Sword of Honour

by Alexander Kent

  Tyacke seemed, again, to hesitate. ‘When we weigh tomorrow, will you miss England?’

  Bolitho looked at him steadily. Will I miss her, he meant. But he did not know how to ask, without overstepping the mark.

  ‘More than I would have believed possible, James.’ He watched him leave, taking his hat from Ozzard without even seeing him. Bolitho heard Allday in the adjoining cabin, and was suddenly grateful.

  It was like stumbling on to a secret, something so private that any wrong word could destroy it, and the man who carried it. The gown Tyacke had always carried in his sea chest, the one he had given Catherine to cover herself when Larne had plucked them from the ocean and the nearness of death. The woman ….

  After all this time.

  He stood up and walked to the stern windows, and then sat on the curved bench seat above the glistening water.

  It was just as well that Frobisher’s great anchor would show itself tomorrow.

  But the voice persisted. Don’t leave me.

  Bolitho heard Allday putting his shaving gear away and speaking quietly to Ozzard in the sleeping-cabin, and walked slowly to the sloping stern windows.

  Since the hands had been called, Frobisher had been alive with muffled sounds and occasional shouted commands. A ship preparing to sail was so familiar a sight in these waters that most people would take no notice, but in his heart he knew that this departure was different. There would be many ashore today to watch them leave. Wives, lovers, children, wondering when they would meet again. The sailor’s lot. They would be pondering on the man whose flag flew from Frobisher’s main; would he care enough for the many he commanded? Not an ordinary day for them. Or for me. The shave and the clean shirt were all part of it. He glanced at Ozzard’s tray. He could still taste the fine coffee Catherine had bought for him; he had even eaten breakfast, slices of fat pork, fried pale brown with biscuit crumbs. He knew Ozzard disapproved of this meal, considering it fit only for a lowly lieutenant or midshipman, when the admiral he served could demand what he liked. Neither of us will change now ….

  He leaned on the sill and stared at the bright water, crisscrossed by ranks of low, white crests. The wind had backed overnight, perhaps to the north-east. He had had little sleep, and not because of the ship’s unfamiliarity; he had overcome that sensation a long time ago. He had lain awake in his cot, half-listening to the ship’s sounds, her voices, as his father would have described them. Creaks and mutterings, as if from the keel itself, the occasional hiss of wind and spray against the side, the responding thrum of stays and shrouds.

  And once, when he had fallen asleep, he had found himself in a dream which had exploded into a nightmare. Catherine being carried away from him, her clothes torn from her, hands reaching out to touch her.

  After that he had unshuttered a lantern, and had read through the last batch of instructions from the First Lord; they were lengthy, diplomatic, but meaningless. Like most senior commands, responsibility would eventually rest on the shoulders of the officer in charge.

  It would be another reminder, if one were needed, of Napoleon’s overwhelming power and his successes, Spain and Portugal, Italy, and onward into Egypt. Marshal Murat’s crushing victory over the Egyptians at Aboukir had been the removal of the last obstacle. The gateway to India had lain open, and all Napoleon’s grandiose schemes appeared to have been forged into one unstoppable force, until Nelson had taken his ships into Aboukir Bay and had destroyed the French fleet.

  He glanced at some small boats passing astern, making heavy weather of it in the stiff breeze and choppy sea.

  The Battle of the Nile, they called it now. Something Tyacke would never forget, or be allowed to forget. He smiled at the sharpness of memory. Hyperion had been there, too. Today the peace was still to be settled amongst the victors. But there would always be the predators, just outside the firelight, seeking an easy prey: the aftermath of every battle.

  Allday entered the cabin, and said, ‘Lively up top, Sir Richard. This will mark out the boys from the men!’

  Bolitho turned to face him. He had not heard Allday leave to go on deck. A big, shambling figure, yet he could move like a fox when he wanted to. Ozzard was there too, his sharp eyes moving to the breakfast tray, the empty plate and coffee cup. And then, critically, to the coat, which he had already laid out for this occasion.

  Allday saw it and smiled privately, thinking how the people on deck would see the admiral. Not in the beautiful gold lace and gleaming buttons, but in the old, familiar sea-going coat which had even survived a battle or two. Like us, he thought grimly.

