Sword of Honour

by Alexander Kent

  He heard voices below the poop and saw the gunner’s mate, Jago, with some of his messmates. He was carrying a shirt which he had just washed out after his experience ashore, and, even in the fading light, Adam could see the livid scars of the cat across his muscular back. Unjustly flogged by Valkyrie’s previous captain, he would carry the scars to his grave like any felon. It had been John Urquhart, then Valkyrie’s first lieutenant, who had protested to the captain, and had spoken up for Jago, to no avail; it was obvious that Urquhart had been damned to oblivion because of his intervention. Until Keen had given him Reaper to command, another ship which had been torn apart by the cruelty of a sadistic captain.

  He came to a decision, and beckoned to the gunner’s mate. Jago ran lightly up the quarterdeck ladder and waited. ‘Sir?’

  Adam saw his eyes flit over his captain’s torn breeches and crumpled shirt; he himself had not found the time to change into cleaner clothes.

  He said, ‘I shall not forget what you did. And I wanted to ask you something.’ He could almost feel Jago’s guard come up, but continued, ‘I lost my old cox’n.’

  Jago nodded. ‘We know, sir. They ’anged ’im.’

  ‘Would you consider taking his place?’

  Jago stared at him. ‘Your cox’n, sir?’ He glanced up as one of the topmen yelled something to some hands working aloft.

  ‘I’ll be gettin’ discharged after this, sir. I’ve done my share, though some might say different.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m a gunner’s mate. That’ll do for me, sir.’ He looked at him in the same thoughtful manner. ‘But you done kindly by me for askin’.’

  Adam dismissed him and watched him rejoin his friends, and drag the damp shirt over his head, hiding the savage scars. No wonder he held Urquhart in such respect. He smiled. If not his captain.

  Dyer murmured, ‘The commodore, sir.’

  Deighton strode across to the weather side and stared at the men working on the tiered boats.

  ‘The sea and the wind are moderate, Captain. I think we shall lie-to tonight, and rejoin the squadron tomorrow.’ And, sharply, to the sailing master, ‘What time would you estimate, Mr Ritchie, all things being even?’

  Ritchie regarded him with a certain wariness. ‘During the dog watches we should make contact with Wildfire, sir.’

  ‘Then make it so, Mr Ritchie.’ He grinned. ‘We have done what we set out to do, eh?’

  Adam saw some of the others looking over with the same caution. This relaxed, almost jovial mood was something new to them.

  He said, ‘I do not think we should lie-to, sir.’ He kept his voice low, but he saw Ritchie nod in agreement.

  Deighton said, ‘You disagree, Captain, is that it?’

  ‘It is my duty to advise you, sir.’

  ‘It is not your duty, sir, to criticize me in the presence of the ship’s company!’ The joviality was gone.

  ‘The enemy will call for reinforcements, sir. It would be their first reaction.’

  ‘And this is mine, Captain. We shall lie-to until the morning watch is mustered. Make a note of it in the log.’ He gave the fierce grin again. ‘Now!’

  He walked away, and a few moments later a faint glow appeared at the cabin skylight.

  Adam turned, and saw Lieutenant Monteith waiting for him. ‘Yes?’

  ‘The wounded man, Simpson. He died, sir.’

  There was blood on his sleeve, and Adam guessed that he had stayed with the wretched Simpson until the end. He could see it as clearly as if he had been there: Monteith, and the seaman he could not recall but for his courageous silence, and the surgeon, his face as red as the blood he spilled. And he thought of Deighton’s indifference. His arrogance.

  Jago was right. Leave it when you can. Walk away from it while you still have limbs, wipe it from your mind.

  Perhaps he was too tired to think. No such thing as luck, good or bad. Was that really me? There was always a possibility that Deighton was right; he had been an experienced and senior captain before this appointment.

  He touched Monteith’s arm and said, ‘Dine with me tonight, Howard.’ He saw the lieutenant’s surprise. ‘We shall drink to damnation and drown our sorrows…. I fear we shall be busy men tomorrow.’

  Monteith said, ‘I would have liked nothing better, sir. But I have the middle watch.’

