Sword of Honour

by Alexander Kent

  Avery drew his sword, and Allday moved closer to Bolitho, his cutlass resting on his shoulder, his eyes on the surging, swaying mass. But the squads of scarlet-coated marines were gaining the upper hand, their boots stamping in unison as, with bayonets parrying and pointing, they formed a barrier between the Algerines and the quarterdeck.

  One marine slipped on the bloody deck and lost his balance. As though it were a scene in a nightmare, Bolitho saw a bearded giant whose robes were already soaked in blood swing his blade like a scythe, and heard the cries of outrage and horror as the marine’s head rolled down amongst the litter of dead and wounded.

  Lieutenant Pennington, a deep cut on his forehead, lunged at the giant but had his sword torn from his hand, and would have shared the marine’s hideous death but for the diversion his admiral provided.

  The giant, feet apart, raised his sword and held it in both hands, his eyes fixed on Bolitho, as if nothing and no one else existed. He must have been wounded several times; there was blood pouring unheeded down his thigh. His teeth were bared, in hatred or agony it was impossible to tell, but to Bolitho he appeared to be grinning, his teeth like fangs against his black beard.

  Allday rasped, ‘Leave it, Sir Richard!’ and bounded forward, but the great sword swung again. Sparks flew from the steel as the two blades clanged together, and Allday reeled across one of the guns.

  Voices came from far away. ‘Kill that bastard, Sergeant Bazely!’

  The crack of the musket was deafening, and Bolitho felt the sting of powder in his eyes as the marine fired, even as the sword rose again above his attacker’s head.

  When he looked again, the bearded giant had fallen among the others, a bayonet putting an end to his last, incredible strength. Weapons were being thrown down, but not many of the Algerines had survived, or perhaps they had been given no chance to surrender.

  Tyacke was beside him, his hat gone, his sword still gripped in his hand. There was blood on its blade. He did not speak immediately, allowing the fury and the madness of the fight to release him.

  ‘We lost a dozen men, Sir Richard, maybe a couple more. They’re taking the wounded below … we’ll know about them soon enough, I daresay.’

  Bolitho stared up at the sails: unmoving again. Becalmed, with the remaining chebecks drifting alongside, crewed only by the dead.

  Tyacke was still speaking. ‘I’ve sent the boats for Black Swan’s people. We’re safe enough here.’ Then, with sudden venom, ‘I’ll be glad to see the last of this hellish place!’

  Avery had joined them, and was gazing at the dead pirate as if he expected to see that inhuman strength rise up again.

  He said, ‘It was you he came for, Sir Richard.’

  ‘I doubt that, George.’ He turned suddenly. ‘Sergeant Bazely saved me just now. He must have been the only one left with a loaded musket!’ He touched his sword, without knowing why. ‘Where is he? I would like to thank him.’

  Bazely exclaimed, ‘I’m here, Sir Richard. With you.’ He was grinning. ‘Where a good Royal Marine belongs!’

  Bolitho turned once more, and then covered his undamaged eye with his hand. There was no image, sharp or misty. There was nothing, only darkness.

  15

  The Next Horizon

  CATHERINE SOMERVELL GRIPPED a vibrating stay and felt her cloak lift around her legs in the gusty wind. She had become used to ships and had always respected the sea, even before she had learned so much about its moods and hidden cruelties from the man she loved.

  Grace and Bryan Ferguson had been openly despairing about her decision to take passage to Malta, and even Nancy, with the sea in her blood, had been concerned.

  Catherine had travelled in all kinds of vessel, from humble merchantman to the ill-fated Golden Plover. None could compare with the East India Company’s lordly and powerful Saladin. Even in the unreliable waters of the Bay of Biscay, Saladin, as large and imposing as any naval three-decker, had made the voyage more of an adventure than a discomfort.

  She pulled the cloak tighter around her; it was the faded boatcloak of Richard’s which she used for her cliff walks, doubly welcome now, like an old friend.

