Honour This Day

by Alexander Kent

  He said, “Captain Price—” He paused, expecting Somervell to interrupt, or to voice some scathing comment. He did not.

  “He made a practice of patrolling that section of the Main where he was eventually forced to abandon Consort. He took careful note of everything he saw, and searched or destroyed some twenty enemy vessels in the process. Given time—”

  This was Somervell’s cue. “It ran out for him.” He leaned forward in his chair, his pale eyes unblinking despite the harsh glare. “And you have actually discussed some of this secret matter with, er, a Commander Imrie?” He spoke the man’s name indifferently, as a landowner might speak of a lowly farm labourer. “That is surely an extra risk?”

  Bolitho replied, “Imrie is an intelligent officer, shrewd too. When I spoke to my other commanders earlier I had the impression that they were convinced I intended to try and cut out the Consort, or Intrépido as she has been renamed.”

  Somervell pressed his fingertips together. “You have done your work well, Sir Richard!”

  Bolitho continued, “Imrie would guess immediately that I had something else in mind. He knew that his Thor is too heavy and slow for a cutting-out expedition.”

  “I am relieved to know that you have told him no more at present.”

  Bolitho lowered his eyes to the chart, unnerved that Somervell could get under his skin so easily.

  “Every year, Spanish treasure convoys set sail from the Main with each ship carrying a King’s ransom. Between them, the church and the army have raped the continent, and now the King of Spain needs gold all the more. His French masters are making certain of their share.”

  Somervell stood up and walked casually to the chart. Everything he did looked bored and unhurried, but his reputation as a swordsman made a lie of that.

  He said, “When I first came out here at His Majesty’s direction— ” He dabbed his mouth with a silk handkerchief and Bolitho thought it was to hide a small smile, “I considered that the capture of such treasure might be just another dream. I know that Nelson has had some luck, but that was at sea where the chance of finding such booty is even more difficult.”

  He traced the lines with one finger. “La Guaira is well defended. It is where they will have taken the Consort.”

  “With respect, my lord, I doubt that. La Guaira is the gateway to the capital, Caracas, but it is not suitable to refit a man-of-war, and it seems likely she will have been damaged after driving ashore.” Before Somervell could disagree he touched the coast away from La Guaira. “Here, my lord, Puerto Cabello, seventy miles to the west’rd. It would be a far more likely destination.”

  “Hmm.” Somervell leaned over the chart and Bolitho noticed a livid scar below his ear. A close call, he thought grimly.

  Somervell continued, “It is rather near to your intended operation. I am really not convinced.” He stood up and walked around the cabin as if pacing out a rectangle. “Price saw vessels at anchor, and I have had reports that treasure-ships are using La Guaira. The place is well defended, with at least three fortresses, and as Consort discovered to her cost, some other batteries, probably horse-artillery, for good measure.” He shook his head. “I don’t like it. If we still had the frigate it might, and I only say might, be different. Should you attack, and the Dons repulse you, we shall toss away every chance of surprise. The King of Spain would lose a fleet, rather than surrender his gold. I am not convinced.”

  Bolitho watched him and felt strangely calm. In his mind the hazy plan had become suddenly real, like a shoreline hardening through a dawn mist. War at sea was always a risk. It took more than skill and plain courage; it took what his friend Thomas Herrick would describe as the work of Lady Luck. Friend? Was he still that after what had happened?

  “I am prepared to take that chance, my lord.”

  “Well, maybe I am not!” Somervell swung round, his eyes cold. “There is more than glory at stake here!”

  “I never doubted it, my lord.”

  They faced one another, each testing the other’s intentions.

  Somervell said suddenly, “When I first came to this damned place I imagined that some well-tried and gallant captain would be sent to seek out and capture one of the galleons. ” He almost spat out the word. “I was informed that a squadron would eventually come and seal off the escape routes which these Spanish ladies take on their passage to the Canaries and their home ports.” He held out one hand as if about to bow. “Instead, you are sent, like a vanguard, to give the matter weight, to carry it through no matter what. So if we fail, the enemy victory will seem all the greater—what do you say about that?”

