Like Bolitho and the other officers he was stripped to shirt and trousers, and there was a slight tremor in his voice which could have been either excitement or because of the chill air.
'Very well. Send a midshipman to inform the commodore.'
Several times while he had been shaving Bolitho had paused to listen through the partition. But for once he had heard no gentle snores. Pelham-Martin must have lying in his cot fretting and pondering, without even the ship's affairs to occupy his mind.
Gossett blew his nose into a large red handkerchief, the noise shattering the silence like a musket shot. He muttered humbly, 'Pardon, sir.'
Bolitho smiled. 'We may need all your wind for the sails later on.'
Some of the marines at the nettings chuckled, and Bolitho was glad they could not yet see his face.
Inch said, 'What are the Frogs up to, I wonder?'
'They are quiet enough at present.' Bolitho watched the small, white-crested waves cruising slowly down on the ship's weather beam. He could see them stretching away much further now, and when he shifted his eyes forward he saw that the land had taken on a harder outline, so that it appeared to be right on top of the bows. It was a normal illusion at first light, but nevertheless they should sight something soon. Hyperion was driving as close to the reefs as she dare to give maximum advantage when the time came to turn and head either across or into the bay itself.
A lot depended on the island's defences. No ship was a match for a well-sighted shore battery, but you could never be sure. Bolitho recalled how he and Tomlin had been the first men up the cliff when he had successfully overpowered the French battery at Cozar in the Mediterranean. It could be done with enough determination.
Inch called, 'Good morning, sir!'
The commodore walked stiffly to the rail and sniffed the air. Bolitho studied him in the strange half-light. He was wearing a long blue watch coat which came almost to his ankles, and was without a hat or mark of rank of any sort.
He would be sweating hard when the sun reached him, he thought. He felt a touch of compassion when he considered the reason for this strange garb. PeihamMartin was a very large man, a big enough target for some French marksmen without drawing attention to himself by showing his proper uniform.
He said quietly, 'Soon now, sir. The wind is steady from the nor'-east, and until we close right inshore we shall have enough power in our sails.'
Pelham-Martin sank his small head firmly into' his collar. 'Maybe. I don't know, I'm sure.' He moved slightly to one side and lapsed once more into silence.
Bolitho was about to speak to Inch when he saw the lieutenant's eyes light up like twin furnaces. Even as he swung round he heard a violent explosion rumble across the open water and saw a tall column of flames leaping skyward, the sparks breaking away and rising hundreds of feet in the air.
Inch gasped, 'A ship! She's afire!'
Bolitho narrowed his eyes, picturing for the hundredth time the bay as he had expected it would look. The ship which was now burning so fiercely above her fiery reflection was a small one, and somewhere on the Hyperion's starboard bow.
There were shots, too, puny and sporadic, and he guessed the enemy were using boats to slip closer inshore under cover of the remaining darkness. Maybe the ship had been fired by accident, or perhaps the raiders just wanted to inflict as much damage as they could before hauling off again.
Another explosion roared dully over the water, but this time there was no flash, nor any indication of bearing or distance.
'Ah, 'ere she comes!' Gossett lifted his arm as the sun raised itself slowly above the sea's edge, thrusting shadows aside and painting the endless patterns of wave crests with pale gold.
'Deck therel Two ships on th' lee bow!' A startled cry and then, 'Belay that! Thar's another close inshore, sirl'
But Bolitho could see them well enough now. In the Carribbean there was little break between night and day, and already the sunlight had changed the island's rough outline into purple and green, with a sliver of gold to mark the crest of the nearest hilltop at the far side of the bay.
The first two were ships of the line, sailing slowly on the opposite tack, almost at right angles to his own course and barely two miles clear. The third looked like a frigate, and a quick glance at her sails told him she was anchored close under the western headland.
Anchored? His mind brushed away doubts and apprehension as the realisation came to him. The enemy must have fired the anchored ship inside the bay as a diversion.
On the opposite side of the protected anchorage where the main shore battery was said to be sited the attackers had launched a full-scale assault, the defenders momentarily distracted and off guard. In the early hours it would not be too difficult, he thought grimly. It was human enough for men to find comfort from others' misfortunes, even their own comrades', if it meant being spared from attack.
And while the awakened gunners watched from their battery walls, the raiders would have landed stealthily from boats and scaled the headland from the other side.
Pelham-Martin said in a tight voice, 'They have sighted us!'
The leading French ship was already signalling her consort but as the frail sunlight lifted over the sheltered water of the bay and across the white painted houses at the far end, neither vessel showed any sign of altering direction or purpose. The first shock of seeing the Hyperion's topsails emerging from the half light must have been eased when the enemy realised she was accompanied by a solitary frigate.
Bolitho felt the sun's weak rays touching his cheek. He could continue across the enemy's bows and into the bay, but if the French seized the battery their own ships could sail after him with impunity. Yet if he stayed clear, they would withdraw into the bay anyway and prevent even a large force from following.
He glanced at the commodore, but he was still staring at the French ships, his face a mask of indecision.
Inch murmured, 'Two seventy-fours, sir.' He, too, glanced at Pelham-Martin before adding, 'If they reach the other side of the bay they'll have the advantage, sir.'
Bolitho saw some of the seamen by the braces craning to stare at the French ships. They looked perfect and unmarked by the island's gunners, and seemed all the more menacing because of their slow approach. Sunlight glanced on levelled telescopes from the leading ship's poop, and here and there a figure moved or a pendant whipped out from a masthead as if lifted by some force of its own.
But otherwise the ships glided across the small whitecapped waves slowly and unhurriedly, until it seemed as if Hyperion's jib boom would lock into the leading Frenchman's like two mammoths offering their tusks for combat.
On the main deck the tension was almost a physical thing. At every open port the men crouched at the guns, their naked backs shining with sweat while they waited for the first hardening line as a target crossed their sights. Each hatch was guarded by a marine, and aloft in the tops the marksmen and swivel gunners licked their lips and screwed up their eyes as they sought out their opposite numbers across the shortening range.
Pelham-Martin cleared his throat. 'What do you intend?'
Bolitho relaxed slightly. He could feel the sweat running down his chest and the heart's steady beat against his ribs. The question was like the opening of a dam. The removal of a great weight. For one moment he had feared Pelham-Martin's nerve had failed and that he would order an immediate withdrawal. Or worse, that he would drive at full speed into the bay, where the ship could be pounded to fragments at the enemy's leisure.
'We will cross the enemy's bows, sir.' He kept his eye on the leading ship. The first sign of extra sail and the Hyperion would never be in time. It would mean either a collision or he would have to wear ship and present an unprotected stern to a full French broadside.
Pelham-Martin nodded. 'And into the bay?'
'No, sir.' He swung round sharply. 'Starboard a point Mr. Gossett!' In a quieter tone he continued, 'We will wear ship once we pass her and engage her larboard side.' He watched his words playing havoc on the commodore's face. 'With luck we can then cross her stem and pass between both ships. It will mean losing the wind-gage, but we can give both of them a good raking as we come through.' He grinned, and could feel his lips drying with the effort. But Pelham-Martin had to understand. If he tried to change the manoeuvre halfway through it would be disastrous.
He looked again at the French ships. Half a mile at the most now separated the leading one from his guns. It
