Honour This Day

by Alexander Kent

  Herrick snapped, “Honour be damned! Sir Richard Bolitho is not the kind of man to seize glory for himself!”

  Gossage raised his eyebrows, “Oh, I see, sir.”

  Herrick turned away, quietly fuming. No, you don’t. Try as he might he could not tear his thoughts from the twenty-odd years that he had known Bolitho.

  All the battles, some hard-won, others surprisingly kind to them. Bad wounds, old friends lost or maimed, sea-passages and landfalls when at times they had wondered if they might ever walk ashore again. Now it had gone rotten, thrown away because of—

  Gossage tried again. “My wife wrote to me and says that there is talk of Sir Richard being relieved.”

  Herrick stared at him. Dulcie had said nothing of the kind.

  “When?”

  Gossage smiled. He had caught his admiral’s attention at last.

  “Next year, sir. The fleet will be reformed, the squadrons allocated differently. In this article she read—”

  Herrick gave a cold grin. “Bloody rubbish, man! Sir Richard and I have been hearing the bleats of shorebound experts all our lives. God damn it, the day we—”

  The masthead yelled, “Deck there! Signal from Flag!”

  A dozen telescopes rose as one and the signals midshipman called, “ General, sir! Have Tybalt in sight to the north! ”

  Gossage hissed to the officer-of-the-watch, “Why in hell’s name did they sight her first?”

  Herrick smiled wryly. “Acknowledge it.” To the first lieutenant he called, “Send a good master’s mate aloft, Mr O’Shea!”

  The lieutenant turned as if to confirm the order with Gossage but Herrick snapped, “Just do it!”

  He moved away, his hands grasped behind his back. He had never got used to flag rank, nor had he expected it, no matter what flattering things Dulcie had said about the matter.

  He knew he was being petty but he felt better for it. At heart he would always remain a captain and not leave it to others to carry out his plans.

  All down the line of eight ships, the air would be buzzing with speculation. Herrick thought of the missing third-rate Absolute. He had done the right thing. One great gale like the last one, and that poor, rotten ship would surely have foundered.

  Bolitho’s refusal to accept his action still rankled deeply. He took his own telescope, the latest and most expensive one which Dulcie could find, and trained it on the ships astern. In perfect formation, their masthead pendants licking out like serpents’ tongues, the sunlight glistening on the checkered patterns of gun-ports.

  The new voice hailed from the masthead. “Tybalt in sight, sir!”

  Herrick climbed up the starboard poop ladder and levelled his beautiful telescope. He could just make out the frigate’s top-gallant sails, like the fleecy clouds, pink-edged and delicate against the hard horizon. The edge of the sea, he thought. Deep, dark blue. Still no sign of rain. Perhaps Bolitho would decide after all to send some of the ships to seek fresh water.

  He saw the tiny pin-pricks of colour rise against the frigate’s pyramid of sails. Herrick blinked his eyes. His vision was not as good as it had been, although he would never admit it. He thought of Bolitho’s expression, the anguish when he had revealed to him his damaged eyesight.

  It troubled Herrick for several reasons, not the least being that he had failed Bolitho when he had most needed him.

  Herrick’s flag lieutenant, a willowy young man called De Broux, called, “From Tybalt, sir!”

  Herrick waited impatiently. He had never really liked his flag lieutenant. He was soft. Even had a Frenchie-sounding name.

  Unaware of Herrick’s distaste De Broux said, “Strange sail bearing north-east!”

  Several of the officers nearby chuckled amongst themselves and Herrick felt his face smart with anger, and embarrassment too for Bolitho.

  Gossage said cheerfully, “A strange sail, eh? Damn my eyes if I don’t think that our eight liners can’t take care of it, what?” He turned to his officers. “We can leave Tybalt outside to act as umpire!”

  Herrick said harshly, “Hold your damn noise!” He spoke to the lieutenants. It was meant for Gossage.

  “From Flag, sir. General. Make more sail.”

  Herrick watched the acknowledgement dashing aloft.

  Gossage, sulking slightly, called, “Hands aloft, Mr O’Shea! Shake out all reefs!” His tone suggested it was merely to cover Bolitho’s confusion.

