Alexander Kent - Sword of Honour

He saw her ensign curling from the peak, so clean and white against the dull backdrop. Ant-like figures in her tops, some watching, hoping for a letter to bring back the precious memories, a face, a touch.

Tyler said, "The bugger's not changing tack! Making us do all the work!"

Penrose grinned. The light was holding. They would pass the bag across and be away before dark, back to Malta. And after that? Not that it truly mattered… Tyler was speaking to the master's mate. "We'll overreach him at this pace, Ned." He looked at Penrose. "We shall have to come about, sir!"

"I know. Take in the mains'll" He moved the glass again as a tiny patch of colour appeared at the frigate's yard.

"She's made her number, sir!"

Tyler was yelling to his men, and the air was alive with banging canvas and the squeal of blocks.

Penrose did not move. He could not.

He shouted, "Belay that order!" He did not recognise his own voice, hard and desperate.

He ran up the slippery planking and stared at the compass. "Let her fall off, steer due south! She can take it!"

He seized the lieutenant's arm and saw him staring at him like a stranger.

"Why should he make his number to us, for God's sake?"

"Look, sir!" The seaman was almost incoherent. "Christ Almighty!"

The telescope in Penrose's wet fingers felt like ice. He had just seen it. A moment later when they would have been wallowing round on to a new tack, they would have been close enough to hear it: the sound of trucks, even as the line of ports opened along the frigate's side to reveal the guns, and the men who had been crouching there, prepared to fire them.

The great sails filled again, and the taut rigging rattled and hummed in protest. But nothing carried away.

Penrose watched the other ship, his mind as cold as the glass in his hands; everything was clear. Huntress had been taken, and within minutes it would have been too late. Someone had tried to warn them, in the only way a seaman would know and recognise.

He felt a muscle jerk in his throat as smoke billowed from the frigate's side to blow instantly inboard again, so that the long tongues of fire looked solid, like furnace bars.

He heard voices crying out as iron crashed across the schooner's deck, and a length of the larboard bulwark was shivered to fragments. Men had fallen, how badly injured Penrose could not tell. But the masts were still standing, and the sails as hard as steel. Only a topsail had been punctured by a shot fired too soon, the wind tearing the canvas to ribbons like a giant ripping paper.

He levelled the glass again, shutting his mind to the pitiful cries, and to the fear which would follow if he allowed it.

The Huntress was changing tack; no wonder she had left it so late. Even in the spray and fading light, he could see the battering she had taken on her opposite side. They had not surrendered without a fight, although that was little enough, for what they had given in exchange.

He swung round and saw the master's mate tying the lieutenant's wrist with his neckerchief.

He strode to his friend, and steadied him. "Hold on. Jack." He did not blink as another ragged broadside exploded somewhere. As if it were happening in a dream, and to somebody else.

"We must find the flagship. Jack. The admiral must be told."

Tyler tried to speak but the pain made him gasp.

Penrose persisted, "Huntress was the last patrol. The guard-ship."

Tyler tried again, and managed to say one word. " Elba."

It was enough.

Bolitho leaned back in his chair, his shirt clinging damply to the warm leather. Beyond the stern windows there was only darkness, whilst here in the cabin the shaded light from a solitary lantern threw shadows across the paintwork and the cheque red deck covering, like strange dancers keeping time with Frobisher's uneven movements.

How could a ship so large be so silent? There was only an occasional sound of feet overhead, or cordage being manhandled to trim a yard, or take the slack out of a sail.

He knew that he should sleep, just as he knew that he would be unable to do so. He covered his blind eye and looked at the unfinished letter which lay open on top of his chart.

Writing to Catherine always gave him a sense of conversing, of sharing the days and nights with her. Frobisher might be on passage for England before this particular letter was concluded.

He stood up and moved about the cabin, his hand brushing against one of the tethered guns. Even the metal felt warm, as if it had been fired only hours earlier.

They had not met with Huntress, and in his heart he knew

Tyacke had been humouring him with the belief that they would make a final contact before Bolitho handed over his command.

At first light they would come about and head for Malta. But until then… Allday was taking great care not to intrude upon his thoughts, but he was unable to conceal his relief that they were finally going home.

How would Allday settle down, what would he do? Proprietor of a small country inn, seeing the same faces every day, in a world where men discussed crops, livestock and the weather with equal authority. Not the sea…… But he would have Unis and little Kate. He would have to begin learning all over again. A different life. Like me.

He thought of going on deck, but knew that his presence would worry the watch keepers On the same tack and under reduced canvas, it would be hard enough for some of them to stay awake without their admiral pacing up and down. Tyacke would be in his cabin, planning, preparing for his ship's immediate future, and his own. Tyacke was probably the one person who had never expected hope to hold out its hand to him; the one man who so richly deserved it.

And what of Avery; would he remain in the navy or reconsider his uncle's offer? It was hard to imagine any one of his little crew in any life but this.

In fact Avery was on deck, clinging to the empty hammock nettings, and listening to the ship shuddering and groaning above and around him. Alan Tollemache, the third lieutenant, had the watch, but he had retreated to the poop after two attempts to open a conversation.

It was not that Avery disliked him, even though he tended to brag about himself and his family; it was simply that he wanted to be alone, to have only his thoughts and memories for company. It was difficult enough for any flag lieutenant to fit completely into wardroom life with its rules and traditions, and where every thought and idea was shared. It had to be that way; the lieutenants were a group apart, us and them. It was natural enough, but Avery had never been able to be anything but himself, and solitary.

He had been thinking deeply about the future, and what he might do when Bolitho's flag came down. Promotion,

and perhaps a small command of his own? He could sense a hundred arguments before he could even consider it. He served Sir Richard; to be appointed aide to some other flag officer was out of the question. His powerful uncle, Baron Sillitoe of Chiswick, then? He admired Sillitoe for having offered him a future, one of substance and prosperity, partly because he sensed what it had cost him to bend so far. He smiled, and tasted the raw salt on his lips. The prospect would certainly attract the beautiful Susanna. But even poor luffs had pride, and pride pulled in both directions.

With a sigh, he walked aft, tossing a casual wave to the dark group of figures around the compass box, and pausing as the poop's black outline loomed over him to glance again at the sky. No moon, and only an occasional star. It was a fine night after all, even during the hated middle watch. He was about to feel his way to the companion ladder when something caused him to hesitate, and to turn, as if someone had called his name.

But there was nothing. It was an intrusion into thoughts which had been quiet, meditative, and for some reason he was troubled by it.