"Several times, sir." Bolitho eyed him coldly. "But I do not recall that it did me any good either!"
Pelham-Martin shrugged and got to his feet. "That's as may be. Now I am going to lie down for a while. I have a lot of thinking to do."
Bolitho watched him go, irritated with himself for displaying his concern, and with Pelham-Martin's lack of understanding.
Later as he sat in the small chartroom toying with his midday meal he tried to concentrate his thoughts on the French ships, to go over what he had gleaned from the commodore's brief confidences and then place himself inside the mind of the enemy commander.
There was a rap on the bulkhead and he heard the marine sentry call, "Midshipman of the watch, sir!"
"Enter!" Without turning Bolitho knew it was Pascoe. In the small cabin he could hear his quick breathing, and when he spoke, the pain in his voice.
"Mr. Roth's respects, sir, and may he exercise the quarterdeck nine-pounders?"
Bolitho tamed in his chair and studied the boy gravely. Six strokes of the bosun's cane would always be hard to take. Tomlin's arm was like the branch of a tree, and Pascoe's slim body was more bones than flesh. In spite of his better judgement Bolitho had been unable to stay away from the cabin skylight when the brief punishment had been carried out, and between each swish of the cane across the boy's buttocks he had found himself gritting his teeth, and had discovered a strange sense of pride when there had been not one cry of pain or complaint.
He looked pale and tight-lipped, and as their eyes met across the chart table Bolitho could almost feel the hurt like his own. -
As captain he had to stay aloof from his officers, but was expected to see and know everything about them. They must -trust and follow him, but he should in no way interfere with their duties when it related to matters of discipline. Unless _… The word hung in his mind like a rebuke.
"You must understand, Mr. Pascoe, that discipline is all important in a ship-of-war. Without it there is no order and no control when it really counts. At this moment you are at the bottom of a long and precarious ladder. One day, perhaps sooner than you realise, it will be your turn to award punishment, maybe decide upon a man's very life."
Pascoe remained silent, his dark eyes fixed on Bolitho's mouth.
"Mr. Stepkyne was right. Gun drill is a contest, but it is no game. The whole survival of this ship and every man aboard will depend on her guns. You can navigate a ship from Plymouth to the ends of the earth, and some may say you have done well. But until you have laid her beside the ship of an enemy and the guns are calling the tune, you will know` how thin is the margin between success and failure."
Pascoe said quietly, "He said my father was a traitor and a rebel, sir. That he'd suffer no argument from another one in his own ship." His mouth quivered and his eyes filled with angry tears. "I-I told him that my father was a King's officer, sir. But-but he just laughed at me." He dropped his eyes. "So I called him a liar!"
Bolitho gripped the edge of the table. It had happened, and it was his fault. He should have guessed, have remembered that Stepkyne was also from Falmouth, and would certainly have heard about his brother. But to use his knowledge to get his own back on a boy too young and
too ignorant of life at sea to understand the full importance of drill was despicable.
He said slowly, "You took your punishment well, Mr. Pascoe."
"Can I ask you, sir?" Pascoe was staring at him again, his eyes filling his face. "Was it true what he said?"
Bolitho stood up and walked to the racks of rolled charts. "Only partly true." He heard the boy sob behind him and added, "He had his own reasons for acting as he did, but of one thing I can assure you. He was a brave man. One you'd have been proud to know." He turned and added, "And I know he would have been proud of you, too."
Pascoe clenched his fists at his sides. "I was told…" he faltered, floundered for words. "I was always told…" It would not come.
"When we are children we get told many things. As Mr. Stepkyne said, you are an officer now and must learn to face reality, no matter in what shape it comes."
As if from far away Pascoe said brokenly, "A traitor! He was a traitor!"
Bolitho studied him sadly. "One day you will learn to understand, as I did. I'll tell you about him later, and then perhaps you will not feel so bitter."
Pascoe shook his head so that his hair fell forward over his eyes. "No sir, thank you. I never want to know. Never want to hear of him again."
Bolitho looked away. "Carry on, Mr. Pascoe. My compliments to Mr. Roth. He can exercise his guns for one hour."
As the midshipman hurried from the cabin Bolitho still stared at the closed door. He had failed. Given time he could have repaired some of the damage. He sat down angrily. Could he? It was unlikely, and it was stupid to delude himself. But as he thought of Stepkyne's cold accusations and the boy's tormented features, he knew that he must do something.
When he went on deck to watch the drill he saw Gaseoign move to Pascoe's side and put one hand on his shoulder. But the boy shook it off and turned away from him. It had gone even deeper than Bolitho had feared.
Inch crossed the deck. "I am sorry, sir." He looked miserable.
Bolitho did not know if he was speaking of the boy or of his own new discovery about Bolitho's brother. He kept his face impassive as he replied. "Then let us exercise the quarter-deck guns, Mr. Inch. Otherwise we may all be sorry before we are much older."
As the whistle shrilled for the drill to commence Bolitho walked to the weather side and stared up at the pendant. Wherever he went, no matter what he did, his brother's memory always seemed to hang over him. And now another, one less able to deal with it, had been damaged even more by what should have been left hidden in time.
Some of the gunners seeing his expression worked even faster at their drill. And Inch who stood with his hands clasped behind him as he had seen Bolitho do so often, watched his face and wondered. He could cope with his own shortcomings now for he knew and recognised them. But Bolitho's frown made him feel uneasy and vaguely apprehensive.
Perhaps it was better not to know your captain beyond his protective aura of command, he thought. A captain must be above ordinary contacts, for without some protection he might be seen as an ordinary man.
Bolitho's voice shattered his thoughts. "Mr. Inch! If you are quite ready to begin, I would suggest that you stand clear of the guns!"
Inch jumped backwards, grinning with something like relief. This was the Bolitho he understood, and he no longer felt quite so vulnerable.
Four weeks later as the Hyperion laboured uncom fortably in a light north-easterly the Abdiel signalled that her lookouts had at last sighted the island of St. Kruis. Bolitho received the news with mixed feelings, and found little consolation in achieving a perfect landfall after crossing several thousand miles of ocean without meeting a single ship, friend or enemy. He knew they could have reached their destination days, even a week, earlier but for Pelham-Martin's infuriating inability to keep to a set plan, his apparent unwillingness to make and act on earlier decisions. Off Trinidad, for instance, the Abdiel had sighted a solitary sail hull down on the horizon, and after passing a signal via her to the Spartan to rejoin her consorts, Pelham-Martin had ordered an alteration of course to intercept the unknown ship. It had been near dusk as it was, and Bolitho had guessed that the sail belonged to one of the local trading vessels, for it was unlikely that Lequiller would dally so near to a Spanish stronghold.
When they resumed their original course after failing to find the ship, Pelham-Martin's dilatory and hesitant mind had caused yet another long delay while he had drafted a despatch to be carried by the Spartan. Not to St. Kruis, but far to the south-west, to the Spanish Captain-General at Caracas.