Sword of Honour

by Alexander Kent

  Bolitho watched the oncoming galley, graceful, yet somehow sinister.

  He said, ‘If things go wrong, Captain Christie, you will cut your cable and put to sea. Fight your way out if you must, but do it!’ He saw the immediate opposition in Christie’s face. ‘That is an order. You must get word to Malta.’

  He moved nearer to the side and saw the oars backing smartly, holding the galley and then turning it towards the frigate’s side. No barge crew could do it better.

  The boatswain’s mates moistened their calls on their tongues and glanced expectantly at the entry port.

  ‘Pipe!’

  The squeal of calls died away just as suddenly, and Bolitho stepped forward to meet their visitor.

  A white man certainly, perhaps with a mixture of other blood. His uniform was remarkably plain, its only decoration being a pair of tarnished epaulettes.

  He doffed his cocked hat and gave a slight bow to the assembled officers.

  ‘Your visit is without invitation, but nevertheless I am commanded to offer you welcome.’

  He spoke flawless English, with an inflection Bolitho had heard before.

  He said, ‘I am ….’

  The man bowed again, and smiled faintly. ‘I know of you, sir. Bo-lye-tho, His Majesty’s admiral of fame and reputation.’

  ‘And whom have I the honour of addressing, sir?’

  ‘I am Captain Martinez, adviser,’ again the small smile, ‘and friend to Mehmet Pasha, the Governor and Commander-in-Chief in Algiers.’

  ‘Would you care to come to my quarters, Captain Martinez?’

  Martinez held up his hat to shade his eyes from the sun. His hair was sleek, and as dark as Bolitho’s own, his skin tanned to the colour of leather; there were deep crows’ feet around the eyes. He could have been any age from forty to sixty.

  He glanced at the guns, their crews standing by with sponges and worms to clean out the barrels after the salute.

  ‘That will not be possible. I have orders to escort you to the citadel myself.’ He made an elegant gesture. ‘You will find the craft quite comfortable.’ His dark eyes flitted around the upper deck. ‘An improvement, I would think?’

  Captain Christie said sharply, ‘I must protest, Sir Richard. Once you were in the citadel, we would be powerless to assist you!’

  Bolitho shook his head. ‘I am ready, Captain Martinez. My aide will accompany me.’

  Martinez frowned as Allday joined Avery by the entry port. ‘And who is this?’

  Bolitho said simply, ‘He is always with me. I trust that will suffice?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Bolitho touched his hat to the side party: Christie and his lieutenants, so many faces staring at him, anxious and without understanding. Men he did not even know.

  Martinez ushered them to the stern of the galley. It was ornate, with gilded carvings, and long shades to provide privacy for the passengers.

  Bolitho heard him giving orders to the boat’s crew: a different voice again, fluent and without hesitation.

  Avery whispered, ‘Martinez is no Turk, sir. Spanish, more likely.’ He frowned. ‘But there’s something else ….’

  Bolitho nodded. ‘It is my belief that he learned his English in America, a long time ago.’

  Avery looked relieved. ‘I agree, sir.’

  Allday loosened the cutlass at his side. ‘I’d not trust one of ’em!’

  Bolitho raised one of the blinds and was surprised to see Halcyon lying half a cable away, so fast were the oars rising and dipping.

  He recalled Christie’s concern, and hoped he would remember to keep his men working as normally as possible. A thousand pairs of eyes were probably watching the ship at this very moment. The first sign of preparation for action would destroy everything. He touched the locket again.

  It was suddenly cool and almost dark, and he realised that the galley had entered something like a cave, a seaward entrance to the citadel here, where there were no tides. It made the place almost impregnable.

  They were alongside a stone-flagged jetty, and he saw more uniforms, soldiers this time, observing them in silence, fingering their weapons as if unsure.

  Most of the muskets were French, but there were a few British ones among them. Demand probably outpaced supply, hence the seizure of the chartered Galicia, which had been carrying powder and shot, and perhaps an unlawful cargo of weapons. It was common enough; army quartermasters were like pursers, not averse to some private profit if it was offered without risk to themselves.

  He considered Martinez, his role here, and where he had originated. A survivor of the American Revolution, perhaps? Or a mercenary who had changed sides once too often.

