Honour This Day

It was no part of his to interfere. Bolitho looked at the sunrise, but it was spoiled by what he had heard.

He would have to speak to Haven about it later when they were alone. He glanced up at the mizzen topmast as a shaft of light played across the shrouds and running rigging. If he waited until action was joined it might be too late.

The words seemed to echo around his mind. If I should fall… Every ship was only as strong as her captain. If there was something wrong… He looked round, Haven brushed from his thoughts, as the masthead yelled, 'Sail in sight to the sou'-west!'

Bolitho clenched his hands into fists. It must be Upholder, right on station. He had been right in his choice for the van.

He said, 'Prepare to come about, Captain Haven.'

Haven nodded. 'Pipe the hands to the braces, Mr Quayle.'

Another face fitted into the pattern; Bolitho's companion of the forenoon watch the day before. The sort of officer who would have no compassion when it came to a flogging.

Bolitho added, 'Do you have a good man aloft today?'

Haven stared at him, his face still masked in shadow. 'I – I believe so, sir.'

'Send up an experienced hand. A master's mate for my money.'

'Aye, sir.' Haven sounded tense. Angry with himself for not thinking of the obvious. He could scarcely blame Parris for that.

Bolitho glanced around as the shadows nearby took on shape and personality. Two young midshipmen, both in their first ship, the of ficer-of-the-watch, and below the break in the poop he saw the tall, powerful figure of Penhaligon the master. If he was satisfied with their progress you would never know, Bolitho thought.

'Deck there! Upholder in sight!'

Bolitho guessed the voice was that of Rimer, master's mate of the watch. He was a small, bronzed man with features so creased that he looked like some seafarer from a bygone age. The other vessel was little more than a blur in the faint daylight, but Rimer's experience and keen eye told him all he needed to know.

Bolitho said, 'Mr Jenour, get aloft with a glass.' He turned aside as the young lieutenant hurried to the shrouds. 'I trust you climb as fast as you ride?'

He saw the flash of teeth as Jenour grinned back at him. Then he was gone, his arms and legs working with all the ease of a nimble maintopman.

Haven crossed the deck and looked up at Jenour's white breeches. 'It will be light enough soon, sir.'

Bolitho nodded. 'Then we shall know.'

He bunched his fists together under his coat-tails as Jenour's voice pealed down.

'Signal from Upholder, sir! Thor in company!'

Bolitho tried not to show excitement or surprise. Imrie had done it.

'Acknowledge!' He had to cup his hands to shout above the slap of canvas and rigging. There was no further signal from Upholder. It meant nothing had gone wrong so far, and that the ungainly lighter was still safely in tow.

He said, 'When the others are in sight, Captain Haven, signal them to proceed while we are all of one mind. There is no time for another conference. Even now there is a chance we might be discovered before we are all in position.'

He walked to the nettings again. There was no point in showing doubt or uncertainty to Haven. He looked aloft as more and more of the rigging and spars took shape in the sunlight. It was strange that he had never mastered his dislike of heights. As a midshipman he had faced each dash aloft to help shorten or make more sail as a separate challenge. At night in particular, with the yards heeling over towards the bursting spray and the deck little more than a blur far beneath his feet, he had felt an enduring terror.

He saw some Royal Marines on the mizzen-top, their scarlet coats very bright while they leaned over the barricade to watch for the brig Upholder. Bolitho would have dearly liked to climb up past them without caring, as Jenour had done. He touched his left eyelid, then blinked at the reflected sunlight. Deceptively clear, but the worry was always there.

He looked along the upper deck, the gun crews standing down to go about their normal tasks as the first tension disappeared with the night.

So many miles. Too many memories. During the night when he had lain awake in his cot listening to the sluice and creak of the sea around the rudder he had recalled another time when Hyperion had sailed this far, while he had been her captain. They had slipped past the Isles of Pascua in the darkness and Bolitho could remember exactly that dawn attack on the French ships anchored there. And it was nine years ago. The same ship. But was he still the same man?

He glanced up at the mizzen top and was suddenly angry with himself.

'Hand me that glass, if you please.' He took it from a startled midshipman and walked purposefully to the weather shrouds. He could feel Haven watching him, saw Parris trying not to stare from the larboard gangway where he was in discussion with Sam Lintott, the boatswain. Probably telling him when to rig the gratings so that punishment could be carried out as ordered.

Then he saw Allday squinting up from the maindeck, his jaw still working on a piece of biscuit while he, too, stared with astonishment. Bolitho swung himself up and around the shrouds and felt the ratlines quiver with each step while the big signals telescope bounced against his hip like a quiver of arrows.

It was easier than he would have believed, but as he clambered into the top he decided it was far enough.

The marines stood back, nudging and grinning to each other. Bolitho was able to recall the name of the corporal, a fierce-looking man who had been a Norfolk poacher before he signed on with the Corps. Not before time, Major Adams had hinted darkly.

'Where is she, Corporal Rogate?'

The marine pointed. 'Yonder, sir! Larboard bow!'

Bolitho steadied the long telescope and watched as the brig's narrow poop and braced yards leapt into view. Figures moved about Upholder's quarterdeck, steeply angled as the ship heeled over to show her bright copper to the early sunshine.

Bolitho waited for Hyperion to sway upright and for the mizzen topmast to restrain its shivering, and beyond Upholderhe saw a tan-coloured pyramid of sails. Thor was ready and waiting.

He lowered the glass as if to bring his thoughts into equal focus. Had he decided from the very beginning that he would lead the attack? If it failed, he would be taken prisoner, or… He gave a grim smile. The or did not bear thinking about.

Corporal Rogate saw the secret smile and wondered how he would describe it to the others during the next watch below. How the admiral had spoken to him, just like another Royal. One of us.

Bolitho knew that if he sent another officer and the plan misfired, the blame would be laid at his door anyway.

They had to trust him. In his heart Bolitho knew that the next months were crucial for England, and for the fleet in particular. Leadership and trust went hand in hand. To most of his command he was a stranger and their trust had to be earned.

He considered his argument with sudden contempt. Death-wish. Was that a part of it too?

He concentrated on the brig's sturdy shape as she ducked and rose across steep waves. In his mind's eye he could already see the land as it would appear when they drew nearer. The anchorage at La Guaira consisted mainly of an open roadstead across the front of the town. It was known to be heavily defended by several fortresses, some of which were quite newly constructed because of the comings and goings of treasure-ships. Although La Guaira was just six miles or so from the capital, Caracas, the latter could only be reached by a twisting, mountainous road some four times that distance.

As soon as Hyperion and her consorts were sighted the Spanish authorities would send word to the capital with all the haste they could manage. Because of the time it would take on that precarious road, La Guaira might just as well be an island, he thought. All the intelligence they had been able to gather from traders and blockade-runners alike pointed to the captured frigate Consort being at