Alexander Kent - ENEMY IN SIGHT

Feet clattered in the passageway and Midshipman Pascoe thrust his head around the door.

"Mr. Roth's respects, sir, and may he take in a reef? The wind has freshened slightly." His eyes moved from Bolitho to Hugh. "Sir?"

Bolitho said, "No, he may not take in a reef, Mr. Pascoe. Not now, not at any time, unless we are faced with a hurricane."

Pascoe nodded. "Aye, aye, sir, I'll tell him at once." Then he asked, "Would. it be all right for Mr. Selby to

continue with the sextant instruction, sir? I seem to be slower than the others."

Bolitho studied him gravely. "Not slower, Mr. Pascoe. Just younger."

Then he looked at his brother. "If you find that convenient with your other duties, Mr. Selby, you have my permission." He added quietly, "In view of our recent conversation, I imagine you can be trusted to make good use of the time?"

Hugh nodded, his eyes suddenly bright. "The time'll be well spent, sir. You have my word on it."

When they had gone Bolitho rested his head in his hands and stared blindly at the chart. Once he had felt sorry for his brother, and the pointlessness of his future. Now he felt only envy. For even though the boy remained ignorant of his instructor's identity, Hugh would have him to himself, and could cherish the memory and the knowledge that his son would be safe from shame and live to be the extension of the life he had thrown away.

While he had nothing. He found his fingers touching the locket again. Only memories, and over the years they too would be as elusive as the wind and offer no comfort.

With a jerk he stood up and reached for his hat. Here was a bad place to be alone. On deck he at least had the ship, and for this mission he would try and make that suffice.

As Bolitho had anticipated, the first infectious excitement of heading out into the Atlantic soon gave way to strain and long days of backbreaking work for every man aboard. Once clear of the friendly trade winds and into the Horse Latitudes they were beset by maddening and frustrating delays, for in that vast, empty expanse of ocean the winds backed and veered, sometimes twice in a single watch, with all hands fighting to trim and then re-trim the yards so that not even a cupful of power should be lost.

Once the wind fell away altogether and the Hyperion idled uncomfortably in a steep swell, her sails flapping and limp for the first time since leaving St. Kruis. Most of the ship's company had been grateful, when at any other time they might have cursed the wind's perversity and the helplessness they felt under such conditions. But any hope for a rest was soon dispelled when Bolitho had ordered Inch to turn them to again and use the lull to bend on heavy weather canvas for the change he knew would soon be upon them.

Sixteen days after weighing anchor they picked up a stiff south-westerly and beneath leaden skies tacked and.headed eastward for the final leg of the voyage.

Bolitho knew that many of the seamen cursed his name whenever the cry, "All hands! All hands aloft and reef tops'ls!" drove their weary bodies to the shrouds and up to the vibrating yards once more. Theirs had become a world of shrieking wind and drenching spray, where they fisted and grappled sodden canvas high above the decks, 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.