  It was strange that she had hardly seen or spoken with Sillitoe since they had departed from Plymouth five days ago. There were a dozen other passengers, mostly merchants and their wives, privileged to be in this ship which was sailing to Naples to restore the severed links between Britain and the Neapolitan government after the escape of Naples from French rule, and the bloody recriminations which had followed it.

  Strange, too, that Sillitoe should hold the same important role as her late husband, Viscount Somervell, although his appointment had been by the King when he had been in the early stages of madness. Whatever else the Prince Regent might appear to the public, he was genuinely determined to recoup the losses in trade brought about by the years of war with France.

  She heard some sailors laughing together as they ran to deal with some rebellious cordage. Richard had told her a great deal about ‘John Company’ and its ships. Carrying trade to the ends of the earth, and when their flag was hoisted, it rarely came down. Well-manned and armed to full capacity, the company’s ships were a match for any pirate or privateer, and had won several battles with enemy men-of-war. Richard had spoken of them with a kind of wistfulness, if not envy.

  ‘Their men are well-paid and cared for, and carry a protection against impressment. They are true seamen, not held against their will. Perhaps when all this is over, Adam will be in a position to see those conditions in his navy. Think of that ….’

  Sillitoe had touched only briefly upon his actual business in Naples, except to confirm that he was going to sign a new treaty and an agreement on trade. Nelson was still remembered there for his part in crushing the rebels and their French protectors, although Sillitoe had referred to the Neapolitans as ‘fiddlers, poets, whores and scoundrels’. He had smiled at her surprise, and had added gently, ‘Nelson’s appraisal, not mine.’

  She watched the gulls cutting back and forth across the ship’s high stern and thought of the open boat, and their survival. Tonight those gulls will sleep in Africa. And the day after tomorrow, Saladin would anchor at Gibraltar. There might even be news of Richard and his ships.

  One evening she and Sillitoe had supped alone, the other passengers apparently too sickened by Biscay. Even her new companion and maid, Melwyn, had crept quietly into her cot.

  While they had sat listening to the sea against the hull and the muffled voices of men on deck, Sillitoe had said, ‘I fear you cannot remain in Malta for long. When this ship returns from Naples, you must leave with her.’ He had given that fleeting, wry smile again. ‘With me. Nobody may question my arrangements; you have no such protection. In Malta’s society, there would be talk of scandal. It could harm Sir Richard.’ He had looked at her very directly. ‘I can always offer that defence against envy and hypocrisy, things you know only too well. I can sometimes turn such hostility aside, and use it to advantage.’

  Not once had he mentioned Oliphant and his attempt to rape her.

  She had spoken to only a few of the other passengers, but had enjoyed her daily conversations with the captain, a bluff and very experienced officer who had once served in the navy as a lieutenant. He seemed much older than the captains she had met through Richard: boys who became men in the aftermath of battle.

  And there was a master’s mate, whom she had seen watching her when she had been walking on the poop. Not unlike Allday, a true man of the sea; like so many sailors he had been almost too shy to speak to her.

  He had served with Richard in a frigate named Tempest, and it had been like sharing a fragment of his past. Richard had told her of the ship and her cruise in the Great South Sea, when he had almost died of fever, and Valentine Keen’s first love, a Tahitian girl, had fallen to the same fate.

  The man had fumbled with his belt and had said, ‘We’m all that pleased to ’ave you aboard with us, m’lady. There’s many o’ th�
�� lads who’ve served with Sir Richard Bolitho or knows all about him.’ Then he had grinned, the shyness suddenly gone. ‘We’ll ne’er see his like again!’

  She could almost hear Allday say, An’ that’s no error.

  She could think of nothing but seeing him again; the reality of leaving so soon afterwards must not spoil it. She had agreed; they were Sillitoe’s terms for this privileged passage. She had learned from one of the officers that Saladin would not have been calling at Malta but for Sillitoe’s instruction. Powerful indeed…. Almost hesitantly, she thrust her arm outside the cloak and studied her wrist in the hard light. The marks were still there, like the memory of the cord tightening around her arms.

