Sword of Honour

by Alexander Kent

  Avery tried to imagine it, Catherine as she must have been; like Golden Plover, which Tyacke had described in one of these rare moments of intimacy.

  Bolitho looked round as a seaman called, ‘Boat’s cast off from Halcyon, sir!’ Then he said, ‘I’ve seen so many victories and failures in this sea, but nothing could outshine that meeting.’

  Tyacke appeared, and said sharply, ‘If you’re mistaken, Mr Pennington ….’

  The second lieutenant stood firm. ‘No, sir, the boat carries Halcyon’s captain!’

  Tyacke glared at him. ‘Then man the side, if you please.’ He saw Bolitho and touched his hat. ‘From England, sir. Got here ahead of us.’ Then he relaxed slightly. ‘Hardly surprising!’

  Avery watched them. From England. Maybe new orders for Bolitho. And letters? It was too soon. He thought of Allday; he might want one written for him before they weighed.

  The marines fell into two ranks at the entry port, and Tyacke waited to greet the visitor. Routine.

  The calls trilled, the salutes were exchanged, hats raised to the quarterdeck, the flag.

  Captain Christie said, ‘Despatches, sir, and some personal mail.’ He was a tall, serious-faced officer, probably in his late twenties, his gleaming epaulettes marking him out as a post-captain. War or no war, he had been posted, and he had his own ship.

  Bolitho said, ‘Come aft and take a glass.’

  Avery followed them, knowing that the young captain had been unprepared for this invitation from the admiral.

  They all sat down in the spacious cabin, and Ozzard appeared silently with his tray.

  Christie said, ‘It is an honour to be serving under your flag, Sir Richard. In these uncertain times one cannot be sure what ….’

  He turned as Tyacke said quietly, ‘Do I know you, sir?’

  Christie took a goblet and almost spilled the wine. But his eyes were level enough.

  ‘I know you, sir.’

  Bolitho knew it was difficult for some reason, as difficult as it was important.

  Christie said, ‘Majestic, sir.’

  Just the name. The ship where it had happened. A ghost from the past.

  Tyacke did not speak but studied Christie, trying to put the pieces together. As he had so many times, until it had almost driven him insane.

  Christie said to Bolitho, ‘I was a midshipman in Majestic, Sir Richard. My first ship, and I had barely been aboard her for more than a couple of months.’ He looked around, as if searching for something. ‘When Lord Nelson led us to Aboukir Bay.’ He hesitated. ‘To the Nile.’

  Tyacke said slowly, ‘I remember you.’

  Christie continued, ‘We were amongst the French fleet in no time at all, and were locked with the big eighty-gun liner, Tonnant. Broadside after broadside.’ His voice was contained and unemotional, which made his description all the more vivid and terrible. ‘Dead and dying lay everywhere. I was too junior to have a proper station and I was kept running messages from the quarterdeck to the guns.’ He stared at the misted goblet. ‘Our captain was killed, people I knew were being torn to pieces, calling for help when there was none to be given. I – I almost broke that day. I was carrying a message to the lower gundeck, and I was terrified that the ship would be blown apart before I could find somewhere to hide. All the training meant nothing. I wanted to hide. To escape.’ Again, he hesitated. ‘And then ….’

  Outside, Avery could hear another boat being ordered to stand away, someone laughing. But only this was real.

  Christie said, ‘The lieutenant in charge of the forrard division of guns called to me, Sir Richard. He put his hand on my shoulder and shook me back and forth until I was calm again.’

  Avery saw Tyacke nod, his blue eyes distant, unseeing.

  ‘He said to me, “Walk, boy. Walk. To these poor devils you are a King’s officer, but today you are the captain’s voice, so use it clearly and show them what you can do.”’

  Avery thought of the midshipman called Wilmot. How Christie must have been.

  Christie said, ‘You sent me aft. Then the French broadside found us again. But for you I would have died with all the others. I told my father about it, and he tried to write to you. I wrote to you myself, but heard nothing.’ He looked directly at Bolitho. ‘It is wrong of me to speak of things so personal, but they have always meant so much to me, ever since that day. It made me a man, and I hope a better one.’