  Ozzard patted the coat into place, almost scowling at the tarnished epaulettes.

  Allday took the old sword down from its rack and turned it over in his hands. Yes, that was how they should see him. Not as the admiral, but as the man.

  The ship’s company would find it hard to get used to. Like the old Indom, when Sir Richard had made a point of speaking to the men on watch, the marines at their endless drills. He had heard him say to an officer once, ‘Remember their names. In many cases, it is all that they own.’

  The man.

  Bolitho tugged out his watch. Tyacke would be here very soon. The shouting and the thudding bare feet were silent now. The capstan was manned, the lieutenants at their stations, on the quarterdeck, at each mast, and right forward when the anchor came home.

  He thought of Avery, who had been much quieter than usual. Going over it, perhaps. Reliving what he had found, and what he had thrown away.

  He saw Ozzard glide to the screen doors; his keen hearing had detected Tyacke’s footsteps despite all the other noises.

  Tyacke entered, his hat tucked beneath one arm. There were fine droplets of spray on his coat, and Bolitho guessed he had been up and about since before the cooks had been called.

  ‘Ready to get under way, Sir Richard. Wind’s holding fresh an’ steady, nor’easterly. Once clear of St Helens, I’ve laid a course to weather the foreland. When we’ve got sea room I’ll come about and steer sou’west.’ He smiled briefly. ‘It’ll be a bit lively until then, but I shall be able to see what they can do.’

  No hesitation or uncertainty, despite a different ship, people he scarcely knew, and every glass in the fleet watching him, waiting for a mistake.

  ‘I’ll come up.’ The formality must wait a little longer. ‘Thank you, James. I know what it cost you.’

  Tyacke looked at him, perhaps remembering that other beginning. ‘The cost is shared this time, sir.’ As he turned to leave, he added, ‘Twelve hundred miles from Spithead to Gibraltar, our first landfall.’ He grinned. ‘They’ll have learned something of our standards by that time!’

  Bolitho touched the sword at his side, and turned to Allday. ‘What are your thoughts, old friend?’

  Allday glanced up at the skylight as the boatswain’s calls shrilled impatiently. Spithead Nightingales, the Jacks called them. They ruled your life.

  He replied slowly, ‘I’m a mite older, Sir Richard, but I feels the same.’ He glanced at the nearest empty gunport. ‘It’s going to be strange, never facing an enemy broadside again.’

  They went on deck, beneath the poop, and past the big double wheel where the helmsmen were already in position. Four of them: Tyacke was taking no chances.

  Despite the wind, it was warmer on deck than he had expected; he felt the new pitch sticking to his shoes as he crossed to the quarterdeck rail. From here to the beakhead there were men everywhere, with more already swarming aloft to the topsail yards. Aft by the mizzen mast, the marines were waiting in squads to man the braces and halliards. The old hands claimed it was because the mizzen’s sail plan was the simplest, and could mostly be handled from the deck, so that even a ‘bullock’ could manage it!

  Bolitho saw the quick glances, the word passing along the upper deck. Avery was standing by the opposite rail, hat tugged down over the greying hair which was part of the price of his service. Tyacke was speaking with the sailing master, Tregidgo, a straig
ht-backed man with an unsmiling, taciturn countenance. He was a Cornishman, and he had served in Frobisher for the four years since her capture, and under her two captains, Jefferson, whom Rhodes had casually dismissed – slipped his cable two years back, buried at sea, poor fellow – and Oliphant, who had left in such haste.

  Tyacke faced him and touched his hat. ‘Ready, Sir Richard.’

  Bolitho glanced up at his flag, streaming against an almost cloudless sky.

  ‘Carry on, Captain Tyacke.’

  Calls trilled and parties of men dashed below, where they were needed on the other capstan to add their weight to the straining cable. Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch a few passing boats. There were women in one of them, whores going to greet another new arrival at Spithead. It was, unofficially, common practice to allow prostitutes on board, if only to prevent men from desertion and the aftermath of punishment.

  ‘Anchor’s hove short, sir!’ That was Kellett, the first lieutenant. He was right up forward by the cathead where he could watch the lie of the cable as the heaving, straining men at the capstan bars hauled their ship to her anchor by muscle alone.

