Honour This Day

by Alexander Kent

  Parris began carefully, “The two men for punishment, sir.”

  “Oh, which two? I was beginning to believe that the people did much as they pleased.”

  “Trotter and Dixon, sir. They have not been in any trouble before. Had the fifth lieutenant come to me—” He got no further.

  Haven snapped, “But you were not aboard, sir. No, you were elsewhere, I believe?”

  “Under your orders, sir.”

  “Don’t be impertinent!” Haven shifted on his chair. It reminded Parris of a fisherman he had watched when he had felt something take the hook.

  Haven said, “They were behaving in a disgusting and disorderly fashion! I saw them. As usual I had to stop the rot.”

  “But two dozen lashes, sir. I could give them a week’s extra work. Discipline would be upheld, and I think Mr Priddie would learn from it.”

  “I see, you are blaming the junior lieutenant now.” He smiled. Parris could feel the strain clutching at him like claws. “Men will be flogged, and Mr Priddie will take the blame for it. God damn your eyes, sir! Do you think I give a sniff for what they think? I command here, they will do my bidding, do I make myself clear? ” He was shouting.

  Parris said, “You do, sir.”

  “I am glad to hear it.” Haven watched him, his eyes slitted in the filtered sunlight. “Your part in the cutting-out will be known at the Admiralty, I have no doubt. But you can crawl after our admiral’s coat-tails as long as you like. I shall see that your disloyalty and damned arrogance are noted fully when your case for promotion is considered again!”

  Parris felt the cabin sway. “Did you call me disloyal, sir?”

  Haven almost screamed at him. “Yes, you lecherous swine, I bloody well did!”

  Parris stared at him. It was worse than anything which had happened before. He saw the sunlight at the bottom of the captain’s door blackened in places by feet. There were men out there listening. God, he thought, despairingly, what chance do we have if we stand into battle?

  He said, “I think we may both have spoken out of turn, sir.”

  “Don’t you ever dare to reprimand me, blast you! I suppose that when you lie in your cot you think of me down aft, sneer because of the foul deed you committed—well, answer me, you bloody hound!”

  Parris knew he should summon another officer, just as he knew he would strike Haven down in the next few seconds. Something, like a warning in his sleep, seemed to stay his anger and resentment. He wants you to strike him. He wants you as his next victim.

  Haven slumped back in his chair, as if the strength and fury had left him. But when he looked up again Parris saw it was still there in his eyes, like fires of hate.

  In an almost conversational voice Haven said, “You really thought I would not find you out? Could you be that stupid?”

  Parris held his breath, his heart pounding; he had believed that nothing more could unseat him.

  Haven continued, “I know your ways and manners, the love you bear for yourself. Oh yes, I am not without some wit and understanding.” He pointed at the portrait of his wife but kept his eyes on Parris.

  He said in a hoarse whisper, “The guilt is as plain as day on your face!”

  Parris thought he had misheard. “I met the lady once, but—”

  “Don’t you dare to speak of her in my presence!” Haven lurched to his feet. “You with your soft tongue and manners to match, just the sort she’d listen to!”

  “Sir. Please say nothing more. We may both regret it.”

  Haven did not appear to be listening. “You took her when I was occupied in this ship! I worked myself sick pulling this damned rabble into one company. Then they hoisted the flag of a man much like you, I suspect, who thinks he can have any woman he chooses!”

  “I can’t listen, sir. It is not true anyway. I saw—” He hesitated and finished, “I did not touch her, I swear to God!”

  Haven said in a small voice, “After all that I gave her.”

  “You are wrong, sir.” Parris looked at the door. Someone must come surely? The whole poop must hear Haven’s rantings.

  Haven shouted suddenly, “It’s your child, you bloody animal!”

  Parris clenched his fists. So that was it. He said, “I am leaving now, sir. I will not listen to your insults or your insinuations. And as far as your wife is concerned, all I can say is that I am sorry for her.” He turned to go as Haven screamed, “You’ll go nowhere, God damn you!”