  If he knew, or sensed in some way ….

  We have no secrets. It was easy enough to say.

  And she remembered Sillitoe’s last words at their undisturbed supper, while the sea and the wind had boomed around them, but she had felt no fear.

  He had said quietly, ‘I am a willing party to this, and you must be sensible of my feelings for you. But I am curious to know what drives you … what carries you in the face of everything? Sir Richard is as safe as any flag officer can be. He has a good ship, to all accounts, and a reliable squadron. Not what he has been used to. So I have to ask myself, why?’

  She had answered simply, without pausing to consider it.

  ‘Because he needs me.’

  Richard Bolitho stepped into Frobisher’s sick-bay and hesitated, unprepared for the brightness of its interior, the white-painted bulkhead and partitions, and the shelves of bottles and jars which rattled occasionally in time with the ship’s motion. A world completely apart from the rest of the ship; Lefroy’s domain. It was said that he even slept down here, rather than use one of the wardroom cabins, which, built as they were only of screens, could be torn down whenever the ship cleared for action. They were only temporary; here on the orlop deck, below the waterline, a place which had never seen the light of day since Frobisher had been built at Lorient, there was an air of permanence. On deck, in that other world, which he understood, Bolitho knew the hour was close to noon, the sky almost empty of cloud. In the sick-bay, time had no measure.

  Lefroy was regarding him thoughtfully, more like a country parson than ever in the curious white smock he favoured when working among the wounded.

  He said, ‘Another has died, Sir Richard.’ He sighed. ‘Two amputations. A strong man, but….’ He shrugged, almost apologetically. ‘Miracles are hard to come by.’

  ‘Yes. Captain Tyacke told me. Fifteen killed in all. Too many.’

  Lefroy heard the bitterness, and wondered at it. But he said, ‘His name was Quintin.’

  ‘I know. He was a Manxman. I spoke with him one night when it was his trick at the wheel.’ He repeated, ‘Too many.’

  He glanced at the spiralling lanterns, and said, ‘It’s no better.’

  Lefroy gestured to a chair. ‘It was most unfortunate that the musket was discharged so close to your face. It could only aggravate the original injury.’

  Bolitho sat and leaned back in the chair. ‘I would be dead but for that Royal Marine’s aim, my friend!’

  Lefroy was wiping his hands, but thinking of the hours which had followed the fanatical attack on the flagship. He had only served under one admiral before, and could not have imagined him visiting the orlop as Bolitho had done, to talk with the wounded, or to take a hand in a strong clasp, and watch the life ebb from a man’s face.

  ‘I shall try this patch again.’ The steely fingers adjusted a patch and placed it firmly over Bolitho’s uninjured eye. The fingers again. Probing, stinging, another kind of ointment. He felt the heat of a lamp, so close that he could smell the wick. His eyelid was held, the eye wide open, while Lefroy said, ‘Look right. Look left. Up. Down.’

  He tried not to clench his fists, to contain the rising fear. What he had known from the beginning, when he had been unable to see the sergeant who had been right beside him. What he had been unable to accept.

  Lefroy said, ‘Anything?’ He bit his lip as Bolitho shook his head.

  ‘Nothing. Not a glimmer.’

  Lefroy replaced the lantern. He had held it very close, so there could be no deception.

  He untied the patch and turned away from the chair.

  Bolitho looked around him. Everything the same as before; everything completely different.

  He said quietly, ‘As you said, miracles are hard to come by.’

  Lefroy said, ‘Yes,’ and watched Bolitho stand again, the casual way he adjusted his coat, then touched his hip as if he expected to find his sword still there. A remarkable man, one who had been wounded several times in the service of his King and country, although he somehow doubted if the admiral would regard it in that light.

  ‘I shall prepare something for it, Sir Richard. It should afford you no discomfort.’

  Bolitho glanced at his reflection in a hanging mirror. How could it be? The same face, the same eyes, the same lock of hair which hid the deep scar there.

  He thought of Catherine, that night in Antigua when he had found her again. When he had stumbled in a shaft of light. Now he would not stumble; there was nothing to deceive him.

