Sword of Honour

by Alexander Kent

  ‘How do you feel about it?’

  Allday looked at him thoughtfully. Once he would have shown instant caution, if not mistrust.

  ‘I’ve been with Sir Richard long enough to take things as they comes, but this time, I ain’t so sure. Them devils ain’t to be trusted an’ never were. We should wait until the rest of the squadron is joined here.’

  Avery thought of Halcyon’s young captain. A good officer, as Tyacke had confirmed, but one twenty-eight-gun frigate against well-sited batteries and, no doubt, ships ready to repel any unwanted visitors, was hardly a bargaining point.

  He said, ‘At least your letter will be on its way.’

  Allday stood up; he had heard somebody outside the door. Avery had not written or received any letters himself, but to mention it might be pushing things too far. It was a pity, he thought. Avery was better than most of his kind. He smiled. But he was still an officer.

  ‘I’ll be ready when they calls us, sir.’

  Avery got to his feet as Kellett, the first lieutenant, stepped to one side while Allday departed.

  ‘Come in!’

  They both laughed as Kellett eased his way around the screen door; the cabin was a twin of his own.

  ‘I won’t detain you.’ He sat on the same chest and glanced uncuriously at the pen and paper. Avery thought he probably knew about the letters he wrote for the admiral’s coxswain, but he would never remark upon it.

  He knew Kellett no better than when he had joined the ship at Plymouth. Tall, about twenty-five, and obviously respected by the more seasoned hands and warrant officers; Tyacke had implied that he had carried the ship for most of the time during Frobisher’s lengthy overhaul. He was loyal, too; he had never complained to Tyacke about how he had been left with most of the duties, as some would, if only to ingratiate themselves with the new lord and master.

  Kellett said, ‘I would that I were coming with you. Or that Frobisher were carrying the flag into Algerine waters.’

  Avery waited. Kellett was not here to waste his time before they transferred to Halcyon. He wanted to talk.

  Avery said, ‘You’ve been in this ship for three years.’

  Kellett looked at him, his mild eyes very steady. ‘I was appointed as second lieutenant, but my immediate superior was transferred.’ He shrugged. ‘I thought, ah, my future is brighter already!’ But there was no humour in his voice.

  Avery prompted, ‘The previous first lieutenant was promoted?’

  ‘Transferred. To some miserable, rat-infested bomb-vessel. I did not like him much, but he deserved better for all that.’

  Avery considered it. The first lieutenant was the Honourable Granville Kellett, and the son of an admiral. His future, war or no war, should be assured. Unless ….

  ‘What was the captain like? I understand that he was removed because of illness, although the surgeon claims he had no part in it.’

  Kellett’s smile was genuine. ‘I’m surprised you got anything out of that one. He wouldn’t tell you he was taking off your leg, until afterwards!’ He nodded his thanks as Avery poured two glasses of cognac. ‘Captain Oliphant was rarely aboard during our time in the dockyard. He was ill, but he was receiving treatment ashore.’ He paused. ‘But not in Haslar Hospital, as you might expect.’ He swallowed some of the cognac. ‘I discovered that for myself.’

  ‘Was it sudden?’

  ‘I thought so at first. Now, looking back, I can see that he suffered some kind of discomfort … pain. It affected his moods, his temper. We received the news about Frobisher’s appointment as Sir Richard’s flagship, and I thought he was delighted about it. He would have been the flag captain, and, as Lord Rhodes’ cousin, his prospects seemed excellent.’ He dropped his voice. ‘But I can tell you now, I thank God that Captain Tyacke is in command. I have never seen such a change in a ship, the life he’s put into her!’

  Avery smiled. ‘I was in awe of him when we first met. I am closer to him now. But he still frightens me more than I’d care to admit!’

  Kellett put down his empty glass. ‘That was welcome, sir.’

  Avery got carefully to his feet. Strange to think of French officers sitting here as they had done, discussing the prospects of battle, promotion, or perhaps love.

