Honour This Day

4. Storm Warning

Bolitho stood in the centre of the deserted boatshed and allowed his eyes to grow accustomed to its shapes and shadows. It was a great, ramshackle building, lit by just a few guttering lanterns which swayed on long chains to reduce the risk of fire, and which gave the impression that the place was moving like a ship.

It was evening outside, but unlike the previous ones the darkness was alive with sounds, the creak and slap of palm fronds, the uneasy ripple of wavelets beneath the crude slipway upon which the water-lighter had been prepared for its passage south. The boatshed had been a hive of activity, with shipwrights and sailors working against time to rig extra bilge pumps and fit iron crutches along the bulwarks so that it could be manhandled by long sweeps when required.

Bolitho felt the loose sand in his shoes from his walk along the foreshore while he went over his plans for the hundredth time. Jenour had kept him close company, but had respected his need to be alone, at least with his thoughts.

Bolitho listened to the lap of water, the gentle moan of wind through the weather-worn roof. They had prayed for wind; now it might rise and turn against them. If the lighter was swamped before it could reach the rendezvous he must decide what to do. He would either have to send Thor inshore unsupported, or call off the attack. He thought of Somervell’s eyes, of the doubt he had seen there. No, he would not back down from the attack; it was pointless to consider alternatives.

He glanced around at the black, inert shadows. Skeletons of old boats, frames of others yet to be completed. The smells of paint, tar and cordage It was strange that it never failed to excite him even after all the years at sea.

Bolitho could recall the sheds at Falmouth, where he and his brother, Hugh, and sometimes his sisters had explored all the secret places, and had imagined themselves to be pirates and princesses in distress. He felt a stab m his heart as he pictured his child, Elizabeth. How she had plucked at his epaulettes and buttons when he had first seen her, had picked her up so awkwardly.

Instead of drawing him and Belinda closer, the child had done the opposite. One of their disputes had been over Belinda's announcement that she wanted her daughter to have a governess and a proper nurse to care for her. That, and the proposed move to London, had sparked it off.

She had exclaimed on one occasion, 'Because you were raised in Falmouth with other village children, you cannot expect me to refuse Elizabeth the chance to better herself, to take proper advantage of your achievements.'

It had been a difficult birth, while Bolitho had been away at sea. The doctor had warned Belinda against having another child, and a coldness had formed between them which Bolitho found hard to accept and understand.

She had said sharply on another occasion, 'I told you from the beginning, I am not Cheney. Had we not looked so much alike I fear you would have turned elsewhere!'

Bolitho had wanted to break down the barrier, take her to him and pour out his anguish. To tell her more of the damage to his eye, admit what it might mean.

Instead he had met her in London, and there had been an unreal, bitter hostility which both of them would regret.

Bolitho touched his buttons and thought of Elizabeth again. She was just sixteen months old. He stared around with sudden desperation. Would she never play in boatsheds like this one? Romp on the sand and come home filthy to be scolded and loved? He sighed, and Jenour responded immediately. 'Thor should be well on her way, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho nodded. The bomb-vessel had sailed the previous night. God alone knew if spies had already gleaned news of her proposed employment. Bolitho had made certain that rumours had been circulated that Thor was taking the lighter in tow to St Christopher's, and even Glassport had put aside his resentment to provide some deck cargo with the senior officer's name and destination plainly marked.

Anyway, it was too late now. Perhaps it had been so when he had insisted on sailing in advance of his new squadron, to deal with the King's need for gold in his own way. Death-wish. It stuck in his mind like a barb.

He said, 'Imne will doubtless be glad to be at sea.'

Jenour watched his upright figure and saw that he had removed his hat and loosened his neckcloth as if to draw every benefit from this last walk ashore.

Bolitho did not notice the glance, but was thinking of his other commanders. Haven had been right about one thing. The remaining three vessels of his small force had not yet returned to English Harbour. Either Glassport's schooner had been unable to find them, or they had separately decided to drag out their time. He thought of their faces when they had gathered in the great cabin. Thynne, of the third-rate Obdurate which was still completing repairs to storm-damage, was the only post-captain amongst them. Bolitho's main impression had been one of youth, the other that of polite wariness. They had all known the dead Price, and perhaps they saw in Bolitho's strategy something stolen, by which their admiral intended to profit.

