As Pelham-Martin's cocked hat appeared up the side and the pipes squealed and the marines' drums and fifes broke into Heart of Oak, Bolitho momentarily thrust his personal hopes and misgivings to the back of his mind.
He stepped forward, removing his hat, knowing from the uplifted eyes of a small sideboy that the broad pendant had broken from the masthead at exactly the right moment, and said formally, "Welcome aboard, sirl"
Pelham-Martin clapped on his hat and peered around at the watching figures. He was perspiring freely, and Bolitho could almost taste the brandy on his breath. Whatever Cavendish had said to him privately had certainly moved Pelham-Martin enough to fortify himself well before coming across to his new flagship.
He said shortly, "Carry on, Bolitho." Then followed by Petch he waddled aft to the quarterdeck ladder.
Bolitho looked at Inch. "Get the ship under way, if you please." He glanced aloft at the new pendant. "The- wind has backed a trifle, I think. Make a signal to the frigates Spartan and Abdiel to take station as ordered. He watched Gascoigne scribbling on his slate, the flags dashing up to the yards. He saw, too, that Pascoe was with Gascoigne, his.head bent to catch what his senior was telling him. At that moment the boy looked up, and across the hurrying seamen and jerking halyards their eyes met.
Bolitho nodded curdy, and then gave a brief smile. When he looked again the boy was hidden by the afterguard as they clumped to the mizzen braces.
He said, "We will steer west-south-west, Mr. Gossett."
Later, as the Hyperion tilted steeply to the wind and more and more canvas blossomed and thundered from her braced yards, Bolitho walked on to the poop and stared astern. The other two-deckers and the vice-admiral's frigate were already lost in a misty haze, and of France there was no sign at all.
Inch came aft and touched his hat. "It'll be a long chase, sir."
Bolitho nodded. "Let us hope it may also be a fruitful one." Then he crossed to the weather side and retreated into his thoughts again.
6. A KING'S OFFICER
For three weeks after leaving the rest of the squadron the Hyperion and the two frigates drove south-west, and later when the wind backed perversely and mounted to a full gale, due south under all sail which it was safe to carry.
Then, as January drew to a close, they picked up the north-east trade winds and headed out on the longest and final leg of their voyage. Three thousand miles of ocean, with nothing but their own meagre resources to sustain them.
But as far as Bolitho was concerned the weather for the first part of the voyage had been a welcome ally. Barely an hour passed without the hands being called to reef or trim the sails, and the ship's company had found little time to brood over their unexpected isolation and the great breadth of ocean which greeted their tired eyes at every dawn.
And in spite of the hardships and privations, if not because of them, he was pleased with the way his men were-shaping up. As he stood by the quarterdeck rail and watched the hands toiling with holystones and swabs he saw the obvious changes which had come about. Gone were the pallid skins and haggard faces. The bodies were still lean, but it was a tough leanness born of hard work and sea air, and they performed their daily tasks without the need of constant guidance or harrying. Of course the weather had a lot to do with it. All the colours were different. Blue instead of dull grey, and the rare clouds fleecy and unreachable as they glided across the clear sky towards an horizon which always seemed as hard and as bright as a sword blade.
While the Hyperion took full advantage of the friendly trades so she, too, altered her appearance accordingly. Now in a full suit of light sails to replace the thick heavyweather canvas, she seemed to lean forward and down across the endless panorama of glittering whitecaps, as if she was glad to be throwing off the bleak monotony of blockade duty and eager to reach beyond the sea's edge, and beyond that.
He lifted his telescope and moved it slowly above the nettings until he found the tiny pyramid of sails far out on the starboard bow, a mere flaw on the horizon to show that the frigate Abdiel was on her proper station. The other frigate, Spartan, was some twenty miles ahead of her and quite invisible. He closed the glass and handed it to the midshipman of the watch.
At moments like these it was hard to believe he was not still in sole command. Pelham-Martin rarely seemed to come on deck, and remained aloof and unreachable in the stern cabin for most of the time. He would grant Bolitho a brief audience every morning, listen to his comments or ideas, and then confine his comments to, "That seems quite a good plan." Or, "If you consider that to be in the best interest, Bolitho." It was as if he was saving himself for the real task which still lay ahead, and was content to leave local affairs to his captain.
Up to a point it suited Bolitho, but as far as the true depth and meaning of Pelham-Martin's orders were concerned, he was in complete ignorance.
The commodore still seemed unwilling to place any value on the selection of captains for certain tasks, and left it completely to Bolitho's own judgement, even though he was a stranger to the squadron. Bolitho thought about the far off Spartan and how Pelham-Martin seemed almost surprised to learn that he already knew her young captain. But it was only mild surprise and nothing more. He appeared to hold personal relationships at arm's length, as if they were of no importance at all.
Bolitho started to pace slowly up and down, thinking back over the years, to all the faces and memories which made up his service at sea. The Spartan's captain for instance. Charles Farquhar had once been a midshipman under him, and he had been the first to see his value and promote him to acting lieutenant. Now, at twenty-nine, he was a post-captain, and with his aristocratic family background and a long line of naval connections, it was likely he would end his career as an admiral and a very rich man. Curiously, Bolitho had never really liked him, but at the same time had recognised right from the start that he was both shrewd and resourceful, just as he was now said to be something of a tyrant when it came to running his own command.
But the Spartan was the leading ship, and upon her captain's first quick judgement could depend the success or failure of whatever Pelham-Martin might intend.
When he had mentioned to Pelham-Martin that Farquhar had once been a fellow prisoner aboard an American privateer the commodore had merely said, "Very interesting. You must tell me about it sometime." As he paced busily back and forth Bolitho found time to wonder what Pelham-Martin's reaction would be if he ever discovered that Bolitho's captor had been his own brother!
Inch hovered nearby, trying to catch his eye.
"Well?" Bolitho faced him abruptly, shutting the commodore's strange attitudes from his mind. "What can I do for you?"
Inch said, "Gun drill, sir?" He pulled out his watch. "I am hoping we may do better today."
Bolitho hid a smile. Inch was so serious these days, but a great improvement as a first lieutenant.
He replied, "Very well. They still take too long to clear for action. I want it done in ten minutes and not a second more. And there are also too many delays in loading and running out."
Inch nodded glumly. "I know, sir."
Bolitho half turned as a burst of laughter floated down from the main shrouds. He saw three midshipmen racing each other for the top, one of them he recognised as his nephew. It was strange that in a crowded ship they rarely seemed to meet. It was even harder to enquire of his welfare without appearing to show favouritism, or worse, mistrust.