Honour This Day

3. King's Ransom

Bolitho leaned back in his chair as a white-gloved hand whisked away the half-emptied plate and quickly replaced it with another. He could not remember how many courses he had been offered nor how many times the various goblets and fine glasses had been refilled.

The air was full of noise, the mingled voices of those present, at a guess some forty officers, officials and their ladies with the small contingent from Hyperion's wardroom divided amongst them. The long room and its extended table was brightly lit by candles, beyond which the shadows seemed to sway in a dance of their own as the many footmen and servants bustled back and forth to maintain a steady supply of food and wine.

They must have garnered servants from several houses, Bolitho thought, and he could gather from the occasional savage undertones of the senior footman that there had been several disasters between kitchen and table.

He was seated at Catherine's right hand, and as the conversation and laughter swirled around them he was very aware of her, although she gave little hint of her own feelings at his presence. At the far end of the table Bolitho saw her husband, Viscount Somervell, sipping his wine and listening with apparent boredom to Commodore Glassport's resonant and thickening tones. Occasionally Somervell appeared to glance along the table's length, excluding everyone but his wife or Bolitho. Interest, awareness? It was impossible to determine.

As the doors swung open from time to time to a procession of sweating servants Bolitho saw the candles shiver in the smoky air. Otherwise there was little hint of movement, and he pictured Haven, safe in his cabin, or brooding over his possible role in the future. He might show more animation when he learned what was expected of him and his command.

She turned suddenly and spoke directly to him. 'You are very quiet, Sir Richard.'

He met her gaze and felt his defence falter. She was just as striking, more beautiful even than he had remembered. The sun had given her neck and shoulders a fine blush, and he could see the gentle pulse of her heart where the silk gown folded around it.

One hand lay as if abandoned beside her glass, a folded fan close by. He wanted to touch it, to reassure himself or to reveal his own stupidity.

What am I? So full of conceit, so shallow that I could imagine her drawn to me again after so long?

He said instead, 'It must be seven years.'

Her face remained impassive. To anyone watching she might have been asking about England or the weather.

'Seven years and one month to be exact.'

Bolitho turned as the Viscount laughed at something Glassport had said.

'And then you married him.' It came out like a bitter accusation and he saw her fingers move as if they were listening independently.

'Was it so important⁵'

She retorted, 'You delude yourself, Richard.' Even the use of his name was like the awakening of an old wound. 'It was not so.' She held his gaze as he turned again. Defiance, pain, it was all there in her dark eyes. 'I need security. Just as you need to be loved.'

Bolitho hardly dared to breathe as the conversation died momentarily around him. He thought the first lieutenant was watching them, that an army colonel had paused with his goblet half-raised as if to catch the words. Even in imagination it felt like a conspiracy.

'Love?'

She nodded slowly, her eyes not leaving his. 'You need it, as the desert craves for ram.'

Bolitho wanted to look away but she seemed to mesmerise him.

She continued in the same unemotional tone, 'I wanted you then, and ended almost hating you. Almost. I have watched your life and career, two very different things, over the past seven years. I would have taken anything you offered me; you were the only man I would have loved without asking for security in marriage.' She touched the fan lightly. 'Instead you took another, one you imagined was a substitute -' She saw the shot strike home.'I knew it.'

Bolitho replied, 'I thought of you often.'

She smiled but it made her look sad. 'Really?'

He turned his head further so that he could see her clearly. He knew others might watch him for he appeared to face her directly, but his left eye was troubled by the flickering glare and the swooping shadows beyond.

She said, The last battle. We heard of it a month back.'

'You knew I was coming here?'

She shook her head. 'No. He tells me little of his government affairs.' She looked quickly along the table and Bolitho saw her smile as if in recognition. He was astonished that the small familiarity with her husband should hurt him so much. _

She returned her gaze to his. 'Your injuries, are they -?' She saw him start. 'I helped you once, do you not remember?'

Bolitho dropped his eyes. He had imagined that she had heard or detected his difficulty in seeing her properly. It all flashed through his mind like a wild dream. His wound, the return of the fever which had once almost killed him. Her pale nakedness as she had dropped her gown and folded herself against his gasping, shivering body, while she had spoken unheard words and clasped him to her breasts to repulse the fever's torment.

'I shall never forget.'

She watched him in silence for some moments, her eyes moving over his lowered head and the dangling lock of hair, his grave sunburned features and the lashes which now hid his eyes, glad that he could not see the pain and the yearning in her stare.