He had remarked as much to Jenour, not because his young flag-lieutenant had either the experience or the wisdom to comment, but because he needed to share it with someone he could trust.

Typically, Jenour had insisted, They all know your record, Sir Richard. That is enough for any man!'

Bolitho glanced at him now. A pleasant, eager young man who reminded him of no one. Maybe that was the reason for his choice. That and his unnerving knowledge of his past exploits, ships and battles.

The three brigs, Upholder, Tetrarch and Vesta, would weigh tomorrow and sail with their flagship. It was to be hoped they did not run down on some enemy frigates before they reached the Main. The brigs mounted only forty-two pop-guns between them. If only the one sloop-of-war had received his recall signal. The Phaedra at least looked like a small frigate, and in proper hands could double as one. Or was he again thinking of his first command, and the luck he had enjoyed with her?

Bolitho walked slowly to the end of the slipway where it dipped into the uneasy catspaws. The water looked like ebony, with only occasional shadows and reflections from riding-lights, or as in Hyperion's case, the checkered lines of open gunports. He felt the warm breeze stir his coat-tails and tried to picture his chart, the uncertainties which marked each of the six hundred miles as surely as any beacons.

Bolitho tried not to become irritated when he thought of Haven. He was no coward, but had shown himself to be beset by other, deeper anxieties. Whatever he really believed about being given command of a veteran like Hyperion, Bolitho knew differently. Old she might be, but she was a far better sailer than most. He smiled sadly, recalling her as she had been when he had first taken command as a young captain. She had been in commission so long without entering harbour for a refit that she was unbearably s'ow. Even with her copper-sheathing, the weed on her bottom had been yards long, so that under full sail she could only manage half the speed of her companions.

It was unusual for any captain to antagonise his admiral, whether he hated him or not. The climb to promotion was hard enough without flinging down more obstacles. Haven refused every offer of personal contact, and when, on the passage from England, tradition had insisted on his presence at table while Bolitho had entertained some of the junior officers, he had kept to himself. Alone amongst so many. He thought of the picture of Haven's pretty wife. Was she the cause of his moods? Bolitho grimaced in the darkness. That he would understand well enough.

A shadowy fishing-boat slipped past the nearest anchored brig. She could be carrying a message to the enemy. If the Dons found out what they intended, the admiral in Havana would have a hole squadron at sea within hours of receiving the news.

It was time to return to the jetty where his barge would be waiting, but he felt a reluctance to leave. It was peaceful here, an escape from danger and the call of duty.

The fishing-boat had vanished, unaware of the thoughts it had roused.

Bolitho stared at Hyperion's glowing lines of open ports. As if she was still hanging on to the angry sunset, or was burning from within. He thought of the six hundred souls packed into her rounded hull and once again felt the pain of his responsibility, which wrongly directed could destroy them all.

They did not ask for much, and even the simplest comforts were too often denied them. He could picture these faceless men now, the Royal Marines in their barracks, as they termed their section of the deck, polishing and cleaning their equipment. At other mess tables between the guns where sailors lived out their watches below, some seamen would be working on delicate scrimshaw, or making tiny models of bone and shell. Seamen with hands so roughened by cordage and tar, yet they could still produce such fine results. The midshipmen, of which Hyperion carried eight, would be performing their studies for promotion to the godly rank of lieutenant, sometimes working by the smallest light, a glim set in an old shell.

The officers had not yet emerged except for brief contact on deck, or at dinner in his cabin. Given time they would show what they could or could not do. Bolitho swung his hat at some buzzing insect in the darkness. Given leadership. It all came down to that. He heard Jenour's shoes scrape on the rough ground as he turned towards the top of the boatshed.

Then he heard the carriage wheels, the stamp of a restless horse, and a man calling out to calm it.