  Kellett came from an admiral’s family. Bolitho had seen him only once since he had come aboard, a young, serious-faced officer with deceptively mild eyes.

  ‘Stand by on the capstan!’

  ‘Loose the heads’ls!’

  Some confusion ensued, but there were trained hands well placed to assist or knock the offender into position.

  ‘Hands aloft, loose tops’ls!’

  The men were already poised to swarm out along the tapering yards. It was no place for anyone with a bad head for heights. He smiled at himself.

  Clank – clank – clank. The pawls on the capstan were slowing; he imagined the great anchor moving below the ship’s shadow, a last grip upon the land.

  A fifer and a fiddler broke into a tune, and across the backs of crouching seamen and those at the braces with their eyes lifted to the yards, Bolitho saw Allday watching him, as if nothing stood between them.

  So that was what he had been doing.

  Bolitho lifted one hand, and he saw a midshipman turn to stare at him. But he saw only Allday, with the shantyman’s reedy voice rising even above the squeal of blocks to remind him. To bring it all back once more.

  There was a girl in Portsmouth Town…. Heave, my bullies, heave!

  He touched his eye. Portsmouth Lass. Only Allday and perhaps one other would have thought of it.

  ‘Anchor’s aweigh, sir!’

  Frobisher was already swinging round, leaning above her own reflection as the anchor was hoisted up and catted home.

  He beckoned to Avery. ‘Walk with me, George.’

  While men bustled past them and cordage slithered along the deck like snakes, they walked together, as they had before when the guns had flamed and thundered all around them.

  ‘Is there anything I can do, Sir Richard?’

  Bolitho shook his head.

  How could he explain, to Avery, of all people, that he could not bear to watch the land slide away, and to be alone with his thoughts. And his sense of loss.

  Instead, he looked up at his flag, high and clean above the deck.

  The last command. He acknowledged it as if he had spoken aloud. Then so be it.

  6

  Know Your Enemy

  LIEUTENANT GEORGE AVERY felt the warmth of the noon sun across his shoulders, and walked to the quarterdeck nettings to obtain a better view of the Rock. There were vessels of every description anchored, to take on stores or to await new orders, and around and amongst them boats under sail or oars bustled in endless activity. The towering mass of Gibraltar dwarfed them all, watchful, eternal, a guardian of the gateway to the Mediterranean.

  Frobisher’s slow approach, the crash and echo of gun salutes, and the brisk exchange of signals were part of the tradition, and once anchored, the ship’s company were soon hurrying to other duties, lowering boats and spreading awnings. As during the passage out from England, they were left little time to ponder on their first landfall.

  Ten days since the Isle of Wight had vanished astern, not a fast passage by any means, but deliberately planned to exercise the whole company, sails, guns, lowering and recovering boats, until Captain Tyacke was satisfied. If satisfied he was. Hate him, curse him, it made no difference, because every one from seasoned seaman to ship’s boy knew that Tyacke never spared himself, nor shied away from anything he demanded of others.

  On occasion, he had ordered lieutenants and senior warrant officers to stand down, to be replaced by subordinates, or anyone Tyacke thought should discover the true responsibility of his rank or station. They had skirted Brest and the French coast and entered the Bay of Biscay, unpredictable as ever despite the shades of spring, passing close even to Lorient, where Frobisher had been launched.

  Then the coast of Portugal, like dark blue smoke in the morning light; into bright sunshine, where, although driven hard, Avery had sensed a change in the company, had seen men pause to grin at one another. To respond.

  In the wardroom he had seen it and heard it, too. But as the flag lieutenant he was never part of any company, and that suited him. Until they knew him better, other officers might imagine that he was the admiral’s ear, Tyacke’s too, ready to pass on their more outspoken opinions. These were divided on Tyacke’s ruthless insistence upon drills. Some protested that it was pointless, as there was little likelihood now of action. Others took the view that, as flagship, it was a matter of pride.

  Avery had noticed that Kellett, the deceptively mild-mannered first lieutenant, was rarely drawn into these heated discussions. Only once, he had turned suddenly on a junior lieutenant and had said, ‘I fully realise that you likely speak more out of drink than conviction, Mr Wodehouse, but do so again in my presence and I’ll take you aft myself!’ It had been quietly said, but the wretched Wodehouse had cringed as if he had just received a torrent of obscenities.