  He stood up and said, ‘I shall return to my ship now, Sir Richard. It has been an honour.’ He raised his hand as Tyacke made to follow. ‘No, sir, I shall see myself over the side.’ Then he smiled. Relief, gratitude, surprise, it was all there. ‘In the fleet they always spoke of The Happy Few. Now I understand.’

  Behind the pantry hatch Allday put down his rum, his ‘wet’, and considered what he had heard.

  In the navy you had to expect it. Faces from the past, like old wounds, were not easily forgotten. Always the pain. But they were safe now. And yet, why was he so uneasy? He wanted to ask Lieutenant Avery to write a letter to Unis for him. But not about this. It was something he could not talk about through another man’s pen.

  Ozzard came back, frowning.

  Allday tried to shrug it off. ‘Did I ever tell you about the time when me an’ Sir Richard was fighting them Barbary pirates, Tom?’

  ‘Yes.’ He relented slightly, and Allday thought he had felt it, too. ‘But spin it again, if you like.’

  ‘The sea’s face is fair enough today.’

  The two women stood side by side by the old stile at the beginning of the cliff path and looked out across Falmouth Bay. The surface of the sea was unbroken, but heaving gently in the sunlight, as if it were breathing.

  Catherine glanced at her companion, Richard’s youngest sister, Nancy. She was looking better than expected. In life, her husband Lewis had been too large to ignore; in death, perhaps his strength was still her support.

  Catherine ran her palm over the stile, the step and beams polished by countless hands and feet. How many had paused there to rest and reflect, as she had often done? She looked along the winding cliff path, hardly used nowadays. She rarely walked there, and certainly never alone, not since Zenoria’s fall from Trystan’s Leap.

  Nancy said gently, ‘Never fear, you’ll have a letter soon from him.’

  ‘I know. He never forgets. It is like hearing his voice.’ She brushed some hair from her eyes. ‘Tell me, Nancy. How are your affairs progressing?’

  Nancy smiled at the change of subject. This tall, beautiful woman had become dear to her, had helped her through the grief of Lewis’s final days and immediately after his death. A woman known and admired, envied and hated, who, with her brother, had defied every convention to proclaim their love. The hero and his lady. Lewis, too, had always admired her, and had made no secret of it. He had always had an eye for women. She stopped her thoughts, like closing a door.

  ‘The lawyers from London are still at the house. Lewis’s affairs were in good order, despite what I may say were his occasional extravagances. They will arrange for someone to manage the estate, at least until the children become involved.’ She shook her head. ‘Children. Hardly that any more!’

  They turned away from the stile. Catherine could remember him holding her beside it, the need of one for the other, after a reunion, or before another separation.

  She said, ‘Two weeks since he left. It will be three soon. I try to see his ship in my mind, where she is, what they may be doing.’ She shrugged. ‘The Mediterranean … where we first met. Did you know that, Nancy?’

  She shook her head. ‘Only that you lost one another soon afterwards. That he did tell me.’ She smiled, as though remembering. ‘To think what he has become, in the navy, and to this country, and he remains uncertain of himself in many ways.’ She added with sudden emphasis, ‘I’ll be thankful when he comes home.’ She touched Catherine’s arm. ‘And stays here.’

  They turned towards the gentle slope which led down to the old grey house and its at
tendant cottages, so that the headland seemed to screen them from the murmur of the sea, its constant presence.

  It would seem different to Nancy, daughter of a sailor, from a family of sailors, sister of Falmouth’s most famous son and England’s naval hero. Born and raised here with these people of the sea around her, the courageous fishermen who ventured out in all weathers to supply the tables of manor house and cottage alike. The coasters and the famous Falmouth packet ships, who sailed with the tide in peace or war. Nancy had grown up with them and their tradition.

  She felt Nancy hesitate as she saw the carriage waiting in the stable yard. Perhaps their meeting and walk together had made her forget, if only for a moment. But now she would be driven back to that huge house with its folly, another of Lewis’s little indulgences.

  How empty it must seem now. I count the days and weeks. But Nancy will never have even a letter to sustain her.

  Nancy said, ‘You have a visitor.’

