Honour This Day (8 page)

For the first time her voice rose in passion and anger.

“Don't you use that tone with me! I came tonight because of the love I believed in. Not out of grief or pity. If you think—”

He reached out and gripped her arm through the cloak.

“Do not leave in anger, Kate.” He expected her to tear her arm away and hurry back to the coach. But something in his tone seemed to hold her.

He persisted, “When I think of never seeing you again I feel guilty, because I know I could not bear it.”

She said in a whisper, “It was your choice.”

“Not entirely.”

“Would you tell your wife you had seen me? I understand she is quite a beauty. Could you do that?”

She stepped back slightly. “Your silence is my answer.”

Bolitho said bitterly, “It is not like that.”

She glanced round towards the carriage and Bolitho saw the cowl fall from her head, caught the gleam of the lamps on her earrings. The ones he had given her.

She said, “Please leave.” When he made to hold her again she backed away. “Tomorrow I shall see the ships stand away from the land.” She put her hand to her face. “I will feel nothing, Richard, because my heart, such as it is, will sail with you.
Now go!
”

Then she turned and ran from the shed, her cloak swirling about her until she reached the carriage.

Jenour said huskily, “I am indeed sorry, Sir Richard—”

Bolitho turned on him. “It's
time
you grew up, Mr Jenour!”

Jenour hurried after him, his mind still in a whirl from what he had seen and unwillingly shared.

Bolitho paused by the jetty and looked back. The carriage lamps were still motionless, and he knew she was watching him even in the darkness.

He heard the barge moving towards the jetty and was suddenly thankful. The sea had claimed him back.

At noon on the third day at sea Bolitho went on deck and walked along the weather side. It was like the other days, as if nothing, not even the men on watch, had changed.

He shaded his eyes to glance up at the masthead pendant. The wind was steady, as before, across the starboard quarter, creating a long regular swell which stretched unbroken in either direction. He heard the helmsman call, “Steady as she goes, sir! Sou'-west-by-west!” Bolitho knew it was more for his benefit than the officer-of-the-watch.

He looked at the long swell, the easy way
Hyperion
raised her quarter and allowed it to break against her flank. A few men were working high above the deck, their bodies tanned or peeling according to their time at sea. It never stopped. Splicing and reeving new lines, tarring-down and refilling the boats with water on their tier to keep the seams from opening in the relentless glare.

Bolitho felt the officer-of-the-watch glancing at him and tried to remember what he could about him. In a fight, one man could win or lose it. He paced slowly past the packed hammock nettings. Vernon Quayle was
Hyperion
's fourth lieutenant, and unless he was checked or possibly killed he would be a tyrant if he ever reached post-rank. He was twenty-two, of a naval family, with sulky good looks and a quick temper. There had been three men flogged in his division since leaving England. Haven should have a word with the first lieutenant. Maybe he had, although the captain and his senior never appeared to speak except on matters of routine and discipline.

Bolitho tried not to think of
Hyperion
as she had once been. If any man-of-war could be said to be a happy ship in days like these, then so she had been then.

He walked forward to the quarterdeck rail and looked along the upper deck, the market-place of any warship.

The sailmaker and his mates were rolling up repaired lengths of canvas, and putting away their palms and needles. There was a sickly smell of cooking from the galley funnel, though how they could eat boiled pork in this heat was hard to fathom.

Bolitho could taste Ozzard's strong coffee on his tongue, but the thought of eating made him swallow hard. He had barely eaten since leaving English Harbour. Anxiety, strain, or was it still the guilt of seeing Catherine again?

Lieutenant Quayle touched his hat. “
Upholder
is on station, Sir Richard. The masthead makes a report every half-hour.” It sounded as if he was about to add, “or I'll know the reason!”

Upholder
was hull-down on the horizon and would be the first to signal that she had sighted
Thor
at the rendezvous.
Or not.
Bolitho had placed the brig in the van because of her young commander, William Trotter, a thoughtful Devonian who had impressed him during their first few meetings. It needed brains as well as good lookouts when so much depended on that first sighting.