  Bolitho shrugged. “I think it can be done.” It came to him like a cry in the night. Somervell needed it to succeed more than anyone. Because of disfavour at court or because he was in some sort of trouble which a share of the prize-money would readily take care of?

  He said flatly, “There is no time left, my lord. If we wait until reinforcements arrive from England, and I must stress that I am only expecting three more liners, the whole world will be after us. A victory may help our finances, but I can assure you that it will more than damage the Franco-Spanish alliance.”

  Somervell sat down and carefully arranged his coat to give his thoughts time to settle.

  He said irritably, “The secret will out anyway.”

  Bolitho watched him pout his lips and tried not to imagine them touching her neck, her breast.

  Then Somervell smiled; it made him appear momentarily vulnerable. “Then I agree. It shall be done as you describe. I am empowered to get you any assistance you need.” The smile vanished. “But I cannot help you if—”

  Bolitho nodded, satisfied. “Yes, my lord, that word if can mean so much to a sea-officer.”

  He heard someone hailing a boat, the clatter of oars nearby and guessed that Somervell had planned his departure, like his visit, to the minute.

  Bolitho said, “I shall tell Captain Haven at once.”

  Somervell was only half-listening but he said, “As little as possible. When two men share a secret, it is no longer a secret.” He looked at the screen door as Ozzard entered carrying his hat with elaborate care.

  Somervell said quietly, “I am glad we met. Though for the life of me I cannot imagine why you insisted on taking this mission.” He eyed him quizzically. “A death-wish perhaps? You must surely have no need for more glory.” Then he turned on his heel and strode from the cabin.

  At the entry port he glanced indifferently at the rigid marines and waiting side-party, then at Imrie’s lanky shape by a poop ladder.

  “I would imagine that the Lady Belinda is displeased about your zest for duty so soon after your recent victory?” He smiled wryly, then walked to the entry port without another glance.

  Bolitho watched the smart launch being pulled away from Hyperion’s shadow and pondered what they had discussed; more, what they had left unsaid.

  The reference to Belinda, for instance. What had Somervell expected to incite? Or was it merely something he could not restrain when neither of them had once mentioned Catherine?

  Bolitho looked at the nearest anchored brig, the Upholder. Very like Adam’s command, he thought.

  Haven moved nearer and touched his hat. “Any orders, Sir Richard?”

  Bolitho pulled out his watch and snapped open the guard. Exactly noon, yet it felt like no time since he had left to visit Thor.

  “Thank you, Captain Haven.” Their eyes met, and Bolitho could feel the other man’s reserve, a wariness which was almost physical. “I shall require all our captains on board at the close of the afternoon watch. Bring them aft to my quarters.”

  Haven swallowed. “The rest of our vessels are still at sea, sir.”

  Bolitho glanced round, but the guard was dismissed, and only a few idlers and the master’s mate of the watch were nearby.

  He said, “I intend to up-anchor within the week, as soon as there is wind enough to fill our canvas. We shall sail southwest to the Main and sta
nd off La Guaira.”

  Haven had ruddy, sunburned cheeks which matched his hair, but they seemed to pale. “That’s six hundred miles, sir! In this ship, without support, I’m not certain—”

  Bolitho lowered his face and said, “Have you no stomach for it, man? Or are you seeking an early retirement?” He hated himself, knowing that Haven could not hit back.

  He added simply, “I need you, and so does this ship. It has to be enough.” He turned away, despairing at what he saw in Haven’s eyes.

  He noticed Imrie and called, “Come with me, I wish to pick your brains.”

  Bolitho winced as a shaft of sunlight lanced down through the mizzen shrouds. For just those few seconds his eye was completely blind, and it was all he could do not to cry out.

  A death-wish, Somervell had said. Bolitho groped into the poop’s shadows and felt the bitterness coursing through him. Too many had died because of him, and even his friends were damaged by his touch.

