ENEMY IN SIGHT

13. RETURN OF THE "SPARTAN"

Noon the following day found the depleted squadron one hundred and twenty miles east of Las Mercedes, out of sight of land, and leaning steeply to a brisk north-easterly. The sky was cloudless, and in spite of the wind the heat was almost unbearable, so that men not employed in working ship sought what comfort they could between decks, or in any patch of shadow they could find.

Bolitho walked to the poop ladder and watched the Hermes as she wallowed some two cables astern. With the wind sweeping almost directly across the larboard bow her yards were braced round at maximum angle, so that every sail showed its hard belly as if to push the ship right on to her beam ends.

He had just been addressing the newly acquired seamen, and had come aft feeling tired and strangely dispirited. As he had spoken to them he had tried to discover their reactions to his words, to find some spark of enthusiasm or resentment. There was probably more of the latter than anything, he had decided. The first flush of wild excitement at their unexpected rescue from unjust imprisonment had changed to doubtful acceptance, if not actual dismay. They were now faced with the prospect of serving in a King's ship, perhaps for years, and some would never live to know any other life at all.

Gone were the privileges of comfortable quarters and tolerant routine, of good pay with the chance to return to their homes at the end of each profitable voyage. Their resentment would find little sympathy amongst the Hyperion's company, for as was the way in the Navy, the attitude of the average seaman was that if it had happened to him, then why not to others?

But in Bolitho's mind any resentment was bad, and he had done his best to ease, if not dispel their apprehension. That he had failed left him feeling both weary and ill at ease, although he knew in his heart that but for his personal problems he might have found some last reserve to draw upon.

He turned his head to watch the midshipmen assembled on the lee side of the quarterdeck, their faces squinting with concentration as Gossett rumbled through the daily routine of instruction and explained still further the mysteries and rewards of using a sextant.

"Step lively, Mr. Pascoe!" The master sounded hoarse and a little irritable, and was no doubt thinking of the midday meal within the cool shadow of his own mess, and a richly deserved glass to wash it down. "Show us 'ow you can 'andle it!"

Pascoe took the glittering sextant and stared at it thoughtfully.

Gossett groaned. "Time's awastin'!" He beckoned with one huge fist. "Mr. Selby, lay aft and show the young gennleman, I'm all but wore out!"

Bolitho found he was gripping the ladder's teak rail with all his strength as he watched his brother cross the deck and take the sextant from the boy's hands. He was too far away to hear what was said, but he could tell from the boy's intent expression, the occasional nods, that Hugh's quiet words were reaching their mark.

Lieutenant Stepkyne was officer of the watch and had been studying the instruction with obvious impatience. "Don't take so much time over it, Mr. Selby!" His harsh voice made the boy glance at him with something like hatred. "A lesson is a lesson aboard this ship. We don't expect individual tuition!"

"Aye, aye, sir." Hugh kept his eyes down. "I'm sorry, sir."

Bolitho looked for the master but Gossett had already vanished to his quarters.

Stepkyne walked casually towards the watching midshipmen. "Just so long as you understand." He rocked back on his heels, his eyes examining the master's mate like a farmer looking over a beast at market.

Pascoe said quickly, "He was explaining it to me, sir. How an officer should always show…"

Stepkyne turned and glared at him. "Was he indeed?" He swung back again. "An officer? What in God's name would you know about that, Mr. Selby?"

Bolitho saw the midshipmen exchanging quick glances. They were too young to understand Stepkyne's malice. They were ashamed of him, which was worse.

But Bolitho was concerned only for his brother. For just one brief moment he saw a flash of anger in his eyes, a defiant lift to his chin. Then he replied quietly, "You're quite right, sir. I know nothing of such things."

Stepkyne still stood by the rail his anger giving way to heavy sarcasm. "Then I am relieved to know it. We cannot have our people getting ideas above their station, can we?"

Bolitho strode out of the shadow, his limbs carrying him forward before he knew what he was doing.

"Mr. Stepkyne, I would be equally relieved if you would attend to your duties! The hour for instruction is over!"