Tetrarch
was somewhere up to windward, ready to dash down if needed, and the third brig,
Vesta,
was far astern, her main role to ensure they were not being followed by some inquisitive stranger. So far they had seen nothing. It was as if the sea had emptied, that some dreadful warning had cleared it like an arena.

Tomorrow they would be near enough to land for the mast-head to recognise it.

Bolitho had spoken to
Hyperion
's sailing-master, Isaac Penhaligon. Haven was fortunate to have such an experienced master, he thought.
So am I.
Penhaligon was a Cornishman also, but in name only. He had been packed off to sea as a cabin-boy at the tender age of seven years, and had walked ashore very little since. He was now about sixty, with a deeply-lined face the colour of leather, and eyes so bright they seemed to belong to a younger person trapped within. He had served in a packet-ship, in East Indiamen, and eventually had, as he had put it, donned the King's coat as a master's mate. His skill and knowledge of the oceans and their moods would be hard to rival, Bolitho thought. An additional piece of luck was that he once sailed in these same waters, had fought off buccaneers and slavers, had done so much that nothing seemed to daunt him. Bolitho had watched him checking the noon sights, his eyes on the assembled midshipmen whose navigation and maritime knowledge lay in his hands, ready to make a rough comment if things went wrong. He was never sarcastic with the
young gentlemen,
but he was very severe, and they were obviously in awe of him.

Penhaligon had compared his charts and notes with Price's own observations and had commented sparingly, “Knew his navigation, that one.” It was praise indeed.

A petty officer approached the lieutenant and knuckled his forehead. Bolitho was thankful to be left alone as Quayle hurried away. He had seen the petty officer's expression. Not just respect for an officer. It was more like fear.

He stroked the worn rail, hot from the sunlight. He thought of that last meeting in the boatshed, Catherine's voice and fervour. He had to see her again, if only to explain.
Explain what?
It could do nothing but harm to her. To both of them.

She had seemed unreachable, eager to tell him the hurt he had done her, and yet . . .

He remembered vividly their first meeting, and when she had cursed him for the death of her husband. Her
second
husband. There had also been the one she rarely mentioned, a reckless soldier-of-fortune who had died in Spain in some drunken brawl. Who had she been then, and where had she come from? It was hard to see her, so captivating and striking as she was now, set against the squalor she had once touched on in a moment of intimacy.

And what of Somervell? Was he as cold and indifferent as he appeared? Or was he merely contemptuous; amused perhaps while he watched the reawakening of old memories, which he might use or ignore as he chose?

Would he ever know, or would he spend the rest of his life remembering how it had once been for so short a time, knowing that she was watching from a distance, waiting to learn what he was doing, or if he had fallen in battle?

Quayle had gone to the helm and was snapping something at the midshipman-of-the-watch. Like the others, he was properly dressed, although he must be sweating fire in this heat.

Had Keen been his flag captain he would have—Bolitho called, “Send for my servant!”

Quayle came alive. “At
once,
Sir Richard!”

Ozzard emerged from the shadows of the poop and stood blinking in the glare, more mole-like than ever. Small, loyal and ever ready to serve Bolitho whenever he could. He had even read to him when he had been partially blinded, and before, when he had been smashed down by a musket. Meek and timid, but underneath there was another kind of man. He was well-educated and had once been a lawyer's clerk; he had run away to sea to avoid prosecution, and some said the hangman's halter.

Bolitho said, “Take my coat, if you please.” Ozzard did not even blink as the vice-admiral tossed his coat over his arm and then handed him his hat.

Others were staring, but by tomorrow even Haven might tell his officers to walk the decks in their shirts and not suffer in silence. If it took a uniform to make an officer, there was no hope for any of them.

Ozzard gave a small smile, then scurried thankfully into the shadows again.

He had watched most faces of Bolitho, his moods of excitement and despair. There had been too many of the latter, he thought.

Past the marine sentry and into the great cabin. The world he shared with Bolitho, where rank was of little importance. He held up the coat and examined it for traces of tar or strands of spun yarn. Then he saw his own reflection in the mirror and held the coat against his own small frame. The coat hung almost to his ankles and he gave a shy smile.

He gripped the coat tightly as he saw himself that terrible day when the lawyer had sent him home early.

