ENEMY IN SIGHT

2. BROAD PENDANT

Richard Bolitho finished writing his personal log and leaned back wearily in the chair. Even in the sealed cabin the air was chill and damp, and the leather of his desk chair was clammy to the touch. Around him the ship lifted, paused and then staggered forward in a savage corkscrewing motion which made even thinking an effort of will, yet he knew if he returned to the windswept quarterdeck he would find no peace for more than a few minutes.

He stared through the thick glass of the stem windows, although they were so caked with salt and running spray it was only possible to tell day from night. It was close on noon, but could have been any time. The sky was either black and starless, or like now, the colour of slate. And so it had been as one day followed another and while the Hyperion drove further and further to the south-east, deeper into the Bay of Biscay.

He had been quite prepared for the discomfort and boredom of blockade duty, and when on the second day out from Plymouth the masthead lookout had sighted ships of the squadron he had already decided to make the best of it. But as he should have known well enough after nearly twenty-five years at sea, nothing in the Navy could ever be taken for granted.

His orders had stated that he was to join the flag of Vice-Admiral Sir Manley Cavendish, K.B., and take his place with all the other weather-beaten ships, the constant vigilance of which could decide the fate of England, and thereby the whole world. Off every French port these same ships rode out storms or tacked wearily back and forth in a never-ending patrol, while closer inshore, and sometimes within range of enemy batteries, sleek frigates, the eyes of the fleet, reported every movement of shipping, They gathered information from captured coastal craft, or impudently sailed almost into the French harbours themselves in their ceaseless search for intelligence.

Since Howe's victory of the Glorious First of June the French had shown little inclination for another major clash, but Bolitho, like any other thinking officer, realised that this uneasy calm could not last. Only the Channel lay between the enemy and a full scale invasion of England, yet until the French could muster a powerful fleet that same strip of water might just as well be an ocean.

In the great naval ports of Brest and Lorient the French ships of the line were unable to move without being seen and reported by the patrolling frigates, while in every harbour on the west coast, down as far as Bordeaux, other ships waited and watched for a chance to slip out and hurry north to join their consorts. One day soon they would make a break for it. When that happened it was essential that news of the enemy's movements was carried swiftly to the heavy squadrons, and more important still, interpreted correctly so that action could be taken to engage and destroy them.

Under the flagship's lee Bolitho had stood in silence watching the flags soaring up the big three-decker's yards, the frantic efforts of Midshipman Gascoigne and his signal party to keep pace with acknowledgements. It had been then that he had received his first inkling all was not as he had expected.

Gascoigne had yelled, "Flag to Hyperion. Stand by to receive orders and despatches!"

Inch had looked as if he was about to voice a question but had held his tongue. The two days out from Plymouth had been difficult ones for him. Within hours of turning south the wind had mounted to something approaching gale force, and under close-reefed topsails, with a fierce quarter-sea making the ship stagger and roll drunkenly from one trough to the next, Inch had been beset with demands and chaos from every side. Many of the new men were almost helpless with seasickness, and most of the others kept continually at work splicing rigging, which like all new cordage was taking this first real strain badly, and the rest were led or driven back and forth either trimming sails or standing relays at the backbreaking work of pumping bilges.

More than once it had been all that Bolitho could do to refrain from interfering with inch's efforts, yet at the same time he knew that he was solely to blame. Inch was too inexperienced for his work, that was quite apparent now, but if Bolitho showed his true displeasure it might finish Inch for good. Not that Bolitho need say anything. It was quite obvious from Inch's unhappy features that he knew his own shortcomings well enough.

The next signal from the flagship had been brief. "Prepare to receive Flag Captain."

It was customary for captains to report in person to receive fresh orders when joining a squadron, although in cases of really bad weather for the sealed bag to be drifted across from ship to ship on a grass line. But this time the admiral was apparently sending his own captain.

The barge which had brought the flagship's captain across the choppy water had been almost swamped before it eventually hooked on to the main chains, and the thickset officer in his sodden boatcloak had hardly glanced at the side party and saluting marines as he had seized Bolitho's hand and growled, "For God's sake let us go below!"

Once within the big cabin the visiting captain had come straight to the point.

