Sword of Honour

by Alexander Kent

  Would it never leave him? Sometimes, like tonight, it haunted him, so that he was unable to sleep.

  He moved to the quarterdeck rail and saw the helmsman’s eyes in the dim compass light as he turned to observe him.

  Christie, at least, had gained something from it. It made me a man. Simple, genuine sincerity. So why not me?

  He glanced around again as two seamen paused to take the slack out of some halliards before making them fast again.

  Did this ship have any memories? Perhaps she was not old enough. It was difficult to imagine French voices and orders being uttered where his own men now stood.

  A midshipman was writing on his slate, pencil squeaking, recording something for the log; Tyacke could see his white patches clearly in the darkness. Like Christie must have been ….

  He walked impatiently to the empty nettings, angry with himself, with what he must regard as a weakness. It was none of those things which defied him to sleep, which put an edge to his voice when he had known he was asking, expecting, too much from people who had been allowed to run down, as Allday would have put it.

  He had sworn to himself that it was over and done with. His anguish, his shame and his resentment had been like a defence. He had even told himself that, once out of England, it would fall back into place, into the mist of time and memory.

  But it had not gone away, and his practical mind could not accept it.

  He turned from the nettings and said, ‘I’ve made a note in the log, Mr Tollemache. When the morning watch is aft, you can set the forecourse. We may sight local shipping at first light, and I shall want enough agility to avoid it.’

  He felt the lieutenant staring after him as he made his way to the poop. Outside his cabin he looked aft to where the sentry stood in a pool of light, as if he had never moved. There was a faint glow beneath the screen door. Could Bolitho not sleep, either?

  With his cabin door closed behind him, he unshuttered the lanterns and looked at the cot beyond the screen, and then at the cupboard where he kept his brandy, one of the bottles which Catherine Somervell had sent aboard for him, as she had before in Indomitable. Who else would have thought of it? Would have cared?

  Eventually he sat down, his head in his hands, his ears only half-aware of the shipboard sounds, the unending chorus in any living vessel.

  Then he straightened his back and pulled some writing paper from a drawer. Surprisingly he felt quite calm, unnervingly so. Like the moment of decision, before going into battle, or at the first sight of the enemy’s masts and sails spanning the horizon. An awareness, simply because there was no choice, perhaps never had been.

  How long he sat there, the pen gripped in his hand, he could not remember.

  And then, as if driven by another force, he began to write.

  Dear Marion ….

  When Lieutenant Kellett strode aft to muster the morning watch, Tyacke was still writing.

  Then, at dawn, he went on deck and examined the log. He was the captain again.

  Eight bells had just chimed from the forecastle belfry when Richard Bolitho came on deck, and crossed to the weather side while Frobisher settled down on the final leg of her approach. His mouth was still tingling to the coffee Ozzard had prepared while Allday had been shaving him. Something which had become a routine, as much a part of the ship’s own procedure.

  He shaded his eyes and stared along the length of the upper deck. Malta seemed so small, so insignificant on any chart, and yet from here it reached out on either bow as if snared in the tarred shrouds and standing rigging, a sprawling mass of sandstone. They were still too far away to distinguish houses and fortifications, or the batteries which guarded the anchorage, and made Malta the most formidable obstacle to any hostile fleet or squadron which might attempt to slip through the strait between Sicily and the coast of North Africa.

  This was an island fought over, occupied and reoccupied, it was said as far back as 800 BC, when the Phoenicians had arrived. Sicilians, Arabs, all had left their mark upon architecture, religion and trade.

  He felt a trickle of sweat run down his spine; his fresh shirt would be like a rag within the hour, and he envied the bare-backed seamen, skins already sunburned, as they dashed up and down the ratlines in response to the shouted orders from the quarterdeck.

  Some of the unemployed men stared at passing craft, brightly coloured fishing boats with bat-like sails. Most of them had an eye painted on the bow, the eye of Osiris, believed to enable the boat to see where it was going and so avoid danger. A few of the occupants waved as the black and buff seventy-four passed, but not many. Men-of-war, large and small, had become commonplace to these people throughout a war they had never truly understood.

