every place where the sea was a constant reminder of their uselessness and rejection.

This master's mate was very welcome now. Bolitho would have to promote Gascoigne to acting lieutenant, experienced or not, and one more professional in the afterguard would be worth his weight in gold.

There was a rap on the door and Inch stepped into the reflected sunlight. "Mr. Selby, sir." He stood aside as the other figure moved into view. "There is a signal from the Telamon, sir. To reduce sail and retain close station in readiness for the night."

Bolitho leaned back against the desk, his fingers locked around its edge in an effort to control his limbs. "Thank you, Mr. Inch." His voice seemed to come from a great distance. "Carry on, if you please."

Inch opened his mouth and then shut it again. With a brief glance at the master's mate he left the cabin and closed the door quietly behind him.

Bolitho could hear his own breathing, yet could feel nothing of his limbs at all but for the pressure of his fingers on the edge of the desk.

The figure across the cabin was badly stooped, and the hair which was pulled back to the nape of his neck was almost completely grey. But there was no mistaking the firm chin, the steady eyes which watched him now with something like resignation.

Bolitho's reeling mind seemed to register incredulity and despair, just as he understood the forces of luck and circumstance, of coincidence and fate which had at last drawn them together once again. As if in a dream he could recall exactly his father's tired face when he had told him of Hugh's disgrace, of his desertion from the Navy, and of his final disappearance in the Americas.

He could remember, too, that meeting when he had been Hugh's prisoner aboard the American privateer, Andiron, and later, nearly two years ago now, when he had been within yards of him during the collapse of the campaign in St. Clar and Cozar, yet had not seen him.

He said tonelessly, "I suppose our meeting again is inevitable." He gestured to a chair. "Sit down if you will.

His brother lowered himself into the chair, his eyes still on Bolitho's face.

He replied, "I did not want to come, Dick. I thought I was being kept aboard the Hermes. I did not even know your ship was in the Caribbean."

Bolitho reached out and poured a glass of red wine. "Drink this. Then tell me why you were here." He gestured to his clothes. "How you came to be in the King's service."

Hugh Bolitho drank deeply and ran his fingers through his hair. "Two years back when I was bound for New Holland as a convict you gave me, albeit unknowingly, another chance. They took most of the convicts back to Gibraltar to await deportation after we left St. Clar." The deep lines around his mouth softened slightly. "I was put aboard a man-o'-war bound for Botany Bay, and during a storm I decided to try and escape. I managed to reach the quarter boat, but was seen and chased by the master's mate of the watch. He climbed down after me." He shrugged, his eyes dreamy as he relived the moment. "There was a fight and the boat came adrift. We both realised the ship had sailed on without knowing we were missing, so we made the best of it. The storm got worse and the boat capsized. We had no water, nothing: When we were picked up, Selby, that was his name, had died. I was almost ready to follow."

Bolitho passed his hand across his forehead. The fatigue and strain of the past days were taking their toll, and he had to think carefully before each word.

"But why did you take the other man's identity?" He felt the sweat running down his chest. "You must have known you would be collected by a King's ship in due course?"

Hugh nodded, the gesture both familiar and yet strange.

"I was, and am tired of running, Dick. Changing names, and always looking over my shoulder. So I thought, where better to hide than in a King's ship?" He smiled wearily. "But it seems I was wrong even about that."

On deck a bell chimed and feet shuffled around the poop skylight. At any second someone might enter.

Bolitho said harshly, "You of all people ought to have known you might meet someone from the past."

"I wanted to find something familiar where I could hide and wait until that ship reached England." He nodded heavily. "I just wanted to reach home once more. Nothing else seemed important." He stood up suddenly and laid the glass on the desk. "I am sorry about this. More so than I can say. I know you have your duty to do. I've had my luck. I'll not blame you now for putting me in irons until my trial."

He fell back a pace as someone tapped the door.

Bolitho could feel his brother's eyes fixed on his face as he called, "Enter!"

Midshipman Pascoe came into the cabin, a telescope beneath his arm. "Mr. Roth's respects, sir. He wishes permission to take in a second reef. The wind is freshening from the nor'-east, sir."

Bolitho looked away, the boy's voice ringing in his brain like one more part of the dream.

"Very well, Mr. Pascoe. I will come up directly." He stopped him as he made for the, door. "This is Mr. Selby, master's mate." He faced his brother impassively. "Mr. Pascoe distinguished himself greatly during the recent raid."

As the door closed again he added, "That boy has had more to bear from life than you know. His father disgraced him, and he now looks to me for trust and guidance, both of which I am proud to offer."

"I do not understand?"

"I will not destroy that boy completely by arresting the man he now believes dead! Whose name is in Falmouth church beside my father's!" He saw his brother stagger but could not control his words. "He walked right across Cornwall, alone and without help, just to see that name. Your name!"

Hugh's voice was hoarse. "I did not know." He looked up, his eyes suddenly desperate, "His mother?"

"Dead. Even she had to give her body to some damned landlord to keep her son in clothes and food!"

"I really did not know." There was no more strength in his voice. "You must believe that!"

Bolitho swung round, his eyes blazing. "I don't care what you knew or believed, d'you hear? I am captain of this ship, and you are Mr. Selby, master's mate in the larboard watch!" He saw his brother's face pale beneath the tan. "If you imagined you could run away from the past, you were mistaken. The man who commands the frigate Spartan was also your prisoner. My second lieutenant and several of the hands are Cornishmen." He shook his head. "You are surrounded by the past, as 1 am!"

"Thank you for giving me the chance to…" His voice trailed away.

Bolitho walked to the stern windows and stared hard at the slow-moving Hermes.

"There was never any choice. If we reach England together I will see what can be done, but I make no promises, so remember that!" He gestured curtly to the door. "Carry on, and report to the master." In the glass of the nearest window he saw his brother's stooped shadow reach the bulkhead. He added quietly, "And if you so much as whisper the truth to that boy I will personally have you hanged!"

The door closed and Bolitho threw himself heavily into the chair. How could this be happening? The commission might last for many more months, even years. It was unbearable, as it was unfair.

The door opened again and Inch asked anxiously, "Did

Mr. Pascoe pass the request to take in another reef, sir?" Bolitho stood up, feeling his arms and hands trembling

in spite of his efforts to control them.

"Yes, thank you. I will come up."

Inch walked beside him to the quarterdeck. "Did Mr.

Selby give you any useful news, sir?"

Bolitho stared at him, caught off guard. "News? What news?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I thought…" He quailed under Bolitho's fierce stare.

"Yes, I see." Bolitho walked to the weather side and looked at the tautening rigging. "Very little."

As the pipes shrilled and the duty watch swarmed up the ratlines Bolitho stood unseeingly by the weather nettings, his fingers playing with the small locket inside his shirt.

When darkness reached the ships and the small stern lanterns showed their reflections like fireflies on the ruffled water he was still standing in the same place, his eyes clouded while he stared out into the darkness, and far beyond it.

Only when Gossett, heavy footed and smelling strongly of rum, came on deck to inspect the traverse board and speak with the helmsmen did the spell seem to break. Bolitho walked past them all without a word and entered his cabin.

Gossett watched him pass and rubbed his heavy jowl with sudden apprehension. Then he looked aloft at the reefed topsails and tapped the hour-glass with one massive finger.

A new day would wipe away the memories of the battle, he decided. There was not much that a change of wind and weather could not alter for any man.