  The roar of the pistol in the confined space was deafening. It was like being struck by an iron bar. Then Parris felt the pain, the hot wetness of blood even as he hit the deck.

  He saw the darkness closing in. It was like smoke or fog, with just one clear space in it where the captain was trying to ram another charge into his pistol.

  Before the pain bore him into oblivion Parris’s agonised mind was able to record that Haven was laughing. Laughing as if he could not stop.

  14 FOR OR AGAINST

  IT WAS EARLY morning on a fine June day when Bolitho rehoisted his flag above Hyperion, and prepared his squadron to leave the Rock.

  During Firefly’s speedy passage to Gibraltar, Bolitho and Keen had had much to discuss. If Keen had been unsettled at being made flag captain of a squadron he knew nothing about he barely showed it, while for Bolitho it was the return of a friend; like being made whole again.

  At the commodore’s request he had visited Haven at the place where he was being confined ashore. He had expected him to be in a state of shock, or at least ready to offer something in the way of a defence for shooting Parris down in cold blood.

  A garrison doctor had told Bolitho that Haven either did not remember, or did not care about what had happened.

  He had risen as Bolitho had entered his small room and had said, “The ship is ready, Sir Richard. I took steps to ensure that old or not, Hyperion will match her artillery against any Frenchman when called to!”

  Bolitho had said, “You are relieved. I am sending you to England.”

  Haven had stared at him. “Relieved? Has my promotion been announced?”

  Upon returning to the ship Bolitho had been handed a letter addressed to Haven, which had just been brought by a mail schooner from Spithead. Under the circumstances Bolitho decided to open it; he might at least be able to spare someone in England the bitter truth about Haven, until the facts were released at his inevitable court-martial.

  Afterwards, Bolitho was not certain he should have read it. The letter was from Haven’s wife. It stated in an almost matter-of-fact fashion that she had left him to live with a wealthy mill-owner who was making uniforms for the military, where she and her child would be well cared for.

  It seemed that the mill-owner was the father of the child, so it was certainly not Parris’s. When Haven eventually came to his senses, if he ever did, that would be the hardest cross to bear.

  The first lieutenant must be born lucky, Bolitho thought. The pistol ball had lifted too much in the short range of the cabin, and had embedded itself in his shoulder and chipped the bone. He must have suffered terrible agony as Minchin had sought to probe it out. But the shot had been intended for his heart.

  Keen had asked Bolitho, “Do you wish to keep him aboard? The wound will take weeks to heal, and I fear it was roughly treated.” He had probably been remembering how a great splinter had speared into his groin; rather than allow him to face the torture of a drunken surgeon, it had been Allday who had cut the jagged wood away.

  “He is an experienced officer. I have hopes for his promotion. God knows we can use some skilled juniors for command.”

  Keen had agreed. “It will certainly put the other lieutenants on their mettle!”

  And so with mixed feelings the squadron sailed and headed east into the Mediterranean, the sea which had seen so many battles, and where Bolitho had almost died.

  With Hyperion in the van, Bolitho’s flag at the fore, and the other third-rates following astern, heeling steeply to a lively north-westerly, their
departure probably roused as much speculation as their arrival. Bolitho watched the Rock’s famous silhouette until it was lost in haze. The strange cloud of steam rising against an otherwise clear sky was a permanent feature when the wind cooled the overheated stones, so that from a distance it appeared like a smouldering volcano.

  Most of Hyperion’s company had grown used to one another since the ship had commissioned, and Keen was almost the only stranger amongst them.

  As day followed day, and each ship exercised her people at sail or gun drill, Bolitho was thankful for the fates which had brought Keen back to him.

  Unlike Haven, he did know Bolitho’s ways and standards, had served him both as a midshipman and lieutenant before eventually becoming his flag captain. The ship’s company seemed to sense the bond between their captain and admiral, and the older hands would note and appreciate that if Keen did not know something about his ship he was not too proud to ask. It never occurred to Bolitho that Keen had perhaps learned it from him.

