'Get aloft, Mr. Caswell, and see what you can of herl'
Then to the girl he said quietly, 'I am sorry. I did not mean to imply…' He struggled; helplessly for words.
She faced him again and he saw that there were tears in her eyes. She said, 'It was nothing you did, Captain. Believe me.'
'Deck there! Signal reads, "Snipe to Hyperion. Strange sail bearing nor'-nor-west." '' Caswell had to shout above the din of booming canvas.
When Bolitho looked again the girl had gone. He said heavily, 'Very well. Make to Snipe.' He frowned. Every thought was a physical effort. 'Make, "Investigate immediately."' As Caswell slithered down a backstay he added, 'Then signal the convoy to reduce sail.'
He walked past the men by the halyards as flag after flag was pulled from the locker to snake its way up the yards. A mile.clear on the starboard quarter the frigate Harvester heeled slightly in the wind, and a shaft of sunlight played on more than one raised telescope as the signals broke out stiffly with colourful urgency.
He saw Rooke watching him thoughtfully and said, 'Get the royals off her, Mr. Rooke. We will overtake the convoy otherwise.'
Every available glass was trained on the distant feather of white sail as the little sloop tacked round and away towards the horizon. Another false alarm? Bolitho could find neither relief nor apprehension now.
The minutes dragged by. Eight bells struck from forward and the watches changed.
Allday crossed the quarterdeck. 'You have had no breakfast, Captain.' He seemed anxious.
Bolitho shrugged. 'I am not hungry.' He did not even rebuke him for breaking into his thoughts.
A whole hour went by before the sloop's topgallants reappeared on the sharpening horizon.
Caswell climbed high into the mizzen shrouds, his telescope balanced agninst the ship's easy roll. 'From Snipe, sir.' He blinked and rubbed his streaming eye. Then he tried again. 'I can't quite make it out, sir.' He almost fell from the shrouds as some freak roller lifted the far-off sloop simultaneously with the Hyperion. He shouted, 'Signal reads, "Enemy in sight", sir!'
Bolitho felt strangely unmoved. 'Very well. General signal to convoy. "Enemy in sight. Prepare for battle." '
Rooke stared at him. 'But, sir, they might not wish to fight!'
Bolitho's tone was scathing. 'They have not come this far to see you, Mr. Rooke!" He saw.the sudden flurry of activity on the Justice's poop as his signal broke free to the wind. `They are after those transports!'
He looked around the watching figures, the decks which were still damp from the swabs and holystones. Like the other ships around him, everyone was waiting to be told what to do.
He said calmly, 'Beat to quarters, Mr. Rooke, and clear for action!'
Two small marine drummers ran to the larboard gangway, pulling on their black shakos and fumbling with their sticks. Then as the ship held her breath they started to beat out their tattoo, their faces tight with concentration as their message was picked up aboard the Harvester and.the three transports.
Bolitho made himself stand motionless by the rail as his men poured up from below and the marines hurried aft and aloft to the tops, their uniforms shining like blood in the growing sunlight. Below decks he could hear the thuds and bangs of screens being removed, the whole urgent business of changing a ship from a floating home and a way of life to a unified instrument of war.
He looked again at the quiet sea, but found no comfort. The morning was already spoilt for Bolitho even before the Snipe had brought her news.
Rooke touched his hat. He was sweating badly. 'Cleared for action, sir.' The words seemed to spark off a memory of that early resentment and he added, 'Less than ten minutes that time!'
Bolitho looked at him gravely. 'Good.' 'Shall I give the order to load, sir?'
'Not yet.' Bolitho thought suddenly of his breakfast and felt a sharp pang of hunger. He knew he would be unable to eat. But he had to do something. He saw the sunlight lancing down between the straining topsails and felt a new sensation of fear. By tonight he could be dead. Or, worse, screaming under the surgeon's knife. He licked his lips and said tightly, 'You have all eaten. I have not. I will be in the chartroom if I am required.' Then he turned and walked slowly towards the poop.
Gossett watched him pass and breathed out admiringly. 'Did you see that, lads? Not a flicker! As cool as an Arctic wind is our cap'n!'
9. LIKE A FRIGATE!
Midshipman Piper peered into the chartroom, pausing only to recover his breath. 'Mr. Rooke's respects, sir, and the enemy is now in sight!'
Bolitho deliberately lifted his cup and sipped at his coffee. It was, of course, stone cold.
He asked quietly, 'Well, Mr. Piper? Is there nothing more?'
The boy gulped and tore his eyes from watching his captain's apparent indifference to the sudden proximity of danger.
He said, 'Three sail, sir. Two frigates and one larger ship.'
'I will come up directly.' Bolitho waited until the boy had hurried away and then swept the untouched food from the table. As he peered searchingly at the chart he was again reminded of his complete isolation. If Snipe far ahead of the convoy had sighted the ships in any other position there might have been cause for some small optimism. As it was the enemy were well to windward and approaching his ill-assorted convoy on a converging course. They could take their time, choose their moment to sweep in close to attack.
He picked up his hat and walked swiftly to the quarterdeck. The breeze was still fresh, but already the air was much hotter. He made himself walk to the rail and stare down at the upper deck while every nerve in his body seemed to cry out for him to snatch a glass and search out the enemy.
Below the gangways each crew waited silently beside its gun. The decks around them were sanded to give the seamen maximum grip when once action was joined, and beside every twelve-pounder stood a freshly filled water-bucket for the swabs or any sudden fire in the tinder-dry woodwork and cordage.
At each hatch was a marine sentry, bayonet fixed, legs braced to the steady roll of the ship, his duty to prevent any frightened seaman from running below if the pace became too hot. He took a telescope and lifted it over the nettings. The wallowing convict ship swam hugely across the lens, and then it reached out and steadied on a point below the horizon, far away on the leading ship's larboard bow.
Without turning his head he knew that those around him were watching his face. They had already seen the approaching vessels. Now they wanted to see his reactions and thereby gain comfort or find fresh doubt. He clamped his jaws together and tried to keep his face impassive.
As he edged the glass gently back and forth in time with Hyperion's movements he saw the two frigates. They were so close together and pointing almost directly towards his glass that they looked for all the world like one giant, illdesigned ship. One was slightly ahead of the other, and he could see that she was making more sail and spreading her topgallants even as he watched. Thirty-six guns at least, and a second frigate only slightly smaller.
But further astern, and close hauled on the starboard tack, was a ship of the line. Like the frigates she wore no colours, but there was no mistaking that beakhead, the graceful rake of her masts. Probably a French two-decker which had broken out from one of the Mediterranean ports to try and test the pressure of Hood's blockade. He lowered his glass and glanced at the transports. They would make a good start, he thought grimly.
He said, 'We will retain this course, Mr. Rooke. There is no point in trying to run south. The enemy has the advantage if he keeps to windward, and there is nothing to the south'rd',
He smiled briefly, 'but Africa.'
Rooke nodded. 'Aye, sir. D'you think they'll try and engage?'
'Within the hour, M'r. Rooke. The wind might drop. I would certainly attack were I in his shoes!'