ENEMY IN SIGHT

3. DECEPTION

As days dragged into weeks it seemed to Bolitho as if there was no limit to the merciless cruelty of wind and sea, and the whole world appeared to have shrunk to the inner confines of the ship's hull and the wave-dashed upper deck. Neither was there any let-up in the commodore's orders. Day after day the three ships tacked back and forth in every conceivable kind of weather which the Bay of Biscay could offer. Short, gusty winds would change to the full force of an Atlantic gale within minutes, and as seamen struggled aloft again and again to fight the icy, frost-hardened canvas station-keeping became a nightmare. For days on end the three ships might ride out a storm under reefed topsails, and when visibility returned they would be greeted by a whole stream of urgent signals from the Indomitable to regain formation and begin all over again.

There was no longer any seasickness aboard the HI yperion, and when they were released for brief spells from work on deck the hands slumped into their cramped hammocks like dead men, grateful only for the warmth of the other bodies swinging around them as the ship smashed on through the angry offshore currents and screaming winds.

But hardly an hour seemed to pass before the pipes

I were shrilling again and the cry, "All hands! All hands! Aloft and reef tops'ls!" would be passed from hatch to hatch.

To prevent the ship's company from giving way completely to despair Bolitho used every available opportunity to keep them occupied. Gun drill was carried out whenever possible, with the starboard side competing against the larboard. The gunners from the lower battery had to take turns on the main deck for as yet the weather had been too rough to open the lower ports.

When Bolitho made his regular weekly inspections throughout the ship he was moved by the wretched conditions of the men who lived on the lower gundeck beside and between the thirty' twenty-four pounders they would service in action. With the ports sealed and the ship rolling heavily it was like a scene from hell. Some three hundred men lived, ate and slept there, and even allowing for one watch being on deck, the atmosphere was sickening. The foul stench of bilge mixed with packed humanity and clothing which was never able to dry was more than enough for the most hardened `seaman.

Three weeks after joining Pelham-Martin's command they lost a man overboard, a young seaman who had been pressed in Devon. He had been working on the forecastle with the bosun's party when a great wave had reared high above the jib boom and had hurled him clean over the rail like a piece of canvas. For a few moments he had clung, kicking to the nettings before another bursting wave had torn him away and carried him screaming down the ship's side.

It had been blowing a gale at the time and it was impossible to heave to without danger of dismasting the ship. Not that there would have been any point. By the time a boat could have fought its way clear of the side there would have been no chance of finding the man in that tossing wilderness. But it made a great impression throughout the ship which even the toughened acceptance of more seasoned men could not dispel.

It had been the ship's first death since leaving Plymouth, and with the weather driving the ship inwards upon her own resources it seemed to hang on the crowded messdecks like a threat. There had been much the same atmosphere over the first flogging, too. A seaman had somehow managed to break into a spirit store, and without telling any of his companions had found a quiet corner deep in the ship's hull and got raving drunk. He had emerged during the first watch, stark naked and had capered around the darkened deck like an insane ghost screaming taunts and curses at anyone who tried to overpower him. He had even managed to fell a petty officer before others succeeded in hurling him to the deck.

The next day, while the ship wallowed heavily in a rain squall Bolitho had the hands called aft to witness punishment, and after reading the Articles of War ordered the bosun's mates to carry out the award of thirty lashes. By any standard it was a lenient punishment in the Navy's harsh code of discipline. Breaking into the spirit store was bad, but striking -a petty officer was liable to court martial and hanging, as everyone knew well enough.

Bolitho had found no comfort in awarding the minimum punishment. Even the fact that the petty officer had agreed to say he had not in fact been struck at all was no compensation for the flogging. Punishment at any other time was necessary, but it had seemed to him as he had stood by the rail with his officers and the marine drummer boy's sticks had beaten a slow roll between each swishing crack of the cat-o'-nine-tails across the man's naked back, that the whole ship had enough to bear without any extra misery. It had somehow been made worse by the rain, with the watching ship's company huddled together for warmth, the scarlet line of marines swaying to the deck's uneven roll, and the writhing figure spread-eagled on the gratings, gasping and sobbing as the lash rose and fell in time with the drumbeats.

