Sword of Honour

by Alexander Kent

  ‘An’ be that you, zur?’

  ‘Aye, John Whitmarsh, it was. I walked all the way to Falmouth. Not as far as India, but far enough, and there I was taken in and protected by the lady I grew to know as my Aunt Nancy. I could have stayed with her, and I would have had no fear of want again. But I waited until my uncle’s ship returned to Falmouth. He was her captain.’ He was surprised at his own voice. Pride, love for the man who was one of England’s greatest admirals.

  The boy nodded gravely. ‘An’ you became a midshipman, zur.’ There was a silence, then he said, ‘When I met Sir Richard that day, when he asked about you, an’ what I saw when our ship went down, I felt it. How he felt, what you meant to him, just like me an’ my father.’

  ‘So think about it, for your own sake. And for mine. We take much from this strange life we lead. It is sometimes a comfort to put something back into it.’

  The boy picked up the empty goblet but Adam shook his head, and he left it.

  Then he said, ‘I only ever had one real friend, zur, that was Billy, an’ he was lost that day.’

  Adam stood up and yawned. ‘Well, now you have another, so be off and catch some rest before they pipe the hands.’

  He turned to watch as the slight figure melted into the shadows, and was pleased by what he had done.

  They were two days out of Halifax on passage for the Bermudas once again, and Valkyrie, with her heavily laden charges, had barely logged five hundred miles. Long, monotonous days when some of the hands had to be chased even to their routine duties watch by watch.

  In other circumstances it might have been ideal. There was a light north-easterly wind, enough to fill the sails and no more, with clear skies and sun to drive away the memories of winter cold and darkness.

  At noon Adam stood by the quarterdeck rail and shaded his eyes to watch the three heavy transports lying downwind, with the outline of Wildfire, a smaller twenty-eight-gun frigate, almost invisible in a shimmering heat haze.

  He heard the murmuring voices of the midshipmen, who were gathered with their sextants to estimate and compare their calculations from the midday sights, while Ritchie and one of his mates moved amongst them with the tired patience of schoolmasters. Lieutenant Dyer was with the boatswain by the foremast, discussing work to be done on the crosstrees, although Adam guessed that he had chosen the moment merely to keep out of his way.

  This endless convoy work, soldiers and guns, stores and ammunition; it might be necessary, but it was not a life he cared for. A slow passage and limp canvas when he was more used to questions of whether to reef or not, with spray bursting over the beakhead to send the unwary flying.

  He glanced at the skylight. He had scarcely seen Captain Deighton since he had come aboard. He was down there now, using the large stern cabin. Deighton was probably relishing it, thinking of the moment when it would be his stepping-stone to higher rank.

  He glanced at the masthead. At least there was no broad pendant yet. This is still my ship.

  Ritchie was writing in his log, and looked up as Adam’s shadow fell across it.

  The sea was empty, a glittering, blinding desert, and yet in his mind’s eye he could see the land, exactly as Ritchie’s spidery calculations and estimated position described it. New York lay some hundred and fifty miles to the west. Ships, movement, the enemy. But for how much longer?

  ‘How are you feeling, Mr Ritchie?’

  He saw the immediate alarm, the anxiety. Like the boy, when he had asked him about his future.

  ‘Fair enough, sir.’ He sighed. ‘Some days is better’n others.’

  Adam regarded him gravely. ‘Take heed of the bad times, Mr Ritchie. Have a word with the surgeon, perhaps?’

  Ritchie’s worn face split into a grin. ‘Of course, sir.’

  George Minchin was a surgeon of the old school, one of the butchers. And yet, even sodden with rum, he had probably saved more lives in his brutal trade than others more mindful of the risks. He had been Bolitho’s surgeon in the old Hyperion when she had fought her last fight. Drink should have sent him aloft long since, Adam thought, but he was still with them. He could understand Ritchie’s reluctance to fall into his hands.

  He saw Ritchie turn his head slightly. ‘He’s one of the walking dead if ever I saw one, sir!’

