Sword of Honour

by Alexander Kent

  The sentry’s voice broke into their thoughts.

  ‘First lieutenant, sir!’

  Kellett stepped into the cabin, his face composed, probably prepared for this by the humiliated Pennington.

  ‘Sir?’

  Tyacke spoke instead to his admiral. ‘I thought we should put down the boats and take the ship in tow, keep her head round, and cut the drift as much as possible.’

  Bolitho said, ‘I agree. God knows I’ve done it often enough myself.’

  He saw Kellett relax slightly as Tyacke said, ‘Detail the boats’ crews yourself, Mr Kellett. Two-hour spells at the oars, more than enough when the sun finds them. Put the spare hands aloft to dampen the sails. I don’t want to lose a cupful of wind.’ As Kellett turned away, he added, ‘It was not your fault. Sometimes we all expect too much.’

  Kellett’s mild eyes widened very slightly. ‘I shall inform the second lieutenant, sir.’

  Bolitho waved Ozzard aside and loosened his shirt. ‘Not yet.’

  He heard the trill of calls and the boatswain’s harsh voice as he urged more men to the boat-hoisting tackles. Sam Gilpin was a boatswain of the old school, quick with an oath or one of his fists, but he rarely took a man aft for punishment if either of the options would suffice.

  ‘Visibility?’

  Tyacke dragged his mind back to the present. ‘Heavy mist inshore, sir. We are no more than ten miles out, but we’re useless like this.’ He glared around, as if the cabin were restricting him like a cage. ‘I just hope young Sackville keeps his lust for glory on the leash!’ Then he seemed to relent. ‘That was unfair. I scarce know the fellow.’

  Avery had arrived, stifling a huge yawn as he listened to what was being said, and to the urgent noises overhead.

  He glanced quickly at Allday. ‘Trouble?’

  Allday shrugged. ‘The wind’s gone, so has Black Swan.’ He wondered if he should tell him what had nearly happened with the razor, and decided against it.

  Tyacke left the cabin and was heard calling out instructions to his lieutenants, and there was a responding creak of tackles as the first boats were hoisted up and over the gangways, ready to be lowered alongside. Avery imagined them all, all the faces he was coming to know, and the qualities behind them. Tregidgo the sailing master, the true professional, waiting with his mates by the unmoving helm, ready for the first hint of steerage way. Sam Gilpin the boatswain, whose voice was never silent for long: another old Jack, every finger a marlinspike, as he had heard Allday describe him. Kellett, always outwardly calm and unruffled; he would make a good captain if he ever got the chance. And all the midshipmen; Frobisher carried nine of them, with the usual contrast between the first-voyage squeakers, aged about twelve, to the more serious-minded ones who fretted on the threshold of that first, unimaginable step, to the rank of lieutenant. A step so vast, from cramped berth to wardroom, that it was almost impossible to imagine, except for those with influence or favour.

  A ship’s company, then, no better or worse than most; but this was a flagship, and the man whose flag flew from the main truck was a legend. That made the true difference.

  He heard men calling from the upper yards and could see them, too, in his mind, hauling up bucket after bucket of sea water to pour over each limp sail. The salt would harden the canvas, so that when the wind found them again they would not lose even what Tyacke had called a cupful. He had seen the marine sentry grinning to himself at that, enjoying what he heard. He was not involved.

  Ozzard had brought coffee, resigned, Avery thought, to his admiral’s refusal to allow him to fetch his dress coat and hat.

  Avery sipped the coffee. It was strong, and very good. One would never know Ozzard in a thousand years, but he could spirit food and drink out of thin air like a wizard.

  He glanced at the discarded dress coat. Perhaps Bolitho needed, or wanted, to remain the ordinary man for a moment longer. He smiled privately. He could never be ordinary, no matter what he tried ….

  Bolitho was waiting for Ozzard to refill his cup, unconsciously touching the locket against his skin, beneath the open shirt. Avery saw it, and was moved by what he saw. So far apart, and yet so close. It made him think of Susanna. It was hopeless, and yet he knew that if she merely crooked her finger, he would be her willing slave.

  Bolitho said, ‘I shall go on deck. A walk, George, before we begin to earn our keep?’

  Ozzard almost ran for the admiral’s coat, but let it fall again as Bolitho strode past him to the screen door.

