Sword of Honour

16. Lifeline

Captain Adam Bolitho walked slowly to the quarterdeck rail and, for only a few seconds, laid his hand upon it. Like the rest of the ship, it was cold and damp, and he felt a shiver run down his spine like some ghostly reminder. He was very aware of the crowded main deck, the upturned faces, still anonymous and unknown to him, the swaying lines of scarlet-coated marines, the blue and white groups of officers and those of warrant rank. Soon to be a ship's company. His ship's company. People, individuals, the good and the bad, but on this bitter December day they were strangers. And Captain Adam Bolitho was quite alone.

On the lively passage back from Halifax to England, he had still imagined that he would be replaced at the last moment. That his one hope would be gone.

It was not a dream. It was not a reward. It was now, today. What his uncle had sometimes described as the most coveted gift was his by right. His Britannic Majesty's Ship Unrivalled, a fifth-rate of forty-six guns, was in almost every sense ready to join the fleet and perform whatever task might be ordered. So fresh from the builders' hands that in places below decks the paint was not yet dry, but up here, even to the inexperienced eye, she was a thing of beauty. She moved restlessly on the current, her holds and stores yet to be filled, like her magazines and shot-lockers, to give the graceful hull stability and purpose.

It was an important day for all of them. The fruitless, bitter war with the United States was all but over. Unrivalled was not only the first ship of her name on the Navy List,

but also the first to be commissioned under the promise of peace.

Adam glanced at the taut shrouds and blacked-down stays, the new cordage touched with frost like entwined, frozen webs, and he saw the breath of one seaman hanging over him like smoke.

It was misty, too, and the houses and fortifications of Plymouth were still blurred, like a glass out of focus.

He felt the ship move again, and pictured the Tamar River which he had seen when he had first arrived. Beyond it was Cornwall, his home, his roots. He had heard that Catherine had gone to Malta to visit his uncle, and it had seemed pointless to challenge the rutted, treacherous roads merely to visit an empty house. Even more so to venture further, perhaps to Zennor.

He pushed the thought away, and drew the scroll from inside his damp coat. This was all that mattered, all that counted now. There was nothing else, and he must never forget that.

He looked steadily at the assembled company for the first time. The seamen were uniformly dressed in new clothing from the purser's slop chest, cheque red shirts and white trousers. A new beginning.

Unlike any other ship in which he had served, Adam knew that Unrivalled carried not a single pressed man. The ship was under manned and some of her company he knew were felons from the assizes and local courts who had been given a choice: the King's service or deportation. Or worse. There were seasoned hands too, a tattoo or some skilled piece of tackle to mark them out from the rest. With ships and men being paid off with unseemly haste, why did some choose to remain in this harsh world of discipline and duty? Perhaps because, despite whatever they had sacrificed or endured, it was all they trusted.

Most of them would have heard other captains read themselves in at some time in their service, but as always it was a moment of significance for every one. The captain, any captain, was their lord and master for as long as the commission dictated.

Adam had known good captains, the best. He had also known the tyrants and the petty-minded, who could make any man's life a misery, or just as easily take his life from him.

He unrolled the scroll, and saw men leaning towards him to hear more clearly. There were visitors as well, including two vice admirals and a small group of burly men in rougher clothing. They had been surprised to be invited, and proud, too; they had built this ship, had created her, and had given her life.

The commission was addressed to Adam Bolitho Esq, in large, round copperplate writing; it could have been Yovell's, he thought.

"Willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you charge and command of captain in her accordingly."

It was like listening to someone else, so that he was able both to speak and take note of individual faces: Vice-Admiral Valentine Keen, now the port admiral at Plymouth, and, with him, Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune, who had come from the Admiralty in London for the occasion.

He recalled the moment when he had been pulled around the ship, and she had been warped to her first mooring. The figurehead had intrigued him: a beautiful woman, her nude body arched back beneath the beak head her hands clasped behind her head and beneath her long hair, her breasts out-thrust, her eyes looking straight ahead, challenging and defiant. It had been made by a well-known local carver named Ben Littlehales, and was said to be the best work he had ever done. Adam had heard some of the riggers saying that Littlehales always used living models, but none of them knew who she was, and the old carver would never tell. He had died on the day Unrivalled had first quit the slipway.