  The man in question was tall, narrow-chested and bony, like a living skeleton. Except that Adam had seen him carry Captain Deighton’s chest and other gear up from a boat alongside with neither a tackle nor another hand to aid him; he had muscles of steel. He was Deighton’s personal servant and went by the name of Jack Norway. If that was indeed his name.

  When spoken to, he would listen attentively, his gaunt head slightly on one side, his gaze never leaving the speaker. Dyer had remarked irritably, ‘Never says a word, damn his eyes! More like a bodyguard than a servant, if you ask me!’ He had shown no interest in mixing with those around him, and the others seemed content to keep it so.

  Adam tugged out his watch and flicked open the guard. Then he turned it slightly to catch the sun’s reflection on the engraved mermaid, which had immediately attracted him in the shop in Halifax. Chiming clocks, watches of every kind, and this one. His old watch had gone missing after he had been wounded in Anemone, or had been stolen during his imprisonment. The little mermaid. Like the one which was said to visit the church in Zennor, where Zenoria now lay. Or did she … ?

  ‘We shall exercise the starboard battery after the hands have been fed, Mr Ritchie.’ He could smell the heady aroma of rum in the warm air, another part of a ship’s daily life. Mine, too.

  He saw one of the midshipmen cleaning his sextant, then turning away as Deighton appeared on the quarterdeck.

  He glanced at the men working on deck, the sailmaker’s crew with their needles and palms, stitching and repairing, letting nothing go to waste. Fasken, the gunner, was bending over one of the larboard carronades, watched anxiously by Lieutenant Warren, who until recently had been a midshipman. There were probably about forty years between them.

  Deighton remarked, ‘Some experienced men, Captain Bolitho, but some very young ones, would you agree?’

  Adam said, ‘The ship has a good backbone of seasoned men, warrant officers and the like. I have been lucky. Some of the others are quite young, and I’m still short-handed despite volunteers from Halifax, but even the young ones have experience enough of battle.’

  He studied Deighton’s profile, the short ginger hair, the ever restless eyes.

  Almost to himself, Deighton added, ‘Keep them busy, drive them hard, that’s the answer. But I’m sure you know that, eh?’

  ‘This is not a ship of the line, Captain Deighton. We are often engaged in chasing enemy vessels, with a prize or two at the end of the day. We always need extra hands to crew the prizes, when and where we can find them.’

  Deighton nodded slowly. ‘And you have been more than successful, I hear.’

  Adam gestured over the starboard side. ‘There are prizes a-plenty out there for those who will run them to earth.’

  Deighton took a telescope from the rack and scanned the horizon immediately ahead of the ship, pausing at each transport, and the hazy frigate beyond.

  ‘She must be Wildfire. Captain Price.’

  Adam half-smiled. Price, the wild-eyed Welshman. But all he said was, ‘A good officer.’

  ‘Yes, yes. We shall see.’

  The afternoon watch had taken over its various stations, the men glancing at the other captain as they trooped aft, their eyes curious, perhaps hostile.

  Adam wondered why. Because Deighton was a stranger? But then, so was I.

  Deighton asked abruptly, ‘And who is that?’

  Adam saw the boy, John Whitmarsh, pausing by the boat tier to stare at the sea.

  ‘My servant.’

  Deighton smiled, for the first time. ‘A damn sight prettier than mine! Where did you find him?’

  He was surprised that Deighton could rouse such resentment in him.

&n
bsp; ‘He was one of the few to survive when my ship was sunk.’ He turned and looked at him directly. ‘I am putting him up for advancement.’

  ‘I see. Is he from a good family? His father, has he … ?’

  Adam replied shortly, ‘His father is dead. He has no means of support.’

  ‘Then I don’t understand.’ He touched Adam’s sleeve. ‘Or … perhaps I do.’

  A squad of marines had lined the quarterdeck nettings, and a sergeant was inspecting their muskets. At a signal from forward, some old pieces of boxwood were hurled outboard by the carpenter’s mates.

  ‘Marines, ready!’

  Adam beckoned to the lieutenant of marines. ‘Carry on!’

