Alexander Kent - ENEMY IN SIGHT

Midshipman Gascoigne yelled, "General, sir! Heave to!"

As officers and seamen scampered to their stations he added breathlessly, "Flag to Hyperion. Captain repair on board in thirty minutes!"

"Acknowledge." Bolitho looked at Inch. "Heave to and then call away my barge." He tried to appear relaxed under the eyes around him. "It will give me time to change into my dress coat."

While the ship laboured and swayed in the light wind and Petch busied himself laying out clean shirt and best uniform, Bolitho glanced around the cabin, thinking momentarily of all the dramas and hopes it had witnessed, and would see again. From here captains had gone on deck to die in battle or triumph against one of a dozen of England's enemies. Had left to be promoted or to witness a flogging, to offer help to a ship in distress, or merely to watch the passing of some particular cloud or seascape. It was strange that the same ship which might bring fame and fortune to one, could bring ignominy and disaster to another.

He pulled his neckcloth tight and saw Petch watching him anxiously. He was probably already wondering if by this time tomorrow he would be serving a new master.

Inch stepped into the cabin. "Barge alongside, sir." He paused before adding, "The commodore's already gone over to the frigate, sir."

Bolitho held out his arms for his heavy, gold-laced coat with the white lapels. The one which Cheney admired so much. It was what. he had expected. The two senior officers would need privacy for their own confrontation, he thought grimly.

"Very well, Mr. Inch. I'm ready."

He paused as Petch fumbled with the swordbelt about his waist and then walked quickly to the door.

A great silence seemed to hang over the upper deck as he strode towards the entry port. It was strange to realise there were still so many faces be did not know or recognise. Given time he would have changed that. He looked up at the great web of rigging and the sails which flapped loosely in the wind. Given time, a lot of things might have been different.

The pipes twittered and the marines presented arms as he swung himself outboard and down to the pitching barge below.

He sat stiffly in the sternsheets as the oars picked up the stroke and sent the boat scudding towards the distant frigate. It was then that he noticed every one of his bargemen was dressed in his best checked shirt and Allday was wearing a brass buttoned coat he had not seen before.

Allday kept his eyes on the frigate but said softly, "Just to show 'em, Captain. So they'll all know how we feel!"

Bolitho gripped his sword-hilt and stared fixedly above the seamen's heads. He could not even find the words to speak. Did not trust himself to reply to Allday's simple loyalty.

The bowman made fast to the chains, and without

waiting for Allday to rise to his feet Bolitho hauled himself up the frigate's side and raised his hat to the quarterdeck.

For a moment he looked across at the ship he had just left. Then he straightened his shoulders and nodded curtly to the frigate's young captain.

"Lead the way, if you please."

The frigate's stern cabin was low-beamed and spartan after that in a ship of the line, but to Bolitho was instantly familiar. When he had taken command of a frigate for the first time he had thought his quarters palatial when compared to a small sloop, but now as he ducked his head beneath the deck beams he was equally conscious of the lack of space, made more apparent by the three figures arranged around it.

Vice-Admiral Sir Manley Cavendish was thin and grey haired, and although his features were tanned and weathered, his cheeks looked sunken, and beneath his resplendent dress coat his breathing seemed quick and shallow. Bolitho knew him to be in his sixties, and the fact he had not set foot ashore for more than a few hours during the past two years could have done little to help his obvious poor health. But there was nothing feeble about his voice, and the eyes, close set above an imperious nose, were as bright and searching as any lieutenant's.

"Punctual at least, Bolitho!" He eased himself painfully in his chair. "You had better sit down. This may take some time, and I am not in the habit of repeating myself!"

Bolitho found a chair, conscious the whole time of Pelham-Martin's heavy bulk seated against the opposite side, his pink hands gripped together across his waistcoast as if to hold himself motionless in his enemy's presence. The other occupant was a flag lieutenant, an exprcssionless young man who stared straight at an open log book, his pen poised like a sword above an empty page.

Cavendish said, "I have read the reports, and I have considered what can be done. What must be done."

Bolitho glanced at the pen. It was still motionless.

"I have spoken with your Commodore and heard all that has happened, both before and after the loss of the Ithuriel." He leaned back and eyed Bolitho stonily. "Altogether it is as melancholy as it is dangerous, but before I make my final decision I would like to hear if you have anything to add to your, er, assessment of the situation."

Bolitho knew that Pelham-Martin was staring at him, but looked straight at Cavendish. "Nothing, sir."

The flag lieutenant studied him for the first time. Then Cavendish asked calmly, "No excuses? No blame to be laid elsewhere?"

Bolitho pressed his spine against the chair, holding back the sudden flood of anger and resentment. "I acted as I thought fit, sir. It was my responsibility and I chose what I

thought…" he lifted his chin slightly, 11… what I think

was the only course open to me."

The pen scratched busily across the paper.

The admiral nodded slowly. "If you had stayed to fight you would have forfeited your ship, and maybe six hundred men. You say you were prepared so to do?" He crossed his fingers and watched Bolitho's face for several seconds. "Yet you were not prepared to risk the lives of others already lost to us through fault or negligence, eh?"

Bolitho replied, "I was not, sir." He listened to the busy pen and felt his body relax for the first time. He was condemning himself, but could do nothing to prevent it. Not unless he was prepared to slander Pelham-Martin, or to denounce an action he still believed to be right.

Cavendish sighed. "Then that is all there is to be said on the matter." His head twisted sharply as he stared at Pelham-Martin. "Do you wish to make any comment?"

"Captain Bolitho was detached from my supervision, sir." The commodore was speaking quickly, and against the harsh light thrown through the stem windows his round face was shining with sweat. "But I am sure, that is I feel under the circumstances he acted as he thought fit."

Cavendish glanced at his flag lieutenant. It was just a brief moment, but Bolitho thought he saw a flicker of contempt in those cold eyes.

Then he said, "I have already told your Commodore what I intend, but as you are directly concerned I will give you the bones of my conclusions." He turned over some papers on the desk and added curtly, "Four ships avoided my squadron off Lorient, as you are no doubt well aware. Now more have escaped through your own patrols. You think maybe there is no connection?" He tapped the papers with his small wizened hands. "I have had every frigate alerted, questioned every available source, yet there is not one single sign of these ships!" He slapped his hands hard on the desk. "Not one sign."

Bolitho watched him evenly. It was hard to see where this was leading. Did Cavendish intend to place the whole 'blame on Pelham-Martin, and thereby on him?

The vice-admiral snapped, "Tell me, Bolitho, during the past few days since this misfortune, have you at any time wondered at the French admiral's brutality?"

Bolitho replied, "He could have fought my ship, sir. We would have given a good account of ourselves, but the end would have been inevitable. It was four to one against, and my people are still new to warfare for the most part."