ENEMY IN SIGHT

18. AT LAST, THE SIGNAL

As Bolitho had anticipated, the first infectious excitement of heading out into the Atlantic soon gave way to strain and long days of backbreaking work for every man aboard. Once clear of the friendly trade winds and into the Horse Latitudes they were beset by maddening and frustrating delays, for in that vast, empty expanse of ocean the winds backed and veered, sometimes twice in a single watch, with all hands fighting to trim and then re-trim the yards so that not even a cupful of power should be lost.

Once the wind fell away altogether and the Hyperion idled uncomfortably in a steep swell, her sails flapping and limp for the first time since leaving St. Kruis. Most of the ship's company had been grateful, when at any other time they might have cursed the wind's perversity and the helplessness they felt under such conditions. But any hope for a rest was soon dispelled when Bolitho had ordered Inch to turn them to again and use the lull to bend on heavy weather canvas for the change he knew would soon be upon them.

Sixteen days after weighing anchor they picked up a stiff south-westerly and beneath leaden skies tacked and.headed eastward for the final leg of the voyage.

Bolitho knew that many of the seamen cursed his name whenever the cry, "All hands! All hands aloft and reef tops'ls!" drove their weary bodies to the shrouds and up to the vibrating yards once more. Theirs had become a world of shrieking wind and drenching spray, where they fisted and grappled sodden canvas high above the decks, fingernails torn and bleeding while they struggled to keep from falling to certain death. But he could find little time to spare for their inner feelings, any more than he allowed himself a moment's rest.

At any other period he might have felt elation, even pride for the manner in which the old ship and her company were behaving. As the miles rolled away beneath the keel and the sea's face changed to dull grey he knew that such a fast passage would be envied by many captains. As always, whenever he came on deck the Impulsive was never far astern, her heavy weather sails giving an appearance of purpose and grim determination. Of the Hermes there was no sign at all, and Bolitho had once found himself wondering if Fitzmaurice had, after all, decided to fall back deliberately and leave him to his own devices. It had been unfair and pointless even to think like that, but he knew it had been because of his own uncertainty, his overpowering need to drive the ship as never before, if only to keep his despair at bay.

Every day he had visited the commodore in his sleeping cabin, but even that seemed of little value now. PelhamMartin rarely spoke to him, and merely stared up from his cot without even bothering to disguise his satisfaction at Bolitho's empty reports. In spite of Pelham-Martin's silent hostility, however, Bolitho was worried at his appearance. He was eating less and consuming a good deal of brandy as compensation. He seemed to trust no one near him, and had even driven Petch away with a string of threats when the wretched man tried to bathe his perspiring face.

Strangely, he had sent for Sergeant Munro, a seasoned marine who had once been an inn servant before enlisting and knew something of the ways of his betters. But Bolitho suspected the commodore looked on Munro more as a bodyguard against some imaginary enemy than any sort of lackey.

Pelham-Martin's voice was certainly stronger, but he had refused to allow Trudgeon to inspect, let alone change his dressings for over a week, and Bolitho had told himself repeatedly that he was merely shamming and biding his time until he admitted failure.

He had not spoken to his brother again, but during one night when the wind had risen unexpectedly to a full gale he had seen him dashing aloft with some seamen to restrain the mizzen staysail which had split from luff to leach with the sound of tearing silk, audible even above the howl of sea and rigging. Pascoe had been with him, and when they had at last returned to the deck Bolitho had seen their quick exchange of grins, like conspirators who shared something private and special.

As day followed day, Bolitho remained aloof from his officers and restricted his contact to the requirements of duty. The south-westerly wind showed no sign of lessening, and while the ship plunged and staggered across the endless expanse of creaming rollers Bolitho paced the quarterdeck, heedless or unaware of his soaked clothing until Allday finally persuaded him to go aft for some warm soup and a brief rest. Everything was damp, and below decks behind shuttered ports the men off watch crouched together in their. crowded messes, willing the voyage to end, sleeping, or waiting for the next frugal meal. The cooks had little to offer, and in their crazily swaying world, amidst a litter of pots and broached casks of salt pork or beef, it was hard to see what else they could provide without some sort of miracle.

