ENEMY IN SIGHT

6. A KING'S OFFICER

For three weeks after leaving the rest of the squadron the Hyperion and the two frigates drove south-west, and later when the wind backed perversely and mounted to a full gale, due south under all sail which it was safe to carry.

Then, as January drew to a close, they picked up the north-east trade winds and headed out on the longest and final leg of their voyage. Three thousand miles of ocean, with nothing but their own meagre resources to sustain them.

But as far as Bolitho was concerned the weather for the first part of the voyage had been a welcome ally. Barely an hour passed without the hands being called to reef or trim the sails, and the ship's company had found little time to brood over their unexpected isolation and the great breadth of ocean which greeted their tired eyes at every dawn.

And in spite of the hardships and privations, if not because of them, he was pleased with the way his men were-shaping up. As he stood by the quarterdeck rail and watched the hands toiling with holystones and swabs he saw the obvious changes which had come about. Gone were the pallid skins and haggard faces. The bodies were still lean, but it was a tough leanness born of hard work and sea air, and they performed their daily tasks without the need of constant guidance or harrying. Of course the weather had a lot to do with it. All the colours were different. Blue instead of dull grey, and the rare clouds fleecy and unreachable as they glided across the clear sky towards an horizon which always seemed as hard and as bright as a sword blade.

While the Hyperion took full advantage of the friendly trades so she, too, altered her appearance accordingly. Now in a full suit of light sails to replace the thick heavyweather canvas, she seemed to lean forward and down across the endless panorama of glittering whitecaps, as if she was glad to be throwing off the bleak monotony of blockade duty and eager to reach beyond the sea's edge, and beyond that.

He lifted his telescope and moved it slowly above the nettings until he found the tiny pyramid of sails far out on the starboard bow, a mere flaw on the horizon to show that the frigate Abdiel was on her proper station. The other frigate, Spartan, was some twenty miles ahead of her and quite invisible. He closed the glass and handed it to the midshipman of the watch.

At moments like these it was hard to believe he was not still in sole command. Pelham-Martin rarely seemed to come on deck, and remained aloof and unreachable in the stern cabin for most of the time. He would grant Bolitho a brief audience every morning, listen to his comments or ideas, and then confine his comments to, "That seems quite a good plan." Or, "If you consider that to be in the best interest, Bolitho." It was as if he was saving himself for the real task which still lay ahead, and was content to leave local affairs to his captain.

Up to a point it suited Bolitho, but as far as the true depth and meaning of Pelham-Martin's orders were concerned, he was in complete ignorance.

The commodore still seemed unwilling to place any value on the selection of captains for certain tasks, and left it completely to Bolitho's own judgement, even though he was a stranger to the squadron. Bolitho thought about the far off Spartan and how Pelham-Martin seemed almost surprised to learn that he already knew her young captain. But it was only mild surprise and nothing more. He appeared to hold personal relationships at arm's length, as if they were of no importance at all.

Bolitho started to pace slowly up and down, thinking back over the years, to all the faces and memories which made up his service at sea. The Spartan's captain for instance. Charles Farquhar had once been a midshipman under him, and he had been the first to see his value and promote him to acting lieutenant. Now, at twenty-nine, he was a post-captain, and with his aristocratic family background and a long line of naval connections, it was likely he would end his career as an admiral and a very rich man. Curiously, Bolitho had never really liked him, but at the same time had recognised right from the start that he was both shrewd and resourceful, just as he was now said to be something of a tyrant when it came to running his own command.

But the Spartan was the leading ship, and upon her captain's first quick judgement could depend the success or failure of whatever Pelham-Martin might intend.

When he had mentioned to Pelham-Martin that Farquhar had once been a fellow prisoner aboard an American privateer the commodore had merely said, "Very interesting. You must tell me about it sometime." As he paced busily back and forth Bolitho found time to wonder what Pelham-Martin's reaction would be if he ever discovered that Bolitho's captor had been his own brother!

Inch hovered nearby, trying to catch his eye.

"Well?" Bolitho faced him abruptly, shutting the commodore's strange attitudes from his mind. "What can I do for you?"