Jenour whispered hoarsely,' Tis a lady, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho turned, only his heart giving away his feelings. Not once did he question who it might be at this hour. Perhaps he had inwardly been expecting her, hoping she might find him. And yet he knew otherwise. He felt off-guard, as if he had been stripped naked.

They met below the propped-up bow of an old boat and Bolitho saw that she was covered from head to toe in a long cloak; its cowl hung loosely over her hair. Beyond her he could see a carnage on the road, a man at the horse's head, two small lamps casting an orange glow across the harness.

Jenour made to leave but she waved his apology aside and said, 'It is well. I have my maid with me.'

Bolitho stepped closer but she did not move towards him. She was completely hidden by the cloak, with just the oval of her face and a gold chain at her throat to break the darkness.

She said, 'You are leaving very soon.' It was a statement. 'I came to wish you luck with whatever -' Her voice trailed away. Bolitho held out his hand, but she said quickly, 'No. It is unfair.' She spoke without emotion, so that her voice seemed full of it. 'You met my husband?'

'Yes.' Bolitho tried to see her eyes but they too were in deep shadow. 'But I want to speak about you, to hear what you have been doing.'

She lifted her chin. 'Since you left me?' She half turned away. 'My husband spoke to me of your private meeting. You impressed him. He does not admire others very often. The fact you knew of the frigate's new name…'

Bolitho persisted, 'I need to talk, Kate.' He saw her shiver.

She said quietly, 'I once asked you to call me that.'

'I know. I do not forget.' He shrugged and knew he was floundering, losing a battle he could not fight.

'Nor 1.1 read everything I could, as if I expected that with time I could lose what I had felt. Hatred was not enough…' She broke off. 'I was hurt -1 bled because of you.'

'I did not know.'

She did not hear him. 'Did you imagine that your life meant so little to me that I could watch years of it pass and not be hurt? Years I could never share… did you think I loved you so little?'

'I thought you turned aside, Kate.'

'Perhaps I did. There was nothing offered. More than anything I wanted you to succeed, to be recognised for what you are. Would you have had people sneer when I passed as they do at Nelson's whore' How would you have ridden that storm, tell me?'

Bolitho heard Jenour's shoes as he moved away, but no longer cared.

'Please give me the chance to explain -'

She shook her head. 'You married another and have a child, I believe.'

Bolitho dropped his hands to his sides. 'And what of you? You married him.'

'Him*' She showed one hand through the cloak but withdrew it again. 'Lacey needed me. I was able to help him. As I told you, I wanted security.'

They watched each other in silence and then she said, 'Take care in whatever madness you are involved. I shall probably not see you again.'

Bolitho said, 'I shall sail tomorrow. But then he doubtless told you that too.'

For the first time her voice rose in passion and anger.

'Don't you use that tone with me¹1 came tonight because of the love 1 believed in. Not out of grief or pity. If you think -'

He reached out and gripped her arm through the cloak.

'Do not leave in anger, Kate.' He expected her to tear her arm away and hurry back to the coach. But something in his tone seemed to hold her.

He persisted, 'When I think of never seeing you again I feel guilty, because I know I could not bear it.'

She said in a whisper, 'It was your choice.'

'Not entirely.'

'Would you tell your wife you had seen me? I understand she is quite a beauty. Could you do that?'

She stepped back slightly. 'Your silence is my answer.'

Bolitho said bitterly, 'It is not like that.'

She glanced round towards the carriage and Bolitho saw the cowl fall from her head, caught the gleam of the lamps on her earrings. The ones he had given her.

She said, 'Please leave.' When he made to hold her again she backed away. 'Tomorrow I shall see the ships stand away from the land.' She put her hand to her face. 'I will feel nothing, Richard, because my heart, such as it is, will sail with you. Now go!'

Then she turned and ran from the shed, her cloak swirling about her until she reached the carriage.

Jenour said huskily, 'I am indeed sorry, Sir Richard -'

Bolitho turned on him. 'It's time you grew up, Mr Jenour!'

Jenour hurried after him, his mind still in a whirl from what he had seen and unwillingly shared.

Bolitho paused by the jetty and looked back. The carriage lamps were still motionless, and he knew she was watching him even in the darkness.