  ‘When we return to Malta, Sir Richard….’ He was caught off guard as Bolitho answered, ‘Tomorrow morning, early, if Mr Tregidgo can be believed.’

  ‘I was going to suggest that you might visit a local doctor. I am no expert in this field.’

  Bolitho touched his arm and reached for the door. ‘See to the wounded. I shall be all right.’

  On the quarterdeck once more, he stood for a few minutes staring at the dark blue water, the spray leaping over the beakhead with a movement like flying fish.

  Tyacke had been waiting for him, but Bolitho knew he would never admit it.

  ‘All well, sir?’

  Bolitho smiled at him, warmed by his concern. A man who had suffered so much, and had never been allowed to forget it; who had almost broken when the woman he had loved had turned away. And all I think about is what Catherine will see when she looks at me again.

  He said, ‘I shall walk with you a while, James.’ He paused. ‘But for Sergeant Bazely, I would not be doing that!’

  Avery had been looking at the signals log with Singleton, the midshipman in charge. Bolitho had been down on the orlop for only a short while, although it had felt like hours.

  He heard Bolitho say, ‘There may be some letters for us when we anchor – that would sweeten the pill, eh?’

  He heard them laugh, saw some seamen look up to watch them pass.

  Midshipman Singleton said, ‘My ambition is to be like that, sir.’

  Avery turned sharply, surprised by the seriousness and the sincerity of this youth who had seen men die screaming on this same deck.

  He said, ‘Keep to your studies, my lad. One day you might remember what you just told me. I hope you do.’ He stared unseeingly at the open log. ‘For all our sakes!’

  Singleton was still gazing at the two pacing figures, remembering how the admiral had gone to speak to each of the survivors from the brig Black Swan. It had been impossible to save the brig, and she had been set alight to prevent her capture and repair by the Algerines.

  He would remember that most of all. Black Swan’s young commander, wounded, but too stricken to accept attention while he had watched the dirty column of smoke against the blue sky. The end of his ship. He had heard the lieutenants saying it would finish his career too, at a court-martial table.

  Bolitho had joined him by the nettings and had gripped his uninjured arm, held it until the other officer had turned towards him.

  Singleton could still hear it. The worst lies behind you now. Think only of the next horizon.

  He turned to Avery, but the tall lieutenant with the tawny eyes and the grey streaks in his hair was gone.

  The first lieutenant called wearily, ‘When you are through with your dreams, Mr Singleton, I would be obliged if you would bring me your log!’


  Singleton stammered, ‘Aye, aye, sir!’

  Order and routine. But for him, things would never be quite the same again.

  Daniel Yovell, Bolitho’s round-shouldered secretary, dripped the red, official wax on to yet another envelope before sealing it. Then he shifted slightly in his chair, and peered through the salt-dappled stern windows, where the sun was touching the bright sails of some local craft as Frobisher made her final approach. He heard Allday moving restlessly in the sleeping cabin, still brooding over the short, savage fight on the upper deck when one twist of the Algerine’s great blade had rendered him helpless to defend his admiral. His friend.

  Yovell’s frown softened slightly. People mocked him behind his back. Old Yovell and his Bible. But it had helped him in more ways in the past than people would ever know. Allday had no such release.

  He was here now, looking at the pile of letters and despatches which had kept Bolitho, and Yovell’s pen, busy for much of the time since the encounter with the chebecks.

  Allday asked, ‘What d’you think will happen?’

  Yovell adjusted his small gold-rimmed spectacles. ‘It depends. On what orders are waiting for us in Malta. On what the patrols may or may not have discovered about the two frigates at Algiers. I sometimes wonder if anyone ever takes heed of all this intelligence.’ He made another attempt, for he was a kindly man. ‘Try to forget what happened that day. You did your best. The pirate, from what I’ve heard, was a giant, and a savage, probably filled with some devil’s potion as well as an unholy lust to kill.’ He added gently, ‘We get no younger, John. We sometimes forget that.’