  He should have known. ‘Then rest while you can.’ He made his way down to his cabin, as the marine sentry was relieved outside the commodore’s quarters.

  John Whitmarsh was waiting for him, and the table had been carefully laid.

  Adam shook his head. ‘I find that I cannot eat. Some cognac, please.’

  Then he sat down and dragged open his drawer. It was as well that Monteith had declined the invitation, he thought.

  The cognac burned his throat, but it seemed to steady him.

  He picked up a pen and began to write. Dear Catherine ….

  When Whitmarsh entered the cabin again he removed the pen from Adam’s out-thrust hand, and looked at the empty sheet of notepaper. Dear Catherine. The captain had even done that for him, taught him to read. Like so many things. Almost shyly, he reached out and touched the bright epaulette on the shoulder; Adam, deeply asleep, did not wake.

  The captain was back. It was all that mattered. Tomorrow could wait.

  When the hands were piped on deck with the morning watch, their captain was already in his customary place on the weather side of the quarterdeck.

  Adam watched the familiar preparations, hammocks being stowed in the nettings, petty officers checking their lists and waiting to report to their lieutenants. He had had only a few hours’ sleep, but a great deal of coffee and a change into clean clothing had made all the difference. He touched his chin. And a shave. He thought of Bolitho, and the restorative power of the customary shave from his faithful Allday. Impossible to think of them being separated. But it would come ….

  Old Mister Allday. Young Whitmarsh had better not let him hear himself so described, he thought. Whitmarsh was very quiet these days, almost withdrawn, as he went about his duties. Another separation; but it would be for the best. His aunt would be more than willing to take care of the boy while he attended a local school. You could learn a lot in a man-of-war, but if Whitmarsh was to be sponsored as a midshipman he would need preparing for the other ‘young gentlemen’ he would eventually meet. As I did. It had been his Aunt Nancy then, another stranger who had become one of his own family, who had taught him to feel at ease in a world he had never known. But that was what was troubling Whitmarsh. Leaving the ship. Leaving me.

  He turned as Ritchie called, ‘West by north, sir. Starboard tack. Wind’s backed a piece overnight.’ He did not need to be able to see the masthead pendant. He knew. He could feel it.

  Dyer was here, too. ‘Ready, sir!’

  ‘Very well. Hands aloft, set tops’ls and forecourse.’ He saw one eyebrow rise very slightly. ‘We shall save the t’gallants, Mr Dyer, until we can see where we are going!’ It brought a few grins from the helmsmen and the master’s mate of the watch. All old hands, they knew what the captain meant. There was no sense in showing all your top canvas at first light, until you knew who else was about. He laid his hands on the quarterdeck rail, still ice-cold from the night. It would be a different story in a few hours’ time.

  He loved to hear a ship coming alive again; he had hardly ever given the order to lie-to, unlike some captains. Like Deighton…. A ship should be moving. He recalled an old sailor’s advice to him once. An equal strain on all parts, hull and spars, and she’ll not let you down.

  Valkyrie leaned over to the thrust of wind, spray glinting above the beakhead as the darkness loosened its grip.

  He thought about Deighton. Perhaps they were both at fault. It was not the first time he had served with a man he could scarcely tolerate. It was all too common. The cramped confines of a crowded hull made few allowances for personal dislikes.

  They would receive new orders, either to continue their patrols and th
e stop-and-search tactics which had been so successful, or they might be returning to Halifax. All of the inshore squadron would need to be restocked with fresh water and, if possible, fruit. He turned it over in his mind. And if I should be offered another command? Because of Deighton, or because he needed a new beginning?

  ‘West by north, sir. Steady as she goes!’

  Dyer crossed the deck. ‘Dismiss the watch below, sir?’

  Adam saw a tendril of smoke from the galley funnel, earlier than usual, but sailors could eat at any time.

  ‘Very well.’ He looked for the sun. ‘D’you have some good eyes aloft?’

  Dyer nodded, relieved. ‘I picked them myself, sir.’ He hesitated, sensing the barrier which still separated them. ‘Are we likely to meet with an enemy, sir?’

