Sword of Honour

by Alexander Kent

  ‘Continue as before, my lord, what else might you expect? Your cousin will not disturb you. You have my word on it.’ He reached down and took his hat from a chair. ‘I am the new inspector-general, not judge and jury.’

  Rhodes made a final attempt. ‘When I am offered the post of First Lord ….’

  Sillitoe waited for the doors to open for him.

  ‘Be assured, Rhodes.’ He gave a cold smile. ‘You will not.’

  He walked out of the building, and was suddenly glad of the wet pavings and the cool, damp air on his face. He could walk for a while, and think. He recalled Bethune’s wife on the night of the reception when he had arrived late, to find Catherine gone; it was the closest he had ever seen her to elation. A conniving woman, who would use her husband when he believed it was the other way about.

  He nodded to himself, and was unaware of the scrutiny of passers-by. That was it. It would be better for Bethune, for all concerned perhaps, if he was sent to a new appointment. Somewhere a long, long way from England.

  Grace Ferguson watched as a housemaid placed a vase of freshly cut roses by the window and gave them her approval.

  ‘Saw you cutting them yourself, m’lady. Did my heart good.’

  Catherine smiled. ‘I hate it when they are finished.’ She glanced at the window, to the grey-blue line of the horizon beyond the headland. ‘I shall try to make them last, in case ….’

  Grace busied herself tidying some books which did not require it. She had mentioned her thoughts to her husband several times, but Bryan had insisted that her ladyship was well enough, missing Sir Richard, but otherwise the same.

  Grace was not so sure, but Bryan was like that. All men were. Lady Catherine was a lovely woman. But she was a human being, for all that. Of course she missed her lover, as she herself had fretted over Bryan all those years ago when he had been snatched up by the hated press gang, along with John Allday. And now look at us ….

  She thought of Catherine’s eventual return from London, the strain and tension in her face. One night Grace had arranged a bath for her, and had seen the bruises on her arm, the healed cut on her neck. She had said nothing, not even to Bryan.

  Catherine said, ‘Lady Roxby will be coming this afternoon, Grace.’

  Lady Roxby she might be to the outside world, but as Richard’s sister she could never be anything but Nancy to Catherine. With only the servants for company, she still lived in the big house, with a steward taking care of the estate. Lewis Roxby’s presence was still very tangible whenever Catherine had visited, and she thought that Nancy, in her way, was less lonely than herself.

  Grace Ferguson faced her, having made up her mind. ‘You’m not eating right, m’lady. You’ll fade away if you don’t eat! When Lady Roxby comes I shall bring some of those little cakes you like, I made them myself.’

  ‘I don’t mean to worry you, Grace – we’ve all had enough of that in the past few years. All I want is to have him here, with me, with us. He’s done so much – can’t they see that?’

  She seemed suddenly troubled by the watching portraits. ‘I want to be strong, to be patient, like all the others must have been.’

  Grace said, ‘You’ll be strong, m’lady. I knows it.’

  Later, when the Roxby carriage rolled on to the cobbles, Catherine saw that there were two visitors. Nancy was accompanied by a young woman with fair hair. She was neatly but plainly dressed, a servant, or perhaps a companion. She heard Grace Ferguson greeting them and then went to the door, hoping her anxiety and lack of sleep would not be as apparent to Nancy as it obviously was to her housekeeper.

  Nancy embraced her, and said, ‘This is Melwyn. Her mother is a dressmaker and seamstress over in St Austell. I’ve known her family for years, since I was a child.’

  Catherine looked at the girl, for that was all that she was. Serious, almost grave features, but when she smiled she had an elfin prettiness which would soon draw some young man’s attention.

  ‘Melwyn has been staying at the house with me for the past few days. She works hard, and is pleasant company. A fine seamstress too, like her mother.’ She smiled, and Catherine saw Richard’s warmth in it. ‘As you have lost your Sophie, I thought you might consider taking her into your service.’

  Catherine said, ‘Melwyn. What a pretty name.’

  Nancy said, ‘It means “honey-fair” in the old Cornish tongue.’

  Catherine asked quietly, ‘Do you want to leave home, Melwyn?’

