Sword of Honour

by Alexander Kent

  ‘I shall come up directly.’ He did not see the lieutenant’s quick glance around the cabin, but he could imagine it. Dyer probably thought that his captain wanted for nothing. As I once thought of mine.

  Adam had been more than successful as a frigate captain, and he was sensible enough to appreciate it, and that luck rarely came into it except to provide the opportunity to meet with an enemy, and to know his thoughts like your own. After that, it was skill, determination, and the men who depended on you. He smiled. And good gunnery.

  The lieutenant saw the smile, and, encouraged, asked, ‘Will we be hoisting the admiral’s flag again after this, sir?’

  ‘In truth, I do not know.’ He moved restlessly to the stern windows and leaned his hands on the sill. He could feel the thud and shiver of the rudder-head, picture the ship as she would appear to any landsmen watching her careful approach.

  A flagship. Only a frigate captain would understand the difference. It meant being tied to the fleet’s apron strings and the whims and fancies of a flag officer. Keen was a good commander, but it was not the same. He tried to steer his mind away from his own ship, Anemone, which had fallen to the American commodore, Nathan Beer. Only an explosion below deck had foiled her capture and salvage, and spared her an enemy’s flag. No, it was not the same.

  Dyer withdrew, and Adam suspected he would soon be discussing their future with the other lieutenants. Wardroom gossip was only to be expected, but Dyer had not yet realised how quickly it could misfire.

  He touched his side where the iron splinter had smashed him down, when Anemone had hauled down her colours and he had been unable to prevent it.

  He watched the sea again, the fish leaping in Valkyrie’s untroubled wake.

  And what of Keen? Would he marry Gilia St Clair, and if so, why should he allow the prospect to torment him? Zenoria was dead, but his grief for her had not lessened. He picked up his hat and strode from the cabin. The fact was that Keen needed a wife, even if love did not enter into it.

  He ran lightly up the companion ladder, and gazed at the familiar panorama which lay across the bows like a ragged barrier. Ships of every kind. Men-of-war, merchantmen, transports, captured prizes, and small, butterfly-like sails which created the movement in every living harbour.

  He nodded to Ritchie, the sailing master, and saw him stand away from the compass box; he had been leaning against it. So his wounds were troubling him again. The surgeon had said that he should be discharged.

  Adam frowned. Discharged? It would kill him more quickly than any American splinters.

  A glance aloft at the newly trimmed sails, and the long, flapping tongue of the masthead pendant. She would make a proud sight, all sails clewed up except topsail and jib, her company at their stations at braces and halliards, topmen ready to take in the last of her canvas once the anchor was dropped.

  A sight which, in the past, had always warmed and excited him. But the exhilaration eluded him now, like something beyond his reach.

  ‘Lee braces there! Hands wear ship!’

  Bare feet thudded along the deck, and blocks squealed as more men threw their weight on the snaking lines.

  ‘Tops’l sheets!’

  Adam folded his arms, and saw one of the young midshipmen turn to study him.

  ‘Tops’l clew lines! Lively there! Take that man’s name, Mr M’Crea!’

  ‘Helm a-lee!’

  Adam walked to the side to watch as the big frigate came slowly round and into the wind, the way falling off her, her remaining sails already being dragged and fisted into submission.

  ‘Let go!’

  Dyer hurried aft, his eyes everywhere as the ship came to rest at her cable.

  ‘Will you require the gig, sir?’

  Ritchie, the master, grimaced against the pain and then exclaimed, ‘Cheering, sir!’

  Adam took a telescope and trained it on two other frigates anchored nearby. Their shrouds and rigging were filled with shouting, waving seamen and marines.

  He closed the glass with a snap. ‘Yes, Mr Dyer, I shall want the gig as soon as possible.’

  Dyer stared at him. ‘What does it mean, sir?’

  Adam looked at the land. ‘It means peace. Not here perhaps, but peace, the hope of a lifetime.’ He glanced at the staring midshipman. ‘He was not even born when the first guns in this war were fired.’

