ENEMY IN SIGHT

15. THE MESSAGE

Bolitho straddled his legs and waited until the deck had completed another steep roll and then raised the telescope to his eye. In the fast-growing light he could see the nearest island, its ragged crest grey against the low clouds, and beyond it, overlapping like the prow of some ancient galley, a smaller islet, below which the sea lifted and boiled in continuous movement. Reefs most likely, he thought. Or parts of the cliff worn away by the years to fall as one more natural barrier against would-be intruders.

He lowered the glass, wiping his eye with the back of his sleeve. Around and below him the seamen waited by their guns, watching his face, or merely staring at the sealed ports in readiness for the next order.

Pelham-Martin said suddenly, "Surely to God something will happen! Maybe the Spartan is aground!" He turned his small head and peered at Bolitho with something like shock.

"We'll know soon, sir." He walked a few paces clear, unwilling to listen in case his own reserve of confidence should fade also.

"Sirl" Canyon had his hands cupped over his ears. "Gunfire, sir!"

Bolitho looked at him doubtfully. But there was no mistaking the expression on the boy's face. He was young and untroubled beyond his own duties, and his ears must have caught the far off sounds before anyone else, in spite of the wind.

"Mr. Inch! Pass the order to load! But do not run out 'til I give the word!"

To Gossett he called, "Mark our course well. The reefs sweep right out from that far headland."

The master nodded. "I've noted 'em, sir. We've a good four mile as yet."

"Deck there!" The masthead lookout's voice seemed puny in the din of wind and thrashing canvas. "There's a ship break-in' from the channel!"

Bolitho gripped his hands behind him to control the rising excitement. "Mr. Inch! Alter course two points to lee'rd! Pipe the hands to the braces!"

Then he snatched a telescope from Canyon's hands and peered at the clump of islands. They seemed to be pitching like flotsam across the spray-dappled glass, but even as his eye began to water from strain he saw the edge of the slabsided island harden and darken, and where there had been a sliver of broken sea something was moving. A ship.

He heard Gossett call, "Course sou'-west by south!"

Inch stared at him. "It's a frigate!" A muscle jumped in his cheek as a sullen rumble of cannon fire echoed across the water. "By God, the Frogs are there!'

Bolitho pushed past him. "Shake out those reefsl And set the forecourse and t'gallants!"

He walked to Pelham-Martin's side as Inch dashed to the rail with his speaking trumpet. "Well, sir, there are some in the bag today."

He watched the men dashing out along the yards, the immediate response from every stay and shroud as first one then another of the topgallant sails filled to the wind, the thrust making itself felt to the very keel. With the wind almost dead astern the ship seemed to be leaning forward and down, and when the great spread of canvas bellied out from the forecourse Bolitho thought he could hear the sea parting across the bows like water in a millrace.

"You may run out, Mr. Inch!" He watched narrowly as Pelham-Martin craned over the rail to watch the long twelve-pounders squeaking towards the open ports, their crews yelling to each other as if it was another contest.

Inch shouted, "The frigate's cleared the channel, sir!"

Bolitho watched the distant ship, her shape shortening as she turned slowly from the nearest spur of land. With the wind driving down from the north-east she had little room to tack, and being so close inshore she might be in irons and driven back into the channel if she mistimed it. He saw her yards swinging wildly, the spray leaping above her raked stem as he settled once more, this time on converging course with Hyperion.

A hasty glance astern told him that Fitzmaurice needed no instruction as to what was needed. The Hermes was already spreading her topgallants, and he could see her leaning sickeningly to the press of canvas as she swung purposefully across the Hyperion's wake. Like the jaws in a trap. When the other French ships broke from the channel they would have to pass between two prepared and eager captains.

He snapped, "Alter course another point! Steer south west!"

He saw Stepkyne glance up at him from the main deck and then turn his head to speak with a gunner's mate. And there was Tomlin, already pushing his men to the braces again, his voice carrying like a trumpet above the bedlam of sea and canvas.

Now there was more gunfire, louder than before, and Bolitho twisted his head to watch as several columns of water burst close to the frigate's counter.

"Deck there! 'Nother ship comin' out!"

Pelham-Martin was clinging to the rail, his eyes half closed with concentration.

Bolitho said, "Now we shall see!" He ran to the lee side to study the first ship while she clawed away from the treacherous line of reefs and then tilted steeply on the larboard tack. It was a dangerous manoeuvre. At any second she could be all aback and at the mercy of the reefs, but her captain had no choice but to fight clear and give himself searoom.