  Herrick raised the telescope and climbed up two more steps.

  She had been so proud when she had bought it for him, from one of the best instrument makers in London’s Strand. His heart sank. She had gone there with Belinda.

  De Broux shouted suddenly, “Tybalt to Flag, sir!” For once he seemed unsure of himself. Then he stammered, “Estimate twelve sail of the line!”

  Herrick climbed down to the quarterdeck again. He was uncertain how he felt. Resigned, or stunned by the last signal.

  Gossage was staring at him, and made to speak as De Broux called desperately, “General signal, sir. Prepare for battle!”

  Herrick met Gossage’s disbelief with something close to complete calm. To feel that way under such circumstances was almost unnerving.

  Herrick asked coolly, “Well, Captain Gossage, how do the odds appeal to you now?”

  18 IN DANGER’S HOUR

  BOLITHO held out his arms and tried to contain his impatience as Ozzard nimbly buttoned his white waistcoat. After all the shortages it felt strange to be dressed from head to toe in clean clothing. Over Ozzard’s shoulder he watched Keen, who was standing just inside the cabin so that he could still hear the shouted commands and replies from the quarterdeck.

  Hyperion had not yet cleared for action; he would leave it to Herrick and the individual captains to do it when they were ready, and in their own time.

  Hyperion’s company were snatching a last hasty meal, although how the average sailor managed to eat anything before a fight was beyond Bolitho.

  Keen said, “If the Dons continue that approach, Sir Richard, neither of us will hold the wind-gage. It would seem that the enemy is on a converging tack.” His eyes were clouded with concentration as he tried to picture the distant ships. A day later and the enemy would have slipped past them to close with the coast of Spain before a final dash through the Strait.

  Bolitho said, “I must take the wind-gage from them. Otherwise, ship-to-ship they will swamp us.” He could feel Keen watching him as the plan formed itself so that they could both see it. As if it was here and now. “We shall hold our forces together until the last moment. I intend to alter course to starboard and form two columns. Herrick knows what to do. His will be the shorter line, but no matter. Once battle is joined we may throw the Dons into confusion.” He allowed Ozzard to offer him his coat and hat.

  Keen said, “I must protest, Sir Richard.” He looked at the gold lace, the Nile medal which Bolitho would hang about his neck. “I know your custom. I have shared this suspense too many times to forget.”

  Allday entered by the other door and reached up for the old sword. Over his shoulder he remarked, “You’re wastin’ your time, with all respect, Cap’n Keen.”

  Keen and Allday looked at one another. Allday recalled better than any how he had seen Bolitho on board the embattled Phalarope at the Saintes. In his best uniform, a ripe target for any sharp-eyed marksman, so that the people should see him. Oh yes, Allday knew it was impossible to talk him out of it.

  Bolitho slipped his arms into the coat and waited for Ozzard to stand on tip-toe to adjust the bright epaulettes with the twin silver stars.

  “This will not be a battle to test each other’s mettle, Val. We must not even consider losing it. It is vital; you accept that now.”

  Keen smiled sadly. “I know it.”

  There was a muffled hail from the masthead, and a lieutenant came running from the quarterdeck.

  He stared at Bolitho and then said, “The first lieutenant’s respects, sir.” He tore his eyes from his vice-ad
miral and faced Keen. “The mainmast lookout has just reported the enemy in sight. Steering south-west.”

  Keen glanced at Bolitho, who nodded, then said, “General signal. Enemy in sight.”

  As the lieutenant hurried away Keen said, “Brief and to the point. As you like it, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho smiled, and beckoned to Ozzard. “You may clear the cabin. The bosun’s party is waiting to carry the bits and pieces to the hold.” He rested his hand on Ozzard’s bony shoulder. “Go with them. No heroics today.” He saw his wistful gaze and added, “I know not what ails you, but I will deal with it. Remember that, eh?”

  As Ozzard made to pick up some small items Bolitho called, “ No! Not that!” He took the fan from Ozzard’s hand and looked at it. Remembering.

  Keen watched as Bolitho slipped the fan into his coat-pocket. Bolitho reached for his hat. “A small thing, I know, Val. But it is all I have of hers.”