  The girl seemed to consider it. ‘I – I think so, m’lady. I need the work.’ She looked at one of the portraits, her eyes distant. ‘My father went for a soldier, to the West Indies. He died there. I do still think about him.’ She turned again. ‘Do ’ee know the West Indies, m’lady?’

  Nancy said with unusual severity, ‘Don’t ask so many questions, my girl.’

  But Catherine said gently, ‘Yes, I know them. Where I found my love again, after losing him.’ She felt the girl’s shoulder tremble slightly beneath her hand. As I once was.

  ‘They do say that you travelled all over the world, m’lady.’

  Catherine patted her shoulder and smiled at her. ‘That story grows in the telling!’

  Nancy watched, quietly satisfied. Melwyn was not like most of the local girls who served the big houses and estates. She was a dainty worker; her fingers could skim over a piece of silk or linen as if enchanted, and she was sometimes withdrawn, and a bit of a dreamer. Like her remarks about her dead father: a sergeant in the Eighty-Seventh Foot, true enough. But a foul-mouthed braggart until the army had recruited him, probably while he was drunk. Perhaps it was safer to be a dreamer.

  Catherine said, ‘If you want it, Melwyn, I would be happy to employ you.’

  The girl smiled, beautifully. ‘Oh my dear life! Wait till they hear about this.’

  Catherine looked away. Her voice was reminiscent of Zenoria, although she was completely different in every other way.

  The door opened slightly; Grace, she thought, to tempt her with her little cakes.

  But it was Bryan. She kept her hand on the girl’s shoulder, feeling the sudden chill in her body in spite of the room’s heavy warmth.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A letter, m’lady. I told the post boy to wait, in case….’ He looked round, relieved as his wife entered and took the letter from his hand.

  Nancy spoke, saying that she would remain, but Catherine did not hear her. She picked up a knife and slit the envelope; her hand was quite steady, and yet she felt as if her whole body was shaking. The girl made to move away but Catherine said, ‘No. Stay with me.’ She dashed her hand across her face, angry with the sudden tears. The writing was blurred, unfamiliar. She persisted, turning it to the light, hardly daring to draw breath.

  Then she said, ‘Bryan, have you heard of a ship named the Saladin?’

  Bryan watched her, seeing the strength and determination, and something more.

  ‘Aye, m’lady. She’s a big Indiaman, fine-looking vessel. Put into Falmouth once – John Allday an’ me went down to see her.’

  ‘The Saladin sails from Plymouth next week.’ They were all waiting, listening, but she was speaking to him. To Richard. ‘She sails for Naples, but will stop at Malta….Will you come with me, Melwyn?’

  Nancy exclaimed, ‘Malta? How is it possible?’ She was near tears, and also proud that she was still a part of it, of them.

  ‘It has been arranged. By a friend.’ She stared around the room, seeing it come to life again. The loneliness, which she had been forced to share with the memory of that night when she had known raw terror, would now be gone.

  A friend. She could almost sense Sillitoe’s amusement.

  14

  The Edge of Darkness

  LIEUTENANT GEORGE AVERY spread the chart across the cabin table and watched as his admiral examined some notes, before leaning over it in the fading light.

  In the afternoon the wind had backed again, and had risen unexpectedly. Tyacke had discussed it
with Bolitho and they had decided to reef Frobisher’s bulging topsails. Men had fought their way out along the treacherous yards, the wind hot across their bodies as if it were from the desert itself.

  Now, looking at the well-used chart with its bearings and the hourly calculations of their progress from Malta, Avery saw that the nearest land was about eighty miles away. The little brig Black Swan had taken up her station for the night, and Avery had last seen her through a telescope, tossing about under minimum canvas like a gull in distress. A lively command at the best of times, and Avery had wondered what her youthful captain thought of his present position, under the very eyes of the flagship.

  He knew that Bolitho was troubled by the lack of contact and knowledge of his various captains. He had heard him speaking to Tyacke about Norton Sackville of the Black Swan. Only recently promoted from lieutenant and highly recommended by his previous flag officer, he was in his early twenties, and eager for a chance to distinguish himself. Tyacke had replied to a question, ‘Sackville is clever enough, to all accounts.’ He had tapped his forehead. ‘But a little lacking in wisdom.’