"I've brought you fresh orders, Bolitho. You are to continue to the south-east and join the inshore squadron of Commodore Mathias Pelham-Martin. My admiral detached him and his ships some weeks ago for duty off the Gironde Estuary. You'll find a complete list of ships and requirements in your new orders."

He had spoken quickly, almost offhandedly, but Bolitho had been aware of a warning sensation at the back of his mind. Pelham-Martin. The name had been instantly familiar, yet at the same time he had been unable to recall any sea officer, commodore or otherwise, who had distinguished or shamed himself enough to warrant this special visit by the flag captain.

The other man had said abruptly, "I do not like deceit, especially with a fellow captain. Things have been very bad between my admiral and the commodore. PelhamMartin, as you will discover, is a difficult man to serve in some ways."

"This bad feeling? How did it come about?"

"It all happened a long while ago really. During the American Revolution…"

Bolitho's mind had suddenly cleared. "I remember now. A British colonel of infantry surrendered to the Americans – with all his men, and when some of our ships arrived with reinforcements they sailed right into a trap."

The flag captain had grimaced. "The colonel was Pelham-Martin's brother. I do not have to tell you who the officer was who commanded the ships, eh?"

A midshipman had appeared at that moment. "Signal from flagship, sir! Captain to return on board forthwith."

Bolitho had understood fully at that moment what the visit had really meant for him and his ship. No admiral could voice a lack of confidence to a captain newly joining his command. But through a fellow captain it was just possible to show his displeasure and his uncertainty.

The flag captain had paused by the cabin door, his eyes searching.

"I know your record, Bolitho, and so does Sir Manley Cavendish. When news was received that you were joining the squadron he told me that you were to be sent to Pelham-Martin's sector to the south-east. You. are well remembered for your part in the St. Clan invasion last year, although you got precious little credit for it. The commodore's squadron is a small one, but its work and vigilance could prove to be vital. Your viewpoint and presence there could help to break this stupid feud." He had shrugged heavily. "This is between ourselves naturally. If a word is voiced to me that any suggestion of mistrust or incompetence was made I will of course deny it!" Then with another quick handshake he had left the ship.

Now, sitting at his littered desk, Bolitho found it hard to believe such bitterness could have been allowed to jeopardise the efficiency of the hard-pressed ships and their weary companies. That meeting with the flagship had been four days ago, and while the Hyperion had plunged further to the south-east and her company had fought half-heartedly against seasickness and bad weather alike Bolitho had studied his orders carefully, and during his lonely walks on the quarterdeck had tried to estimate their true meaning.

It seemed that Pelham-Martin had three ships of the line and three frigates under his command, as well as two small sloops-of-war. One of the former would be sent to England for overhaul and repairs as soon as she was replaced by Hyperion, so it was a very small force indeed.

But properly deployed it could be well placed to watch over any sudden movement by enemy vessels. It was known that several large French ships had slipped past Gibraltar and had already found their way into the Bay of Biscay. It was equally well known that although Spain was now an ally of England, it was more from necessity than any real friendship or co-operation. Many of those French ships must, have sailed close inshore around Spain, and some might even have hidden in Spanish ports to avoid being attacked by British patrols. To join the bulk of the French fleet any such ships would probably make first for the Gironde or La Rochelle to receive their orders overland, and then take the first opportunity to follow the coastline to Lorient or Brest.

There was a tap at the door and Midshipman Gascoigne stepped over the coaming. "Mr. Stepkyne's respects, sir, and we have just sighted a sail to the east'rd."

"Very well. I shall come up."

Bolitho watched the door close and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Whatever the rights or wrongs of the matter, he would not have long to wait now.

He stood up slowly and reached for his hat. He felt the locket rubbing against his chest and thought suddenly of Cheney. He had written a letter to her and sent it across with the flagship's captain for the first homebound sloop. There had not been time to change any of it and she would still believe him to be off Lorient. Not that another two hundred miles made much difference, he thought vaguely.

As he walked to the quarterdeck he saw the officers stiffen into awkward attitudes of attentiveness, and guessed that prior to his appearance they had probably been in deep discussion about the distant ships.

Bolitho looked up at the hard-bellied sails and the whipping tongue of the masthead pendant. The canvas was stiff with rain and salt, and he felt a moment's pity for some of the men who were working high above the swaying hull. The wind was almost directly astern and the sea had changed to an angry panorama of short, steep crests which gleamed like yellow fangs in the harsh light. There was no horizon to speak of, and although he estimated they were within twenty miles of the coast there was nothing to be seen.

