Then holding the sword against his chest he followed his captain.
As the Hyperion's barge pulled swiftly across the choppy wavelets Bolitho sat motionless in the sternsheets, his eyes fixed on the anchored Indomitable. For four hours after the collapse of Pelham-Martin's attack the ships had continued south-west, following the curving shoulder of coastline, their speed reduced to a painful crawl as the crippled Indomitable endeavoured to maintain her lead.
At a point where the land curved more steeply inshore again and the 'sea's bottom afforded a temporary anchorage the commodore had halted his retreat, and now, tugging above their own reflections the ships lay in an extended and uneven line, their bows pointing towards the land which was less than two miles distant.
Bolitho lifted his gaze to explore the full extent of the Indomitable's damage, and knew that his bargemen were watching his face as if to search out their own fate from his tight expression.
Against the two-decker's battered side the Hyperion's barge crew seemed clean and untouched, as from a sharp command they tossed oars and the bowman hooked on to the chains.
Bolitho said, "Stand off and await my call." He did not look at Allday's concerned face as he reached for the chains. There was enough bitterness aboard his ship without letting the barge crew converse with the Indomitable's people and carry back further gossip to demoralise them to an even greater extent.
He was met at the entry port by a lieutenant with one arm in a crude sling… He said, "Could you make your own way aft, sir?" He jerked his head towards the other ships. "Captain Fitzmaurice and Captain Mulder will be coming aboard at any moment."
Bolitho nodded but did not speak. As he strode towards the quarterdeck ladder he was conscious of the smells of burned wood and charred paintwork, of blistered guns and the sweet, sickly scent of blood.
Since leaving Las Mercedes the Indomitable's hands had been busy, but all around was evidence enough of their plight and their near destruction. Several guns had been unended, and there was blood everywhere, as if some madman had been at work with bucket and brush, while beneath the foremast's trunk the corpses were piled like meat in a slaughterhouse, and as he paused at the top of. the ladder more were carried from below to add to the grisly array.
He walked beneath the poop and thrust open the cabin door. Pelham-Martin was leaning with both hands on his table amidst a litter of charts, watched in silence by a captain of marines and a ship's lieutenant who could not have been much more than nineteen years old.
The commodore glanced up from the charts, his eyes shining in the reflected glare thrown through the shattered stern windows.
Bolitho said flatly, "You sent for me, sir?"
"A conference." Pelham-Martin looked round the littered cabin. "This is a bad business."
Somewhere below decks a man screamed, the sound suddenly terminated as if a great door had been slammed shut.
Bolitho asked, "What do you intend to do?"
The commodore stared at him. "When the others arrive I will make my… "
He swung round as the door opened and a master's mate said, "Beg pardon, sir, but the cap'n is askin' for you."
Pelham-Martin seemed to realise Bolitho was watching him and said heavily, "Winstanley fell as we came clear. He is down on the orlop." He shrugged, the movement painful and despairing. "I am afraid he is done for." Then he gestured to the others. "Apart from the lieutenant on watch, these are the only officers not killed or wounded."
Bolitho replied, "I would like to see Winstanley." He walked to the door and then paused, realising that Pelham-Martin had not moved. "Will you come, sir?"
The commodore looked at the charts and ran his fingers over them vaguely. "Later perhaps."
Bolitho gestured to the two officers. "Wait outside."
The marine captain made as if to protest and then saw Bolitho's eyes.
When the door was closed behind them Bolitho said quietly, "I think you should come, sir." He could feel the bitter anger welling inside him like fire. "It is the least you can do now."
Pelham-Martin stepped back from the table as if he had been struck. "How dare you speak to me in that tone?"
"I dare, sir, because of what you have done!" Bolitho heard his words and could not control them. Nor did he want to any more. "Yours is the honour of commanding these ships and these men. It is also your responsibility. Yet you threw both away, with no more thought than a blind fool!"
"I am warning you, Bolitho!" Pelham-Martin's hands were opening and closing like two crabs. "I will have you court martialled! I will not rest until your name shares the ingnominy of your brother!" He paled as Bolitho took a step towards him and added thickly, "It was a trap, I did not expect…"
Bolitho gripped his hands behind him, feeling the commodore's words in his mind, knowing they were the man's last desperate defence.
He said, "There may be a court martial, sir. We both know whose it will be." He saw it strike home and added 'slowly, "I do not care one way or the other. But I will not stand by and see our people shamed and our cause dishonoured. Not by you, or anyone else who thinks more of his own personal advancement than his duty!"
Without another word he threw open the door and hurried along the sundrenched quarterdeck. At any moment he expected Pelham-Martin to call for the captain of marines and place him under arrest, and if it had happened he did not know how his own fury and contempt would use him.
He did not remember finding his way down to the orlop, and his mind only recorded vague scenes of men working at repairs, faces and bodies still blackened with powder smoke, eyes staring and wild from fatigue and worse.
The orlop was in darkness but for the swinging deckhead lanterns, all of which were clustered above the central spectacle of agony and horror. Around the curved sides of the hull the waiting wounded twisted and sobbed, their faces or broken limbs catching a brief pattern of lamplight before the ship swung again and plunged them into merciful darkness once more.
Captain Winstanley lay propped against one of the stout timbers, one eye covered with a thick dressing, the centre of which gleamed bright red like an additional unwinking stare. He was naked to the waist and his lower body was covered with a square of canvas. Beside it lay his curved hanger which he had been carrying during the action.
Bolitho dropped on one knee, seeing the sweat pouring from Winstanley's broad chest, the slow, heavy breathing which told its own story.
Gently he took the other captain's hand. The fingers were like ice. "I am here, Winstanley." He saw the remaining eye turn towards him, and then the recognition, as slow as the man's breathing.
The fingers moved slightly., "It was you I wanted." He closed his eye and screwed up his face in sudden agony. Then he added faintly, "I-I was going to tell PelhamMartin… was going to tell him'…" The eye swivelled away and towards a thin man in a long bloodied apron. The Indomitable's surgeon nodded briefly and walked back towards the lanterns, where his assistants were dragging a limp body from his butcher's table.
Winstanley's mouth tried to smile. "Mr. Tree is impatient, Bolitho. He is wasting time on me." He lolled his head to stare around the orlop. "Let him see to these poor fellows. I am done for." Then his fingers tightened over Bolitho's hand like a steel trap. "Don't let him leave my ship to carry his disgrace! In the name of Christ, don't let it happen!" The eye was fixed on Bolitho's face, willing him to answer.
Nearby a young midshipman shrunk back against the ship's side, his eyes wide with terror as the assistant surgeon said curtly, "This one next. His arm will have to come off." The boy rolled on to his side, weeping and struggling as the surgeon's mates loomed from the shadows.
Winstanley gasped, "Be brave lad! Be brave!" But his words went unheard.
Bolitho turned away, sickened. He was thinking of Pascoe, of what might have happened if he had obeyed Pelham-Martin's signal to close around this ship and await complete destruction.