Alexander Kent - Sword of Honour

The second frigate had recovered and was already setting more sails, to continue with her original attack or to escape further setbacks, Bolitho could not tell. She was standing across the starboard bow, changing tack, close enough to her damaged consort to be able to see the destruction and the upended guns.

Bolitho looked at Avery. "Now!"

Avery, with Singleton at his heels, ran for the companion ladder, tugging a whistle from his shirt as he stumbled and almost fell down the last steps.

Smoky daylight scythed through the gundeck as the port lids opened as one, and the crews threw themselves on the tackles to haul their massive charges towards the enemy. Each "Long Nine', as these guns were nicknamed, weighed three tons, and the naked backs of the seamen were soon shining with sweat.

Lieutenant Gage was pressed up to his small spy-hole, then he turned, his face wild. "On the up roll lads!"

Avery heard Singleton shout, "Cover your ears, sir!" Then the world seemed to explode, smoke billowing through the deck, where men were already serving their guns and others waited with handspikes and rammers to compete with their messmates. The same men who served these guns slept and ate beside them; the guns were the first things they saw upon waking every day, and, too often, in dying, the last.

Each gun captain held up his fist, and Armytage yelled, "Ready, sir!"

"Fire!"

Again the guns crashed inboard on their tackles, but suddenly another whistle shrilled, and the same crews were struggling to secure them and close the ports to prevent the enemy boarders from attacking them in their midst. In their home.

Armytage was shouting, "Arm yourselves!" As he ran past Avery, he called, "We're going to foul the first bugger, George! We've done for the other one!" He was grinning, mad with excitement, but all Avery could think was that it was the first time he had called him by name.

On deck, Bolitho watched the second frigate with something like disbelief. An enemy, driven by hatred and revenge, but a thing of beauty, two broadsides from those thirty-two-pounders had reduced her to a mast less wreck. He turned and stared at the mainmast of the frigate which had taken their first, carefully aimed broadside, when Frobisher had caught the enemy completely by surprise. A collision was inevitable; Frobisher had not regained the wind, and the other ship was out of command. Seamen and marines were already running to the point of impact, bayonets and cutlasses shining through the seemingly immovable pall of pale smoke.

There were cheers, too, as more men came pouring from the lower gundeck, either already armed or snatching up weapons from the chests prepared earlier by the gunner.

Bolitho saw Captain Wise of the Royal Marines striding, not deigning to run after his men as they crouched by the hammock nettings and searched for targets.

Shots cracked and whined overhead or smacked through the heavy canvas, and here and there a man fell, or was dragged away by his companions. But their blood was up; no boarder would survive this day.

He saw Avery and Singleton hurrying toward the quarterdeck; the midshipman was almost knocked over by a charging, wild-eyed marine.

Tyacke waved his sword. "Board 'em, lads! Cut that bloody flag down!"

Bolitho strained his eyes through the smoke, and saw men already on the frigate's forecastle. There was resistance, but the harsh blast of a swivel gun scattered the defiant ones like torn rags.

Singleton's voice cracked for the first time. "They've struck, sir! They're done for!" He was almost weeping with excitement.

Bolitho turned to Allday. So it was war again. But even war would not keep him from her.

A seaman running with a boarding pike slipped on blood and would have fallen, but for Bolitho's grip on his arm.

He lifted his eyes in disbelief, and managed to stammer, "Thankee, Sir Richard! I be all right now!"

Allday was about to say something, he did not know what, when he felt the pain again, so intense that he could barely move. But it was not the old wound this time. He saw Bolitho turn and stare at him, as if he would speak, but seemed unable to find the words.

He heard Avery shout, "Hold him!" Then he saw Bolitho fall. It was like being given new life, new strength; he leaped forward and caught him around the shoulders, holding him, lowering him carefully, everything else without meaning or purpose.

Men were cheering, some firing their muskets. It meant nothing.

From the starboard gangway Tyacke saw him fall, but knew he must not leave his men while they boarded the enemy, following his orders. Midshipman Singleton, who had become a man this day, also saw him fall, and was on his knees beside him with Allday and Avery.

Bolitho turned his face away from the sunlight which lanced down between the shrouds and the limp sails. His eye was stinging in the smoke, and he wanted to rub it. But when he attempted to move, there was no response, no sensation, only numbness.

Shadows moved across the sun, and he could hear faint cheers, as if they came from another time, another victory.

They were all here, then. Waiting. A sudden anxiety ran through him.

Where was Herrick? Herrick should be here… Someone reached around him and dabbed his face with a wet cloth. He recognised the sleeve; it was Lefroy, the bald surgeon.

He heard Allday's painful breathing, and needed to tell him, to reassure him. Everything would be the same.

But when he tried to reach out for him, he realised for the first time that his hand was tightly gripped between Allday's. Then he saw him, watching him, his hair shaggy against the smoke and the sun.

Allday murmured, "Mr. Herrick's not here, Cap'n. But don't you fret now."

It was wrong that he should be so distressed. One who had done so much. He tried again, and said, "Easy, old friend, be easy now." He felt Allday nod. "No grief, we always knew……"

Lefroy stood slowly, and said, "He's gone, I'm afraid."

Tyacke was here now, his sword still in his hand. He stood in silence, unable to accept it, and yet knowing that all the others were looking to him. To the captain.

Then something made him reach down and grip the sobbing midshipman's shoulder. Like that time at the Nile.

He said, "Haul down his flag, Mr. Singleton." And then, gazing unseeingly at Allday's bowed head, "Help him, will you? There's none better for the task."

He saw Kellett and the others watching, the fight forgotten, the victory now pointless, empty.

He turned, as Avery stood and said quietly, "Goodbye, dearest of men."

As if she had spoken through him.

It was over.

The carriage wheeled into the stable yard and came to a halt with practised ease, and a stable boy ran to take the horses' heads. To pacify them, perhaps, after so short a journey from the harbour.

Adam Bolitho opened the door without hesitation. This was the only way he knew, to go through with it.

He climbed down and stood on the worn cobbles and stared at the old grey house with a certain defiance.

Young Matthew had remained on the carriage, his face grim and downcast, almost a stranger, like the stable boy.

It had been Bryan Ferguson's idea to send the carriage, as soon as he had received word that the frigate Unrivalled had anchored in Carrick Roads.

Adam glanced around now, at the carpets of daffodils and bluebells amongst the trees, seeing none of it.

This was the place where he had come for help, for sanctuary, when his mother had died. Then, from midshipman to post-captain, a life full of excitement, elation and pain; and he owed it all to one man, his uncle. And now he, too, was dead. It was still stark and unreal, and yet, in some strange way, he had sensed it.

When Unrivalled had entered Plymouth after her first weeks under his command, he had known it then. The port admiral, Vice-Admiral Valentine Keen, had put off in his barge to meet him personally. To tell him. We Happy Few.