Inch said, "Gun drill, sir?" He pulled out his watch. "I am hoping we may do better today."

Bolitho hid a smile. Inch was so serious these days, but a great improvement as a first lieutenant.

He replied, "Very well. They still take too long to clear for action. I want it done in ten minutes and not a second more. And there are also too many delays in loading and running out."

Inch nodded glumly. "I know, sir."

Bolitho half turned as a burst of laughter floated down from the main shrouds. He saw three midshipmen racing each other for the top, one of them he recognised as his nephew. It was strange that in a crowded ship they rarely seemed to meet. It was even harder to enquire of his welfare without appearing to show favouritism, or worse, mistrust.

He said distantly, "You know my standards. Clear for action in ten minutes or less. Then three broadsides every two minutes." He eyed him calmly. "You know it. Make sure they know it, too!" He walked back to the weather side adding casually, "I suggest you give one gun to the midshipmen this morning. It will keep 'em out of mischief, and more to the point will make our people all the more keen. It does them good to know they can beat an officers' crew in timing and efficiency."

Inch nodded. "I'll attend to it directly…" He flushed with embarrassment. "I-I mean at once, sir!"

Bolitho continued his pacing, his jaw aching as he tried to stop the grin from spreading across his face. It was just as if Inch was trying to mould himself on his captain, even to the way he spoke.

At two bells precisely he left the quarterdeck and made his way aft to the cabin. Much as usual he found PelhamMartin seated at the table, a silk napkin under his chin while he consumed a final cup of coffee after his late breakfast.

He said, "I have sent the hands to gun drill, sir."

Pelham-Martin dabbed his small mouth with a comer of the napkin and frowned as the deck trembled to the rumble of gun trucks and stamp of feet.

"So it would appear!" He shifted his bulky frame on the chair. "Is there anything else to report?"

Bolitho eyed him impassively. It was always the same. "We are steering west-south-west, sir, and the wind is steady as before. I have set the royals on her,. and with luck we should reach St. Kris in three weeks."

Pelham-Martin grimaced. "You sound very confident. But of course you know these waters well." He glanced towards the litter of papers and charts on the desk. "I hope to God there is some news awaiting us at St. Kruis." He scowled. "You can never can tell with the Dutch, of course."

Bolitho looked away. "It cannot be easy when you know your own homeland is being conquered, sir."

The commodore grunted. "That is not my concern. The point is, will they help us?"

"I believe so, sir. The Dutch have always been good friends, just as they have been honourable and courageous foes."

"Maybe." Pelham-Martin pulled himself on to his short legs and moved slowly up the tilting deck. At the desk he fiddled with the papers and then said bitterly, "My orders give me no real indication of what I am to expect. No sort of guide…" He broke off and swung round as if expecting criticism. "Well? What do you think?"

Bolitho said slowly, "I think we must try and inspire some confidence, sir. Be one move ahead of Lequiller's ships and foresee whatever he tries to do. He will use his strength whenever he can to force others to help and supply him. But at the same time he must realise that his squadron is vulnerable and will want to use it without delay and to the best effect." He crossed to the charts. "He will know that he is being chased, and will therefore have the advantage."

Pelham-Martin leaned heavily on the desk. "I know that, dammit!"

"It will be necessary to seek him out, to prevent him from carrying out his intentions, before he can act."

"But in the name of heaven, man, do you know what you're saying?" He sounded shocked. "You are suggesting that I should sail to some mark on a chart and merely sit and wait?"

Bolitho replied calmly, "A chase is always a chase, sir. I have rarely known one group of ships to overhaul another without some piece of extreme luck. To catch a shark you must have a suitable bait, one so rich that even the wiliest cannot resist it."

Pelham-Martin rubbed his chin. "Treasure ships. You are speaking of those?" He walked unsteadily across the cabin. "It is a terrible risk, Bolitho. If Lequiller intended to attack somewhere else, and we were watching over some ships at the other end of the Caribbean," he shuddered, "it would be my responsibility!"

Perhaps the commodore was only now beginning to realise the full implication of his task, Bolitho thought. Reaching St. Kruis without delay was not even a beginning. There were countless islands, some almost unknown except to pirates and renegades of every kind. And Lequiller's past experience would have taught him about many of them, of places to hide and water his ships, where he could glean information and sow unrest, and always he had the vast sea areas at his disposal in which to vanish at a moment's warning.