Stepkyne swallowed hard. "I was making sure they were not wasting their time, sir."

Bolitho eyed him coldly. "It.seemed to me you were using their time to amuse yourself. In future, if you have nothing better to do, I will be pleased to know. I am quite sure I shall be able to supply your talent with more worthwhile and rewarding tasks."

He turned and walked back to the poop ladder, his heart throbbing painfully with each step. In all his years at sea he could not recall ever having reprimanded an officer in front of his subordinates. He despised those who did it as a matter of course, just as he mistrusted them.

But Stepkyne was a bully, and like others of his type only seemed to understand similar treatment. And yet Bolitho could find no comfort in what he had done, and like the midshipmen was more shamed than satisfied.

He began to pace back and forth along the weather side, ignoring the sun's heat across his shoulders.and the eyes of the watchkeepers. In trying to help with his brother's deception he might have achieved just the opposite. When Stepkyne recovered from his surprise and discomfort he might pause to consider his captain's behaviour, and when that occurred…

Bolitho stopped dead and looked up as a lookout yelled, "Deck there! Sail on th' weather bow!"

Snatching a telescope from its rack he climbed into the mizzen shrouds, feeling the salt wind across his lips like blown sand. For a moment he thought the lookout had mistaken the little sloop Dasher for a newcomer, but a quick glance told him otherwise. Far out on the larboard beam, her topgallants barely visible on the haze-shrouded horizon, he could see the sloop on her correct station as before.

He waited until the Hyperion had completed another steep plunge and then trained the glass towards the bow, seeing the crisscross of rigging, the colourful splendour of the Telamon at the head of the line with Pelham-Martin's broad pendant at her masthead, and then, a mere shadow beneath the clear sky, he saw what must be the approaching ship.

She was running before the wind, carrying every stitch of canvas, and seemed to be rising bodily from the haze as she headed straight for the sgaadron.

"Deck there! She's a frigate, an' English by th' looks of 'er!"

Bolitho climbed down to the quarterdeck and handed the telescope to the midshipman of the watch.

Inch had arrived from the wardroom, his jaws still chewing on the remains of his meal.

Bolitho said shortly, "Call all hands, Mr. Inch, and prepare to shorten sail. That frigate'll be up to us directly and she's in a great hurry to tell us something."

He heard the shrill of pipes and the immediate rush of feet as the order was relayed along both decks, and blinking in the bright sunlight the seamen poured through the open hatchways and dashed to their stations.

Midshipman Carlyon, very conscious of his new appointment in charge of signals, stood with his men by the halyards, while an experienced petty officer crouched in the mizzen shrouds with a telescope, his legs curled around the ratlines, balanced perfectly against the ship's heavy roll.

Bolitho took the glass once more and studied the fast approaching frigate, as with the spray bursting over her forecastle, and her rakish hull tilting to the wind she started to go about, flags already breaking from her yards.

He said quietly, "So Captain Fargnhar has returned to the squadron."

Inch was about to speak when Canyon yelled, "Spartan – to Telamon. Have urgent despatch for commodore."

He jumped as Inch barked, "Watch the flagship, damn you!"

"S-Sorry, sir!" Canyon swung his glass round towards the Telamon as flags broke stiffly in the glare. He stuttered, "General signal. Heave to."

Bolitho nodded curtly. "Carry on, Mr. Inch, or the Hermes will beat us to it."

He walked between the scurrying seamen and marines to watch the Spartan completing her manoeuvre. Farquhar was wearing ship even before Telamon's acknowledgement had been lowered.

As the Hyperion wallowed heavily into the wind, her sails vanishing from her topgallant yards to the accompaniment of threats and curses from the deck, Bolitho wondered what news Farquhar was bringing with him. It would certainly take more than a display of excellent seamanship to appease the commodore.

The deck canted heavily in the wind, and every shroud and halyard cracked and vibrated as the topmen fought to secure the rebellious canvas while they clung to the dizzily swaying yards.

Inch said breathlessly, "The Spartan'll get no thanks for missing the attack on Las Mercedes, sir."