  Kellett seemed to come to a decision. ‘Captain Oliphant was very fond of women. He would get into debt because of them, if it suited. My predecessor was “transferred” because he refused to help him. I suspect I was retained merely because of my illustrious father.’ He forced a smile. ‘I would deny every word in court, of course!’

  Avery said gravely, ‘Of course.’

  They both laughed, and Kellett shook his hand. ‘Be careful on this mission. I would not wish to lose a friend, one so newly gained.’ Then he was gone.

  Avery thought about it. Rhodes had been the one who had arranged for Frobisher to become Sir Richard’s flagship. It would have been the making of Oliphant, no matter what the future held. He heard a boat being warped alongside. It was time.

  But, related or not, Rhodes would never have suggested Oliphant for flag captain if there had been even the faintest hint of scandal, especially as he valued his own prospective appointment to First Lord.

  Captain Oliphant was very fond of women. Kellett’s words seemed to linger in the humid air.

  It was not their concern. James Tyacke’s decision to join them had changed everything, and from what Kellett had said, not only for Sir Richard’s little crew.

  He thought he could hear Tyacke’s voice through the after screen, even before he reached the great cabin. The Royal Marine sentry remained expressionless, his eyes fixed on some point at the opposite end of the ship as he rapped his musket on the deck and shouted, ‘Flag lieutenant, sir!’

  Bolitho looked up from his table and smiled at him.

  ‘I know, George. It is almost time.’ If he were glad of the interruption, he gave no sign of it.

  He turned to Tyacke and said, ‘You have my written orders, James. You are captain-in-charge until our return, unless despatches to the contrary direct you. The ship is in good hands. None better.’ He held out his own hand, and Avery knew that although Allday, too, was present, for Bolitho, the cabin was empty but for himself and his captain.

  He said, ‘Trust me. This is something that must be done. If I wait for a full show of force, it might be too late. You know that.’

  Tyacke sounded very calm again, but he was not resigned. ‘I worked too long with slavers. I know these scum, no matter what they call themselves. It matters to me that we finish our work here.’ He hesitated. ‘And go home.’

  Ozzard had insisted on joining them aboard Halcyon, and when he had finished supervising the lowering of the admiral’s bag into the boat, he snapped, ‘He can’t manage his own, can he?’

  Allday was still thinking about Tyacke, his mention of home, something previously unknown.

  He ventured cautiously, ‘About Cap’n Tyacke, an’ what you said, Tom. I thought ….’

  Ozzard peered up at him, in the first shadows of evening.

  ‘Thought? Leave thinking to horses, they’ve got bigger heads!’

  Allday watched him bustle away, and was troubled by it. Tyacke’s talk of home remained uppermost in his mind. For all of us.

  As sunset touched the ancient battlements like blood, Bolitho and his companions were pulled across to the frigate Halcyon. There was a promising breeze, and the capstan was already manned, the sails loosened in readiness to leave.

  Within the hour, it was as if she had never been.

  11

  A Sailor’s Woman

  THE STAIRCASE SOMEWHERE to the rear of the main Admiralty building was narrow and, Catherine guessed, rarely used. The banister was dusty; she could feel it under her glove, and when she reached the final curve of the stairs she looked down and saw cobwebs on the hem of her gown.

  The few windows were sealed despite the heavy air, and the hint of a thunderstorm which hovered over London and the river.
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  She had once heard Richard mention going to the Admiralty by way of the back stairs. This must have been what he meant.

  The elderly Admiralty clerk paused to look back at her. ‘I am very sorry, m’lady. Sir Graham Bethune was unavoidably detained, and asked that you meet him here.’

  Here was a small ante-room, with three chairs and little else. A place of assignations, perhaps.

  ‘Thank you. I will wait.’

  She could hear the clerk’s heavy breathing, almost painful. He was not used to the back stairs, obviously.

  Alone again, Catherine crossed to a window, but saw only the slope of another roof. It could be anywhere. She suppressed a shiver. It was like the view from a prison.

  Perhaps she should not have come. But once in London she had kept herself busy, seeing the lawyers again, and sending a note by hand to Bethune. She sighed. And tonight, another reception, as Sillitoe’s guest. She would be careful. But she needed his advice, and he would know it.