He had discovered his young wife, naked in the arms of a man he had known and respected for years.

They had tried to bluff it out and all the while he had been
dying
as he had stared at them.

Later, when he had left the small house on the Thames at Wapping Wall, he had seen the shopkeeper's name opposite.
Tom Ozzard,
Scrivener. He had decided then and there it was to be his new identity.

Never once had he looked back to the room where he had stopped their lies with an axe, had hacked and slashed until there was nothing recognisable in human form.

On Tower Hill he had found the recruiting party; they were never far away, always in the hopes of a volunteer, or some drunkard who would take a coin and then find himself in a man-of-war until he was paid off or killed.

The lieutenant in charge had regarded him with doubt and then amusement. Prime seamen, strong young men, were what the King needed.

Ozzard carefully folded the coat. It was different now. They would take a cripple on two crutches if they got the chance.

Tom Ozzard, servant to a vice-admiral, afraid, no, terrified of battle when the ship quaked and reeled around him, a man with no past, no future.

One day, deep in his heart, Ozzard knew he would go back to that little house at Wapping Wall. Then, only then, he would give in to what he had done.

From the masthead lookout, curled up in the crosstrees, to Allday, sprawled in his hammock while he slept off the aftermath of several “wets,” from Ozzard to the man in the great cabin whom he served, most thoughts were on tomorrow.

Hyperion
in all her years, and over the countless leagues she had sailed, had seen many come and go.

Beyond the figurehead's trident lay the horizon. Beyond that, only destiny could identify.

5
L
EADERSHIP

B
OLITHO
walked up the wet planking to the weather side of the quarterdeck and steadied himself by gripping the hammock nettings. It was still dark, with only spectres of spray leaping over the hull to break the sea's blackness.

Darker shadow moved across the quarterdeck to merge with a small group by the rail, where Haven and two of his lieutenants received their reports and passed out new orders.

Voices murmured from the gundeck, and Bolitho could picture the hands at work around the invisible eighteen-pounders, while on the deck below the heavier battery of thirty-two-pounders, although equally busy, remained silent. Down there, beneath the massive deckhead beams, the gun crews were used to managing their charges in constant gloom.

The hands had been piped to an even earlier breakfast, probably an unnecessary precaution because when dawn found them they would still be out of sight of land—except, with any luck, by the masthead lookouts. In the past hour
Hyperion
had altered course, and was heading due west, her yards close-hauled with their reduced canvas of forecourse and topsails. It explained the uneasy, turbulent motion, but Bolitho had noticed the difference in the weather as soon as his feet had touched the damp rug by his cot.

The wind was steady but had risen; not much, but after the seemingly constant calm or glassy swell, it seemed violent by comparison.

Everyone nearby knew he was on deck and had discreetly crossed to the lee side to give him room to walk if he chose. He looked up at the rigging and saw the braced topsails for the first time. They were flapping noisily, showing their displeasure at being so tightly reined.

He had been awake for most of the night, but when the hands were called, and the work of preparing the ship for whatever lay ahead begun, he had felt a strange eagerness to sleep.

Allday had padded into the cabin, and while Ozzard had magicked up his strong coffee, the big coxswain had shaved him by the light of a spiralling lantern.

Allday had still not unburdened himself about his son. Bolitho could remember his elation when he had discovered he had a son of twenty, one he had known nothing about, who had decided to join him when his mother, an old love of Allday's, had died.

Then aboard the cutter
Supreme
after Bolitho had been cut down and almost completely blinded, Allday had nursed an anger and a despair that his son, also named John, was a coward, and had run below at the very moment when Bolitho had needed him most.

Now he knew differently. Afraid of the fire of battle perhaps, but no coward. It took a brave heart to disguise fear when the enemy's iron raked the decks.

But his son had asked to leave the ship when they had docked. For Allday's sake and for everyone's peace of mind Bolitho had spoken to the officer in charge of the coastguard near Falmouth, and asked him to find a place for him. His son, John Bankart as he was named after his mother, had been a good seaman, and could reef, splice and steer with the most experienced Jack. He had been performing the duties of second-coxswain in the prize
Argonaute
to help Allday, who was too proud to admit that his terrible wound was making things hard for him. Also, Allday had been able to keep an eye on him, until the day when Bolitho had been wounded whilst aboard the little cutter.