Nearby, Major Sebright Adams of Hyperion's Royal Marines was expounding on his experiences at Copenhagen and the bloody aftermath of the battle. Parris, the first lieutenant, was propped on one elbow, apparently listening, but leaning across the young wife of a dockyard official, his arm resting against her shoulder which she made no attempt to remove. Like the other officers, they were momentarily free of responsibility and the need to keep up any pretence and the posture of duty.

Bolitho was more aware than ever of a sudden isolation, the need to tell her his thoughts, his fears; and was revolted at the same time by his weakness.

He said, 'It was a hard fight. We lost many fine men.'

'And you, Richard? What more did you have to lose that you had not already abandoned?'

He exclaimed fiercely, 'Let it be, Catherine. It is over.' He raised his eyes and stared at her intently. 'It must be so!'

A side door opened and more footmen bustled around, but this time without new dishes. It would soon be time for the ladies to withdraw and the men to relieve themselves before settling down to port and brandy. He thought of Allday. He would be out there in the barge with his crew waiting for him. Any petty officer would have been sufficient, but he knew Allday. He would allow no other to wait for him. He would have been in his element tonight, he thought. Bolitho had never known any man able to drink his coxswain under the table, unlike some of the guests.

Somervell's voice cut along the littered cloth although he seemed to have no problem in making it carry.

'I hear that you saw Captain Price today, Sir Richard?'

Bolitho could almost feel the woman at his side holding her breath, as if she sensed the casual remark as a trap. Was guilt that obvious?

Glassport rumbled, 'Not captain for long, I'll wager!' Several of the guests chuckled.

A black footman entered the room and after the smallest glance at Somervell padded to Bolitho's chair, an envelope balanced carefully on a silver salver.

Bolitho took it and prayed that his eye would not torture him now.

Glassport was going on again. 'My only frigate, by God! I'm dashed hard put to know -'

He broke off as Somervell interrupted rudely, 'What is it, Sir Richard? Are we to share it?'

Bolitho folded the paper and glanced at the black footman. He was in time to see a strange sympathy on the man's face, as if he knew.

'You may be spared the spectacle of a brave officer's dishonour, Commodore Glassport.' His voice was hard and although it was directed at one man it gripped the whole table.

'Captain Price is dead.' There was a chorus of gasps. 'He hanged himself.' He could not resist adding, 'Are you satisfied?'

Somervell pushed himself back from the table. 'I think this may be a suitable moment for the ladies to retire.' He rose effortlessly to his feet, as if it was a duty rather than a courtesy.

Bolitho faced her and saw the concern stark in her eyes as if she wanted to tell him out loud.

Instead she said, 'We will meet.' She waited for him to raise his head from a brief bow. 'Soon.' Then with a hiss of silk she merged with the shadows.

Bolitho sat down and watched unseeingly as another hand placed a fresh glass by his place.

It was not their fault, not even the mindless Glassport's.

What could I have done? Nothing could interfere with the mission he intended to undertake.

It might have happened to any one of them. He thought of young Adam instead of the wretched Price sitting alone and picturing the grim faces of the court, the sword turned against him on the table.

It was curious that the message about Price's death had been sent directly from St. John's to Hyperion, his flagship. Haven must have read and considered it before sending it ashore, probably in the charge of some midshipman who in turn would hand it to a footman. It would not have hurt him to bring it in person, he thought.

He realised with a start that the others were on their feet, glasses raised to him in a toast.

Glassport said gruffly, 'To our flag officer, Sir Richard Bolitho, and may he bring us fresh victories!' Even the huge amount of wine he had consumed could not hide the humiliation in his voice.

Bolitho stood up and bowed, but not before he had seen that the white-clad figure at the opposite end had not touched his glass. Bolitho felt his blood stir, like the moment when the topsails of an enemy revealed their intentions, or that moment in early dawn when he had faced another in a duel.

Then he thought of her eyes and her last word. Soon.

He picked up his own glass. So be it then.

The six days which followed Hyperion's arrival at English Harbour were, for Bolitho at least, packed with activity.

Every morning, within an hour of the guardboat's delivery of messages or signals from the shore Bolitho climbed into his barge and with a puzzled flag lieutenant at his elbow threw himself into the affairs of the ships and sailors at his disposal. On the face of it, it was not a very impressive force. Even allowing for three small vessels still in their patrol areas, the flotilla, for it was no more than that, seemed singularly unsuited for the task in hand. Bolitho knew that then lordships' loosely-worded instructions, which were locked in his strongbox, carried all the risk and responsibility of direct orders given to a senior captain, or a lowly one like Price.