At noon of the twenty-seventh day Bolitho stood by the quarterdeck rail and watched Inch and Gossett working busily with their sextants. Overhead the sky had cleared a little and the clouds were broken into long, ragged banners, between which the watery sunlight gave an illusion of warmth.

Gossett said slowly, "I'd never 'ave believed it, sir!"

Bolitho handed his own sextant to Canyon and touched the worn rail with his hand. Twenty-seven days. Three less than the impossible target he had imposed at St. Kruis.

Inch moved to his side and asked quietly, "What now, sir?"

"Spartan will have been patrolling for several days, Mr. Inch." Bolitho looked at the blurred horizon. It seemed to shine like gunmetal, yet there was no true division between sky and sea. "We will continue on this tack until dusk. Perhaps by then we might have some news from Captain Farquhar."

But no news came, nor any sight of a sail to break the unending monotony of broken rollers. At nightfall they went about and under reefed topsails butted almost into the teeth of the wind. There was nothing the next day, or the one after that, and as the masthead lookouts changed and the daily routine dragged out its minutes and hours Bolitho knew that like himself there were few aboard who still retained any hope.

Tempers became frayed, and here and there within the ship's confined world old conflicts flared into open violence. Three men were flogged, and a trusted and welldisciplined bosun's mate was placed in irons for refusing to turn out of his hammock during the night watches. There was no sane reason for his behaviour, it just seemed part of the whole pattern of bitter disappointment and frustration.

Five days after reaching the supposed rendezvous the lookouts sighted the Spartan clawing out from the southeast. For a few more moments something of the old excitement returned as men clambered into shrouds and rigging to watch her as she went about and ran down under the Hyperion's lee.

Midshipman Canyon lowered his glass and looked at Bolitho. "Nothing to report, sir." He dropped his gaze as if he felt partly to blame. "Spartan requests instructions, sir."

Bolitho knew Inch and the others were watching him, although when he turned his head they immediately appeared engrossed in anything but in his direction.

He replied slowly, "Signal Spartan to take station to wind'rd with Dasher."

He saw the frigate falling away, her yards swinging round as Farquhar let the wind carry him clear, The Spartan was streaked with salt and there were several figures aloft in her rigging splicing and repairing damage caused by the b"ffeting she had endured. What it must be like aboard the sloop, Bolitho could not imagine. But Dasher had kept up with them, had smashed through heavy weather and suffered calms, her topsails always visible to greet each morning watch.

Bolitho said, "I am going aft, Mr. Inch."

The lieutenant crossed to the weather side and asked hesitantly, "Will you see the commodore, sir?" He saw Bolitho's eyes and added, "There is still time, sir. We can all ride it out if you give the word."

Bolitho smiled. "There is no point in enforcing this misery now." He studied him gravely. "But thank you just the same. You have been given a hard time lately."

As he strode away he heard Inch say, "God damn those Frogs!"

He paused outside the sleeping cabin and then thrust open the door. Pelham-Martin watched him in silence for several seconds. Then he asked, "Well? Do you submit now?"

Bolitho gripped his hat tightly beneath his arm. "There is nothing in sight, sir. The rendezvous is overdue."

Pelham-Martin's eyes gleamed faintly. "Fetch me my writing pad." He watched Bolitho at the bulkhead bureau. "As of this moment I am going to relieve you of your command. You disobeyed my orders, you took advantage of my wound, and I shall write a report to that effect."

Bolitho placed the pad on the cot and watched him without emotion. His limbs felt light, as if he was drugged, and he could find no involvement in what was happening to him.

The commodore snapped, "Fetch a witness!"

At that moment Inch appeared in the doorway and stared at them curiously.

He said, "The masthead has just sighted the Hermes, sir."