  Catherine stared past the carriage, aware of her painful heartbeat. There was no other vehicle, no horse to denote some courier, or messenger from Plymouth. But she could see somebody inside the estate office, in dark clothing, his back towards her, and she heard Ferguson’s sudden laugh. Perhaps he had sensed her return and was trying to reassure her. What would she do without him and without Grace? The link with Bolitho’s earlier life, which she could never share.

  Nancy said, ‘I’ll wait a moment. Just to be sure.’

  Her protective caution made Catherine grip her arm.

  ‘I am always safe, dear Nancy!’

  Then, as she walked into the yard, the man with Ferguson turned and faced her. Uncertain, anxious, but, as ever, determined.

  She quickened her pace. ‘Rear-Admiral Herrick! I had no idea you were in Cornwall, or in England, for that matter. I am pleased to see you.’ She half turned, ashamed that she had offered her right hand when Herrick’s pinned-up sleeve should have reminded her. She said, ‘This is Lady Roxby, Richard’s sister.’

  Herrick bowed stiffly. ‘We met but briefly, ma’am. Some years ago.’

  Nancy smiled at him. ‘We met seldom, but through my brother you have always been a part of us.’

  She allowed her coachman to help her into the carriage. ‘Please call and see me again, Catherine. Soon.’ She glanced briefly at Herrick. Like an unspoken question.

  Catherine took Herrick into the house. Someone she should know so well, and yet he was still a stranger.

  ‘Please be seated, and I shall fetch you something cool. Some wine, perhaps?’

  He sat down carefully and looked around the room. ‘Some ginger beer if you have it, my lady. Or cider.’

  She regarded him steadily. ‘No titles today. I am Catherine – let it be so.’

  Grace Ferguson peered in at them. ‘Why, ’tis Rear-Admiral Herrick! I scarce recognised you without your fine uniform!’

  Catherine turned. She herself had not truly noticed. Perhaps it had been the surprise, or relief that he was not some courier bearing the news she dreaded.

  Herrick said awkwardly, ‘I am still of that rank, in name, in any case.’ He waited for the housekeeper to leave them, and added, ‘I am sent to Cornwall by their lordships.’

  She watched him, his struggle to share something with her. He was not attempting to be secretive or superior, like other men she had known; he was simply unused to confiding his thoughts to any one. Perhaps only with his beloved wife Dulcie had he ever been able to do so.

  His blue eyes were as clear as ever, but his hair was completely grey, and there were sharp lines at the corners of his mouth which deepened, she thought with pain, when he sat, or, as now, when he leaned forward to accept the proffered glass. Richard had told her some of it, how Herrick had been captured and had had his hand savagely smashed, to destroy forever his ability to ‘lift a sword for the King’. When he had been rescued, they had discovered that the wound had already succumbed to gangrene. The ship’s surgeon had taken off his arm.

  Most of all she remembered Bolitho’s pride, his love for this stubborn, unyielding, courageous man. She sat opposite him and watched him drink the ginger beer.

  She said, ‘Richard is at sea.’

  He nodded. ‘I know, my … Catherine. I heard something of it. I guessed the rest.’

  She waited. If she spoke now, Herrick would lose his sudden confidence. Or perhaps it was trust.

  ‘I will never get another sea appointment. I did think I would be put out to grass, especially after the Reaper affair.’ He looked around again. ‘I have always remembered this place, and this room. I walked up from the town just now, as I did all those years ago. I was here when Richard’s father was still alive, when he gave him the old sword. Over yonder, by the library door. And again, when we came back from the Indies … Richard’s father was dead by then.’

  She turned involuntarily as if she would see them, saw only Captain James Bolitho’s unsmiling portrait. He, too, had lost an arm.

  ‘I have been in Plymouth. I am appointed to the revenue service here.’ He smiled briefly, and she saw him as he must once have been. ‘So dress uniform is hardly appropriate for such a popular and respected commission.’

  She thought of Nancy again; she had often mentioned the folklore of local smugglers, the ‘gentlemen’, as Tom the coastguard had called them. Richard had always spoken harshly of them, and of their brutal trade.

  ‘Will it suit you, Thomas?’

  She saw him flinch at the use of his name, as she had known he would.