Bolitho lifted his hand. "Steady as you go!" His eyes watered in the spray and wind but he kept them fixed on the other ship. Two miles only separated them. He heard the grate of handspikes as the gun captains increased their elevation, and wondered momentarily if Fox was remembering the hill battery as he managed his own section on the lower deck.

Inch shouted wildly, "Sir, sir! The second ship is the

Spartan!" He sounded stunned. "She's signalling!"

Bolitho turned away and looked at Pelham-Martin. If Spartan was close astern of the enemy it meant one thing only. There were no other ships to attack.

Carlyon yelled, "From Spartan, sir! One enemy ship to the south-west!"

He swung round, his mind grappling with the signal as a lookout shouted, "'Nother ship on th' laboard bow, sir!"

Inch squinted up at the masthead. "What the hell is he talking about?"

But Bolitho pointed with the telescope, his voice bitter. "She must have found her way through another channel! Look, man, you can-see her topmasts!"

He felt fingers locked into his sleeve and swung round to stare into the commodore's wind-reddened face.

"Do you see what you've done? She's escaping, and you cannot catch her now!" He was almost screaming. "I'll see you hung for this, damn you! Damn you!"

Bolitho tore his arm free. "Alter course three points to larboard! Steer south by west!"

The men threw themselves on the braces again, as with her sails booming and wrenching at the yards the Hyperion swung heavily towards the second islet, against which the Frenchman's topsails seemed to shine as if in one final mockery.

The enemy frigate seeing the Hyperion swing back on her original course turned towards the open sea. Her attempted escape could have been a ruse to allow her consort to gain the other channel, or her captain might still have believed he had a chance for his own ship. But as the Spartan tacked dangerously around the reefs the Hermes began to wear ship. For those with time to watch she was an impressive sight, her sails very white against the dull clouds and her tall side shining with spray as she presented her double line of guns to the French frigate. Then she fired. It was at an extreme range, and when Bolitho turned his eyes from the other ship to look he guessed that Fitzmaurice had fired across more than a mile of tossing water. But it was enough. The frigate's foremast and bowsprit crumpled in the barrage, and as the wind took charge he saw the ripped canvas and broken rigging whipping about like things gone mad, while the ship, moments before a picture of grace and beauty, ploughed drunkenly into a deep trough between the waves and began to broach to.

He turned back to look for the other vessel, and felt the anger and despair tugging at his throat as he saw her grow into sharp silhouette beyond the jutting prow of land.

She was a two-decker, probably one of those damaged by Hyperion's blind broadside during the first fruitless attack on Las Mercedes. Now she was clearing the land, and if she got away, as well she might, Lequiller would soon know the failure of this attack and the weakness of Pelham-Martin's squadron.

Gossett said harshly, "We can still catch 'im, sir!" But he sounded wretched.

"Deck there!" Every eye went aloft. Surely nothing worse could happen? "Sail weatherin' the 'eadland!" A brief pause. "It's the Dutchman, sir!"

Bolitho ran to the nettings and jammed his telescope tightly against his eye.

The French ship was well away from the reefs now, but beyond her, her sails yellow in the strange light, he saw the other vessel. It was the Telamon. There was no mistaking that high poop and the shining splendour of her figurehead. She was close hauled and standing almost into the teeth of the wind, and in the jerking glass appeared to be touching the land itself.

Inch muttered fiercely, "For God's sake, Mulder'll be aground if he's not careful!"

Pelham-Martin seized Inch's glass. "What's happening? Is the Telamon going to engage?"

Bolitho closed his telescope with a snap. He could feel the ship straining every spar and timber, and when he looked up he saw the hard-bellied sails gleaming like steel as the ship threw herself in pursuit.

Mulder's ancient command stood no chance at all against the powerful two-decker, and he must know it. Just as he must have seen that if the French ship maintained her present course she could slip around the headland and make for one of a hundred hiding places until further help arrived.

There were more dull explosions from astern and he heard the marines on the poop yelling to the men at the quarterdeck guns. "The frigate's hauled down her colours, lads! She's struck to the Spartan." The responding cheers only added to Bolitho's growing anxiety. To the ship's company any victory was an event, but viewed against the overall pattern it was almost nothing.

Inch said thickly, "God, look at the Dutchman!"