  He muttered quietly, ‘What’s the use?’

  Allday looked over at the old sword on its rack. ‘Use, matey? Only God knows that, an’ he won’t tell it to any poor Jack!’

  He thought Ozzard unusually troubled. ‘But how does he know, John? How can he know?’

  Allday touched the sword. It was so unlike Ozzard to ask an opinion, let alone call him by name, that he was uneasy.

  ‘I’ve never known him to be wrong.’ He forced a grin. ‘’Cept in his choice of servants, that is!’

  Ozzard snapped something and hurried away, pausing only to look back yet again at the discarded coat.

  On the broad quarterdeck the air was almost unmoving; the seamen’s bodies shone with sweat, and the salt water dripping from the limp sails pattered over them like tropical rain.

  Bolitho walked back and forth, his feet avoiding the various ringbolts and gun tackles without conscious effort. How many times? How many places? Lieutenants touched their hats when they realised it was their admiral amongst them, and a nervous midshipman almost turned the half-hour glass a fraction too soon, until a scowl from a master’s mate checked him.

  Bolitho took a telescope from the signals midshipman, and, as he trained it along the ship and beyond the bows, he said casually, ‘It will soon be time for your examination for lieutenant, Mr Singleton. I trust you are well acquainted with the signals procedure of our new allies?’

  He did not see the youth’s pleasure at being noticed and spoken to, and barely heard his stammered reply.

  The boats were standing ahead of the ship, the tow lines rising at regular intervals to the pull of the oars. They were the launch and two cutters; any more would have caused unnecessary confusion. He saw a lieutenant in the leading boat, midshipmen in the others. Some might use a starter on their oarsmen to get better results, but he guessed that Tyacke’s influence had made itself felt even in that.

  And there was the shore. Africa, solid and hostile; no landsmen would recognise it on the chart.

  ‘I can see the headland, Mr Tregidgo. A fair landfall, despite all else, eh?’

  He heard the master’s calm agreement. A far cry from being a Cousin Jack, but Cornwall was still clear in his voice. A fragment of home. He moved the glass slowly, careful to avoid the reflections from the sea. The haze or mist still shrouded the division between land and water; you could hide a fleet in it. Frobisher had probably been sighted, and her becalmed impotence noted with satisfaction. If, indeed, there was anybody to care.

  He felt a nerve jump as a raucous squawk shattered the silence and expanded into a drawn-out crowing.

  It was the ship’s cockerel, penned in its coop. He heard Kellett saying something to Tyacke, and when he turned Bolitho saw the first lieutenant staring at the sea with obvious bewilderment. Tregidgo was actually grinning. He looked over at Bolitho and called, ‘Old Jonas is never wrong, zur! Always crows when ’e ’ears a wind comin’!’

  They all looked up as a voice shouted, ‘Deck there! Gunfire to the south’rd!’

  Bolitho strode to the nettings and stared at the empty sea. Like polished glass. No wind, then: Jonas had been mistaken.

  Then he heard it. Sharp and irregular, with an occasional echo of a larger gun.

  Avery was saying, ‘I don’t see how they can manoeuvre and fight without wind!’

  Bolitho handed the telescope to the signals midshipman. He recognised the sound of Black Swan’s small guns; the other was something much heavier, able t
o lie off and make every shot tell.

  He said, ‘Chebecks, George. Magnificent sailers – properly handled, they can outrun anything but a fast frigate.’ He knew the others had fallen silent, and were pressing closer to hear his words. ‘And when there is little wind they can use their sweeps to work around an enemy until they have discovered a blind spot.’ A loud bang echoed across the water again. ‘Like that.’

  Kellett exclaimed, ‘And here comes the wind, by God!’

  It crossed the sea, ruffling it like silk, and then, as it found the ship, Bolitho felt the sails come alive again, heard the attendant clatter of blocks and rigging, and men calling to one another as the helm gave a shiver and then had to be restrained.

  Tyacke said sharply, ‘Recall the boats, Mr Kellett!’ He saw Bolitho, and paused. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Recover the crews, James. We can tow the boats. It might give us time.’

  He did not explain, but Avery saw in Tyacke’s eyes that he understood, and was sharing each move with Bolitho, each thought, as if they were one.