He took a glass from a midshipman and trained it slowly across the nettings. He knew the others were watching him as if to gauge his reactions, and perhaps their own fate, but kept his face impassive as he picked out the first misty pyramid of sails. He shifted the glass very slightly and waited as the Hyperion sidled into a deep trough and then smashed indifferently across another cruising bank of wavecrests. There was a second ship, and possibly a third.

He closed the glass with a snap. "Lay her on the larboard tack and prepare to shorten sail, Mr. Stepkyne."

Stepkyne touched his hat, "Aye, aye, sir." He rarely said much, unless to use his tongue on some clumsy or careless seaman. He seemed unwilling or unable to share either confidence or casual conversation with his brother officers, and Bolitho knew as little about him now as the first day he had met him. For all that, he was a very capable seaman, and Bolitho had been unable to find fault with any task he had carried out.

Even now he was rapping out orders, his hands on his hips as he watched the men being roused once more to man braces and halyards.

Bolitho shut Stepkyne's cold efficiency and Inch's bumbling efforts from his mind. If the weather moderated, just for a few days, even Inch would get a chance to drill the hands to better results.

He said curtly, "Steer east by south, Mr. Gossett."

The masthead lookout's voice called faintly above the cracking canvas, "Three sail o' th' line, sir!" A pause while every unemployed eye peered aloft at the tiny figure outlined against the racing clouds. "Leadin' ship wears a broad pendant, sir!"

A shoe scraped on the deck and Bolitho saw Inch hurrying towards him, some biscuit crumbs clinging to his coat.

He touched his hat. "I am sorry to be late on deck sir." He glanced round anxiously. "I must have fallen asleep for a moment."

Bolitho studied him gravely. He would have to do something about Inch, he thought. He looked desperately tired, and there were dark shadows under his eyes.

He said quietly, "You, may call all hands now, Mr. Inch. We will be up with the squadron directly and may have to wear ship or heave to." He smiled. "Commodores are no different from admirals when it comes to immediate requirements."

But Inch merely nodded glumly. "Aye, aye, sir."

Slowly but surely the other ships grew out of the tossing murk until they stood in line, hulls shining with spray, their reefed topsails straining and gleaming like pressed steel in the blustering wind.

They were all seventy-fours like Hyperion, and to a landsman might look as much alike as peas in a pod. But Bolitho knew from hard experience that even ships launched side by side in the same dockyard could be as unalike as salt from wine, just as their individual captains might choose to make them.

Gossett, who had been studying the leading two-decker, said absently, "I know the commodore's ship well enough, sir. She's the Indomitable, Cap'n Winstanley. I fought alongside 'er in '81." He glanced severely at Midshipman Gascoigne. "You should 'ave seen 'er and reported earlier, young gentleman!'

Bolitho studied the leading ship through narrowed eyes as flags broke from her yards, and after what seemed like mere seconds the whole line tacked slowly round until the Indomitable was running almost parallel with Hyperion and barely two cables distant. Even without a glass it was possible to see the great streaks of caked salt and sea slime around her beakhead and bows, while as she plunged heavily into a shallow trough her lower gunports were momentarily awash. But her sail drill and manoeuvring were impeccable, and behind him Bolitho heard Gosset murmur, "Cap'n Winstanley 'as the feel of the old lady well enough." From him that was praise of the highest order.

This time Gascoigne was ready. As more balls soared up the Indomitable's yards and broke stiffly to the wind he yelled, "Flag to Hyperion. Captain repair on board forthwith!"

Bolitho smiled grimly. No doubt the commodore was impatient to hear what his old enemy had said about him.

"Heave to, if you please. Call away my barge."

He stared at the leaping wavecrests and imagined his bargemen cursing the commodore for his early summons.

With the hands straining at the braces and the sails cracking and booming like cannonshots the Hyperion swung slowly and unwillingly into the wind, while Tomlin bellowed lustily at his boat-handling party to sway Bolitho's barge up and clear of the nettings. One of the steadying lines from the barge caught a young seaman round the throat and he fell heavily against some of the men at the main topsail brace. For an instant there was complete confusion, with the spray-swollen rope screaming out through its block, and bodies falling and scattering like puppets until a bosun's mate hurled himself into the mass of shouting and cursing men and checked it himself.

