Alexander Kent - ENEMY IN SIGHT

"Then you are a fooll"

Bolitho heard Inch's quick intake of breath and saw one of the marines plucking angrily at his bayonet.

He moved to the opposite side of the quarterdeck. The sun was burning his shoulders so that he felt faint and sickened from the brandy in his empty stomach, but he made himself walk slowly, conscious of the silence and the men gathered along the deck of the Spartan nearby.

"Mr. Tomlin, clear the larboard gangway!" He did not need to raise his voice, and even the men in question fell back towards the forecastle as if fearful of breaking the silence.

Without turning his head he continued, "Now, Captain Poulain, I am going to shoot one of your men. Execute him, if you would prefer the term?" He hardened his voice. "Perhaps you will recall those prisoners who were hanged aboard your admiral's flagship? It may help you to arrive at a decision."

Two red-coated marines marched slowly along the larboard gangway, their tunics gleaming like blood in the bright sunlight. Between them, blindfolded and with his arms bound was a man in the uniform of a French master's mate.

The marine lieutenant came aft and said formally, "Prisoner and escort ready, sir!"

"Very well, Mr. Hicks." Bolitho held out his hand. "A pistol, if you please."

Then he walked along the gangway, above the twelve= pounders and past the tiered boats, his step unhurried and the pistol hanging loosely at his side. Halfway along the gangway he turned and looked aft towards the group on the quarterdeck, his vision blurred by strain and the unbearable tension.

"Well, Captain Poulain?"

"I will see you damned for this!" Poulain took a pace forward but was restrained by the marines. "You call yourself a captain! You are not fit to live!"

Bolitho swung round, and as the marines stepped aside, lifted the pistol and fired, the crash of the shot making more than one seaman call out in alarm and horror. The blindfolded figure jerked back against the nettings and then fell heavily on the gangway. His legs kicked only once and then he lay still.

Bolitho turned again towards the quarterdeck, the pistol smoke drifting past him as he watched the French captain for several seconds.

Poulain's voice sounded as if he was being throttled. "France will not forget this! You are a butcher! But you can shoot me and all of my men, and it will do you no good!" He struggled forward against the marines' grip. "I spit on you and your ship!" Then he twisted round as two more marines appeared at the head of the gangway.

Bolitho watched his sudden anguish as he said, "Not the rest of your men, Captain, but your son!"

He gestured towards Lieutenenat Hicks as the young French officer was led, blindfolded, to halt above the other man's still figure.

"Another pistol, Mr. Hicks!" As he received it he had to grip it with all his strength to stop it from shaking.

"You have one minute." He raised the pistol, seeing the French lieutenant's chest across the barrel, while the rest of the ship and the motionless marines blurred in haze. Very deliberately he thumbed back the hammer, the sound making one of the marines flinch as if he had been struck.

"Stop!" The cry was torn from Poulain's throat. "Do not shoot! In the name of mercy, do not kill my son!"

Bolitho remained by the nettings but lowered the pistol slightly. "I am still waiting, Captain!"

Poulain shouted, "I 'ave my written orders with me. They are sewn in my coat!"

Bolitho swayed and pressed his arm against his forehead. Then he hard Farquhar's voice, as if from a great distance. "I have them!"

Bolitho handed the pistol to Hicks and walked slowly towards the quarterdeck.

"Thank you, Captain. I have no pride in what I have done. But as you were quick to tell me, it is war. Now you will be taken ashore and placed in the care of the Dutch governor."

He watched the French lieutenant being led below again and added coldly, "When next you are tempted to kill helpless people, maybe you can find some worth in this lesson today."

Poulain eyed him with undisguised hatred. "You are a murderer no less than I!"

Bolitho replied emptily, "Not quite, Captain." He gestured towards the gangway. "You may get up now, Allday, it is finished."

A great gasp of astonishment rose from the watching seamen as the corpse struggled to its feet between the two grinning marines.

"As you see, Captain, he. is little the worse for his performance!" Then he turned away, sickened at the dismay and shame on Poulain's face.

Herrick stepped from beneath the poop and reached his side in three strides. "That was a close call." He took Bolitho's arm and guided him past the grinning and relieved seamen. "I had no idea, nor did any of us."

Bolitho listened to the laughing and shouting behind him and thought of the other captain's stricken features, "It was not a task I enjoyed, Thomas."

He paused by the ladder and studied his hands, expecting to see them shaking violently.

Herrick asked, "Would you have shot the lieutenant if Poulain had resisted further?" He watched the prisoners being led to the waiting boats. "Could you have done it?"

Bolitho looked past him. "I do not know, Thomas." He shook his head. "In God's name, I do not know!"

Commodore Mathias Pelham-Martin lay quite still in his cot, his eyes fixed on some part of the deckhead as Bolitho outlined what he had discovered from Poulain's orders. If anything, the cabin was hotter than it had been some four hours earlier and Bolitho found time to wonder how the commodore could endure such added discomfort.

But as he spoke he was thinking more of the other captains and of his own disappointment when together they had read and re-read the Frenchman's curtly worded instructions. No wonder Lequiller had been chosen for this task. He was indeed as wily as a fox. There was no mention at all of the final destination, nor was any port named or described. Poulain and the captain of the other damaged ship were to complete minimum repairs and sail with all haste to rendezvous with Vice-Admiral Lequiller's squadron at a position one hundred miles to the northwest of Cape Ortegal, the very comer of the Spanish mainland. As he -had studied the written instructions Bolitho had found little consolation in his own early assessment and solution of Lequiller's secret plan.

If the French admiral intended to enter a Spanish port and uphold Perez in an immediate rebellion, then he must be very sure of which harbour was the most suitable, both for himself and to produce the necessary sympathetic reaction from the local population. But this rendezvous was far out in the Bay of Biscay, and there was a choice of many such ports, from La Corufia in the north-west to Santander which lay a mere hundred miles from the French frontier.

Pelham-Martin said suddenly, "So you were wrong after all, Bolitho. You still do not know where Lequiller is bound."

Bolitho studied him impassively. "There is a chance we can bring him to action if we can reach the rendezvous in time, sir. We know his intention, if not the final destination. I believe the former more important. By catching him prior to any contact with the land we will have destroyed his chances completely."

The commodore closed his eyes. "We do not have that time, but even supposing there was a chance of reaching the rendezvous as you suggest, Lequiller may have sailed on without waiting for the damaged ships to meet with him. I see no point in discussing it further."

"I think it is a chance we have to take, sir."

"I will not discuss it any more, Bolitho!" PelhamMartin's eyes flicked open as pipes shrilled along the main deck and feet padded across the poop overhead.

"What is that?"

Bolitho felt strangely relaxed and devoid of tension. "I have ordered all hands aft, sir. In view of what we have learned, and the need for haste, I must use my authority as senior captain."