Bolitho wiped his watering eyes as more flags appeared above the Telamon's pitching hull. But for the sloop's inability to find him, Farquhar might now be lying with his ship beside the charred bones of the Abdiel.

The signals petty officer called, "Boat shovin' off from Spartan, sir!"

Bolitho clung to the nettings to watch the little jolly boat as it rose and dipped across the lively crests, the oars rising and failing like gulls' wings. He could see Farquhar's straight-backed figure in the sternsheets and his gold-laced cocked hat gleaming above the straining oarsmen as an additional encouragement to their efforts.

He heard Lieutenant Roth say, "It'll be bad news no doubt."

Inch retorted, "Keep your opinions to yourself!"

Bolitho saw the boat hooking on to the Dutchman's main chains, the small hull pitching and crashing against the steep tumblehome was the men fought to keep it from capsizing. He had noted the bitterness in Inch's voice. The same tone he had used to explain Pelaham-Martin's delay in attacking Las Mercedes. It seemed that the commodore had been unwilling to trust Bolitho's landing party to destroy the hidden battery, even to accept that they would finally cross the swamp. Bolitho could find some understanding for Pelham-Martin's qualms, but could equally well imagine the frustration and anger throughout the ships while they waited for the sloop Dasher to report the sounds of gunfire.

But Bolitho was sure of one thing. If he had merely destroyed those guns without using them to fire on the anchored French ships, Pelham-Martin would never have made that last, vital assault, and he and his remaining men would have perished. And as Fitzmaurice had remarked before the raid, the responsibility would have rested on Bolitho's shoulders in. any report which eventually reached England.

He gritted his teeth with mounting impatience until Canyon shouted, "General signal. All captains repair on board forthwith."

Bolitho jerked his hand. "Call away the barge." He looked round for Allday, but he was already carrying the goldlaced coat and hat.

As he threw off his faded coat he saw some of the seamen staring at the activity aboard the Telamon, and wondered briefly what they were thinking. Only very few of those aboard really understood where the ship lay or the name of the nearest land. They had no say in affairs at all. They obeyed and did their duty, and some people said that was enough. Bolitho believed otherwise, and one day…

He looked up as Inch reported, "Barge alongside, sir."

He had not even noticed it being swung outboard. He was too tired, too strained, and it was beginning to tell.

He nodded and ran down the ladder to the entry port. Below his legs he could see the lower gunports awash, and the next instant as the hull heeled violently away from the barge the copper on the ship's fat bilge rolled shining into sunlight.

A quick breath. Count the seconds and then jump. Hands seized his arms and thigh, and as he staggered into the sternsheets he saw the Hyperion already sliding clear, the barge's oars hacking at the crested water while Allday brought the bows towards the Telamon.

He had hardly regained his breath when it was time to ascend the Dutchman's side and into her ornate entry port.

As he followed a swarthy lieutenant towards the poop he noticed more flags being hoisted under the supervision of an English petty officer, and guessed the ships were being ordered to resume course and station. So it was to be another conference.

He heard a chorus of shouts and saw a bosun's chair being swayed out above the gangway. Captain Fitzrnaurice of the Hermes was not taking any chances it seemed, and preferred the indignity of being hoisted inboard like a piece of cargo to the real risk of drowning or being crushed against the ship's hull.

In the stern cabin it was very dark after the sea's blinding reflections, and it took several seconds for him to distinguish Pelham-Martin's massive bulk squeezed into a chair, the legs of which were lashed firmly to two ringbolts to prevent it and its occupant from sliding to the opposite side of the ship. Farquhar was standing by the table, his slim figure relaxed to take the uncomfortable motion, while Mulder, the Telamon's captain, was framed against the stem windows, head cocked as if to listen to his men's efforts on the deck above.

"Ah, Bolitho." Pelham Martin nodded curtly. "We will wait for Ftzmaurice before we begin."