Bolitho could almost feel sorry for Pelham-Martin's dilemma. It was likely that Cavendish had already been reprimanded for his failure to contain the French ships in port. It was even more likely he would soon use PelhamMartin as a ready scapegoat if anything further went wrong.

And yet there was equally great scope in the neatly worded orders. Given the same chance, Bolitho knew he would have jumped at the opportunity of conquering Lequiller and defeating him on his own terms.

There was a tap at the door and Inch stepped over the coaming, his hat under his arm.

"Well?" Bolitho sounded irritated. In another minute it was possible, even likely that Pelham-Martin would have confided in him further.

Inch swallowed. "I am sorry to disturb you, sir." He looked at Pelham-Martin.

The commodore sank on to a chair and waved one hand. "Please carry on, Mr. Inch." He sounded almost relieved at the interruption.

Inch said, "Mr. Stepkyne wishes to award punishment, sir. But under the circumstances…" He looked at his feet. "It is Mr. Pascoe, sir."

Pelham-Martin said mildly, "Hardly an affair for your captain, I would have thought?"

Bolitho knew there was much more behind Inch's words. "Send Mr. Stepkyne aft, if you please."

Pelham-Martin murmured, "If you would rather dispense judgement elsewhere, Bolitho, I shall of course understand. It is difficult when one has a relative, no matter how harmless, aboard one's own ship. It is sometimes necessary to show bias, eh?"

Bolitho looked_ down at him but the commodore's eyes were opaque and devoid of expression.

"I have nothing to hide, thank you, sir."

Stepkyne entered the cabin, his dark features unsmiling but composed.

Inch said, "It was nothing really, sir." He added firmly, "During gun drill one of the seamen got his foot crushed when they were running out a twelve-pounder. All the midshipmen had taken turns as gun captain, and Mr. Pascoe refused to run out his gun until the man on the other team was replaced. He said it would be an unfair advantage, sir."

Stepkyne kept his eyes on a point above Bolitho's shoulder. "I ordered him to carry on with the drill, sir. There is no room for childish games in matters of gunnery." He shrugged, as if it was too trivial to discuss. "He was unwilling to attend my order and I took him off the gun." His lips tightened. "He will have to be punished, sir."

Bolitho could feel the commodore watching him, even sense his amusement.

"Is that all that happened?"

Stepkyne nodded. "Yes, sir."

Inch stepped forward. "The boy was provoked, sir. I am sure he meant no real harm."

Stepkyne did not flinch. "He is no boy, sir, he is to all intent an officer, and I'll have no insolence from him or anyone else who is my junior!"

Bolitho looked at Inch. "In your opinion, did Mr. Pascoe show any insubordination?" His tone hardened. "The truth, Mr. Inch!"

Inch looked wretched. "Well, sir, he did call the second lieutenant a damned liar."

"I see." Bolitho locked his fingers behind his back. "Who heard these words, apart from you?"

Inch replied, "Mr. Gascoigne and, I think, your coxswain, sir."

Bolitho nodded coldly. "Very well, Mr. Inch, you may award punishment."

The door closed behind them and Pelham-Martin said cheerfully, "Well, that was no threat of mutiny, eh? Anyway, a few cuts with a cane never hurt anyone, did it? I lay odds that you kissed the gunner's daughter across the breech of a gun in your youth."

"Several times, sir." Bolitho eyed him coldly. "But I do not recall that it did me any good either!"

Pelham-Martin shrugged and got to his feet. "That's as may be. Now I am going to lie down for a while. I have a lot of thinking to do."

Bolitho watched him go, irritated with himself for displaying his concern, and with Pelham-Martin's lack of understanding.

Later as he sat in the small chartroom toying with his midday meal he tried to concentrate his thoughts on the French ships, to go over what he had gleaned from the commodore's brief confidences and then place himself inside the mind of the enemy commander.

There was a rap on the bulkhead and he heard the marine sentry call, "Midshipman of the watch, sir!"