  Then a few more days before returning to Cornwall, to the grey house. Waiting.

  She thought about the reception that evening; how different it might have been. It was yet another party in honour of the Duke of Wellington’s return to England. She had heard of one held at Burlington House to which nearly two thousand guests had been invited, many wearing grotesque costumes, and with behaviour to match. The wine had been consumed in such quantity that it was doubtful many of the guests would have remembered if the Iron Duke had been there or not.

  She was tired, and hoped it did not show. Now, as on other such occasions, she always felt as if she were performing, for both of them, no matter what interpretation others might choose to put upon it.

  The main door opened and closed in one swift movement, so that she had only a brief glimpse of dark blue carpet and gilt chairs beyond.

  Bethune seized her hands and held them to his lips.

  ‘A thousand apologies, Lady Somervell. I only arrived back from Paris two days ago, and when your note came I could not free myself!’ He did not release her hands, and studied her with a warmth and affection which she knew was genuine.

  She smiled. ‘How was Paris?’

  He glanced toward a chair and then flicked it with his handkerchief.

  ‘Crowded. Full of uniforms.’ He looked at her again. ‘Foreign.’

  She sat down and turned her ankle to look for the cobweb, but it was gone. She saw his eyes follow the movement, and could understand why he was so attractive to women.

  ‘Did Lady Bethune accompany you?’

  He looked away. ‘She did. She is here, at the Admiralty, now.’

  It explained the back stairs, the secrecy, if there was such a thing any more.

  He sat on the chair opposite her, his knees bent and apart, more like the awkward midshipman he had been than a flag officer. It made him seem more human; a friend.

  He said, ‘I have had little success so far, Lady Somervell.’

  She raised her hand. ‘Catherine.’

  He smiled. ‘Catherine. Sir Richard’s squadron is not yet assembled at Malta, but when it is, we may expect more news.’

  ‘And if he is allowed to come home, where then? Where next? Are they so ungrateful that they forget what they already owe him? I had hoped to join him, if only briefly, at Malta.’ She looked at him until he dropped his eyes. ‘It was my promise to him.’

  ‘I remember. The situation in Malta is complicated. More so because there is trouble with the Algerines.’ He tried to lighten it. ‘Yet again. It is a sensitive time, not least for Sir Richard.’

  ‘If I joined him, at my own expense and not that of the Treasury, unlike so many, it might offend the proprieties … marriage and religion … is that it?’

  ‘Perhaps. But I have not abandoned the idea. However, there is one excellent piece of news. The frigate Valkyrie is to be withdrawn from the Halifax squadron. Adam will find orders waiting for him to return to England. To Plymouth.’

  She shook her head, and did not see his eyes move to her hair and neck. ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘At times like these, there will be more captains than ships. It is the way of things when the guns are quiet. For how long, who can say? But there is a new frigate building and almost completed at Plymouth. I spoke with the First Lord and have written to the port admiral.’

  She still could not grasp that Keen was there, a vice-admiral now. She had been invited to the wedding, which was arranged for October. She heard herself say, almost in a whisper, ‘A new command, a fresh beginning.’ Sharing it, seeing his face when he received his orders.

  She said, ‘Thank you for that, Graham. I should have known.’

  He shrugged, unsure of himself, she thought. ‘Neither Adam nor Richard will tolerate favouritism. So I thought I should do something.’

  ‘It will do much to help both of them.’ She looked down as he put his hand on hers. ‘I am grateful, Graham.’

  He pressed her hand very gently. ‘If only, Catherine.’

  She withdrew it, and faced him. ‘As it is, remember? Not as it might have been. There has been damage enough already.’ She gave him a folded note. ‘My Chelsea address, in case you have forgotten it. If you receive any news, anything at all….’ She did not go on.

  She tugged off one glove, and held out her hand. ‘This is less dusty.’

  He kissed it, lingering over it, while she watched his bowed head in silence. What might he think or say if he knew what she felt at this moment? Did he not realise that she lived on dreams and memories, homecomings and the painful farewells always so close in pursuit?

