fingernails torn and bleeding while they struggled to keep from falling to certain death. But he could find little time to spare for their inner feelings, any more than he allowed himself a moment's rest.
At any other period he might have felt elation, even pride for the manner in which the old ship and her company were behaving. As the miles rolled away beneath the keel and the sea's face changed to dull grey he knew that such a fast passage would be envied by many captains. As always, whenever he came on deck the Impulsive was never far astern, her heavy weather sails giving an appearance of purpose and grim determination. Of the Hermes there was no sign at all, and Bolitho had once found himself wondering if Fitzmaurice had, after all, decided to fall back deliberately and leave him to his own devices. It had been unfair and pointless even to think like that, but he knew it had been because of his own uncertainty, his overpowering need to drive the ship as never before, if only to keep his despair at bay.
Every day he had visited the commodore in his sleeping cabin, but even that seemed of little value now. PelhamMartin rarely spoke to him, and merely stared up from his cot without even bothering to disguise his satisfaction at Bolitho's empty reports. In spite of Pelham-Martin's silent hostility, however, Bolitho was worried at his appearance. He was eating less and consuming a good deal of brandy as compensation. He seemed to trust no one near him, and had even driven Petch away with a string of threats when the wretched man tried to bathe his perspiring face.
Strangely, he had sent for Sergeant Munro, a seasoned marine who had once been an inn servant before enlisting and knew something of the ways of his betters. But Bolitho suspected the commodore looked on Munro more as a bodyguard against some imaginary enemy than any sort of lackey.
Pelham-Martin's voice was certainly stronger, but he had refused to allow Trudgeon to inspect, let alone change his dressings for over a week, and Bolitho had told himself repeatedly that he was merely shamming and biding his time until he admitted failure.
He had not spoken to his brother again, but during one night when the wind had risen unexpectedly to a full gale he had seen him dashing aloft with some seamen to restrain the mizzen staysail which had split from luff to leach with the sound of tearing silk, audible even above the howl of sea and rigging. Pascoe had been with him, and when they had at last returned to the deck Bolitho had seen their quick exchange of grins, like conspirators who shared something private and special.
As day followed day, Bolitho remained aloof from his officers and restricted his contact to the requirements of duty. The south-westerly wind showed no sign of lessening, and while the ship plunged and staggered across the endless expanse of creaming rollers Bolitho paced the quarterdeck, heedless or unaware of his soaked clothing until Allday finally persuaded him to go aft for some warm soup and a brief rest. Everything was damp, and below decks behind shuttered ports the men off watch crouched together in their. crowded messes, willing the voyage to end, sleeping, or waiting for the next frugal meal. The cooks had little to offer, and in their crazily swaying world, amidst a litter of pots and broached casks of salt pork or beef, it was hard to see what else they could provide without some sort of miracle.
At noon of the twenty-seventh day Bolitho stood by the quarterdeck rail and watched Inch and Gossett working busily with their sextants. Overhead the sky had cleared a little and the clouds were broken into long, ragged banners, between which the watery sunlight gave an illusion of warmth.
Gossett said slowly, 'I'd never 'ave believed it, sir!'
Bolitho handed his own sextant to Canyon and touched the worn rail with his hand. Twenty-seven days. Three less than the impossible target he had imposed at St. Kruis.
Inch moved to his side and asked quietly, 'What now, sir?'
'Spartan will have been patrolling for several days, Mr. Inch.' Bolitho looked at the blurred horizon. It seemed to shine like gunmetal, yet there was no true division between sky and sea. 'We will continue on this tack until dusk. Perhaps by then we might have some news from Captain Farquhar.'
But no news came, nor any sight of a sail to break the unending monotony of broken rollers. At nightfall they went about and under reefed topsails butted almost into the teeth of the wind. There was nothing the next day, or the one after that, and as the masthead lookouts changed and the daily routine dragged out its minutes and hours Bolitho knew that like himself there were few aboard who still retained any hope.
