Honour This Day

by Alexander Kent

  Jenour stared. Bolitho had called him by name. It was probably a mistake.

  Bolitho said, “We will transfer to Thor before dusk. It must be smartly done, Stephen, for we have a long way to travel.”

  It was not a mistake. Jenour seemed to glow. He stammered, “Your coxswain is waiting outside, Sir Richard.” He watched as Bolitho strode across the cabin, then chilled as he cannoned into a chair which Haven must have moved.

  “Are you all right, Sir Richard?” He fell back as Bolitho turned towards him. But this time there was no anger in his sensitive features. Bolitho said quietly, “My eye troubles me a little. It is nothing. Now send in my cox’n.”

  Allday walked past the lieutenant and said, “I have to speak my piece, Sir Richard. When you goes across to that bomb,” he almost spat out the word, “I’ll be beside you. Like always, an’ I don’t give a bugger, beggin’ your pardon, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho retorted, “You’ve been drinking, Allday.”

  “A bit, sir. Just a few “wets” afore we leave the ship.” He put his head on one side like a shaggy dog. “We will, won’t we, sir?”

  It came out surprisingly easily. “Yes, old friend. Together. One more time.”

  Allday regarded him gravely, sensing his despair. “Wot is it, sir?”

  “I nearly told that youngster, Jenour. Nearly came right out with it.” He was talking to himself aloud. “That I’m terrified of going blind.”

  Allday licked his lips. “Young Mr Jenour looks on you as a bit of a hero, sir.”

  “Not like you, eh?” But neither of them smiled.

  Allday had not seen him like this for a long while, not since . . .

  He cursed himself, took the blame for not being here when he was needed. It made him angry when he compared Haven with Captain Keen, or Herrick. He looked around the cabin where they had shared and lost so much together. Bolitho had nobody to share it with, to lessen the load. On the messdecks the Jacks thought the admiral wanted for nothing. By Jesus, that was just what he had. Nothing.

  Allday said, “I know it’s not my place to say it, but—”

  Bolitho shook his head. “When did that ever stop you?”

  Allday persisted, “I don’t know how to put it in officers’ language like.” He took a deep breath. “Cap’n Haven’s wife is havin’ a baby, probably dropped it by now, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  Bolitho stared at him. “What of it, man?”

  Allday tried not to release a deep breath of relief as he saw the impatience in Bolitho’s grey eyes.

  “He thinks that someone else may be the father, so to speak.”

  Bolitho exclaimed, “Well, even supposing—” He looked away, surprised, when he ought not to have been, at Allday’s knowledge. “I see.” It was not the first time. A ship in dock, a bored wife and a likely suitor. But it had taken Allday to put his finger on it.

  Bolitho eyed him sadly. How could he leave him behind? What a pair. One so cruelly wounded by a Spanish sword thrust, the other slowly going blind.

  He said, “I shall write some letters.”

  They looked at each other without speaking. Cornwall in late October. Grey sky, and rich hues of fallen leaves. Chipping-hammers in the fields where farmers took time to repair their walls and fences. The elderly militia drilling in the square outside the cathedral where Bolitho had been married.

  Allday moved away towards Ozzard’s pantry. He would ask the little man to write a letter for him to the innkeeper’s daughter in Falmouth, though God alone knew if she would ever get it.

  He thought of Lady Belinda and the time they had found her in the overturned coach. And of the one named Catherine who might still harbour feelings for Bolitho. A fine-looking woman, he thought, but a lot of trouble. He grinned. A sailor’s woman, no matter what airs and graces she hoisted at her yards. And if she was right for Bolitho, that was all that mattered.

  Alone at his table Bolitho drew the paper towards him and watched the sunlight touch the pen like fire.

  In his mind he could see the words as he had written them before. “My dearest Belinda.”

  At noon he went on deck for his walk, and when Ozzard entered the cabin to tidy things he saw the paper with the pen nearby. Neither had been used.

  6 “IN WAR THERE ARE NO NEUTRALS―”

  THE TRANSFER from Hyperion to the bomb-vessel Thor was carried out just before sunset, without mishap. Men and weapons with extra powder and shot were ferried across, the boats leaping and then almost disappearing between the crests of a deep swell.

