Honour This Day

6. 'In War There Are No Neutrals

The transfer from Hyperion to the bomb-vessel Thor was carried out just before sunset, without mishap. Men and weapons with extra powder and shot were ferried across, the boats leaping and then almost disappearing between the crests of a deep swell.

Bolitho watched from the quarterdeck while Hyperion lay hove-to, her canvas booming in protest, and once again marvelled at the sunset's primitive beauty. The long undulating swell, like the boats and their labouring crews, seemed to glow like rough bronze, while even the faces around him looked unreal; like strangers.

With two of Hyperion's boats and thirty of her men safely transferred, Bolitho made the final crossing in a jolly boat.

He had barely been received aboard Thor before he saw Hyperion's yards swinging round, her shadowed outline shortening as she turned away to follow the two brigs into the last of the sunset.

If Commander Ludovic Imrie was bothered by having his flag officer coming aboard his modest command, he did not show it. He displayed more surprise when Bolitho announced that he did not intend to wear his epaulettes, and suggested that Imrie, as Tbor's commander, should follow his example.

He had remarked calmly, 'Your people know you well enough. I trust that they will know me too when this affair is finished!'

Bolitho was able to forget Hyperion and the others as they headed further and further away towards Puerto Cabello. He could feel the tension mount around him as Thor made more sail and steered, close-hauled, towards the invisible shoreline.

Hour followed hour, with hushed voices calling from the chains where two leadsmen took regular soundings, so that their reports could be checked carefully against the chart and the notes Bolitho had made after his meeting with Captain Price.

The noise was loud, but deceptive. Astern on its tow-line, the clumsy lighter was pumped constantly in a battle which Imrie had admitted had begun within hours of leaving harbour. Any rise in the sea brought instant danger from flooding, and now, with both Thor's heavy mortars and their crews on board, the lighter's loss would spell disaster.

Bolitho prowled restlessly around the vessel's quarterdeck and pictured the land in his mind, as he had seen it that late afternoon. He had made himself climb aloft just once more, this time to the maintop, and through a rising haze had seen the tell-tale landmarks of La Guaira. The vast blue-grey range of the Caracas Mountains, and further to the west the impressive saddle-shaped peaks of the Silla de Caracas.

Penhaligon could be rightfully proud of his navigation, he thought. Allday barely left his side after they had come aboard, and Bolitho could hear his uneven breathing, his fingers drumming against the hilt of a heavy cutlass.

It made Bolitho touch the unfamiliar shape of the hanger at his belt. The prospect of action right inside the enemy's territory occupied everyone's mind, but Bolitho doubted if Allday had missed his decision to leave the old family sword behind in Hyperion. He had almost lost it once before. Allday would be remembering that too, thinking Bolitho had left it with Ozzard only because he believed he might not return.

Adam would wear the sword one day. It would never fall into enemy hands again.

Later, in Imrie's small cabin, they peered at the chart behind shuttered stern windows. Thor was cleared for action, but her chance would come only if the first part succeeded. Bolitho traced the twisting shallows with the dividers, as Price must have done before his ship had driven ashore. He felt the others crowding around and against him. Imrie and his senior master's mate, Lieutenant Parris, and Thor's second lieutenant, who would cover the attack.

Bolitho wondered momentarily if Parris was thinking about the floggings, which had been cancelled at Haven's order. Or of the fact that Haven had insisted that the two culprits should be included in the raiding party. All the bad eggs in one basket maybe, he thought.

He pulled out his watch and laid it beneath a low-slung lantern.

'Thor will anchor within the half-hour. All boats will cast off immediately, the jolly boat leading. Soundings must be taken, but not unnecessarily. Stealth is vital. We must be in position by dawn.' He glanced at their grim expressions. 'Questions?'

Dalmaine, Thor's second lieutenant, raised his hand.

'What if the Don has moved, sir?'

It was amazing how easy they found it to speak up, Bolitho thought. Without the intimidating vice-admiral's epaulettes, and in their own ship, they had already spoken of their ideas, their anxieties as well. It was like being in a frigate or a sloop-of-war, all over again.

'Then we will be unlucky.' Bolitho smiled and saw Jenour's eyes watching the brass dividers as he tapped the chart. 'But there have been no reports of any large ships on the move.'

The lieutenant persisted, 'And the battery, sir. Suppose we cannot take it by surprise?'

It was Imrie who answered. 'I would suggest, Mr Dalmaine, that all your pride in your mortars will have been misplaced!'

The others laughed. It was the first healthy sign.