Pelham-Martin struggled beneath the sheet. "Good. Now the whole squadron will be able to return to England." His eyes moved to Inch. "You will be the witness to this document. If you behave yourself I will try to spare your commission at the court martial."

Inch said thickly, "Sir, there is nothing which has happened that I did not agree…"

Bolitho interrupted harshly, "Just witness the document, Mr. Inch, and do not be a fool!"

"Quite so!" Pelham-Martin seemed entangled in the sheet. He shouted, "Munro! Come here at once!"

The marine sergeant entered the cabin and stood beside the cot.

"Lift me up, damn you!"

As the marine took his shoulder Pelham-Martin gave one terrible cry, so that he let him fall back again to the pillow.

Bolitho snapped, "Stand away!" He pulled down the sheet and then stared at the man's shoulder beneath the bandage. "Fetch the surgeon immediately." He felt sick and appalled. The commodore's upper arm and the visible part of his shoulder glowed hard yellow, like a ripe melon, and when he touched the skin with his hand it felt as if it was on fire.

Pelham-Martin peered up at him. "What is it? For God's sake, what are you staring at?"

Inch muttered, "My God!"

"The wound has become poisoned, Sir."

"You're lying!" The commodore tried to struggle up but fell back with a gasp of pain. "You are just saying that to save yourself."

Trudgeon pushed past Inch and stared at the discoloured skin in silence. Then he said tonelessly, "It must come off, sir." He looked at Bolitho, his eyes doubtful. "Even then, I'm not sure…"

Pelham-Martin shouted wildly, "You'll not touch me! I am ordering you to keep away!"

"It's no use, sir." Bolitho studied him sadly. "You may have thought such a small splinter could do you no real harm. It was probably some infection from the wood," his eye rested on the empty decanter. "Or your blood may have become affected." He looked away, unable to watch the man's growing terror.

You fool. You poor, frightened fool. To avoid a decision, just one decision, he had allowed this terrible thing to happen to himself.

He thought suddenly of the ships and all the men who had been depending on him and added flatly, "There is no other course, sir." He nodded to Trudgeon. "You have my consent."

Pelham-Martin screamed, "I am ordering you!" He writhed in the cot, the sweat pouring across his chest as he peered at Inch. "I was dismissing Captain Bolitho from his command!"

There was a clatter of feet on the poop above and then a muffled wave of cheering. They looked at each other and then turned to the door as Midshipman Canyon burst into the cabin.

"Sir!" He controlled his voice as he saw the stricken commodore. "Hermes is signalling!" He fumbled with his tattered book. "Strange sail to the nor'west!"

Bolitho stared at him. "Thank you, Mr. Canyon. Now back to your flags at the double!" To Inch he snapped, "I will be on deck directly." Then he smiled. "And thank you for your loyalty."

He turned and looked down at the commodore. "It must be Lequiller's squadron, sir. I will keep you informed whenever I am able." He moved to the door as Trudgeon beckoned his mates to enter.

On deck the air was bracing and clean with light drizzle, and the sun was again covered by cloud. But the wind was still steady from the south-west, and the masthead pendant almost rigid against the dull sky.

Gossett reported, "Course west by north, sir. Full an' bye!"

Bolitho nodded and lifted a telescope to his eye. Far away across the larboard bow he could see the Hermes' topsails etched on the horizon, the balls soaring to her yards and breaking to the wind in stiff, bright patches of colour.

Canyon yelled, "From Hermes, sirl Estimate five sail of the line!"

Bolitho lowered his glass and looked at Inch. All the weeks and days, the waiting and the planning had brought them to this point on the sea, this moment in time.

He said, "Alter course – point to starboard. Steer westnor'-west!"

As Inch groped as speaking trumpet Bolitho beckoned to Midshipman Carlyon and saw Inch pausing to listen.

"Mr. Carlyon, make this general signal to the squadron. He hesitated, sensing the eyes around him, the men on the main deck and the ship around all of them.

