Honour This Day

They had tried to bluff it out and all the while he had been dying as he had stared at them.

Later, when he had left the small house on the Thames at Wapping Wall, he had seen the shopkeeper's name opposite. Tom Ozzard, Scrivener. He had decided then and there it was to be his new identity.

Never once had he looked back to the room where he had stopped their lies with an axe, had hacked and slashed until there was nothing recognisable in human form.

On Tower Hill he had found the recruiting party; they were never far away, always in the hopes of a volunteer, or some drunkard who would take a com and then find himself in a man-of-war until he was paid off or killed.

The lieutenant in charge had regarded him with doubt and then amusement. Prime seamen, strong young men, were what the King needed.

Ozzard carefully folded the coat. It was different now. They would take a cripple on two crutches if they got the chance.

Tom Ozzard, servant to a vice-admiral, afraid, no, terrified of battle when the ship quaked and reeled around him, a man with no past, no future.

One day, deep in his heart, Ozzard knew he would go back to that little house at Wapping Wall, Then, only then, he would give in to what he had done.

From the masthead lookout, curled up in the cross-trees, to Allday, sprawled in his hammock while he slept off the aftermath of several wets, from Ozzard to the man in the great cabin whom he served, most thoughts were on tomorrow.

Hyperion in all her years, and over the countless leagues she had sailed, had seen many come and go.

Beyond the figurehead's trident lay the horizon. Beyond that, only destiny could identify.

5. Leadership

Bolitho walked up the wet planking to the weather side of the quarterdeck and steadied himself by gripping the hammock nettings. It was still dark, with only spectres of spray leaping over the hull to break the sea's blackness.

Darker shadow moved across the quarterdeck to merge with a small group by the rail, where Haven and two of his lieutenants received their reports and passed out new orders.

Voices murmured from the gundeck, and Bolitho could picture the hands at work around the invisible eighteen- pounders, while on the deck below the heavier battery of thirty-two pounders, although equally busy, remained silent. Down there, beneath the massive deckhead beams, the gun crews were used to managing their charges in constant gloom.

The hands had been piped to an even earlier breakfast, probably an unnecessary precaution because when dawn found them they would still be out of sight of land – except, with any luck, by the masthead lookouts. In the past hour Hyperion had altered course, and was heading due west, her yards close- hauled with their reduced canvas of forecourse and topsails. It explained the uneasy, turbulent motion, but Bolitho had noticed the difference in the weather as soon as his feet had touched the damp rug by his cot.

The wind was steady but had risen; not much, but after the seemingly constant calm or glassy swell, it seemed violent by comparison.

Everyone nearby knew he was on deck and had discreetly crossed to the lee side to give him room to walk if he chose. He looked up at the rigging and saw the braced topsails for the first time. They were flapping noisily, showing their displeasure at being so tightly reined.

He had been awake for most of the night, but when the hands were called, and the work of preparing the ship for whatever lay ahead begun, he had felt a strange eagerness to sleep.

Allday had padded into the cabin, and while Ozzard had magicked up his strong coffee, the big coxswain had shaved him by the light of a spiralling lantern.

Allday had still not unburdened himself about his son. Bolitho could remember his elation when he had discovered he had a son of twenty, one he had known nothing about, who had decided to join him when his mother, an old love of Allday's, had died.

Then aboard the cutter Supreme after Bolitho had been cut down and almost completely blinded, Allday had nursed an anger and a despair that his son, also named John, was a coward, and had run below at the very moment when Bolitho had needed him most.

Now he knew differently. Afraid of the fire of battle perhaps, but no coward. It took a brave heart to disguise fear when the enemy's iron raked the decks.

But his son had asked to leave the ship when they had docked. For Allday's sake and for everyone's peace of mind Bolitho had spoken to the officer in charge of the coastguard near Falmouth, and asked him to find a place for him. His son, John Bankart as he was named after his mother, had been a good seaman, and could reef, splice and steer with the most experienced Jack. He had been performing the duties of second-coxswain in the prize Argo-naute to help Allday, who was too proud to admit that his terrible wound was making things hard for him. Also, Allday had been able to keep an eye on him, until the day when Bolitho had been wounded whilst aboard the little cutter.

Bolitho disliked asking favours of anyone, especially because of his rank, and now he was unsure that he had done the right thing. Allday brooded about it, and when not required on duty spent too much time alone, or sitting with a tot in his hand in Ozzard's pantry.

We are both in need. Like dog and master. Each fearful that the other would die first.

A youthful voice exclaimed, 'Sunrise, sir!'

Haven muttered something, then crossed to the weather side. He touched his hat in the darkness.

The boats are ready for lowering, Sir Richard.' He seemed more formal than ever. 'But if Upholder is on station we should get plenty of warning if we need to clear for action.'

'I agree.' Bolitho wondered what lay behind the formality. Was he hoping to see Upholder's signal flying to announce she had Thor in sight? Or was he expecting the sea to be empty, the effort and the preparation a waste of time?

He said, 'I never tire of this moment.' Together they watched the first glimpse of sunlight as it rimmed the horizon like a fine gold wire. With Hyperion on her present tack the sun would rise almost directly astern, to paint each sail by turn then reach out far ahead, as if to show them the way to the land.

Haven commented, 'I just hope the Dons don't know we're so near.'

Bolitho hid a smile. Haven would make Job seem like an optimist.

Another figure crossed the deck and waited for Haven to see him. It was the first lieutenant.

Haven moved a few paces away. 'Well? What now?' His voice was hushed, but the hostility was obvious.

Parris said calmly, The two men for punishment, sir. May I tell the master-at-arms to stand over their sentence until -'

'You shall not, Mr Parris. Discipline is discipline, and I'll not have men escape their just deserts because we may or may not be engaging an enemy.'

Parris stood his ground. 'It was nothing that serious, sir.'

Haven nodded, satisfied. 'One of them is from your part-of-ship, am I right? Laker? Insolent to a petty officer.'

Parris's eyes seemed to glow from within as the first weak sunlight made patterns on the planking.

They both lost their tempers, sir. The petty officer called him a whore's bastard.' He seemed to relax, knowing the battle was already lost. 'Me, sir, I'd have torn out his bloody tongue!'

Haven hissed, 'I shall speak with you later! Those men will be seized up and flogged at six bells!'

Parris touched his hat and walked away.

Bolitho heard the captain say, 'Bloody hound!'