Enemy in Sight! by Alexander Kent Page A

lead- ing ship like a golden crucifix, the last of the mist cleared from the sea as if a curtain had finally been lifted.
    All cheering aboard the Hyperion ceased, and over the whole ship there was a silence you could feel.
    Bolitho lifted his glass and studied the approaching vessels. The first was a two-decker, so too was the second. Rounding the side of a jutting spur of land came the third, her hull shining as she swung slightly in the current. A three-decker with a vice- admiral’s command flag at the fore. Bolitho tried not to lick his lips. It was hopeless. No, it was worse even than that.
    He wondered briefly what the leading captain must be think- ing at this moment in time. At last the order to sail had been given. The watching English frigate had been overpowered before the alarm could be passed, and after months of waiting, the French were on the move again.
    There was the open sea, with a bright if blurred horizon as the prize.
    But alone in the centre of the channel was a single ship, anchored and ready for a fight to the finish.
    Allday crossed the deck and held out Bolitho’s sword. As he clasped the belt around his waist he said quietly, “It’s a fine day for it, Captain.” Their eyes met as he added, “First really good one since we left England!”
    There were, as Gascoigne had indicated, four French ships in all, and as the minutes dragged by it seemed to the watching British seamen that the whole channel was filling with sails and masts.
    Bolitho made himself walk aft to the poop ladder where Roth, the Hyperion’ s fourth lieutenant, was standing as if mesmerised beside his nine-pounders. Roth had proved to be a competent officer and quick to learn the implications of his first appoint- ment to a ship of the line. But as he stared at the oncoming ships his face was the colour of parchment.
    Bolitho said evenly, “Should I fall, Mr Roth, you will assist the first lieutenant on the quarterdeck to the best of your ability, do you understand?” The man’s eyes moved and settled on his face. “Stay with your guns, and give your people every encour- agement, even if . . .”
    He swung round as Inch called hoarsely, “The leading ship’s dropped anchor, sir! By the living God, so has the second one!”
    Bolitho thrust past him and climbed into the mizzen shrouds. It was incredible, but true. Even as he watched he saw a feather of white spray beneath the bows of the stately three-decker, and knew that she, too, had followed suit. The last ship was too well hidden by her consorts, but he could just make out the flurry of activity on her yards as first one then another sail vanished as if by magic. The French had chosen the last and only place to anchor in safety. The widest part of the channel, before the treach- erous sandbars which guarded the final passage to the open sea.
    He swung himself back to the deck, only half hearing the excited shouts and the incredulous voices from the lower gundeck as word flashed through the ship that the French had anchored rather than fight.
    Inch asked, “What d’you make of it, sir?” He stared at Bolitho as if to find an immediate answer. “Surely they’re not afraid of one ship? ”
    â€œI think not, Mr Inch.”
    Bolitho stared up at the men on the Hyperion’ s yards who minutes earlier had been taking in sails and preparing to face death in one last hopeless fight. Now they were cheering, and some were waving towards the anchored French ships and yelling insults and jibes, their voices cracking with derision, and relief at this unexpected reprieve.
    But it was strange. Bolitho walked away from his chattering officers and stared towards the nearest headland. Maybe the French had already sent for help elsewhere. Heavy artillery from Tochefort perhaps? He dismissed the idea instantly. It was close on thirty miles by road, and by the time guns had been properly sited where they had the