  The pieces of woodwork floated past, and as the order rang out each marine fired his musket in turn. There were a few grins and some derisive cheers from idlers on the gundeck as splashes burst around the makeshift targets.

  Adam reached out and took the marine officer’s pistol, and tested the weight in his palm; it was heavier and clumsier than his own. He climbed up on to some bollards and took aim. The driftwood was further away now, and he heard Deighton remark, ‘Not much chance there!’

  ‘I think, Captain Deighton, that you were right the first time. You don’t understand.’

  He felt the pistol buck in his grip and saw one of the wood fragments splinter. Then he handed the pistol to the marine lieutenant, and said, ‘Now, I think we all do.’

  4

  The Longest Day

  CATHERINE CAREFULLY RAISED the window catch, and paused to glance over her shoulder at their bed. The curtain around it was partly drawn to shield his face from the first light; he was asleep, one arm flung out toward her pillow, at peace, perhaps his only refuge.

  She opened the window and looked down at the garden, the rich colours of her first roses. The sun was warm on her skin even so early in the morning, the air clean, and bearing only a hint of salt from the sea.

  If she had leaned out, she would have seen the blue-grey water of Falmouth Bay beyond the headland. But she did not lean out. Today, of all days, the sea was an enemy.

  Her gown had fallen open and she felt the breath of that sea on her skin. There was no one to see her. The estate workers were in the fields, and she could hear the faint sound of hammers chipping on slate. She had once believed she would never get used to this place, or call it home, and now it was a part of herself.

  She touched her breast as he had done, could still feel the depth of his embrace and his desire. As if he had only just withdrawn from her.

  How quickly time had passed since their return from London. Riding, walking, and being alone with each other.

  Now the house was so quiet, as if it was holding its breath. George Avery had visited them several times, and with Richard had gone through the canvas pouches which arrived regularly from their lordships. She had listened to them, trying to share it, to make it last. Like Richard’s new flagship, Frobisher. They discussed the ship like the professional sailors they were, as if she were human, a living creature.

  Avery had stayed at the inn at Fallowfield, perhaps to allow them as much time as possible alone together, and also to ponder over his rejection by Susanna Mildmay. She knew it had saddened Richard; he had blamed himself, because Avery had put loyalty before his own personal happiness. If she was really the woman for him…. She watched a pair of wagtails darting amongst the flowers. Is that not what society said about me?

  She pressed her hand to her side, feeling the ache, the heaviness, the pain which today would bring.

  They had dined alone last night, although neither of them remembered the meal which had been so carefully prepared.

  She had told him she wanted to ride with him all the way to Portsmouth, where Frobisher lay waiting to receive him. Like the other times, like the last time when she had climbed up Indomitable’s side. It was not to be. Richard had said that he wanted to take his leave of her in this house. Where I always think of you.

  How could she do it? How could she let him go like this, so soon? She knew he hated the idea of her making the long journey, some one hundred and fifty miles, back from Portsmouth. Even with the roads in good condition and the coming of better weather, there was always the risk of footpads, or deserters from the army or navy who robbed or even killed if resisted. He would not be alone. He would be among friends when he saw his flag hoisted above his new flagship. Avery, Allday, Yovell, and of course Ozzard, who had given no hint of what he thought about leaving yet again. And perhaps the strongest of all, James Tyacke, who had cast aside his idea of returning to Africa. Or perhaps he had decided that there would be no escape and no solace even there.

  Yes, Richard would have friends, but he needed memories also. Like last night. It had not been a last, desperate passion, an act which if missed would haunt them as something lost. It had been a need; she had felt it when they had come to this room, when he had turned her towards the finely carved cheval glass, and had undressed her while she had watched his hands, knowing they explored her, and yet sensing that it was happening to someone else. A stranger.

  He had taken her to the bed and had said, ‘Do nothing.’

  He had kissed her from her throat to her thigh, from her breast to her knees and then, very slowly, back again. She could not believe that she had been able to contain her desire for him, and when she tried to pull him down to her, he had gripped her wrists and held them while he had looked down at her, wanting her, but needing it to last. Lovers, as if for the first time.