Adam saw Bethune and Keen exchange glances as he drew near to the end of the commission. Strange to realise that both of them, like himself, had been midshipmen under Sir Richard Bolitho's command.

If only he were here today…"…hereof, not you nor any of you may fail as you will answer to the contrary at your peril." He pulled his hat from beneath his arm and raised it slowly, saw their eyes following it. So many strangers. Even the gunner's mate, Jago, who had accepted the invitation to become his coxswain, looked like a different man in his new jacket and trousers. Jago was probably more bemused than anyone at the turn of events.

He thought suddenly of the boy, John Whitmarsh, who had died in that brief, bloody fight. He would have been here, should have been here…… and Anemone, the ship he had loved more than any other. Could this ship, and this new beginning, replace either of them?

He called. "God Save the King!"

The cheering was loud, unexpectedly so, and he had to fight to contain his emotion.

He thought again of the figurehead; the old carver had chiselled an inscription at the foot of his creation. Second to None. He would have to entertain his guests in the great cabin. It seemed so large and so bare, devoid of every comfort, and occupied at the moment only by some of the frigate's armament.

Valentine Keen stood back as the builders and senior carpenters crowded round Unrivalled's first captain. Adam had done well today. Keen had sensed the thoughts possessing him, the memories, on this bleak morning.

So very like his uncle; changed in some inexplicable way from the flag captain he had left in Halifax. The confidence and resolve remained, but there was a new maturity in Adam. And it suited him.

And what of me? It was still all so new, and a little overwhelming at times. Keen had a full staff, two captains, six lieutenants and a veritable army of clerks and servants.

Gilia had surprised him with her grasp of this new life, her ability to win hearts, and to be equally firm when she thought it was necessary. With each passing day the old shipboard life seemed to fade further into the distance; perhaps eventually, he thought, he would be like Bethune, with only a painting or two of a ship or a battle to remind him of the life he had known, for which he had bitterly fought his father, and now had, voluntarily, given up.

Boscawen House, his new home, was an imposing place with fine views over the Sound; sometimes, when he was alone, he had tried to imagine Zenoria there. The admiral's lady… He stared at the land. Like the image in his mind, it was misty, and eluded him.

Graham Bethune felt the damp, cold air on his face, and was glad he had come for this day. By using what influence he possessed, he had made certain that Unrivalled would go to no other captain. It was for Richard Bolitho; it was what he would want more than anything.

He recalled Catherine's pride and anger at the reception when Rhodes had presented Bolitho's wife. And later, when he himself had faced Sillitoe's fury and unrestrained contempt, he had known that this commission was for her sake also.

She was said to be in Malta with Bolitho; if anyone could manage it, she would. He thought of his wife's hostility, her shock and astonishment when he had turned on her and said coldly, "Honour? What would you or your family know of that?" She had scarcely spoken to him since.

He sighed. But neither had she spoken out against 'that woman'.

He walked over to Adam Bolitho and thrust out his hand.

"I am so glad for you. It is a day one never forgets." He saw the shadow in the dark eyes, and added kindly, "There will always be thoughts."

Adam bent his head. He had once said as much to John Whitmarsh.

"She's a fine ship, Sir Graham."

Bethune said, "I envy you. You cannot know how much."

Adam joined the others and walked aft to his quarters, where a party of Royal Marines had been detailed to act as rnessmen. When they had all departed the ship would close in on him, and make her own demands.

He paused, the first laughter and the clink of glasses washing over him, unheeded. There was so much to do before they would be ready to put to sea, to teach, to learn, and to lead.

He pulled out the heavy watch and held it in the grey light. In his mind he could still see the shop in Halifax, the ticking, chiming clocks, the proprietor's interest when he had chosen this odd, old-fashioned watch with the mermaid engraved on its guard.

Aloud, he said, "Unrivalled. Second to none." He thought of his uncle, and smiled. "So be it!"

Paul Sillitoe sat at his broad desk and stared moodily through the windows, across the swirling curve of the river to the leafless trees on the opposite bank. Everything was dripping from an overnight rain; it seemed that it would never stop. The new year of 1815 was only two days old; he should be filled with ideas and proposals to put before the Prince Regent at their next meeting. Today, if His Royal Highness was sufficiently recovered from yet another celebration.