He heard the barge moving towards the jetty and was suddenly thankful. The sea had claimed him back.

At noon on the third day at sea Bolitho went on deck and walked along the weather side. It was like the other days, as if nothing, not even the men on watch, had changed.

He shaded his eyes to glance up at the masthead pendant. The wind was steady, as before, across the starboard quarter, creating a long regular swell which stretched unbroken in either direction. He heard the helmsman call, 'Steady as she goes, sir! Sou' west by west¹' Bolitho knew it was more for his benefit than the officer-of-the-watch.

He looked at the long swell, the easy way Hyperion raised her quarter and allowed it to break against her flank. A few men were working high above the deck, their bodies tanned or peeling according to their time at sea. It never stopped. Splicing and reeving new lines, tarrmg-down and refilling the boats with water on their tier to keep the seams from opening in the relentless glare.

Bolitho felt the officer-of-the-watch glancing at him and tried to remember what he could about him. In a fight, one man could win or lose it. He paced slowly past the packed hammock nettings. Vernon Quayle was Hyperion's fourth lieutenant, and unless he was checked or possibly killed he would be a tyrant if he ever reached post-rank He was twenty-two, of a naval family, with sulky good looks and a quick temper. There had been three men flogged in his division since leaving England. Haven should have a word with the first lieutenant. Maybe he had, although the captain and his senior never appeared to speak except on matters of routine and discipline.

Bolitho tried not to think of Hyperion as she had once been. If any man-of-war could be said to be a happy ship in days like these, then so she had been then.

He walked forward to the quarterdeck rail and looked along the upper deck, the market-place of any warship.

The sailmaker and his mates were rolling up repaired lengths of canvas, and putting away their palms and needles. There was a sickly smell of cooking from the galley funnel, though how they could eat boiled pork in this heat was hard to fathom.

Bolitho could taste Ozzard's strong coffee on his tongue, but the thought of eating made him swallow hard. He had barely eaten since leaving English Harbour. Anxiety, strain, or was it still the guilt of seeing Catherine again?

Lieutenant Quayle touched his hat. 'Upholder is on station, Sir Richard. The masthead makes a report every half-hour.' It sounded as if he was about to add, 'or I'll know the reason!'

Upholder was hull-down on the horizon and would be the first to signal that she had sighted Thor at the rendezvous. Or not. Bolitho had placed the brig in the van because of her young commander, William Trotter, a thoughtful Devonian who had impressed him during their first few meetings. It needed brains as well as good lookouts when so much depended on that first sighting.

Tetrarch was somewhere up to windward, ready to dash down if needed, and the third brig, Vesta, was far astern, her main role to ensure they were not being followed by some inquisitive stranger. So far they had seen nothing It was as if the sea had emptied, that some dreadful warning had cleared it like an arena.

Tomorrow they would be near enough to land for the masthead to recognise it.

Bolitho had spoken to Hyperion's sailing master, Isaac Penha-hgon. Haven was fortunate to have such an experienced master, he thought. So am I. Penhahgon was a Cormshman also, but in name only. He had been packed off to sea as a cabin-boy at the tender age of seven years, and had walked ashore very little since. He was now about sixty, with a deeply-lined face the colour of leather, and eyes so bright they seemed to belong to a younger person trapped within. He had served in a packet-ship, in East Indiamen, and eventually had, as he had put it, donned the King's coat as a master's mate. His skill and knowledge of the oceans and their moods would be hard to rival, Bolitho thought. An additional piece of luck was that he once sailed in these same waters, had fought off buccaneers and slavers, had done so much that nothing seemed to daunt him. Bolitho had watched him checking the noon sights, his eyes on the assembled midshipmen whose navigation and maritime knowledge lay in his hands, ready to make a rough comment if things went wrong. He was never sarcastic with the young gentlemen, but he was very severe, and they were obviously in awe of him.

Penhahgon had compared his charts and notes with Price's own observations and had commented sparingly, 'Knew his navigation, that one.' It was praise indeed.

A petty officer approached the lieutenant and knuckled his forehead. Bolitho was thankful to be left alone as Quayle hurried away. He had seen the petty officer's expression. Not just respect for an officer. It was more like fear.

