Pelham-Martin walked unsteadily to the rail and gripped it firmly. 'I do not want any.' He turned his head, squinting at the low clouds. 'Where is the Hermes?'
'On station, sir.' Bolitho stepped beside him to shield his face from the others. 'She will be able to see your signals directly.'
'And the Dutchman?'
'Not sighted her yet, sir.'
The small head seemed to twist in either direction quite independently of the massive frame beneath it.
'What?' Pelham-Martin peered across the tilting main deck below him. 'Where is she?' He was shouting. 'She must be here!'
Bolitho said, 'We had to change tack twice during the middle watch, sir. Telamon's spars may be too old for such violent treatment in this wind. She probably retained her original course at a more favourable pace.' He was speaking quietly, aware of the watching eyes nearby. 'But Captain Farquhar will be safe enough. He will have had the lee of the land to protect his approach.'
Pelham-Martin did not seem to hear. He was staring at the sea as the growing light opened it up and displayed the hardening line of the horizon and the dark untidy cluster of land which seemed to rail from the plunging jib boom like weed.
'Empty!' He groped inside his heavy coat as if to
produce his silk handkerchief. 'Nothing!'
There was a click as a boy turned over the half-hour
glass beside the compass.
Bolitho nodded to Inch. 'Send the hands to quarters and clear for action.'
The commodore stared at him, his eyes bare and desperate. 'Just two ships!' He fell silent as the drums started to rattle and the seamen and-marines poured on deck and scampered to their stations.
Bolitho said, 'They will suffice, sir.'
He could almost feel the man's anxiety. It was just as if the sight of this vast expanse of tossing sea and the huddle of islands had finally brought home the reality of his responsibility. In a moment he might lose his last shred of control. Just as young Gascoigne had described his own fear of his first watch on deck unaided, when everything appeared to be running away with him, beyond human control.
He said harshly, 'It is a fine day for it, sir. And if the French are here they'll be asleep most likely when Spartan pays them a call.'
Bolitho realised the thumps and bangs below decks had stopped, and when he looked down over the rail he saw the men at their stations, the only movement being made by the ship's boys as they scurried from gun to gun, sanding the decks as they ran… The gunners would need plenty of grip for their feet if the wind rose further.
Pelham-Martin said tonelessly, 'Would you send someone for my sword?' He fumbled awkwardly with the heavy coat and then removed it.
Bolitho saw he was wearing the same gleaming dress coat in which he had come aboard. In which he had sat out the night.
One of the seamen on the larboard battery had been about to tie his neckerchief around his ears. Seeing the 258
commodore he waved it over his head and yelled, 'A cheer, lads! Hurrah.'
Bolitho said quietly, 'You see, sir? They look to you today!'
Then he turned away, unable to watch as Allday
buckled the sword around the commodore's huge waist. His face seemed to have crumpled at the sound of that solitary cheer, and his expression was that of a man within the shadow of a gibbet.
15. THE MESSAGE
Bolitho straddled his legs and waited until the deck had completed another steep roll and then raised the telescope to his eye. In the fast-growing light he could see the nearest island, its ragged crest grey against the low clouds, and beyond it, overlapping like the prow of some ancient galley, a smaller islet, below which the sea lifted and boiled in continuous movement. Reefs most likely, he thought. Or parts of the cliff worn away by the years to fall as one more natural barrier against would-be intruders.
He lowered the glass, wiping his eye with the back of his sleeve. Around and below him the seamen waited by their guns, watching his face, or merely staring at the sealed ports in readiness for the next order.
Pelham-Martin said suddenly, 'Surely to God something will happen! Maybe the Spartan is aground!' He turned his small head and peered at Bolitho with something like shock.
'We'll know soon, sir.' He walked a few paces clear, unwilling to listen in case his own reserve of confidence should fade also.
'Sirl' Canyon had his hands cupped over his ears. 'Gunfire, sir!'
Bolitho looked at him doubtfully. But there was no mistaking the expression on the boy's face. He was young and untroubled beyond his own duties, and his ears must have caught the far off sounds before anyone else, in spite of the wind.
'Mr. Inch! Pass the order to load! But do not run out 'til I give the word!'
To Gossett he called, 'Mark our course well. The reefs sweep right out from that far headland.'
The master nodded. 'I've noted 'em, sir. We've a good four mile as yet.'
'Deck there!' The masthead lookout's voice seemed puny in the din of wind and thrashing canvas. 'There's a ship break-in' from the channel!'
Bolitho gripped his hands behind him to control the rising excitement. 'Mr. Inch! Alter course two points to lee'rd! Pipe the hands to the braces!'
Then he snatched a telescope from Canyon's hands and peered at the clump of islands. They seemed to be pitching like flotsam across the spray-dappled glass, but even as his eye began to water from strain he saw the edge of the slabsided island harden and darken, and where there had been a sliver of broken sea something was moving. A ship.
He heard Gossett call, 'Course sou'-west by south!'
Inch stared at him. 'It's a frigate!' A muscle jumped in his cheek as a sullen rumble of cannon fire echoed across the water. 'By God, the Frogs are there!'
Bolitho pushed past him. 'Shake out those reefsl And set the forecourse and t'gallants!'
He walked to Pelham-Martin's side as Inch dashed to the rail with his speaking trumpet. 'Well, sir, there are some in the bag today.'
He watched the men dashing out along the yards, the immediate response from every stay and shroud as first one then another of the topgallant sails filled to the wind, the thrust making itself felt to the very keel. With the wind almost dead astern the ship seemed to be leaning forward and down, and when the great spread of canvas bellied out from the forecourse Bolitho thought he could hear the sea parting across the bows like water in a millrace.
'You may run out, Mr. Inch!' He watched narrowly as Pelham-Martin craned over the rail to watch the long twelve-pounders squeaking towards the open ports, their crews yelling to each other as if it was another contest.
Inch shouted, 'The frigate's cleared the channel, sir!'
Bolitho watched the distant ship, her shape shortening as she turned slowly from the nearest spur of land. With the wind driving down from the north-east she had little room to tack, and being so close inshore she might be in irons and driven back into the channel if she mistimed it. He saw her yards swinging wildly, the spray leaping above her raked stem as he settled once more, this time on converging course with Hyperion.
A hasty glance astern told him that Fitzmaurice needed no instruction as to what was needed. The Hermes was already spreading her topgallants, and he could see her leaning sickeningly to the press of canvas as she swung purposefully across the Hyperion's wake. Like the jaws in a trap. When the other French ships broke from the channel they would have to pass between two prepared and eager captains.
He snapped, 'Alter course another point! Steer south west!'