The unwanted and costly war with the United States was over, ended by the Treaty of Ghent, which had been signed on Christmas Eve. There would still be battles between ships or even armies until the news was officially confirmed and carried; he had known several such incidents, partly due to the difficulties of communication across sea and wilderness, but also, he suspected, because the officers in command were not prepared to ignore any prospect of action.

He knew that his valet was hovering behind him with his coat. He pushed some papers aside, angry at his inability to summon any enthusiasm for the day's work, let alone a sense of urgency.

His valet said. The carriage will be here at the half hour, m'lord."

Sillitoe said curtly, "Don't fuss, Guthrie. I shall be ready!"

He stared at the river again, remembering the night when he had burst into her house in Chelsea. It was rarely out of his thoughts, like a curse or a fever from which there was no escape.

He had been surprised at his own behaviour on board the Indiaman Saladin. that he had been able to see her and greet her as if they were total strangers. Which we are. Sometimes he had confined himself to his quarters in order not to meet her. in case she should think he had forced the encounter. But when they had met, and supped alone, there had been a new awareness, something he had never known.

He had not greeted her when she had rejoined the ship on the return from Naples, but had found her on deck, hours after Saladin had worked out of Grand Harbour and had suddenly been totally becalmed, the island still in sight, like copper in the sunset.

She had repeated, "I am all right, I am all right," and for a moment longer Sillitoe had believed she had heard him approaching, and had wanted to be left alone.

Then she had turned towards him, and he had realised that she had not known he was there.

"I am sorry. I shall take my leave."

She had shaken her head. "No. Please stay. It is hard enough to leave him. To be tortured like this is cruel beyond measure!"

He had heard himself say, "When I reach London, I will do what I can." Even that had astonished him, to offer to seek on her behalf a favour which, if granted, would deprive him of any chance he might have believed he had.

He smiled grimly. Nevertheless, Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune would be leaving for the Mediterranean in a matter of days, to take charge of a squadron of frigates which could be used against pirate or corsair. A sea-going appointment; there would be no accommodation for Lady Bethune.

He had seen the orders himself. They would release Sir Richard Bolitho from duty, and he could return to England. To Catherine.

He had also been kept informed of Captain Adam Bolitho's affairs. Why anyone should want to throw his life away on the sea was quite beyond him. Ships, to him, meant only trade, communication, and a means of travel. And even that… He glanced round angrily, but it was Marlow, his secretary, this time. "Yes, what is it?"

"Some letters, my lord." Marlow's cautious eyes took in the unread news sheets on the floor beside the desk, the coffee and the glass of madeira untouched. They were inauspicious signs, and, with Sillitoe, almost unknown.

Sillitoe shook his head dismissively.

"I'll attend to them later. Make my excuses, Marlow. I shall go now to the Prince Regent."

"I have all the necessary papers, my lord." He broke off. Sillitoe had not even heard him.

"After that, I shall be engaged." Their eyes met. "Understood?"

Marlow did understand. He was going to that house, so discreet, so private. Where a man of influence could lose himself completely in the arms of a woman, without fear of scandal or condemnation. He had become used to Sillitoe's difficult ways and scathing comments, but it troubled him to see him so disturbed, like some ordinary being.

To his knowledge, Sillitoe had not visited the brothel since the incident in Chelsea. Sillitoe allowed his valet to help him into his coat, and stared around the room as if he had mislaid something.

Then he said, "There is one letter, Marlow, for Lady Somervell in Falmouth. Please send it post-haste. She will want to know."

He could already see it in his mind, the tears and the joy with which she would receive the news that her lover had been ordered home. He could deceive himself no longer. He heard the carriage on the cobbles and strode from the room. Like a duel, when you have fired and your opponent is still standing. He had lost.

His Britannic Majesty's schooner Tireless, messenger, courier and bearer of news, good or bad, lived up to her name. Rarely in port for longer than required for storing and watering, she would be off again with all haste to her next rendezvous.