Stepkyne, who was in charge of the main deck seized the unfortunate seaman and yelled at him, their faces only inches apart. "You stupid, whimpering bugger! I'll teach you to behave!"

The seaman held up his hand to his throat which had been flayed raw by the steadying line. "But, sir, I couldn't help it!" He was almost weeping. "Worn't my fault, sir!"

Stepkyne seemed beside himself. Had the bosun's mate not intervened the confusion might have caused a disaster, especially to the men working aloft on the topsail yard, but with the weight of the boat on one end of the line and the strength of several bargemen on the other, the man was lucky not to have lost his head.

Inch gripped the quarterdeck rail and shouted above the wind, "Fend off that boat! And you can dismiss that man below to the surgeon, Mr. Stepkyne!"

The wretched seaman scurried for the hatch but Stepkyne stood his ground, his eyes blazing as he stared up at the quarterdeck. "Need never have happened! If these men had been properly drilled that fool would have seen the danger in time!"

Allday called, "Barge is alongside, Captain!" But his eyes were on Inch and Stepkyne.

Bolitho ran quickly down the quarterdeck ladder and said coldly, "When I return I will see you in my cabin, Mr. Stepkyne. When an order is passed you will do well to obey it without question, do you understand?"

He kept his voice low, but knew the damage was done. Stepkyne was wrong to question Inch, let alone criticise his actions. But Bolitho knew too that his anger was justified. Inch should have checked each man before allotting him his station. Especially new and untried ones.

More than anything else he blamed himself for allowing Inch to remain as first lieutenant.

Touching his hat briefly he lowered himself through the entry port, and after waiting a few seconds jumped outward and down into the pitching barge.

As the boat pulled clear of the side Bolitho did not look back. It would all be waiting for him when he returned, by which time he must decide what action to take.

Captain Amelius Winstanley was ready to receive Bolitho at the Indomitable's entry port, and even before the trilling pipes had fallen silent he stepped forward and gripped his hand and wrung it warmly with obvious relief.

"A man after my own heart, Bolitho!" He was grinning as Bolitho endeavoured to straighten his cocked hat and readjust his sword. "I never could take a bosun's chair up the side of a strange ship m'self either!"

Bolithb recovered his breath and tried to ignore the rivulets of water which were running down his chest and legs. The barge had made a rough passage to the flagship, but the last part had been -by far the worst. As the Indomitable's towering side had lifted and. rolled above them he had stood swaying in the sternsheets, his teeth gritted to control his impatience and apprehension as the bowman made one frantic attempt after another to hook on to the ship's main chains and secure the madly tossing boat. Once, when an anxious Allday had reached up to steady his arm he had rasped, "I can manage, damn you!" And it was perhaps his coxswain's obvious lack of confidence in his ability to jump the wide gap to the ship's side which had finally decided him to decline the offer of a bosun's chair. It was far safer, but Bolitho had always considered it undignified when he had watched other captains swaying above a ship's side, legs spiralling, while seamen busily manipulated guide lines as if they were handling so much cargo.

But it had been a near thing this time. His sword had tangled between his legs, and for a brief moment as the barge had dropped beneath him he had seen the water swirling to pluck him from the ship's side and had heard Allday call out with alarm. Soaked and angry Bolitho managed to pull himself up to the safety of the entry port, and as the pipes shrilled in salute and the side party stiffened to attention he glanced quickly at their wooden expressions, expecting to see amusement or disappointment that he had not indeed fallen, if only to provide a ready topic of gossip for the lower deck.

Winstanley guided him to the quarterdeck, his resonant voice held down with obvious effort. He was a giant of a man, loose limbed and outwardly ungainly, but gave an immediate impression of great competence. His face was toughened and seamed from countless voyages, but his small twinkling eyes and the mass of crowsfeet around them gave an equal impression of a ready sense of humour.

The captain of a flagship, even that of a lowly commodore, needed all of that and more, Bolitho thought grimly as he squelched up the ladder and into the shelter of the poop.