  He was striding ahead of them now, full of energy and purpose. Bolitho found he could almost smile. A man you would not turn your back on.

  He heard Allday breathing heavily on the steps; Martinez probably reminded him of the day when a Spanish sword had cut him down. He was paying for it now.

  ‘Easy, old friend. We can rest a while ….’

  Allday turned towards him, his brow furrowed with pain.

  ‘I’ll keep with you, Cap….’ He shook himself, angry because he had almost called him Cap’n, as in those other, reckless days.

  Doors opened to receive them and Bolitho saw rich rugs hanging from the walls. There was incense too, and the smell of sandalwood.

  Martinez paused and held up his hands. ‘We must proceed alone, Admiral Bolitho.’ He glanced disdainfully at Allday. ‘He can rest here.’ He moved his dark eyes to Avery. ‘There will be refreshment. Companionship, if you wish.’ He smiled again. ‘It is permitted.’

  Bolitho snapped, ‘Women? But I thought the Dey was opposed to such behaviour.’

  The glance was almost pitying. ‘Captives, Admiral Bolitho.’

  Bolitho’s eyes moved quickly to an open, unguarded window. Avery did not even blink. He understood.

  Instead he said, ‘We shall be here, Sir Richard.’

  Bolitho said, ‘I never doubted it.’

  More doors closed behind him and he saw Mehmet Pasha seated at the opposite end of the room. Another surprise; he had expected him to be rotund and soft, someone used to the spoils and rewards of his rank.

  But the man he saw was neat and slight, with bright, intelligent eyes and a cruel mouth. The face of a warrior, or a tyrant.

  Martinez said, ‘Mehmet Pasha speaks no English.’ It seemed to amuse him. ‘So you will have to trust me.’

  Bolitho gave a stiff bow, and said, ‘I am here to represent His Britannic Majesty, Excellency. On behalf of our two nations, and the peace we presently enjoy.’

  He half-listened to Martinez’s guttural translation and was reassured by it. Mehmet Pasha was not listening. He had understood every word he had said.

  Bolitho continued, ‘The vessel Galicia and her cargo were seized by one of your ships. I ask that you release Galicia’s master, so that I may arrange a solution.’ He looked at the other man calmly. ‘And the release of her company.’

  Martinez touched his arm and beckoned him to a window. ‘Some of them are there, Admiral. They resisted, they were punished.’ He watched him curiously. ‘Perhaps you would have done the same?’

  The corpses lay where they had been thrown, like so much rubbish. As a warning to others, or with total indifference. The pools of dried blood were still apparent by the rotting remains. They had suffered terribly before they had died.

  Martinez returned to his position facing his master.

  Bolitho had seen more than the decaying corpses; he had caught sight of some of the guns pointing out across the bay. Perhaps Martinez had intended him to see them. Like a threat.

  Mehmet Pasha was speaking, his tone unhurried, and without any sort of emotion. Martinez explained, ‘The vessel was carrying an unlawful cargo. It was using waters governed only by the Dey, that also was unlawful. You are received here as a guest.’ His eyes moved between them. ‘But you have no authority, no power in these waters. He has
spoken.’

  ‘I shall send his words to His Majesty, Captain Martinez. Of his response, I am not privileged to speak.’

  Martinez looked less confident, and said quickly, ‘Mehmet Pasha commands here, Admiral Bolitho!’

  Bolitho watched the other man. Outwardly calm, even contemptuous, but something, an instinct perhaps, gave another impression. He was waiting to hear Bolitho’s answer, and not through his ‘interpreter’.

  ‘Please tell him,’ he pointed suddenly to the window, the blinding edge of the horizon, ‘that I command out there!’

  In the sudden silence he could hear the echo of his own words, a sentence of death if Mehmet Pasha recognised his bluff.

  The other man rose slowly from his chair, his face thoughtful. At any moment he would call for the guards. He would have proved nothing.

  Martinez said huskily, ‘There will be some refreshment, Admiral, for you and your … friends.’ He bowed as the slight figure walked unhurriedly to another door. Then he murmured, ‘You may take the Galicia when you depart from here, but her cargo remains.’ He glanced at the closed doors. ‘You are a very fortunate man, permit me to say!’