Tempers became frayed, and here and there within the ship's confined world old conflicts flared into open violence. Three men were flogged, and a trusted and welldisciplined bosun's mate was placed in irons for refusing to turn out of his hammock during the night watches. There was no sane reason for his behaviour, it just seemed part of the whole pattern of bitter disappointment and frustration.
Five days after reaching the supposed rendezvous the lookouts sighted the Spartan clawing out from the southeast. For a few more moments something of the old excitement returned as men clambered into shrouds and rigging to watch her as she went about and ran down under the Hyperion's lee.
Midshipman Canyon lowered his glass and looked at Bolitho. 'Nothing to report, sir.' He dropped his gaze as if he felt partly to blame. 'Spartan requests instructions, sir.'
Bolitho knew Inch and the others were watching him, although when he turned his head they immediately appeared engrossed in anything but in his direction.
He replied slowly, 'Signal Spartan to take station to wind'rd with Dasher.'
He saw the frigate falling away, her yards swinging round as Farquhar let the wind carry him clear, The Spartan was streaked with salt and there were several figures aloft in her rigging splicing and repairing damage caused by the b'ffeting she had endured. What it must be like aboard the sloop, Bolitho could not imagine. But Dasher had kept up with them, had smashed through heavy weather and suffered calms, her topsails always visible to greet each morning watch.
Bolitho said, 'I am going aft, Mr. Inch.'
The lieutenant crossed to the weather side and asked hesitantly, 'Will you see the commodore, sir?' He saw Bolitho's eyes and added, 'There is still time, sir. We can all ride it out if you give the word.'
Bolitho smiled. 'There is no point in enforcing this misery now.' He studied him gravely. 'But thank you just the same. You have been given a hard time lately.'
As he strode away he heard Inch say, 'God damn those Frogs!'
He paused outside the sleeping cabin and then thrust open the door. Pelham-Martin watched him in silence for several seconds. Then he asked, 'Well? Do you submit now?'
Bolitho gripped his hat tightly beneath his arm. 'There is nothing in sight, sir. The rendezvous is overdue.'
Pelham-Martin's eyes gleamed faintly. 'Fetch me my writing pad.' He watched Bolitho at the bulkhead bureau. 'As of this moment I am going to relieve you of your command. You disobeyed my orders, you took advantage of my wound, and I shall write a report to that effect.'
Bolitho placed the pad on the cot and watched him without emotion. His limbs felt light, as if he was drugged, and he could find no involvement in what was happening to him.
The commodore snapped, 'Fetch a witness!'
At that moment Inch appeared in the doorway and stared at them curiously.
He said, 'The masthead has just sighted the Hermes, sir.'
Pelham-Martin struggled beneath the sheet. 'Good. Now the whole squadron will be able to return to England.' His eyes moved to Inch. 'You will be the witness to this document. If you behave yourself I will try to spare your commission at the court martial.'
Inch said thickly, 'Sir, there is nothing which has happened that I did not agree…'
Bolitho interrupted harshly, 'Just witness the document, Mr. Inch, and do not be a fool!'
'Quite so!' Pelham-Martin seemed entangled in the sheet. He shouted, 'Munro! Come here at once!'
The marine sergeant entered the cabin and stood beside the cot.
'Lift me up, damn you!'
As the marine took his shoulder Pelham-Martin gave one terrible cry, so that he let him fall back again to the pillow.
Bolitho snapped, 'Stand away!' He pulled down the sheet and then stared at the man's shoulder beneath the bandage. 'Fetch the surgeon immediately.' He felt sick and appalled. The commodore's upper arm and the visible part of his shoulder glowed hard yellow, like a ripe melon, and when he touched the skin with his hand it felt as if it was on fire.
Pelham-Martin peered up at him. 'What is it? For God's sake, what are you staring at?'
Inch muttered, 'My God!'