He stroked the worn rail, hot from the sunlight. He thought of that last meeting in the boatshed, Catherine's voice and fervour. He had to see her again, if only to explain. Explain what? It could do nothing but harm to her. To both of them.

She had seemed unreachable, eager to tell him the hurt he had done her, and yet…

He remembered vividly their first meeting, and when she had cursed him for the death of her husband. Her second husband. There had also been the one she rarely mentioned, a reckless soldier-of-fortune who had died in Spam in some drunken brawl. Who had she been then, and where had she come from? It was hard to see her, so captivating and striking as she was now, set against the squalor she had once touched on in a moment of intimacy.

And what of Somervell? Was he as cold and indifferent as he appeared? Or was he merely contemptuous; amused perhaps while he watched the reawakening of old memories, which he might use or ignore as he chose?

Would he ever know, or would he spend the rest of his life remembering how it had once been for so short a time, knowing that she was watching from a distance, waiting to learn what he was doing, or if he had fallen in battle?

Quayle had gone to the helm and was snapping something at the midshipman-of-the-watch. Like the others, he was properly dressed, although he must be sweating fire in this heat.

Had Keen been his flag captain he would have – Bolitho called, 'Send for my servant!'

Quayle came alive. 'At once, Sir Richard!'

Ozzard emerged from the shadows of the poop and stood blinking in the glare, more mole-like than ever. Small, loyal and ever ready to serve Bolitho whenever he could He had even read to him when he had been partially blinded, and before, when he had been smashed down by a musket. Meek and timid, but underneath there was another kind of man. He was well-educated and had once been a lawyer's clerk; he had run away to sea to avoid prosecution, and some said the hangman's halter.

Bolitho said, Take my coat, if you please.' Ozzard did not even blink as the vice-admiral tossed his coat over his arm and then handed him his hat.

Others were staring, but by tomorrow even Haven might tell his officers to walk the decks in their shirts and not suffer in silence. If it took a uniform to make an officer, there was no hope for any of them.

Ozzard gave a small smile, then scurried thankfully into the shadows again.

He had watched most faces of Bolitho, his moods of excitement and despair. There had been too many of the latter, he thought.

Past the marine sentry and into the great cabin. The world he shared with Bolitho, where rank was of little importance. He held up the coat and examined it for traces of tar or strands of spun yarn. Then he saw his own reflection in the mirror and held the coat against his own small frame. The coat hung almost to his ankles and he gave a shy smile.

He gripped the coat tightly as he saw himself that terrible day when the lawyer had sent him home early.

He had discovered his young wife, naked in the arms of a man he had known and respected for years.

They had tried to bluff it out and all the while he had been dying as he had stared at them.

Later, when he had left the small house on the Thames at Wapping Wall, he had seen the shopkeeper's name opposite. Tom Ozzard, Scrivener. He had decided then and there it was to be his new identity.

Never once had he looked back to the room where he had stopped their lies with an axe, had hacked and slashed until there was nothing recognisable in human form.

On Tower Hill he had found the recruiting party; they were never far away, always in the hopes of a volunteer, or some drunkard who would take a com and then find himself in a man-of-war until he was paid off or killed.

The lieutenant in charge had regarded him with doubt and then amusement. Prime seamen, strong young men, were what the King needed.

Ozzard carefully folded the coat. It was different now. They would take a cripple on two crutches if they got the chance.

Tom Ozzard, servant to a vice-admiral, afraid, no, terrified of battle when the ship quaked and reeled around him, a man with no past, no future.

One day, deep in his heart, Ozzard knew he would go back to that little house at Wapping Wall, Then, only then, he would give in to what he had done.

From the masthead lookout, curled up in the cross-trees, to Allday, sprawled in his hammock while he slept off the aftermath of several wets, from Ozzard to the man in the great cabin whom he served, most thoughts were on tomorrow.

Hyperion in all her years, and over the countless leagues she had sailed, had seen many come and go.

Beyond the figurehead's trident lay the horizon. Beyond that, only destiny could identify.