Honour This Day (10 page)

A figure strode forward until Allday growled, “Far enough,
Mounseer,
or whatever you are!”

The man stared at him, then spat, “No need to send for an interpreter. I speak English—probably better than you!”

Bolitho sheathed his hanger to give himself time to think. The schooner was unexpected. She was also a problem. Britain was not at war with Sweden, although under pressure from Russia it had been close enough. An incident now, and . . .

Bolitho said curtly, “I am a King's officer. And you?”

“
I
am the master, Rolf Aasling. And I can assure you that you will live to regret this—this act of piracy!”

Parris slung his leg over the bulwark and looked around. He was not even out of breath.

He said calmly, “She's the schooner
Spica,
Sir Richard.”

The man named Aasling stared. “
Sir
Richard?”

Parris eyed him through the darkness. “Yes. So mind your manners.”

Bolitho said, “I regret this inconvenience—Captain. But you are anchored in enemy waters. I had no choice.”

The man leaned forward until his coat was touching Allday's unwavering cutlass.

“I am about my peaceful occasions! You have no right—”

Bolitho interrupted him. “I have every right.” He had nothing of the kind, but the minutes were dashing past. They must get the mortars into position. The attack had to begin as soon as it was light enough to move into the anchorage.

At any second a picket ashore might notice something was wrong aboard the little schooner. She might be hailed by a guard-boat, and even if Parris's men overwhelmed it, the alarm would be raised. The helpless lighter,
Thor
too if she tried to interfere, would be blown out of the water.

Bolitho dropped his voice and turned to Parris. “Take some men and look below.” His eyes were growing used to the schooner's deck and taut rigging. She mounted several guns, and there were swivels where they had rushed aboard, more aft by the tiller. They had been lucky. She did not have the cut of a privateer, and the Swedes usually kept clear of involvement with the fleets of France and England. A trader then? But well armed for such a small vessel.

The master exclaimed, “Will you leave my ship, sir, and order your men to release mine!”

“What are you doing here?”

The sudden question took him off balance. “I am trading. It is all legal. I will no longer tolerate—”

Parris came back and stood beside Jenour as he said quietly, “Apart from general cargo, Sir Richard, she is loaded with Spanish silver. For the Frogs, if I'm any judge.”

Bolitho clasped his hands behind him. It made sense. How close they had been to failure. Might still be.

He said, “You lied to me. Your vessel is already loaded for passage.” He saw the man's shadow fall back a pace. “You are waiting to sail with the Spanish treasure convoy.
Right?
”

The man hesitated, then mumbled, “This is a neutral ship. You have no authority—”

Bolitho waved his hand towards his men. “For the moment, Captain, I have just that! Now answer me!”

Spica
's master shrugged. “There are many pirates in these waters.” He raised his chin angrily. “Enemy warships too!”

“So you intended to stay in company with the Spanish vessels until you were on the high seas?” He waited, feeling the man's earlier bombast giving way to fear. “It would be better if you told me now.”

“The day after tomorrow.” He blurted it out. “The Spanish ships will leave when—”

Bolitho hid his sudden excitement.
More than one ship.
The escort might well come from Havana, or already be in Puerto Cabello. Haven could run right into them if he lost his head. He felt Parris watching him. What would
he
have done?

Bolitho said, “You will prepare to up-anchor, Captain.” He ignored the man's immediate protest and said to Parris, “Pass the word to Mr Dalmaine, then bring your boats alongside and take them in tow.”

The Swedish master shouted, “I will not do it! I want no part in this madness!” A note of triumph moved into his tone. “The Spanish guns will fire on us if I attempt to enter without orders!”

“You
do
have a recognition signal?”

Aasling stared at his feet. “Yes.”

“Then use it, if you please.”

He turned away as Jenour whispered anxiously, “Sweden may see this as an act of war, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho peered at the black mass of land. “Neutrality can be a one-sided affair, Stephen. By the time Stockholm is told of it, I hope the deed will be done and forgotten!” He added harshly, “In war there are no neutrals! I've had a bellyful of this man's sort, so put a good hand to guard him.” He raised his voice so that the master might hear. “One treacherous sign and I'll have him run up to the yard where he can watch the results of his folly from the end of a halter!”

He heard more seamen clambering aboard with their weapons. What did they care about neutrality and those who hid behind it so long as they could profit from it? To their simple reasoning, either you were a friend, or you were just as much a foe as Allday's
mounseers.

“Space out your men, Mr Parris. If we are driven off at the first attempt—”

Parris showed his teeth in the darkness. “After this, Sir Richard, I think I'd believe anything.”

Bolitho massaged his eye. “You may have to.”

Parris strode away and could be heard calling out each man by name. Bolitho noticed the familiar way they responded. No wonder the schooner's small company were so cowed. The British sailors bustled about on the unfamiliar deck as if they had been doing it all their lives.

Bolitho remembered what his father had once told him, with that same grave pride he had always displayed when it came to his seamen.

“Put them on the deck of any ship in pitch darkness and they will be tripping aloft in minutes, so well do they ply their trade!”

What would he make of this, he wondered?

“Capstan's manned, sir!”

That was a midshipman named Hazlewood, who was aged thirteen, and on his first commission in
Hyperion.

Bolitho heard Parris telling him sharply to stay within call. “I don't want any damned heroes today, Mr Hazlewood!”