The Telamon had changed her tack, and when Bolitho lifted his glass again he saw her swinging wildly across the wind, her sails in confusion and her masthead pendant streaming out abeam like a strip of metal.

"Frenchman's wearing ship, sir!" Inch was hoarse with excitement.

It was true. The enemy captain had little alternative now. With the reefs to starboard and the careering Telamon swinging across his bows, he had to act quickly to avoid collision or grounding his own ship in a last attempt to slip past.

But as the French ship's shape lengthened to overlap that of the Telamon everyone on the quarterdeck heard the ragged crash of a full broadside, and watched with dismay as the Dutchman's sails disappeared in a towering pall of dense smoke.

Bolitho pounded the rail, willing Mulder to tack again and break from the deadly embrace. He could hear the Telamon's ancient cannon firing now, disjointed but defiant, the smoke billowing inboard to blind the gunners as Mulder continued to hold a course parallel with his adversary.

Gossett said, "Gawd, the Telamon's given us time to get to grips with the bugger!"

"Stand by on deck!" Bolitho saw Stepkyne touch his hat. "Starboard battery, ready!"

He heard Pelham-Martin whisper fervently, "Catch him, Bolitho! In the name of God, catch him!"

The French two-decker was still firing with hardly a pause between salvoes, and as the wind drove some of the smoke clear Bolitho saw the Telamon's mizzen vanish in a welter of broken rigging, and imagined he could hear the enemy's weight of iron smashing into her hull.

Lieutenant Roth muttered tightly, "There goes her foremast!"

At the mercy of wind and sea the Telamon was already dropping past the Frenchman's starboard quarter, and although a gun still fired here and there along her side, she was crippled almost beyond recognition.

Bolitho needed no glass to see the enemy's yards swinging, and while she ploughed past the Telamon's shattered bows men were already aloft as in final desperation her courses broke out to the wind so that she tilted still further, showing her copper in the dull sunlight.

It had to be now or never.

Bolitho yelled, "Starboard your helm!"

Drunkenly the Hyperion started to edge round, every spar and shroud slamming and creaking in protest. Muffled cries came from below, and he guessed that the impetus of the turn was sweeping the sea through the lower ports.

Round and still further round, until the two ships lay almost level with some two cables between them. It was a difficult range, but with every sail holding the ship over as rigidly as a fortress there would never be another chance.

"Fire as you bear!"

He seized the rail and watched as the ship shook violently to the controlled broadside. The French twodecker was already swinging away, but as the sea came alive with leaping spray the bulk of the Hyperion's metal raked her poop and quarterdeck with the sound of thunder.

Her yards were coming round again, and Bolitho knew that her captain had at last realised his predicament. He should have stayed to fight the pursuing Hyperion in the first place. Then there was always a chance of crippling, even destroying her. But now as she wallowed back Bolitho could almost feel the torment within her hull as the sea explored the rents left by that one smashing broadside. Leaning to the press of canvas she had exposed a whole expanse of bilge, into which many of the lower battery's twenty-four-pound balls must have carved a path of devastation which the pumps could never contain under such conditions.

He heard Stepkyne barking, "Run out! Fire as you bear!"

The gunners were whooping with wild excitement as they poured another double salvo at the struggling ship which lay right across their sights. The Frenchman was trying to shoot back, but so great was the confusion and so dense the smoke from the Hyperion's guns that only a few balls came close. Most of them whimpered overhead, and on the poop the marines were cheering and yelling, unable to use their long muskets at such a distance.

The range was closing, nevertheless, until both ships were less than two hundred yards apart. The enemy's sails were pockmarked with shot holes, and above her littered decks the rigging hung like torn creeper as she wilted to one more savage broadside.

Inch shouted, "Look, sir! She's breaking off the action!"

Bolitho shook his head. "We must have smashed her steering." He watched coldly as the enemy ship began to idle down-wind, her motion becoming more sluggish and haphazard with every nerve-wrenching minute.

Gossett said, "She's done for!" Several turned to stare at him and he -added flatly, "The reef! She'll never claw off in time!"

Bolitho nodded. The long line of white breakers which reached out from the headland was overlapping the stricken ship, and nothing but a miracle could save her.

The quarterdeck gunners began to cheer with the jubilant marines, although they had not been able to fire either.