  It had been sad to part with Firefly, but she had bustled on to deliver more despatches to admirals and captains who were eagerly awaiting the latest news of the French. Amongst Firefly’s mountain of despatches there would doubtless be a few like the one which Haven had still not read. War was as cruel in the home as it was on the high seas, he thought.

  When he met with Adam again his promotion would have been confirmed. It seemed strange to consider it. He could imagine what they would think and say at Falmouth when the latest Captain Bolitho came home. Unless Adam eventually met and married the girl of his choice, he would be the last captain to arrive at the house in Cornwall.

  He often thought of Catherine and their farewell. They had shared their passion and love equally, and she had insisted that she accompany him all the way to Portsmouth to board the little Firefly. Keen had said his own goodbyes earlier when he had gone to Portsmouth with Adam in another carriage.

  With the horses stamping and steaming in the sunshine Catherine had clung to him, searching his face, touching it with tenderness and then dismay when Allday had told them the boat was waiting at the sallyport.

  He had asked her to wait by the carriage but she had followed him to the wooden stairs where so many sea-officers had left the land. There had been a small crowd watching the ships and the officers being pulled out to them.

  Bolitho had noticed that there were very few of the age for service. It would be a fool who risked the press-gang’s net if he had no stomach for the fight.

  The people had raised a cheer, and some of them recognised Bolitho, as well they might.

  One had shouted, “Good luck, Equality Dick, an’ to yer lady as well!”

  He had faced her and he had seen tears for the first time.

  She had whispered, “They included me!”

  As the boat had pulled clear of the stairs Bolitho had looked back, but she had vanished. And yet as they had bumped over a choppy Solent where Firefly tugged at her cable, he had sensed that she was still there. Watching him to the last second. He had written to ask her just that, and to tell her what her love meant to him.

  He remembered what Belinda had said about their infatuation. Allday had described Catherine as a sailor’s woman, an’ that’s no error. When he said it, it sounded the greatest compliment of all.

  While the frigate Tybalt and the sloop-of-war Phaedra chased and questioned any coaster or trader foolish enough to be caught under their guns, Bolitho and Keen studied the scanty reports, as day by day they sailed deeper into the Mediterranean.

  It was said that Nelson was still in the Atlantic and had joined up with his friend and second-in-command Vice-Admiral Collingwood. Nelson had probably decided that the enemy were trying to divide the British squadrons by ruses and quick dashes from safe harbours. Only when that was achieved would Napoleon launch his invasion across the Channel.

  As Yovell had mildly suggested, “If that is so, Sir Richard, then you are the senior officer in the Mediterranean.”

  Bolitho had barely considered it. But if true, it meant one thing to him. When the enemy came his way he would need to ask no one what he must do. It made the weight of command seem more appealing.

  One forenoon as he took his walk on the quarterdeck he saw Lieutenant Parris moving along a gangway, his arm strapped to his side, his steps unsteady while he gauged the rise and fall of the hull. He appeared to have withdrawn more into himself since Haven’s attack with intent to murder him. Keen had said that he was well content to have him as his senior, but had not known him before so could not make a comparison.

  Parris moved slowly to the lee side of the quarterdeck and clung to a stay to watch some seabirds swooping and diving alongside.

  Bolitho crossed from the weather side. “How do you feel?”

  Parris tried to straighten his back but winced and apologised. “It is slow progress, Sir Richard.” He stared up at the bulging sails, the tiny figures working amongst and high above them. “I’ll feel a mite better when I know I can climb up there again.”

  Bolitho studied his strong, gipsy profile. A ladies’ man? An enigma?

  Parris saw his scrutiny and said awkwardly, “May I thank you for allowing me to remain aboard, Sir Richard. I am less than useless at the moment.”

  “Captain Keen made the final decision.”

  Parris nodded, his eyes lost in memory. “He makes this old ship come alive.” He hesitated, as if measuring the confidence. “I was sorry to hear of your trouble in London, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho looked at the blue water and tensed as his damaged eye misted slightly in the moist air.

  “Nelson has a saying, I believe.” It was like quoting one of Adam’s favourites. “The boldest measures are usually the safest.”