  Bolitho moved slightly into the shade of the mizzen topsail, and winced as a reflected shaft of sunlight pricked his injured eye. He saw Tyacke speaking to Tregidgo, the sailing master. They were probably satisfied with their calculations, and their arrival at the estimated time. The master was competent, Tyacke had told him, an old hand, four years in Frobisher and ten as a master before that. Tyacke had also said that he was not an easy man to know.

  Bolitho had spoken to him only once, a fellow Cornishman, but with entirely different beginnings. Tregidgo had been the first of his family to go to sea; the others were all tin miners, Cousin Jacks, as they were called in Cornwall. He had not waited to be taken by a press gang, but had walked into Redruth and volunteered. It must have been a hard climb to his present rank, Bolitho thought.

  He saw Allday moving around the boat tier, his face set in a frown of concentration. The barge had been painted green at his instruction, but it was impossible to know if Allday was pleased with it.

  Lieutenant Avery joined him. ‘My first visit here, sir.’

  Bolitho said, ‘I doubt if you’ll find much time to explore.’

  They looked up as more men clambered out along the topsail yards, like monkeys against the pale sky.

  Bolitho had seen the date in the ship’s log: the sixth of June, 1814. Adam’s birthday. He thought of the war he had left behind in those disputed American waters, the risks and dangers to Adam; afraid that his despair and bitterness at Zenoria’s death might make him reckless, and too eager for a fight with the enemy which had destroyed the only other thing he had loved, the frigate Anemone. He knew what it was like, how grief could blunt even the most experienced captain’s judgement; he had suffered it himself, at a time when he believed he had nothing to live for. A death wish, someone had called it.

  If only Adam were here. Another in his position would use his influence as admiral to arrange such a transfer, but it would be seen as favouritism, and Adam would decline for that very reason.

  Tyacke said, ‘Take in your courses, Mr Kellett, and have the marines mustered aft.’

  He never seemed to raise his voice, but they were coming to know their captain, and aspire to his standards, even if they could not understand why he drove himself so hard.

  Allday had come aft, but was careful to keep his distance. Thinking, perhaps, of the child who would be even more grown up when he eventually reached home again.

  Bolitho bit his lip. June. His own daughter, Elizabeth, would be twelve years old this month.

  I do not know her.

  More shouted commands, and the way going off the ship as she moved steadily towards the land and the gleaming expanse of anchorage. The gunner was on deck speaking with Gage, the fourth lieutenant, making sure that each gun would fire exactly on time when the salutes began. A few men looked towards the quarterdeck where the admiral and his aide stood side by side, apparently beyond the reach of doubt, or any ordinary concerns.

  Bolitho smiled to himself, and Avery saw the smile and found comfort in it, without knowing why.

  There was a Spanish frigate anchored nearby, some of her company mustered on deck to dip her ensign in respect as the ship with the admiral’s flag moved abeam.

  Bolitho tried to accept it. They were enemies no longer.

/>   He thought of Catherine’s words, when they had first met. It was as though she had just spoken them aloud.

  Men are made for war, and you are no exception.

  But it was not a reminder. It was a warning.

  7

  No Choice at All

  ADAM BOLITHO STOOD by the entrance of Valkyrie’s great cabin and watched in silence as Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen strode to the stern windows, his hair almost brushing the deckhead beams. It was impossible to know what he was thinking, but Adam sensed that he no longer regarded this as his flagship.

  Valkyrie had anchored at Halifax in the early morning, and with scarcely a word Captain Henry Deighton had gone ashore to report to Keen. It had not been an easy passage, either to the Bermudas or on the return. Deighton had questioned Adam relentlessly about almost everything, from the various patrol areas to recognition signals; Adam had expected that, after their bad beginning. Deighton had hardly spoken to any of the officers, and had confined himself to this, Keen’s cabin, for his meals and to write endless reports, for whose benefit was still unclear.

  Keen looked well, he thought, his fair hair almost white against his tanned features. He showed no sign of strain, and Adam suddenly realised what had changed. Here, in Valkyrie, he had become a stranger.

