As days dragged into weeks it seemed to Bolitho as if there was no limit to the merciless cruelty of wind and sea, and the whole world appeared to have shrunk to the inner confines of the ship's hull and the wave-dashed upper deck. Neither was there any let-up in the commodore's orders. Day after day the three ships tacked back and forth in every conceivable kind of weather which the Bay of Biscay could offer. Short, gusty winds would change to the full force of an Atlantic gale within minutes, and as seamen struggled aloft again and again to fight the icy, frost-hardened canvas station-keeping became a nightmare. For days on end the three ships might ride out a storm under reefed topsails, and when visibility returned they would be greeted by a whole stream of urgent signals from the Indomitable to regain formation and begin all over again.
There was no longer any seasickness aboard the HI yperion, and when they were released for brief spells from work on deck the hands slumped into their cramped hammocks like dead men, grateful only for the warmth of the other bodies swinging around them as the ship smashed on through the angry offshore currents and screaming winds.
But hardly an hour seemed to pass before the pipes
I were shrilling again and the cry, "All hands! All hands! Aloft and reef tops'ls!" would be passed from hatch to hatch.
To prevent the ship's company from giving way completely to despair Bolitho used every available opportunity to keep them occupied. Gun drill was carried out whenever possible, with the starboard side competing against the larboard. The gunners from the lower battery had to take turns on the main deck for as yet the weather had been too rough to open the lower ports.
When Bolitho made his regular weekly inspections throughout the ship he was moved by the wretched conditions of the men who lived on the lower gundeck beside and between the thirty' twenty-four pounders they would service in action. With the ports sealed and the ship rolling heavily it was like a scene from hell. Some three hundred men lived, ate and slept there, and even allowing for one watch being on deck, the atmosphere was sickening. The foul stench of bilge mixed with packed humanity and clothing which was never able to dry was more than enough for the most hardened `seaman.
Three weeks after joining Pelham-Martin's command they lost a man overboard, a young seaman who had been pressed in Devon. He had been working on the forecastle with the bosun's party when a great wave had reared high above the jib boom and had hurled him clean over the rail like a piece of canvas. For a few moments he had clung, kicking to the nettings before another bursting wave had torn him away and carried him screaming down the ship's side.
It had been blowing a gale at the time and it was impossible to heave to without danger of dismasting the ship. Not that there would have been any point. By the time a boat could have fought its way clear of the side there would have been no chance of finding the man in that tossing wilderness. But it made a great impression throughout the ship which even the toughened acceptance of more seasoned men could not dispel.
It had been the ship's first death since leaving Plymouth, and with the weather driving the ship inwards upon her own resources it seemed to hang on the crowded messdecks like a threat. There had been much the same atmosphere over the first flogging, too. A seaman had somehow managed to break into a spirit store, and without telling any of his companions had found a quiet corner deep in the ship's hull and got raving drunk. He had emerged during the first watch, stark naked and had capered around the darkened deck like an insane ghost screaming taunts and curses at anyone who tried to overpower him. He had even managed to fell a petty officer before others succeeded in hurling him to the deck.
The next day, while the ship wallowed heavily in a rain squall Bolitho had the hands called aft to witness punishment, and after reading the Articles of War ordered the bosun's mates to carry out the award of thirty lashes. By any standard it was a lenient punishment in the Navy's harsh code of discipline. Breaking into the spirit store was bad, but striking -a petty officer was liable to court martial and hanging, as everyone knew well enough.
Bolitho had found no comfort in awarding the minimum punishment. Even the fact that the petty officer had agreed to say he had not in fact been struck at all was no compensation for the flogging. Punishment at any other time was necessary, but it had seemed to him as he had stood by the rail with his officers and the marine drummer boy's sticks had beaten a slow roll between each swishing crack of the cat-o'-nine-tails across the man's naked back, that the whole ship had enough to bear without any extra misery. It had somehow been made worse by the rain, with the watching ship's company huddled together for warmth, the scarlet line of marines swaying to the deck's uneven roll, and the writhing figure spread-eagled on the gratings, gasping and sobbing as the lash rose and fell in time with the drumbeats.
Occasionally a sloop would seek out the small squadron with despatches from the fleet or stores brought from Vigo, and when weather permitted the commodore would summon his captains aboard the flagship while he read out his own formal report in their presence before signing it, and then to Bolitho's astonishment, asking each of the three captains in turn to sign it also.
He had never heard of such a thing before, but he could tell from the wooden faces of his two companions that they were quite used to Pelham-Martin's strange whim. It was increasingly obvious that the commodore had no intention of leaving a single flaw in his plan to keep the vice-admiral's criticism or possible displeasure at bay by causing his three captains to be implicated in everything he did. So far of course he had done nothing at all, except abide by the letter of his orders. Patrol and blockade, and nothing more.
Whenever Bolitho was called aboard the Indomitable he found Pelham-Martin to be a lavish entertainer. The sloops which came and went from Vigo apparently kept him well supplied with choice wines, and what was more important as far as Bolitho was concerned, a small link with the outside world.
The last occasion Bolitho visited the flagship was on Christmas Day. Curiously enough the weather moderated to a slow north-westerly breeze and the sea eased out its lines of cruising wavecrests into a deep, sullen swell. The Hyperion's upper deck became crowded with figures as they stared at the grey, undulating water and at the other ships as if for the first time. As well they might, for during the eight weeks since joining Pelham-Martin's command the weather had never eased for more than an hour at a time.
Bolitho was irritated at having to visit the flagship. Christmas under these conditions would be wretched enough for his company without his leaving as if to enjoy himself at the commodore's lavish table. The Hyperion's fresh food had long since gone and the Christmas dinner for the lower deck was a strange concoction of hot beef hash well laced with rum, and doubtful-tasting duff, which Gilpin, the one-eyed and villainous-looking cook, assured Bolitho "would set their hearts all aflame."
But Bolitho knew that the visit to the flagship was not merely for good cheer. A sloop had appeared at first light, using the light airs to dash down on the slow moving twodeckers like a terrier after three ponderous bullocks. She was not one of Pelham-Martin's sloops, but from the main squadron of Lorient, and by the time Bolitho had thrown on his dress coat and called away his barge he saw the sloop's gig already alongside the flagship.
Upon arrival aboard the Indomitable he found PelhamMartin in a very jovial mood. In the great cabin Winstanley was quite expressionless, and Captain Fitzmaurice of the Hermes looked openly dismayed.
The news from Lorient was unsettling. Vice-Admiral Cavendish had despatched two frigates to patrol close inshore to check upon any sign of change or movement amongst the mass of anchored shipping within the port. It was a routine task, and one to which both frigate captains were well accustomed. But as they closed the shore their masthead lookouts had reported the startling news that instead of being in ordinary as before, the French ships of the line had their yards crossed, and to all appearances seemed fewer in number. So some must have slipped out through the blockade.