  Avery realised that one of the midshipmen was waiting to catch his eye.

  ‘Yes, Mr Wilmot?’

  ‘Signal from Halcyon, sir. Have despatches on board.’ He pointed helpfully over the nettings. ‘Yonder, sir. Halcyon, twenty-eight, Captain Christie.’

  ‘Very well.’ Avery smiled. ‘That was quickly done. I shall inform the captain.’ He saw the youth glance across at the lithe frigate. She was small, by modern standards, but still the dream of most young officers. Maybe even this midshipman, with one foot on the bottom rung.

  Tyacke strode across the deck, his head turned to give some instructions to a master’s mate.

  He saw Avery, and said, ‘Halcyon, eh? Left Portsmouth three days after us. She’ll be joining Sir Richard’s command at Malta.’ He glanced at the midshipman. ‘Make to Halcyon. Deliver despatches on board.’

  Avery watched the midshipman scurry away to his signals party, where the flags were all ready to bend on to the halliards.

  ‘Mr Midshipman Wilmot is a brighter one than some. Didn’t wait to be told.’

  But Avery had seen the midshipman drop his eyes from Tyacke’s face. How could he ever come to terms with it?

  Tyacke turned as the flags shot up to the yard and broke to the offshore breeze. ‘We might hear some news.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Or it may be a recall!’

  Avery said, ‘Do you know Malta well, sir?’

  Tyacke said, ‘Look at those damned boats!’ His arm shot out and he called, ‘Mr Pennington? You are the officer-of-the-watch, I assume?’

  The lieutenant swallowed hard. ‘I saw the boats, sir.’

  ‘Well, tell them to stand away. I’ll not have the flagship trading with scum like that! I don’t care what they’re trying to sell!’ He turned away. ‘Drop a round shot through the first one that tries to come alongside!’

  Avery sighed. Tyacke would not be drawn about the past. We make a fine pair.

  A seaman who was intently polishing the spokes of the big double wheel glanced across at him and said, ‘The admir
al’s comin’ up, sir.’

  Pleased, Avery acknowledged it. It was another beginning.

  Bolitho walked over to join him. ‘I have just heard about Halcyon.’ He shaded his eyes and stared across the busy anchorage. ‘Which is she?’

  Avery pointed her out. He thought Bolitho looked rested and untroubled, although he knew he had been working with Yovell almost every day since they had left Spithead. Instructions, details of ships and their captains, a thousand things which Avery could only guess at.

  He had seen him pacing the deck at night under the stars, or standing with his open shirt rippling in the wind when the hands were turned up to take in a reef, or to change tack on the run south. Thinking of his Catherine, perhaps. Holding on, while the leagues rolled away from Frobisher’s great rudder.

  Perhaps he did not need sleep like other men. Or was it denied him?

  ‘Strange to be here.’ Bolitho touched his eye and massaged it slowly. ‘I was out here after the revolution, when the royalists hoped to raise a counter-action at Toulon. It was doomed from the conception, George. So much waste.’

  He stared across at the opposite side: the coast of Spain, almost swallowed in heat-haze. Another memory. Algeciras. He could remember someone pointing to it and saying, ‘Look. Yonder lies the enemy.’ But the face eluded him.

  Avery wanted to speak, but after Tyacke’s abruptness he was afraid to break the moment, which like all the others had become a part of his life. A part of him.

  He asked, ‘You will know what to expect, sir?’

  Bolitho did not seem to hear. ‘All that time ago, George. But later when I was here as flag captain in Euryalus, I can see it so clearly. The old Navarra being attacked by Barbary pirates. People smile when you mention them now, but they’re as dangerous as they ever were. They’ll not be tamed simply because we say so.’

  ‘Navarra, sir? What was she?’

  Bolitho looked at him. ‘Just an old ship. She had no place in any line of battle. No prize court would have parted with a handful of gold for her.’ He smiled, as if he was reaching out. ‘Catherine was on board that ship with her husband. Where we met. Where we found and lost one another.’ He paused. ‘Until Antigua.’