  Keen said, ‘Much has happened in your absence, Adam. I hear from Captain Deighton that you were most thorough, by the way.’

  ‘It was somewhat different from blockade duty, I imagine, sir.’

  Keen glanced at him curiously. ‘You disliked him?’

  ‘I have served better men, sir. In my opinion.’

  Keen nodded. ‘Honesty is what I would expect from you. As my flag captain, and as my friend.’ He moved to the windows again and watched several boats pulling past the stern. ‘Hard to remember all the snow and ice.’ He seemed to come to a decision, visibly, like some physical effort.

  ‘I have to tell you now that Deighton’s promotion to commodore has been confirmed. I gave him his commission this morning when he came ashore.’ He swung round, his eyes in shadow. ‘I shall be leaving soon for England. As my flag captain, you are of course entitled to come with me.’ He hesitated. ‘Although with matters as they are in England I cannot make you the promise of a new command. It may take time.’

  Adam tensed, his mind prepared, like waiting for the first shot in a battle. Or in a duel.

  Keen said, ‘Great matters are afoot. You will know soon enough, but I can assure you that Valkyrie will be in the thick of it. A small but experienced inshore squadron will be needed to defend some of those soldiers you have escorted of late. I should think the Bermudas might well sink under their combined weight!’

  Adam said quietly, ‘And Commodore Deighton, sir?’

  ‘He will be in command of the squadron. Four frigates, including yours.’

  Adam felt his jaw tighten. Mine. Keen had already decided. It was no choice at all. With Urquhart promoted and gone to command the redeemed Reaper, who of similar experience did Valkyrie have in her company? Dyer, the first lieutenant, was competent and reliable, when he was told exactly what to do. Two other lieutenants had been midshipmen only months ago. The sailing master was a fine seaman and navigator, but sometimes he could barely draw breath because of his wounds, although he would fall dead rather than admit it. And there was a drunken surgeon, George Minchin, who had been serving with Sir Richard Bolitho when Hyperion had gone down.

  Keen knew him better than he realised. No captain would quit his command when his ship was on the eve of something dangerous, where skill and experience would count more than anything.

  Keen said, ‘Another captain could be found for Valkyrie. But Commodore Deighton is new amongst us. The burden of his responsibility will be great enough.’

  No choice at all. ‘You mentioned the army, sir?’

  Keen plucked at something on his coat. ‘An attack on American soil. It is all I can say.’

  Adam said flatly, ‘I shall stay, sir.’

  He sensed that Keen had been prepared for any decision, but he could not conceal his relief.

  ‘Your presence, your name alone, will make all the difference. And, of course, I shall be following your exploits as closely as I can.’

  England. The admiral’s house at Plymouth, where he had walked with Zenoria, so careful to remain in sight of the other guests. The last time he had seen her.

  Keen said suddenly, ‘My proposal of marriage was accepted, Adam. I wish you could have been here when it was announced.’

  Adam licked his lips. ‘Congratulations, sir. I would say as much to Miss St Clair, as well.’

  Keen opened a drawer and closed it again. ‘She is on passage to England with her father at this moment. Yes, I wish you had been here.’

  Adam wondered if she had told him what he had said about Zenoria, that his absence had been planned.

  He looked at Keen’s open features. She had told him nothing.

  The first lieutenant had appeared in the screen doorway.

  ‘The boat is returning, sir.’ He spoke to his captain, but his eyes were on the rear-admiral.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Dyer.’

  Keen glanced around the cabin, remembering perhaps the long days at sea, the boredom of routine, and the sudden fury of danger and battle. ‘There is nothing of mine here.’

  As the lieutenant’s footsteps faded away, Keen said, ‘Have the ship fully provisioned, Adam.’ He hesitated. ‘Be patient with him. He is an experienced officer, but he is not like us.’ He tried to smile, but it evaded him. ‘Not like you.’

  They went out into the sunshine, and Keen turned once more to look at the watching seamen and marines.