Bolitho said, 'We destroy the battery, then Thor can follow through the sandbars. Her carronades will more than take care of any guardboats.' He stood up carefully to avoid the low beams. 'And then we shall attack.'

Parris said, 'And if we are repulsed, Sir Richard?'

Their eyes met across the small table. Bolitho studied his gipsy good looks, the reckless candour in his voice. A West Country man, probably from Dorset. Allday's blunt words seemed to intrude, and he thought of the small portrait in Haven's cabin.

He said, 'The treasure-ship must be sunk, fired if possible. It may not prevent salvage, but the delay will be considerable for the Don's coffers!'

'I see, sir.' Parris rubbed his chin. The wind's backed. It could help us.' He spoke without emotion, not as a lieutenant who might well be dead, or screaming under a Spanish surgeon's knife by morning, but as a man used to command.

He was considering alternatives. Suppose, if, perhaps.

Bolitho watched him. 'So shall we be about it, gentlemen?' They met his gaze. Did they know, he wondered? Would they still trust his judgment? He smiled in spite of his thoughts. Haven certainly trusted nobody!

Imrie said cheerfully, 'Och, Sir Richard, we'll a' be rich men by noon!'

They left the cabin, stooping and groping like cripples. Bolitho waited until Imrie alone remained.

'It must be said. If I fall, you must withdraw if you think fit.'

Imrie studied him thoughtfully. 'If you fall, Sir Richard, it will be because I've failed you.' He glanced around the cramped cabin. 'We'll make you proud, you'll see, sir!'

Bolitho walked out into the darkness and stared at the stars until his mind was steady again.

Why did you never get used to it? The simple loyalty. Their honesty with one another, which was unknown or ignored by so many people at home.

Thor dropped anchor, and as she swung to her cable in a lively current, the boats were manhandled alongside or hoisted outboard with such speed that Bolitho guessed that her commander had been drilling and preparing for this moment since he had weighed at English Harbour.

He settled himself in the sternsheets of the jolly boat, which even in the darkness seemed heavy, low in the water with her weight of men and weapons. He had discarded his coat and hat and could have been another lieutenant like Parris.

Allday and Jenour were crowded against him, and while All-day watched the oarsmen with a critical eye, the flag lieutenant said excitedly, 'They'll never believe this!'

By they, he meant his parents, Bolitho guessed.

It seemed to sum up his whole command, he decided. Captains or seamen, there were more sons than fathers.

He heard the grind of long sweeps as the lighter was cast adrift from Thor's quarter, spray bursting over the blades until two more boats flung over their tow-lines.

It was a crazy plan, but one which might just work. Bolitho plucked his shirt away from his body. Sweat or spray, he could not be sure. He concentrated on the time, the whispered soundings, the steady rise and fall of oars. He did not even dare to peer astern to ensure that the others were following.

The boats were at the mercy of the currents and tides around the invisible sandbars. One minute gurgling beneath the keel, and the next with all the oars thrashing and heaving to prevent the hull from being swung in the wrong direction.

He pictured Parris with the main body of men, and Dalmaine in the lighter with his mortars, the hands baling to keep the craft afloat. So close inshore he would not dare to use the pumps now.

There was a startled gasp from the bows, and the coxswain called hoarsely, 'Oars! Easy, lads!'

With the blades stilled and dripping above either beam, the jolly boat pirouetted around in the channel like an untidy sea-creature. A man scrambled aft and stared at Bolitho for several seconds.

He gasped, 'Vessel anchored dead ahead, sir!' He faltered, as if suddenly aware that he was addressing his admiral. 'Small 'un, sir. Schooner mebbee!'

Jenour groaned softly. 'What damned luck! We'd never -'

Bolitho swung round. 'Shutter the lantern astern!' He prayed that Parris would see it in time. An alarm now would catch them in the open. It was too far to pull back, impossible to slip past the anchored ship without being challenged.

He heard himself say, 'Very well, Cox'n. Give way all. Very steady now.' He recalled Keen's calm voice when he had spoken with his gun crews before a battle. Like a rider quieting a troubled mount.

He said, 'It's up to us. No turning back.' He made each word «ink in but it was like speaking into darkness or an empty boat. 'Steer a little to larboard, Cox'n.' He heard a rasp of steel, and a petty officer saying in a fierce whisper, 'No, don't load! The first man to loose off a ball will feel my dirk in 'is belly!'

And suddenly there she was. Tall, spiralling masts and furled sails, a shaded anchor light which threw thin gold lines up her shrouds. Bolitho stared at it as the boat glided towards her bows and outstretched jib-boom.