  Imrie ducked his head beneath the poop and walked beside him into the gloom between decks.

  “I have been thinking, Sir Richard, and I’ve a few ideas—”

  He had not seen the dismay on his admiral’s face, nor could he guess how his simple remarks were like a lifeline for him.

  Bolitho said, “Then we shall quench our thirst while I listen.”

  Haven watched them leave the quarterdeck and called for the signals midshipman. He told the boy the nature and time of the signal for the other captains to repair on board, then turned as the first lieutenant hurried towards him.

  Before the lieutenant could speak Haven rasped, “Do I have to perform your duties too, damn you?” He strode away adding, “By God, if you cannot do better, I’ll see you cast ashore for good!”

  Parris stared after him, only his tightly bunched fists giving a hint of his anger and resentment.

  “And God damn you too!” He saw the midshipman staring owlishly at him and wondered if he had spoken aloud. He grinned wearily. “It’s a fine life, Mr Mirrielees, provided you hold your tongue!”

  At eight bells that afternoon, the signal was run up to the yard. It was begun.

  4 STORM WARNING

  BOLITHO stood in the centre of the deserted boatshed and allowed his eyes to grow accustomed to its shapes and shadows. It was a great, ramshackle building, lit by just a few guttering lanterns which swayed on long chains to reduce the risk of fire, and which gave the impression that the place was moving like a ship.

  It was evening outside, but unlike the previous ones the darkness was alive with sounds, the creak and slap of palm fronds, the uneasy ripple of wavelets beneath the crude slipway upon which the water-lighter had been prepared for its passage south. The boatshed had been a hive of activity, with shipwrights and sailors working against time to rig extra bilge pumps and fit iron crutches along the bulwarks so that it could be manhandled by long sweeps when required.

  Bolitho felt the loose sand in his shoes from his walk along the foreshore while he went over his plans for the hundredth time. Jenour had kept him close company, but had respected his need to be alone, at least with his thoughts.

  Bolitho listened to the lap of water, the gentle moan of wind through the weather-worn roof. They had prayed for wind; now it might rise and turn against them. If the lighter was swamped before it could reach the rendezvous he must decide what to do. He would either have to send Thor inshore unsupported, or call off the attack. He thought of Somervell’s eyes, of the doubt he had seen there. No, he would not back down from the attack; it was pointless to consider alternatives.

  He glanced around at the black, inert shadows. Skeletons of old boats, frames of others yet to be completed. The smells of paint, tar and cordage. It was strange that it never failed to excite him even after all the years at sea.

  Bolitho could recall the sheds at Falmouth, where he and his brother, Hugh, and sometimes his sisters had explored all the secret places, and had imagined themselves to be pirates and princesses in distress. He felt a stab in his heart as he pictured his child, Elizabeth. How she had plucked at his epaulettes and buttons when he had first seen her, had picked her up so awkwardly.

  Instead of drawing him and Belinda closer, the child had done the opposite. One of their disputes had been over Belinda’s announcement that she wanted her daughter to have a governess and a proper nurse to care for her. That, and the proposed move to London, had sparked it off.

  She had exclaimed on one occasion, “Because you were raised in Falmouth with other village children, you cannot expect me to refuse Elizabeth the chance to better herself, to take proper advantage of your achievements.”

  It had been a difficult birth, while Bolitho had been away at sea. The doctor had warned Belinda against having another child, and a coldness had formed between them which Bolitho found hard to accept and understand.

  She had said sharply on another occasion, “I told you from the beginning, I am not Cheney. Had we not looked so much alike I fear you would have turned elsewhere!”

  Bolitho had wanted to break down the barrier, take her to him and pour out his anguish. To tell her more of the damage to his eye, admit what it might mean.

  Instead he had met her in London, and there had been an unreal, bitter hostility which both of them would regret.