  Adam smiled. ‘Well, we know where most of our friends are, Mr Dyer!’ Even the nearest ones would be further away by now because of the commodore’s insistence on lying-to.

  And it was getting lighter. He could see the pale outlines of the brigantine’s sails against the heaving water, and thought of Borradaile’s uncanny knack of obtaining information from any vessel he sighted ….

  He heard a splash, and knew it was Deighton’s strange servant flinging some water over the side. Perhaps he had been shaving his master.

  He took a few paces across the deck, and back again. It was no use; he would have to make allowances, be ready to bend more easily, even if he never understood Deighton’s sudden fits of anger and his inability to conceal it.

  The figures around him were assuming identity and purpose: men flaking down lines, another splicing a damaged halliard. Two midshipmen, their white patches very clear now, were making notes on their slates, a master’s mate watching with a critical eye.

  Perhaps they might meet with another courier vessel. But there would be no letters, unless Catherine had written again. He wondered where his uncle was, at sea, or performing some tedious duty ashore. How they would be missing one another. How they belonged…. And Keen, soon to be married. He thought of her letter, her visit to Zennor, the mermaid’s church. Only she would have cared enough to write of it to him.

  The sort of woman who could fascinate and thrill any real man. She was never truly absent from his thoughts; once he had even dreamed about her, when she had come to him not as a friend but as a lover. He had been ashamed and disgusted with himself because of it; it had seemed a betrayal of them both. But, in the wildness of the dream, she had not rejected him.

  He heard somebody mutter, ‘Another early bird.’

  It was Deighton, wearing a boat cloak, with his hat tugged down over his eyes. He grunted as the officers touched their hats to him.

  He saw Adam and remarked, ‘That coffee – like damned bilge water.’

  Adam said, ‘I’ll have some of mine brought to you, sir. It comes from London.’

  ‘From a lady, no doubt.’ But there was no bite to his tone. ‘I’d take it as a favour.’ He glanced around. ‘You’re not under all plain sail yet.’ Again, it was not a complaint. Perhaps he was making an effort.

  Adam said, ‘A precaution. You know, sir, first sunlight on their skyscrapers.’

  Deighton said suddenly, ‘Rear-Admiral Keen, you’ve known him for a long while?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We’ve served together from time to time.’

  ‘Lost his wife, I understand.’

  Adam waited, tensed, for the next question.

  But instead Deighton said, ‘Getting married again, I hear. Shapely little piece, to all accounts.’

  ‘When he’s promoted, she will be an asset to him.’ It was as far as he would go.

  Deighton said abruptly, ‘Promoted, of course! Vice-Admiral. No stopping him now. But for the damnable blockade duty, I would have been in that fortunate position. As it is, after this ….’

  Adam said, ‘It’s a question on everyone’s mind.’ He thought suddenly of Jago. I’ve done my share. Perhaps he was the lucky one after all.

  Deighton turned to face him. ‘You’re young. Good reputation, successful, many would say. It will be different for you.’

  It was the closest they had been, probably would ever be, and Adam was oddly moved by it.

  Deighton said, ‘When we rejoin the squadron I might discover more about this campaign ….’

  ‘Deck there!’ The masthead lookout’s voice seemed unnaturally loud. ‘Sail to the nor’east!’

  Adam was already pulling off his coat, and tossed it to one of the midshipmen.

  ‘I’ll take a glass and go up myself. I might know better then.’

  Deighton restrained him. ‘An enemy?’

  He knew how it would appear to the lookout. Whatever it was, it was coming out of the sun. They would not sight Valkyrie in the lingering darkness just yet. It was little enough.

  He replied, ‘Unlikely to be one of ours, sir.’

  Deighton peered over the side. ‘They’ll not snatch our prize, damn them!’

  Adam hurried to the shrouds, faces turning on every side to watch him. How could he destroy the frail confidence which Deighton was trying to build between them?

  He gripped the ratlines and began to climb.

  How could he explain to Deighton? It’s not the prize. It’s us they’re coming for!

  * * *

  Adam’s heels hit the deck as he completed his descent from the crosstrees by way of a backstay. It was hardly dignified for a captain, but it saved time, and he was a little surprised that he could still do it; the palms of his hands felt raw from the slide, and his clean shirt was stained with tar.