Bolitho crossed to the opposite side and stared for several moments at the Telamon. Alone and disabled, she too was in great danger of driving ashore. Yet for those few moments he was unable to move as he watched her plight and the complete destruction she had suffered. Dismasted, but for a stump of her main, with her side broken in countless places, she was almost a total wreck. Other ships of her size might have taken the punishment and lived to fight again. But her old timbers were welded together by time and weather, so that instead of individual planks and beams being broken, whole_ areas of her hull gaped open to the sea, while from her scuppers the blood ran down into the flotsam alongside as a testament of her sacrifice.

He said, "Tell Mr. Tomlin to lay out the towing cable. Secure guns and get every available man aft."

Some of the gunners on the main deck climbed on to the gangways, realising for the first time what their own victory had cost the Dutch ship and her company.

Then he turned as Pelham-Martin rasped, "The Frenchman has not hauled down his colours!" His eyes were gleaming strangely. "He might still repair the damage!"

Bolitho stared at him. "And the Telamon?"

Pelham-Martin gestured fiercely with one hand. "Signal Hermes to take her in tow!" His eyes were still fixed on the drifting two-decker. "1 want that ship sunk!"

Bolitho looked at Gossett. "Lay a course to weather the reef." To Inch he continued in the same impassive tone, "One broadside as we pass. -There will be no second chance once we clear the reef.",

He crossed to the commodore's side again. "They'll be hard aground in a moment, sir." He knew it was pointless even as he spoke. There was something wild about Pelham-Martin's expression, a kind of inhuman eagerness which filled him with disgust.

"Do as I order!" Pelham-Martin clung to the nettings as the ship heeled slightly and Gossett said, "Course sou'west, sir!"

Far astern Bolitho could hear cheering aboard the Hermes, and as he looked over the nettings he saw figures standing on the Telamon's gangways waving and cheering with them. Someone had nailed a new flag to the broken mast, and amidst all the destruction and horror it seemed remote and strangely sad.

But aboard Hyperion not a single man called out now. Even the marines watched in silence as the ship bore down towards the dancing breakers along the reef. Here and there Bolitho saw the black tooth of a jagged rock, and found himself praying that the French would strike their colours before it was too late. There was a stiff sea running across the reef, and the survivors would be hard put to get ashore in safety even without this last battering.

But the flag was still there above the poop, and although the hull was low in the water he could see the men at their guns and a few figures standing on her quarterdeck as before.

"Stand by!" Stepkyne's harsh voice cut through the stillness.

Bolitho clenched his fists. Strike, damn youl Strikel Even as he willed the other captain to make the final gesture of surrender he knew that in a similar position he would have acted. the same way.

The enemy was drifting almost on end now, so that he could see the great scars in her poop, the trailing rigging above her gilded name, Le Fortune. He thought he saw an officer wave his sword towards the Hyperion as she bore past, and then with a double roar the enemy fired his last shots from the two sternchasers below the shattered cabin windows.

Bolitho felt the shuddering crash of a ball slamming against the quarterdeck bulwark and heard the hiss of wood splinters ripping past him, but all this was lost as the Hyperion rolled back ponderously to the weight of her own broadside.

As the smoke swirled high overhead he saw the enemy's mainmast come crashing down. But it did not vanish in the sea alongside for at that very moment the ship quivered and then struck hard on the reefs. Above the cry of the wind they could all hear the grinding smash of timbers and the immediate inrush of water through her bottom. That last broadside must have killed or wounded most of the seamen on her main deck, for with her torn sails still driving her abeam she lifted again and then lurched once more across the reefs, her foremast toppling amongst the stampeding figures which swarmed helplessly across the forecastle.

Bolitho turned away, sickened. He could hear the other vessel tearing herself apart, and imagined the panic and disaster below decks as the great guns broke loose from their tackles and smashed from side to side, while the trapped seamen struggled amidst the rushing water in a vain effort to escape.

But the Tricolour had gone at last. Not struck, but blasted away in the fury of the Hyperion's gunfire.

He turned slowly. "Orders, sir?"

Then he stared as Pelham-Martin swayed and began to slip to the deck. His coat had blown open in the wind, and from beneath his armpit and spreading quickly across his white waistcoat was a bright patch of blood.

Bolitho shouted, "A hand here! Mr. Canyon, pass the word for the surgeon!" Then he dropped on one knee and slipped his arm around the commodore's shoulders. "Easy, sir!"

Pelham-Martin seemed unable to speak and his expression was more one of amazement than any sort of pain.

"Carry the commodore to his cabin." Bolitho stood aside as Trudgeon, the surgeon, accompanied by his mates hurried onto the quarterdeck.