She was a smart, lively little vessel, a young man's command. On this February morning the lookout had reported sighting the flagship Frobisher, and, taking full advantage of a soldier's wind under her coat-tails, she had set more sail to run down on the slow-moving two-decker. Lieutenant Harry Penrose, the schooner's captain, was well aware of the significance of his despatches, and very concerned that he should make a perfect approach to the flag of one so famous; it was a name with which he had been acquainted even before he had entered the navy.

Penrose would have been astonished had he known that the admiral had been watching Tireless since first light with equal anxiety.

In Frobisher"-, great cabin, the man in question listened to the bark of orders and the tramp of hardened, bare feet, as the flagship altered course slightly to meet the schooner and afford her some protection, although the sea was little more than a gentle swell. He clenched his fists. Weeks of it, of lack of news, of uncertainty, and of this sense of no purpose. There had been some activity when Barbary corsairs had attacked other small and defenceless vessels, but they had fled before any of Bolitho's thinly-stretched squadron could find and destroy them. And until more ships were released from the Channel Fleet and the Downs squadrons, it seemed unlikely that matters would improve.

Tireless might bring something. He tried not to hope for it. Perhaps a letter from Catherine… So many times, he had recalled every detail of their reunion, the ache of parting after the big Indiaman Saladin had returned from Naples, in what must have been record time. He had thought of it again when Tyacke had come to report the sighting of Tireless, remembering with anguish how the Indiaman's pyramid of canvas, gold in the sunset, had remained becalmed outside the harbour as if to taunt him. He had watched the ship until darkness had hidden her. And he had known, even before her letter from England, that she had done the same. She had written to him about Adam, and the confirmation of his new command. Of the dazed reaction to the combined attack on Washington, and the burning of government buildings in retaliation for the American attack on York. As Tyacke had once said, and for what? He had watched Tyacke while he had trained a glass on the approaching schooner. Remembering his own first command, perhaps, or the powers of fate which had brought them so close together, as his friend and flag captain? And Avery. He would remember his own service in the schooner Jolie, which had ended in disaster and court martial. The tawny eyes gave little away; he might even have been thinking of the letter for which he waited. The letter that never came.

The strain of weeks at sea without activity was telling on Frobisher's people. Ships and men being paid off: a sailor's dream rather than a safe reality, but it gave rise to flarings of temper and outbreaks of violence, even in a well- disciplined company. He could hear Gilpin the boatswain, bawling out to some of his working party. A grating was to be rigged immediately after the despatches had been passed across, and Frobishefs own mail sent into Tireless in exchange. It was anyone's guess when those letters would reach their destinations.

He knew Tyacke hated the ritual of punishment, as much as he did himself. But he, more than most, knew the dangers of sailing alone when the ringing phrases of the Articles of War were not always enough. The Royal Marines of the after guard and the lash, were the only known alternative.

Yovell stood by the other door, his spectacles on his forehead.

"Everything has been signed and sealed, Sir Richard. I've had the satchel sent on deck." Unruffled, unchanged, and yet the one man he might have expected to remain a misfit. Amused, gentle, devout: they were not qualities common in a man-of-war.

Allday was there, too. Pretending to examine the two swords on their rack, but obviously fretting more than ever about the possibility of a letter from that other, quiet world of the Helford River. Avery would read it to him as usual, if it arrived; theirs was an odd and a warm relationship, upon which neither of them ever remarked. Avery would be thinking of the fair Susanna. In vain… And Sillitoe, the one man he had never expected to become involved on his behalf. He could hear Catherine's voice in the darkness, remember her warm breath on his shoulder, while she had spoken of that night in Chelsea. distancing herself from it. more like an impartial witness than one who had been face to face with terror. He had wanted to feel doubt, suspicion, even hatred. But Sillitoe remained as before, remote, even in the desire he so obviously felt for Catherine.

And all the while I remain here in the Mediterranean, waiting. Probably with no less intolerance than the seaman who would be flogged at six bells of the forenoon watch.

Avery entered by the screen door and removed his hat.

"Tireless is shortening sail, Sir Richard." He glanced briefly at Allday. "She has signalled that her captain is coming aboard." He added. "Penrose, Lieutenant." And then, more lightly, "I would have thought he'd be here and gone, in case his admiral finds him some errand!"