"Enemy in sight!"

As the flags soared aloft and broke to the wind Bolitho wondered. briefly what the other captains would be thinking as they read the signal. At St. Kruis, while they had listened and mulled over his ideas and suggestions they must have had doubts, many doubts. Now, the sight of his signal would clear their minds of everything other than the need to fight. To fight for their very survival.

Astern, aboard Impulsive, the acknowledgement was already hoisted, and he could imagine Herrick looking around his ship, his first command, which might be lost to him in a matter of hours,

He pulled his watch from his breeches pocket and flicked open the cover. It was exactly two o'clock, and even as he returned it to his pocket four bells chimed out from the forecastle belfry.

When he raised the telescope again he saw the Hermes growing larger and more distinct, and found time to thank God for the keen eyes of her masthead lookout. Later or earlier, and the two squadrons might have slipped past each other, or been lost in a rain squall in the vital moment of contact.

Lequiller would most likely have sighted the Hermes, but he had no choice but to engage. There were many hours of daylight yet, and with the open sea behind him he must fight and destroy the flimsy force across his bows, unless he was to become hunted and not the hunter.

Bolitho said, "Make to Hermes. Take station astern of me." He thought of Herrick again. The signal would disappoint him certainly, but if his sixty-four was to survive the first clash then he must allow the heavier twodeckers the opening broadsides. He added, "Then make a general signal, Mr. Canyon. Prepare for battle!"

"Deck there!" The masthead's call made every eye look up. "Sail fine on the lee bow!" The merest pause. "More'n one ship, sir!"

Bolitho nodded to Inch. "Beat to quarters and clear for action."

The two marine drummers hurried to the quarterdeck ladder and started their insistent tattoo. The rapid drumming seemed to act like the final confimation, and as more men swarmed up from below and ran to their stations those already on watch cheered and waved their neckerchiefs towards the Hermes as she started to tack steeply towards the centre of the line. Bolitho saw Fitzmaurice with his officers, and lifted his arm in response to the other captain's greeting.

Between decks he could hear the thuds and clatter of screens being torn down, the rush of feet as other men hurried aloft to rig the chain-slings to the yards and assist Tomlin's deck party with the protective net above the gunners.

He said to Inch, "Pass the order to sway out the boats for towing astern." He thought of the distance they were from land, the very hopelessness of survival should the worst happen.

Inch came back seconds later, his face pale with excitement. "Cleared for action, sir!" He managed to grin. "Six minutes exactly!"

"Very good." Bolitho found himself smiling. "Very good!"

He walked back to the rail and looked searchingly over the crowded main deck. Every gun was manned and ready, the captains facing aft, their bodies hung about with the tools of their trade. The decks were well sanded, and in the stiff breeze the men would need all the grip they could afford.

He said, "Signal the squadron to shorten sail." He looked up at the pendant and shivered. Soon now. Very soon. It was to be hoped the first sight of the enemy at full strength would not destroy this first determination.

"Deck there! Five sail o' the line an' one other, sir!"

G sett rumbled, "That'll be the Dons' treasure ship."

Bujitho made himself walk slowly aft, his hands behind him. As he passed the quarterdeck nine-pounders some of the gunners twisted round to watch him. As if by meeting his eye they could share his apparent calm and hold it like a talisman.

Captain Dawson clattered down from the poop. Above him and ranged around the nettings his marines were already swaying in neat lines, their muskets at their sides, their dressing faultless as usual.

Bolitho nodded to him. "Go forrard and speak with your lieutenant. The carronades will have plenty of work directly, and I want your sharpshooters to give them all the cover they can."

Dawson tugged at his collar. "Yes, sir." He glanced bleakly at the grey water. "I'll not fancy a swim today."

More seamen thudded down from the shrouds as the big mainsail was finally furled and the ship settled into a state of watchful tension. Apart from the hiss of spray and a steady thrumming tune from the rigging, all was silent once more.

Inch said, "Will we take the weather-gage, sir?"