Bolitho had wondered how he would feel when he met him again. Disgust or anger? He was surprised to find he could feel nothing which he could easily recognise. He had expected the commodore to display some sort of pleasure after the destruction of two enemy ships. Quince had hinted that he was to carry more than wounded men in the crippled Indomitable to Antigua. A glowing report which would tell the admiral and the whole of England of his victory, and not of the ships which had escaped or the puzzle which was as unsolved as ever.

Instead Pelham-Martin sat in the shadows, quite still, and in complete silence. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom Bolitho saw Farquhar's face, strained and tired, his lips set in a thin hard line. Seeing Bolitho's glance he gave a small shrug.

Then Fitzinaurice entered, and before he could apologise for his lateness Pelham-Martin said harshly, "Captain Farquhar has just brought grave news." He looked at the young captain and added heavily, "You had best repeat it in your own words."

Farquhar was swaying with fatigue, but his voice was as crisp and as impersonal as ever. "Four nights ago I was patrolling to the nor'-west of Tortuga when gunfire was reported to the east'rd. At first light we sighted two frigates at each other's throats. One Spanish, and the other the Thetis, a French of forty guns." He knew they were hanging on his words, but showed neither emotion nor pride… "I soon recognised the Spanish frigate as the one I saw in Caracas, an escort being retained for the annual treasure ship. She was in a poor way, and all but dismasted." He sighed suddenly, the sound strangely human from such a controlled throat. "I set my people to quarters and engaged the Thetis without delay. We fought for close on an hour, and although I lost ten killed, we must have slaughtered five times that number." His tone hardened slightly. "Then the Frenchman broke off the action and I set about trying to rescue the remnants of the other ship."

Fitzmaurice asked, "You let him escape?"

Farquhar eyed him bleakly. "I thought the Spaniard's intelligence more valuable than a prize." He added, "Or the prize money!" He swung round as Bolitho spoke for the first time, as if expecting someone else to question his actions.

Bolitho said, "That was good work." It was also very fortunate for Farquhar that he had found and engaged the enemy, no matter what the end result. For it was obvious he was well clear of his proper station, and no wonder that neither of the searching sloops had discovered his whereabouts.

He added slowly, "Did you find out anything worthwhile?"

Farquhar relaxed again. "Only one officer was still alive. He told me that his frigate was escorting the treasure ship, San Leandro, which left Caracas six days ago bound for Tenerife. Off Tortuga they were pounced upon by four sail of the line and the frigate Thetis. To all accounts the Dons put up quite a fight but stood no chance at all. The San Leandro struck her colours and a prize crew went on board. The Spanish frigate was too far damaged to prevent it, or even to pursue, and while the squadron sailed off with their prize the Thetis hove to to await daylight and award the coup de grdce. The rest you know, gentlemen."

The following silence in the great cabin was oppressive and strained, as each of those present considered this piece of news for himself.

Then Farquhar said simply, "I could not save the Spaniard even when I took her in tow. A wind got up and she rolled under with most of those who survived the battle."

Mulder crossed the cabin and leaned heavily on the table. "What more did you find from the Spanish lieutenant?"

Farquhar shrugged. "My surgeon had to take off his right foot and he is in bad health at present. I think he feels the loss of the San Leandro far more than that of his foot. But he did say something more, though I know nothing of the value. Immediately after the treasure ship was seized he saw a flag being hoisted at her main. A yellow flag with a black eagle emblazoned upon it."

Captain Fitzmaurice who had been staring glumly at the deck jerked upright. "But that was the flag which flew above the town at Las Mercedes! My landing party saw it as they freed the prisoners from the jail." He stared at Bolitho's grave features. "It is the standard of the governor there!"

Pelham-Martin's small hands lifted slightly from the arms of the chair and then dropped again as if rendered lifeless. He said heavily, "What is the point of all this? Another deception, one more ruse to throw us off the scent. It could mean anything, or nothing."

Fitzmaurice looked past him, his eyes screwed tight with concentration. "If Lequiller captured the treasure ship, surely that must do harm to his cause? The Dons will feel less inclined to change sides as they have done in the past."

