Honour This Day

by Alexander Kent

  Dunstan grinned and brought his arm down with a flourish.

  “Fire!”

  The small brigantine came up floundering into the wind, her foremast gone, her decks covered with torn canvas and piles of rigging. That well-aimed broadside had also shot away the helm, or killed the men around it. The vessel was out of control, and one man who ran on to the poop with a raised musket was shot down instantly by Phaedra’s marksmen.

  “Hands aloft! Shorten sail! Take in the main course!” Dunstan sheathed his sword and watched the other vessel reeling under Phaedra’s lee. The fight was already over. “Stand by to board!” Some of the seamen were clambering into the shrouds, their muskets cocked and ready, while others waited like eager hounds to get to grips. It was rare to catch a pirate. Dunstan watched his first lieutenant bracing his legs to jump as the sloop-of-war sidled heavily alongside. He knew it would be a madman who put up a defence. This was what his sailors did best. They would offer no quarter if one of their own was cut down.

  There was a ragged cheer as the red ensign was hoisted up the brigantine’s mainmast.

  Dunstan glanced at the low-lying shape of the schooner. She must be badly holed, and looked ready to capsize.

  It would mean risking a boat despite the lively waves.

  He called, “Mr Grant! Jolly boat, lively with you! Stand clear if the buggers fire on you!”

  The boat lifted and dipped away from the side, the other lieutenant trying to stay upright as he looked towards the schooner. Once he stared astern, then gestured wildly towards Phaedra.

  Dunstan stared up and then laughed aloud, feeling some of the tension draining out of him.

  Bolitho would have had something to say about that. He shouted, “Run up the Colours!” He saw Meheux clambering inboard again. “We fought under no flag, dammit!”

  He saw his cousin’s face and asked, “How was it, Josh?”

  The lieutenant sheathed his hanger and let out a long sigh.

  “One of the bastards had a go at us, slashed poor Tom Makin across the chest, but he’ll live.”

  They both watched as a corpse splashed down between the two hulls.

  “He’ll not try that again!”

  Leaving the prize crew on board, Phaedra cast off, and under reduced canvas, edged towards the listing schooner.

  Dunstan watched as the boarding party climbed across her sloping deck. Two men, obviously pirates who had been left stranded by the brigantine, charged to the attack. Lieutenant Grant shot one with his pistol; the other ducked and retreated towards the companion-way. A seaman balanced his cutlass and then flung it like a spear. In the telescope’s lens everything was silent, but Dunstan swore he could hear the scream as the man tumbled headlong, the blade embedded in his back.

  “I’ll not go alongside. Stand by to come about! Ready on deck!”

  Dunstan lowered the glass, as if what he saw was too private. The woman, her gown almost torn off her back, yet strangely proud as she allowed the sailors to guide her towards the jolly-boat. Dunstan saw her pause just once as she passed the dead pirate, shot down by Lieutenant Grant. He saw her spit on him and kick the cutlass from his hand. Hate, contempt and anger; but no sort of fear.

  Dunstan looked as the first lieutenant. “Man the side, Josh. This is something we shall all remember.”

  Then later, when Phaedra with her prize making a painful progress astern, sighted the flagship, Dunstan discovered another moment which he would never forget.

  She had been standing beside him, wrapped in a tarpaulin coat which one of the sailors had offered her, her chin uplifted and her eyes wide while she had watched Hyperion’s yards swinging, her sails refilling on to the tack which would bring them together.

  Dunstan had said, “I’ll make a signal now, my lady. May I order my midshipman to spell out your name?”

  She had shaken her head slowly, her eyes on the old two-decker, her reply almost lost in the crack of sails and rigging.

  “No, Captain, but thank you.” Quieter still, “He will see me. I know it.”

  Only once had Dunstan seen her defences weaken. The master’s mate had shouted, “There, lads! The old girl’s goin’!”

  The schooner had lifted her stern and was turning in a circle of foam and bubbles, like a pale hand revolving in a chandler’s butt of grain. The hull was surrounded by bobbing flotsam and a few corpses when suddenly it dived, as if eager to be gone from those who had wronged her.

