Alexander Kent - Honour This Day

She had exclaimed on one occasion, 'Because you were raised in Falmouth with other village children, you cannot expect me to refuse Elizabeth the chance to better herself, to take proper advantage of your achievements.'

It had been a difficult birth, while Bolitho had been away at sea. The doctor had warned Belinda against having another child, and a coldness had formed between them which Bolitho found hard to accept and understand.

She had said sharply on another occasion, 'I told you from the beginning, I am not Cheney. Had we not looked so much alike I fear you would have turned elsewhere!'

Bolitho had wanted to break down the barrier, take her to him and pour out his anguish. To tell her more of the damage to his eye, admit what it might mean.

Instead he had met her in London, and there had been an unreal, bitter hostility which both of them would regret.

Bolitho touched his buttons and thought of Elizabeth again. She was just sixteen months old. He stared around with sudden desperation. Would she never play in boatsheds like this one? Romp on the sand and come home filthy to be scolded and loved? He sighed, and Jenour responded immediately. 'Thor should be well on her way, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho nodded. The bomb-vessel had sailed the previous night. God alone knew if spies had already gleaned news of her proposed employment. Bolitho had made certain that rumours had been circulated that Thor was taking the lighter in tow to St Christopher's, and even Glassport had put aside his resentment to provide some deck cargo with the senior officer's name and destination plainly marked.

Anyway, it was too late now. Perhaps it had been so when he had insisted on sailing in advance of his new squadron, to deal with the King's need for gold in his own way. Death-wish. It stuck in his mind like a barb.

He said, 'Imne will doubtless be glad to be at sea.'

Jenour watched his upright figure and saw that he had removed his hat and loosened his neckcloth as if to draw every benefit from this last walk ashore.

Bolitho did not notice the glance, but was thinking of his other commanders. Haven had been right about one thing. The remaining three vessels of his small force had not yet returned to English Harbour. Either Glassport's schooner had been unable to find them, or they had separately decided to drag out their time. He thought of their faces when they had gathered in the great cabin. Thynne, of the third-rate Obdurate which was still completing repairs to storm-damage, was the only post-captain amongst them. Bolitho's main impression had been one of youth, the other that of polite wariness. They had all known the dead Price, and perhaps they saw in Bolitho's strategy something stolen, by which their admiral intended to profit.

He had remarked as much to Jenour, not because his young flag-lieutenant had either the experience or the wisdom to comment, but because he needed to share it with someone he could trust.

Typically, Jenour had insisted, They all know your record, Sir Richard. That is enough for any man!'

Bolitho glanced at him now. A pleasant, eager young man who reminded him of no one. Maybe that was the reason for his choice. That and his unnerving knowledge of his past exploits, ships and battles.

The three brigs, Upholder, Tetrarch and Vesta, would weigh tomorrow and sail with their flagship. It was to be hoped they did not run down on some enemy frigates before they reached the Main. The brigs mounted only forty-two pop-guns between them. If only the one sloop-of-war had received his recall signal. The Phaedra at least looked like a small frigate, and in proper hands could double as one. Or was he again thinking of his first command, and the luck he had enjoyed with her?

Bolitho walked slowly to the end of the slipway where it dipped into the uneasy catspaws. The water looked like ebony, with only occasional shadows and reflections from riding-lights, or as in Hyperion's case, the checkered lines of open gunports. He felt the warm breeze stir his coat-tails and tried to picture his chart, the uncertainties which marked each of the six hundred miles as surely as any beacons.

Bolitho tried not to become irritated when he thought of Haven. He was no coward, but had shown himself to be beset by other, deeper anxieties. Whatever he really believed about being given command of a veteran like Hyperion, Bolitho knew differently. Old she might be, but she was a far better sailer than most. He smiled sadly, recalling her as she had been when he had first taken command as a young captain. She had been in commission so long without entering harbour for a refit that she was unbearably s'ow. Even with her copper-sheathing, the weed on her bottom had been yards long, so that under full sail she could only manage half the speed of her companions.

It was unusual for any captain to antagonise his admiral, whether he hated him or not. The climb to promotion was hard enough without flinging down more obstacles. Haven refused every offer of personal contact, and when, on the passage from England, tradition had insisted on his presence at table while Bolitho had entertained some of the junior officers, he had kept to himself. Alone amongst so many. He thought of the picture of Haven's pretty wife. Was she the cause of his moods? Bolitho grimaced in the darkness. That he would understand well enough.

A shadowy fishing-boat slipped past the nearest anchored brig. She could be carrying a message to the enemy. If the Dons found out what they intended, the admiral in Havana would have a hole squadron at sea within hours of receiving the news.

It was time to return to the jetty where his barge would be waiting, but he felt a reluctance to leave. It was peaceful here, an escape from danger and the call of duty.

The fishing-boat had vanished, unaware of the thoughts it had roused.

Bolitho stared at Hyperion's glowing lines of open ports. As if she was still hanging on to the angry sunset, or was burning from within. He thought of the six hundred souls packed into her rounded hull and once again felt the pain of his responsibility, which wrongly directed could destroy them all.

They did not ask for much, and even the simplest comforts were too often denied them. He could picture these faceless men now, the Royal Marines in their barracks, as they termed their section of the deck, polishing and cleaning their equipment. At other mess tables between the guns where sailors lived out their watches below, some seamen would be working on delicate scrimshaw, or making tiny models of bone and shell. Seamen with hands so roughened by cordage and tar, yet they could still produce such fine results. The midshipmen, of which Hyperion carried eight, would be performing their studies for promotion to the godly rank of lieutenant, sometimes working by the smallest light, a glim set in an old shell.

The officers had not yet emerged except for brief contact on deck, or at dinner in his cabin. Given time they would show what they could or could not do. Bolitho swung his hat at some buzzing insect in the darkness. Given leadership. It all came down to that. He heard Jenour's shoes scrape on the rough ground as he turned towards the top of the boatshed.

Then he heard the carriage wheels, the stamp of a restless horse, and a man calling out to calm it.

Jenour whispered hoarsely,' Tis a lady, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho turned, only his heart giving away his feelings. Not once did he question who it might be at this hour. Perhaps he had inwardly been expecting her, hoping she might find him. And yet he knew otherwise. He felt off-guard, as if he had been stripped naked.

They met below the propped-up bow of an old boat and Bolitho saw that she was covered from head to toe in a long cloak; its cowl hung loosely over her hair. Beyond her he could see a carnage on the road, a man at the horse's head, two small lamps casting an orange glow across the harness.