Pelham-Martin's voice sounded strangled. "If it was Lequillerl"

"There is no doubt of it, sir." Farquhar watched him without expression. "The Spanish lieutenant saw the leading ship very clearly. A three-decker with a viceadmiral's command flag at the fore."

The commodore sank further into the chair. "Everything we have tried to do, each phase of our movements has been foreseen by this Lequiller."

Farquhar looked surprised. "But at least we have now halved his squadron, sir."

Fitzmaurice interrupted bluntly, "Two escaped at Las Mercedes."

"If only I had more ships." Pelham-Martin did not appear to be listening. "Sir Manley Cavendish knew what I was against, yet gave me no more than a pitiful force to deal with it."

Farquhar turned towards Bolitho. "What do you think, sir?"

Bolitho did not reply directly. While the others had been speaking and Pelham-Martin had been searching his mind for reasons and excuses, he had been trying to find some link, any small indication which might at least solve what he had always thought of as a puz'le.

He asked, "What do we know of the governor of Las Mercedes?"

Mulder spread his hands vaguely. "Don Jose Perez. It is said he was sent to the Caribbean more as a punishment than reward. He is highborn and of wealthy family, but we are told he outraged the Court of Spain by misusing the taxes of his lands. Las Mercedes must be as a prison to such a man, and after twenty years I would think…"

Bolitho cut him short. "Twenty years?" He began to pace the cabin, the others watching him with amazement. "I am beginning to understand! Lequiller served here during the American Revolution and often used Las Mercedes as a temporary base, as well as many other places. He would have known all about Perez's background, might even have shared his confidences and discussed his hopes for the future." He halted in his stride and looked at each man in turn. "I believe I know what Lequiller intends, and what his orders were when he broke through our blockade!"

Fitzmaurice said, "An attack on the Spanish Main?"

"Far more daring and rewarding than that!" Bolitho walked to the stem windows and stared at his own ship. "Any attack on Spanish territories out here would most certainly inflame opinion against him. But should he return to Spain itself, imagine the impact it would have!"

Pelham-Martin gasped, "But that is absurd! The Spanish Court would hang this Perez, aristocrat or not!"

"Alone and unaided, perhaps." Bolitho eyed him coolly. "But backed by Lequiller's squadron, and a ship with more than a king's ransom in her holds, just consider the effect!" He hardened his voice, seeing the uncertainty giving way to panic on the commodore's round face. "Lequiller has made all the moves. Divide and conquer has been his method, and he has achieved almost everything he has attempted. We were warned that he is dedicated and ruthless. The fact that he hanged helpless prisoners of war should have told us just how determined he is to achieve his ends!"

Farquhar nodded firmly. "You are right, by God! What confidence the Spanish government might have had in our ability will go at the first sight of Lequiller's squadron. Any anger retained by the Court for this Perez will soon fade when their treasure is safely delivered."

"The Church will see to thatl" Fitzmaurice sat down wearily. "Much of the gold plate will no doubt find its way to their coffers!" He added less vehemently, "Then all our efforts have been to no purpose? Even now Lequiller's ships may be homeward bound." He glanced tightly at the commodore's motionless figure. "We can do nothing!"

Bolitho said, "All along I have tried to see things through Lequiller's eyes. His tactics, his complete disregard for. everything but his ultimate objective. When I saw those Spanish soldiers in French uniform I should have guessed just how great were his intentions. They must have been training those men for months, maybe longer, and the uniforms were merely to disguise the governor's real purpose. At worst he could have pleaded that his town and defences had been overrun by the enemy." He paused before adding, "At best he will have a trained force at his back when he returns to his own country, where no doubt there will be many eager to rise to his standard."

He saw Fitzmaurice nodding and continued relentlessly, "Just think of the impact this will have on England. Spain is our only foothold in Europe, the one country still strong enough to show arms to the enemy. With a sudden uprising it would all be over in weeks, maybe days, and there would be nothing between England and a united Europe. Nothing but a strip of water and a thin line of ships!"