  Dunstan had glanced at her and had seen her clutching a fan to her breast. He could not be certain but he thought he saw her speak two words. Thank you.

  Afterwards Dunstan had said, “Make it two guineas, Josh. It was more important than either of us realised.”

  10 HARBOUR

  TWO WEEKS after Phaedra’s capture of the pirate brigantine and the release of the captives, Hyperion and Obdurate returned to Antigua.

  The island was sighted at dawn, but as if to taunt their efforts, the wind all but died completely and it was nearly dusk before they edged their way into English Harbour and dropped anchor.

  Bolitho had been on the quarterdeck for most of the afternoon, idly watching the hands trimming the sails while the island seemed to stand away at the same distance.

  Any other time it would have been a proud moment. They had met with ships of Sir Peter Folliot’s squadron, which even now would be escorting the treasure convoy all the remainder of the way to England.

  The lookouts had eventually reported that there were three ships of the line in harbour and Bolitho guessed they were the other vessels of his squadron, with each captain doubtless wondering about his immediate future under Bolitho’s flag.

  That too should have been like a tonic, after the strain of escorting the treasure and fighting a daily battle with the weather. Now, Bolitho was somehow grateful that it would not be until the next day that he could meet his new captains and while they studied him, he would measure the men who would be serving him.

  When both the two-deckers finally dropped their anchors Bolitho had gone aft to his quarters where the great cabin was already transformed by several cheerful lanterns.

  He walked to the stern windows and leaned out over the darkening water to watch a full-blooded sunset, but his mind was still hanging on to that moment when Catherine had been hoisted up the ship’s side in the rough tarpaulin coat.

  It did not seem possible that she had been here in this same cabin, alone with him.

  Alone with him and yet still at a measured distance. He walked around the cabin and looked at his sleeping quarters, which he had given her during her brief stay on board. There should still be some sign of her presence. A breath of her perfume, a garment forgotten perhaps when she had been carried over to Admiral Folliot’s flagship when the two formations of ships had found each other.

  Bolitho crossed to the fine mahogany wine cabinet and ran his fingers along it. Made by one of the best craftsmen, it had been her gift to him after he had left her in London, where he had last seen her until Antigua. He smiled sadly as he remembered his old friend Thomas Herrick’s disapproval when the cabinet had been brought aboard his Lysander, after he had been appointed Bolitho’s flag captain.

  Herrick had always been a loyal friend, but had mistrusted anything and anyone he thought might damage Bolitho’s name and career. Even young Adam had been involved because of the so-called liaison between them for that short, precious time. He had fought a duel with another hot-headed lieutenant at Gibraltar in defence of his uncle’s reputation. It seemed as if everyone Bolitho cared for was hurt or damaged by the contact.

  He turned and looked along the cabin, and saw the marine sentry’s shadow through the screen door. She had stood here, quite still, only her breathing rapid and uncontrolled as she had stared around, the coat bunched to her throat as if she was cold.

  Then she had noticed the cabinet, and for just a moment he had seen her mouth quiver.

  He had said quietly, “It goes everywhere with me.”


  Then she had walked right up to him and had laid her hand on his face. When he had made to put his arms round her she had shaken her head with something like desperation.

  “No! It is hard enough to be here like this. Do not make it worse. I just want to look at you. To tell you how much it means to be alive because of you. God, Fate, I know not which, once brought us together. And now I fear what it might do to us.”

  He had seen the great rent in her gown and had asked, “Can I not have it mended? Your maid, where is she?”

  She had walked away but had kept her eyes on him. “Maria is dead. They tried to rape her. When she fought them with her bare hands they killed her, cut her down like some helpless animal.” She added slowly, “Your little ship came just in time. For me, that is. But I made sure that some of those filthy pigs never breathe the same air again.” She had looked at her hands, at the soiled fan which she still grasped in one of them. “I wish to God I could be there when they make those vermin dance on their ropes!”

  The screen door opened slightly and Jenour looked in at him.

  “The Commodore’s boat has been sighted, Sir Richard.” His eyes moved around the cabin. Maybe he could see her too.