Occasionally a sloop would seek out the small squadron with despatches from the fleet or stores brought from Vigo, and when weather permitted the commodore would summon his captains aboard the flagship while he read out his own formal report in their presence before signing it, and then to Bolitho's astonishment, asking each of the three captains in turn to sign it also.

He had never heard of such a thing before, but he could tell from the wooden faces of his two companions that they were quite used to Pelham-Martin's strange whim. It was increasingly obvious that the commodore had no intention of leaving a single flaw in his plan to keep the vice-admiral's criticism or possible displeasure at bay by causing his three captains to be implicated in everything he did. So far of course he had done nothing at all, except abide by the letter of his orders. Patrol and blockade, and nothing more.

Whenever Bolitho was called aboard the Indomitable he found Pelham-Martin to be a lavish entertainer. The sloops which came and went from Vigo apparently kept him well supplied with choice wines, and what was more important as far as Bolitho was concerned, a small link with the outside world.

The last occasion Bolitho visited the flagship was on Christmas Day. Curiously enough the weather moderated to a slow north-westerly breeze and the sea eased out its lines of cruising wavecrests into a deep, sullen swell. The Hyperion's upper deck became crowded with figures as they stared at the grey, undulating water and at the other ships as if for the first time. As well they might, for during the eight weeks since joining Pelham-Martin's command the weather had never eased for more than an hour at a time.

Bolitho was irritated at having to visit the flagship. Christmas under these conditions would be wretched enough for his company without his leaving as if to enjoy himself at the commodore's lavish table. The Hyperion's fresh food had long since gone and the Christmas dinner for the lower deck was a strange concoction of hot beef hash well laced with rum, and doubtful-tasting duff, which Gilpin, the one-eyed and villainous-looking cook, assured Bolitho "would set their hearts all aflame."

But Bolitho knew that the visit to the flagship was not merely for good cheer. A sloop had appeared at first light, using the light airs to dash down on the slow moving twodeckers like a terrier after three ponderous bullocks. She was not one of Pelham-Martin's sloops, but from the main squadron of Lorient, and by the time Bolitho had thrown on his dress coat and called away his barge he saw the sloop's gig already alongside the flagship.

Upon arrival aboard the Indomitable he found PelhamMartin in a very jovial mood. In the great cabin Winstanley was quite expressionless, and Captain Fitzmaurice of the Hermes looked openly dismayed.

The news from Lorient was unsettling. Vice-Admiral Cavendish had despatched two frigates to patrol close inshore to check upon any sign of change or movement amongst the mass of anchored shipping within the port. It was a routine task, and one to which both frigate captains were well accustomed. But as they closed the shore their masthead lookouts had reported the startling news that instead of being in ordinary as before, the French ships of the line had their yards crossed, and to all appearances seemed fewer in number. So some must have slipped out through the blockade.

The sloop's commander had not been prepared to add much to this news until Pelham-Martin insisted he should take some of his brandy. The young officer's tongue, thus loosened, told the commodore that in addition to all this both frigates had only just missed being overwhelmed by four French ships which had apparently dashed out of Bell lie and had almost caught the two scouts on a lee shore.

Pelham-Martin's eyes glistened with tears as he laughed, "You see, Bolitho! I told you this would happen! These hit and miss affairs are no use for blockade. Patience and a show of strength is all we need."

Bolitho asked quietly, "Did the sloop bring any new orders, sir?"

Pelham-Martin was still chuckling. It seemed he could have not been more pleased if the fleet had won a great victory, instead of his old enemy having allowed the French to prepare for sea without being discovered.

He said between chuckles, "Sir Manley Cavendish requires a full report of French men-o'-war in this area,. their state of readiness and so forth." He made it sound so trivial that Bolitho imagined for an instant he had missed something. But Fitzmaurice's grim face told him otherwise.

Pelham-Martin laid one hand on Bolitho's sleeve. "Never fear, we will send a report in good time." He cocked his small head on to one shoulder and smiled gently. "You can close inshore tomorrow, Bolitho, and make contact with Ithuriel. How does that suit you, eh?"