"It is too soon to say." Bolitho reached out and snatched a glass from Canyon. As he steadied it against the nettings he saw the enemy ships for the first time. It was difficult to fix their formation at such a distance, and the overlapping topsails and streaming flags gave the impression of one huge nightmare creation, climbing up and over the horizon, intent on destruction and death.

He returned the glass. There had been no mistaking the ship at the van of the squadron. The big three-decker. Lequiller's own flagship, Tornade. She was a bare two years old, and mounted a hundred guns. It would be better to remember her at anchor with the wretched prisoners hanging from her mainyard then to contemplate the devastation of her massive artillery, he decided grimly.

But for her, the odds might have been acceptable, if unfair. Five to three. But the Tornade's overwhelming superiority in firepower made all the difference in the world.

He compressed his mouth into a firm line.

"Wind's droppin' a bit, sir." Gossett regarded him glumly. "There's the spite of the Bay an' no mistake."

Bolitho nodded. If it fell away altogether it would make the first embrace all the more devastating and reduce their chances of crippling Lequiller's ships enough to delay if not deter him.

He heard a ripple of voices below the rail and as he looked down he saw some of the seamen clinging to the gangways to watch the approaching ships, realising perhaps the magnitude of their foe.

That was bad. Waiting to close an enemy was always the worst part. It seemed to take an eternity, and all the while there was little to do but watch and consider, to lose confidence and find despair.

He beckoned to one of the drummers. "Here, boy!" He saw the lad staring up at him from beneath his shako; his tanned face pinched with growing fright. "Can you play that fife of yours, eh?" He forced a grin, feeling the skin cracking at the corners of his mouth with the effort.

"Yessir!" The boy blinked rapidly and removed the fife from his white crossbelt.

At that moment, as Bolitho tried to recall some tune or shanty which might attract the men's attention from the other ships, a terrible cry floated up from the poop. It seemed to go on and on, at one level, while the men at the guns around him stared past the wheel towards the dark passageway which led to the stem cabin. Even one of the helmsmen released his grip on the spokes to swing round in horror.

The dreadful cry stopped, but the sound still seemed to hang there as before.

Bolitho gritted his teeth and tried not to picture the gross, naked body being held across the table, that first frightful incision of Trudgeon's knife.

He said sharply, "Well?"

The drummer lifted the fife, his small, rough hands shaking badly as he placed it to his lips.

Then Gossett said gruffly, "How about Portsmouth Lass?" He glared at the gunners and the motionless marines. "Sing, you lily-livered swabs, or I'll be amongst you this minutel"

And as another horrifying scream rent the air the fife's feeble notes were picked up by the seamen on the quarterdeck, and then, slowly at first, by those at the twelve-pounders, and even by some high in the fightingtops.

Bolitho walked to the weather side and turned his face to the sea. The men's voices, strengthening and lifting above the wind, the mental picture of Pelham-Martin's agony, all were part of the unreality around him.

But almost worst of all were the words of the song which Gossett had suggested with such haste, and in order to drown the sounds from the stem cabin.

"I knew a lass in Portsmouth Town…"

The same shanty they had sung when Hyperion had worked clear of Plymouth Sound on that bitter winter's morning.

He turned his head as one of Trudgeon's mates walked from beneath the poop with a canvas bundle in his hands. The man paused to listen to the singing before hurling the bloodstained parcel over the lee rail.

Bolitho asked, "How was it?"

The surgeon's mate grimaced. "A small splinter, sir. No bigger than me fingertip." He shrugged heavily. "But there was enough pus and muck around it fer ten men."

"I see." It was pointless to question him further. He was merely an extension of Trudgeon's arms, the strength to hold still a victim, and one so hardened by the horrors of his trade that he was beyond compassion of any kind.