Was it to be here, like this?

He heard the oars being hauled inboard with elaborate care, the sudden scramble in the bows where the keen-eyed seaman had first sighted this unexpected stranger.

Allday muttered restlessly, 'Come on, you buggers, let's be 'avin' you!'

Bolitho stood up and saw the jib-boom swooping above him as the current carried them into the hull like a piece of driftwood. Jenour was crouching beside him, his hanger already drawn, his head thrown back as if expecting a shot.

'Grapnel!'

It thudded over the bulwark even as the boat surged alongside.

'At 'em, lads!' The fury of the man's whisper was like a trumpet call. Bolitho felt himself knocked and carried up the side, seizing lines, scrabbling for handholds, until with something like madness they flung themselves on to the vessel's deck.

A figure ran from beneath the foremast, his yell of alarm cut short as a seaman brought him down with a cudgel; two other shapes seemed to rise up under their feet and in those split seconds Bolitho realised that the anchor watch had been asleep on deck.

Around him he could sense the wildness of his men, the claws of tension giving way to a brittle hatred of anything that spoke or moved.

Voices echoed below deck, and Bolitho shouted, 'Easy, lads! Hold fast!' He listened to one voice in particular rising above the rest and knew it was speaking a language he did not recognise.

Jenour gasped, 'Swedish, sir!'

Bolitho watched the boarding party prodding at the schooner's crew, as singly or in small groups they clambered through two hatches to gape at their change of circumstances.

Bolitho heard the stealthy movement of oars nearby and guessed that Parris with one of his boats was close alongside. He had probably been expecting a sudden challenge, the raking murder of swivels.

Bolitho snapped, 'Ask Mr Parns if he has one of his Swedish hands on board!' Like most men-of-war Hyperion had the usual smattering of foreign seamen in her company. Some were pressed, others volunteers. There were even a few French sailors who had signed on with their old enemy rather than face the grim prospects of a prison hulk on the Medway.

A figure strode forward until Allday growled, 'Far enough, Mounseer, or whatever you are¹'

The man stared at him, then spat, 'No need to send for an interpreter. I speak English – probably better than you!'

Bolitho sheathed his hanger to give himself time to think. The schooner was unexpected. She was also a problem. Britain was not at war with Sweden, although under pressure from Russia it had been close enough. An incident now, and…

Bolitho said curtly, 'I am a King's officer. And you?'

'I am the master, Rolf Aashng And I can assure you that you will live to regret this – this act of piracy'

Parns slung his leg over the bulwark and looked around. He was not even out of breath.

He said calmly, 'She's the schooner Sptca, Sir Richard.'

The man named Aashng stared. 'Sir Richard?'

Parns eyed him through the darkness. 'Yes. So mind your manners.'

Bolitho said, 'I regret this inconvenience – Captain. But you are anchored in enemy waters. I had no choice.'

The man leaned forward until his coat was touching Allday's unwavering cutlass.

'I am about my peaceful occasions! You have no right -'

Bolitho interrupted him. 'I have every right.' He had nothing of the kind, but the minutes were dashing past. They must get the mortars into position. The attack had to begin as soon as it was light enough to move into the anchorage.

At any second a picket ashore might notice something was wrong aboard the little schooner. She might be hailed by a guardboat, and even if Parns's men overwhelmed it, the alarm would be raised. The helpless lighter, Thor too if she tried to interfere, would be blown out of the water.

Bolitho dropped his voice and turned to Parns. 'Take some

men and look below.' His eyes were growing used to the schooner's deck and taut rigging. She mounted several guns, and there were swivels where they had rushed aboard, more aft by the tiller. They had been lucky. She did not have the cut of a privateer, and the Swedes usually kept clear of involvement with the fleets of France and England. A trader then? But well armed for such a small vessel.

The master exclaimed, 'Will you leave my ship, sir, and order your men to release mine!'

'What are you doing here?'

The sudden question took him off balance. 'I am trading. It is all legal. I will no longer tolerate -'

Parris came back and stood beside Jenour as he said quietly, 'Apart from general cargo, Sir Richard, she is loaded with Spanish silver. For the Frogs, if I'm any judge.'

Bolitho clasped his hands behind him. It made sense. How close they had been to failure. Might still be.

He said, 'You lied to me. Your vessel is already loaded for passage.' He saw the man's shadow fall back a pace. 'You are waiting to sail with the Spanish treasure convoy. Right?'