The commodore had arranged a grand meal in his own cabin for the three captains, after first writing a brief acknowledgement for the sloop to carry back to ViceAdmiral Cavendish. He had obviously been sorely tempted to add something in the nature of a sarcastic condolence, but even he knew that such wording would be taken as what it was, an open sneer at Cavendish's misfortune.

All through the meal Bolitho fretted and fumed at the delay. There might be a few ships near the Gironde Estuary, and again there could be a possibility of taking some action against them. If there was nothing of value he might even use his brief freedom from Pelham-Martin's apron strings to sweep further along the coast, for information if nothing better was at hand.

Pelham-Martin was obviously well connected, he thought. Throughout the meal he tossed off names and titles of people he knew, of affairs at Court and in Parliament, and if only half true it was no wonder to Bolitho he had been able to survive his admiral's hostility.

He had a maddening way of simplifying or ignoring any sort of danger from the gathering French ships, but at the same time there was something almost likeable about him. Out of his own pocket he had paid for fresh fruit to be sent from Vigo, enough for every man aboard the three ships under his immediate control.

As Bolitho peeled an orange and listened to Fitzmaurice retelling in detail the last moments of Howe's victory on the First of June, he thought of Falmouth, and wondered

I if Cheney was thinking of him, if the old grey house was covered in snow, if his child would be boy or girl. He did not care which, so long as she, was happy.

Eventually, and thankfully, it was over, and Bolitho returned to his ship without further delay. Surprisingly it seemed very quiet, and but for the duty watch the main deck was completely deserted. Only from the wardroom was there any sound of gaiety, and that merely a deep bass voice raised in some sentimental song beloved of sailors, which obviously belonged to Gossett.

Inch was waiting to receive him, and said in reply to Bolitho's question, "Most of our people have turned into their hammocks, sir."

I i Bolitho nodded. After weeks of hardship and wet misery the good hot food and extra rations of spirits would leave little room for further celebrations.

"Good. We will leave them in peace, Mr. Inch, until it's time to call the watch on deck."

He looked suddenly at Inch's drawn face. "Have you dined well today?"

Inch shuffled his feet awkwardly. "I've had a lot to do, sir."

Bolitho studied him with fresh understanding. Of course Inch would never join in with the others with his captain away in the flagship. He had a sudden picture of Inch bobbing and scurrying from deck to deck, making sure that everything was well. Doing his best.

He said abruptly, "Come aft, Mr. Inch." He walked towards the poop adding, "We will leave the squadron at first light tomorrow and make visual contact with the Ithuriel." He nodded to the marine sentry and led the way into his cabin where Petch was screwed up into a tight ball against the bulkhead, fast asleep.

Bolitho grinned and unbuckled his sword. "A drink with me, Mr. Inch."

Inch took off his hat and clasped it between his hands as he stared round the cabin, probably remembering those other days when he had been a mere fifth lieutenant and Bolitho had come aboard to take command and carry them through one battle after another.

He blurted out suddenly, "I-I got engaged to be married, sir, when we were at Plymouth."

Bolitho poured two full measures of claret.4'Then I am glad to drink your health, Mr. Inch."'

Inch dabbed his mouth and held the glass up to a

lantern. "Daughter of a doctor, sir. A very fine girl." He nodded. "I hope to marry when we put back to England."

Bolitho looked away, remembering suddenly how much a part Inch had played in his life since he had taken command of the old Hyperion. He had even been there in church to see him married to Cheney.

He turned and said quietly, "I wish you every success. It is another good reason to do well and gain advancement." He grinned. "A command of your own, eh?"

Inch looked at his feet. "I-I hope so, sir."

Bolitho had already had quite enough to drink and eat aboard the flagship, but at the same time the thought of being alone, cut off from the rest of the ship by the bulkhead and the marine sentry, was more than he could bear. Not tonight, of all nights. He walked across the cabin and shook the servant by his shoulder. As Petch staggered to his feet Bolitho said, "We will have some more claret. And I think some of that excellent cheese which my wife sent aboard."