Bolitho looked quickly at Mulder, seeing the anxiety his words had caused. Perhaps for the.first time Mulder was thinking as a Dutchman and not as the guardian of St. Kruis. No amount of ocean or distance could ease the pain he must be feeling for his own homeland, now crushed under the enemy's heel. Perhaps even now his country had been forced to declare war on England. It would merely be a formal signature on a treaty, but it would make this ancient ship an enemy and leave him with only one last decision.

Just thinking about it filled Bolitho with unreasoning anger and dismay. All these weary and frustrating weeks while they had sailed and searched for the elusive enemy, Lequiller had been playing the game by his own set of rules. Rules which they had only just begun to learn when it was almost -too late. It took a very determined and ruthless admiral to leave half his squadron to face whatever the hunters tried to do, yet he had been prepared to lose four ships while he went after the big prize, the laden treasure ship and all that her wealth entailed for his cause. He must have known that even if Pelham-Martin had succeeded in destroying all four vessels his own force would have suffered so severely in battle and under the bombardment of the hidden battery they would be in no fit state to hinder him for some time to come.

He said, "I can see no other possible explanation, sir. Nor can I see any choice for us but to act on the facts at our disposal."

Pelham-Martin tugged a handkerchief from his pocket and stared at it blankly. "We do not know, Bolitho. Yours is just supposition. Think what it would mean if I ordered the squadron in pursuit to, somewhere-the exact location of which is a mystery-when all the time Lequiller is here, attacking and raiding, destroying the vital links which were so hard to forge!"

"It would be prudent to consider the alternatives, sir. Our orders were to seek out and to destroy Lequiller's squadron. We have failed." He watched the words reaching the commodore's confused mind and added, "Now the San Leandro is taken, in seas which we were ordered to control and make secure. Even if we desired it, we cannot waste more time in seeking Lequiller's ships. We have only the Spartan for patrolling away from the squadron. The sloops are too frail, and easy prey for the enemy."

"What are you suggesting now?" Pelham-Martin again tried to restore his own composure. "A return to Las Mercedes?"

"No, sir. It would take more valuable time, and that we do not have. I believe Lequiller attacked St. Kruis when he first entered the Caribbean knowing he might need an alternative base for his ships. Due to our unexpected arrival and the show of courage by the Dutch defenders it was denied to him. That is why I am sure Lequiller did not come here just to raid and plunder. Privateers and frigates would have been more useful for such tasks. But you cannot hide a squadron of the line forever." He shot a quick glance at Farquhar. "How much did you damage the frigate Thetis?"

"Foremast and rigging were well hit, as well as considerable damage to her main deck."

Bolitho nodded. "And one of the ships which escaped from Las Mercedes was also badly crippled aloft. If it was essential for Lequiller to reach here with his squadron intact, it will be equally important for any future operations now that he has lost some of his force to us."

Again it was Farquhar's quick mind which took up the train of Bolitho's spoken thoughts.

"Then there must be some other base?" He tugged his chin doubtfully. "But we are surrounded by countless islands, it would take a fleet and a century in time to search amongst them." Then he nodded sharply. "But you are right. An anchorage where the damage can be put right and the last plans prepared."

Fitzmaurice asked, "Do you know of such a place?"

"Not yet." Bolitho glanced at Mulder. "But I will give it some thought."

Pelham-Martin levered himself to his feet and leaned against the back of his chair. "If only my reinforcements would come!" Then he gave a great sigh. "But alas, I should have been warned by my past experiences." He looked at Bolitho, his face suddenly despairing. "You are my senior captain and I must consider your advice, knowing as I do that it is born of knowledge gained in the King's service. But I am in command, and mine is the final decision. We will return to St. Kruis with all haste, and then I will send a sloop with my despatches direct to England."

Bolitho watched him impassively. It never failed to surprise him how quickly Pelham-Martin could rally and emerge from almost complete despondency. The idea that there was still some possible chance of redeeming his honour before Admiral Cavendish learned of his failure to destroy the enemy seemed to have given him fresh hope and authority. Even now he was looking at Farquhar with something approaching his old severity.