  The ship felt quieter now under reefed topsails, but she yawed occasionally to broken water; so different from the days of calm seas and limp canvas.

  Bolitho was aware of Avery’s scrutiny, and thought he was probably questioning why it was necessary to divide the squadron on the strength of an idea, a rumour.

  Perhaps I am driving myself for the wrong reasons?

  He felt the deck shiver, the heavy rudder taking the brunt of sea and wind.

  Two days and ten hours to reach this position: the port of Bona was lying to the south of them. To tack any nearer overnight would be inviting disaster; a lee shore would offer no hope if they misjudged the final approach.

  He had been thinking, too, of Black Swan, and had tried to put himself in her captain’s place. Sackville’s lookouts would be the vital link, would make the first landfall, and Sackville himself might have to decide on a course of action.

  He half-listened to the sounds around and above him, the creak of straining rigging and the rebellious crack of loose canvas. Voices too; the thud of hard, bare feet overhead. Allday was on deck, Ozzard was in his pantry. The ship carried them all.

  He glanced across the table and winced as the lantern’s light swung across his eyes. Surely it was no worse? Or was it another attempt to delude himself?

  He remarked, ‘I have asked the surgeon to come aft, George.’

  So calmly said. Like a man chatting to his second before a duel.

  Avery secured the chart, and did not look up. ‘He seems a steady enough fellow, Sir Richard. Not like some we’ve seen.’

  They were both thinking of Minchin and his bloody apron.

  Avery ventured, ‘Does it trouble you much, sir?’

  Months ago he would have turned on anyone, no matter how close, who might have suggested a weakness. He would have regretted it instantly, but even that eluded him now.

  Almost distantly, he said, ‘You have not been what Allday would term a North Sea sailor, George. It has been like that. A mist on the sea’s face when the light is too strong, but gone soon afterwards. At other times, I can see things so clearly I find myself searching for reasons, solutions.’ He shrugged. ‘But I cannot accept it. Not now, not yet.’

  He heard the bell chime out, the responding pound of feet as the watch on deck was relieved. He had observed it, and done it so many times that he could see it, as if he were up there with them. Only the ship was different.

  Avery was troubled by his mood. Resisting, but already resigned ….

  He said suddenly, ‘After this is over, sir –’

  Bolitho looked at him and smiled suddenly, the doubts and the strain falling away.

  ‘Then what shall we do, George? What shall we become?’ He paused, as if he had heard something.

  ‘You have been a good and loyal friend to us, George. Neither of us will forget.’

  He did not need to explain us, and Avery was moved by his intensity.

  The sentry tapped his musket and called, ‘Surgeon, sir!’

  He said, ‘I shall be in my cabin, sir.’ Their eyes met. ‘You will not be disturbed.’ He opened the door for the surgeon and passed him without a glance. Like strangers, even though they shared the same wardroom.

  Paul Lefroy, Frobisher’s surgeon, was round, even cherubic, more like a country parson than a man used to the grim sights of the orlop deck. He was completely bald but for a narrow garland of grey hair, and his skull was the colour of polished mahogany.

  He waited until Bolitho was seated in his high-backed chair and then began the examination, his fingers probing around the injured eye like instruments rather than skin and bone.

  Lefroy said, ‘I had occasion to meet a young colleague who once served under you. You sponsored him, I believe, to the College of Surgeons in London.’

  Bolitho stared at the light until his vision blurred. ‘Philip Beauclerk. Yes, he was in Indomitable with me. A fine and promising surgeon.’ But all he could remember was Beauclerk’s eyes, the palest he had ever seen.

  Lefroy wiped his hands on a cloth. ‘We spoke of you, Sir Richard, as doctors will.’ He beamed, the parson again. ‘Must, if we are to improve the lot of our people. He spoke, too, of the great man, Sir Piers Blachford.’

  Another memory. Blachford and the rum-sodden Minchin, working as one while Hyperion gave up the fight and was starting to sink under them.

  Bolitho said, quietly, ‘He thinks nothing more can be done.’

  Lefroy nodded slowly, his round figure tilted, untroubled by the angle of the deck.

