Bolitho's tone was scathing. 'They have not come this far to see you, Mr. Rooke!' He saw.the sudden flurry of activity on the Justice's poop as his signal broke free to the wind. `They are after those transports!'
He looked around the watching figures, the decks which were still damp from the swabs and holystones. Like the other ships around him, everyone was waiting to be told what to do.
He said calmly, 'Beat to quarters, Mr. Rooke, and clear for action!'
Two small marine drummers ran to the larboard gangway, pulling on their black shakos and fumbling with their sticks. Then as the ship held her breath they started to beat out their tattoo, their faces tight with concentration as their message was picked up aboard the Harvester and.the three transports.
Bolitho made himself stand motionless by the rail as his men poured up from below and the marines hurried aft and aloft to the tops, their uniforms shining like blood in the growing sunlight. Below decks he could hear the thuds and bangs of screens being removed, the whole urgent business of changing a ship from a floating home and a way of life to a unified instrument of war.
He looked again at the quiet sea, but found no comfort. The morning was already spoilt for Bolitho even before the Snipe had brought her news.
Rooke touched his hat. He was sweating badly. 'Cleared for action, sir.' The words seemed to spark off a memory of that early resentment and he added, 'Less than ten minutes that time!'
Bolitho looked at him gravely. 'Good.' 'Shall I give the order to load, sir?'
'Not yet.' Bolitho thought suddenly of his breakfast and felt a sharp pang of hunger. He knew he would be unable to eat. But he had to do something. He saw the sunlight lancing down between the straining topsails and felt a new sensation of fear. By tonight he could be dead. Or, worse, screaming under the surgeon's knife. He licked his lips and said tightly, 'You have all eaten. I have not. I will be in the chartroom if I am required.' Then he turned and walked slowly towards the poop.
Gossett watched him pass and breathed out admiringly. 'Did you see that, lads? Not a flicker! As cool as an Arctic wind is our cap'n!'
9. LIKE A FRIGATE!
Midshipman Piper peered into the chartroom, pausing only to recover his breath. 'Mr. Rooke's respects, sir, and the enemy is now in sight!'
Bolitho deliberately lifted his cup and sipped at his coffee. It was, of course, stone cold.
He asked quietly, 'Well, Mr. Piper? Is there nothing more?'
The boy gulped and tore his eyes from watching his captain's apparent indifference to the sudden proximity of danger.
He said, 'Three sail, sir. Two frigates and one larger ship.'
'I will come up directly.' Bolitho waited until the boy had hurried away and then swept the untouched food from the table. As he peered searchingly at the chart he was again reminded of his complete isolation. If Snipe far ahead of the convoy had sighted the ships in any other position there might have been cause for some small optimism. As it was the enemy were well to windward and approaching his ill-assorted convoy on a converging course. They could take their time, choose their moment to sweep in close to attack.
He picked up his hat and walked swiftly to the quarterdeck. The breeze was still fresh, but already the air was much hotter. He made himself walk to the rail and stare down at the upper deck while every nerve in his body seemed to cry out for him to snatch a glass and search out the enemy.
Below the gangways each crew waited silently beside its gun. The decks around them were sanded to give the seamen maximum grip when once action was joined, and beside every twelve-pounder stood a freshly filled water- bucket for the swabs or any sudden fire in the tinder-dry woodwork and cordage.
At each hatch was a marine sentry, bayonet fixed, legs braced to the steady roll of the ship, his duty to prevent any frightened seaman from running below if the pace became too hot. He took a telescope and lifted it over the nettings. The wallowing convict ship swam hugely across the lens, and then it reached out and steadied on a point below the horizon, far away on the leading ship's larboard bow.
Without turning his head he knew that those around him were watching his face. They had already seen the approaching vessels. Now they wanted to see his reactions and thereby gain comfort or find fresh doubt. He clamped his jaws together and tried to keep his face impassive.
As he edged the glass gently back and forth in time with Hyperion's movements he saw the two frigates. They were so close together and pointing almost directly towards his glass that they looked for all the world like one giant, illdesigned ship. One was slightly ahead of the other, and he could see that she was making more sail and spreading her topgallants even as he watched. Thirty-six guns at least, and a second frigate only slightly smaller.
But further astern, and close hauled on the starboard tack, was a ship of the line. Like the frigates she wore no colours, but there was no mistaking that beakhead, the graceful rake of her masts. Probably a French two-decker which had broken out from one of the Mediterranean ports to try and test the pressure of Hood's blockade. He lowered his glass and glanced at the transports. They would make a good start, he thought grimly.
He said, 'We will retain this course, Mr. Rooke. There is no point in trying to run south. The enemy has the advantage if he keeps to windward, and there is nothing to the south'rd',
He smiled briefly, 'but Africa.'
Rooke nodded. 'Aye, sir. D'you think they'll try and engage?'
'Within the hour, M'r. Rooke. The wind might drop. I would certainly attack were I in his shoes!'
He pictured the French two-decker as he had seen her in the glass. She was slightly bigger than Hyperion, but more to the point would be much faster, having been snug in harbour and able to receive the full attention of dockyard and riggers.
He made up his mind. 'Alter course two points to larboard. We will lay the ship on the convoy's quarter. Signal Harvester to take up station to windward of the leading ship immediately.'
'And Snipe, sir?' Rooke sounded tense.
'She can retain her present position, I think.' He imagined the havoc and complete destruction which a frigate's broadside could make of the sloop's frail timbers. `The next move will be made by the enemy very soon now.'
With her yards braced round the Hyperion edged slowly across the wake of the other ships in the convoy, while the Harvester, her topgallants and royals ballooning with sudden eagerness, sped recklessly past the Justice's stem and then tacked with equal dash towards the leading transport Erebus.
Lieutenant Dalby called, 'The frigates have gone about, sir!'
Bolitho shaded his eyes and watched the two ships swinging round and heeling sharply to the wind. When they had completed their manoeuvre they would be running parallel with the convoy, some five miles clear. Even without his glass Bolitho could see that their gunports were still closed, each captain no doubt concentrating on laying himself in the most advantageous position.
The two-decker sailed majestically on her original course as if to pass astern of the convoy and ignore it completely. Bolitho bit his lip. Her captain was doing exactly as he would have done. The two frigates would swoop down on the convoy and attack either the Harvester or the leading ship, or both together. If Hyperion closed to support the Harvester it would take some time to beat back and protect the rear of the convoy, and by then the enemy two-decker would have pounced. It was the oldest lesson of war. Divide and conquer.
Gossett intoned, 'Course nor' by east, sir, full an' bye.'
'Very well.' He stared up at the masthead pendant. 'Signal the convoy to make all available sail.' To Rooke he added sharply, 'Get the royals on her again, I want to see what the two-decker intends to do then!'
With all sail set the Hyperion gathered way in time with the transports, and the effect on the French ships was instantaneous. The senior captain had no doubt expected Bolitho to close up his convoy and protect them as best he could from a two-pronged attack. Running away was as unlikely as it was impracticable. But with the ships already drawing away from his guns the Frenchman had no alternaive but to give chase.
Captain Ashby breathed out slowly. 'There he goes, by God!'
The tall two-decker was already tacking, her topsails flapping wildly as she swung across the wind. So quick was her response to Bolitho's tactics that she seemed to lean right down into the white-capped water until her
