When he had boarded the Indomitable within minutes of taking station astern of the other ships he had been conscious of nothing but a sense of failure, and when he had been ushered into the commodore's great cabin he had listened to his own voice as he had made his report, more like a detached onlooker than one who was not only directly involved but also a possible culprit for the chain of events which had followed his retreat from the estuary.
Pelham-Martin had heard him out without a word or an interruption. In fact, looking back Bolitho could recall no expression or reaction of any sort which he could recognise as either anger or apprehension. He had merely said, "Return to your ship, Bolitho. I will draft an immediate report for Sir Manley Cavendish's attention."
Again like an onlooker Bolitho had paced his quarterdeck while signals had broken from the commodore's yards, and for a few hours at least there had been every sign of urgency and purpose. Fortunately, both sloops had returned to the small squadron during Hyperion's brief absence, and as one sped northwards to seek out the vice-admiral's ship, the other had gone about and headed in the opposite direction to recall the two remaining frigates.
But as day followed day with nothing to break the waiting and uncertainty Bolitho knew that a new show of force was less than pointless. The stable door was still open, but it was unlikely there were any more large ships waiting to test the strength of the commodore's vigilance.
Over and over again he asked himself what he could have done. What he should have done. If he had stayed offshore to shadow the emerging French ships PelhamMartin would have remained in ignorance. But by returning immediately to the squadron he had allowed the enemy to escape. To vanish into thin air as if they had never been.
The third course he had rejected without hesitation, but as he fretted and brooded in his imposed isolation he could no longer see even that one act in its true value. Humanity and honour were seen quite differently in the cold and austere atmosphere of a court martial assembly. It was ominous that for once Pelham-Martin had not required anyone to witness his report or to know its content.
Several times he had started to write another letter to Cheney. To prepare her for news which at any time could bring her nothing but despair. If Pelham-Martin had worded his report to place the full responsibility on Hyerpion's captain, then it would not be long before Falmouth would learn of Bolitho's disgrace, with all the terrible consequences which would follow.
He sat up as a voice called, "Deck there! Sail on th' weather bow!"
He made himself remain seated at his desk until a midshipman brought the news formally that a ship had been sighted to the north-west. Then, in spite of his mounting anxiety, Bolitho pulled on his coat and made his way slowly to the quarterdeck.
Inch hurried to him. "She's a frigate, sir!" He watched Bolitho's face worriedly. "She'll be bringing despatches, sir?"
"Maybe." Bolitho sensed Inch's concern and added quietly, "Have no fear. Your part in all this is made quite clear in my log."
Inch took a pace forward. "I'm not worried about that, sir! It's just, just…"
Bolitho eyed him calmly, "What is it?"
Inch squared his narrow shoulders. "It's so damned unfair, sir! We all think the same!"
Bolitho watched the gulls lifting and diving above the lee gangway. They were foolish enough to make the long flight from land. There was little enough to eat for the ship's company.
Then he said, "You will not discuss these matters of conjecture in the wardroom, Mr. Inch. You may be required to assume command at any time, for any one of a hundred reasons. To open your heart too much might render you vulnerable when you can least afford it." He saw Inch's crestfallen expression and continued, "But thank you all the same."
When the frigate drew closer it was soon obvious that she carried more than mere despatches. As she shortened sail and went about to drive straight for the slow-moving two-deckers Bolitho saw that she wore a vice-admiral's flag at her foremast, and knew from the sudden flurry of signals that Sir Manley Cavendish had arrived in person to pronounce verdict and penalty with the least possible delay.
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.