  A clock chimed somewhere in the building, in that other, safe and respectable society where men in power could break the rules but still manage to shield their mistresses and keep them separate from their pious wives. But the anger would not come.

  Bethune had pulled out another handkerchief. ‘Please. Use this. I – I am so sorry I have upset you, Catherine.’

  She shook her head and felt a tear splash against her skin.

  ‘It is not you. Don’t you understand? I miss him so much … each day without him, I die a little more.’ She turned away and groped for the door. She had a vague impression of a figure in uniform bowing stiffly outside the room, and Bethune’s curt, almost angry, ‘Wait for me inside! I’ll not be long!’

  She did not remember reaching the bottom of the narrow staircase with him, and yet she felt the urgency, the need for Bethune to go back, where some unemployed captain was waiting to plead for a ship. As Richard had once done.

  And where his wife would be waiting to hear about that woman.

  Bethune was holding the carriage door. ‘Tonight then, dear Catherine. Fear not, you have many friends.’

  She looked past him at the bustling carriages and carters, the sightseers, and the red coats of soldiers off duty.

  ‘Here, perhaps.’ She glanced up at the Admiralty’s arched entrance and imposing, pillared facçade. ‘Elsewhere, I think not.’

  She climbed into the carriage and leaned back against the sun-warmed leather. She did not look round, but somehow she knew that Bethune was still gazing after her.

  Hampton House, on the Thames Embankment, had been chosen as the venue for this latest of many receptions to honour the Duke of Wellington, and, indirectly, his victorious army. Although it was the London residence of Lord Castlereagh, the foreign secretary, it seemed likely that he saw less of it than anyone. Of all the statesmen and government leaders involved in negotiations with the allied powers, he had probably been the most active. The Treaties of Chaumont, followed two months later by the First Peace of Paris, which Castlereagh had settled with Metternich almost unaided, seemed no less a victory than Wellington’s.

  Catherine rested her hand on a footman’s sleeve as she stepped down from the carriage. The air was still and heavy, with dark, brooding clouds broken only occasionally by a glimpse of early stars. There was still thunder in the air, like something physical. Perhaps, as she had
thought at the Admiralty, she should not have come. She sighed, and walked slowly along a dark strip of carpet. If there was a downpour, the carpet would take the brunt of it.

  The house was spacious, but seemed anonymous, unmemorable, like so many others on similar occasions. Every window glittering, every chandelier alight, strains of music, and a tide of voices audible even from here.

  And now the garden, with more candles and coloured lanterns, people standing about in groups, taking advantage of any light breeze from the river. Faces turned to watch her, probably wondering who she would be with. She lifted her chin. At least Sillitoe did not care. People feared him. Needed him.

  If Richard were here, he would see it differently, as no less a part of duty than firing a salute. He would make her smile at the absurdity, and the importance of appearance. Like a code, or a secret signal ….

  ‘Lady Somervell?’

  It was a well-dressed young man, neither servant nor guest.

  He bowed. ‘Sir Graham Bethune has asked me to escort you to his party, my lady.’ He looked at her, and must have seen the unspoken question in her eyes. ‘Lord Sillitoe is delayed.’

  They returned to the house. People parted to allow them to pass, young women with daring gowns and bold glances, older women in gowns which neither flattered nor suited them. Uniforms of every kind, but not many sea officers; men who tried to catch her eye, then turned to their companions as if they had succeeded.

  Toiling amongst them was an army of footmen, sweating in their heavy coats and wigs, and yet able to pass a glass of wine or retrieve an empty one before it was broken or trampled into the carpet.

  Bethune came striding to meet her. ‘Welcome, Lady Somervell!’

  They both smiled, remembering the informality of that dingy ante-room.

  She curtsied. ‘Sir Graham, how pleasant.’

  She slipped her hand through his arm and saw the eyes following them. Surprised, perhaps disappointed that there was no new scandal.

  Without turning his head, Bethune murmured, ‘Lord Sillitoe is with the Prince Regent. He sent word that he will not be long.’