Winstanley was saying gruffly, "I was watching your ship through my glass. She looks a mite different from the last time I saw her. Like new she is." He glanced up.at the commodore's broad pendant which streamed stiffly from the masthead. "The Vectis will sail for Plymouth now that you've arrived to relieve her, and after that it'll be my turn." He gripped Bolitho's arm as they approached the stern cabin. "Next to me you're the senior captain, so I've no doubt Hyperion will wear his pendant in due course."

He must have seen the question on Bolitho's face for he said quickly, "I'll speak with you later. Pelham-Martin is no man to keep waiting."

He opened the door and Bolitho followed him into the cabin, his hat jammed beneath his arm, and conscious of the wet footmarks across a rich, pale coloured carpet as he approached a littered table which was arranged to one i side of the stern windows.

The commodore was seated comfortably at a highbacked chair, seemingly relaxed in spite of the slow, sickening motion around him. He was incredibly broad, but as he got slowly to his feet Bolitho sensed something like shock when he realised that Pelham-Martin was extremely short and his effort at standing made little difference at all. All his bulk seemed to go into his breadth, like Tomlin, the Hyperion's bosun, but there the similarity ended. He had a round, pale complexioned face and his fair hair was cut in a newly fashionable short style. But whereas it may have suited the Navy's younger bloods, it merely made the commodore's head appear even smaller when compared with the great bulk beneath it.

"Welcome, Captain." His voice was smooth, even gentle. "You must have made a quick passage." His eyes moved calmly over Bolitho's bedraggled appearance, but he did not remark on it. Then he waved to some chairs and pointed to a silver wine casket which swung gently from the deckhead. "A drink perhaps?"

Across his bulky shoulder Winstanley gave the merest shake of his head and Bolitho said, "No, thank you, sir. Not for the moment."

He saw Winstanley relax slightly and noticed that Peiham-Martin was smiling. He was grateful for Winstanley's warning, yet at the same time he was irritated at being put to some private test for the commodore's own purpose.

"Well, I expect you have read all the available reports, Bolitho. Our duty here is to patrol the approaches to the Gironde Estuary and stop any shipping entering or leaving. I have made a signal to Vectis to sail for Plymouth for repairs. She lost her mizzen in a great gale some two weeks back, and spare spars are in great demand here. In a few months' time we will be joined by two more sail of the line, and by then we should know what the Frogs intend to do, eh?" He leaned back comfortably and smiled. He looked more like a rich merchant than a sea officer, Bolitho thought vaguely.

He heard himself say, "The French will be out before that, sir."

Pelham-Martin's smile stayed fixed on his small mouth. "You say so? Where did you gather this information?" He leaned forward slightly. "Has the admiral been keeping something from me then?"

Bolitho smiled. "No, sir. But I have been reading all the available reports, and I consider that the French will have to break out soon if they are to be of any use to their cause."

Pelham-Martin nodded slowly. "That is a masterpiece of self-deception, Bolitho." He waved one hand towards the windows and through the salt-stained glass Bolitho could see the next ship astern throwing the spray across her bows, yet giving the impression of ponderous indestructibility.

The commodore added calmly, "These ships will prevent any such foolishness." He seemed to become impatient and dragged a chart from beneath some leatherbound books. "We are here," he stabbed the chart with one pink finger, "and I have placed the two frigates, Spartan and Abdiel, on the southern approaches to warn of any attempt by the enemy to cross into this area from Spanish waters." The finger moved towards the rambling coastline above the Gironde. "Here I have deployed my third frigate, Ithuriel, in the exact area to see and report any French attempt to leave Bordeaux for the north."

Bolitho looked up. "And the sloops, sir?" Again a quick shake of the head from Captain Winstanley, but Bolitho's anger at Pelham-Martin's easy dismissal of his ideas had thrust caution at one side.

"Sloops?" Pelham-Martin nodded gravely. "You have indeed read your reports, Bolitho." The smile vanished. "I have despatched them to Vigo for, er, extra stores."

Bolitho looked away. It was incredible. Vigo, on the north-west coast of Spain, was over four hundred miles away. Further from the Gironde Estuary than Plymouth itself!

The commodore's hands. began to tap a slow tattoo on the edge of the table. Like two smooth, pink crabs. He asked quietly, "You seem to disapprove?"

