Alexander Kent - Sword of Honour

Then he kissed it and folded it inside his coat and strode out to do what he must.

Captain Adam Bolitho flattened the chart across his cabin table and glanced at the final calculations of the passage, although he knew them by heart. Around and above him the frigate, His Britannic Majesty's Ship Valkyrie of forty-two guns, held steadily on course, her reduced sails barely filling. It was early May but there was still an edge to the wind, as he had discovered during his customary morning walk on deck.

It was a time he usually liked. A ship coming to life, with the first glimpse of a horizon. Decks swabbed and holy stoned the boatswain and the carpenter comparing their lists of work for the new day. Sails to be brought down and repaired, rigging inspected and spliced wherever necessary. Water casks scoured out and prepared for refilling, and the end of stale, monotonous food, for the moment. Valkyrie was returning to harbour, to the main naval base at Halifax, Nova Scotia, the last real British foothold on the North American coast.

And what would they feel when they reached there? He stared around the cabin, at the lively wavelets falling astern beneath the frigate's counter, feeling again the resentment and impatience he tried so hard to conceal from his ship's company.

For Valkyrie was no ordinary or private ship; she was still officially the flagship of Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen, his uncle's friend. And yours also, a voice seemed to insist.

Somehow they had grown apart, even since the total destruction of two American frigates with the loss of only one man, a midshipman. Not so long ago, yet Adam could scarcely recall his face. Keen spent more and more time ashore concerning himself with the transport of troops. Valkyrie was returning from yet another such convoy. And for what purpose, he wondered. The news from England was optimistic; the war in Europe would soon be over, so that more ships could be released to fight the Americans. But for how long?

The build-up of military strength here had to be for some reason.

He heard the marine sentry outside the screen door tap his musket on the deck and call, "First Lieutenant, sir!"

He straightened his back as Lieutenant William Dyer stepped into the cabin.

It still came as a surprise, as if he expected John Urquhart to be presenting himself. Urquhart had gone to a command of his own, one for which he had been little envied. He had been promoted at Keen's suggestion to command the frigate Reaper, a ship torn apart by mutiny, inhuman discipline, and murder.

Adam had known that Urquhart could do it, and had been rewarded by the occasional news of Reaper's performance and various successes. A rebirth. But Adam was missing him now.

"Ready?"

Dyer looked at a point above his captain's left shoulder. The master says that we shall be up to the anchorage within the hour, sir. If the wind holds steady from the nor'east, we should be in before six bells."

A pleasant enough officer, and one who had made good use of his experience in this ship, one of the largest frigates on the station since Indomitable's departure for England. But it went little beyond that.

"I shall come up directly." He did not see the lieutenant's quick glance around the cabin, but he could imagine it. Dyer probably thought that his captain wanted for nothing. As I once thought of mine.

Adam had been more than successful as a frigate captain, and he was sensible enough to appreciate it, and that luck rarely came into it except to provide the opportunity to meet with an enemy, and to know his thoughts like your own. After that, it was skill, determination, and the men who depended on you. He smiled. And good gunnery.

The lieutenant saw the smile, and, encouraged, asked, "Will we be hoisting the admiral's flag again after this, sir?"

"In truth, I do not know." He moved restlessly to the stern windows and leaned his hands on the sill. He could feel the thud and shiver of the rudder-head, picture the ship as she would appear to any landsmen watching her careful approach.

A flagship. Only a frigate captain would understand the difference. It meant being tied to the fleet's apron strings and the whims and fancies of a flag officer. Keen was a good commander, but it was not the same. He tried to steer his mind away from his own ship, Anemone, which had fallen to the American commodore, Nathan Beer. Only an explosion below deck had foiled her capture and salvage, and spared her an enemy's flag. No, it was not the same.

Dyer withdrew, and Adam suspected he would soon be discussing their future with the other lieutenants. Wardroom gossip was only to be expected, but Dyer had not yet realised how quickly it could misfire.

He touched his side where the iron splinter had smashed him down, when Anemone had hauled down her colours and he had been unable to prevent it.

He watched the sea again, the fish leaping in Valkyrie's untroubled wake.

And what of Keen? Would he marry Gilia St. Clair, and if so, why should he allow the prospect to torment him? Zenoria was dead, but his grief for her had not lessened. He picked up his hat and strode from the cabin. The fact was that Keen needed a wife, even if love did not enter into it.

He ran lightly up the companion ladder, and gazed at the familiar panorama which lay across the bows like a ragged barrier. Ships of every kind. Men-of- war, merchantmen, transports, captured prizes, and small, butterfly-like sails which created the movement in every living harbour.

He nodded to Ritchie, the sailing master, and saw him stand away from the compass box; he had been leaning against it. So his wounds were troubling him again. The surgeon had said that he should be discharged.

Adam frowned. Discharged? It would kill him more quickly than any American splinters.

A glance aloft at the newly trimmed sails, and the long, flapping tongue of the masthead pendant. She would make a proud sight, all sails clewed up except topsail and jib, her company at their stations at braces and halliards, top men ready to take in the last of her canvas once the anchor was dropped.

A sight which, in the past, had always warmed and excited him. But the exhilaration eluded him now, like something beyond his reach.

"Lee braces there! Hands wear ship!"

Bare feet thudded along the deck, and blocks squealed as more men threw their weight on the snaking lines.

Tops' sheets!"

Adam folded his arms, and saw one of the young midshipmen turn to study him.

"Tops'1 clew lines! Lively there! Take that man's name, Mr. M'Crea!"

"Helm a-lee!"

Adam walked to the side to watch as the big frigate came slowly round and into the wind, the way falling off her, her remaining sails already being dragged and fisted into submission.

"Let go!"

Dyer hurried aft, his eyes everywhere as the ship came to rest at her cable.

"Will you require the gig, sir?"

Ritchie, the master, grimaced against the pain and then exclaimed, "Cheering, sir!"

Adam took a telescope and trained it on two other frigates anchored nearby. Their shrouds and rigging were filled with shouting, waving seamen and marines.

He closed the glass with a snap. "Yes, Mr. Dyer, I shall want the gig as soon as possible."

Dyer stared at him. "What does it mean, sir?"

Adam looked at the land. "It means peace. Not here perhaps, but peace, the hope of a lifetime." He glanced at the staring midshipman. "He was not even born when the first guns in this war were fired."

Some of the seamen were grinning at one another, others were shaking hands as if they had just met in some lane or harbour street.

"I shall visit Rear-Admiral Keen. He will expect it." He saw the first lieutenant trying to grapple with it. "Take charge, Mr. Dyer. I will speak with the hands later when I return." He touched his arm, and felt him jump as if he had just been nicked by a musket ball.