Like Adam had once been.

“Heave away, lads!”

Some wag called from the darkness, “Our Dick'll get us Spanish gold for some grog, eh?” He was quickly silenced by an irate petty officer.

Bolitho stood beside the vessel's master and tried to contain the sympathy he really felt for the man.

After this night his life would be changed. One thing was certain; he would never command any vessel again.

“Anchor's aweigh, sir!”

“Braces, lads!” Bare feet skidded on damp planking as the schooner curtsied round, freed from the seabed, her mainsail filling above their crouched figures to make the stays hum and shiver to the strain.

Bolitho clung to a backstay and made himself remain patiently silent until the schooner had gathered way, and with the boats veering astern, pointed her bowsprit to the east.

Parris seemed to be everywhere. If the attack was successful, he might end up as the senior survivor. Bolitho was surprised that he could consider the possibility of dying without dispute.

Parris crossed the deck to join him. “Permission to load, Sir Richard? I thought it best to double-shot the six-pounders, and it all takes time.”

Bolitho nodded. It was a sensible precaution. “Yes, do it. And, Mr Parris, impress on your people to watch the crew. In all conscience, I could not batten them below in their own hull in case the batteries fire on us before we can fight free, but I'd not trust any man of them one inch!”

Parris smiled. “My boatswain's mate Dacie is a good hand at that, Sir Richard.”

Figures flitted about the guns, and Bolitho heard some of the seamen whispering to one another as they rammed home the charges and shot. They were doing something they understood, which had been drummed into them every working day since they had walked or been dragged aboard a King's ship.

Jenour seemed to have a smattering of Swedish, and was speaking jerkily to the
Spica
's mate. Eventually two large flags were produced, and quickly bent on to the halliards by Midshipman Hazlewood.

Bolitho moved across the deck, picking out faces, watching where each man had been stationed. Above,
Spica
's wide topsail was now set and billowing out from its yard, and Bolitho could feel a rising excitement which even the nervous chant of the leadsman could not disperse. He could picture the schooner's slender hull as she plunged so confidently along the channel amongst the lurking sandbars, sometimes with only a few feet beneath her keel. If it was broad daylight they would be able to see
Spica
's shadow keeping company with them on the bottom.

“All guns loaded, sir!”

“Very well.” He wondered how the abandoned Lieutenant Dalmaine was getting on with his two thirteen-inch mortars. If the attack failed, and
Thor
was unable to recover the men from the lighter, Dalmaine had orders to make his way ashore and surrender. Bolitho grimaced. He knew what he would do in those circumstances; what any sailor would attempt. Sailors mistrusted land. When others saw the sea as an enemy or a final barrier against escape, men like Dalmaine would take a chance, even in something as hopeless as a lighter.

Jenour joined them by the tiller and said, “I was speaking with the Swedish mate, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho smiled. The lieutenant could barely suppress his eagerness.

“We are all ears.”

Jenour pointed into the darkness. “He says we are past the battery. The biggest treasure-ship is anchored in line with the first fortress.” He added proudly, “She is the
Ciudad de Sevilla.
”

Bolitho touched his arm. “That was well done.” He pictured the marks on the chart. It was exactly as Price had described it, and the newly constructed fortress, which rose from the sea on a bed of rocks.

The leadsman called sharply, “By th' mark two!”

Parris murmured, “Christ Almighty.”

Bolitho said, “Let her fall off a point.” He peered into the black cluster of shapes by the compass box. “Who is that?”

“Laker, sir!”

Bolitho turned away. It would be. The seaman who was to have been flogged.

Laker called, “Steady as she goes, sir! East-by-south!”

“By th' mark seven!”

Bolitho clenched his fists. In the time it had taken for the leadsman to recover and then cast his line from the chains, the
Spica
had ploughed out of the shallows and into deeper water. But if the chart with its sparse information was wrong . . .

“By th' mark fifteen!” Even the leadsman's voice sounded jubilant. It was not wrong. They were through.

He walked aft to the taffrail and peered at the boats astern, the gurgle of spray around each stem where lively phosphorescence painted the sea.

“Sun-up any minute, Sir Richard.” Allday sounded on edge. “I'll be fair glad to see it go down again, an' that's no error.”

Bolitho loosened the hanger in its scabbard. It felt strange without the old sword. He pictured Adam wearing it as his own, Belinda's perfect face when she received the news that he had fallen.

He said harshly, “Enough melancholy, old friend! We've faced worse odds!”

Allday watched him, his craggy face hidden in darkness.

“I knows it, Sir Richard. It's just that sometimes I get—”

His eyes shone suddenly and Bolitho grasped his thick forearm.

“The sun. Friend or foe, I wonder?”

“Stand by to come about!” Parris sounded untroubled. “Two more hands on the forebrace, Keats.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Bolitho tried to recall the petty officer's face, but instead he saw other, older ones.
Hyperion
's ghosts come back to watch him. They had waited over the years after their last battle. To claim him as their own, perhaps?

The thought made a chill run down his spine. He unclipped the scabbard and tossed it aside while he tested the hanger's balance in his hand.

More light, seeping and spreading across the water. There was the land to starboard, sprawling and shapeless. The flash of sunlight on a window somewhere, a ship's masthead pendant lifting to the first glow like the tip of a knight's lance.

The fortress was almost in line with the jib-boom, a stern, square contrast with the land beyond.