  Some of the seamen were grinning at one another, others were shaking hands as if they had just met in some lane or harbour street.

  ‘I shall visit Rear-Admiral Keen. He will expect it.’ He saw the first lieutenant trying to grapple with it. ‘Take charge, Mr Dyer. I will speak with the hands later when I return.’ He touched his arm, and felt him jump as if he had just been nicked by a musket ball.

  ‘They have done well. There are many who were not so fortunate.’

  Later, as he climbed into the gig, he recalled his last words.

  Like an epitaph.

  Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen looked up from his desk and saw his flag lieutenant, the Honourable Lawford de Courcey, watching him through the door.

  ‘Yes?’

  De Courcey glanced only briefly at Keen’s visitor, and said, ‘It is reported, sir, that Valkyrie is approaching the anchorage.’

  ‘Thank you. Let me know as soon as Captain Bolitho arrives.’

  He looked around the room, which he used as his headquarters in Halifax. Charts, files, and books of signals. With de Courcey and some borrowed clerks, he had managed to stay abreast of the work as he could not have done if he had been at sea for long periods. It had made him feel that he belonged, and that what he was doing was progressive, enabling every ship and facility to give of its best. Until a few days ago, when the frigate Wakeful had arrived from England with news of the victory and of Napoleon’s surrender. So far away, on the other side of the Atlantic, and yet the word of victory in Europe had affected him far more than the war which was being fought here against the Americans; perhaps because it had been his war for so long, with many enemies involved, but always the French.

  He would have received the news earlier but Wakeful’s young captain had lost a couple of spars in a Western Ocean storm in his eagerness to be the first to bring the despatches. Wakeful had also carried a passenger.

  Keen looked at him now: Captain Henry Deighton, the next acting commodore of the Halifax squadron, and soon to be directly under the command of Sir Alexander Cochrane, who had taken over the whole station.

  It had all happened so quickly that Keen could not decide if he was pleased or disturbed by the unseemly haste.

  There had been several letters among the despatches, including one from the First Lord, to reassure him, perhaps, that the next phase of his career was about to begin. There had been no letters from his father, a sure sign of his continuing disapproval.

  And there was Gilia. He would delay no longer in asking her, and of course her father, if his proposal of marriage would be acceptable.

  Deighton said, ‘Captain Bolitho – what is he like, sir?’

  Keen studied him. He was a senior post-captain, with several years of blockade duty and two fleet actions to his credit. Squarely built, with short, gingery hair and restless eyes. Not an easy man to serve, harder still to know, he thought.

  ‘A good frigate captain. Successful, too.’

  ‘Yes, I know him by reputation, of course, sir. It must have been a great asset to have Sir Richard Bolitho at his shoulder.’

  Keen said nothing. Deighton had already made up his mind, or had had it made up for him.

  Deighton said, ‘Originally one of Sir Richard’s midshipmen, I understand.’

  Keen said, ‘So was I. Vice-Admiral Bethune at the Admiralty was another. A good influence, it would seem.’

  Deighton nodded. ‘I see. I look forward to meeting him. Lost his ship, taken prisoner of war and then escaped … he sounds resourceful, if a trifle reckless.’

  ‘He is my flag captain, at least until I leave here.’

&nb
sp; It was quietly said but he saw the shot go home. Deighton had come from England; he would know better than anyone what was intended. It would mean further promotion, to vice-admiral. He still could not believe it.

  He thought of Richard at home now in England, with his Catherine. He had seen and shared the legend himself. He opened the drawer very slightly and saw the miniature of the girl looking up at him. It could be his, too. Ours.

  He half-listened to the tramp of boots outside the building, the raucous shouts of drill sergeants. This part of the place was on loan to him because of the general; it would soon revert to the army once his flag came down.

  What would Adam think of the peace? He had agreed to be his flag captain, and the decision had surprised Keen. Adam was his own man, Deighton was right about that, and reckless to some degree, although Keen would never say so to someone outside the Happy Few. He could stay here and serve under the new commodore, or he could apply to be relieved, to take his chances in England while he hunted for a new command. It would not be easy; he knew that from his experience of other treaties, other respites in the long years of war.

