Honour This Day

Bolitho glanced round, but the guard was dismissed, and only a few idlers and the master's mate of the watch were nearby.

He said, 'I intend to up-anchor within the week, as soon as there is wind enough to fill our canvas. We shall sail southwest to the Main and stand off La Guaira. '

Haven had ruddy, sunburned cheeks which matched his hair, but they seemed to pale. 'That's six hundred miles, sir! In this ship, without support, I'm not certain -'

Bolitho lowered his face and said, 'Have you no stomach for it, man? Or are you seeking an early retirement?' He hated himself, knowing that Haven could not hit back.

He added simply, 'I need you, and so does this ship. It has to be enough.' He turned away, despairing at what he saw in Haven's eyes.

He noticed Imrie and called, 'Come with me, I wish to pick your brains.'

Bolitho winced as a shaft of sunlight lanced down through the mizzen shrouds. For just those few seconds his eye was completely blind, and it was all he could do not to cry out.

A death-wish, Somervell had said. Bolitho groped into the poop's shadows and felt the bitterness coursing through him. Too many had died because of him, and even his friends were damaged by his touch.

Imrie ducked his head beneath the poop and walked beside him into the gloom between decks.

'I have been thinking, Sir Richard, and I've a few ideas -'

He had not seen the dismay on his admiral's face, nor could he guess how his simple remarks were like a lifeline for him.

Bolitho said, 'Then we shall quench our thirst while I listen.'

Haven watched them leave the quarterdeck and called for the signals midshipman. He told the boy the nature and time of the signal for the other captains to repair on board, then turned as the first lieutenant hurried towards him.

Before the lieutenant could speak Haven rasped, 'Do I have to perform your duties too, damn you?' He strode away adding, 'By God, if you cannot do better, I'll see you cast ashore for good!'

Parris stared after him, only his tightly bunched fists giving a hint of his anger and resentment.

'And God damn you too!' He saw the midshipman staring owhshly at him and wondered if he had spoken aloud. He grinned wearily. 'It's a fine life, Mr Mirrielees, provided you hold your tongue!'

At eight bells that afternoon, the signal was run up to the yard. It was begun.

4. Storm Warning

Bolitho stood in the centre of the deserted boatshed and allowed his eyes to grow accustomed to its shapes and shadows. It was a great, ramshackle building, lit by just a few guttering lanterns which swayed on long chains to reduce the risk of fire, and which gave the impression that the place was moving like a ship.

It was evening outside, but unlike the previous ones the darkness was alive with sounds, the creak and slap of palm fronds, the uneasy ripple of wavelets beneath the crude slipway upon which the water-lighter had been prepared for its passage south. The boatshed had been a hive of activity, with shipwrights and sailors working against time to rig extra bilge pumps and fit iron crutches along the bulwarks so that it could be manhandled by long sweeps when required.

Bolitho felt the loose sand in his shoes from his walk along the foreshore while he went over his plans for the hundredth time. Jenour had kept him close company, but had respected his need to be alone, at least with his thoughts.

Bolitho listened to the lap of water, the gentle moan of wind through the weather-worn roof. They had prayed for wind; now it might rise and turn against them. If the lighter was swamped before it could reach the rendezvous he must decide what to do. He would either have to send Thor inshore unsupported, or call off the attack. He thought of Somervell’s eyes, of the doubt he had seen there. No, he would not back down from the attack; it was pointless to consider alternatives.

He glanced around at the black, inert shadows. Skeletons of old boats, frames of others yet to be completed. The smells of paint, tar and cordage It was strange that it never failed to excite him even after all the years at sea.

Bolitho could recall the sheds at Falmouth, where he and his brother, Hugh, and sometimes his sisters had explored all the secret places, and had imagined themselves to be pirates and princesses in distress. He felt a stab m his heart as he pictured his child, Elizabeth. How she had plucked at his epaulettes and buttons when he had first seen her, had picked her up so awkwardly.

Instead of drawing him and Belinda closer, the child had done the opposite. One of their disputes had been over Belinda's announcement that she wanted her daughter to have a governess and a proper nurse to care for her. That, and the proposed move to London, had sparked it off.

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