  ‘I needed to do something. The sea is my life. Unlike Richard, I have nothing else now.’ He leaned forward and added, ‘There is a lot to be done. New boats – there are four cutters building at Plymouth, and I must find men who can be trusted to perform what is sometimes a dangerous duty. The country is desperate for revenue, and free trade in the dark of night cannot be allowed to flourish unchecked.’

  It was there, as Richard had described it to her. The grasp, the enthusiasm; once Herrick established a grip on something, he would never let go.

  ‘Where are you staying, Thomas? There is plenty of room here, if you wish ….’

  He put down his glass. ‘No, I am settled at the inn. It is easier for the coach. Besides ….’

  She nodded, careful not to smile. ‘Besides, Thomas. What a span that word must carry.’

  Herrick studied her gravely. ‘I shall be back and forth. If you need me, I will be easy to find.’ He stood slowly, and she sensed the pain of the amputation, like so many she had seen in the streets.

  ‘Will you not stay a while, Thomas?’

  He glanced through to the library, as if to reassure himself. ‘Another time, I would be honoured. Proud.’ He turned away, as if unable to speak otherwise. ‘When I lost Dulcie I was blind to everything, to that which I owed Richard, and above all else to you, for staying with her when she was beyond aid.’ Then he faced her again, his eyes very clear. ‘Blind. But not any more. You risked everything for Dulcie, and so for me. I shall not lose my way in self-pity again.’

  He took her hand and kissed it with great care, and without pretence.

  He took his hat from one of the servant girls and said, almost abruptly, ‘You met Lord Rhodes, I believe?’

  She had her hand to her breast without knowing it. She nodded. Herrick turned his hat over in his own, strong hand. Like Ferguson, he had become used to it, if ever any man could.

  ‘A close friend of Hamett-Parker.’ His mouth hardened. ‘The president at my court martial.’

  She followed him out into the sunlight, and he added, ‘I do not trust that man. Not one inch.’ Then he took her hand in his again, and smiled. ‘But Richard once taught me well enough. Know your enemy, he said. But never reveal that knowledge!’

  She watched him stride out along the track, stooped, troubled by his injury more than he would allow anyone to guess, and, out of uniform, almost shabby.

  She raised her hand as he turned to look back. But at that moment, he
was a giant.

  James Tyacke paused outside the chart room to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and then made his way beneath the poop to the quarterdeck. The ship was still strange to him, and any vessel under cover of darkness was always a threat to the unwary.

  He looked up at the sky beyond the topsails, at the millions of faint stars from horizon to horizon, and the merest sliver of a moon which showed itself only occasionally on the restless water.

  He saw the dark shapes of the watch on deck, the third lieutenant, Tollemache, who was officer-of-the-watch, conferring quietly with another shadow, a master’s mate.

  He moved to the compass box and glanced at the card: south-east-by-east, the ship moving easily but slowly under reduced canvas. According to the chart, they were some fifty miles to the south-west of the Sicilian coast. To any landsman this would seem like an ocean, an endless, open waste, but Tyacke could feel the difference, and smell it. The nearness of land, with the shores of Africa somewhere across the opposite beam. The Mediterranean was like no other sea, and always the land seemed ready to surprise or ensnare you.

  Tomorrow they would sight Malta: the end of the passage. It was still too early to judge if his exercise and drills had left their mark on the ship’s company. The officers remained wary of him, like Tollemache, who was standing the middle watch only a few feet away. Uneasy, perhaps, at his captain’s presence, which he might interpret as a lack of trust in his ability.

  Three weeks since they had weighed anchor at Spithead. Faces, names, pride and resentment. Typical enough in any company with a new captain, and an admiral’s flag at the masthead.

  His thoughts had repeatedly returned to Halcyon’s captain, Christie, the way this sea and the past kept returning. When he had taken command of Indomitable there had been another such recurrence, in the person of a one-legged ship’s cook. The very day he had read himself in, the man, like a spectre, had brought it all back. Majestic, and Christie coming out with it, despite Bolitho’s presence. And the cook, who as a young seaman in Tyacke’s division had been smashed down by the same broadside which had left Tyacke for dead.