The mam Antigua squadron, consisting of six ships-of-the-hne, were reported as being scattered far to the north-west in the Bahama Islands, probably probing enemy intentions or making a show of force to deter would-be blockade runners from the Americas. The admiral was known to Bolitho, Sir Peter Folhot, a quiet, dignified officer who was said to be sorely tried by ill-health. Not the best ingredients for aggressive action against the French or their Spanish ally.

On the sixth morning, as Bolitho was being carried across the barely ruffled water towards the last of his command, he considered the results of his inspection and studies. Apart from Obdurate, an elderly seventy-four, which was still undergoing storm repairs in the dockyard, he had a total of five brigs, one sloop-of-war, and Thor, a bomb-vessel, which he had left until last. He could have summoned each commander to the flagship; it would have been what they were expecting of any flag officer, let alone one of Bolitho's reputation. They were soon to learn that he liked to discover things for himself, to get the feel of the men he would lead, if not inspire.

He considered Somervell, and his failure to visit Hyperion as he had promised after the reception. Was he making him wait deliberately, to put him in his place, or was he indifferent to the final plan, which they would need to discuss before Bolitho could take decisive action?

He watched the rise and fall of the oars, the way the bargemen averted their eyes whenever he glanced at them, Allday's black shadow across the scrubbed thwarts, passing vessels and those at anchor. Antigua might be a British possession, one so heavily defended that a need for more ships was unnecessary, but there were plenty of traders and coastal sailing-masters, who, if not actual spies, would be ready and willing to part with information to the enemy if only for their own free passage.

Bolitho shaded his eyes and looked towards the nearest hillside, to a battery of heavy guns marked only by a rough parapet and a lifeless flag above it. Defence was all very well, but you won wars by attacking. He saw dust along the coast road, people on the move, and thought again of Catherine. She had been rarely out of his thoughts, and he knew in his heart he had worked himself so hard to hold his personal feelings at bay where they could not interfere.

Perhaps she had told Somervell everything which had happened between them. Or maybe he had forced it out of her? He dismissed the latter immediately. Catherine was too strong to be used like that. He recalled her previous husband, a man twice her age, but one of surprising courage when he had tried to help Bolitho's men defend a merchant ship from corsairs. Catherine had hated him then. Their feelings for each other had grown from that animosity. Like steel in the livid heat of a forge. He was still not sure what had happened to them, where it might otherwise have led.

Such a short climax in London after their meeting outside the Admiralty, when Bolitho had just been appointed commodore of his own squadron.

Seven years and one month Catherine had forgotten nothing. It was unnerving, and at the same time exciting, to realise how she had managed to follow his career, and his life; two separate things as she had put it.

Allday whispered, 'They've manned the side, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho tilted his hat and stared towards the bomb-vessel. His Britannic Majesty's Ship Thor.

Small when compared with a frigate or line-of-battleship, but at the same time heavy-looking and powerful. Designed for bombarding shore installations and the like. Thor's main armament consisted of two massive thirteen-mch mortars. The vessel had to be powerfully built to withstand the downward recoil of the mortars, which were fired almost vertically. With ten heavy carronades and some smaller six-pounders, Thor would be a slow sailer. But unlike many of her earlier consorts which had been ketch-rigged, Thor mounted three masts and a more balanced ship-rig, which might offer some improvement in perverse winds.

A shadow passed over Bolitho's thoughts. Francis Inch had been given command of a bomb-vessel after he had left Hyperion.

He looked up and saw Allday watching him. It was uncanny.

Allday said quietly, The old Hekla, Sir Richard – remember her''

Bolitho nodded, not seeing Lieutenant Jenour's mystified stare. It was hard to accept that Inch was dead. Like so many now.

'Attention on deck'

Calls trilled and Bolitho seized a ladder with both hands to haul himself through the low entry port.

The vessels he had already visited in harbour had seemed startled by his arrival on board. Their commanders were young; all but one had been lieutenants just months ago.

There was no such nervousness about Thor’s captain, Bolitho thought as he doffed his hat to the small quarterdeck.