"Enter!" Without turning Bolitho knew it was Pascoe. In the small cabin he could hear his quick breathing, and when he spoke, the pain in his voice.

"Mr. Roth's respects, sir, and may he exercise the quarterdeck nine-pounders?"

Bolitho tamed in his chair and studied the boy gravely. Six strokes of the bosun's cane would always be hard to take. Tomlin's arm was like the branch of a tree, and Pascoe's slim body was more bones than flesh. In spite of his better judgement Bolitho had been unable to stay away from the cabin skylight when the brief punishment had been carried out, and between each swish of the cane across the boy's buttocks he had found himself gritting his teeth, and had discovered a strange sense of pride when there had been not one cry of pain or complaint.

He looked pale and tight-lipped, and as their eyes met across the chart table Bolitho could almost feel the hurt like his own. -

As captain he had to stay aloof from his officers, but was expected to see and know everything about them. They must -trust and follow him, but he should in no way interfere with their duties when it related to matters of discipline. Unless _… The word hung in his mind like a rebuke.

"You must understand, Mr. Pascoe, that discipline is all important in a ship-of-war. Without it there is no order and no control when it really counts. At this moment you are at the bottom of a long and precarious ladder. One day, perhaps sooner than you realise, it will be your turn to award punishment, maybe decide upon a man's very life."

Pascoe remained silent, his dark eyes fixed on Bolitho's mouth.

"Mr. Stepkyne was right. Gun drill is a contest, but it is no game. The whole survival of this ship and every man aboard will depend on her guns. You can navigate a ship from Plymouth to the ends of the earth, and some may say you have done well. But until you have laid her beside the ship of an enemy and the guns are calling the tune, you will know` how thin is the margin between success and failure."

Pascoe said quietly, "He said my father was a traitor and a rebel, sir. That he'd suffer no argument from another one in his own ship." His mouth quivered and his eyes filled with angry tears. "I-I told him that my father was a King's officer, sir. But-but he just laughed at me." He dropped his eyes. "So I called him a liar!"

Bolitho gripped the edge of the table. It had happened, and it was his fault. He should have guessed, have remembered that Stepkyne was also from Falmouth, and would certainly have heard about his brother. But to use his knowledge to get his own back on a boy too young and

too ignorant of life at sea to understand the full importance of drill was despicable.

He said slowly, "You took your punishment well, Mr. Pascoe."

"Can I ask you, sir?" Pascoe was staring at him again, his eyes filling his face. "Was it true what he said?"

Bolitho stood up and walked to the racks of rolled charts. "Only partly true." He heard the boy sob behind him and added, "He had his own reasons for acting as he did, but of one thing I can assure you. He was a brave man. One you'd have been proud to know." He turned and added, "And I know he would have been proud of you, too."

Pascoe clenched his fists at his sides. "I was told…" he faltered, floundered for words. "I was always told…" It would not come.

"When we are children we get told many things. As Mr. Stepkyne said, you are an officer now and must learn to face reality, no matter in what shape it comes."

As if from far away Pascoe said brokenly, "A traitor! He was a traitor!"

Bolitho studied him sadly. "One day you will learn to understand, as I did. I'll tell you about him later, and then perhaps you will not feel so bitter."

Pascoe shook his head so that his hair fell forward over his eyes. "No sir, thank you. I never want to know. Never want to hear of him again."

Bolitho looked away. "Carry on, Mr. Pascoe. My compliments to Mr. Roth. He can exercise his guns for one hour."

As the midshipman hurried from the cabin Bolitho still stared at the closed door. He had failed. Given time he could have repaired some of the damage. He sat down angrily. Could he? It was unlikely, and it was stupid to delude himself. But as he thought of Stepkyne's cold accusations and the boy's tormented features, he knew that he must do something.

When he went on deck to watch the drill he saw Gaseoign move to Pascoe's side and put one hand on his shoulder. But the boy shook it off and turned away from him. It had gone even deeper than Bolitho had feared.

Inch crossed the deck. "I am sorry, sir." He looked miserable.

Bolitho did not know if he was speaking of the boy or of his own new discovery about Bolitho's brother. He kept his face impassive as he replied. "Then let us exercise the quarter-deck guns, Mr. Inch. Otherwise we may all be sorry before we are much older."