  Parris stood back as Keen appeared below the poop-deck, but added, “I wish you much joy, Sir Richard. Both of you.”

  Keen joined him by the nettings. “We shall sight Malta tomorrow in the forenoon watch.” He glanced over at the master’s powerful figure. “Mr Penhaligon assures me.”

  Bolitho smiled. “I was speaking with the first lieutenant. A strange fellow.”

  Keen laughed. “It is wrong, I know, to jest on it, but I have met captains I would have dearly liked to shoot. But never the other way about!”

  Down by the boat-tier Allday turned as he heard their laughter. Keen’s old coxswain had been killed aboard their last ship, Argonaute. Allday had selected a new man for him, but secretly wished it was his son.

  Keen’s coxswain was named Tojohns, and he had been captain of the foretop. He glanced aft with him and said, “A new ship since he stepped aboard.” He studied Allday curiously. “You’ve known him a long while then?”

  Allday smiled. “A year or two. He’ll do me, an’ he’s good for Sir Richard, that’s the thing.”

  Allday thought about their parting at Portsmouth Point. The people cheering and waving their hats, the women smiling fit to burst. It had to work this time. He frowned as the other coxswain broke into his thoughts.

  Tojohns asked, “Why did you pick me?”

  Allday gave a lazy grin. Tojohns was a fine seaman and knew how to put himself about in a fight. He was not in the least like old Hogg, Keen’s original coxswain. Chalk and cheese. What they said about me and Stockdale.

  Allday said, “’Cause you talk too much!”

  Tojohns laughed but fell silent as a passing midshipman glanced sharply at him. It was hard to accept his new role. He would no longer have to be up there at the shrill of every call, fighting wild canvas with his foretopmen. Like Allday he was apart from all that. Somebody, for the first time.

  “Mind you.” Allday watched him gravely. “Whatever you sees down aft, you keep it to yerself, right, matey?”

  Tojohns nodded. Down aft. Yes, he was somebody.

  Six bells chimed out from Hyperion’s forecastle and Captain Valentine Keen touched his hat to Bolitho, barely able to suppress a smile.

  “The master was right about our a
rrival here, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho raised his telescope to scan the familiar walls and batteries of Valletta. “Only just.”

  It had been a lengthy passage from Gibraltar, over eight days to log the weary twelve hundred miles. It had given Keen time to impress his methods on the whole ship, but had filled Bolitho with misgivings at the forthcoming meeting with Herrick.

  He said slowly, “Only three ships of the line, Val.” He had recognised Herrick’s flagship Benbow almost as soon as the mast-head lookouts. Once his own flagship, and like Hyperion, full of memories. Keen would be remembering her for very different reasons. Here he had faced a court of enquiry presided over by Herrick. It could have ruined him, but for Bolitho’s intervention. Past history? It seemed unlikely he would ever forget.

  Bolitho said, “I can make out the frigate yonder, anchored beyond Benbow. ” He had been afraid that she would have been sent elsewhere. She was named La Mouette, a French prize taken off Toulon while Bolitho had been at Antigua. She was a small vessel of only twenty-six guns, but beggars could not be choosers. Any frigate was welcome at this stage of the war against the new cat-and-mouse methods used by the French.

  Keen said, “But it raises our line of battle to eight.” He smiled. “We have managed with far less in the past.”

  Jenour stood slightly apart, supervising the signals midshipmen with their bright flags strewn about in apparent disorder.

  Bolitho crossed to the opposite side to watch as the next astern, Thynne’s Obdurate, took in more sail and tacked slowly after her admiral.

  He pictured Herrick in Benbow, watching perhaps as the five major ships of Bolitho’s squadron moved ponderously on a converging tack in readiness to anchor. It was very hot, and Bolitho had seen the sunlight flash on many telescopes amongst the anchored ships. Would Herrick be regretting this meeting, he wondered? Or thinking how their friendship had been born out of battle and a near mutiny in that other war against the American rebels?

  He said, “Very well, Mr Jenour, you may signal now.”