Under the flagship's lee Bolitho had stood in silence watching the flags soaring up the big three-decker's yards, the frantic efforts of Midshipman Gascoigne and his signal party to keep pace with acknowledgements. It had been then that he had received his first inkling all was not as he had expected.
Gascoigne had yelled, "Flag to Hyperion. Stand by to receive orders and despatches!"
Inch had looked as if he was about to voice a question but had held his tongue. The two days out from Plymouth had been difficult ones for him. Within hours of turning south the wind had mounted to something approaching gale force, and under close-reefed topsails, with a fierce quarter-sea making the ship stagger and roll drunkenly from one trough to the next, Inch had been beset with demands and chaos from every side. Many of the new men were almost helpless with seasickness, and most of the others kept continually at work splicing rigging, which like all new cordage was taking this first real strain badly, and the rest were led or driven back and forth either trimming sails or standing relays at the backbreaking work of pumping bilges.
More than once it had been all that Bolitho could do to refrain from interfering with inch's efforts, yet at the same time he knew that he was solely to blame. Inch was too inexperienced for his work, that was quite apparent now, but if Bolitho showed his true displeasure it might finish Inch for good. Not that Bolitho need say anything. It was quite obvious from Inch's unhappy features that he knew his own shortcomings well enough.
The next signal from the flagship had been brief. "Prepare to receive Flag Captain."
It was customary for captains to report in person to receive fresh orders when joining a squadron, although in cases of really bad weather for the sealed bag to be drifted across from ship to ship on a grass line. But this time the admiral was apparently sending his own captain.
The barge which had brought the flagship's captain across the choppy water had been almost swamped before it eventually hooked on to the main chains, and the thickset officer in his sodden boatcloak had hardly glanced at the side party and saluting marines as he had seized Bolitho's hand and growled, "For God's sake let us go below!"
Once within the big cabin the visiting captain had come straight to the point.
"I've brought you fresh orders, Bolitho. You are to continue to the south-east and join the inshore squadron of Commodore Mathias Pelham-Martin. My admiral detached him and his ships some weeks ago for duty off the Gironde Estuary. You'll find a complete list of ships and requirements in your new orders."
He had spoken quickly, almost offhandedly, but Bolitho had been aware of a warning sensation at the back of his mind. Pelham-Martin. The name had been instantly familiar, yet at the same time he had been unable to recall any sea officer, commodore or otherwise, who had distinguished or shamed himself enough to warrant this special visit by the flag captain.
The other man had said abruptly, "I do not like deceit, especially with a fellow captain. Things have been very bad between my admiral and the commodore. PelhamMartin, as you will discover, is a difficult man to serve in some ways."
"This bad feeling? How did it come about?"
"It all happened a long while ago really. During the American Revolution…"
Bolitho's mind had suddenly cleared. "I remember now. A British colonel of infantry surrendered to the Americans – with all his men, and when some of our ships arrived with reinforcements they sailed right into a trap."
The flag captain had grimaced. "The colonel was Pelham-Martin's brother. I do not have to tell you who the officer was who commanded the ships, eh?"
A midshipman had appeared at that moment. "Signal from flagship, sir! Captain to return on board forthwith."
Bolitho had understood fully at that moment what the visit had really meant for him and his ship. No admiral could voice a lack of confidence to a captain newly joining his command. But through a fellow captain it was just possible to show his displeasure and his uncertainty.
The flag captain had paused by the cabin door, his eyes searching.
"I know your record, Bolitho, and so does Sir Manley Cavendish. When news was received that you were joining the squadron he told me that you were to be sent to Pelham-Martin's sector to the south-east. You. are well remembered for your part in the St. Clan invasion last year, although you got precious little credit for it. The commodore's squadron is a small one, but its work and vigilance could prove to be vital. Your viewpoint and presence there could help to break this stupid feud." He had shrugged heavily. "This is between ourselves naturally. If a word is voiced to me that any suggestion of mistrust or incompetence was made I will of course deny it!" Then with another quick handshake he had left the ship.
Now, sitting at his littered desk, Bolitho found it hard to believe such bitterness could have been allowed to jeopardise the efficiency of the hard-pressed ships and their weary companies. That meeting with the flagship had been four days ago, and while the Hyperion had plunged further to the south-east and her company had fought half-heartedly against seasickness and bad weather alike Bolitho had studied his orders carefully, and during his lonely walks on the quarterdeck had tried to estimate their true meaning.
It seemed that Pelham-Martin had three ships of the line and three frigates under his command, as well as two small sloops-of-war. One of the former would be sent to England for overhaul and repairs as soon as she was replaced by Hyperion, so it was a very small force indeed.
But properly deployed it could be well placed to watch over any sudden movement by enemy vessels. It was known that several large French ships had slipped past Gibraltar and had already found their way into the Bay of Biscay. It was equally well known that although Spain was now an ally of England, it was more from necessity than any real friendship or co-operation. Many of those French ships must, have sailed close inshore around Spain, and some might even have hidden in Spanish ports to avoid being attacked by British patrols. To join the bulk of the French fleet any such ships would probably make first for the Gironde or La Rochelle to receive their orders overland, and then take the first opportunity to follow the coastline to Lorient or Brest.
There was a tap at the door and Midshipman Gascoigne stepped over the coaming. "Mr. Stepkyne's respects, sir, and we have just sighted a sail to the east'rd."
"Very well. I shall come up."
Bolitho watched the door close and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Whatever the rights or wrongs of the matter, he would not have long to wait now.
He stood up slowly and reached for his hat. He felt the locket rubbing against his chest and thought suddenly of Cheney. He had written a letter to her and sent it across with the flagship's captain for the first homebound sloop. There had not been time to change any of it and she would still believe him to be off Lorient. Not that another two hundred miles made much difference, he thought vaguely.
As he walked to the quarterdeck he saw the officers stiffen into awkward attitudes of attentiveness, and guessed that prior to his appearance they had probably been in deep discussion about the distant ships.
Bolitho looked up at the hard-bellied sails and the whipping tongue of the masthead pendant. The canvas was stiff with rain and salt, and he felt a moment's pity for some of the men who were working high above the swaying hull. The wind was almost directly astern and the sea had changed to an angry panorama of short, steep crests which gleamed like yellow fangs in the harsh light. There was no horizon to speak of, and although he estimated they were within twenty miles of the coast there was nothing to be seen.
He took a glass from a midshipman and trained it slowly across the nettings. He knew the others were watching him as if to gauge his reactions, and perhaps their own fate, but kept his face impassive as he picked out the first misty pyramid of sails. He shifted the glass very slightly and waited as the Hyperion sidled into a deep trough and then smashed indifferently across another cruising bank of wavecrests. There was a second ship, and possibly a third.