As the whistle shrilled for the drill to commence Bolitho walked to the weather side and stared up at the pendant. Wherever he went, no matter what he did, his brother's memory always seemed to hang over him. And now another, one less able to deal with it, had been damaged even more by what should have been left hidden in time.

Some of the gunners seeing his expression worked even faster at their drill. And Inch who stood with his hands clasped behind him as he had seen Bolitho do so often, watched his face and wondered. He could cope with his own shortcomings now for he knew and recognised them. But Bolitho's frown made him feel uneasy and vaguely apprehensive.

Perhaps it was better not to know your captain beyond his protective aura of command, he thought. A captain must be above ordinary contacts, for without some protection he might be seen as an ordinary man.

Bolitho's voice shattered his thoughts. "Mr. Inch! If you are quite ready to begin, I would suggest that you stand clear of the guns!"

Inch jumped backwards, grinning with something like relief. This was the Bolitho he understood, and he no longer felt quite so vulnerable.

Four weeks later as the Hyperion laboured uncom fortably in a light north-easterly the Abdiel signalled that her lookouts had at last sighted the island of St. Kruis. Bolitho received the news with mixed feelings, and found little consolation in achieving a perfect landfall after crossing several thousand miles of ocean without meeting a single ship, friend or enemy. He knew they could have reached their destination days, even a week, earlier but for Pelham-Martin's infuriating inability to keep to a set plan, his apparent unwillingness to make and act on earlier decisions. Off Trinidad, for instance, the Abdiel had sighted a solitary sail hull down on the horizon, and after passing a signal via her to the Spartan to rejoin her consorts, Pelham-Martin had ordered an alteration of course to intercept the unknown ship. It had been near dusk as it was, and Bolitho had guessed that the sail belonged to one of the local trading vessels, for it was unlikely that Lequiller would dally so near to a Spanish stronghold.

When they resumed their original course after failing to find the ship, Pelham-Martin's dilatory and hesitant mind had caused yet another long delay while he had drafted a despatch to be carried by the Spartan. Not to St. Kruis, but far to the south-west, to the Spanish Captain-General at Caracas.

Bolitho had stood beside the desk while Pelham-Martin had sealed the heavy envelope, hoping even to the last that he could make the commodore change his mind.

The Spartan was more use probing ahead of her two consorts than carrying some wordy and unnecessary message to the Spanish governor. The Spaniards had never been renowned in Bolitho's experience for keeping silent, and the news would soon spread far and wide that English ships were moving into the area, and there were always spies in plenty to pass such intelligence to the quarter where it would really count.

And unless Pelham-Martin was prepared to fight, with the larger part of his force still days or even weeks away, he was giving away information which could do little but harm.

But about the Spartan Pelham-Martin was adamant. "It is a matter of common courtesy, Bolitho. I know you show little faith or liking when it comes to the Spaniards. But I happen to know that the Captain-General is a man of high birth. A 'gentleman of the first order." He had regarded Bolitho with something like pity. "Wars are not just won by powder and shot, you know. Trust and diplomacy play a vital part." He had held out the envelope. "Pass this to Spartan and then resume course. Signal Abdiel to remain on her present station."

Captain Farquhar must have been as relieved as he was surprised at his new mission. Almost before the boat had cast off from the Spartan's side to return to Hyperion the frigate's sails were spreading and filling and her low hull alive with sudden activity as she went about and headed away from the other ships.

But now at last St. Kruis had been reached. As the harsh midday sunlight slowly gave way to the mellow orange glow of evening the Hyperion's own lookouts reported sighting the ridge of pointed hills which cut the small island in half from east to west.

Bolitho stood at the quarterdeck rail and raised his glass to study the purple hazy outline as it rose slowly above the darkening horizon. There was not much to know about St. Kruis, but what there was he had collected in his mind like a picture on a chart.

It was some twenty -miles by fifteen, with a spacious protected bay on the south-east corner. The large anchorage was in fact the main reason for the Dutch seizing the island in the first place. It had been used constantly by pirates and privateers as a base while waiting to dash out on to some unsuspecting West Indiaman or galleon, and the Dutch had occupied the island more from necessity than of the need to extend their colonial possessions.