  Bolitho watched from the quarterdeck while Hyperion lay hove-to, her canvas booming in protest, and once again marvelled at the sunset’s primitive beauty. The long undulating swell, like the boats and their labouring crews, seemed to glow like rough bronze, while even the faces around him looked unreal; like strangers.

  With two of Hyperion’s boats and thirty of her men safely transferred, Bolitho made the final crossing in a jolly-boat.

  He had barely been received aboard Thor before he saw Hyperion’s yards swinging round, her shadowed outline shortening as she turned away to follow the two brigs into the last of the sunset.

  If Commander Ludovic Imrie was bothered by having his flag officer coming aboard his modest command, he did not show it. He displayed more surprise when Bolitho announced that he did not intend to wear his epaulettes, and suggested that Imrie, as Thor’s commander, should follow his example.

  He had remarked calmly, “Your people know you well enough. I trust that they will know me too when this affair is finished!”

  Bolitho was able to forget Hyperion and the others as they headed further and further away towards Puerto Cabello. He could feel the tension mount around him as Thor made more sail and steered, close-hauled, towards the invisible shoreline.

  Hour followed hour, with hushed voices calling from the chains where two leadsmen took regular soundings, so that their reports could be checked carefully against the chart and the notes Bolitho had made after his meeting with Captain Price.

  The noise was loud, but deceptive. Astern on its tow-line, the clumsy lighter was pumped constantly in a battle which Imrie had admitted had begun within hours of leaving harbour. Any rise in the sea brought instant danger from flooding, and now, with both Thor’s heavy mortars and their crews on board, the lighter’s loss would spell disaster.

  Bolitho prowled restlessly around the vessel’s quarterdeck and pictured the land in his mind, as he had seen it that late afternoon. He had made himself climb aloft just once more, this time to the maintop, and through a rising haze had seen the tell-tale landmarks of La Guaira. The vast blue-grey range of the Caracas Mountains, and further to the west the impressive saddle-shaped peaks of the Silla de Caracas.

  Penhaligon could be rightfully proud of his navigation, he thought. Allday barely left his side after they had come aboard, and Bolitho could hear his uneven breathing, his fingers drumming against the hilt of a heavy cutlass.

  It made Bolitho touch the unfamiliar shape of the hanger at his belt. The prospect of action right inside the enemy’s territory occupied everyone’s mind, but Bolitho doubted if Allday had missed his decision to leave the old family sword behind in Hyperion. He had almost lost it once before. Allday would be remembering that too, thinking Bolitho had left it with Ozzard only because he believed he might not return.

  Adam would wear the sword one day. It would never fall into enemy hands again.

  Later, in Imrie’s small cabin, they peered at the chart behind shuttered stern windows. Thor was cleared for action, but her chance would come only if the first part succeeded. Bolitho traced the twisting shallows with the dividers, as Price must have done before his ship had driven ashore. He felt the others crowding around and against him. Imrie and his senior master’s mate, Lieutenant Parris, and Thor’s second lieutenant, who would cover the attack.

  Bolitho wondered momentarily if Parris was thinking about the floggings, which had been cancelled at Haven’s order. Or
of the fact that Haven had insisted that the two culprits should be included in the raiding party. All the bad eggs in one basket maybe, he thought.

  He pulled out his watch and laid it beneath a low-slung lantern.

  “Thor will anchor within the half-hour. All boats will cast off immediately, the jolly-boat leading. Soundings must be taken, but not unnecessarily. Stealth is vital. We must be in position by dawn.” He glanced at their grim expressions. “Questions?”

  Dalmaine, Thor’s second lieutenant, raised his hand.

  “What if the Don has moved, sir?”

  It was amazing how easy they found it to speak up, Bolitho thought. Without the intimidating vice-admiral’s epaulettes, and in their own ship, they had already spoken of their ideas, their anxieties as well. It was like being in a frigate or a sloop-of-war, all over again.

  “Then we will be unlucky.” Bolitho smiled and saw Jenour’s eyes watching the brass dividers as he tapped the chart. “But there have been no reports of any large ships on the move.”

  The lieutenant persisted, “And the battery, sir. Suppose we cannot take it by surprise?”