Pelham-Martin gasped, "Oh, God! Take care, blast you!

Inch asked, "Is it bad, sir?"

Bolitho walked to the bulwark and looked at the ragged scar above the nearest gunport. The ball, probably a ninepounder, had carved away the timbers like the blow from an axe. The gunners beside that port had been standing to watch the other ship. Otherwise they would have acted as a shield for Pelham-Martin.

He replied at length, "Wood splinters make the worst wounds, as you know, I am surprised he did not feel it more."

Then he crossed to the rail and peered over the starboard quarter to watch the enemy two-decker foundering heavily across the reef. From the angle of her poop deck he guessed she had already broken her back. It was strange to realise that but for Peiham-Martin's insistence on that final attack he would still be unharmed.

Inch said, "The Hermes has Telamon in tow, sir."

Gossett walked across the deck and touched the scarred woodwork with astonishment. "What made the Frogs fire that last lot, I wonder?"

Bolitho felt the tiredness sweeping over him. "Wouldn't you have done so?" He turned to Inch again. "Does Spartan have her prize secure?"

"Aye, sir." Inch watched him worriedly. "She is passing a tow across to her boarding party now."

"Very well. Get the hands aloft and shorten sail. Then have a signal made to Hermes and Spartan." He frowned, trying not to remember the sounds of the ship dying on the reef, the pointlessness of the last gestures. "We will return to St. Kruis. Make all sail conformable with weather and report when ready to proceed."

He looked round as Trudgeon came beneath the poop wiping his hands. "Well?"

The surgon was a grimfaced, taciturn man who never wasted words. "A splinter, true enough, sir. Pierced his side under the right armpit. In very deep, I'd say."

"Can you remove it?"

"If he were a common seaman I'd not hesitate, sir." He shrugged. "But the commodore seems unwilling to let me touch him."

"Stay with him until I am free to come aft." As Trudgeon made to leave he added coldly, "And if I catch you treating a common seaman with less care than one of my officers, I can assure you it will be the last time for you!"

Inch hesitated until the surgeon had departed. "Must we return to St. Kruis, sir?"

"The Telamon will never survive unaided." He thought of the cheers, the destruction and the unquestioning courage of the Dutch sailors. "De Ruyter would have been proud of them," he added quietly. "And I'll not leave them now!"

He walked to the quarterdeck rail and rested against it, feeling the ship trembling through his body as if, they were linked together._ Below him the seamen were relashing their guns and swabbing the decks free of powder stains, chattering and calling to each other, probably quite unaware their commodore had been wounded. The irony of it was made harder to understand, as he had been their only casualty.

Inch watched the topmen shinning down the backstays and said, "This means that you will command the squadron now, sir."

Bolitho smiled. "Not while that pendant flies, Mr. Inch."

He thought suddenly of all those who had died or been maimed for life since the ship had sailed from Plymouth Sound. "I doubt that the commodore will be laid low for long. Once we are in more sheltered waters Mr. Trudgeon will be better placed to remove the splinter."

Canyon said, "Signal from Hermes, sir. Both tows secured and ready to proceed."

"Acknowledged." Bolitho looked at Inch. "You may wear ship now. Take station to windward of the others. We will be able to keep an eye on them to better advantage." He glanced up at the set of the sails. "I shall inform the commodore."

He found Pelham-Martin lying in his cot, his body well cushioned and protected against the ship's uneasy movements, and a great wad of dressing wound around his chest and shoulder. His eyes were closed, and in the faint sunshine from the skylight his skin looked like wax.

Trudgeon crossed the cabin and said dourly, "I have examined the wound again, sir." He shifted beneath Bolitho's gaze. "The fact is, there's so. much fat it's hard to tell the depth or extent of the splinter."

Bolitho glanced down at the commodore's face. "I see. Very well, wait outside." When the door had closed he bent over the cot and was immediately aware of the overpowering smell of brandy. A half empty decanter was propped by one of the pillows.

"Sir?" He heard the distant shouts and the rumbling creak of steering gear, and knew that Inch was already turning the ship as he had instructed. It would be a slow haul back to St. Kruis, and even if it was unlikely they would meet an enemy, they had to be prepared to defend their battered charges at a moment's notice. He said more urgently, "We are on course for St. Kruis, sir. Do you have any further orders?"

