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.