Bolitho disliked asking favours of anyone, especially because of his rank, and now he was unsure that he had done the right thing. Allday brooded about it, and when not required on duty spent too much time alone, or sitting with a tot in his hand in Ozzard's pantry.

We are both in need.
Like dog and master. Each fearful that the other would die first.

A youthful voice exclaimed, “Sunrise, sir!”

Haven muttered something, then crossed to the weather side. He touched his hat in the darkness.

“The boats are ready for lowering, Sir Richard.” He seemed more formal than ever. “But if
Upholder
is on station we should get plenty of warning if we need to clear for action.”

“I agree.” Bolitho wondered what lay behind the formality. Was he hoping to see
Upholder
's signal flying to announce she had
Thor
in sight? Or was he expecting the sea to be empty, the effort and the preparation a waste of time?

He said, “I never tire of this moment.” Together they watched the first glimpse of sunlight as it rimmed the horizon like a fine gold wire. With
Hyperion
on her present tack the sun would rise almost directly astern, to paint each sail by turn then reach out far ahead, as if to show them the way to the land.

Haven commented, “I just hope the Dons don't know we're so near.”

Bolitho hid a smile. Haven would make Job seem like an optimist.

Another figure crossed the deck and waited for Haven to see him. It was the first lieutenant.

Haven moved a few paces away. “Well? What now?” His voice was hushed, but the hostility was obvious.

Parris said calmly, “The two men for punishment, sir. May I tell the master-at-arms to stand over their sentence until—”

“
You shall not,
Mr Parris. Discipline is discipline, and I'll not have men escape their just deserts because we may or may not be engaging an enemy.”

Parris stood his ground. “It was nothing that serious, sir.”

Haven nodded, satisfied. “One of them is from your part-of-ship, am I right? Laker? Insolent to a petty officer.”

Parris's eyes seemed to glow from within as the first weak sunlight made patterns on the planking.

“They both lost their tempers, sir. The petty officer called him a whore's bastard.” He seemed to relax, knowing the battle was already lost. “Me, sir, I'd have torn out his bloody tongue!”

Haven hissed, “I shall speak with
you
later! Those men will be seized up and flogged at six bells!”

Parris touched his hat and walked away.

Bolitho heard the captain say,
“Bloody hound!”

It was no part of his to interfere. Bolitho looked at the sunrise, but it was spoiled by what he had heard.

He would have to speak to Haven about it later when they were alone. He glanced up at the mizzen topmast as a shaft of light played across the shrouds and running rigging. If he waited until action was joined it might be too late.

The words seemed to echo around his mind.
If I should fall ...
Every ship was only as strong as her captain. If there was something wrong . . . He looked round, Haven brushed from his thoughts, as the masthead yelled, “Sail in sight to the sou'-west!”

Bolitho clenched his hands into fists. It must be
Upholder,
right on station. He had been right in his choice for the van.

He said, “Prepare to come about, Captain Haven.”

Haven nodded. “Pipe the hands to the braces, Mr Quayle.”

Another face fitted into the pattern; Bolitho's companion of the forenoon watch the day before. The sort of officer who would have no compassion when it came to a flogging.

Bolitho added, “Do you have a good man aloft today?”

Haven stared at him, his face still masked in shadow. “I—I believe so, sir.”

“Send up an experienced hand. A master's mate for my money.”

“Aye, sir.” Haven sounded tense. Angry with himself for not thinking of the obvious. He could scarcely blame Parris for that.

Bolitho glanced around as the shadows nearby took on shape and personality. Two young midshipmen, both in their first ship, the officer-of-the-watch, and below the break in the poop he saw the tall, powerful figure of Penhaligon the master. If he was satisfied with their progress you would never know, Bolitho thought.

“Deck there!
Upholder
in sight!”

Bolitho guessed the voice was that of Rimer, master's mate of the watch. He was a small, bronzed man with features so creased that he looked like some seafarer from a bygone age. The other vessel was little more than a blur in the faint daylight, but Rimer's experience and keen eye told him all he needed to know.