Commander Ludovic Imne was tall and narrow-shouldered, so that his solitary gold epaulette looked as if it might fall off at any moment. He stood over six feet, and when you considered

Thor's headroom, four feet six inches m some sections, it must have seemed like being caged.

'I bid you welcome, Sir Richard.' Imne's voice was surprisingly deep, with a Scottish burr which reminded Bolitho of his mother. Bolitho was introduced to two lieutenants and a few junior warrant officers. A small company. He had already noted their names, and sensed their reserve giving way to interest or curiosity.

Imne dismissed the side-party and after a brief hesitation ushered Bolitho below to his small stern-cabin. As they stooped beneath the massive deck beams, Bolitho recalled his first command, a sloop-of-war, how her first lieutenant had apologised for the lack of space for the new commander. Bolitho had been almost beside himself with glee. After a lieutenant's tiny berth in a ship-of-the-hne it had seemed like a palace.

Thor's was even smaller. They sat opposite one another while a wizened messman brought a bottle and some glasses. A far cry from SomervelPs table, Bolitho thought.

Imne spoke easily about his command, which he had held for two years. He was obviously very proud of Thor, and Bolitho sensed an immediate resentment when he suggested that bombs, for the most part, had achieved little so far in the various theatres of war.

'Given a chance, sir -' He grinned and shrugged his narrow shoulders. 'I beg your pardon, Sir Richard, I should have known.'

Bolitho sipped the wine; it was remarkably cool. 'Known what?'

Imne said, 'I'd heard you tested your captains with a question or two -'

Bolitho smiled. 'It worked this time.' He remembered some of the others he had met in Antigua. He had felt something akin to hostility, if not actual dislike. Because of Price, perhaps? After all, they had known him, had worked in company with his frigate. They might think that he had killed himself deliberately because Bolitho had refused to intervene. Bolitho could think of several occasions when he had felt much the same.

Imne stared through the skylight at the empty sky.

'If I could lie near a good target, sir, I'd put down such a barrage, the enemy'd think Hell had dropped amongst them. The Dons have never faced -' He faltered and added apologetically, 'I mean, that is, if we were against the Spaniards at any time -'

Bolitho eyed him steadily. Imne had worked it out all by himself. Why else would his vice-admiral bother to call on him? Price's exploits and disaster on the Spanish Mam linked with Tfcor's obvious advantages in the shallows where Consort had run aground had formed their own picture in his mind.

Bolitho said, 'That is well thought, Commander Imne. I will trust you to keep your suppositions to yourself.' It was odd that none of the others, not even Haven, had once questioned their motives for being here.

Bolitho rubbed his left eyelid and then withdrew his hand quickly. 'I have studied the reports, and have re-read the notes my aide took down when I spoke to Captain Price.'

Imne had a long face with a craggy jaw and looked as if he could be a formidable opponent in any circumstances. But his features softened as he listened to Bolitho. Perhaps because he had referred to the dead man by his full rank. It offered some small dignity, a far cry from the lonely grave below the East Battery.

Bolitho said, 'The approaches are too well protected for what I must keep in mind. Any well-sited artillery can destroy a slow-moving vessel with ease, and with heated shot the effect would be disastrous.'

Imne rubbed his chin, his eyes far away. As Bolitho had noticed, they were unmatched, one dark and the other pale blue.

He said, 'If we are both thinking of the same patch of coast, Sir Richard, and of course we can't be sure of that.'

Jenour watched, fascinated. These two officers, each a veteran in his own field, yet able to discuss something he still could not grasp, and chuckle over it like two conspiring schoolboys. It was unbelievable.

Bolitho nodded. 'But if-'

'Even Thor might have to lay-off too far to use the mortars, Sir Richard.' He scanned his face as if expecting an argument or disappointment. 'We don't draw much less than Consort did.'

A boat thudded alongside and Bolitho heard Allday barking at someone for interrupting their conference.

Then his face appeared in the skylight. He said, 'Beggin' your pardon, Sir Richard. Message from Hyperion. The Inspector General is come aboard.'

Bolitho concealed a tremor of excitement. Somervell had given in to curiosity at last. Or was he imagining that also? That there was already some kind of contest between them?

Bolitho stood up and winced as his head struck one of the beams.

Imne exclaimed, 'God damn it, Sir Richard, I should have warned you!'

Bolitho reached for his hat. 'It acted as a reminder. It was less painful than the memory.'