Inch said, "She'll be thinking of us tonight, sir."

Bolitho stared at him for several seconds without speaking. Of us. That was what Inch had said, and he was right. He of all people must remember what she had meant to the Hyperion when she had taken passage aboard. When she had served the wounded while the timbers had quaked to the broadsides above her.

He replied quietly, "I am sure she will."

As Petch busied himself at the table Inch watched Bolitho, hardly daring to blink in case he should miss something. He could not recall having seen him like this before. He was sitting on the bench seat below the windows plucking absently at the lock of black hair which Inch knew covered the livid scar from some past action, and although his eyes were on Petch they were unseeing and distant, and somehow defenceless. It was like a discovery or an intrusion, and Inch knew he would always remember it, and keep it to himself.

Even before there was a hint of grey in the sky all hands were called, and with topsails and courses filling and cracking to a moderate wind the Hyperion headed away from her two darkened consorts. As the seamen moved briskly at halyards and braces Bolitho stood by the quarterdeck rail, very conscious of the changed atmosphere which the brief freedom from PelhamMartin's supervision had brought. For the first time in two months since they had left Plymouth Sound he heard the topmen calling and chattering as they worked busily above the vibrating yards, and he could hear the shriller voices of midshipmen who were urging their men in some unofficial and dangerous contest, their behaviour hidden from their superiors by the dark sky and spreading sails above and around them.

Only a few seemed listless and with little to say, and Bolitho guessed that the icy dawn air, in competition with the previous day's rum-soaked food, was to blame rather than any lingering resentment.

He shivered and walked quickly to the compass. In the feeble binnacle light he could see the card swaying but steady. North-east by north. With luck they would close the lonely Ithuriel by noon. If there was nothing to report there might still be time to make use of this rare freedom to sail futher north and beyond the estuary. For in spite of the commodore's confidence and his obvious belief that any possible prize or blockade runner would appear from the south where he had placed his other two. frigates, Bolitho knew from experience that the French were rarely obliging when it came to assisting their own defeat.

Inch crossed the deck and touched his hat. "Shall I set the t'gallants, sir?" He, too, sounded crisper and more alive again.

Bolitho shook his head. "You may send the hands to breakfast, Mr. Inch. They've worked hard and will have gained healthy appetites in this keen air." He wondered briefly if salt pork and iron-hard biscuits would throw half the seamen into a wave of nausea but added, "We'll get more canvas on her as soon as it's daylight." He nodded to Inch and then made his way aft to the cabin.

He threw his threadbare seagoing coat on to a chair-and seated himself at his desk. Petch had laid out a plate and some steaming coffee, and was busy with his master's breakfast in the adjoining pantry. Even Petch seemed to have got used to Bolitho's habit of eating from his desk rather than the dining table.

But Bolitho enjoyed sitting with nothing but the great glass stem windows between him and the open sea. Sometimes he could shut the ship and her teeming company from his thoughts and just stare out and away to nothing. It was a complete delusion, but it was some comfort when he most needed it.

Today it was still too dark to see much beyond the ship's white bubbling wake as it surged clear of the rudder. But he was momentarily content. The ship was alive again, and anything, anything, was better than doing nothing. He pitched his ear to the sounds and strains around him. The vibrating rumble of steering gear, the sluice and thunder of water against the hull, and above all, the great sighing moan of wind through rigging and shrouds as the ship gathered it to her own resources and drove on towards the invisible land.

Petch laid his breakfast on the desk and stood back to watch Bolitho's reactions.

A slice of fat pork, fried pale brown with biscuit crumbs. Two ship's biscuits liberally spread with thick black treacle, and the coffee. It was a spartan enough dish for a captain of a King's ship, but after Pelham-Martin's rich table it was somehow welcome and reassuring.

But it was all too good to last. Later as he walked slowly on the quarterdeck watching the hands busy with holystones and swabs and the marines going through their mysterious ceremonies of musket drill and inspection, Bolitho had the feeling that things had changed.