  ‘I’d like to have a look at the chart, sir.’

  Deighton’s face was filled with questions, but he was experienced enough not to voice them in front of the listening watchkeepers.

  It was dark in the small chart room, but he held the image as sharply in his mind as he had seen it minutes ago. The lookout had pointed unwaveringly. ‘Frigate, sir. Starboard quarter!’

  In the first, uncertain light he had seen the other ship for himself, a perfect pyramid of pale canvas, running before the wind with each sail hard and full. Through the telescope he had been able to see part of her hull. The lookout had good eyes indeed, but what he had not seen was a second ship, a sliver, perhaps of equal size, hull up on the shining horizon.

  Deighton asked impatiently, ‘What was it?’

  Adam did not look up from the chart. ‘One, maybe two frigates, sir. Yankees, carrying all the sail they can muster.’ He tapped the chart with the dividers. ‘Probably out of New York, or even Philadelphia. They hadn’t sighted us just now, but it won’t be long.’

  Deighton stared at the chart. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Two choices, sir. Run, and hope to meet up with the squadron or the admiral’s ships.’ He wished he could see Deighton’s face more clearly in the shadows. Only his hand was visible, drumming on the edge of the chart table.

  Deighton said, ‘And the other choice?’

  Adam dropped the dividers on the chart. ‘Stand and fight. There’ll be no surprises this time.’

  Men were moving about the decks again; the initial excitement was past. But not for long; there were no secrets in any ship.

  ‘Two frigates? We’d be outgunned.’

  ‘The sailing master said that it would take until the dog watches to meet up with our ships. Twelve hours at best, sir.’

  The hand moved again, agitated, as if separate from its owner. ‘That Ritchie doesn’t know everything, dammit!’

  ‘He’s the best sailor in the ship, sir.’

  He waited, feeling no pity for the man who had insisted on letting Alfriston go without informing the other frigates of his intentions. To extend their patrol area and so lose signalling contact was nothing but folly. All he felt now was a sick despair.

  He said, ‘We have an empty ocean. By setting every sail, we might avoid a stern chase and any serious damage to masts and rigging. We would lose the prize, but we did what we came to do.’r />
  Deighton glared at him ‘You did, that’s what signifies to you!’ He moved to the door, where the glare of sunlight seemed to catch him unawares.

  He said thickly, ‘I’ve never run from an enemy. Nor shall I now. What would they say of me?’ He laughed, a bitter sound. ‘Some would find pleasure in it, I daresay!’

  Adam looked past him, at the familiar figures near the big double-wheel, the two midshipmen with their slates. Men, and boys like these, to be sacrificed because of one officer’s vanity.

  He heard himself ask, ‘Then you’ll fight, sir?’ Like somebody else. A stranger’s voice.

  Deighton gripped his arm and as quickly released it, as if he had just realised what he was doing.

  ‘You will fight this ship, Captain Bolitho. That is an order! I am going aft. I shall not be long.’ He looked up at the deckhead as a muffled thud made the air shiver.

  One shot. To attract the most distant vessel. Valkyrie had been sighted, perhaps even recognised; she was well known enough in these waters.

  Deighton had gone. To do what, he wondered. To pray?

  He walked out and on to the quarterdeck again, taking his coat from the midshipman who held it with barely a glance. He stared up at the masthead pendant curling and hardening in the wind; real, everyday things. All the rest had been a dream, an illusion.

  He beckoned to the first lieutenant, and said, ‘Two Yankees to the nor’east.’ He knew others were turning to listen. ‘We will continue on the same tack for the present, but you may loose the t’gallants, if only to show them we are all awake this day. Then send the remainder of the hands to breakfast.’ He looked at Ritchie. ‘Put it in the log. The commodore wishes it to be known. We shall fight.’

  He found that Monteith was beside him. ‘What is it, Howard? It is too late for regrets.’

  Monteith shook his head. ‘May I ask, sir? But for the order, would you have run for it?’

  Do they know me so little? ‘No, by Christ, I would not! Not for any man!’