On deck, the side-party had assembled and Bolitho saw Hyperion's jolly-boat already pulling back to the ship. Allday clambered fuming down to the waiting barge. He had sent that pink-faced midshipman off with a flea in his ear. Young puppy. He glared at the bargemen. 'Stand by in the boat, damn you!'

Bolitho made a decision. 'Tell your senior to take over, Imne. I wish you to accompany me directly.'

Imne's jaw dropped open. 'But, Sir Richard -'

Bolitho saw his first lieutenant watching them. 'He is just aching to take command, albeit for a day – it is every first lieutenant's dream!' He was amazed at his own good humour. It was like a dam holding all the worries here and at home back and out of view.

He stooped over as if to examine one of the snout-nosed twenty-four pounder carronades. It gave him time to massage his eye again, to drive off the mist which the sharp sunlight had thrown at him as if to crack his confidence.

Imne whispered to Jenour, 'What a man, eh? I think I'd follow him to hell and back!'

Jenour watched Bolitho's shoulders. 'Aye, sir.' It was only a guess, but he saw more than anyone of Bolitho apart from Allday and the cabin staff. It was strange that they never mentioned it. But Jenour's uncle was a physician in Southampton. He had spoken of something like this. Jenour had seen Bolitho caught off balance, like the moment when the Viscount's beautiful wife had reached out to aid him, and other times at sea before that.

But nothing was ever said about it. He had to be mistaken.

All the way across the anchorage Bolitho pondered over his mission. If he had frigates, even one at his disposal, he could plan around the one, formidable obstacle.

La Guaira, the Spanish port on the Main and gateway to the capital Caracas, was impregnable. That was only because nobody had ever attempted it before. He could feel Imrie's curiosity and was glad he had visited the Thor before discussing the venture with Haven and the others.

Imrie would be confident but not reckless. Price had believed he could do it, although for different reasons. Had he succeeded, it was unlikely that even a tiny fishing dory could slip through the Dons' defences afterwards.

Allday muttered, 'We have to put round t'other side, Sir Richard.' He sounded irritated, and Bolitho knew that he was still brooding over his newly-discovered and as quickly lost son.

Jenour stood up and swayed in the barge. 'The water-lighters are alongside, Sir Richard. Shall I signal them to stand away for you?'

Bolitho tugged his coat. 'Sit down, you impatient young upstart.' He knew the young lieutenant was smiling at his rebuke. 'We need fresh water, and Hyperion does have two sides to her!'

They pulled around the bows and past the out-thrust trident. Bolitho glanced up at the figurehead's fierce stare. Many a man must have seen that lancing through the gunsmoke and felt a last fear before he was cut down in battle.

He found Haven agitated and probably worried that Bolitho would berate him.

'I am sorry about the lighters, sir! I was not expecting you!'

Bolitho crossed the deck and looked down. Again, it was to test his eye, to prepare it for the cool shadows between decks.

'No matter.' He knew Haven was watching Imrie with suspicion and said, 'Commander Imrie is my guest.' He rested his hands on the sun-baked woodwork and regarded the nearest lighter. They were huge, flat-bottomed craft, their open hulls lined with great casks of water. One line of casks had already been hoisted up and lowered inboard on tackles; and Bolitho saw Parris, the first lieutenant, one foot resting negligently on a hatch coaming, watching Sheargold the beaky-faced purser check each cask before it was sent below. He was about to turn away and then said, 'The lighter is still on even keel, yet all the casks are on the outboard side."

Haven observed him warily, as if he thought Bolitho had been too long in the sun.

'They are so constructed, sir. Nothing will tilt them.'

Bolitho straightened his back and looked at Imrie.

'There you have it, Imrie. A platform for your mortars!' He ignored their combined astonishment.

'Now, I must meet the Inspector General!'

In the bars of bright forenoon sunlight, The Right Honourable the Viscount Somervell lounged against a leather-backed chair and listened without interruption. He was dressed in very pale green with brocade and stitching which would put any prince to shame. Close-to and in the brilliant glare Somervell looked younger, mid-thirties, her age or perhaps less.

Bolitho tried not to think beyond the outline of his plan, but Catherine seemed to linger in the great cabin like a shadow, as if she too was making comparisons.

Bolitho walked to the stern windows and looked out at some passing fishing boats. The anchorage was still flat and calm, but the mist was drifting seawards, and the pendant above an anchored brig was lifting occasionally to a lifeless breeze.

