Honour This Day

terrified of going blind.'

Allday licked his lips. 'Young Mr Jenour looks on you as a bit of a hero, sir.'

'Not like you, eh?' But neither of them smiled.

Allday had not seen him like this for a long while, not since…

He cursed himself, took the blame for not being here when he was needed. It made him angry when he compared Haven with Captain Keen, or Herrick. He looked around the cabin where they had shared and lost so much together. Bolitho had nobody to share it with, to lessen the load. On the messdecks the Jacks thought the admiral wanted for nothing. By Jesus, that was just what he had. Nothing.

Allday said, 'I know it's not my place to say it, but -'

Bolitho shook his head. 'When did that ever stop you?'

Allday persisted, 'I don't know how to put it in officers' language like.' He took a deep breath. 'Cap'n Haven's wife is havin' a baby, probably dropped it by now, I shouldn't wonder.'

Bolitho stared at him. 'What of it, man?'

Allday tried not to release a deep breath of relief as he saw the impatience in Bolitho's grey eyes.

'He thinks that someone else may be the father, so to speak.'

Bolitho exclaimed, 'Well, even supposing -' He looked away, surprised, when he ought not to have been, at Allday's knowledge. 'I see.' It was not the first time. A ship in dock, a bored wife and a likely suitor. But it had taken Allday to put his finger on it.

Bolitho eyed him sadly. How could he leave him behind? What a pair. One so cruelly wounded by a Spanish sword thrust, the other slowly going blind.

He said, 'I shall write some letters.'

They looked at each other without speaking. Cornwall in late October. Grey sky, and rich hues of fallen leaves. Chipping-hammers in the fields where farmers took time to repair their walls and fences. The elderly militia drilling in the square outside the cathedral where Bolitho had been married.

Allday moved away towards Ozzard's pantry. He would ask the little man to write a letter for him to the innkeeper's daughter in Falmouth, though God alone knew if she would ever get it.

He thought of Lady Belinda and the time they had found her in the overturned coach. And of the one named Catherine who might still harbour feelings for Bolitho. A fine-looking woman, he thought, but a lot of trouble. He grinned. A sailor's woman, no matter what airs and graces she hoisted at her yards. And if she was right for Bolitho, that was all that mattered.

Alone at his table Bolitho drew the paper towards him and watched the sunlight touch the pen like fire.

In his mind he could see the words as he had written them before. 'My dearest Belinda.'

At noon he went on deck for his walk, and when Ozzard entered the cabin to tidy things he saw the paper with the pen nearby. Neither had been used.

6. 'In War There Are No Neutrals

The transfer from Hyperion to the bomb-vessel Thor was carried out just before sunset, without mishap. Men and weapons with extra powder and shot were ferried across, the boats leaping and then almost disappearing between the crests of a deep swell.

Bolitho watched from the quarterdeck while Hyperion lay hove-to, her canvas booming in protest, and once again marvelled at the sunset's primitive beauty. The long undulating swell, like the boats and their labouring crews, seemed to glow like rough bronze, while even the faces around him looked unreal; like strangers.

With two of Hyperion's boats and thirty of her men safely transferred, Bolitho made the final crossing in a jolly boat.

He had barely been received aboard Thor before he saw Hyperion's yards swinging round, her shadowed outline shortening as she turned away to follow the two brigs into the last of the sunset.

If Commander Ludovic Imrie was bothered by having his flag officer coming aboard his modest command, he did not show it. He displayed more surprise when Bolitho announced that he did not intend to wear his epaulettes, and suggested that Imrie, as Tbor's commander, should follow his example.

He had remarked calmly, 'Your people know you well enough. I trust that they will know me too when this affair is finished!'

Bolitho was able to forget Hyperion and the others as they headed further and further away towards Puerto Cabello. He could feel the tension mount around him as Thor made more sail and steered, close-hauled, towards the invisible shoreline.

Hour followed hour, with hushed voices calling from the chains where two leadsmen took regular soundings, so that their reports could be checked carefully against the chart and the notes Bolitho had made after his meeting with Captain Price.

The noise was loud, but deceptive. Astern on its tow-line, the clumsy lighter was pumped constantly in a battle which Imrie had admitted had begun within hours of leaving harbour. Any rise in the sea brought instant danger from flooding, and now, with both Thor's heavy mortars and their crews on board, the lighter's loss would spell disaster.

Bolitho prowled restlessly around the vessel's quarterdeck and pictured the land in his mind, as he had seen it that late afternoon. He had made himself climb aloft just once more, this time to the maintop, and through a rising haze had seen the tell-tale landmarks of La Guaira. The vast blue-grey range of the Caracas Mountains, and further to the west the impressive saddle-shaped peaks of the Silla de Caracas.

Penhaligon could be rightfully proud of his navigation, he thought. Allday barely left his side after they had come aboard, and Bolitho could hear his uneven breathing, his fingers drumming against the hilt of a heavy cutlass.

It made Bolitho touch the unfamiliar shape of the hanger at his belt. The prospect of action right inside the enemy's territory occupied everyone's mind, but Bolitho doubted if Allday had missed his decision to leave the old family sword behind in Hyperion. He had almost lost it once before. Allday would be remembering that too, thinking Bolitho had left it with Ozzard only because he believed he might not return.

Adam would wear the sword one day. It would never fall into enemy hands again.

Later, in Imrie's small cabin, they peered at the chart behind shuttered stern windows. Thor was cleared for action, but her chance would come only if the first part succeeded. Bolitho traced the twisting shallows with the dividers, as Price must have done before his ship had driven ashore. He felt the others crowding around and against him. Imrie and his senior master's mate, Lieutenant Parris, and Thor's second lieutenant, who would cover the attack.

Bolitho wondered momentarily if Parris was thinking about the floggings, which had been cancelled at Haven's order. Or of the fact that Haven had insisted that the two culprits should be included in the raiding party. All the bad eggs in one basket maybe, he thought.

He pulled out his watch and laid it beneath a low-slung lantern.

'Thor will anchor within the half-hour. All boats will cast off immediately, the jolly boat leading. Soundings must be taken, but not unnecessarily. Stealth is vital. We must be in position by dawn.' He glanced at their grim expressions. 'Questions?'

Dalmaine, Thor's second lieutenant, raised his hand.

'What if the Don has moved, sir?'

It was amazing how easy they found it to speak up, Bolitho thought. Without the intimidating vice-admiral's epaulettes, and in their own ship, they had already spoken of their ideas, their anxieties as well. It was like being in a frigate or a sloop-of-war, all over again.

'Then we will be unlucky.' Bolitho smiled and saw Jenour's eyes watching the brass dividers as he tapped the chart. 'But there have been no reports of any large ships on the move.'

The lieutenant persisted, 'And the battery, sir. Suppose we cannot take it by surprise?'

It was Imrie who answered. 'I would suggest, Mr Dalmaine, that all your pride in your mortars will have been