  Allday followed them from the cabin, then he paused, the old sword over one arm as he stared back at the place he knew so well. Why should this time be any different? The odds were bad, but that was nothing new, and the enemy were Dons. Allday felt he wanted to spit. Even the Frogs were better fighters than them. He took a last glance round, then touched his chest where the Spanish blade had thrust into him.

  The cabin was deserted. He turned away, angry with the thought. For it looked as if it would remain empty forever.

  On deck Bolitho walked to the centre of the quarterdeck rail and took a telescope from the senior midshipman. He looked at him more closely, then at the other officers and master’s mates near the wheel. Everyone appeared to be dressed in his best clothing.

  Bolitho smiled at the midshipman. “That was nicely done, Mr Furnival.”

  He raised the glass and found Tybalt’s sails almost immediately. He moved it still further and saw the dark flaws on the horizon, like the rippling edge of some distant tidal wave.

  Bolitho returned the glass and looked up at the sky. The pendant was still pointing towards the larboard bow. The wind held steady, but not too strong. He recalled something his father had said. A good wind for a fight. But out here that could easily change, if the mood took it.

  Keen stood watching him, his fair hair ruffling beneath the brim of his hat, even though it had been cut in the modern fashion. Bolitho gripped the rail with both hands. Like Adam’s.

  He felt the old wood, hot in the sunshine. So dented and pitted with the years, yet worn smooth by all the hands which had rested here.

  He watched Major Adams with his lieutenant, Veales, standing below the quarterdeck. The major was frowning with concentration as he pulled on a fresh pair of white gloves.

  Bolitho said, “It is time.” He saw Keen nod, the lieutenants glance at one another, probably wondering who might still be here when the smoke cleared.

  Keen said, “The wind is firm, Sir Richard. They’ll be up to us before noon.”

  Penhaligon remarked indifferently, “Fine day for it anyway.”

  Bolitho drew Keen to one side. “I have to say something, Val. We must clear for action directly; after that we shall be divided by our duties. You have come to mean a great deal to me, and I think you must know it.”

  Keen answered quietly, “I understand what you are trying to say, Sir Richard. But it will not happen.”

  Bolitho gripped his arm tightly. “Val, Val, how can we know? It will be a hard fight, maybe the worst we have endured.” He gestured towards the ships astern. “All these men following like helpless animals, trusting the Flag to carry them through, no matter what hell awaits them.”

  Keen replied earnestly, “They will be looking to you.”

  Bolitho gave a quick smile. “It makes it less easy to bear. And you, Val, what must you be thinking as the Dons draw to an embrace? That but for me you would be at home with your lovely Zenoria.”

  Keen waited while Allday stepped up with the sword.

  Then he said simply, “If I never lived beyond this day I have still known true happiness. Nothing can take that away.”

  Allday clipped on the old sword and loosened it in its scabbard.

  He said gruffly, “Amen to that, I says, Cap’n.”

  Bolitho looked at both of them. “Very well. Have the marines beat to quarters.” He touched his pocket and felt the fan inside. Her presence. “You may clear for action, Captain Keen!”

  They faced each other, and Keen formally touched his hat.

  He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “So be it.”

  The stark rattle of drums, the rush of feet from every hatch and along both gangways made further speech impossible. Bolitho watched the gun crews throwing themselves around their charges, topmen swarming aloft to rig the slings and nets, ready to whip or splice their repairs even in the carnage of a broadside.

  Jenour appeared on deck, his hat tugged well down on his forehead, the beautiful sword slapping against his hip. He looked stern, and somehow older.

  As the ship fell silent once more, Parris strode aft and faced up to the captain. He wore a pair of fine hessian boots.

  “Cleared for action, sir. Galley fire doused. Pumps manned.”

  Keen did not take out his watch but said, “Nine minutes, Mr Parris. The best yet.”

  Bolitho smiled. Whether it was true or not, those who had heard Keen’s praise would pass it on to each deck. It was little enough. But it all helped.

  Keen came aft. “Ready, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho saw him hesitate and asked, “What is it, Val?”

  “I was wondering, Sir Richard. Could we have the fifers strike up? Like we did in Tempest? ”

  Bolitho looked at the sea, the memory linking them once again. “Aye, make it so.”