Gossett called suddenly, "Wind's veerin', sir!"

Bolitho squinted up at the masthead pendant. Perverse as ever the Bay's weather was changing against him, and already the topsails were shaking and banging with nervous disarray.

He said, "We will alter course two points. Steer northeast by east."

Stepkyne was officer of the watch and looked as if he had been drinking heavily the day before.

"Midshipman of the watch! Pipe the hands to the braces, and lively with it!"

Even as the ship wallowed round on to her new course Bolitho knew it was not going to be enough. The wind was still veering and losing some of its strength, and the masthead pendant, instead of standing out stiffly was cracking and curling like a coachman's whip.

Gossett plodded to his side and murmured, "We'll 'ave to tack, sir." His palm rasped across his jowl. "By my way o' thinkin' the wind'll be blowin' right offshore afore the watch changes."

Bolitho eyed him gravely. Gossett was rarely wrong about the elements.

"Very well. Lay her on the larboard tack. We will have to beat well to the north'rd of the estuary if we are to find Ithuriel today."

He smiled at Gossett, but inwardly he was angry and disappointed. But as the wind went round still further he knew there was nothing else for it. By two bells of the forenoon watch the wind had steadied to the north-east, some ninety degrees from its original bearing. So instead of driving comfortably to some point where they could sight and signal the frigate, they must claw their way well north of the estuary in order to take what small advantage there was from the wind's lessening power.

Inch crossed the deck and said, "It'll take hours before we can go about again, sir." He, too, sounded disappointed.

Bolitho watched the yards creaking round and felt the ship cant heavily as she swung across the wind, her sails flapping and billowing before filling again to lay her over still further to follow the endless ranks of small, leaping white horses.

"We will make up for it later." He controlled his own irritation and added shortly, "This is an excellent chance to exercise the lower battery, Mr. Inch."

He walked aft and peered at the compass. North, northwest. Well at least it would allow the lower gundeck to exercise without being swamped through the open ports. Some ventilation would not come amiss either to drive away the damp and the foul air from the ship's deep hull.

It took another six hours to make good the enforced alteration of course, and by the time the Hyperion was running south again, carrying every stitch of canvas to receive the indifferent offshore wind, the daylight was already beginning to fade.

Bolitho was walking back and forth at the weather side when the masthead lookout suddenly broke into his brooding thoughts.

"Deck there! Sail fine on th' larboard bow!"

Bolitho glanced at the masthead pendant. There was no point in altering course. It would take more precious time, and there would be no light at all within an hour. They would pass the frigate some two miles abeam, and that would suffice to read her signals.

He lifted his glass and peered across the nettings. He could not see the distant ship, for her shape was well merged with the dull grey blur which he knew to be the French coast. He looked aloft again and bit his lip. Up there, swaying comfortably on his dizzy perch, the lookout would be able to see her quite well, and more important, the lay of the land beyond.

He made up his mind. "I'm going aloft, Mr. Inch." He ignored the quick exchange of glances, but concentrated all his will on climbing out on to the weather shrouds and slowly step by step up the quivering ratlines. Ever since he had been a midshipman Bolitho had hated heights, and each time he had found himself forced to make such a climb he always expected he would have outgrown such a stupid fear. But it was not so, and with gritted teeth, his eyes fixed firmly towards the swaying topmast, he continued to climb higher and higher. Up and around the maintop, where two startled marines were cleaning a swivel gun, and gritting his teeth still harder to control the rising nausea as he felt the pull of his weight against his fingers while his body hung outwards on the futtock shrouds. But with more eyes fixed upon him than the approaching frigate, he could not take the easier passage of the lubber's hole.

When at last he reached the crosstrees he found a grizzled, pigtailed seaman already moving aside to give him room to sit down. Bolitho nodded gratefully, as yet unable to regain his breath. For a few moments he sat with his back against the trembling mast while he groped for his slung telescope and tried not to look down at the neck so far below him.

He heard Midshipman Gascoigne yelling, "She's made the recognition signal, sir!" Inch must have said something for seconds later the arranged acknowledgement broke in a bright rectangle from the main topsail yard.