According to Bolitho's information St. Kruis boasted a governor, and some form of defence force to protect the island from attack and to make sure that the mixed population of Dutch overseers and imported slaves could carry on their affairs without interference.

He rested his palms on the rail and looked down at the main deck. Both gangways were crowded with seamen and marines, all peering beyond the slowly corkscrewing bows towards the blurred smudge of land. How strange it must appear to so many of them, he thought. To men used to green fields or town slums, to the crowded world of between decks, or those snatched from their loved ones by the impartial pressgangs, it would seem like another planet. After months at sea on bad food and in all weathers they were coming to a place where their own familiar problems were unknown. The old hands had told them often enough of such islands, but this was a visible part of the sailor's world, which by choice or enforcement they had now joined.

The bare backs and shoulders of the seamen were getting tanned, although some showed savage blisters from working aloft in the relentless glare. But he was thankful that blisters were the worst part of it. With a new ship's company under these conditions many a man's back might have been marred with the cruel scars of the cat.

There was a heavy step at his side and he turned to see the commodore staring along the upper deck, his eyes all but hidden in puckered flesh as he squinted against the dying sunlight.

Bolitho said, "Unless the wind drops we will anchor tomorrow morning, sir. There is a two-mile shoulder of reefs on the eastern side of the bay and we will have to tack from the south to avoid them."

Peiham-Martin did not reply immediately. He looked calm and more relaxed than Bolitho had yet seen him, and seemed in good humour.

He said suddenly, "I have been thinking for some time that all this fuss may be without any justification, Bolitho." He nodded ponderously. "Yes, I have been thinking a great deal of late."

Bolitho kept his lips straight. Pelham-Martin had spent more hours in his cot than on his feet throughout the voyage, and thinking or not, he had often heard his snores through the chartroom partition.

Pelham-Martin continued, "Lequiller's mission could have been merely a catspaw. To draw more ships from the blockade, from Ushant and Lorient, so that the whole fleet could burst out and make for the English Channel." He eyed Bolitho cheerfully. "That would be a slap in the face for Sir Manley, eh? He would never live it down!"

Bolitho shrugged. "I think it unlikely, sir."

The smile vanished. "Oh, you never see these things properly. It needs vision, Bolitho. Vision and an understanding of men's minds!"

"Yes, sir."

Pelham-Martin glared at him. "If I had listened to you we would have been involved with goodness knows what by now."

"Deck there! Abdiel's going about, sir!"

Pelham-Martin snapped, "If he asks permission to enter harbour tonight, tell him it is denied!" He walked with heavy tread towards the poop ladder. "We will enter together, with my flag leading." Over his massive shoulder he added irritably, "Frigate Captains! Damned young puppies, I'd call them!"

Bolitho smiled grimly. Captain Pring of the Abdiel could just manage to reach an anchorage in spite of the fading daylight. If Hyperion's stores and water supplies were low, his must be almost completely gone. And he would know that once the two-decker had dropped anchor she would take precedence over all his own requirements. Bolitho could recall without effort an occasion when he had commanded a thirty-two gun frigate and had been made to idle outside port while three ships of the line anchored and stripped the local merchants and chandlers bare before he was allowed to take his pick of the frugal remains.

Midshipman Gascoigne was already in the mizzen shrouds, his glass on the distant frigate. As she swung gracefully across the wind her topsails caught the sunset, so that the straining sails shone like pink seashells.

Some of the seamen on the quarterdeck had heard the commodore's last remarks and were grinning as Abdiel's flags broke from her yards.

An old gun captain with a pigtail down to his waist growled, "Serve 'em roight, I says! Let 'em bide their time an' give us a chance with they coloured lassies!"

"Abdiel to Hyperion. Gunfire bearing west by north."

Gascoigne's voice reached many of the men on the gangways and a great murmur of excitement and surprise made the commodore pause at the top of the poop ladder as if he was suffering a seizure.

Bolitho snapped, "Acknowledge!" To Pelham-Martin he called, "It must be an attack on the harbour, sir!"