  He thought of all their faces, Inch, and Neale, and others like Tyacke who had somehow survived. The word was rarely used in the fleet, but each man was a hero. Perhaps that was what his father had implied more than once. That in war you needed heroes if you were to succeed. In peace, they were an embarrassment to those who had risked nothing.

  It made him feel vaguely uneasy, as if he were letting Adam down. That was absurd. The choice was made, and by the time the next courier vessel arrived, everything might have changed yet again.

  He closed the drawer, realising that de Courcey had returned.

  ‘Valkyrie’s gig has been sighted, sir.’

  De Courcey withdrew. The perfect aide, always there when he was needed, although Keen very clearly understood why he and Adam could not endure one another.

  Deighton got to his feet. A heavy man, but he moved lightly, with an air of urgency and purpose. Commodore would be a big step for him. Sir Alexander Cochrane had gathered so many senior officers under his command that it was unlikely Deighton would rise any higher. And he would know it.

  Deighton said, ‘I must leave, sir. I have arrangements to complete.’

  ‘We shall meet again this evening, Captain Deighton. I shall introduce you to Halifax society!’

  Deighton stared at him, as if searching for a trap of some kind. Then he left the room.

  Keen sighed, and thought, unexpectedly, of England, of Hampshire. It would be spring there. And there would be Gilia.

  Suddenly, he was glad to be leaving.

  Adam Bolitho opened the shutters of the two lanterns in his cabin to give it an air of welcome and seclusion. He rubbed his shin, cursing silently to himself; he had just collided with a chair in the darkness.

  He touched the watch, heavy in his pocket, but did not look at it. It was about three o’clock in the morning, with Valkyrie riding easily at her anchor, a ship at rest, as much as she could be with some two hundred and fifty souls, seamen and marines, throughout her hull, some probably still awake after hearing of Napoleon’s submission, and wondering what it might mean to them.

  When he had returned from his visit to Keen’s temporary headquarters he had ordered the lower deck to be cleared and the hands to muster aft. All those upturned faces: men he had come to know well, and those others who had managed to stay at arm’s length from him, and all other authority. United by discipline, by the ship, and by their loyalty to one another, the strength of any man-of-war.

  Later, he had explained to his officers what the immediate future might bring. With the arrival of better weather, it would almost certainly mean increased action against the Americans. That had been expected.

  Dyer had been quite outraged when he had told them that there would be an acting commodore, as if the exchange of a rear-admiral’s flag for a mere broad pendant was akin to a personal insult.

  The day after tomorrow Valkyrie would sail in company with another small convoy, but her main duty would be to demonstrate to Commodore Deighton the importance and the efficiency of the squadron’s scouts and offshore patrols.

  Adam slumped in a chair and rubbed his shin again. He had had too much to drink, although he could scarcely remember it. And that was not like him.

  He had changed into his best uniform and returned ashore for the evening reception which Keen had felt was necessary to welcome his successor. It had been a noisy, uninhibited gathering, which had shown no sign of ending even when Adam had made his excuses and walked back to the jetty, where his gig’s crew had been dozing at their oars.

  David St Clair and his daughter Gilia had been there, as he had known they would be, as well as local merchants and suppliers to the fleet, officers of the garrison, and several other captains. Benjamin Massey, a close friend of Keen’s father, had not attended; it was said that he had returned to England. But Massey’s mistress, Mrs Lovelace, had been present. She had smiled at Adam, that same direct, challenging look she had given him before. But this time her husband had accompanied her. The invitation in her eyes had been very clear.

  Gilia St Clair had made a point of greeting him, and had hinted that Keen was about to propose marriage. She had watched his face while she spoke to him, remembering, perhaps, when she had asked him if he had known Keen’s wife, and his unhesitating reply. I was in love with her. She might have told Keen while Valkyrie had been away, but for some strange reason he was certain that she had not.