Bolitho trained his glass and saw the sleek frigate swooping across the lens, the spray lifting above her bows in one unbroken curtain. He forgot his discomfort as he remembered his own service in frigates. Always on the move, with the dash and excitement which only such graceful ships could give. He pitied her captain's lonely vigil here. Back and forth, day after day, with nothing to show for it. A ship of the line was bad enough in these conditions, but within her sleek hull it would be a living nightmare.

He dragged the glass away from the other ship and swung it across the darkening spit of headland to the north of the estuary. A few patches, probably coastguard houses, he thought. Above the distant offshore current they appeared to be moving and the sea to be still. He lowered the glass and wiped his eye with his sleeve.

He heard Inch's voice carried by the wind. "Captain, sir! Ithuriel has nothing to report!"

By waiting for the mizzen topsail to flap momentarily in the falling wind it was possible for Bolitho to see the shortened figures standing on the quarterdeck, their faces pale blobs against the worn planking. He could see Gascoigne, his signal book flapping in the breeze, and Stepkyne with his glass on the frigate as she cruised past on the opposite tack. Even the ship looked small and compact, so that it was hard to accept that six hundred human souls lived out their lives within her fat hull.

He thought, too, of the frigate's wretched conditions. One of a chain of ships, weatherbeaten and dependent on their own resources, yet essential if the enemy was to be contained within his harbours.

Bolitho swallowed hard and seized a backstay. He could not face another long climb, even downwards, so 56

watched by the lookout with something like awe he swung from the crosstrees, and holding his breath made his way to the quarterdeck by a faster, if less dignified method. He arrived panting on deck, conscious of the grinning seamen around him and of the pain in his legs where the thick stay had seared through to his skin in the speedy and heartstopping descent.

He said stiffly, "Before the light goes I will make a signal to Ithuriel." He beckoned to Gascoigne. "I've -forgotten her captain's name."

Gascoigne was still gaping as if he could not believe a captain could behave in such an odd manner. Then he opened his book and stammered, "Ithuriel, 32, Captain Curry, sir!"

It would sound trite to wish him a good New Year, Bolitho thought, but it would be better than nothing.

Stepkyne said, "Well, they've kept her smart enough, in spite of the damn weather."

Bolitho took Gascoigne's big signal telescope and lifted it above the nettings. The frigate was on the Hyperion's larboard quarter now and he could see the huddled figures on her quarterdeck below the tattered remnant of her ensign. He blinked his eyes rapidly to clear them from strain. He was mistaken. He had to be.

His voice was still calm as he snapped, "Make this signal, Mr. Gascoigne. Hermes to Ithuriel. Good luck."

He ignored the startled look on the midshipman's pale face and rasped, "That's right. I said Hermes!" Then he added, "Thank you, Mr. Stepkyne."

Nobody spoke. Those standing near Bolitho even averted their eyes as if unable to watch his madness.

Gascoigne said in a small voice, "She's acknowledged, sir."

Bolitho looked away. "Lay her on. the starboard tack, Mr. Gossett. We will steer due west." Then as the pipes twittered and the men ran to the braces he added harshly, "Ithuriel is a thirty-two-gun frigate, gentlemen. That ship is a thirty-six! And only a Frenchman would fail to see we are not the Hermes!"

They were all staring at him now. "Mr. Stepkyne saw it first, even though he did not recognise fully what he had discovered. She is too smart, too clean after weeks of blockade duty!

Inch said, "What does it mean, sir?" He seemed stunned.

Bolitho watched the yards swinging and the sails filling again to the wind.

"It means, gentlemen, that Ithuriel has been taken. That explains how those people knew our recognition signals." It was amazing how calm he sounded. He could not understand it, when every fibre in his body was crying out for them to understand, as he did. He saw Allday leaning against a nine-pounder, staring astern at the frigate as she sidled once more into the haze of spray and growing darkness. He would know how Bolitho felt. He had been aboard his ship, the Phalarope when she had been attacked by an American privateer. That, too, had been a British frigate taken as a prize.