"Abdiel requests permission to make more sail, sir!" Gascoigne's eyes flitted between his captain and the commodore's portly figure framed against the darkening sky.

Pelham-Martin shook his head. "Denied!" He almost fell down the last two steps in his haste to reach Bolitho's side. "Denied!" He was shouting, and seemed more angry than anything else.

Bolitho said, "I agree, sir. Ships powerful enough to attack a defended harbour would make short work of her frail timbers." He held back at what he was really thinking. That if Spartan was still in company things might have been very different. Two fast frigates swooping in from the open sea could cause some havoc before taking advantage, of the growing darkness. But alone it was asking too much of Abdiel's captain, and it would take Hyperion hours to reach a position of any advantage. By which time it would be dark and too hazardous to close the land.

Pelham-Martin spoke rapidly. "Signal Abdiel to take station to windward." He watched the flags dashing aloft. "I must think." He rubbed one hand across his face. "I must think!"

"Abdiel's acknowledged, sir!"

Bolitho saw the frigate's yards bracing round as she started to swing back towards the Hyperion's quarter. He could imagine her captain's disappointment. He said, "We can work to the sou'-west, sir. By first light we will be in a better position to surprise the attackers."

Pelham-Martin seemed to realise that countless eyes were staring up at him from the crowded main deck. "Get those bloody people to work! I'll not be gaped at by a lot of damned idlers!"

Bolitho heard the sudden air of activity and bellow of orders. Pelham-Martin was just filling in time. The emotions which flooded across his face were proof enough of his inner confusion.

He said in a more controlled tone, "Indomitable and Hermes might be here within days. With their support I can give a better account, eh?"

Bolitho eyed him gravely. "They could just as easily be delayed for weeks, sir. We cannot take the chance, or the risk."

"Chance? Risk?" Pelham-Martin was speaking in a fierce whisper. "It is my head on the block! If I close and give battle and we are overwhelmed, what then, eh?"

Bolitho hardened his voice. "If we do not, sir, then we could lose the island. Our ships would not have to be beaten in battle. They could be starved and parched into submission!"

Pelham-Martin searched his face, his expression both desperate and pleading. "We can sail for Caracas. The Spanish might have ships to assist us."

"It would take too long, sir, even if the Dons have ships there and are willing to help us. By that time Lequiller will have taken St. Kruis, and it would need a fleet to drive him out, and at a great cost."

The commodore swung away angrily. "Lequiller! That's all you think about! It might not even be him!"

Bolitho said coldly, "I don't think there is much doubt about that, sir."

"Well, if you hadn't let him slip through your fingers, if you'd held fast instead of weighing anchor, all this might never have happened."

"And let those prisoners hang, sir?" Bolitho watched the massive shoulders tense. "Is that what I should have done?"

Peiham-Martin faced him again. "I am sorry. I was overwrought." He spread his hands. "But what can I do with only one ship of any size?"

"You have no choice, sir." He kept his voice quiet, but could not hide his anger. "You can fight, or you can remain a spectator. But if you decide the latter, the enemy will know that he can do as he likes. And our friends here will also know it."

Pelham-Martin looked at him, his face in shadow as the sun's dying rays disappeared beyond the horizon like the tails of a comet. "Very well." He still waited, as if listening to his own words. "I will do as you suggest. But if we fail, Bolitho, I will not suffer the consequences alone." He turned and walked aft to the cabin.

Bolitho stared after him, his face set in a frown. If we fail there will be nobody left to argue the rights or wrongs of it, he thought bitterly.

Then he sought out Inch's lanky shape by the rail. "Mr. Inch, show a shaded stern lantern for Abdiel's benefit. Then you may take in the courses and reef down for the night." He listenerA to Tnch nncsino hic nrrler, and raisad his glass to peer beyond the dark mass of rigging and shrouds.

The island had vanished in the gloom, but so too had any sort of gun flashes. The enemy would have to wait for dawn now.

Inch came after at the trot. "Anything else, sir?" He sounded breathless.

"See that our people eat well. We may have to forgo breakfast tomorrow."

Then he crossed to the weather side and watched the frigate's ghostly outline until she, too, was hidden from sight.