Once it had seemed as if the Hyperion was only intent on destroying herself on the shoals by the harbour entrance, and only the extra efforts of the oarsmen, urged on by blows and curses from their petty officers, had pulled her clear. But even that had not been enough. The dazed and gasping seamen had stared hopefully astern, their eyes watching the sails for some sign of life. But the canvas had mocked them, hanging from the yards limp and flat, so that it seemed as if the wind would never come.
Sun-dried, exhausted men were barely a team to combat the Hyperion's bulk at the best of times. Her one thousand six hundred-odd tons seemed to play with the puny boats which tugged at her massive bows like so many beetles. And then, even as one of the cutters had fallen away from her station, the oarsmen drooping at their thwarts indifferent to both blows and threats from a frantic midshipman, the sails had given one violeut shiver, and as the men had stared wearily with disbelief, the water around their boats had come alive with small, whipping catspaws.
For the rest of the daylight and deep into the night hours the ship had regained her power from the growing northwesterly and had driven up and around the distant coastline.
Then, as soon as night had closed in around them, they had shortened sail and beaten nearer and nearer to that great slab of deeper darkness, beyond which lay the sheltered port of St. Clar.
Now it was over there abeam, lost beneath the stars and below the rolling bank of hills beyond. There was not a light or beacon, and more than once a nervous lookout had report ed small craft approaching the ship, only to discover they were shadows or some trick of current to pluck the nerves of every man aboard.
Bolitho laid his hands on the quarterdeck rail and stared fixedly into the darkness. He was unable to stop himself going over and over what he had done, and as the minutes dragged past he felt the rising tension of despair. adding to his uncertainties.
He had allowed the French officer, Charlois, to go ashore in the jolly boat to make contact with his friends in St. Clar. The chance of the rough plan succeeding had always been thin, but Bolitho still tortured himself with doubts of what he could have done, of what he should have done to give the scheme even a small hope of success. It was no consolation to know that he still had all the French prisoners aboard. Without water he might just as well surrender to St. Clar, or scuttle the ship within reach of the shore.
He thought too of Lieutenant Inch's excited horse-face when he had told him that he was to take charge of the jolly boat's small party. Inch was a keen enough officer, but he lacked experience for this sort of thing, and Bolitho knew that deep in his heart he had chosen him more because he was the junior lieutenant and therefore the least loss if Charlois chose treachery rather than any desire to parley.
He thought suddenly of Midshipman Seton. It was strange that he had voluntereed to go with inch, and stranger too that Bolitho felt such a sense of loss now that he was gone from the ship. But if Seton had a terrible stammer, he could do something better than anyone else aboard. He could speak fluent French.
Quarme murmued at his side, `Any orders, sir?'
Bolitho squinted his eyes at the distant hump of land and tried to memorise the picture of the chart in his mind. `Lay her on the larboard tack, Mr. Quarme. Full and bye.'
Quarme hesitated. `That will bring us very close inshore, sir.'
Bolitho looked past him. 'Put two good leadsmen in the chains. We must give the jolly boat every chance.'
He heard the men stirring at the braces and the gentle slap of water around the rudder as the helm went over. What was the point? If Inch was already a prisoner he was only prolonging the agony. With the morning sun would come disaster. The end of everything.
From forward came a splash followed by the leadsman's droning chant, 'By th' mark twenty!'
A small figure moved below the nettings, and he saw Midshipman Piper's monkey-like shape standing on tiptoe to peer at the land. It was strange how close he and Seton had become. The cheeky, devil-may-care Piper and the nervous, stammering Seton. But as Bolitho watched the boy's apprehensive movements he knew just how firm that friendship had become.
… and a quarter less fifteen!' The chant floated back to mock him further. Once around this slab of headland and the water shoaled considerably.
The big wheel creaked at his back and the helmsman intoned, 'Nor' by west, sir! Full an' bye!'
Quarme crossed to his side again. 'If this wind drops away, sir, we'll not be able to beat clear of the headland on the far side of the bay.' He sounded very much on edge.
'I'm as much aware of that as you, Mr. Quarme.' He faced him in the darkness. 'More so, I expect, since it is my responsibility.'
Quarme looked away. 'I'm sorry, sir, but I just thought…' He broke off as the leadsman called tonelessly, 'By the mark ten!'
Bolitho rubbed his chin. 'Shoaling.' Just one word, yet it seemed to mark the failure like a crude signature.
He heard himself say, 'We will continue deeper into the bay. By the time we reach the other side the sky will be brightening, and by then..
He swung round as a voice yelled, 'Boats on the larboard quarter, sir!' As he ran to the nettings the lookout added sharply, 'hree, no four on 'em, sir!'
Bolitho snatched a telescope and swung it across the, nettings, his mind aching with concentration as he stared over the heaving pattern of dark water and reflected stars. Then he saw them, low black shapes outlined by a disturbed pattern of white splashes.
He heard Rooke snap, 'hey're under oars, my God! Big sweeps too by the look of 'em!'
Bolitho shut the glass and handed it to Midshipman Caswell. But before he could speak he heard Quarme's voice right by his ear, sharp and insistent, and only barely controlled.
'Boats under sweeps, sir! They'll be oared galleys. My God, I've seen them in the Indies. A big gun right in the bow and
able to row round under a ship's counter and pound her to boxwood without her being able to turn fast enough to hit back!'
His voice must have carried to the other side of the quarterdeck and Bolitho saw several faces turned towards him and heard a sudden buzz of alarm.
`Control your voice, Mr. Quarme! Do you want our people to panic?'
But Quarme seemed unable to stop himself. 'I knew this would happen! You wouldn't listen! You don't care about anything but your own glory!' He was sobbing now, as if he neither knew nor cared what he was saying.
Bolitho said harshly, `Keep silent, man! Get a grip on yourself!'
Rooke's voice cut through the darkness like a knife. 'I heard that, sir!' He seemed to have forgotten about the approaching boats. About everything but the fact that by speaking up he had killed Quarme's career as surely as if he had shot him with a pistol.
Quarme turned and stared at him, his body suddenly limp and swaying with the deck. like a drunken man.
It was a tableau. An unmoving collection of statues, none of whom could control events any more.
Gossett, massive and unmoving beside the wheel. The gunners by the quarterdeck nine-pounders, crouching and watching like disturbed animals. Caswell and Piper too shocked to move or speak, and Rooke by the rail, hands on hips, head on one side, his face pale against the night sky.
As if from the sea itself a voice suddenly shattered the silence. 'Hyperion ahoy! Permission to board!'
Bolitho looked away. It was Lieutenant Inch. Quietly he said, 'Heave to, if you please, and signal Mr. Inch's boat alongside. Open the boarding nets for him, but watch the other craft in case of tricks.'
Quarme broke from his trance and made as if to carry out the orders, his movements automatic, the products of discipline and training.