  And then he had smiled at her. Even though the light had been from a single candle only, she thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

  He had entered her without hesitation, and she had cried out his name while she had arched her body to receive him.

  She felt a tear fall on her breast, and wiped her skin angrily with the lace of her gown.

  Not now. Not now, of all times.

  She walked to the bed and pulled the curtain aside. His face was relaxed, even youthful. More like Adam than most of the other faces in those ever-watchful portraits. His hair still black across the crumpled pillow, except for the one rebellious lock above his right eye. It was almost completely white, and she knew he hated it. It concealed the savage scar which ran deeply into his hairline … so close to death even then.

  She sat on the bed and realised he was awake, watching her. She did not resist as he released the gown from her shoulders, nor flinch when he touched what he had kissed and teased so often. She understood. It was another memory. When he was able to be alone sometimes, to be free from the demands of duty, when he might perhaps be reading the leather-bound sonnets she had given him, he would remember, and would be with her, as she was with him.

  She said, ‘It is a lovely day, Richard.’

  He caressed her hair, which hung loosely over her bare shoulders.

  He smiled, searching her face. ‘You lie. It is an awful day!’

  ‘I know.’

  He raised himself on one elbow and looked at the clock, but said nothing.

  There was no need. She thought of their walks by the sea, following a receding tide, their footmarks spread in the sand like molten silver. Holding this day at bay. They had visited his sister, and had found her strangely calm, able and willing to talk about her late husband, Lewis, ‘the King of Cornwall’.

  She had been very definite about one thing. ‘I’ll not let the estate go. The people always depended on Lewis. He’d expect it of me.’ She had glanced around the huge, empty house, and had said, ‘He’s still here, you know.’

  She realised that she had taken his hand. ‘I’m sorry, Richard … it becomes more difficult to accept.’

  They heard the discreet clatter of dishes, the soft murmur of voices beyond the door.

  ‘Not for so long this time, Kate.’

  She smiled, and wondered how it was possible. ‘I shall come to Malta and torment you. Remember what Prinny said about that?’

  Grace
Ferguson, the housekeeper, nodded to the maid. ‘Give a knock.’ She smiled. ‘Sounds all right.’

  She thought of the barely touched meal of the previous night, the unopened champagne, which always seemed to take their fancy for some reason. But you could never be sure, especially with her ladyship. She had never forgotten when her husband had told her about that terrible day when the girl Zenoria had jumped to her death from Trystan’s Leap. He had described how Lady Catherine had lifted the slight, broken body and held her like a child while she had opened her clothing to find the one mark which would identify her. Where a whip had laid open her back; the mark of Satan, she had called it….

  The maid came out and smiled. ‘Good as gold, ma’am. Nothin’ worries they much.’

  ‘You mind your manners, girl!’ She turned away. That’s all you know.

  Then she walked to a window and stared down at the yard. Young Matthew, as he was still called and probably always would be, was giving the carriage a wipe with his cloth. Heads would turn when they saw the Bolitho crest on the door; people would wave, but, like the maid, they would never understand.

  Another Bolitho was leaving the land. She remembered her own bitterness when Bryan had returned home after the Battle of the Saintes, with one arm gone. As she had nursed him over the months and watched him slowly restored to life, she had been almost grateful. He had lost an arm, but he was still her man, and he would never have to leave her again.

  Later, when she went downstairs, she saw that Sir Richard’s cocked hat lay beside his sword. Ready.

  She peered up at the nearest portrait, Rear-Admiral Denziel Bolitho. He had been the only other officer in the family to attain flag rank. He had been with Wolfe at Quebec, probably near to where Sir Richard and John Allday had last been, she thought. But it was not the face or the rank she noticed; it was the sword. The artist had even caught the light on it, exactly as it was falling now. The same old sword.

  For some reason, she shivered.

  John Allday watched the boy lead the pony and trap around the stable yard, and tried to come to terms with his feelings. All his life he had seemed to be waiting for ships, or coming back to this place from one vessel or another. In the past he had been able to face it squarely, hope for fair winds, and what Mister Herrick had always referred to as Lady Luck.