Honour This Day

by Alexander Kent

  She flicked open her fan and moved it in the wind like a bird’s wing.

  “I shall be leaving here quite soon. Perhaps we ought never to have met. We must both try—”

  He reached out and took her wrist, not caring who might see, conscious only that he was about to lose even her, when he had lost everything else.

  “I cannot try! It is hell to love another man’s wife, but that is the truth, in God’s name it is!”

  She did not pull away, but her wrist was rigid in his grasp.

  She answered without hesitation, “ Hell? You can never know what that is unless you are a woman in love with another woman’s husband!” Her voice threw caution aside. “I told you, I would have died for you once. Now, because you seem to think your chosen life is in ruins you can turn again to me! Don’t you know what you’re doing to me, damn you? Yes, I married Lacey because we needed one another, but not in a fashion you would ever understand! I cannot have a child, but then you probably know that too. Whereas your wife has given you a daughter I believe, so where’s the rub, eh?” She tore her arm away, her dark eyes flashing as loose strands of hair broke from under the mantilla. “I shall never forget you, Richard, God help me, but I pray that we never meet again, lest we destroy even that one moment of joy I held so dear!”

  She turned and almost ran through the door.

  Bolitho walked into the adjoining building and received his hat from a footman without even noticing. He saw Parris walking towards him and would have passed without a word had the lieutenant not touched his hat and said, “I have been supervising the last of the treasure-chests, Sir Richard. I can still barely believe what we went through to get them!”

  Bolitho looked at him vaguely. “Yes. I shall note your excellent behaviour in my report to their lordships.” Even that sounded hollow. The aftermath. Letters to Murray’s mother and Dalmaine’s widow, arrangements for prize-money to be paid to the dependents of those others killed or discharged. His despatch would at least guarantee that.

  Parris eyed him worriedly. “I did not speak to you for praise, Sir Richard. Is something wrong?”

  Bolitho shook his head, and felt the wind in his face, just as he could still sense her wrist under his fingers. In hell’s name, what had he expected?

  “No. Why should there be? It will be known as a noble sacrifice, I am given to understand, so be grateful that you serve and do not command!”

  He walked away and Parris turned and saw Allday striding out into the angry sunlight.

  “Sir Richard will require the barge, Cox’n.”

  Allday shook his head. “No, he’ll walk a piece. When he’s wore himself out, then he’ll want the barge.”

  Parris nodded, understanding perhaps for the first time. “I envy the both of you.”

  Allday walked slowly to the balustrade that overlooked the main anchorage. The sea was getting up right enough. He bit on an apple he had obtained from the commodore’s cook. Bloody good job. Blow some of the bitterness clean out of sight.

  He saw his barge standing off from the jetty to avoid scraping the paintwork as lively catspaws spattered the stone stairs with spray. Bolitho was all aback, just when he had believed things were getting better. Bloody women. He had said as much to Ozzard when they had returned in triumph with the treasure-ship. Ozzard had made one of his defensive remarks and Allday, too tired and angry to care, had exclaimed, “What the hell do you know? You’ve never been married!” Strange how it had upset the little man. Allday had decided he would give him one of his precious bone carvings to make up for it. He tossed the apple core into the sun-dried grass and turned to leave. Then he saw her, standing on the terrace, watching him with those eyes of hers. That look could make a man turn to water.

  She met his gaze and said, “Do you remember me? You are Mr Allday.”

  Allday replied carefully, “Why, o’ course I remember you, Ma’am. Nobody could forget what you done for the Captain, as he was then.”

  She ignored the unspoken suggestion in his voice. “I need your help. Will you trust me?”

  Allday felt his defences slipping. She was asking him to trust her. The wife of the high and mighty Inspector General, a man who needed watching if half what he had heard was true. But she had paid out her line first. She was the one who was taking all the risks.

  He grinned slowly. A sailor’s woman. “I will.”

  She moved towards him, and Allday saw the quick movement of her breasts beneath the fine gown. Not so cool and calm as she wanted to appear, he thought.

