He said, `Wear ship, Mr. Gossett. Steer due east once you clear the approaches.' To the quarterdeck at large he added coldly, 'I told the admiral we will return.'
He caught sight of the unharmed Princesa still hove to and standing far out from the battery's reach. He heard himself say, `Signal the Princesa. I want her captain aboard within the hour.' He looked around the stained deck, at the protesting wounded who were being dragged below to meet the surgeon's knife. At the splintered deck where Moresby had fallen, and at the admiral himself. He said aloud, 'If the Spanish captain refuses to obey my orders I will open fire on him!'
Gossett saw his face and turned away. He knew Bolitho meant what he said. There was no relief on the captain's face as he might have expected. He had saved his ship and had shown honour in the face of stupidity. But in his eyes there was a wildness which Gossett in all his experience had not seen before. Like that in the eyes of an injured animal. In his heart he knew the look would stay there until Hyperion lay at anchor in the harbour and the battery's guns were made harmless.
Bolitho heard some of the men cheering and snapped, 'Secure the guns, Mr. Quarme, and report to me on all damage and casualties. There will be time for cheering later perhaps.' He stared astern towards the drifting bank of smoke which followed the- ship like a curtain. 'But now there is work to do.'
Quarme mopped his sweating face with the back of his sleeve. 'Will we be returning to the squadron, sir?' He faltered as Bolitho eyed him coldly then hurried on, 'I mean, sir, both admirals are dead and…'
Bolitho turned away. Then we will just have to manage on our own, won't we, Mr. Quarme?'
4. PLAN OF ATTACK
Lieutenant Ernest Quarme tucked his hat beneath his arm and stepped into the captain's cabin, squinting his eyes against the fierce glare which was thrown upwards through the stern windows to paint the deckhead and furniture in a strange green light.
'You sent for me, sir?'
Bolitho was leaning out over the sill staring down at the Hyperion's tiny wake as it bubbled sluggishly from the weedencrusted rudder. For a moment his eyes were blinded by the darkened cabin, then he sat down on the bench seat and gestured towards a nearby chair. He knew the first lieutenant was watching him intently, his features betraying nothing of his inner thoughts, and Bolitho hoped that his own face was equally devoid of expression.
Around the cabin the ship creaked and murmured as she wallowed heavily on a slow south-easterly course, her sails hardly filling, and showing more use as shelter for the sun for the men working about her decks. Like muffled drumbeats he could hear the thud of hammers and the occasional rasp of saws as Cuppage, the carpenter, and his mates completed the repairs and hid the last remaining scars left from the brief and savage action.
Bolitho rubbed his eyes and tried to clear the tiredness from his mind. If only the other scars were as easily erased. But the anger and relief, the jubilation of escape and the excitement of battle had soon given way to gloom and depression, which hung over the ship like a stormcloud. For that short, onesided fight had been two long days ago. Two days of monotonous tacking and patrolling back and forth, with the island and its mocking flag a constant reminder of their failure.
Bolitho had searched his mind again and again for some method of attack, so that as the hours drew into days each plan became more dangerous and every hope of success more doubtful, Then this morning the final blow had fallen. The dawn light load found the Hyperion some seven miles to the southwest of the island, an area which he had selected as the most suitable for making a quick dash down on the protected harbour, making use of the prevailing offshore winds.
He had placed the Spanish sixty-four, Princesa, on the othei side of the island, where she had the best chance of catching the captured sloop Fairfax should she try and escape by that route.
And the sloop was yet another essential link in the overall plan. The French garrison had no other ship available to carry the news of Moresby's attack and the patrolling British squadron, and unless some sort of storeship was sent from the mainland they would remain in a state of siege. Bolitho had toyed with the idea of a cutting-out operation, but had instantly rejected it. He knew in his heart that it was more as a balm to his hurt pride than a plan with any true value. Moresby's attack had cost Hyperion more than enough already. Eight killed and sixteen wounded. The damage to morale was beyond measure.
Then as the morning light had strengthened the news had broken. The lookout at the mainmast head had reported no sign of the Fairfax. She had somehow slipped out during the night, and now, as the midday sun beat down relentlessly on the dried decks, she was probably entering St. Clar and screaming the news abroad. The defences would be altered, but even worse, the French would now know the 'strength of the vanquished squadron. It was more than likely that along the French coast in inlets and harbours there were ships of the line just waiting the chance to dash out and avenge the indignity of Hood's blockade. Several such ships were known to have slipped past the British patrols, and others were probably in the vicinity already.
Bolitho blamed himself bitterly for the sloop's escape, although he knew well enough it was what he had expected. No ship of the line was fast enough to find her in the dark, and the hill-top battery made sure that the Hyperion stayed clear during daylight.
He looked across at Quarme and asked slowly, 'How is the visibility now?'
Quarme shrugged. 'It varies by the hour, sir. But just now it was less than two miles.'
Bolitho nodded. From first light the wind had dropped more and more, so that now the sea's milky surface was hardly ruffled by pitifully light airs which hardly gave the ship steerage way. And as the day drew on a strange mist had gathered, ebbing and writhing like steam, and even the island was lost from sight for quite long periods. Not that it mattered now, he thought heavily. The garrison knew they were there just the same. And the sloop had escaped.
Quarme said suddenly, 'May I ask what you intend to do, sir?'
Bolitho faced him and replied, 'Do you wish to make a suggestion?'
The other man dropped his eyes. 'It is hardly my place, sir, but I believe dwould be prudent to inform Lord Hood of what has happened.' He seemed to expect an interruption, but then continued, 'You could not be blamed for what occurred. By delaying your despatch to the admiral you might, however, incur his real displeasure.'
'Thank you, Mr. Quarme. I have already thought of that.' Bolitho stood up and walked across the carpet. For a moment he stared hard at his sword hanging by the doorway and then added, 'But we have only two ships. If I send the Princesa there is no saying what story will be laid before the admiral, in spite of whatever written despatch from me. And if we leave this station" do you really think the Spaniard can deal with some sudden attack from the mainland?' He saw Quarme shuffle his feet uneasily and smiled. 'You think perhaps that I was too hard on the Princesa's captain?'
Without difficulty he could see the unhappy Spaniard sitting where Quarme now sat. He was a sullen, resentful man who at first had pretended to know little English. But Bolitho's scathing words had made his. eyes flash with anger and then shame as he had given him his verdict on the Princesa's failure to join the battle.
At one point the Spaniard had leapt to his feet, his mouth twisted in anger. 'I must protest! I could not' reach the entrance in time. I will complain to Admiral Hood of your accusations.' Then more loftily he had added, 'I am not unknown in high government circles!'
Bolitho had watched him coldly. Seeing again the death agonies of the Spanish flagship, the burned and butchered remains floating across the Hyperion's bows.