  Bolitho said, ‘Take your glass, Mr Singleton, and go aloft.’ He restrained the midshipman, gripping his shoulder. He felt the wind pressing his damp shirt against his skin. ‘Tell me what you see, Mr Singleton, not what I might wish to hear.’ He squeezed the young shoulder. ‘You are my eyes today.’

  Frobisher had reached her boats, and men were already swarming up the tumblehome to help warp them aft, to be secured astern.

  Bolitho said, ‘When you are ready, Captain Tyacke.’ It was abrupt, and strangely formal. ‘You may beat to quarters and clear for action. Have the gunner open the arms chests. I want each man ready!’

  Tyacke touched his hat, equally formal. ‘Aye, aye, sir!’

  Bolitho felt the deck tilt very slightly, and heard the topsails and topgallants bang noisily until they were filled like breastplates.

  ‘Sou’east by east, sir! Full an’ bye!’

  The master looked at Bolitho, the question unspoken.

  Bolitho said, ‘Hold her as she is. As close as we dare. There may be no time to wear ship!’

  The rest was lost in the staccato rattle of drums and the immediate rush of feet as seamen and marines stampeded to their stations, to clear the ship from bow to stern. To make her a floating battery, a fortress under sail.

  ‘Ozzard’s here, sir.’

  Bolitho held out his arms and slipped into the heavy coat with its epaulettes and bright stars. How she had laughed when he had forgotten to tell her of the promotion. My admiral of England ….

  He tugged on his hat, hoping it would shade the damaged eye.

  ‘You may go below, Ozzard.’

  Ozzard pouted stubbornly. ‘Because of those pirates?’ He sounded outraged that he should hide from such rabble.

  Bolitho glanced up as the midshipman yelled, ‘Six vessels on starboard bow, sir!’ A slight hesitation, perhaps remembering his admiral’s words. ‘Black Swan is all but dismasted!’

  Tyacke swore softly. ‘Stood no chance!’ Thinking of his own Larne, how it might have been.

  Bolitho snatched another glass. The mist had almost gone and the chebecks were clearly silhouetted against the dull land mass beyond. The same raked hulls he remembered, but more powerful now, with a square-rigged mainmast to give them additional power and speed; he could see the banks of oars churning at the water, the din and confusion quite silent in the lens. They were on a lee shore, and would need their long sweeps to regain sea room. One was still firing her heavy cannon, and Bolitho watched, his heart cold as more wreckage exploded from the helpless brig.

  He said, ‘Chain shot, Captain Tyacke.’ He saw him nod, could sense his anguish as he urged his ship through the water.

  ‘Get the royals on her, Mr Kellett! Put more hands aloft!’

  Tyacke must have been right about Black Swan’s young commander. Using the darkness to break free for a moment from the flagship’s apron strings, to see and act for himself. It was common enough. I did it myself in Sparrow, a lifetime ago. He lowered the glass as more smoke and sparks burst from the embattled brig. Sackville was paying for it now. But here and there a gun still fired, and splashes fell amongst the chebecks, when before they had been unable to bear.

  He felt the sudden fury rising inside him. Captain Martinez must have been well aware of these Algerine pirates and what they were doing. Like the two frigates they had seen from the citadel; they knew. But, for him, it was like being in the dark.

  Tyacke said, ‘I can open fire in half an hour, sir. Extreme range, but any longer and I think we’ll lose them.’

  ‘Very well, James. If we cannot take Black Swan in tow, we’ll lift off her people in our boats.’ He glanced aft, and saw them still towing astern.

  Kellett shouted, ‘Two of the chebecks are coming for us, sir,’ incredulous that such frail-looking craft would dare to challenge a powerful two-decker.

  There was a dull report, and then a loud slap as a ball punched a brown-rimmed hole in the foretopsail.

  Bolitho said quietly, ‘They can still bite, Mr Kellett.’

  ‘Stand by to alter course to larboard!’ Tyacke sounded very calm, totally absorbed. ‘Alter course three points. That should do it.’ He looked at Kellett. ‘Pass the word to the starboard battery, and see that the lower gundeck understands what we are about!’

  The helmsmen leaned back on their spokes and watched the driver flapping slightly, spilling wind while Frobisher answered the rudder.

  ‘East-south-east, sir! Steady she goes!’