  Bolitho saw Avery being ushered into the room, the astonishment and relief in his tawny eyes.

  ‘For a moment, Sir Richard ….’

  Bolitho forced a smile. ‘For a moment, George. But it was not to be.’

  Martinez persisted, ‘Your little ship would stand no chance, but you knew that?’

  Bolitho shrugged. ‘There would be other ships, as many as might be needed, as well you know. The rightful release of Galicia is not an understanding, but it may be the beginning of one.’

  Martinez said, ‘One of my officers will attend your return to the ship, Admiral Bolitho.’

  Bolitho understood. He needed to know what his master’s reactions truly were, and Bolitho could accept that he had a kind of courage to serve here, for whatever reason. He thought of the rotting remains by the wall. Martinez would need no warning to remind himself of the constant danger he was in.

  Avery fell into step beside him, eager to leave, and perhaps unable to accept that they would be allowed to do so.

  ‘I did as you bid me.’ He revealed the end of a small telescope inside his coat. ‘A good view of the main anchorage from up there.’ He glanced round at Bolitho and said, ‘There are two frigates at anchor. Fifth-rates, I’d say, no flags but well guarded. Did you know, sir?’

  ‘I’m not certain, George.’ He shaded his eyes to watch the same galley gliding towards the jetty. Mehmet Pasha wanted them away from here quickly, hence the release of Galicia. But two frigates? From where, and to what purpose?

  He thought of the erect figure in the ornate chair. The bluff had not been one-sided after all.

  Avery saw the galley come to rest, and a bearded officer in a flowing robe stepped ashore to receive them. He could scarcely conceal his relief.

  ‘And we could have stayed a while longer for “refreshment”!’

  Allday glared, and just as suddenly grinned at him.

  ‘A ship’s biscuit full o’ weevils would do me after this damnable place, an’ that’s no error!’

  Bolitho climbed down into the galley and waited for the bright sunshine to greet them again. With luck, they might be clear of Algiers by dusk. Christie would need no encouragement after this.

  He touched the locket, and knew Avery was watching him. Later, he might admit it to himself. It had been a very close thing. How close, only Martinez had known at the time.

  ‘Boat ahoy?’ Sunlight flashed on fixed bayonets along Halcyon’s gangway.

  Allday cupped his hands. ‘Flag!’

  Bolitho stared at the land, and then up at the frigate’s side and rigging.

  He was back. He smiled at a memory. Lady Luck had been with him.

  13

  So Private and So Strong

  CAPTAIN JAMES TYACKE sat in Bolitho’s high-backed chair and watched as his admiral strode from the adjoining cabin, Ozzard trotting behind him trying to adjust the clean shirt, without success.

  Tyacke felt vaguely uneasy, uncomfortable seated while Bolitho stood. He paced the cabin, describing what he had discovered at Algiers, pausing from time to time to make sure that his round-shouldered secretary was keeping pace, and that he was not thinking and speaking too quickly for the pen.

  It was more than that; Tyacke had felt it within an hour of Halcyon’s return to the Grand Harbour. An almost boyish eagerness to put his thoughts into motion, to be doing something again. But Tyacke knew him well enough now to see beyond it. There was a brittleness, a need, perhaps, to convince himself as well as those in the far-off Admiralty.

  Bolitho’s return had been something else Tyacke would remember: order and discipline momentarily forgotten as Frobisher’s hands had swarmed into the shrouds and rigging to cheer Halcyon’s boat, as it pulled alongside and hooked on to the chains with a flourish.

  Tyacke had seen the effect for himself on Bolitho’s features when he had climbed aboard, the wild cheering, from men he scarcely knew, echoed by those from Halcyon and the other ships which had joined the squadron during the admiral’s absence.

  Tyacke shifted in the chair. He had shared it, and his anxiety and relief had been forgotten in that very personal moment.

  ‘The Dey knows he has a strong position, James. All those guns – it would take a fleet, and even then the cost might outweigh the gains.’ He paused, and waited for Ozzard to tug his neckcloth into place. ‘And had I requested permission to anchor beforehand it would have been refused, or ignored like those of my predecessors.’

