the terrible sounds and nerve-searing bombardment, something had happened.
She was no longer a ship which contained a mixed collection of human beings. For good or bad, she was one with the men who served her, as if the short, fierce fight had welded them all together into an entity of purpose and survival.
He saw the surgeon hurrying towards him and steeled himself for what lay ahead. Men had died in the morning sunlight. How many he did not yet know.
As he looked up at the pitted sails and splintered mast he felt strangely grateful to those unknown dead. It was up to him to ensure their sacrifices were not wasted.
8. NEWS FOR THE COMMODORE
The marine sentry snapped to attention as Bolitho entered the stem cabin and closed the door behind him. He noticed that all the windows were wide open and the deckhead and sides shimmered with countless reflections from the ruffled water beneath the counter. The Hyperion rolled gently at her anchor, and when he glanced through one of the quarter windows he saw the nearest headland dancing in a heat haze, green and remote from the sights he had just left on the upper deck.
Through the door of the sleeping cabin he heard Pelham-Martin call, 'Well, what have you to report?'
Bolitho•rested his hands on the desk and stared emptily at the clear water below the stem. 'Twenty dead, sir. Twenty more badly wounded.' There seemed little point in mentioning all the others. Flesh wounds and burns, or those who had gone deaf, perhaps permanently, from the crash of gunfire.
'I see.' There were sounds of boxes being dragged across the cabin floor, and then Pelham-Martin strode heavily into the reflected sunlight. 'The wounded you mentioned, Will they recover?
Bolitho could only stare at him for several seconds. The Hyperion had anchored less than thirty minutes earlier, and while he had been supervising the lowering of boats and checking the extent of damage to hull and rigging, the commodore had, it appeared, been attending to more personal details. He was wearing his heavy dress coat, and his white shirt and breeches looked as if they had just arrived from the tailor.
He said at length, 'Splinter wounds mostly, sir. But five of them have lost arms or hands.'
Pelham-Martin eyed him severely. 'Well, I shall have to go ashore and meet the governor of this, er, place.' He shook his shirt cuffs free of the gold-laced sleeves.
'Necessary, I suppose, but a damned nuisance all the same.' He looked around the cabin. 'You had better stay here and do what you must to put this ship to rights.' He let his glance rest on Bolitho's torn shirt. 'I would suggest that you make some effort on your own behalf, too!'
Bolitho faced him coldly. 'I consider there are other things more important which need my attention, sir.'
The commodore shrugged. 'It is no use your adopting this attitude. You knew the odds, yet you forced an engagement.'
'If we had been here a week earlier, sir, the battle would never have been necessary, unless on our terms.'
The commodore looked at himself in the bulkhead mirror. 'Maybe.' He swung round violently. 'However, we did manage to drive the French away, and I will see that your part in the affair is mentioned in my report at some later date. But now I will have to leave you. If I am needed you may send a boat to the town.' He walked to the stem windows and leaned out across the sill. 'I must 'say, it is not at all what I expected.'
Bolitho watched him wearily. It was amazing what a change had come over Pelham-Martin since the battle. Of the desperate, pale-faced commodore in a heavy coat there was no sign at all. He looked calm and unruffled, and was even showing some sort of pleasure at what he saw in the distant town.
Bolitho felt the anger stirring his insides like raw spirit. How could Pelham-Martin be so cool and indifferent just now, when any small sign of sympathy and understanding might be of the greatest value to the men who had fought against such odds? Even without the Dutch ship's timely arrival Hyperion's seamen and marines had more than proved their worth.
He said, 'I will call away the barge for you, sir.'
Pelham-Martin nodded. 'Good. It was lucky it survived I am surprised you retained all the boats inboard during the action.'
Bolitho looked angrily at the fat shoulders. 'There was little enough wind for us to attack twice our number, sir. To tow boats as well would have been too much. And to
cast them adrift…' He got no further.
Pelham-Martin thrust himself upright and turned to face him. 'I am not very interested in excuses, Bolitho, Now kindly attend to my barge!'
On the quarterdeck the sun was already intense and blinding, but Bolitho hardly noticed it because of his anger.
Inch said, 'All boats alongside, sir. Mr. Tomlin is just rigging canvas air ducts above the hatchways, and I've ordered him to open all ports.' He hesitated, aware of Bolitho's grim features. 'Sir?'
Bolitho looked past him. The Dutch ship was already surrounded-by small craft from the shore, while others of all shapes and sizes idled closer to 'the Hyperion, their occupants obviously uncertain whether to come alongside or remain at a discreet distance. The Hyperion must present a grim spectacle, he thought bitterly. Shot-scarred and blackened by smoke, with most of her sails too rent and pitted even to furl.
He said, 'Get all hands to work repairing damage, Mr. Inch. But first they must be fed. Send an officer and two boats ashore as soon as the commodore has left, and tell him to bring off as much fresh fruit as he can lay hands on. I will arrange for meat and water supplies as soon as I can.'
Inch asked, 'May I say something, sir?'
Bolitho looked at him for the first time. 'Well?'
'Just that we're all lucky to be alive, sir. But for you…'
Bolitho turned to watch as Perks, the sailmaker, and his mates completed the grisly task of sewing up the last of the dead men in readiness for burial.
'Some were not so fortunate, Mr. Inch.'
Inch shifted from one foot to the other. 'But I'd never have thought that new, untrained men could behave as our people did, sir.'
Bolitho felt some of his anger fading. Inch was so serious, so obviously sincere that it was hard to remain untouched by his concern.
'I agree. They did well.' He paused. 'And so did you.'
He shaded his eyes to look at the town. 'Now man the side for the commodore.'
As Inch hurried away he crossed to the nettings and stared idly at the distant huddle of white buildings. Stark against the hillside beyond, they looked like part of Holland, he thought. The first Dutch garrison or setttlers must have clung to the memory of their homeland, and even through the shimmering heat haze it was possible to see the tall, pointed rooftops of the larger houses and the flat-fronted dwellings along the waterfront which could have been part of Rotterdam or any Dutch port.
Midshipman Gascoigne caught his eye. 'Signal from Abdiel, sir. She lost five killed in the action. No serious damage.'
Bolitho nodded. The heavier French frigate had been more concerned with withdrawing the raiding party and recovering her boats once she had realised the uncertainty of the battle. Abdiel had done well, but she had had more than her share of luck.
He said, 'Pass my best wishes to Captain Pring, if you please.'
The tired and grimy seamen fell back as the marines clumped to the entry port and fell into line beside the bosun's mates and sideboys. Bolitho looked down at his own rumpled state. The marines were a strange breed, he thought vaguely. Just two hours ago they had been on the quarterdeck and in the tops shooting and yelling, as wild and desperate as all the rest. Now, as Lieutenant Hicks stood at one end of the front rank to check the dressing it was very hard to believe they had been in action at all.
He heard Gossett mutter to someone behind him, 'The bullocks'll always survive so long as they've got their pipeclay an' their bloody boots with 'em!' But there was genuine admiration in his tone.