  “Vice-Admiral Bolitho is not himself.” She hesitated; perhaps she had already gone too far. She had seen the grin fade, the instant hostility in the big man’s eyes.

  “I—I wish to help him, you see—” She dropped her gaze. “In God’s name, Mr Allday, must I beg of you?”

  Allday said, “I’m sorry, Ma’am. We’ve had a lot of enemies over the years, see.” He weighed it up. What was the worst thing that could happen? He said abruptly, “He was nearly blinded.” He felt like ice despite the searing wind, but now he could not stop. “He thinks he’s losing the use of his left eye.”

  She stared at him, the picture leaping into her mind like a stark dream. He had been staring at the sky or the sea when she had found him. Bolitho had looked so defeated, so lost that she had wanted to run to him and take him in her arms, forget security, life itself if only she could comfort and keep him a few moments more. She recalled his voice, the way he had looked at her without seeming to see her.

  She heard herself whisper, “Oh, dear God!”

  Allday said, “Remember, I’ve told you nothin’, Ma’am. I’m often in hot water as it is without you adding more coals to it.” He hesitated, moved by her distress, her sudden loss of poise before him, a common seaman. “But if you can help—” he broke off and touched his hat quickly. He whispered hoarsely, “I sees yer husband hull-down on th’ horizon, Ma’am. I’ll be off now!”

  She stared after him, a great, loping figure in flapping blue jacket and nankeen breeches, one scarred and hurt so badly she could see it on his homely features. But a man so gentle that she wanted to cry for him, for all of them.

  But her husband did not come to her; she saw him walking along the terrace with the lieutenant called Parris.

  When she looked down the sloping pathway which led to the harbour she saw Allday turn and lift his hat to her.

  Just a small gesture, and yet she knew that he had accepted her as a friend.

  The deckhead lanterns in Hyperion’s great cabin spiralled wildly, throwing insane shadows across the checkered deck covering and across the tightly lashed nine-pounders on either side.

  Bolitho sipped a glass of hock, and watched while Yovell finished yet another letter and pushed it across the table for him to sign. Like actors on a stage, he thought, as Ozzard busied himself refilling glasses, and Allday entered and left the cabin like a player who had been given no lines to learn.

  Captain Haven stood by the stern windows, now half-shuttered as the wind, made more fearsome by the darkness, broke the crests from the inshore waves, and flung spray over the anchored ships.

  Bolitho felt the whole ship trembling as she tilted to her cable, and remembered the feeling of disbelief when Dacie had severed the Spaniard’s mooring.

  Haven concluded, “That is everything I can determine, Sir Richard. The purser is satisfied with his storing, and all but one working party has been withdrawn from the shore.” He was speaking carefully, like a pupil repeating a hard-learned lesson to his teacher. “I have been able to replace the three boats too, although they will need some work done on them.”

  An observation, a reminder that it had been his admiral who had abandoned them. Haven was careful not to display his true feelings.

  “Who is in charge of the last party?”

  Haven looked at his list. “The first lieutenant, Sir Richard.”

  Always the title now, after their last clash. Bolitho swilled the hock around his glass. So
be it then. Haven was a fool and must know that his admiral, any flag officer for that matter, could make or destroy his career. Or was it his way of exploiting Bolitho’s sense of fairness?

  Yovell looked over his steel-rimmed spectacles. “I beg your pardon, Sir Richard, but did you intend this despatch to Obdurate to read in this fashion?”

  Bolitho gave a wry smile. “I did.” He did not need to be reminded.

  You are directed and commanded to make ready for sea. Captain Robert Thynne of the other seventy-four could think what he liked. Obdurate was needed now more than ever. The vessels carrying the bulk of the treasure would have to be escorted clear of dangerous waters until they met with ships of Sir Peter Folliot’s squadron, or until they could have the sea-room to manage for themselves. Bolitho would have preferred to bide his time until his own small squadron arrived, but the change of weather had altered all that.

