Alexander Kent - ENEMY IN SIGHT

Bolitho gripped the rail, letting his body ride with his ship as she continued to turn across and then past the eye of the wind.

"Mainsail haul!"

Men scampered in orderly confusion, their tanned bodies shining with blown spray as the sea broke above the starboard bulwark and cascaded over the deck.

Bolitho slapped his palm on the rail, "Now, Mr. Inch!"

"Let go and haul!" Inch's hat had been knocked awry, but he was managing to make himself heard above the thunder of canvas and whining rigging.

Bolitho watched with grim satisfaction as the yards began to creak round, the men at the braces hauling like madmen, digging their toes into the slanting deck, their bodies almost parallel with it.

Overhead the sails boomed angrily and then filled taut and bulging as the ship heeled to the opposite tack, blocks screaming and shrouds vibrating like demons until she had settled on her new course.

Bolitho nodded. "Now get the royals on her!" A quick glance astern told him that Herrick had been ready and waiting. His ship was already plunging round in pursuit, her figurehead and bowsprit concealed in a great mass of bursting spray and spume.

Gossett shouted, "Nor' by east, sir! Full an' bye!"

"Very well." Bolitho felt the deck shiver as more canvas bellied out from the yards. Far above the deck the tiny figures seemed beyond reach and invulnerable, but he knew it was another illusion. One slip and it would mean instant death, if the man who fell was lucky. If not he would drop into the creaming sea alongside, to be left astern to drown in sight of his ship. For to try and stop the Hyperion under such a press of canvas would be to invite disaster. It was possible that such a manoeuvre might even dismast her completely.

On the main deck he saw the sailmaker and his mates hauling out the studding sails, extra canvas to lash on to the mainyards like great wings, which with luck, might give the ship another knot if the wind held.

The rigging and shrouds seemed black with figures scrambling back and forth, up and down as they hurried to obey the urgent calls from the warrant officers of their divisions.

Suddenly he saw Pascoe climbing up the futtock shrouds, his slim body lying back above the sea, and held his breath as his foot slipped and a shoe fell lazily down and into the leaping spray. Then the boy regained_ his hold and continued after the others, his black hair whipping out in the demanding wind.

When he dropped his gaze Bolitho noticed his brother by the foremast, shading his eyes as he too peered up at the midshipman. Then he saw Bolitho watching him and gave what might have been a small shrug. Or it could have been a sigh of relief.

Lieutenant Roth called, "Hermes has tacked!" He chuckled. "She's not keeping up at all well!"

Bolitho turned on him hotly. "Don't be so damned smug about it! If the Hermes cannot stay with us, you will be seventy-four guns short when you most need them!"

Roth flushed. "Sorry, sir."

Bolitho walked to the weather side and steadied his body against the nettings. He must get hold of himself. To show resentment at such an innocent remark was pointless and stupid. Roth was more intent on showing pride in his own ship than deriding the weed-encrusted Hermes. He thought suddenly of his own fretting impatience in the Mediterranean when like Hermes this ship had been dragging with sea-growth and barnacles, left behind the fleet and with little sympathy from his admiral. But it was useless to think along those lines.

He said, "Make a signal to Hermes, Mr. Carlyon!" He frowned, remembering too Fitzmaurice's brave gesture to support him. "Make more sail." He hesitated. "That is all." Fitzmaurice would not appreciate any sympathetic addition to the signal, any more than he would have done. He was as committed as any of them now, and must do more than his best to keep up with the squadron, if it meant knocking the wedges from the masts.

"She's acknowledged, sir." Canyon sounded surprised.

Shouts and curses came from the main deck as the larboard studding sail flapped and billowed like a snared sea monster. It was not filling too well, but was better than nothing. In any case it kept the men busy, and they had a long way to go yet.

Inch said, "I have never seen her sail like this, sir."

"We may find less favourable winds to the north'rd." Bolitho was thinking aloud. "We must push her all we can and take every advantage of the trades."

The topmen were already sliding back to the deck, their voices loud, even jubilant at the great display of power which they had released and mastered.

Bolitho said shortly, "I will be in the chartroom, Mr. Inch. You may dismiss the watch below."

In the small cabin he sat at the table and stared fixedly at the chart. Everything was ready, but there seemed nothing to add to his careful calculations. He flicked the pages of his worn log book, each one a small record of miles sailed, ships sighted. Men killed or injured. He closed it with a snap and stood up. He must stop thinking back. Stop remembering, when there was nothing left to hold on to.

There was a rap at the door. "Enter."

Fee looked round and saw his brother standing inside the chartroom, watching him with expressionless formality.

Bolitho said, "Shut the door." Then quietly, "You may speak your mind. There is no one to hear you."

"I wanted to talk with you about…" He faltered and then added flatly, "I heard about your wife. I am sorry. What more can I say?"

Bolitho sighed. "Yes. Thank you."

"When I was at Cozar with the other convicts I used to see her walking by the old fortress. I think I fell in love with her also." He smiled sadly. "Do you think you will find the French this time?"

Bolitho looked at him. "Yes."

"If you do, and the fates are kind, what will you do about me?"

"I have not decided." Bolitho sat down wearily and massaged his eyes. "If we succeed in finding and beating Lequiller…"

His brother lifted an eyebrow. "Beating him?"

"To cripple him will be sufficient." It was strange how Hugh could see what others had not even suspected. A sea fight, perhaps one hundred miles out in the Bay, could mean as much destruction for victor as for vanquished.

He continued abruptly, "I can hand you to the authorities with a plea for pardon. In view of your work in the Spartan I do not see how it could be refused." He held up his hand. "Hear me and then speak. But if you wish, I will have you sent ashore on some duty." He looked away. "Then you can desert and make your own way."

"Either course leaves you open to criticism and real danger, Dick. The latter more so, because you will have to live with the knowledge that you have at last been influenced from your plain duty by personal bias-"

Bolitho stared at him. "For God's sake, do you think I care about that any more?"

"I do. You are offering me the chance to desert, not only because in your heart you mistrust the leniency of any court martial, but also because you fear the effect on my son if he sees me tried and hanged for treason." He smiled gently. "I know you, Dick!"

"Well?" Bolitho stood up and walked to the chart rack.

"I will take your offer and run." Hugh sounded suddenly tired. "Not to Cornwall where I might be recognised." He paused. "But it will be England and not some poxy jail at the other end of the earth."

Bolitho faced him. "Perhaps we will speak again later."

"I think not." His brother eyed him calmly. "By the way, I think you are foolish to act as you are now. You should have let Pelham-Martin take the blame and stay at anchor in St. Kruis. Now, whichever way it goes, he may be the victor."

"Maybe."

Hugh nodded. "And perhaps I'd have done the same. All Cornishmen are said to be slightly mad, and it seems we are no, exception."