He said, 'Captain Price -' He paused, expecting Somervell to interrupt, or to voice some scathing comment. He did not. '- made a practice of patrolling that section of the Main where he was eventually forced to abandon Consort. He took careful note of everything he saw, and searched or destroyed some twenty enemy vessels in the process. Given time -'

This was SomervelPs cue. 'It ran out for him.' He leaned forward in his chair, his pale eyes unblinking despite the harsh glare. 'And you have actually discussed some of this secret matter with, er, a Commander Imrie?' He spoke the man's name indifferently, as a landowner might speak of a lowly farm labourer. 'That is surely an extra risk?'

Bolitho replied, 'Imrie is an intelligent officer, shrewd too.

When I spoke to my other commanders earlier I had the impression that they were convinced I intended to try and cut out the Consort, or Intrepido as she has been renamed.'

Somervell pressed his fingertips together. 'You have done your work well, Sir Richard!'

Bolitho continued, 'Imne would guess immediately that I had something else in mind. He knew that his Thor is too heavy and slow for a cutting-out expedition.'

'I am relieved to know that you have told him no more at present.'

Bolitho lowered his eyes to the chart, unnerved that Somervell could get under his skin so easily.

'Every year, Spanish treasure convoys set sail from the Mam with each ship carrying a King's ransom. Between them, the church and the army have raped the continent, and now the King of Spain needs gold all the more. His French masters are making certain of their share.'

Somervell stood up and walked casually to the chart. Everything he did looked bored and unhurried, but his reputation as a swordsman made a lie of that.

He said, 'When I first came out here at His Majesty's direction – He dabbed his mouth with a silk handkerchief and Bolitho thought it was to hide a small smile, 'I considered that the capture of such treasure might be just another dream. I know that Nelson has had some luck, but that was at sea where the chance of finding such booty is even more difficult.'

He traced the lines with one finger. ' La Guaira is well defended. It is where they will have taken the Consort?

'With respect, my lord, I doubt that. La Guaira is the gateway to the capital, Caracas, but it is not suitable to refit a man-of-war, and it seems likely she will have been damaged after driving ashore.' Before Somervell could disagree he touched the coast away from La Guaira. 'Here, my lord, Puerto Cabello, seventy miles to the west'rd. It would be a far more likely destination.'

'Hmm.' Somervell leaned over the chart and Bolitho noticed a livid scar below his ear. A close call, he thought grimly.

Somervell continued, 'It is rather near to your intended operation. I am really not convinced.' He stood up and walked around the cabin as if pacing out a rectangle. 'Price saw vessels at anchor, and I have had reports that treasure-ships are using La Guaira. The place is well defended, with at least three fortresses, and as Consort discovered to her cost, some other batteries, probably horse-artillery, for good measure.' He shook his head. 'I don't like it. If we still had the frigate it might, and I only say might, be different. Should you attack, and the Dons repulse you, we shall toss away every chance of surprise. The King of Spain would lose a fleet, rather than surrender his gold. I am not convinced.'

Bolitho watched him and felt strangely calm. In his mind the hazy plan had become suddenly real, like a shoreline hardening through a dawn mist. War at sea was always a risk. It took more than skill and plain courage, it took what his friend Thomas Herrick would describe as the work of Lady Luck. Friend? Was he still that after what had happened?

'I am prepared to take that chance, my lord.'

'Well, maybe I am not!' Somervell swung round, his eyes cold. 'There is more than glory at stake here!'

'I never doubted it, my lord.'

They faced one another, each testing the other's intentions.

Somervell said suddenly, 'When I first came to this damned place I imagined that some well-tried and gallant captain would be sent to seek out and capture one of the galleons.' He almost spat out the word. 'I was informed that a squadron would eventually come and seal off the escape routes which these Spanish ladies take on their passage to the Canaries and their home ports.' He held out one hand as if about to bow. 'Instead, you are sent, like a vanguard, to give the matter weight, to carry it through no matter what. So if we fail, the enemy victory will seem all the greater – what do you say about that?'

Bolitho shrugged. 'I think it can be done.' It came to him like a cry in the night. Somervell needed it to succeed more than anyone. Because of disfavour at court or because he was in some sort of trouble which a share of the prize money would readily take care of

He said flatly, 'There is no time left, my lord. If we wait until reinforcements arrive from England, and I must stress that I am only expecting three more liners, the whole world will be after us. A victory may help our finances, but I can assure you that it will more than damage the Franco-Spanish alliance.'