Pelham-Martin opened his eyes and looked at him glassily for several seconds. Then he said faintly, "Lequiller was not there! He has slipped from our hands again!" His head lolled and he peered down at the decanter. "I must rest. I do not wish to talk any further."

Bolitho stood up. "I would suggest that we hand over the prize to de Block when we reach St. Kruis, Sir. The Telamon will be useless except for what they can salvage. With the frigate they will at least be able to defend themselves."

"Do what you like." Pelham-Martin closed his eyes and sighed. "I am far from well."

"When we enter the bay I have told Trudgeon what he must do, sir."

The effect of his words was staggering. Pelham-Martin struggled on to his elbow, the sweat pouring down his face and neck in a small flood.

"I'll not have him touch me, do you hear? You'd like that, wouldn't you? To see me cut about by that blundering fool while you take over my command?" He sank back breathing hard. "We will return to St. Kruis. I have yet to decide what to do."

Bolitho studied him gravely. "We still do not know of Lequiller's whereabouts. He has the San Leandro and most of his squadron intact. I would think it likely he is ready to proceed with his plan." He hardened his voice. "We cannot wait any longer, sir."

But Pelham-Martin turned his face away and remained silent.

Bolitho walked to the door. "I will keep you informed, sir." As he stepped into the passageway he heard the clink of glass behind him.

On the quarterdeck Inch was waiting, his horseface anxious as Bolitho looked at the compass and then the set of the sails.

He said, "South by west, sir."

Bolitho nodded absently, his mind still grappling with Peiham-Martin's strange manner. He had expected him to show dismay at being wounded, at the very unfairness which had singled him out from all the rest of the ship's company. It was almost as if he had found his excuse at last. One which nobody could dispute or question. He had been wounded. In his own view, not badly enough to be relieved of his command, but sufficient to deprive him of any active part in the vital decisions which now confronted him.

Inch said, "I was wondering what we might be asked to do next, sir?"

Bolitho walked past him. "We tread warily, Mr. Inch."

"Sir?"

"Before, we had very little to use for information." He glanced towards the captured frigate as she yawned astern of the Spartan, a bright red ensign flying above her Tricolour. "Now we have some prisoners. We may yet learn something of Lequiller's intentions." He shifted his gaze upwards towards Pelham-Martin's broad pendant. "And when we do, Mr. Inch, we will have an edge on him for a change."

He walked to the lee side and peered across the starboard quarter. The sunlight was forcing steadily through the layers of cloud and he could feel the warmth returning to his tired body as he studied the small islands fading into a growing haze. There was much to do, and Farquhar would have more information which might be useful. But it was essential to get the crippled ships and their wounded back to St. Kruis first.

There would be many grieving hearts there when the Telaman returned, he thought sadly. It was to be hoped that their great sacrifice was not to be in vain.

By noon the following day there was little sign of the threatening sky and wind which had' hastened their departure. As the slow procession of ships entered the bay and dropped anchor the sun blazed down on the clear 'water as if eager that nothing should be left hidden from the silent watchers on the shore.

Bolith stood on the poop shading his eyes from the glare as the Telamon was warped, listing and with- her lower ports under water, to rest on a strip of sand at the foot of the headland. Every available boat had been lowered to take off her wounded, and Bolitho could see tiny figures, mostly women, wading through the shallows to peer into each incoming craft, their grief made no less terrible by distance.

Anchored below the hilltop battery the captured frigate was already seething with activity as Farquhar prepared to land the prisoners and make good the damage with whatever facilities were still available. Hugh would be returning soon. Bolitho bit his lip. It was strange how his own personal troubles had deserted him in the anxiety of the chase. And there was still the commodore to be roused from his unreachable torpor.

He swung round as a gun boomed dully from the hillside.

Inch clattered up the poop ladder. "They have sighted a ship, sir!"

Bolitho stared towards the open sea beyond the headland. She must be around the point and heading for the bay. A single ship could not be an enemy. He looked at Inch with sudden understanding. "One of our reinforcements." He walked quickly to the rail. "At last!"

It took another half hour for the incoming vessel to show herself, and as she tacked slowly towards the bay Bolitho could hardly contain the sensation of relief and hope which her flapping topsails seemed to offer. She was a two-decker, but smaller than Hyperion, and in the bright sunlight he could see the sheen of new paintwork on her spray-dashed side and her figurehead agleam with fresh gilt.

Flags appeared as if by magic on her yards, and he heard Carlyon shouting to the officer of the watch, "She's the Impulsive, sixty-four, sirl With despatches for the commodore!"