  ‘For someone in a position of retirement, free of the demands, to say nothing of the risks which beset every sailor, this damage might be contained for years.’ He gazed around the cabin, the heavy guns straining at their breeching ropes while the ship heeled over. ‘This is no such position, Sir Richard, and I think you know it well.’

  Ozzard had appeared and murmured, ‘Captain Tyacke is here, Sir Richard.’ He shot a wary glance at the surgeon.

  ‘Tell the captain I am ready.’

  Lefroy was closing his battered bag. ‘I am sorry, Sir Richard. You could attend another surgeon, much better qualified, were you not at sea.’

  As he reached the door he paused and said, ‘The drops you are using are excellent in their way, but….’ He bowed himself out, his baldness shining in the swinging lanterns.

  His last word lingered like an echo in the air. As if someone had just slammed a great door. Like something final.

  Tyacke strode in, his head bent to avoid the curving deckhead beams. He had seen the surgeon, but they had not spoken.

  He did not ask Bolitho about it. He had seen enough of pain to read it now in the grey eyes watching him.

  He recalled the words. Now we are truly of one company.

  He said, ‘Now, concerning tomorrow, Sir Richard ….’

  Bolitho leaned over the chart. The lifeline. The rest could wait.

  Allday stood quite still, his razor reflecting the lantern light. Bolitho was leaning forward in the chair, his head on one side as if he had heard some new sound. But there was nothing, only a few muffled noises, and a sense of heavy stillness.

  ‘The wind?’

  Allday nodded. ‘Aye, it’s left us. Like the last time, an’ the times afore that.’

  He was talking to give himself time; he had no need to remind Bolitho of the moods and the madness of the weather. He knew them all, as he could feel the ship around him, her strength and her weakness. It was his life.

  It was none of those things now. Bolitho had suddenly gripped the arms of the chair and dragged himself upright, his mind wholly intent upon the ship, and the wind which had deserted them.

  Allday glanced at the razor; he had been moving it downwards for the first stroke of the morning shave. He had barely a second to twist it away from Bolitho’s face before its well-stropped edge laid open his cheek to the bone. B
olitho had not seen it.

  Allday tried to relax the relentless grip of dread in his stomach. He had not been able to see it.

  Bolitho was looking keenly into his face, his eyes clear in the light from the lantern.

  ‘What is it, old friend? The pain?’

  Allday waited for him to lie back again, unable to look at him.

  ‘It comes an’ goes, Sir Richard.’

  He began to shave him with great care. A close thing.

  There were voices now, loud and angry. Bolitho recognised Tyacke’s, the other was Pennington, the second lieutenant. Then there was silence again, the ship holding her breath, creaking and clattering as she began to drift, her sails flat against the stays.

  Tyacke hesitated by the door. ‘I am sorry to disturb you, Sir Richard.’

  Allday was mopping the shaved skin, relieved at the captain’s interruption.

  ‘The wind, James – is that it? We were warned we might expect it.’

  Tyacke moved into the light. His shirt was torn, and streaked with tar.

  He said, ‘No, sir. We’ve lost Black Swan.’ He was unable to contain his anger. ‘I should have known! I ought to have picked the morning watch lookouts myself.’

  Bolitho said, ‘You command, James. You cannot carry every man’s burden all of the time.’

  Tyacke stared down at him. ‘Black Swan knows full well that she must be in company with the Flag at first light. A lookout with half an eye should have seen that she had gone from her station – at the first hint of dawn it should have been clear enough.’ He waved curtly toward the stern windows, now grey-blue in the strengthening light. ‘Gone! And the fool only just reported it!’

  Bolitho stood up, and felt the listless movement of the deck. Tyacke must have gone aloft himself to be certain, and vented his anger on Pennington when he had found the horizon empty, just as he was now blaming himself for another’s carelessness.

  He said, ‘The wind will return, perhaps sooner than we think. Closer inshore, there could still be enough for the brig.’

  He knew what Tyacke believed. That Black Swan’s eager commander had used the darkness to tack nearer to the land, to be the first to discover any shipping there and still return in time to resume his position for making and receiving signals. The dying wind had changed that dramatically. Black Swan was now without support, and Frobisher would be unable to see her, even if she required help.