Bolitho said, “Mr Jenour, get aloft with a glass.” He turned aside as the young lieutenant hurried to the shrouds. “I trust you climb as fast as you ride?”

He saw the flash of teeth as Jenour grinned back at him. Then he was gone, his arms and legs working with all the ease of a nimble maintopman.

Haven crossed the deck and looked up at Jenour's white breeches. “It will be light enough soon, sir.”

Bolitho nodded. “Then we shall know.”

He bunched his fists together under his coat-tails as Jenour's voice pealed down.

“Signal from
Upholder,
sir! Thor
in company!
”

Bolitho tried not to show excitement or surprise. Imrie had done it.

“Acknowledge!”
He had to cup his hands to shout above the slap of canvas and rigging. There was no further signal from
Upholder.
It meant nothing had gone wrong so far, and that the ungainly lighter was still safely in tow.

He said, “When the others are in sight, Captain Haven, signal them to proceed while we are all of one mind. There is no time for another conference. Even now there is a chance we might be discovered before we are all in position.”

He walked to the nettings again. There was no point in showing doubt or uncertainty to Haven. He looked aloft as more and more of the rigging and spars took shape in the sunlight. It was strange that he had never mastered his dislike of heights. As a midshipman he had faced each dash aloft to help shorten or make more sail as a separate challenge. At night in particular, with the yards heeling over towards the bursting spray and the deck little more than a blur far beneath his feet, he had felt an enduring terror.

He saw some Royal Marines on the mizzen top, their scarlet coats very bright while they leaned over the barricade to watch for the brig
Upholder.
Bolitho would have dearly liked to climb up past them without caring, as Jenour had done. He touched his left eyelid, then blinked at the reflected sunlight. Deceptively clear, but the worry was always there.

He looked along the upper deck, the gun crews standing down to go about their normal tasks as the first tension disappeared with the night.

So many miles. Too many memories. During the night when he had lain awake in his cot listening to the sluice and creak of the sea around the rudder he had recalled another time when
Hyperion
had sailed this far, while he had been her captain. They had slipped past the Isles of Pascua in the darkness and Bolitho could remember exactly that dawn attack on the French ships anchored there. And it was nine years ago. The same ship. But was he still the same man?

He glanced up at the mizzen top and was suddenly angry with himself.

“Hand me that glass, if you please.” He took it from a startled midshipman and walked purposefully to the weather shrouds. He could feel Haven watching him, saw Parris trying not to stare from the larboard gangway where he was in discussion with Sam Lintott, the boatswain. Probably telling him when to rig the gratings so that punishment could be carried out as ordered.

Then he saw Allday squinting up from the maindeck, his jaw still working on a piece of biscuit while he, too, stared with astonishment. Bolitho swung himself up and around the shrouds and felt the ratlines quiver with each step while the big signals telescope bounced against his hip like a quiver of arrows.

It was easier than he would have believed, but as he clambered into the top he decided it was far enough.

The marines stood back, grinning and nudging each other. Bolitho was able to recall the corporal's name—he was a fierce-looking man who'd been a Norfolk poacher before he signed on with the Corps. Not before time, Major Adams had hinted darkly.

“Where is she, Corporal Rogate?”

The marine pointed. “Yonder, sir! Larboard bow!”

Bolitho steadied the long telescope and watched as the brig's narrow poop and braced yards leapt into view. Figures moved about
Upholder
's quarterdeck, steeply angled as the ship heeled over to show her bright copper to the early sunshine.

Bolitho waited for
Hyperion
to sway upright and for the mizzen topmast to restrain its shivering, and beyond
Upholder
he saw a tan-coloured pyramid of sails.
Thor
was ready and waiting.

He lowered the glass as if to bring his thoughts into equal focus. Had he decided from the very beginning that he would lead the attack? If it failed, he would be taken prisoner, or . . . He gave a grim smile. The
or
did not bear thinking about.

Corporal Rogate saw the secret smile and wondered how he would describe it to the others during the next watch below. How the admiral had spoken to him, just like another Royal.
One of us.