Bolitho swallowed hard. "Sometimes I believe that I set you a wrong example, Thomas. You always were an idealist, but now that you have a command you must be sparing with those ideals and be content with the improvements of your own making." Then he smiled. "Now we will greet the others." He looked down at the decanter for a long moment then added softly, "There is little solace there either!"
But later as he stood with the other captains around Pelham-Martin's cot he knew it was going to be far worse than he had thought possible.
The small cabin was oppressively hot, with the skylight tightly shut and only one small port partly open to allow the sea air to penetrate. The commodore had apparently enjoyed a large breakfast for there were several empty plates beside the cot, and the atmosphere was sickly with the aromas of brandy and sweat.
Peiham-Martin looked much as before, his round face shining and pink with heat, and his body covered by a sheet right up to his throat, so that it was more like standing around a bloated corpse than awaiting the word of their senior officer.
Bolitho said, "We are all present, sir." He glanced at the others, noting their mixed expressions and feeling his own complete sense of detachment, as if he was a mere spectator.
Fitzmaurice looked grimfaced and worried, while Farquhar seemed more irritated than concerned for the commodore's appearance. Beside Herrick's sturdy figure Lambe, the sloop Dasher's young commander, was perhaps the most obviously affected. He appeared quite unable to tear his eyes from Pelham-Martin's face, and was peering into the cot like a man witnessing something entirely beyond his understanding.
Pelham-Martin's tongue moved across his lower lip and then he said thickly, "You have all heard Captain Herrick's news. You will no doubt have realised the impossibility of our present position." He gave a hollow sigh. "It was fortunate I despatched the Nisus when I did. Others will have to decide on a course of action if Lequiller ever returns to France, or whatever country his orders take him."
Fitzmaurice asked, "What do you intend for us, sir?"
"Without the rest of my ships, what can I do?" His lips tightened in a frown, so that for an instant he looked like a fat, petulant child. "I was given an impossible task. I do not intend to further the chances of my enemies by sailing on a wild-goose chase!"
Herrick spoke slowly and carefully. "It is my belief that Captain Bolitho is right, sir. This Perez from Las Mercedes would be an obvious pawn for the French to use to arouse a rebellion, to drive another wedge between us and the Dons."
The commodore's eyes swivelled towards him. "Are you suggesting I should sail this squadron five thousand miles on some stupid, unsubstantiated rumour?" He winced and allowed his head to fall back on the sweatstained pillow. "If you think that, Herrick, you are more stupid than I would have given credit."
Fitzmaurice glanced at Bolitho as. if expecting some lead or example. Then he said shortly, "I think you should take heed of your wound, sir. It is unsafe to leave it untended."
Pelham Martin scowled. "Your concern fits you well. It is a pity that others have been so sparing in their attention."
Bolitho clenched his fists and stared at the bulkhead beyond the cot. The heat in the cabin, and the brandy and the overwhelming sense of defeat left him almost indifferent to the tension around him. As he fixed his eyes on the bulkhead yet another memory flitted through his mind, so that he could almost hear his own despair. It was here, in this very cabin that Cheney had slept during the voyage from Gibraltar to Cozar. In this cabin and in this same cot, while he had stayed at a distance from her, yet had felt drawn closer with every passing hour.
The others.looked at him as he said sharply, "There is no alternative. You must give chase." He kept his eyes above the cot. "Captain Farquhar has some prisoners from the prize, including her captain. We should be able to discover something."
Pelham-Martin's sudden anger at Bolitho's interruption gave way immediately to something like triumph.
"Did you not know? Farquhar found no documents or sealed orders aboard!"
Farquhar turned as Bolitho looked at him questioningly.
"That is true. Every sort of evidence had been thrown overboard when we closed to give battle. The first lieutenant was killed, and now only the captain knows -anything of use, and he will not betray his trust." He shrugged. "I am sorry, but there was nothing I could do."
Pelham,Martin wriggled beneath the sheet. "I shall want a new dressing. Send for my servant immediately." He raised his head to peer above the cot. "That is all, gentlemen. I have nothing further to add at present."
They filed out into the stern cabin and stood by the open windows in silence.
Then Farquhar said bitterly, "That seems to be an end to it!"
But still none of them moved away from the windows, and Bolitho could almost feel their uncertainty, the unwillingness of each man to take a first irrevocable step.
He said quietly, "To go in the face of the commodore's orders is to overrule him. " He looked at each of them in turn "The only way to force a change of tactics is to relieve him of his command!" His voice remained quiet, yet each of the other officers seemed stricken by it. "I will not implicate you further by asking what you think or consider our chances of success. The commodore is wounded, how badly we cannot know without a proper examination, and that he will not allow. To relieve him I, as senior captain, must confront him and haul down his broad pendant." He walked to the desk and touched the lip of the decanter with his fingers. "After that, I am committed, and rightly or wrongly, so are those who would follow my example."
Herrick said firmly, "I'm with you, and here's my hand on it!"
Bolitho smiled. "Think before you plunge beyond your depth. If the commodore recovers his health and denounces our action, there will be only one verdict. Even if he does not, it will be seen as disloyalty amounting to mutiny, especially as there is an excellent chance of failure at the end of this effort."
Fitzmaurice studied him grimly. "It is a serious and disturbing supposition. I would rather face one hundred broadsides than your decision."
Bolitho walked away from the desk and paused by the cabin bulkhead below his sword.
"Consider your alternatives carefully. If you remain here at anchor until the commodore recovers sufficiently to change his plans, you might be criticised, but you cannot be harmed for obeying his last order… Whereas," the word hung in the air, "… if you join with me now, you could suffer disgrace and worse within the next few weeks."
Farquhar said calmly, "Then you have already decided?" He crossed -to his side and looked up at the old sword. "That brings back a memory or two!" Then he said, "There is no doubt in my mind." He looked at the others. "I am for going on with the hunt!"
Bolitho turned and studied him gravely. Farquhar, out of all those present had perhaps the most to lose. It was strange to consider that he had been a midshipman while Herrick had be his first lieutenant. Now he was a postcaptain, with enough youth and ambition to gain whatever heights and honours which might lie before him. Herrick's reaction to his words had been instant and predictable. He saw nothing but immediate loyalty, and had never paused to consider the dreadful consequences of his ready conspiracy. Fitzmaurice would fall in with the rest, while young Lambe was too junior to be seriously implicated., no matter what happened later.
He gripped his hands behind his back and tried to clear the dragging mists from his mind. Was he merely recording their reactions, or had he in fact planned this from the very beginning?
He heard himself ask, "The French captain, is he ashore under guard?"
Farquhar shook his head, his eyes still on Bolitho's face. "No. I have him and the rest of his officers aboard Spartan. His name is Poulain and, I suspect, a very hard man."
Bolitho took down the sword and turned it over in his hands. So many voyages, so many battles against his country's enemies. It appeared in nearly every portrait in the old house in Falmouth. Captains and admirals, gone now like their ships and their conflicts. There might have been a son to wear it one day. But perhaps it was better as it was. If this sword was to be smeared by disgrace, it was best forgotten, as he would eventually be.