  Bolitho touched his buttons and thought of Elizabeth again. She was just sixteen months old. He stared around with sudden desperation. Would she never play in boatsheds like this one? Romp on the sand and come home filthy to be scolded and loved? He sighed, and Jenour responded immediately. “ Thor should be well on her way, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho nodded. The bomb-vessel had sailed the previous night. God alone knew if spies had already gleaned news of her proposed employment. Bolitho had made certain that rumours had been circulated that Thor was taking the lighter in tow to St Christopher’s, and even Glassport had put aside his resentment to provide some deck cargo with the senior officer’s name and destination plainly marked.

  Anyway, it was too late now. Perhaps it had been so when he had insisted on sailing in advance of his new squadron, to deal with the King’s need for gold in his own way. Death-wish. It stuck in his mind like a barb.

  He said, “Imrie will doubtless be glad to be at sea.”

  Jenour watched his upright figure and saw that he had removed his hat and loosened his neckcloth as if to draw every benefit from this last walk ashore.

  Bolitho did not notice the glance, but was thinking of his other commanders. Haven had been right about one thing. The remaining three vessels of his small force had not yet returned to English Harbour. Either Glassport’s schooner had been unable to find them, or they had separately decided to drag out their time. He thought of their faces when they had gathered in the great cabin. Thynne, of the third-rate Obdurate which was still completing repairs to storm-damage, was the only post-captain amongst them. Bolitho’s main impression had been one of youth, the other that of polite wariness. They had all known the dead Price, and perhaps they saw in Bolitho’s strategy something stolen, by which their admiral intended to profit.

  He had remarked as much to Jenour, not because his young flag-lieutenant had either the experience or the wisdom to comment, but because he needed to share it with someone he could trust.

  Typically, Jenour had insisted, “They all know your record, Sir Richard. That is enough for any man!”

  Bolitho glanced at him now. A pleasant, eager young man who reminded him of no one. Maybe that was the reason for his choice. That and his unnerving knowledge of his past exploits, ships and battles.

  The three brigs, Upholder, Tetrarch and Vesta, would weigh tomorrow and sail with their flagship. It was to be hoped they did not run down on some enemy frigates before they reached the Main. The brigs mounted only forty-two pop-guns between them. If only the one sloop-of-war had received his recall signal. The Phaedra at least looked like a small frigate, and in proper hands could double as one. Or was he again thinking of his first command, and
the luck he had enjoyed with her?

  Bolitho walked slowly to the end of the slipway where it dipped into the uneasy catspaws. The water looked like ebony, with only occasional shadows and reflections from riding-lights, or as in Hyperion’s case, the checkered lines of open gunports. He felt the warm breeze stir his coat-tails and tried to picture his chart, the uncertainties which marked each of the six hundred miles as surely as any beacons.

  Bolitho tried not to become irritated when he thought of Haven. He was no coward, but had shown himself to be beset by other, deeper anxieties. Whatever he really believed about being given command of a veteran like Hyperion, Bolitho knew differently. Old she might be, but she was a far better sailer than most. He smiled sadly, recalling her as she had been when he had first taken command as a young captain. She had been in commission so long without entering harbour for a refit that she was unbearably slow. Even with her copper-sheathing, the weed on her bottom had been yards long, so that under full sail she could only manage half the speed of her companions.

  It was unusual for any captain to antagonise his admiral, whether he hated him or not. The climb to promotion was hard enough without flinging down more obstacles. Haven refused every offer of personal contact, and when, on the passage from England, tradition had insisted on his presence at table while Bolitho had entertained some of the junior officers, he had kept to himself. Alone amongst so many. He thought of the picture of Haven’s pretty wife. Was she the cause of his moods? Bolitho grimaced in the darkness. That he would understand well enough.

  A shadowy fishing-boat slipped past the nearest anchored brig. She could be carrying a message to the enemy. If the Dons found out what they intended, the admiral in Havana would have a whole squadron at sea within hours of receiving the news.

  It was time to return to the jetty where his barge would be waiting, but he felt a reluctance to leave. It was peaceful here, an escape from danger and the call of duty.