  “Very well.” Bolitho sat down and looked at the deck between his feet. Glassport was the last man he wanted to see just now.

  He thought of that final moment when he had accompanied her across to Sir Peter Folliot’s big three-decker.

  The admiral was a slight, sickly man, but there was nothing wrong with his quick mind. Despite the poor communications he seemed to know all about the preparations for the raid on La Guaira, and the actual amount of booty down to the nearest gold coin.

  “Quite an escapade, eh?” He had greeted Catherine with lavish courtesy, and had announced that he would place her in the care of one of his best frigate captains, who would make all speed to return her to her husband in Antigua.

  Maybe he knew something about that as well, Bolitho thought.

  He had watched the powerful forty-four gun frigate making sail to take her away from him for the last time, and had stayed on deck until only the topgallant sails showed above the evening horizon like pink shells.

  The big Indiaman had gone from the harbour, and he had pictured Catherine with her husband drawing further and further away with each turn of the glass.

  The door opened again and Captain Haven took a few paces into the cabin.

  “I am about to greet the Commodore, Sir Richard. May I signal your captains to repair on board tomorrow forenoon?”

  “Yes.” It was all so empty, so coldly formal. Like a great wall between them.

  Bolitho tried again. “I did hear your wife was expecting a child, Captain Haven.” He recalled how tense Haven had been since he had received his letters from the courier brig. Like a man in a trance; he had even allowed Parris to manage the ship’s affairs for him.

  Haven’s eyes narrowed. “From whom, Sir Richard, may I ask?”

  Bolitho sighed. “Does it matter?”

  Haven looked away. “A baby boy.”

  Bolitho saw his fingers clench around his cocked hat. Haven was driving himself mad.

  “I congratulate you. It must have been on your mind a great deal.”

  Haven swallowed hard. “Yes, er, thank you, Sir Richard—”

  Mercifully, shouted orders floated from the quarterdeck and Haven almost fled from the cabin to meet Commodore Glassport as he came aboard.

  Bolitho stood up as Ozzard entered with his dress coat. Was it really Parris’s child, he wondered? How would they settle it?

  He looked down at Ozzard. “Did I thank you for taking good care of our guest while she was amongst us?”

  Ozzard brushed a speck of dust from the coat. He had mended Catherine’s torn gown. There seemed no end to his skills.

  The little man gave a shy smile. “You did, Sir Richard. It was a pleasure.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out the fan she had brought with her from the sinking schooner.

  “She left this.” He flinched under Bolitho’s stare. “I—I cleaned it up. There was some blood on it, y’see.”

  “Left it?” Bolitho turned the fan over in his hands, remembering it, seeing her expression above it. He turned aside from a lantern as his eye misted over very slightly. He repeated, “Left it?”

  Ozzard watched him anxiously. “All the rush. I expect she forgot.”

  Bolitho gripped the fan tightly. No, she had not forgotten it. Feet tramped towards the door and then Commodore Glassport, followed by the flag captain and Jenour, entered the cabin. Glass-port’s features were bright scarlet, as if he had been running uphill.

  Bolitho said, “Be seated. Some claret perhaps?”

  Glassport seemed to revive at the word. “I’d relish a glass, Sir Richard. Dammee, so much excitement, I think I should have retired long since!”

  Ozzard filled their glasses and Bolitho said, “To victory.”

  Glassport stuck out his thick legs and licked his lips.

  “A very fair claret, Sir Richard.”

  Haven remarked, “There are some letters, Sir Richard; they came in the last packet ship.” He watched as Jenour brought a small bundle and laid it on the table by Bolitho’s elbow.

  Bolitho said, “See to the glasses, Ozzard.” Then, “If you will excuse me, gentlemen.”

  He slit open one letter. He recognised Belinda’s handwriting immediately.

  His glance moved rapidly across the letter, so that he had to stop and begin again.

  My dear husband. It was as if the letter was for someone else. Belinda wrote briefly of her latest visit to London, and that she was now staying in a house which she had leased to await his approval. Elizabeth had had a cold, but was now well and had taken to the nurse whom Belinda had hired. The rest of the letter seemed to be about Nelson, and how the whole country was depending on him as he stood between the French and England.