  And as the old Hyperion leaned over to the same starboard tack, and while the edge of the horizon broke into more silhouettes and mastheads, the Royal Marine fifers struck up a lively march. Accompanied by the drums from the poop, and the seamen’s bare feet stamping on the sanded planking, they strode up and down as if they were on parade at their barracks.

  Bolitho met Keen’s glance and nodded. “Portsmouth Lass.” It was even the same tune.

  Bolitho raised his telescope and slowly examined the Spanish line from end to end. The two rearmost ships were well out of formation, and Bolitho suspected that the very end vessel was standing away so that the other one could complete some repairs as Olympus had done.

  He shifted his gaze to the solitary frigate. It was easy to see why La Mouette’s captain had been deceived. It took much more than a foreign ensign to disguise an English-built frigate.

  He knew that Consort had been launched on the Medway, near Herrick’s home. Would he be thinking of that now, he wondered?

  Twelve sail of the line. The flagship in the van had already been identified by Parris, who had met with her before. She was the ninety-gun San Mateo, flagship of Almirante Don Alberto Casares, who had commanded the Spanish squadrons at Havana.

  Casares would know all about Hyperion’s part in the attack on Puerto Cabello. Some of these very ships had probably been intended to escort the treasure galleons to Spain.

  Bolitho watched the Intrépido. At least the two squadrons had something in common, two frigates between them.

  He heard Parris saying to the signals midshipmen, “It will be a while yet.”

  Bolitho glanced at the two youths, who could barely drag their eyes from the enemy. How much worse for anyone who had never faced a line of battle, he thought. It could take hours to draw together. At the Saintes it had taken all day. First the few mastheads topping the horizon, then they had risen and grown until the sea’s face had seemed to be covered.

  A lieutenant who had written home after the Saintes had described the French fleet as “rising above the horizon, like the armoured knights at Agincourt.” It had been a fair description.

  Bolitho walked forward to the rail and looked along the main deck. The men were ready; the gun captains had selected the best-fashione
d balls and grape for the first, double-shotted broadside. This time they would need to fight both sides of the ship at once, so there would be no extra hands to spare. They had to break through the line—after that, it was every ship for herself.

  The Royal Marines were in the fighting-tops, the best marks-men Major Adams could find, with some others to man the vicious swivels. The bulk of the marines lined the poop, not yet standing to the packed hammock nettings to mark down their targets, but waiting in gently swaying ranks, Sergeant Embree and his corporals talking to each other without appearing to move their mouths.

  Penhaligon and his master’s mates were near the wheel, with two extra hands at the helm in case of casualties.

  Apart from the sea noises and the occasional slap of the great driver sail above the poop, it seemed quiet after the fifers had stopped playing. Bolitho raised his glass yet again and saw a seaman turn from a main deck eighteen-pounder to watch him.

  The enemy flagship was much nearer. He could see the glint of sunlight on swords and fixed bayonets, men swarming up the ratlines of her foremast, others rising from their guns to watch the approaching squadron.

  The Spanish admiral might expect his opposite number to fight ship-to-ship. His ninety guns against this old third-rate. Bolitho smiled grimly. It would even be unwise to cross San Mateo’s ornate stern in the first stage of the engagement. To be crippled breaking the line would throw the following ships into disorder, and Herrick would be left to attack on his own with just three ships.

  Bolitho said, “Signal Tybalt to take station astern of Olympus. It might add some weight to Herrick’s line.” He heard the flags rushing aloft but continued to watch the big Spanish flagship.

  Keen must have read his thoughts. “May I suggest we break the line astern of the third or fourth ship, as it may present itself?”

  Bolitho smiled. “The further away from that beauty the better. Until we have lessened the odds anyway.”

  Jenour was standing near the signals party and heard Bolitho’s casual comment. Was it all a bluff, or did he really believe he could win against so many? Jenour tried to concentrate on his parents, how he would word his next letter. His mind reeled when he realised that the concept eluded him. Perhaps there would be no more letters. He felt a sudden terror and stared up at the wispy clouds directly above Bolitho’s flag at the foremast truck. He was going to be killed.