Bolitho heard Parris shouting out to someone in the mizzen top. He seemed tireless, and was never too proud to throw his own weight on brace or halliard amongst his men. He had been a good choice.
Thor had placed herself between the ponderous treasure-ship and the shore, probably as astonished as the rest of them by their success. But great though that success had been it was not without cost, or the sadness which followed any fight.
Lieutenant Dalmaine had died even as his men had been hoisted into Thor from the waterlogged lighter. The two mortars had had to be abandoned, and their massive recoil had all but knocked out the lighter's keel. Dalmaine had seen his men to safety and had apparently run back to retrieve something. The lighter had suddenly flooded and taken Dalmaine and his beloved mortars to the bottom.
Four men had died in the attack, three more had been seriously wounded. One of the latter was the seaman named Laker, who had lost an arm and an eye when a musketoon had been discharged at point-blank range. Bolitho had seen Parris kneeling over him and had heard the man croak, 'Better'n bein' flogged, eh, sir?' He had tried to reach out for the lieutenant's hand. 'Never fancied a checkered shirt at th' gangway, 'specially for 'is sake!'
He must have meant Haven. If they met with Hyperion soon, the surgeon might be able to save him.
Bolitho thought of the holds far below his feet. Cases and chests of gold and silver plate. Jewel-encrusted crucifixes and ornaments – it had looked obscene in the light of a lantern held by Allday, who had never left his side.
So much luck, he thought wearily. The Spanish captain had let slip one piece of information. A company of soldiers were to have boarded the ship that morning to guard the treasure until they unloaded it in Spanish waters. A company of disciplined soldiers would have made a mockery of their attack.
He thought of the little schooner, Spica, and her master, who had tried to raise the alarm. Hate, anger at being boarded, fear of reprisal, it was probably a bit of each. But his ship was intact, although it was unlikely that the Spaniards would divert other vessels to convoy him to safer waters as intended. They might even blame him. One thing was certain; he would not want to trade with the enemy again, neutral or not.
Bolitho yawned hugely and massaged the scar beneath his hair. Hyperion's imposing boatswain, Samuel Lintott, would have a few oaths to offer when he discovered the loss of the jolly boat and two cutters. Maybe the chance of prize-money would soften his anger. Bolitho tried to stop his head from lolling. He could not remember when he had last slept undisturbed.
This ship and her rich cargo would make a difference only in the City of London, and of course with His Britannic Majesty. Bolitho smiled to himself. The King who had not even remembered his name when he had lowered the sword to knight him. Perhaps it meant so little to those who had so much.
He knew it was sheer exhaustion which was making his mind wander.
There was more than one way of fighting a war than spilling blood in the cannon's mouth. But it did not feel right, and left him uneasy. Only pride sustained him. In his men, and those like Dalmaine who had put their sailors first. And the one called Laker, who had fought shoulder-to-shoulder with his friends, simply because it meant far more to him and to them than any flag or the cause.
He allowed his mind to touch on England, and wondered what Belinda was doing with her time in London.
But like a salt-blurred telescope her picture would not settle or form clearly, and he felt a pang of guilt.
He turned his thoughts to Viscount Somervell, although he knew it was a coward's way of opening the door to Catherine. Would they leave the Indies now that the treasure, or a large part of it, was taken?
His head touched his forearm and he jerked up, aware of two things at once. That he had fallen asleep across the table, and that a masthead lookout had pealed down to the deck.
He heard Parris call something and found himself on his feet, his eyes on the cabin skylight as the lookout shouted again.
'Deck there! Two sail to the nor'-west!'
Bolitho walked through the unfamiliar doors and stared at the deserted ranks of cabins. With the remaining crew members battened below where they could neither try to retake the ship nor damage her hull without risking their own lives, it was like a phantom vessel. All Hyperion's hands were employed constantly on deck; or high above it amongst the maze of rigging, like insects trapped in a giant web. He noticed a portrait of a Spanish nobleman beside a case of books, and guessed it was the captain's father. Perhaps like the old grey house in Falmouth, he too had many pictures to retell the history of his family.
He found Parns with Jenour and Skilton, the master's mate, grouped by the larboard side, each with a levelled telescope.
Parns saw him and touched his forehead. 'Nothing yet, Sir Richard.'
Bolitho looked at the sky, then at the hard horizon line. Like the top of a dam, beyond which there was nothing.
It would not be dark for hours yet. Too long.
'Hyperion, maybe, Sir Richard?'
Their eyes met. Parris did not believe it either. Bolitho replied, 'I think not. With the wind in our favour we should have made contact by noon.' He ceased thinking out loud. 'Signal Thor. Imne may not have sighted the ships as yet.' It gave him time to think. To move a few paces this way and that, his chin digging into his stained neckcloth.
The enemy then. He made himself accept it. The Ciudad de Sevilla was no man-of-war, nor did she have the artillery and skills of an Indiaman. The cannons with their ornate mountings and leering bronze faces were impressive, but useless against anything but pirates or some reckless privateer.
He glanced at some of the seamen nearby. The fight had been demanding enough. Friends killed or wounded, but survival and the usual dream of prize-money had left them in high spirits. Now it was changing again. It was a wonder they didn't rush the poop and take all the bullion for themselves. There was precious little Bolitho and his two lieutenants could do to prevent it.
The lookout yelled down, 'Two frigates, sir! Dons by the cut o' them!'
Bolitho controlled his breathing as some of the others looked at him. Somehow he had known Haven would not make the rendezvous. It was an additional mockery to recall he himself had given him the honourable way out.
Parris said flatly, 'Well, they say the sea is two miles deep under our keel. The Dons'll not get their paws on the gold again, unless they can swim that far down!' Nobody laughed.
Bolitho looked at Parris. The decision is mine. Signal Thor to take them and their Spanish prisoners on board? But with only half their boats available it would take time. Scuttle the great ship and all her wealth, and run, hoping Thor could outsail the frigates, at least until nightfall?
A victory gone sour.
Jenour moved closer. 'Laker just died, sir.'
Bolitho turned towards him, his eyes flashing. 'And for what -is that what you're asking? Must we all die now because of your vice-admiral's arrogance?'
Jenour, surprisingly, stood his ground. 'Then let's fight, Sir Richard.'
Bolitho let his arms fall to his sides. 'In God's name, Stephen, you mean it- don't you?' He smiled gravely, his anger spent. 'But I'll have no more dying.' He looked at the horizon. Is this how he would be remembered? He said, 'Signal Thor to heave-to. Then muster the prisoners on deck.'