"I had intended to reprimand you for straying from your patrol area. However, since your initiative has given us the only piece of information, I must treat you with leniency and place your action on record."

Farquhar regarded him coldly, his arrogant features set in a faint smile. "When I served under Captain Bolitho as a midshipman I had an excellent teacher, sir. I learned then that to try and fight without information is like sending a blind man to war with a musket."

Bolitho cleared his throat. "Will you return to my ship now, sir?"

Pelham-Martin shook his head. "Later. I must have time to think. Rejoin your commands, gentlemen."

Outside the cabin the three captains stood in silence while Molder hurried away to summon their respective boats.

Fitzmaurice spoke first. "When I heard young Farquhar's report I was without hope. I felt as if I had been made foolish, that all I have tried to do with my life had been wasted." He studied Bolitho searchingly. "But listening to you as you outlined your ideas I felt new strength." He searched for the right way to express himself. "My first lieutenant, Quince, put it into words when he returned from the swamp. He said that had you been in command of the squadron, Lequiller would never have lost sight of the French coast."

Farquhar smiled. "Let us hope it not too late to make amends."

Bolitho watched his barge pulling round from the Telarnon's quarter. It was typical of Farquhar to be outspoken when speaking with Pelham-Martin, yet refuse to give way to sentiment amongst his fellow captains.

Farquhar need have no fear of Pelham-Martin's influence outside the Navy. His own father owned half of Hampshire, and he came of a long line of famous sea officers, several of whom had been admirals. But to display any sort of confidence which might be later be construed as conspiracy or a failure to support his commodore to the letter of his orders was as alien to his nature as it was to treat an ordinary seaman as an equal.

Later as he stood on the Hyperion's quarterdeck and watched the Spartan clawing ahead of her slower consorts Bolitho found a touch of envy in his heart. There was always something special about a frigate. Fast, independent, and entirely personal, where, the face and behaviour of every man aboard became as familiar as the set of her sails. In a ship of the line it was like living over a tightly compressed world where several hundred souls were crammed together at every moment of the day, yet so completely separated by the standards of discipline and station. And now even this remote link with the way of life he loved so dearly seemed to be drawing further away. While he had been outlining his sketchy plan to the others he had been made conscious of the fact, and it troubled him. From obeying other captains to commanding a small ship of his own. From the harsh necessity of seeking an enemy and laying his ship alongside her until victory or destruction, to the need of understanding tactics and how they could affect other ships and outflung squadrons. And as he had spoken his mind aloud he had been very aware of what he was doing. By revealing his innermost ideas, which might later be translated into actual deeds, he had taken one more irrevocable step in his career.

But strategy, as Pelham-Martin and others before him had been made to understand, could determine far more than the death of its planner. It might decide the fate of a cause, the very existence of a nation.

Inch came to his side and touched his hat. "Any orders,

sir?”

lL Bolitho was still staring after the Spartan as she lifted and ploughed into the uneven ranks of whitecaps.

"I am going to the chartroom." He hesitated, knowing he was going to take one more step, more personal, but no less vital. "Pass the word for the new master's mate, Selby, and. send him down to me."

Inch shuffled his feet, his face filled with obvious curiosity.

Bolitho looked at him. "See that I am not disturbed."

In the dark panelled chartroom he leaned his shoulders against the bulkhead in an effort to control. the sudden flood of misgivings. The normal shipboard sounds were muffled here, and the distant clank of the pump seemed to keep time with his heartbeats.

There was a tap at the door and he said, "Enter!"

His brother stood on the opposite side of the chart table, his eyes guarded and watchful. "You sent for me, sir?"

Bolitho plucked one corner of the uppermost chart, conscious of the enclosed silence, as if the ship was holding her breath.

He said slowly, "I have need of information." He kept his tone formal, as if the man opposite was indeed a mere master's mate. "When you served in the Caribbean before." His tongue lingered on the word. Before. What grief and uncertainty it had caused their father. He added sharply,, "When you commanded the privateer Andiron you must have made good use of the islands." He circled the rambling shapes on the chart with his finger. "You had only your resources. You must then have known of inlets and bays where you could rest your men and carry out repairs."