  It was Imrie who answered. “I would suggest, Mr Dalmaine, that all your pride in your mortars will have been misplaced!”

  The others laughed. It was the first healthy sign.

  Bolitho said, “We destroy the battery, then Thor can follow through the sandbars. Her carronades will more than take care of any guardboats.” He stood up carefully to avoid the low beams. “And then we shall attack.”

  Parris said, “And if we are repulsed, Sir Richard?”

  Their eyes met across the small table. Bolitho studied his gipsy good looks, the reckless candour in his voice. A West Country man, probably from Dorset. Allday’s blunt words seemed to intrude, and he thought of the small portrait in Haven’s cabin.

  He said, “The treasure-ship must be sunk, fired if possible. It may not prevent salvage, but the delay will be considerable for the Don’s coffers!”

  “I see, sir.” Parris rubbed his chin. “The wind’s backed. It could help us.” He spoke without emotion, not as a lieutenant who might well be dead, or screaming under a Spanish surgeon’s knife by morning, but as a man used to command.

  He was considering alternatives. Suppose, if, perhaps.

  Bolitho watched him. “So shall we be about it, gentlemen?” They met his gaze. Did they know, he wondered? Would they still trust his judgment? He smiled in spite of his thoughts. Haven certainly trusted nobody!

  Imrie said cheerfully, “Och, Sir Richard, we’ll a’ be rich men by noon!”

  They left the cabin, stooping and groping like cripples. Bolitho waited until Imrie alone remained.

  “It must be said. If I fall, you must withdraw if you think fit.”

  Imrie studied him thoughtfully. “If you fall, Sir Richard, it will be because I’ve failed you.” He glanced around the cramped cabin. “We’ll make you proud, you’ll see, sir!”

  Bolitho walked out into the darkness and stared at the stars until his mind was steady again.

  Why did you never get used to it? The simple loyalty. Their honesty with one another, which was unknown or ignored by so many people at home.

  Thor dropped anchor, and as she swung to her cable in a lively current, the boats were manhandled alongside or hoisted outboard with such speed that Bolitho guessed that her commander had been drilling and preparing for this moment since he had weighed at English Harbour.

  He settled himself in the sternsheets of the jolly-boat, which even in the darkness seemed heavy, low in the water with her weight of men and weapons. He had discarded his coat and hat and could have been another lieutenant like Parris.

  Allday and Jenour were crowded against him, and while Allday watched the oarsmen with a critical eye, the flag lieutenant said excitedly, “They’ll never believe this!”

  By “they,” he meant his parents, Bolitho guessed.

  It seemed to sum up his whole command, he decided. Captains or seamen, there were more sons than fathers.

  He heard the grind of long sweeps as the lighter was cast adrift from Thor’s quarter, spray bursting over the blades until two more boats flung over their tow-lines.

  It was a crazy plan, but one which might just work. Bolitho plucked his shirt away from his body. Sweat or spray, he could not be sure. He concentrated on the time, the whispered soundings, the steady rise and fall of oars. He did not even dare to peer astern to ensure that the others were following.

  The boats were at the mercy of the currents and tides around the invisible sandbars. One minute gurgling beneath the keel, and the next with all the oars thrashing and heaving to prevent the hull from being swung in the wrong direction.

  He pictured Parris with the main body of men, and Dalmaine in the lighter with his mortars, the hands bailing to keep the craft afloat. So close inshore he would not dare to use the pumps now.

  There was a startled gasp from the bows, and the coxswain called hoarsely, “ Oars! Easy, lads!”

  With the blades stilled and dripping above either beam, the jolly-boat pirouetted around in the channel like an untidy sea-creature. A man scrambled aft and stared at Bolitho for several seconds.

  He gasped, “Vessel anchored dead ahead, sir!” He faltered, as if suddenly aware that he was addressing his admiral. “Small ’un, sir. Schooner mebbee!”

  Jenour groaned softly. “What damned luck! We’d never—”

  Bolitho swung round. “Shutter the lantern astern!” He prayed that Parris would see it in time. An alarm now would catch them in the open. It was too far to pull back, impossible to slip past the anchored ship without being challenged.