Somervell sat down and carefully arranged his coat to give his thoughts time to settle.

He said irritably, 'The secret will out anyway.'

Bolitho watched him pout his lips and tried not to imagine them touching her neck, her breast.

Then Somervell smiled; it made him appear momentarily vulnerable. Then I agree. It shall be done as you describe. I am empowered to get you any assistance you need.' The smile vanished. 'But I cannot help you if -'

Bolitho nodded, satisfied. 'Yes, my lord, that word if can mean so much to a sea-officer.'

He heard someone hailing a boat, the clatter of oars nearby and guessed that Somervell had planned his departure, like his visit, to the minute.

Bolitho said, 'I shall tell Captain Haven at once.'

Somervell was only half-listening but he said, 'As little as possible. When two men share a secret, it is no longer a secret.' He looked at the screen door as Ozzard entered carrying his hat with elaborate care.

Somervell said quietly, 'I am glad we met. Though for the life of me I cannot imagine why you insisted on taking this mission.' He eyed him quizzically. 'A death-wish perhaps? You must surely have no need for more glory.' Then he turned on his heel and strode from the cabin.

At the entry port he glanced indifferently at the rigid marines and waiting side-party, then at Imrie's lanky shape by a poop ladder.

'I would imagine that the Lady Belinda is displeased about your zest for duty so soon after your recent victory?" He smiled wryly, then walked to the entry port without another glance.

Bolitho watched the smart launch being pulled away from Hyperion's shadow and pondered what they had discussed; more, what they had left unsaid.

The reference to Belinda, for instance. What had Somervell expected to incite? Or was it merely something he could not restrain when neither of them had once mentioned Catherine?

Bolitho looked at the nearest anchored brig, the Upholder. Very like Adam's command, he thought.

Haven moved nearer and touched his hat. 'Any orders, Sir Richard?'

Bolitho pulled out his watch and snapped open the guard. Exactly noon, yet it felt like no time since he had left to visit Thor.

'Thank you, Captain Haven.' Their eyes met, and Bolitho could feel the other man's reserve, a wariness which was almost physical. 'I shall require all our captains on board at the close of the afternoon watch. Bring them aft to my quarters.'

Haven swallowed. 'The rest of our vessels are still at sea, sir.'

Bolitho glanced round, but the guard was dismissed, and only a few idlers and the master's mate of the watch were nearby.

He said, 'I intend to up-anchor within the week, as soon as there is wind enough to fill our canvas. We shall sail southwest to the Main and stand off La Guaira. '

Haven had ruddy, sunburned cheeks which matched his hair, but they seemed to pale. 'That's six hundred miles, sir! In this ship, without support, I'm not certain -'

Bolitho lowered his face and said, 'Have you no stomach for it, man? Or are you seeking an early retirement?' He hated himself, knowing that Haven could not hit back.

He added simply, 'I need you, and so does this ship. It has to be enough.' He turned away, despairing at what he saw in Haven's eyes.

He noticed Imrie and called, 'Come with me, I wish to pick your brains.'

Bolitho winced as a shaft of sunlight lanced down through the mizzen shrouds. For just those few seconds his eye was completely blind, and it was all he could do not to cry out.

A death-wish, Somervell had said. Bolitho groped into the poop's shadows and felt the bitterness coursing through him. Too many had died because of him, and even his friends were damaged by his touch.

Imrie ducked his head beneath the poop and walked beside him into the gloom between decks.

'I have been thinking, Sir Richard, and I've a few ideas -'

He had not seen the dismay on his admiral's face, nor could he guess how his simple remarks were like a lifeline for him.

Bolitho said, 'Then we shall quench our thirst while I listen.'

Haven watched them leave the quarterdeck and called for the signals midshipman. He told the boy the nature and time of the signal for the other captains to repair on board, then turned as the first lieutenant hurried towards him.

Before the lieutenant could speak Haven rasped, 'Do I have to perform your duties too, damn you?' He strode away adding, 'By God, if you cannot do better, I'll see you cast ashore for good!'

Parris stared after him, only his tightly bunched fists giving a hint of his anger and resentment.

'And God damn you too!' He saw the midshipman staring owhshly at him and wondered if he had spoken aloud. He grinned wearily. 'It's a fine life, Mr Mirrielees, provided you hold your tongue!'

At eight bells that afternoon, the signal was run up to the yard. It was begun.