The man hesitated, then mumbled, 'This is a neutral ship. You have no authority -'

Bolitho waved his hand towards his men. 'For the moment, Captain, I have just that! Now answer me!'

Spica's master shrugged. 'There are many pirates in these waters.' He raised his chin angrily. 'Enemy warships too!'

'So you intended to stay in company with the Spanish vessels until you were on the high seas?' He waited, feeling the man's earlier bombast giving way to fear. 'It would be better if you told me now.'

'The day after tomorrow.' He blurted it out. 'The Spanish ships will leave when -'

Bolitho hid his sudden excitement. More than one ship. The escort might well come from Havana, or already be in Puerto Cabello. Haven could run right into them if he lost his head. He felt Parns watching him. What would he have done?

Bolitho said, 'You will prepare to up-anchor, Captain.' He ignored the man's immediate protest and said to Parns, 'Pass the word to Mr Dalmame, then bring your boats alongside and take them m tow.'

The Swedish master shouted, 'I will not do it! I want no part in this madness!' A note of triumph moved into his tone. 'The Spanish guns will fire on us if I attempt to enter without orders!'

'You do have a recognition signal?'

Aaseling stared at his feet. 'Yes.'

'Then use it, if you please.'

He turned away as Jenour whispered anxiously, 'Sweden may see this as an act of war, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho peered at the black mass of land. 'Neutrality can be a one-sided affair, Stephen. By the time Stockholm is told of it, I hope the deed will be done and forgotten¹' He added harshly, 'In war there are no neutrals' I've had a bellyful of this man's sort, so put a good hand to guard him.' He raised his voice so that the master might hear. 'One treacherous sign and I'll have him run up to the yard where he can watch the results of his folly from the end of a halter!'

He heard more seamen clambering aboard with their weapons. What did they care about neutrality and those who hid behind it so long as they could profit from it' To their simple reasoning, either you were a friend, or you were just as much a foe as Allday's mounseers.

'Space out your men, Mr Parns. If we are driven off at the first attempt -'

Parns showed his teeth in the darkness. 'After this, Sir Richard, I think I'd believe anything.'

Bolitho massaged his eye. 'You may have to.'

Parns strode away and could be heard calling out each man by name. Bolitho noticed the familiar way they responded. No wonder the schooner's small company were so cowed. The British sailors bustled about on the unfamiliar deck as-if they had been doing it all their lives.

Bolitho remembered what his father had once told him, with that same grave pride he had always displayed when it came to his seamen.

'Put them on the deck of any ship in pitch darkness and they will be tripping aloft in minutes, so well do they ply their trade!'

What would he make of this, he wondered?

'Capstan's manned, sir!'

That was a midshipman named Hazlewood, who was aged thirteen, and on his first commission in Hyperion.

Bolitho heard Parns telling him sharply to stay within call. 'I don't want any damned heroes today, Mr Hazlewood!'

Like Adam had once been.

'Heave away, lads!'

Some wag called from the darkness, 'Our Dick'll get us Spanish gold for some grog, eh?' He was quickly silenced by an irate petty officer.

Bolitho stood beside the vessel's master and tried to contain the sympathy he really felt for the man.

After this night his life would be changed. One thing was certain; he would never command any vessel again.

'Anchor's aweigh, sir!'

'Braces, lads!' Bare feet skidded on damp planking as the schooner curtsied round, freed from the seabed, her mainsail filling above their crouched figures to make the stays hum and shiver to the strain.

Bolitho clung to a backstay and made himself remain patiently silent until the schooner had gathered way, and with the boats veering astern, pointed her bowsprit to the east.

Parns seemed to be everywhere. If the attack was successful, he might end up as the senior survivor. Bolitho was surprised that he could consider the possibility of dying without dispute.

Parns crossed the deck to join him. 'Permission to load, Sir Richard? I thought it best to double-shot the six-pounders, and it all takes time.'

Bolitho nodded. It was a sensible precaution. 'Yes, do it. And, Mr Parns, impress on your people to watch the crew. In all conscience, I could not batten them below in their own hull m case the batteries fire on us before we can fight free, but I'd not trust any man of them one inch!'

Parns smiled. 'My boatswain's mate Dacie is a good hand at that, Sir Richard.'

Figures flitted about the guns, and Bolitho heard some of the seamen whispering to one another as they rammed home the charges and shot. They were doing something they understood, which had been drummed into them every working day since they had walked or been dragged aboard a King's ship.