Bolitho kept his tone level. "The frigate Ithuriel is all alone so close inshore, sir. And the other two frigates are too far to the south'rd to assist her if she is attacked."

Pelham-Martin eyed him for several seconds. "Ithuriel's captain has my orders, my orders, d'you understand, to close the squadron the moment he sights any sign of activity." The smile came back slightly. "I understood that you had been a frigate captain, Bolitho? Surely you do not deny the Ithuriel's captain the chance to prove his worth?"

Bolitho said flatly, "I think he would stand no chance at all, sir."

Winstanley shifted on his chair. "What Captain Bolitho means is…"

Pelham-Martin lifted one hand. "I know what he means, Winstanley! Not for him the business of blockade, dear me, no! He wants to drive headlong ashore and seize some wretched ship for prize money, no doubt!"

"No, sir," Bolitho gripped the arms of his chair. He had made a bad start. Worrying about Inch and Stepkyne, his near fall into the sea from his barge under the eyes of the squadron had pared away his normal reserve when dealing with senior officers., "But I do believe that unless we know exactly what we are blockading we can never take steps to deal with whatever ruse the French will employ."

The commodore stared at him. "My orders are to patrol this area. That is what I am doing. Really, Bolitho, I do not know what you were told aboard Vice-Admiral Cavendish's flagship, but I can assure you we are well aware of the task entrusted to us here."

"I did not go aboard the flagship, sir." Bolitho saw a quick flash of surprise in the other man's eyes before the shutter dropped again. He added quietly, "My orders were sent across to me." It was a lie, but only half a lie.

But the effect of it was instantaneous and more than surprising. Pelham-Martin dragged a gold watch from his straining waistcoat and said, "Please me by going on deck, Winstanley. Just make sure that all my despatches were sent across to the Vectis before she left the squadron, eh?" As soon as the door closed behind the other captain he continued evenly, "I am sorry if I seemed unwilling to listen to your appraisal of our situation here, Bolitho." He smiled and lifted a decanter from the silver casket. "Some brandy, eh? Took it from a French coaster a week ago." He did not wait for a reply but poured it liberally into some glasses which had been concealed below the table. "The fact is, I do not always see eye to eye with Sir Manley, you know." He watched Bolitho above the rim of his glass. "It is a family matter, a deeply rooted dispute of some standing now." He wagged the glass. "Not unknown in your family too, I believe?"

Bolitho felt the brandy burning his lips. It seemed as if his brother's memory, his disgrace to the family name would never be allowed to die. And now Pelham-Martin was using it as a comparison with some stupid feud caused by his own brother's cowardice, or whatever it had been which had caused him to surrender without first warning the ships coming to relieve and sustain his soldiers.

The commodore nodded gravely. "Of course, my brother did not actually desert his country, but the end result is the same. He was trying to save his men from useless slaughter." He sighed deeply. "But history only judges results and not intentions."

Bolitho said flatly, "I am sure that neither the viceadmiral nor you would jeopardise efficiency over this matter, sir."

"Quite so." Pelham-Martin was smiling again. `But as his junior I have to be doubly careful, you understand? His tone hardened. "And that is why I obey my orders, and nothing more." He paused before adding, "And so will you!"

The interview was over, but as Bolitho rose to his feet Pelham-Martin said easily, "In any case, this tiresome duty will give you ample opportunity to drill your people into shape." He shook his head. "The sail handling was, to say the 'least, very poor indeed."

Bolitho stepped from the cabin and breathed out very slowly. So this was how it was to be. Outwardly everything perfect, but as far as initiative and closing with the enemy were concerned, their hands were to be well tied.

On the quarterdeck Winstanley greeted him with a relieved smile. "Sorry about the warning, Bolitho. Should have told you earlier. The commodore likes to get officers in their cups before he starts his interviews. A nasty little habit which has cost more than one of 'em a quick passage home." He grinned. "Not me of course. He needs a good old salthorse to run his ship." He gripped Bolitho's arm. "Just as he'll need you before we're done, my friend!"

Bolitho smiled. "I am afraid I needed no drink to irritate him."

Winstanley followed him to the quarterdeck rail and together they stared across at the Hyperion as she swayed heavily on the steep offshore swell.

He said, "I agree with everything you said about the frigates. I have told him my views repeatedly, yet he still believes the real threat is from the south." He shook his head. "But if he is indeed wrong then he will have more than an enraged admiral to contend with." He added grimly, "And so will we!"