Bolitho walked past him and raised the telescope once more. How quickly the French ships had tacked into line and how utterly indestructible they looked. Under reduced sails, with their hulls gleaming dully in the strange light, they seemed to be moving along an invisible thread, on a converging tack with the three English ships. Much further astern, her high poop just visible beyond the formidable line, he could see _the San Leandro, where no doubt Perez and his advisers were waiting to see the way opened for his return to power and wealth.

De Block had told him that the governor of Las Mercedes was over seventy years old. It was unlikely he would live long enough to enjoy his return, even if the French allowed him to.

He slammed the telescope on its rack. He was already thinking in terms of defeat. Lequiller would not succeed, and Perez would only live to see his new ally's destruction!

Barely three miles separated the two squadrons now, but it was still impossible to tell which ships would keep to windward. It was better to retain the present controlled approach than to lose station in some last-minute manoeuvre.

The singing had stopped, and as he looked along the ship's length he saw the men standing beside their guns, staring aft towards him.

He nodded. "You may load and run out, Mr. Inch. It is time we showed our teeth!"

Inch grinned and hurried away. Minutes later the port lids swung upwards, and to the accompaniment of squealing trucks the guns trundled against the bulwarks, the captains gripping the trigger lines and speaking quietly to their own men.

Midshipman Pascoe dashed through the main hatch and ran aft to the foot of the quarterdeck ladder.

"Lower battery loaded and ready, sir!" He turned to hurry back but paused as Bolitho called, "Come here, Mr. Pascoe!"

The boy ran on to the quarterdeck and touched his hat. He looked bright-eyed and there were patches of colour on his cheeks.

Bolitho said quietly, "Look yonder." He waited as the boy blimbed on to a bollard to peer above the hammock nettings.

Pascoe stared for a full minute at the great array of sails stretching towards the starboard bow. Then he climbed down and said, "There are a lot of them, sir." He lifted his chin, and without effort Bolitho could see his face pictured with all those others hanging in the empty house at Falmouth.

Impulsively he reached out and gripped his arm. "Take care Mr. Pascoe. No heroics today, eh?" He thrust his hand into his pocket and took out the small carved ship which de Block had given him. "Here, take this. A souvenir of your first voyage."

The boy turned it over in his hands and said, "It's beautiful!" Then he placed it inside his coat and touched his hat again.

Bolitho watched him go, his heart suddenly heavy with concern.

"He'll be safe down there, Captain."

He turned to find Allday standing behind him, the sword and his best dress coat draped across his arm.

Several men watched him as he slipped out of his faded seagoing coat and thrust his arms into the one with the white lapels and bright gold lace. The coat which Cheney had admired so much.

Allday adjusted the swordbelt around his waist and stood back with a critical glance.

Then he said quietly, "It is going to be fierce work before we're done today, Captain. There's many a man who'll be looking aft when things get bad." He nodded, apparently satisfied. "They'll want to see you. To know you're here with them."

Bolitho lifted the old sword a few inches from its scabbard and touched the blade with his finger. Old, maybe, but the man who. had forged it had known a thing or two. It was lighter than most of the modern ones, but the blade was like a razor. He let it drop into the scabbard and thrust his hands beneath his coat.

He said, "If I fall today, see that the boy is safe."

Allday stood at his back, a heavy cutlass naked in his belt. If you fall it will be because I am already pulped, he thought. Aloud he replied, "Never fear, Captain." He showed his teeth in a grin. "I'll be an admiral's cox'n yet!"

There was a dull bang, and seconds later a thin waterspout rose lazily across the larboard bow. Bolitho watched the brown smoke being whipped away from the three-decker's forecastle by the wind.

He imagined Lequiller and his captain watching their slow approach and felt his breathing becoming more controlled, even relaxed. The last calm before madness began. The moment when there was no more room for conjecture or regret.

Another ball ploughed through the white-tipped rollers and ricocheted towards the horizon.

He found that he was smiling, his skin tight like a mask. You will have to get closer than that, my friend. Much closer.

Then he drew his sword and laid it flat along the quarterdeck rail.

The waiting was done. The time was now.