Jenour seemed to have a smattering of Swedish, and was speaking jerkily to the Spica's mate. Eventually two large flags were produced, and quickly bent on to the halliards by Midshipman Hazlewood.

Bolitho moved across the deck, picking out faces, watching where each man had been stationed. Above, Spica's wide topsail was now set and billowing out from its yard, and Bolitho could feel a rising excitement which even the nervous chant of the leadsman could not disperse. He could picture the schooner's slender hull as she plunged so confidently along the channel amongst the lurking sandbars, sometimes with only a few feet beneath her keel. If it was broad daylight they would be able to see Spica's shadow keeping company with them on the bottom.

'All guns loaded, sir!'

'Very well.' He wondered how the abandoned Lieutenant Dalmaine was getting on with his two thirteen-inch mortars. If the attack failed, and Thor was unable to recover the men from the lighter, Dalmaine had orders to make his way ashore and surrender. Bolitho grimaced. He knew what he would do in those circumstances; what any sailor would attempt. Sailors mistrusted land. When others saw the sea as an enemy or a final barrier against escape, men like Dalmaine would take a chance, even in something as hopeless as a lighter.

Jenour joined them by the tiller and said, 'I was speaking with the Swedish mate, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho smiled. The lieutenant could barely suppress his eagerness.

'We are all ears.'

Jenour pointed into the darkness. 'He says we are past the battery. The biggest treasure-ship is anchored in line with the first fortress.' He added proudly. 'She is the Ciudad de Sevilla.'

Bolitho touched his arm. 'That was well done.' He pictured the marks on the chart. It was exactly as Price had described it, and the newly constructed fortress, which rose from the sea on a bed of rocks.

The leadsman called sharply, 'By th' mark two!'

Parris murmured, 'Christ Almighty."

Bolitho said, 'Let her fall off a point.' He peered into the black cluster of shapes by the compass box. 'Who is that?'

'Laker, sir!'

Bolitho turned away. It would be. The seaman who was to have been flogged.

Laker called, 'Steady as she goes, sir! East-by-south!'

'By th' mark seven!'

Bolitho clenched his fists. In the time it had taken for the leadsman to recover and then cast his line from the chains, the Spica had ploughed out of the shallows and into deeper water. But if the chart with its sparse information was wrong…

'By th' mark fifteen!' Even the leadsman's voice sounded jubilant. It was not wrong. They were through.

He walked aft to the taffrail and peered at the boats astern, the gurgle of spray around each stem where lively phosphorescence painted the sea.

Allday said, 'Sun-up any minute, Sir Richard.' He sounded on edge. Til be fair glad to see it go down again, an' that's no error.'

Bolitho loosened the hanger in its scabbard. It felt strange without the old sword. He pictured Adam wearing it as his own, Belinda's perfect face when she received the news that he had fallen.

He said harshly, 'Enough melancholy, old friend! We've faced worse odds!'

Allday watched him, his craggy face hidden in darkness.

'I knows it, Sir Richard. It's just that sometimes I get -'

His eyes shone suddenly and Bolitho grasped his thick forearm.

'The sun. Friend or foe, I wonder?'

'Stand by to come about!' Parris sounded untroubled. 'Two more hands on the forebrace, Keats.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Bolitho tried to recall the petty officer's face, but instead he saw other, older ones. Hyperion's ghosts come back to watch him. They had waited over the years after their last battle. To claim him as their own, perhaps?

The thought made a chill run down his spine. He undipped the scabbard and tossed it aside while he tested the hanger's balance in his hand.

More light, seeping and spreading across the water. There was the land to starboard, sprawling and shapeless. The flash of sunlight on a window somewhere, a ship's masthead pendant lifting to the first glow like the tip of a knight's lance.

The fortress was almost in line with the jib-boom, a stern, square contrast with the land beyond.

Bolitho let the hanger drop to his side and found that he had thrust his other hand inside his shirt. He could feel his heart pounding beneath the hot, damp skin, and yet his whole being felt cold; raw like steel.

'And there she lies!' He had seen the mastheads of the great ship below the fortress. She could be nothing else but Somervell's galleon. But instead of Somervell he saw Catherine's eyes watching him. Proud and captivating. Distant.

To tear himself from the mood he slowly raised his left arm, until the early sunlight spilled down the hanger as if he had dipped it into molten gold.

The sea noises intruded from every side. Wind and spray, the lively clatter of rigging and shrouds while the deck tilted to the change of tack.

Bolitho called, 'Look yonder, my lads! A reckoning indeed!'

But nobody spoke, for only Hyperion's ghosts understood.