The wind had eased slightly during the interview and Bolitho had little difficulty in boarding his barge. On the way back to his ship he thought back over every word Pelham-Martin had uttered, and over those he had not spoken.

As he climbed through the entry port he found Inch waiting for him and realised with a start that while he had been contemplating the commodore's strategy the small drama of Inch's clash with Stepkyne had faded from his mind.

He said curtly, "Get the barge inboard and prepare to wear ship, Mr. Inch." He unclipped his swordbelt and handed it to Petch, his servant. Then he dropped his voice and added, "I would suggest that you go around the upperdeck yourself while you have time." He held Inch's eyes with his own. "Better to be sure now than sorry later."

Inch nodded, his face so full of gratitude that Bolitho felt ashamed for him, and for himself. He had fully intended to give Inch the greatest reprimand he could muster, and in his heart he knew that it was probably doing him a disservice by not doing it. But after the commodore's attitude to his superior and the danger it could entail for all of them, he could not bring himself to break Inch's last strand of self-confidence.

Even as the barge swung dizzily above the larboard gangway Gascoigne called, "Flag to Hyperion! Take station astern of column!"

"Acknowledge!" Bolitho clasped his hands behind him. Astern of column, he thought bitterly. Vectis had already slipped away into the drizzle and mist, and now there were just three ships, and they too distant from the enemy to do much good. Somewhere, far beyond the flagship was one solitary frigate. He could pity her captain.

The pipes shrilled and men swarmed to their stations, as if each one was fully aware of the flagship's nearness, more so perhaps of their own captain's displeasure.

But in spite of the clumsiness and expected confusion amongst some of the hands the manoeuvre was completed without further incident. The Hyperion went about, and showing her copper in a steep swell tacked round to take station astern of the other seventy-four, Hermes, so that to an onlooker, had there been one, there was nothing to show that a new sentinel had arrived, nor that one was already making full sail for England and a momentary rest from blockade.

Eventually Inch crossed the quarterdeck and touched his hat. "Permission to dismiss the watch below, sir?"

Bolitho nodded. Then he said, "In future, Mr. Inch, be firm when you are giving your orders. Whether it be to those who know better or merely think they know better. Then they will have confidence in you." The words stuck in his throat as he added, "Just as I have confidence in you." He turned on his heel and walked to the weather side, unable to watch Inch's pathetic determination.

Inch gripped the quarterdeck rail and stared blindly at the milling seamen around the foot of the foremast as they were relieved from duty. He had been dreading Bolitho's return, not because he was going to be told of his failures, for he was better aware.of them than anyone. But because he had caused Bolitho displeasure and disappointment, and that he could not bear. To Inch's simple mind Bolitho was more like a god than a captain. If hero-worship was a driving force then Inch possessed it more than a will to live.

He pointed suddenly and called, "That man! Come now, you can do better than that!"

The seaman in question looked up guiltily and then turned back to his work. He did not know what he had done wrong, and in any case he was doing his task the only way he knew. Nor could he possibly realise that to the first lieutenant he was just a misty blur, an outline amongst many as Inch stared along the length of the labouring ship seeing his own future come alive once more.

Gossett, writing on his slate beside the helmsman, glanced across at him and then at the captain as he strode up and down, head lowered in thought, his hands behind him, and gave a slow nod of understanding. Poor Inch, he thought. Some captains he had known would never have bothered with an officer like him. But Bolitho seemed to care about everyone. When they failed him he seemed to feel the blame himself, yet when he succeeded he always appeared to share the rewards with them. The old master smiled to himself. Equality, that was the word. It suited Bolitho right well. Equality Dick. His features split into a broad grin.

Bolitho paused at the end of his walk and said sharply, "Mr. Gossett, there are six midshipmen aboard this ship whose instruction in the arts of navigation was due to commence some fifteen minutes ago to my reckoning."

Gossett touched his battered hat, but could not, stop grinning. "Aye, aye, sir! I will attend to it immediately!"

Bolitho stared after him. It was not like Gossett to daydream.

He recommenced his pacing and returned to his thoughts. No doubt they would all have time for daydreaming under Pelham-Martin's broad pendant, he decided.