Enemy in Sight! by Alexander Kent Page B

over the first flogging, too. A seaman had somehow managed to break into a spirit store, and without telling any of his companions had found a quiet corner deep in the ship’s hull and got raving drunk. He had emerged dur- ing the first watch, stark naked and had capered around the darkened deck like an insane ghost screaming taunts and curses at anyone who tried to overpower him. He had even managed to fell a petty officer before others succeeded in hurling him to the deck.
    The next day, while the ship wallowed heavily in a rain squall Bolitho had the hands called aft to witness punishment, and after reading the Articles of War ordered the bosun’s mates to carry out the award of thirty lashes. By any standard it was a lenient punishment in the Navy’s harsh code of discipline. Breaking into the spirit store was bad, but striking a petty officer was liable to court martial and hanging, as everyone knew well enough.
    Bolitho had found no comfort in awarding the minimum punishment. Even the fact that the petty officer had agreed to say he had not in fact been struck at all was no compensation for the flogging. Punishment at any other time was necessary, but it had seemed to him as he had stood by the rail with his officers and the marine drummer boy’s sticks had beaten a slow roll between each swishing crack of the cat-o’-nine-tails across the man’s naked back, that the whole ship had enough to bear without any extra misery. It had somehow been made worse by the rain, with the watching ship’s company huddled together for warmth, the scar- let line of marines swaying to the deck’s uneven roll, and the writhing figure spread-eagled on the gratings, gasping and sob- bing as the lash rose and fell in time with the drumbeats.
    Occasionally a sloop would seek out the small squadron with despatches from the fleet or stores brought from Vigo, and when weather permitted the commodore would summon his captains aboard the flagship while he read out his own formal report in their presence before signing it, and then to Bolitho’s astonish- ment, asking each of the three captains in turn to sign it also.
    He had never heard of such a thing before, but he could tell from the wooden faces of his two companions that they were quite used to Pelham-Martin’s strange whim. It was increasingly obvious that the commodore had no intention of leaving a single flaw in his plan to keep the vice-admiral’s criticism or possible displeasure at bay by causing his three captains to be implicated in everything he did. So far of course he had done nothing at all, except abide by the letter of his orders. Patrol and blockade, and nothing more.
    Whenever Bolitho was called aboard the Indomitable he found Pelham-Martin to be a lavish entertainer. The sloops which came and went from Vigo apparently kept him well supplied with choice wines, and what was more important as far as Bolitho was con- cerned, a small link with the outside world.
    The last occasion Bolitho visited the flagship was on Christmas Day. Curiously enough the weather moderated to a slow north-westerly breeze and the sea eased out its lines of cruis- ing wavecrests into a deep, sullen swell. The Hyperion’ s upper deck became crowded with figures as they stared at the grey, undulat- ing water and at the other ships as if for the first time. As well they might, for during the eight weeks since joining Pelham- Martin’s command the weather had never eased for more than an hour at a time.
    Bolitho was irritated at having to visit the flagship. Christmas under these conditions would be wretched enough for his com- pany without his leaving as if to enjoy himself at the commodore’s lavish table. The Hyperion’ s fresh food had long since gone and the Christmas dinner for the lower deck was a strange concoc- tion of hot beef hash well laced with rum, and doubtful-tasting duff, which Gilpin, the one-eyed and villainous-looking cook,