Sword of Honour

by Alexander Kent

  Avery touched his arm. ‘If the order comes, you’ll know they’re trying to board us.’ He gestured toward the guns. ‘Seal the ports and clear the deck. We’ll need every man jack to repel an attack in strength!’

  As they moved to the ladder again, he saw the side of the hull, dull red in the feeble light. If the enemy’s iron burst into this crowded deck, at least the paint would conceal the blood.

  Singleton said, ‘Will it work, sir?’ He sounded very serious, but not afraid.

  Avery thought of all those other times, and replied, ‘If anyone can do it, he can.’

  The light seemed blinding on the upper deck. Avery saw Tyacke turn towards the admiral, one arm half-raised as he said, ‘Now, sir?’

  Bolitho nodded, and gripped his sword against his hip.

  ‘Stand by on the quarterdeck!’

  ‘Ready ho!’

  Tyacke barely raised his voice. ‘Put the helm down!’

  As the wheel was hauled over and the ship began to turn to larboard, men were already running like demons to let go the headsail sheets, spilling out the wind so as not to hamper the ship’s head from swinging.

  Instead of the peace and the menace of their approach, everything was noise and orderly confusion, the sails banging and flapping wildly as the ship continued to turn.

  Bolitho walked to the opposite side and watched the enemy. Perhaps they had been expecting Frobisher to stand downwind to give battle to the leader, exposing her stern to the other frigate. Now it appeared as if they and not Frobisher were turning, separating, one on either bow.

  He glanced aloft, at the writhing sails pressed against masts and yards. The ship was aback, unable to pay off on either tack, but the frigates were in a worse plight, sailing so close to the wind that they had no choice but to alter course. Frobisher was almost hove-to, and might even have lost steerage way, but it made no difference now.

  He shouted, ‘At ’em, lads!’

  The port lids were hauled up, and to the shrill of a whistle the main deck eighteen-pounders trundled their black muzzles out into the sunlight.

  ‘As you bear! Fire!’ That was Lieutenant Pennington, his face scarred from the fight with the Algerines. The leading frigate seemed to turn away, her foremast and rigging reeling over in the carefully-aimed broadside, gun by gun, each shot controlled by Pennington and another lieutenant. Up forward, the breathless crews were already sponging out and ramming home new charges, oblivious to the banging canvas and the yells of topmen high above them.

  ‘As you bear!’ Tyacke’s sword blinked in the sun as he brought it down. ‘Fire!’

  The second frigate had recovered and was already setting more sails, to continue with her original attack or to escape further setbacks, Bolitho could not tell. She was standing across the starboard bow, changing tack, close enough to her damaged consort to be able to see the destruction and the upended guns.

  Bolitho looked at Avery. ‘Now!’

  Avery, with Singleton at his heels, ran for the companion ladder, tugging a whistle from his shirt as he stumbled and almost fell down the last steps.

  Smoky daylight scythed through the gundeck as the port lids opened as one, and the crews threw themselves on the tackles to haul their massive charges towards the enemy. Each ‘Long Nine’, as these guns were nicknamed, weighed three tons, and the naked backs of the seamen were soon shining with sweat.

  Lieutenant Gage was pressed up to his small spy-hole, then he turned, his face wild. ‘On the uproll, lads!’

  Avery heard Singleton shout, ‘Cover your ears, sir!’ Then the world seemed to explode, smoke billowing through the deck, where men were already serving their guns and others waited with handspikes and rammers to compete with their messmates. The same men who served these guns slept and ate beside them; the guns were the first things they saw upon waking every day, and, too often, in dying, the last.

  Each gun captain held up his fist, and Armytage yelled, ‘Ready, sir!’

  ‘Fire!’

  Again the guns crashed inboard on their tackles, but suddenly another whistle shrilled, and the same crews were struggling to secure them and close the ports to prevent the enemy boarders from attacking them in their midst. In their home.

  Armytage was shouting, ‘Arm yourselves!’ As he ran past Avery, he called, ‘We’re going to foul the first bugger, George! We’ve done for the other one!’ He was grinning, mad with excitement, but all Avery could think was that it was the first time he had called him by name.

  On deck, Bolitho watched the second frigate with something like disbelief. An enemy, driven by hatred and revenge, but a thing of beauty, two broadsides from those thirty-two-pounders had reduced her to a mastless wreck. He turned and stared at the mainmast of the frigate which had taken their first, carefully aimed broadside, when Frobisher had caught the enemy completely by surprise. A collision was inevitable; Frobisher had not regained the wind, and the other ship was out of command. Seamen and marines were already running to the point of impact, bayonets and cutlasses shining through the seemingly immovable pall of pale smoke.

  There were cheers, too, as more men came pouring from the lower gundeck, either already armed or snatching up weapons from the chests prepared earlier by the gunner.