  The two chebecks changed bearing as Frobisher edged around, every gun on the starboard side run out and ready. To most of Frobisher’s men, it would seem sheer madness to challenge a ship of seventy-four guns, and some of the crews were leaning through the open ports to jeer.

  But the chebecks were moving faster now, and were using their square and lateen rigged sails to stand closer into the wind than any other vessel.

  Tyacke had realised the danger; perhaps he had faced it before, when dealing with Arab slavers. If they could work around Frobisher and attack her from astern, any lucky shot could leave her rudderless.

  He shouted, ‘Full elevation, Mr Kellett! We can’t wait any longer!’

  His eyes found Bolitho across the crouching crews. He could have spoken it aloud. We dare not.

  As if to give an edge to his words, another ball slammed into the lower hull. Through the telescope Bolitho saw several robed figures leaping up and down on the nearest chebeck’s ramlike beakhead in what appeared to be a wild dance, beyond fear and beyond doubt. There was silence on the gundeck now, and only a handspike moving here and there to adjust the elevation or the training of each weapon.

  ‘As you bear!’ The pause seemed endless, each gun captain bent behind his port, trigger-line taut, his crew waiting to sponge and reload with the chain shot, hated almost as much by those who used it as by those who were its target.

  The two chebecks were almost bows-on, and another flash of gunfire came from one of them, the ball smashing through the hammocks in the nettings and hurling two seamen to the deck, their blood like tar on the pale planking.

  ‘Fire!’

  Even the sound of the broadside was different, and as each gun threw itself inboard on its tackles it was possible to hear the chain shot, moaning and screaming like the fury of a hurricane. Bolitho imagined he could see its passage over the water, the sea’s face torn into sharp fins as the whirling shot blasted above it.

  The nearest chebeck seemed to stagger, as if it had struck a reef. The brightly-coloured sails were ripped away in the wind, spars, bulwarks, and men were smashed down in one bloody tangle. But a few figures still leapt about by the big cannon, and even when the chebeck began to heel over they were still there, waving their weapons and screaming defiance at their destroyer.

  Tyacke lowered his glass. ‘The others are coming about, sir! They intend to attack from the opposite side!’ He gestured to Kellett. ‘Larboard battery, run out. Those bastard
s are closely bunched. We’ll give them a tune to dance to!’

  But Bolitho was watching the first chebeck; somehow it had survived the broadside, and if anything had increased speed, even as her consort was torn apart.

  Avery cleared his throat. ‘Straight for us, sir! It’s madness!’

  Bolitho touched the old sword at his hip; he had not recalled Allday clipping it into place.

  ‘They don’t think so, George.’

  ‘Fire!’ The hull shook violently as the two larboard gundecks fired almost simultaneously. The range was down to half a mile. Not what British sailors had become used to, with an enemy hard alongside, and ships pounding one another into submission until one of the flags was cut down.

  A single chebeck had survived the devastating broadside, and, like the first, showed no intention of retreating, or pausing to rescue the survivors who floundered amongst the flotsam and the drifting carnage.

  ‘Marines, stand to!’

  Tyacke turned toward Bolitho, his scarred face strangely calm. ‘No time to reload, sir.’ He drew his sword, and then raised his voice, so that men who were snatching up cutlasses and boarding axes faltered and stared at him. ‘They intend to board us, lads! If one man, just one man, can get below, it will bring disaster!’ He saw the uncertainty, and the doubt, especially on the more seasoned faces. ‘This will be their last fight. Let it not be yours.’ He looked at the dark blood where the two wounded seamen had been dragged away. ‘So stand together!’

  The marines were already crouching at the nettings, muskets trained, bayonets like ice in the sunlight. A seaman stood in the shrouds and took aim with his musket. Then he fell, his mouth wide in a final cry as he hit the water.

  Frobisher’s seamen abandoned their guns and clambered up to repel boarders.

  Bolitho saw it all with an immense detachment, as if he were someone else, an onlooker, untouched by the sudden bang of muskets, and a deep baying chorus as the first chebeck surged alongside, sweeps splintering in the impact, men falling and yelling as the marines fired down amongst them at a few yards’ range. They had no chance, but, as that onlooker, Bolitho felt no surprise when figures swarmed up and over the gangway, hacking with their curved swords, some still firing muskets and pistols while they clung to the chains and then the shrouds, driven onward by something even the stabbing bayonets could not repulse.