strike. No choice or chance seemed left open to me.' His eyes suddenly clouded with despair and anger. 'Had I known what would happen, I would have let every one of my men die fighting!' He was shaking violently and tears ran down his grimy cheeks as he said in a choked voice, 'The French admiral wishes me to say that unless you weigh and put to sea at once,' he paused, suddenly aware of the watching faces around him, 'he will hang every one of Ithuriel's people here and now!'
Inch gasped, 'Good God, that's not possible!'
The lieutenant stared at him, his eyes dull with fatigue and shock. 'But it is, sir. The admiral's name is Lequiller, and he means what he says, believe mel'
A gun boomed dully across the inlet, and then as two small, twisting shapes rose kicking and jerking to the mainyard of the French flagship the Hyperion's hull seemed to quiver to a great groan of horror which came from the watching seamen and marines.
The lieutenant said desperately, 'He will hang two men every ten minutes, sir!' He seized Bolitho's arm and sobbed, 'For God's sake, there are two hundred British prisoners in Lequiller's hands!'
Bolitho released his arm and tried once more to mask his feelings from those around him. The cold inhumanity, the very horror of the French admiral's ultimatum had made his mind swim with both fury and sick despair. As he glanced along the crowded main deck he could see his own men standing back from the guns, staring up at him or at each other, as if too stunned to move. They had been prepared to fight and die, but to stand by and watch a slow, merciless execution of helpless prisoners had broken their spirit with no less effect than the greatest broadside ever fired.
'And if I obey his demand?' Bolitho forced himself to watch the lieutenant's misery.
'He will land Ithuriel's people and send them under guard to Bordeaux, sir.'
Again the gun echoed and re-echoed across the water, and Bolitho turned to hold and keep the picture in his mind. So that he would never forget it. Two small, writhing shapes. What must those men have thought as they had waited with the halters around their necks? Hyperion would have been the last thing they saw on earth.
Bolitho gripped the lieutenant's arm and thrust him to the quarterdeck ladder. 'Go back to the flagship, Mr. Roberts!'
The man stared at him, his eyes blinded with tears. 'You mean you will sail, sir?' He seemed to imagine he had misheard for he tried to seize his hand as he continued in the same broken tone. 'You'll retreat for the sake of our men?'
Bolitho turned away. 'Put him in his gig, Mr. Inch, and then have the capstan manned and prepare to get under way!'
He saw Gossett watching him, his face filled with concern and understanding. 'Lay a course to clear the headland, if you please!' Bolitho could not face him, nor could he meet Inch's eyes when he hurried back to his place by the rail.
The men had to be pushed and driven to their stations, as if dazed by what was happening. The older and more experienced ones could only stare aft at their captain's slim figure, surrounded yet quite alone, as he stood watching the French ships, for they knew the enormity of his decision, and what it could mean.
But Bolitho saw none of them, and was barely conscious of the confusion and barked orders as hands manned the capstan bars and the topmen swarmed up the ratlines, some still wearing cutlasses with which they had been ready to fight and die.
The gig was pulling back to the French ships as fast as it could against the stiff current, and Bolitho clenched his fingers until the nails bit into his flesh as the gun fired yet again and two more bodies swayed up to the fla. ship's yard.
The French admiral had not even waited for the gig to return. He had kept to his timing. Had kept his word.
The gig vanished beyond the anchored ships and then Gossett murmured, 'One of 'em's shortenin' 'er cable already, sir!'
From forward came the cry, 'Anchor's hove short, sir!'
Inch stepped forward to ask permission to get under way, but saw Gossett's grim face and his quick shake of the head. So he turned on his heel and yelled, 'Carry on! Loose tops'ls!' Even when he lowered his speaking trumpet towards the deck Bolitho showed no sign of hearing or of taking his eyes from the enemy ships.
'Man the braces! Lively there!' A rattan cracked across a man's shoulders, and from forward came the call, 'Anchor's aweigh!'
Slowly, even reluctantly the Hyperion went about and gathered way, the watery sunlight touching her spreading and bellying canvas like silver as she heeled to the offshore wind.
Bolitho walked to the weather side, his eyes still on the ship. Legnfier. He would remember that name. Lequiller.
A master's mate knuckled his forehead. 'Beg pardon, sir?'
Bolitho stared at him. He must have spoken aloud. He said, 'There will be another day. Be quite sure of that!'
Then he climbed up the poop ladder and said shortly, 'You may dismiss your men, Captain Dawson!'
When the last of the marines had clumped past him he started to pace the small deserted deck, his mind empty of everything but that one name.
It was all he had. But one day he would find him and know him, and when that time came there would be neither pity nor quarter until the memory of those small, wretched corpses was avenged.
5. THE CHASE BEGINS
Five days after the Hyperion had rejoined her two consorts Bolitho was sitting in his cabin, his breakfast untouched, the coffee cold in its cup as he stared listlessly through the stem windows at the empty horizon. He could not recall any days so long or so devoid of purpose, and he knew that his own uncertainty was shared by the whole ship, like a sense of foreboding.
When he had boarded the Indomitable within minutes of taking station astern of the other ships he had been conscious of nothing but a sense of failure, and when he had been ushered into the commodore's great cabin he had listened to his own voice as he had made his report, more like a detached onlooker than one who was not only directly involved but also a possible culprit for the chain of events which had followed his retreat from the estuary.
Pelham-Martin had heard him out without a word or an interruption. In fact, looking back Bolitho could recall no expression or reaction of any sort which he could recognise as either anger or apprehension. He had merely said, 'Return to your ship, Bolitho. I will draft an immediate report for Sir Manley Cavendish's attention.'
Again like an onlooker Bolitho had paced his quarterdeck while signals had broken from the commodore's yards, and for a few hours at least there had been every sign of urgency and purpose. Fortunately, both sloops had returned to the small squadron during Hyperion's brief absence, and as one sped northwards to seek out the vice- admiral's ship, the other had gone about and headed in the opposite direction to recall the two remaining frigates.
But as day followed day with nothing to break the waiting and uncertainty Bolitho knew that a new show of force was less than pointless. The stable door was still open, but it was unlikely there were any more large ships waiting to test the strength of the commodore's vigilance.
Over and over again he asked himself what he could have done. What he should have done. If he had stayed offshore to shadow the emerging French ships PelhamMartin would have remained in ignorance. But by returning immediately to the squadron he had allowed the enemy to escape. To vanish into thin air as if they had never been.
The third course he had rejected without hesitation, but as he fretted and brooded in his imposed isolation he could no longer see even that one act in its true value. Humanity and honour were seen quite differently in the cold and austere atmosphere of a court martial assembly. It was ominous that for once Pelham-Martin had not required anyone to witness his report or to know its content.
Several times he had started to write another letter to Cheney. To prepare her for news which at any time