  Then she had mentioned Keen’s promotion, and the possibility of his becoming port admiral at Plymouth, and the despair that was ever waiting for its chance seized him once again.

  She had even mentioned the house in Plymouth. Boscawen House. It had been all he could do to hide his emotion.

  It had been at the port admiral’s house that he had met Zenoria, purely by chance. She had dropped a glove while alighting from her carriage. It had been the last time he had seen her, before she had taken her life. She had been in Plymouth to visit Boscawen House, accompanied by a London lawyer.

  Had Keen, in fact, bought it as long ago as that? Did it signify nothing more to him than a suitable house for a senior officer and his wife?

  Like yesterday … Zenoria in the admiral’s house, surrounded by other officers and their wives, and yet completely alone…. And her glove, which he had been carrying when the American broadsides had done for his Anemone. That, too, was another fragment of this undying pain.

  Her voice. ‘Keep it for me. Think of me sometimes, will you?’

  He would never forget.

  He jerked around in the chair. ‘Who is that?’

  It was John Whitmarsh, his servant. Another reminder. He had been the only survivor from Anemone, except for those men who had surrendered when they had seen their captain fall. Just a boy, who had been ‘volunteered’ by an uncle when his father had been drowned off the Goodwins. He could have been no more than ten or so when he had been sent to sea in Anemone.

  ‘Me, zur.’ He stepped carefully into the circle of light. ‘I thought you would likely be staying ashore, zur.’

  Adam ran his fingers through his dark hair. He must not go on like this. He would destroy himself, and those who depended on him.

  ‘I considered it.’ He gestured to his cupboard. ‘A glass of cognac, if you please, John Whitmarsh.’ He watched him bustling about, always so content, so eager. When Adam had offered him the position of servant the boy had treated it with open delight, as if he had been thrown a lifeline. How could he know that he, in turn, had offered the same to his captain?

  And now, all the changes. What might happen next? He looked at the boy grimly. He had nobody. Father dead, and no word from his mother, although Adam had written in an attempt to discover her whereabouts, and her interest, if any, in her son. He was thirteen years old. As I once was.

  He took the goblet and held it to the lamplight.

  ‘Stay a while, John Wh
itmarsh. I have been meaning to speak with you.’

  ‘Is something wrong, zur?’

  ‘Have you thought about your future, in the navy, or beyond that?’

  He frowned. ‘I – I’m not sure, zur.’

  Adam studied him for several seconds. ‘I received no reply from your mother, you see. Someone must decide for you.’

  The boy seemed suddenly anxious. ‘I’m very happy here, zur. You’ve taught me so many things, how to read an’ write….’

  ‘That was not all my doing, John Whitmarsh. You are a quick learner.’ He looked at the goblet again. ‘Would you consider being sponsored as midshipman, or transferred as a volunteer to some ship more suitable for advancement? Have you thought of that?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘I don’t understand, zur. A midshipman … wear the King’s coat like the young gentlemen, like Mister Lovie who was killed?’ He shook his head again, determination making him suddenly vulnerable. ‘I shall serve you, zur, an’ one day perhaps I’ll become your cox’n like old Mister Allday does for Sir Richard!’

  Adam smiled, and was strangely moved. ‘Never let Allday hear you describe him as old, my lad!’ He became serious again. ‘I believe you could be a midshipman, and eventually a King’s officer, with some education and the right guidance. And I would be prepared to sponsor you.’ He saw that he was achieving nothing. ‘I shall pay – even your mother cannot object to that!’

  The boy stared at him, his eyes filling his face. It was all there, despair, anxiety and disbelief.

  ‘I want to stay with you, zur. I don’t want anybody else.’

  Overhead feet moved back and forth, the watch changing. It must be four o’clock. But to this boy it meant nothing; all he saw was the one life he knew being taken from him.

  ‘I shall tell you a story. There once was a young boy who lived with his mother in Penzance. They did not have much money, but they were happy together. Then his mother died, and this boy was left with nothing. Nothing but a piece of paper and the name of his uncle, whose home was in Falmouth.’