Inch said, "From England!" It sounded like a cry from the heart.

Bolitho did not speak. The Impulsive was here, and with her his friend Thomas Herrick. He could feel his limbs trembling, like the return of his old fever, but he did not care. At last he would have someone to confide in. The one and only man with whom he had ever really shared his hopes and fears. Once his first lieutenant, now as captain of a ship of the line he was here, and nothing could ever be so grim as it had seemed before the sound of the signal gun.

He hurried down the ladder, seeing his men crowding the gangways to stare at the new arrival, and like himself accepting her as more than a mere reinforcement. She had come from England. She represented something different to each man, a memory, a village, a green field, or the face of one particular and dear to him.

Lieutenant Roth was already at the entry port mustering the side party.

Bolitho watched as the anchor splashed down beneath the Impulsive's bow and noted the smartness with which the sails vanished along her yards. Herrick had always been worried by the prospect of command. Bolitho had told him often enough that he had no need to doubt his ability, and the excellent seamanship he had just displayed was surely proof enough.

He heard Inch telling Roth that the captain who was about to be received on board had been Hyperion's first lieutenant before him, and he wondered if Herrick would notice the change which authority and hard work had wrought upon Inch. It would probably seem like a small miracle. He found himself smiling at the prospect of the confrontation.

From the corner of his eye he saw Captain Dawson raise his sword and the paraded marines stiffen to attention as the Impulsive's barge hooked on to the chains.

As a cocked hat appeared in the entry port and the pipes shrilled their salute Bolitho stepped forward, his hands outstretched in welcome.

Captain Thomas Herrick climbed through the port and removed his hat. Then he seized Bolitho's hands and held then for several seconds, his eyes, as clear and bright blue as the first day they had met, studying him with obvious emotion.

Bolitho said warmly, "It is good to have you here, Thomas." He took his arm and led him towards the quarterdeck ladder. "The commodore is suffering from a wound, but I will take you to him directly." He paused and looked at him again. "How are things in England? Did you manage to visit Cheney before you sailed to join us?"

"I put into Plymouth for stores, then I went overland to visit her." Herrick swung round and seized his hands, his tone tight with sudden anguish. "In God's name, how can I tell you?"

Bolitho stared at him, chilled by Herrick's distress. "What is it? Has something happened?"

Herrick looked past him, his eyes blurred as he relived his own part of the nightmare.

"She had been visiting your sister. It was to have been her last journey before the child was born. Close to St. Budock something must have startled the horses, for the berlin went off the road and overturned." He paused, but when Bolitho said nothing continued, "The coachman was killed, and your steward, Ferguson, who was with her, knocked almost senseless. When he recovered he carried her two miles." He swallowed hard. "For a one-armed man it must have been like a hundred!" He gripped Bolitho's hands tightly. "But she was dead. I saw the doctor and a surgeon from the garrison who rode from Truro. There was nothing they could do for her." He dropped his eyes. "Or for the child."

"Dead?" Bolitho pulled his hands free and walked to the rail. Around him the dismissed marines walked chatting to their mess, and high above the deck a seaman was whistling while he worked on the mainyard. Through a mist he saw Allday watching him from the top of the quarterdeck ladder, his shape shortened against the clear sky and his face in shadow. It was not happening. In a moment he would awake, and it would be all as before.

Herrick called, "Allday, see to your captain!"

And as Inch came aft, his face startled and curious, he rapped, "I must have audience with the commodore, wounded or not!" He held up his arm as Inch tried to reach Bolitho's side. "At once, Mr. Inch!"

Allday walked slowly beside Bolitho until they reached the chartroom, then as Bolitho sank into a chair by the bulkhead he asked quietly, "What is it, Captain?"

"My wife, Allday! Cheney… "

But the mention of her name was too much. He fell forward across the chart table and buried his face in his arms, unable to control the agony of his despair.

Allday stood stockstill, stunned by his grief and by his own inability to deal with it.

"Just you rest here, Captain." The words seemed to flood from him. "I'll fetch a drink." He moved to the door, his eyes on Bolitho's shoulders. "We'll-be-all right, Captain, just you see.." Then he ran from the chartroom, his mind empty of everything but the need to help.

Alone once more Bolitho prised himself from the table and leaned back against the bulkhead. Then, very carefully, he opened the front of his shirt and took out the locket, and held it in the palm of his hand.