  Bolitho saw Captain Wise of the Royal Marines striding, not deigning to run after his men as they crouched by the hammock nettings and searched for targets.

  Shots cracked and whined overhead or smacked through the heavy canvas, and here and there a man fell, or was dragged away by his companions. But their blood was up; no boarder would survive this day.

  He saw Avery and Singleton hurrying toward the quarterdeck; the midshipman was almost knocked over by a charging, wild-eyed marine.

  Tyacke waved his sword. ‘Board ’em, lads! Cut that bloody flag down!’

  Bolitho strained his eyes through the smoke, and saw men already on the frigate’s forecastle. There was resistance, but the harsh blast of a swivel gun scattered the defiant ones like torn rags.

  Singleton’s voice cracked for the first time. ‘They’ve struck, sir! They’re done for!’ He was almost weeping with excitement.

  Bolitho turned to Allday. So it was war again. But even war would not keep him from her.

  A seaman running with a boarding pike slipped on blood and would have fallen, but for Bolitho’s grip on his arm.

  He lifted his eyes in disbelief, and managed to stammer, ‘Thankee, Sir Richard! I be all right now!’

  Allday was about to say something, he did not know what, when he felt the pain again, so intense that he could barely move. But it was not the old wound this time. He saw Bolitho turn and stare at him, as if he would speak, but seemed unable to find the words.

  He heard Avery shout, ‘Hold him!’ Then he saw Bolitho fall. It was like being given new life, new strength; he leaped forward and caught him around the shoulders, holding him, lowering him carefully, everything else without meaning or purpose.

  Men were cheering, some firing their muskets. It meant nothing.

  From the starboard gangway Tyacke saw him fall, but knew he must not leave his men while they boarded the enemy, following his orders. Midshipman Singleton, who had become a man this day, also saw him fall, and was on his knees beside him with Allday and Avery.

  Bolitho turned his face away from the sunlight which lanced down between the shrouds and the limp sails. His eye was stinging in the smoke, and he wanted to rub it. But when he attempted to move, there was no response, no sensation, only numbness.

  Shadows moved across the sun, and he could hear faint cheers, as if they came from another time, another victory.

  They were all here, then. Waiting. A sudden anxiety ran through him.

  Where was Herrick? Herrick should be here ….

  Someone reached around him and dabbed his face with a wet cloth. He recognised the sleeve; it was Lefroy, the bald surgeon.

  He heard Allday’s painful breathing, and needed to tell him, to reassure him. Everything woul
d be the same.

  But when he tried to reach out for him, he realised for the first time that his hand was tightly gripped between Allday’s. Then he saw him, watching him, his hair shaggy against the smoke and the sun.

  Allday murmured, ‘Mr Herrick’s not here, Cap’n. But don’t you fret now.’

  It was wrong that he should be so distressed. One who had done so much. He tried again, and said, ‘Easy, old friend, be easy now.’ He felt Allday nod. ‘No grief, we always knew ….’

  Lefroy stood slowly, and said, ‘He’s gone, I’m afraid.’

  Tyacke was here now, his sword still in his hand. He stood in silence, unable to accept it, and yet knowing that all the others were looking to him. To the captain.

  Then something made him reach down and grip the sobbing midshipman’s shoulder. Like that time at the Nile.

  He said, ‘Haul down his flag, Mr Singleton.’ And then, gazing unseeingly at Allday’s bowed head, ‘Help him, will you? There’s none better for the task.’

  He saw Kellett and the others watching, the fight forgotten, the victory now pointless, empty.

  He turned, as Avery stood and said quietly, ‘Goodbye, dearest of men.’

  As if she had spoken through him.

  It was over.

  Epilogue

  The carriage wheeled into the stable yard and came to a halt with practised ease, and a stable boy ran to take the horses’ heads. To pacify them, perhaps, after so short a journey from the harbour.

  Adam Bolitho opened the door without hesitation. This was the only way he knew, to go through with it.

  He climbed down and stood on the worn cobbles and stared at the old grey house with a certain defiance.

  Young Matthew had remained on the carriage, his face grim and downcast, almost a stranger, like the stable boy.

  It had been Bryan Ferguson’s idea to send the carriage, as soon as he had received word that the frigate Unrivalled had anchored in Carrick Roads.

  Adam glanced around now, at the carpets of daffodils and bluebells amongst the trees, seeing none of it.

  This was the place where he had come for help, for sanctuary, when his mother had died. Then, from midshipman to post-captain, a life full of excitement, elation and pain; and he owed it all to one man, his uncle. And now he, too, was dead. It was still stark and unreal, and yet, in some strange way, he had sensed it.

  When Unrivalled had entered Plymouth after her first weeks under his command, he had known it then. The port admiral, Vice-Admiral Valentine Keen, had put off in his barge to meet him personally. To tell him. We Happy Few.

