Bolitho stepped quickly into the stern cabin and slammed the door behind him. For a few moments he stood gratefully in the welcoming shade, knowing it to be merely an illusion after the relentless heat of the quarterdeck, where he had just witnessed a flogging before the assembled ship's company.
Gimlett, his servant, shuffled nervously across his vision and stared at him with something like awe as he removed his hat and coat and tore open the front of his shirt before unbuckling 'his sword. Without a word he dropped them into Gimlett's arms and walked wearily towards the open stem windows.
The scene which greeted his eyes never changed. The flat, glaring water of the anchorage and the barren hills of Cozar Island shimmering in a heat haze above the sheer-sided cliffs. Even the ship felt unmoving and lifeless. But that was no illusion, for she was moored both fore and aft just inside the arms of the harbour entrance, so that she could present a whole broadside to any would-be attacker who might, scorn the hill-top battery as he had once done.
His eye fell on a glass decanter and goblet which Gimlett had placed on his desk. Almost automatically he poured a full measure and drank it straight down. It was some of the coarse red wine which they had found in plenty in the captured fortress. It gave a brief impression of freshness for a matter of minutes, but like a constant spectre the thirst was soon back again.
Bolitho threw himself on to the bench seat below the windows and listened to the patter of feet across the quarterdeck as the last of the assembled men dismissed below. They needed no goading now. It was close on noon, and in spite of the awnings and the canvas air ducts rigged above every hatch and companion, the ship was already like an oven.
It was strange that after all these years as a sea officer he had never hardened himself completely against flogging.
There was always something which touched his nerve, or some unexpected incident to add to the slow misery of the proceedings.
Frowning, he poured another glass of wine. The man who had just been punished at the gratings was one of those flaws in the pattern of discipline and routine, and he felt strangely troubled, even though it was over and the victim was somewhere in the bowels of the ship receiving the surgeon's rough attention to his lacerated back.
The man in question had been thirsty. It had been as simple as that. In the dead of night he had attempted to broach one of the rancid water casks in the hold and had been caught in the act by the ship's corporal.
Two dozen lashes sounded lenient enough by lower deck standards. In the Service, discipline was harsh and instant. If a man took liberties he might just get away with it. But if not, he knew what to expect.
This man had somehow avoided trouble before, in spite of long service in a dozen ships. Maybe he had been more fearful of losing his pride than of agony under the lash, but after the first five strokes he had begun to scream, while his naked body had writhed against the blood-spattered 'gratings like a man being crucified.
Bolitho stared with distaste at the empty glass. The ship was quiet now. No shouts, no plaintive notes from some forecastle fiddler, no skylarking amongst the midshipmen. There was no spark.left of that unexpected victory, no lasting exultation to ease the sullenness and brooding which hung over the ship like a bad omen.
He ground his teeth with sudden fury. Three weeks. Three long weeks since they had stormed up the fortress steps and hauled down the French flag, and with each dragging day the tension and bitterness mounted.
There was a nervous tap at the door and then Whiting, the purser, peered apprehensively into the cabin. 'You sent for me, sir?'
He was sweating freely for he was extremely fat, with layer upon layer of chins which wobbled above his chest with each step that he took towards the desk. Normally he laughed a good deal, but like most of his trade he retained a pair of sharp, unblinking eyes, and it was said that he knew the extent of the ship's stores down to the last rind of cheese. As he stood shifting from one foot to the other, Bolitho was reminded of a giant codfish.
'I did, Whiting.' He tapped the papers on his desk. `Have you checked the water again?'
The purser hung his head as if he was in some way to blame. `Aye, sir. Cut down to a pint a day per man we can hold out for one more week.' His lower lip pouted doubtfully. `Even then they'll be drinking maggots for the most part, sir.'
Bolitho stood up and leaned his palms against the warm sill. Below him the water was so clear that he could see small fish darting above their shadows across the hard sandy bottom of the anchorage. What must he do? What could he do? For three weeks he had waited for the sloop Chanticleer to return with help from the fleet. He had written a full report for Lord Hood, and had expected a supply ship at the very least within the first few days. But nothing broke the horizon for two whole weeks. At the beginning of the third one the lookouts on the fortress had reported a French frigate approaching from the northwest. For an hour or so the enemy sail had shown itself like a feather above the horizon and had then withdrawn. And the French could afford to wait, he thought savagely. Their island garrison had been awaiting a fresh supply of drinking water within days of the Hyperion's attack. Now the shallow reservoir was filled with dust, and beneath a pitiless sun the English sailors and marines lolled about like corpses with a mere pint per day to hold back the agonies of thirst.
He thought of the last flogging. There would be others soon, he decided bleakly.
He pushed himself away from the sill and crossed to the quarter windows. At the far end of the little bay he could see the Spanish Princesa floating calmly above her reflection like a carved model. Perhaps he had ordered the Hyperion to be moored across the entrance because of her and not for fear of a seaward attack, he thought. From the moment the other ship had dropped anchor there had been friction, mounting in some cases to open fighting, between seamen from the Hyperion and those of the Spaniard.
After the first week of fruitless waiting the Spanish captain had come aboard to see him. He had got straight to the point. There were nearly a hundred French prisoners on the island. One hundred more bellies to be filled with food and fresh water.
'We must destroy them.' Captain Latorre, had sounded eager. 'They are useless to us!'
His lust for blood had been another reason for Bolitho's decision to keep control of the main fortress in his own grasp. Ashby's marines had it to themselves,. while the Spanish soldiers from the Princesa had to content themselves with the old Moorish fort at the other end of the island.
Latorre had been furious, both with Bolitho's refusal to butcher the prisoners and with his equally firm refusal to allow the Spanish flag to fly above the battery.
The purser broke into his thoughts. 'Them Spaniards have got plenty of water, sir. I'm sure of it.' He scowled. 'Damn them!'
Bolitho eyed him calmly. 'Maybe, Mr. Whiting. I suspect you are right. But if Hyperion were not anchored here with her guns bared I think the gallant Captain Latorre would have already gone. To demand to inspect his ship's stores would be inviting disaster. And I do recall that we are supposed to be allies in this venture!'
The sarcasm was lost on the purser. 'Dons or Frogs, you can't trust none o' them!'
There was a further interruption as Quarme poked his head inside the door.
'Well, Mr. Quarme? Bolitho saw Whiting sigh, as if relieved that the weight had been lifted from his fat shoulders.
Quarme looked tired. 'Signal from the battery, sir. That French frigate was just sighted to the nor'-west, though God knows what he is using for wind.' He wiped his face. 'I wish to heaven we were out there with him!'
Bolitho nodded to the purser. 'Carry on, Mr. Whiting, but make sure that the casks are guarded watch by watch.' As the door closed he continued, 'That frigate will be keeping an eye on our topmasts, or the flag above the battery.'
Quarme shrugged. 'It is a waste of time. Even with Ashby's small force we can hold the island against a fleet!'
Bolitho eyed him narrowly. It was strange that Quarme had so little imagination. 'Let me remove any doubts, Mr. Quarme. If we do not get water within the week we will have to leave this place. Evacuate it!' He turned away angrily. 'The French know about the water, just as they must know we have not been sent any relief.' He shaded his eyes and stared across at the tall cliffs. Below in the placid water the charred remains of the Spanish flagship Marte shone in the sunlight like black bones. 'And without a favourable wind we might even then be too late. Our people are in a bad state already for want of water.'
`Help may be on its way, sir.' Quarme watched him pacing the cabin. 'Lord Hood must have received your report.'
'Must he?' Bolitho paused in his stride, suddenly angry with Quarme's empty trust and his own inability to find a