  Jenour asked quietly, “Not bad news, Sir Richard?”

  Bolitho tucked the letter into his coat. “Really, Stephen, I wouldn’t know.”

  There had been nothing about Falmouth and people there he had known all his life. No concern, not even anger or remorse at the way they had parted.

  Glassport said heavily, “It is a mite quieter here now that the King’s Inspector General is departed.” He gave a deep chuckle. “I would not wish to get on the wrong side of that one.”

  Haven said primly, “His is another world. It is certainly not mine.”

  Bolitho said, “I shall see my captains tomorrow—” He looked at Glassport. “By how much was the Indiaman delayed?”

  Glassport peered at him, his mind already blurred by several large glasses of claret.

  “When the gale eased, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho stood up without realising it. He must have misheard. “Without waiting for Lady Somervell? By what vessel did she take passage after she arrived in the frigate?” Surely even Somervell, so eager to present the treasure to His Majesty in person, would have waited to be assured of Catherine’s safety?

  Glassport sensed his sudden anxiety and said, “She did not leave, Sir Richard. I am still awaiting her instructions.” He seemed confused. “Lady Somervell is at the house.”

  Bolitho sat down again, then glanced across at the fan which lay on the wine cabinet.

  He said, “Once again, please excuse me, gentlemen. I will speak with you tomorrow.”

  Later, as he listened to the trill of calls and the thud of Glassport’s launch alongside, he walked to the stern windows and stared at the land. Pinpricks of light from the harbour and the houses behind it. A slow, glassy swell which tilted Hyperion’s heavy bulk just enough to make the rigging and blocks stir uneasily. A few pale stars. Bolitho took time to count them, to contain the sudden realisation which moments earlier had been disbelief.

  Would you risk everything? The voice seemed to speak out loud.

  Jenour re-entered silently and Bolitho saw his reflection in the thick glass
beside him.

  Bolitho said, “Fetch Allday, if you would, Stephen, and call away my barge. I am going ashore directly.”

  Jenour hesitated, unwilling to pit his beliefs against Bolitho’s sudden determination.

  Jenour had watched him when Glassport had blurted out about the woman Phaedra had snatched from the sea and the nearness of brutal rape and death. It had been like seeing a light rekindled. A cloud passing away.

  He said, “May I speak, Sir Richard?”

  “Have I ever prevented you from doing so, Stephen?” He half turned, feeling the young lieutenant’s uncertainty and discomfort. “Is it about my leaving the ship?”

  Jenour replied huskily, “There is not a man under the flag who would not die for you, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho said, “I doubt that.” He immediately sensed Jenour’s dismay and added, “Please continue.”

  Jenour said, “You intend to visit the lady, Sir Richard.” He fell silent, expecting an instant rebuff. When Bolitho said nothing he continued, “By tomorrow the whole squadron will know. This time next month, all England will hear of it.” He looked down and said, “I—I am sorry to speak out in this fashion. I have no right. It is just that I care very much.”

  Bolitho took his arm and shook it gently. “It took courage to speak as you did. An old enemy, John Paul Jones, was quoted as saying that ‘he who will not risk cannot win.’ Whatever his other faults may have been, a lack of courage was not one of them.” He smiled gravely. “I know the risk, Stephen. Now fetch Allday.”

  On the other side of the pantry door Ozzard withdrew his ear from the shutter and nodded very slowly.

  He was suddenly grateful he had discovered the fan.

  Bolitho barely noticed anything as he strode through the shadows to leave the harbour behind him. Only once he paused to regain his breath, and to try and test his feelings and the depth of his actions. He watched the anchored ships, their open gun-ports glittering across the even swell, the heavier, darker shape of the captured Ciudad de Sevilla. What would become of her? Would she be commandeered or sold to some wealthy merchant company, or even offered in trade to the Spaniards in an attempt to recover Consort? The latter was unlikely. The Dons would be humiliated enough at losing the treasure-ship and having another destroyed under their own fortress without adding to it.