  He turned away from the others, glad of the lanterns’ mellow light as he massaged his eye. It was still aching from his stupid contest with the sun. Or was it another snare of his imagination? He was glad to be aboard this old ship again. Somervell had guessed as much when he had said his farewell.

  Somervell had explained that he and his lady were leaving after the main exodus, aboard a large Indiaman which was daily expected here. Personal comfort rated very high with Somervell.

  Bolitho had seen the other side of the man when he had asked, “I should like to take my leave of Lady Somervell.”

  “Impossible.” Somervell had met his gaze insolently. Bolitho could well imagine those same cold eyes staring along the barrel of a duelling pistol in the dawn light, although it was known he favoured swords for such settlements.

  He had added, “She is not here.”

  Antigua was a small island. If she had wanted to see him she could. Unless Somervell had grown tired of the game and had prevented it. Either way it did not matter now. It was over.

  There was a tap at the door and Lieutenant Lovering, who was the officer-of-the-watch, took a pace into the cabin and reported, “I beg your forgiveness for this intrusion, Sir Richard,” his eyes flickered between Bolitho and Haven, “but a courier brig has been reported running for harbour.”

  Bolitho lowered his eyes. Maybe from England. Letters from home. News of the war. Their lifeline. He thought of Adam, in command of his own brig, probably still carrying despatches for Nelson. Another world away from the heat and fever of the Indies.

  Haven leaned forward. “If there is any mail—” He recovered himself, and Bolitho recalled what Allday had said about his wife expecting a baby.

  Bolitho signed more letters. Recommendations for promotion, for bravery, for transfers to other ships. Letters to the bereaved.

  The lieutenant hesitated. “Will you have any letters for the shore, Sir Richard?”

  Bolitho looked at him. Lovering was the second lieutenant. Waiting for promotion, the chance to prove himself. If Parris fell . . . He shut the idea from his mind. “I think not.” It came out easily. Was it that simple to end something which had been so dear?

  Haven waited until the lieutenant had withdrawn. “First light then, Sir Richard.”

  “Yes. Call the hands as you will, and signal your intentions to Obdurate and the Commissioner of the Dockyard.”

  When Hyperion returned to Antigua the Indiaman would have gone. Would they ever meet again, even by accident?

  “It will take all day to work out of harbour and muster our charges into a semblance of order. This wind will decide then whether to be an ally or a foe.”

  If the treasure-ships and their escort were contained in the shelter of English Harbour for much longer, the Spaniards and perhaps their French allies might even try to counter-attack before the new squadron arrived.

  Left alone in the cabin Bolitho drank some more hock, but although his stomach was empty he was unable to face Ozzard’s meal. With the old ship swaying and groaning around him, and the duty watch being mustered every few minutes, or so it appeared, to secure and lash down some loose gear, it was impossible to rest.

  The hock was good, and Bolitho found time to wonder how Ozzard managed to keep it so cool even in the bilges.

  He toyed with the idea of sending a note to Catherine and dismissed it immediately. In the wrong hands it could ruin her. What it might do to his own career did not seem to matter any longer.

  He heard the clank of pumps and remembered what he had been told about Hyperion’s age and service. It was like an additional taunt.

  He lolled in his favourite chair but was awakened, it seemed within seconds, by Ozzard shaking his arm.

  Bolitho stared at him. The ship was still in darkness, the din and movement as before.

  “The first lieutenant wishes to see you, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho was wide awake. Why not the captain?

  Parris entered, soaked with spray. He looked flushed despite his tan, but Bolitho knew he had not been drinking.

  “What is it?”

  Parris steadied himself against a chair as the deck swayed again. “I thought you should know, Sir Richard. The guardboat reported earlier that a schooner left harbour. One of the commodore’s own vessels, it seems.”

  “Well?” Bolitho knew there was worse to come.

  “Lady Somervell was on board.” He recoiled slightly under Bolitho’s grey stare. “I discovered that she intends to sail round to St John’s.”