  Napoleon had escaped from Elba, and a few days later had landed near Cannes, to be greeted not with hostility or fear but like a conquering hero, especially by his marshals and Old Guard, who had never lost their faith in him.

  He had walked the streets of Plymouth, grappling with it, fighting it. His uncle had fallen on the very day that Napoleon had stepped ashore.

  Even through his grief, he had sensed the mood in that seaport which had seen so much. Anger, frustration, a sense of betrayal. He understood their bitterness; there was hardly a village in England which had not lost someone in a war against the old enemy. And in seaports like Plymouth and in garrison towns, there were too many cripples in evidence to allow them to forget.

  In Falmouth, it had been much worse. Falmouth was no city but lived off the sea, and the ships of every size and flag which came and went on the tides. Bad news rides a fast horse, Ferguson had said. Enemies were nothing new to these people; like the sea, the dangers were always there. But this was different, close, personal. Falmouth had lost her most beloved son. The flag above the church of King Charles the Martyr was at half-mast, and idlers had dropped their eyes when he had climbed from his gig, as if they were unable to face him. During the short journey from the town square, past familiar fields where he had seen men and women working together in the warm spring sunlight, some had looked up as the coach with its familiar crest rattled past, as if they still believed, dared to hope, then, as quickly, they had looked away.

  The pleasure of his new command seemed unimportant; there was no one with whom to share it now. Even the names and faces of his ship’s company were blurred, a part of something else, irrelevant.

  He himself had remained composed, withdrawn; he had seen too many men die in battle to be unprepared, or to reveal the distress which was now tearing him apart.

  He saw Ferguson climb down from the carriage, using his solitary arm as if he had never known anything different. He was a good man, a reliable one, and a friend. Ferguson understood him well enough to ensure that he was spared the agony of being greeted by the people who worked here and on the estate, especially his wife Grace, who would have been unable to contain her tears.

  How quiet it seemed, the windows in shadow, watching.

  Ferguson said, ‘We got the news two days back. A cutter came into port. I told Lady Catherine myself. She left for London immediately.’

  Adam turned and looked back at the stables, at the big mare Tamara, tossing her head up and down.

  Ferguson saw his glance, and said, ‘Lady Catherine will come back. She’d not leave Tamara.’ He hesitated, his hand twisting at his belt. ‘John Allday. D’you happen to know ….’

  ‘Safe.’ Bethune had sent a full report to Keen, probably quite a different kind from that which he would write for the Admiralty. But until the others came home, they would not know the full story.

  Keen had tried to explain to him, and Adam had guessed much of it. Frobisher had returned to Malta to land her dead and wounded, although there had been few of either. Bethune, Tyacke, Avery; someone close to Sir Richard must have suggested a sea burial. To avoid the splendid ritual which had attended Nelson’s death, the ostentatious displays of grief and mourning from people who had hated England’s hero in life. To spare Catherine the agony of seeing the same mockery made of her lover’s sacrifice.

  They had buried him at sea. Adam had seen it as vividly as if he had been there. Wrapped in his flag, an admiral of England, at a place marked on a chart of which few would know. Surely no better resting-place, by his old ship Hyperion, and so many of her company whom he had never forgotten.

  He found that he was on the stone steps, and knew Ferguson had stopped by the tall, double doors to allow him the time and the solitude for this reunion.

  It was all exactly as he remembered it, the grave portraits, the great hearth where he had lain with Zenoria, some fresh flowers on a table, the door to the library partly open, as if somebody might appear there; he could even imagine the smell of jasmine.

  He clenched his fists as he saw the sword, lying on a table in a patch of sunshine. Bethune must have sent it with his courier, perhaps not knowing what he should do with it. And Keen had sent a cutter to Falmouth with his own letter of condolence to Catherine. It was strange that he had not mentioned it in Plymouth.

  He picked up the old sword very slowly, and saw the sheet of paper which had been folded beneath it.

  It was Catherine’s writing. What it must have cost her to sit here in anguish, and yet be able to think of him.

  Dearest Adam,

  The sword outwore its scabbard. Wear it with pride, as he always wanted. God bless you.

  Ferguson stepped quietly into the room and watched, holding his breath, as Adam Bolitho unfastened his own sword and clipped the old blade in its place.

  In this room, and in this light, it was not Adam but Richard standing there, all those years ago, and he was deeply moved by it.

  When he looked again, Adam was smiling, and holding out both hands to him.

  It needed no words.

  The last Bolitho had come home.

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly p
ermitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781407009872

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Reissued in the United Kingdom by Arrow Books in 2007

  5 7 9 10 8 6 4

  Copyright © Bolitho Maritime Productions 1997

  Alexander Kent has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  First published in the United Kingdom in 1997 by Century

  First published in paperback in 1998 by Arrow Books

  Arrow Books

  The Random House Group Limited

  20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA

  Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at:

  www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9780099497769