Bolitho laughed. Avery had not forgotten.

"Very well. Bring him aft, and I'll speak with him myself."

It took another hour for the ships to draw close enough for a boat to be put down and pulled over to the flagship, where young Lieutenant Harry Penrose was received with no less respect than if he were a post-captain.

Two seamen carried the satchels of mail and the despatches, and when Allday finally returned to the great cabin Bolitho knew that he had been lucky. Just a nod. That was all it took.

Lieutenant Penrose had a small bag of letters for Bolitho.

"From the courier-brig when I was last at the Rock, Sir Richard." He became almost confidential. "Her captain made me promise that I would deliver them personally."

Bolitho took the letters; there seemed to be four of them. The link, the lifeline. He would make them last.

Penrose was saying, "I fell in with the frigate Halcyon, Sir Richard. Captain Christie was making for Malta, but sent word to you in case I found you beforehand."

He raised his eyes from the letters.

"What "word"?"

"The two frigates reported in Algiers have put to sea." Penrose looked suddenly troubled, as if it were his fault.

Avery watched Bolitho as he slit open the first, crumpled letter, saw the way he turned his head as if to read it better, the damaged eye now obviously useless. By his appearance, one would never guess, and to share the knowledge was both moving and terrible.

He recalled the moment when Catherine had left Malta. He thought it had been Tyacke's idea; they had sent Frobisher's barge for her, each oar pulled by a captain or one of the squadron's officers, with the admiral's own coxswain at the tiller.

As people saw them, and remembered them; as they spoke of them in the alehouses and the coaching inns from Falmouth to London. The admiral and his lady.

Bolitho looked up at him. "I thought we might learn something of their intentions, but we were unlucky. They could be anywhere, under any flag. It would take a fleet to break into Algiers, not merely this squadron, and even then……"

Avery said, "Even then, nobody would thank you for beginning another conflict, though it would seem inevitable, whichever aspect presents itself."

Penrose coughed politely. "I must take my leave, Sir Richard. The wind favours me, and……"

Bolitho held out his hand. "My best wishes to your company, Mr. Penrose. When next we meet, I shall expect to see epaulettes on your shoulder."

The door closed as Avery led the schooner's captain away.

Yovell remarked, "That was kindly said, Sir Richard. That young man will remember this day."

He heard the trill of calls, and imagined the schooner's gig pulling away from the flagship's side. Tireless would soon be gone. Meeting and departure. Their world.

Then the calls shrilled a different tune.

"All hands! All hands lay aft to witness punishment!" The immediate response of hurrying feet, the boots of the Royal Marines as they took up their stations across the poop.

Allday passed him without a word to close the cabin skylight, so that the sound of the punishment would be muffled.

It was a strange fact about Allday, Yovell thought. He loathed officers who abused their authority, but showed no sympathy for any man who raised his hand against it.

Bolitho said, "I shall dictate orders for the squadron. Some will already know, but if the two frigates intend to reinforce the Barbary corsairs against allied commerce, it is essential that each captain recognises them as the enemy."

He looked at her letters. She must have written every day. So that he could live her life with her, and share it, week by week, season by season. He clenched his fingers again as the drums beat out their staccato roll. Then the lash, a loud crack across the naked flesh, followed by the shout from M'Clune, the master-at-arms. "One!"

Then the drums again, and the sharp crack of the cat. One of the ship's hard men, Tyacke had said, who had threatened a petty officer.

"Two!"

Yovell looked at his interlaced fingers below the table. It only took one rotten apple, Allday had often proclaimed.

"Three!"

Yovell glanced up again, and then stared as Bolitho got abruptly to his feet, a canvas envelope still gripped in one hand.

He said, with great anxiety, "What is it, Sir Richard?" conscious only of the expression on Bolitho's tanned face. Surprise, disbelief, but above all, a release which he had rarely seen before.

Bolitho seemed to hear him for the first time.

He answered quietly, and yet even the urgent drums could not quench it, "From the Admiralty." He turned, and looked for Allday. "We are to pay off, old friend. We're going home."

Allday let out his breath, very slowly. "Well, that's it an' all about it!" The waiting was over.