  Bolitho stood up and listened to the wind. It was a gale now, and he heard the water surging against the hull like a flood tide.

  “In this, man!” He groped round for his coat. “Viscount Somervell must be informed.”

  Parris watched dully. “He knows. I told him myself.”

  Haven appeared in the screen door, his sleeping attire covered by a boat-cloak. “What’s this I hear?” He glared at Parris. “I shall speak to you later!”

  Bolitho sat down. How could Somervell let her do it? He must have known when he had said it was impossible for her to make her farewell. A small schooner could founder if wrongly handled. He tried to remember who commanded Glassport’s vessels.

  Even in calm weather it was dangerous to make casual passages amongst the islands. Pirates were too commonplace to mention. For every one rotting in chains, or on the gallows, there were a hundred more in these waters.

  He said, “I can do nothing until daylight.”

  Haven regarded him calmly. “If you ask me—”

  He fell silent then added, “I must attend the watch on deck, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho sat down very slowly. I did this to her. He did not know if he had spoken aloud or not, but the words seemed to echo around the cabin like a shot.

  He called to Ozzard, “Rouse my flag lieutenant, if you please.”

  He would send him ashore with a message for Somervell, in bed or not.

  He stood up restlessly and walked to an unshuttered window.

  If I go myself one of us will surely die.

  9 A SLOOP-OF-WAR

  BOLITHO strode out on to the quarterdeck and felt the wind lift under his boat-cloak, and the spray which burst over the weather quarter like tropical rain.

  He held on to the nettings and slitted his eyes against the gale. It was strong but clammy, so that it did nothing to refresh his tired limbs. Two days since they had clawed their way out of English Harbour to assemble their small but priceless convoy. In that time they had barely logged fifty miles.

  By night they rode out the storm under a reefed main-top-sail and little else, while the four transports and the smaller vessels lay hove-to as best they could under savage conditions.

  Secrecy was now of secondary importance and Hyperion burned flares and her vice-admiral’s top-lights to try and hold the ships together. Then as each dawn found them it had taken a full day to reassemble the badly scattered ships and to begin the formation all over again. Everything was wet, and as the men toiled aloft to fight the wind-crazed sails or stumbled to replace their companions on the b
ilge-pumps, many must have wondered what was keeping them afloat.

  Bolitho stared abeam and saw the faint sheen of the sloop-of-war’s topgallants. Phaedra was standing up to windward, heeling every so often as the waves lifted her slender hull like a toy. The brig Upholder was invisible, far ahead in the van, and the other brig Tetrarch was an equal distance astern.

  Bolitho climbed up a few steps on a poop ladder and felt the cloak stream away from him, his shirt already soaked with spray and spindrift. There was Obdurate, half-a-mile astern, her black and buff bows shining like glass as the waves burst into her. It felt strange to have another third-rate in company again, although he doubted if Thynne was thanking him for it. After a long stay in harbour, repairing the last storm battering she had suffered, it was likely that Obdurate’s people were cursing their change of roles.

  Bolitho climbed down to the deck again. There were four seamen at the big wheel, and nearby Penhaligon, the master, was in deep conversation with one of his mates.

  The wind had backed decisively to the south-west and they had been blown many miles off their original course. But if the sailing-master was troubled he did not show it.

  All around, above and along the maindeck, men were working to repair any storm damage. Lines to be replaced or spliced, sails to be sent down, to be patched or discarded.

  Bolitho glanced at the nearest gangway where a boatswain’s mate was supervising the unrigging of a grating.

  Another flogging. It had been worse than usual, even after Ozzard had closed the cabin skylight. The wild chorus of the wind through stays and shrouds, the occasional boom of reefed topsails, and all the while the rattle of drums and the sickening crack of the lash across a man’s naked back.

  He saw blood on the gangway, already fading and paling in the flung spray. Three dozen lashes. A man driven too far in the middle of the storm, an officer unable to deal with it on the spot.

  Haven was in his quarters writing his log, or re-reading the letters which had been brought in the courier bag.