  He said simply, ‘I shall miss you.’

  Adam removed his hat, and the Royal Marine guard slapped their muskets and bayonets into a salute.

  Who did he mean? Me? The ship? The assembled hands would mean little to him; some he would already have forgotten.

  Perhaps he was bidding farewell to this life, and exchanging it for higher authority, promotion too, where Adam would be the intruder.

  Dyer dismissed the side party and joined him to watch Keen’s boat pulling away.

  ‘May I ask something, sir?’

  Adam turned to him, surprised, even slightly shocked by the first lieutenant’s nervousness.

  Have I been so unapproachable? Did I forget the first responsibility of command? The most coveted gift, his uncle had called it.

  He reached out and touched Dyer’s arm. ‘I am remaining with Valkyrie. Is that what you were about to ask?’

  Dyer could not hide his relief, and a genuine pleasure. His was not a face which could conceal anything.

  ‘I shall pass the word, sir!’

  Adam looked towards the land, but Keen’s boat had disappeared. Then he gazed up at the gently swaying masthead, where Deighton’s broad pendant would soon appear. Not like you.

  He turned sharply as a chorus of cheers broke from the forecastle, although every one was careful not to catch his eye.

  Despite everything, he was glad of his decision. As if the ship had spoken for herself.

  ‘All present, sir.’ Adam waited for the other captains to be seated, and glanced around the cabin, searching for some sign or hint of its new occupant, a portrait of someone, some memento from a past ship or port of call. There was nothing. The cabin looked exactly as it had when Keen had stood here, moments before leaving it for the last time. That had been three days ago, and in the meantime, while the other vessels of the new inshore squadron had anchored nearby, Commodore Henry Deighton had spent much of his time either ashore or here in his cabin, going through the ship’s books and navigational logs, and had made no attempt to meet his captains in advance of this first gathering.

  Adam knew them all, Morgan Price, the wild-eyed Welshman who commanded the frigate Wildfire, and Isaac Lloyd, captain of Chivalrous, the second largest frigate in the group, who had held two commands in the West Indies and was burned as dark a
s any islander.

  He saw Urquhart meet his eyes. His ship, Reaper, had been a challenge, but Keen had agreed that he was the obvious choice. There were others who had watched Reaper’s return to the fleet with both doubt and mistrust. A ship which had been cursed by mutiny could be seen as a threat, a dire warning to any captain who abused his authority in the name of discipline.

  And there was Jacob Borradaile, commander of the fourteen-gun brig Alfriston. His ship had been there when Reaper’s mutiny had broken out, and her despairing company had turned on their captain and flogged him to death. Borradaile was probably the most unlikely figure present today, like some gaunt caricature, with sprouting, badly cut hair and deep, hollow eyes. He was no one’s idea of the commander of a King’s ship, but those who knew him swore by his skills and impressive knowledge of those he was fighting. James Tyacke had once described him as ‘a good hand. Came up the hard way’. From Tyacke there could be no higher praise.

  Commodore Deighton sat behind his table, shoulders very stiff, fingers interlocked, his restless eyes moving quickly from face to face. Adam introduced them one by one, and in response there was a quick smile, almost a grimace.

  To Urquhart he said, ‘And what of Reaper? Learned their lesson, have they?’

  Urquhart replied calmly, ‘I think others have, because of her, sir.’

  Commodore Deighton frowned, and turned to Isaac Lloyd. ‘Your ship has performed very well, I believe. I shall be looking to you.’ His gaze settled on the hollow-eyed Borradaile. ‘Alfriston. I shall need you to maintain contact with the main squadron. It will be a demanding assignment.’

  Borradaile watched him without expression. ‘We’ll be ready, sir.’

  Adam saw Morgan Price glancing round. Perhaps he was expecting a glass of wine, a small thing, but usual enough at such a gathering as this. There was no wine; not even Deighton’s strange-looking servant, Jack Norway, was present. A rumour, probably originating in the wardroom, had suggested that Norway had been rescued from the gallows, which might explain why he held his head at such an acute angle, and seemed barely able to speak.