His brother moved closer, his features suddenly lined and tired beneath the spiralling lantern.

"That was a long while ago." He nodded. "Yes, I knew of many such anchorages."

Bolitho walked round the table touching the lockers and the swinging cot, yet noticing none of them.

"You know of Lequiller of course, and what we are doing here. I believe that he will repair his ships which were damaged in battle before he…" He broke off, aware that his brother was watching him, his eyes pensive.

"I have heard many things. That Lequiller has seized the treasure ship and you intend to try and catch him again." He shrugged. "News has fast legs on the lower deck, as you know."

"When you were in Las Mercedes, did you see or hear what was going on there?"

"Not much. We saw the troops drilling, and when the French ships put into the bay there was a great deal of excitement. I knew then that it would mean trouble for us."

Bolitho could not contain his bitterness. "For us? That is a change of heart surely?"

His brother eyed him with tired gravity. "Perhaps. But even in my short stay aboard your ship I have learned to know you again. Like that time in St. Clar when the convicts stood and cheered you." He grimaced. "There is 'ittle difference between a convict and a seaman in a King's ship, and I have heard what they think of you." He looked down at the chart. "They'd follow you anywhere. Don't ask me why, and do not expect anyone to tell you. It is something which you have, which you give to them." He gave another shrug. "But no matter. I am saying that I – do not think you should throw all away just to save your commodore's good name."

Bolitho said harshly, "I did not call you here for an opinion on my motives!" He tapped the chart. "Well?"

"There is a suitable place here." His finger paused. "The Isles of Pascua. Maybe fifty miles nor'-west of St. Kruis." His eyes shone with professional interest as he stooped over the chart. "Two small islands linked together by several tiny islets and a whole pattern of reefs. A dangerous anchorage, a last resort usually." He nodded slowly. "The main -advantage is that it has a dozen exits between the reefs. With your small squadron you could never control them all. His lined face twisted in a private smile. "I gave Rodney's frigates the slip many a time there!"

Bolitho studied his lowered head with sudden understanding and near compassion. Hugh was only four years his senior, yet looked old and grey, like his father had been at their last meeting. Now he was here, reliving that one period in his life when, right or wrong, he had achieved something.

He asked quietly, "What would you do?"

His brother looked up at him, the expression changing from surprise to disbelief. Then he replied, "A frigate could enter through the reefs. A surprise attack would probably make any ships inside the anchorage put to sea by the main channel, where you could be waiting."

Bolity'io studied him gravely. "It needs a man of great experience to take a ship through the reefs, does it not? Someone who knows the exact bearings from every obstacle?"

The other man watched him, his eyes shrewd with understanding. "It does. It would be madness otherwise. When I used it for the first time I had an old mulatto fisherman as bosun. He knew it well enough and taught me what he had learned the hard way."

Bolitho straightened his back. "Will you do it?" He saw the guard drop in his brother's eyes and added, "I know it is a great risk. The captain of our only frigate is Charles Farquhar. He might remember you as his captor."

"I remember him. Insolent young puppy!"

"But if all goes well, it could go a long way towards a free pardon, a last chance for you."

His brother smiled sadly. "It is just as many of your people say. You never think of yourself first." He slapped his hand on the table. "I was not thinking of my own skin for once. Don't you realise that if Farquhar or anyone else knows about me, it would be your loss? Hiding a fugitive, compounding an act of treason, why, they would crucify youl"

When Bolitho did not reply he added hotly, "Think of yourself! Stop worrying about your damn commodore, me, and all the rest of them! Just this time, take care of your own self!"

Bolitho looked away. "It's settled then. When we reach St. Kruis I will inform the commodore. We may find nothing at this anchorage of yours. But we shall see."

His brother stepped back to the door. "There was only one man who ever got the better of me in the Caribbean. So perhaps your luck will stand you in good stead a second time."

"Thank you." But when Bolitho turned his head the chartroom was empty.