Bolitho asked slowly, "Why should the French bother with such a deception? They have taken a good frigate, so why keep it a secret?"

Gossett said, "Seems to me, sir, that they got summat to 'ide."

Bolitho showed his teeth in a smile. "I believe so, Mr. Gossett." He looked up at the flapping pendant. "There is no time to inform the squadron, even if we could find them." His tone hardened. "As soon as it is dark we will go about and work to a position north of the estuary again. I have no doubt the frigate's captain, whoever he is, will anchor for the night. He will know it to be unlikely for another ship to come from the squadron for days, even weeks maybe." He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice. If Pelham-Martin had concentrated his three frigates, and if possible the sloops as well in a tight are around the patrol area and within visual distance of one another, this could never have happened. He continued in the same flat tone, "We will close the shore as near as we are able. When the first daylight appears I want to have the wind-gage." He glanced coldly at the nearest guns.

"This time I will do the talking first. And with authority!'

As the banks of cloud closed across the horizon and plunged the sea into total darkness Bolitho still paced the quarterdeck. He was soaked to the skin with spray but did not even feel it. He was seeing that frigate again, feeling the arrogance of her captain as he had signalled to the two-decker. And it had been such a close call. He felt the anger twisting in his stomach like fire. Another few minutes and they would have parted. Hyperion would have informed the commodore there was nothing unusual to report, and he would have been more than willing to accept it.

And the frigate? He paused in his pacing so that the helmsman's eyes blinked anxiously in the compass light as Bolitho stared unseeingly through him. She would be able to tell her masters that the English were deceived. He frowned. But to what purpose? He continued his pacing, aware of nothing but his thoughts and what they could mean for him, and his ship.

Hyperion could have dismasted the frigate with one illaimed broadside as they had passed. Suppose she was no longer on her station when dawn came? Pelham-Martin would not even have the satisfaction of knowing an enemy ship had been destroyed when he wrote to Cavendish with the admission of Ithuriel's capture.

Pelham-Martin would not be in any mood to shoulder the blame alone either, Bolitho decided grimly.

But there had to be a reason for the Frenchman's actions. There had to be.

At length, worn out and suddenly ice cold, he said wearily, "I will go to my cabin, Mr. Stepkyne. Call me half an hour before the morning watch, if you please." He took Inch by the arm. "Pass the word that I want all hands roused at that time. They will be fed and ready for whatever we must do when light returns."

As he walked into the darkness of the poop he heard a voice mutter admiringly, "Cool as a shark's belly, that one! Sees a bloody Frog under his guns an' don't turn a hair!"

Then Gossett's bass voice. "'Old yer yap, damn youl You'll find plenty o' time for noise when the guns begin to crack around yer ears!"

Bolitho entered his cabin and slammed the door. For a few moments he stood quite still, his shoulders pressed against the bulkhead as he stared emptily at the swinging lanterns.

Gossett knew well enough. Less than a quarter of the company had set foot aboard a ship before, let alone known the horror of an enemy broadside.

He closed his eyes tightly and tried to clear his mind of doubt. There was no choice, nor had there been from the moment he had seen through the frigate's calm deception.

And it had nearly worked, that was the worst part in some ways. In spite of all his experience and training he had only seen what he had expected to see. The frigate's captain had gambled on this, but he must have known the consequences for failure, must have found each minute like an hour as the Hyperion had surged by within, two miles of him.

Whatever it was the French were hiding it must be very worth while. Surprisingly the realisation steadied him, and later when Petch padded into the cabin with some coffee he found Bolitho sprawled on the stern bench, his face relaxed in sleep.

Petch was a simple soul, and when he told some of his friends that their captain was so self-assured he was fast asleep already, the tale gained much in the telling.

Allday heard the story and said nothing. He knew Bolitho better than any of them, and guessed that like himself he had probably been thinking of that other time, so many years ago, when a similar ruse had all but cost him his life, and his ship.

Allday examined his heavy cutlass in the dim light of a shaded lantern. If there was going to be a fight, the Hyperion's raw company would need more than confidence. A whole lot more!