  Tyacke nodded. It was pointless to remind him of the risk, and the possible consequences. Bolitho might have spoken the words himself. That was then. This is now.

  Instead he said, ‘The two frigates are another matter. If they are to fly the Dey’s colours we might take precautions, but if they are corsairs,’ he frowned, ‘pirates, it would put a great strain upon our ships.’ He glanced at an open gunport. ‘We now have seven frigates, including Halcyon, under your flag. There are brigs and schooners too, but no match for fifth-rates.’ He looked over at the flag lieutenant, who was leaning comfortably across the stern bench. ‘If you are sure of it?’

  Avery said, ‘I am certain, sir.’

  Tyacke touched his disfigured face. ‘It is said that Spain intended to dispose of some of her men-of-war. It is possible. But this Captain Martinez … I know nothing of him, as a slaver or in any other role.’

  Bolitho walked to the sloping stern windows. The sun was high overhead, the buildings along the shore sandy yellow in a dusty glare. The weather would change soon, and it would take weeks more for a decision to be made. He felt the old restlessness churning within him. Everything took so long ….

  He turned his back on the others to study a passing dhow, but his mind was still upon the letter which had arrived with the courier brig. Time. Catherine would be thinking of it also. The ever-present barrier. But it was not even that; it was the tone of her letter, different in some way. Or was it his own fatigue after the fast passage from Algiers? He knew it was not.

  Tyacke said, ‘The frigates are there for a reason. At anchor they are useless, no threat to anybody.’ He was thinking aloud. Did he suspect something? That I am being torn apart?

  Suppose Catherine had given up the fight. She was beautiful; she was rich in her own right. She did not need to endure the separations and the anxieties being thrust upon her. Someone else, then? He thought of her last words in that letter.

  Whatever you do, wherever you are, remember that I love you and only you, nothing could change that.

  He would read it again, slowly, when he was alone. But first ….

  He said, ‘Something from your anti-slavery days, James? Make them come out to us?’

  Tyacke smiled, but not with his eyes. ‘Frobisher, sir.’ He glanced around the cabin, less spacious with the eighteen-pounders returned to their ports. ‘They will know she is
your flagship. After your visit they might be expecting more to join us. They will not want to risk losing the two frigates.’ He shrugged. ‘And if their presence is proved innocent, we have lost nothing.’

  Bolitho walked away from the windows and the glare, pausing to rest one hand on Tyacke’s shoulder. ‘Another bluff!’

  Tyacke glanced at the hand on his shoulder, strong and tanned, an extension to this man’s brain and experience. He was not easily moved, and was careful not to show it now.

  ‘It might succeed.’ He looked at Avery. ‘At least it will get this ship’s company working again!’

  They laughed, the tension gone.

  Bolitho thought of the big room overlooking the battery, and the scattered remnants of the corpses. I command out there! He said, ‘There are a few of the Galicia’s original company, who were allowed to leave with our prize crew. Captain Christie had them separated. Perhaps they could be questioned, now that their safety is assured.’ He recalled Christie’s own description, the terror, the disbelief and hysteria amongst the few sailors who had been spared the brutality and eventual death meted out to Galicia’s master, and others who had ‘resisted’.

  Avery glanced at the others, sensing the bond, the quiet understanding. He had seen Bolitho take the letter from the despatch bag, and the expression in the grey eyes as he had read through it. It must be like a hand reaching out, a security which few could understand. He thought of Susanna. Still no letter, but then, he had not hoped for one. He gave a rueful smile. Even that was a lie.

  Bolitho said, ‘I shall send orders to the squadron, so that each captain is left in no doubt of the kind of enemy we are facing.’

  Tyacke watched him. So that you will carry the blame if we are proved wrong.

  He was glad about Christie. Majestic had done precious little for anyone else.

  The sentry bawled, ‘First lieutenant, sir!’

  Bolitho looked at his secretary. ‘You are frowning.’

  Yovell smiled gently, behind his small, gold-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘I was asking myself, Sir Richard, why do the marines always shout so loudly?’

  Lieutenant Kellett stood in the doorway, his hat beneath his arm. ‘Officer-of-the-guard, sir.’ He spoke to Tyacke, but his deceptively mild eyes were on Bolitho.