  He heard himself say, “Very well, Cox’n. Give way all. Very steady now.” He recalled Keen’s calm voice when he had spoken with his gun crews before a battle. Like a rider quieting a troubled mount.

  He said, “It’s up to us. No turning back.” He made each word sink in but it was like speaking into darkness or an empty boat. “Steer a little to larboard, Cox’n.” He heard a rasp of steel, and a petty officer saying in a fierce whisper, “No, don’t load! The first man to loose off a ball will feel my dirk in ’is belly!”

  And suddenly there she was. Tall, spiralling masts and furled sails, a shaded anchor light which threw thin gold lines up her shrouds. Bolitho stared at it as the boat glided towards her bows and outstretched jib-boom.

  Was it to be here, like this?

  He heard the oars being hauled inboard with elaborate care, the sudden scramble in the bows where the keen-eyed seaman had first sighted this unexpected stranger.

  Allday muttered restlessly, “Come on, you buggers, let’s be ’avin’ you!”

  Bolitho stood up and saw the jib-boom swooping above him as the current carried them into the hull like a piece of driftwood. Jenour was crouching beside him, his hanger already drawn, his head thrown back as if expecting a shot.

  “Grapnel!”

  It thudded over the bulwark even as the boat surged alongside.

  “At ’em, lads!” The fury of the man’s whisper was like a trumpet call. Bolitho felt himself knocked and carried up the side, seizing lines, scrabbling for handholds, until with something like madness they flung themselves on to the vessel’s deck.

  A figure ran from beneath the foremast, his yell of alarm cut short as a seaman brought him down with a cudgel; two other shapes seemed to rise up under their feet and in those split seconds Bolitho realised that the anchor watch had been asleep on deck.

  Around him he could sense the wildness of his men, the claws of tension giving way to a brittle hatred of anything that spoke or moved.

  Voices echoed below deck, and Bolitho shouted, “Easy, lads! Hold fast!” He listened to one voice in particular rising above the rest and knew it was speaking a language he did not recognise.

  Jenour gasped, “Swedish, sir!”

  Bolitho watched the boarding party prodding at the schooner’s crew, as singly or in small groups they clambered throu
gh two hatches to gape at their change of circumstances.

  Bolitho heard the stealthy movement of oars nearby and guessed that Parris with one of his boats was close alongside. He had probably been expecting a sudden challenge, the raking murder of swivels.

  Bolitho snapped, “Ask Mr Parris if he has one of his Swedish hands on board!” Like most men-of-war Hyperion had the usual smattering of foreign seamen in her company. Some were pressed, others volunteers. There were even a few French sailors who had signed on with their old enemy rather than face the grim prospects of a prison hulk on the Medway.

  A figure strode forward until Allday growled, “Far enough, Mounseer, or whatever you are!”

  The man stared at him, then spat, “No need to send for an interpreter. I speak English—probably better than you!”

  Bolitho sheathed his hanger to give himself time to think. The schooner was unexpected. She was also a problem. Britain was not at war with Sweden, although under pressure from Russia it had been close enough. An incident now, and . . .

  Bolitho said curtly, “I am a King’s officer. And you?”

  “I am the master, Rolf Aasling. And I can assure you that you will live to regret this—this act of piracy!”

  Parris slung his leg over the bulwark and looked around. He was not even out of breath.

  He said calmly, “She’s the schooner Spica, Sir Richard.”

  The man named Aasling stared. “Sir Richard?”

  Parris eyed him through the darkness. “Yes. So mind your manners.”

  Bolitho said, “I regret this inconvenience—Captain. But you are anchored in enemy waters. I had no choice.”

  The man leaned forward until his coat was touching Allday’s unwavering cutlass.

  “I am about my peaceful occasions! You have no right—”

  Bolitho interrupted him. “I have every right.” He had nothing of the kind, but the minutes were dashing past. They must get the mortars into position. The attack had to begin as soon as it was light enough to move into the anchorage.

  At any second a picket ashore might notice something was wrong aboard the little schooner. She might be hailed by a guard-boat, and even if Parris’s men overwhelmed it, the alarm would be raised. The helpless lighter, Thor too if she tried to interfere, would be blown out of the water.