Honour This Day

Haven had been strangely confident as he had made his report. He had even presented it in writing to explain fully, if not excuse his action.

Hyperion and the little flotilla had closed with Puerto Cabello, and had even drawn the fire of a coastal battery when it had seemed they were about to force their way into harbour. Haven was certain that the captured frigate Consort was still there, and had sent the brig Vesta under the guns of a battery to investigate. The Spaniards had rigged a long boom from one of the fortresses and Vesta had run afoul of it. In minutes one of the batteries, using heated shot, had found Vesta's range, and the helpless onlookers had seen her burst into flames before being engulfed in one devastating explosion.

Haven had said in his unemotional voice, 'Other enemy ships were heading towards us. I used my discretion,' his eyes had watched Bolitho without a flicker, 'as so ordered by you, Sir Richard, and withdrew. I considered that you would have succeeded or pulled back by that time, as I had offered the diversion required, with some risk to my command.'

After what they had done in taking the rich prize it was like a personal loss instead of a victory.

Haven could not be blamed. The presence of a boom might be expected or it might not. As he had said, he had used his discretion.

Tetrarch, another of the brigs, had risked sharing the same fate to sail amongst the smoke and falling shot to rescue some of her companion's people. One of the survivors had been her captain, Commander Murray. He was in an adjoining building with Hyperion's wounded from the boarding party, and the remainder of the brig's company who had been plucked from the sea and the flames, a sailor's two worst enemies.

He said, 'For the moment, my lord.'

Somervell smiled as he turned over another leaf; he was gloating. 'Hell's teeth, even His Majesty will be satisfied with this!' He looked up, his eyes opaque. 'I know you grieve for the brig; so may the navy. But set against all this it will be seen as a noble sacrifice.'

Bolitho shrugged. 'By those who do not have to risk their precious skins. In truth I'd rather have cut out Consort, damn them!'

Somervell folded his arms reluctantly. 'You have been lucky. But unless you contain your anger or direct it elsewhere, I fear that same luck will desert you.' He put his head on one side. Like a sleek, fastidious bird. 'So make the most of it, eh?'

The door opened an inch and Bolitho saw Jenour peering in at him. Bolitho began, 'Excuse me, my lord. I left word with -' He turned away. Somervell had not heard; he was back again in the world of gold and silver.

Jenour whispered, 'I fear Commander Murray is going fast, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho fell into step beside him and they strode across the wide, flagged terrace to the archway which led to the temporary hospital. Bolitho had been grateful for that at least. Men who were suffering from their wounds should not share a place with garrison soldiers who died from yellow fever without ever hearing the sounds of war.

He glanced shortly at the sea before he entered the other building. Like the sky, it looked angry. A storm perhaps; he would have to consult with Hyperion's sailing master.

Murray lay very still, his eyes closed as if already dead. Even though he had been on the West Indies station for two years, his features were like chalk.

Hyperion's surgeon, George Minchin, a man less callous than most of his trade, had remarked, 'A miracle he survived this far, Sir Richard. His right arm was gone when they pulled him from the sea, and I had to take off a leg. There is a chance, but -'

That had been yesterday. Bolitho had seen enough faces of death to know it was almost over.

Minchin rose from a chair near the bed and walked purposefully to a window. Jenour studied the sea through another window, thinking perhaps that Murray must have been staring at it too, like a handhold to life itself.

Bolitho sat beside the bed. 'I'm here -' He remembered the young commander's name. 'Rest easy if you can, James.'

Murray opened his eyes with an effort. 'It was the boom, sir.' He closed his eyes again. 'Nearly tore the bottom out of the poor old girl.' He tried to smile but it made him look worse. 'They never took her though – never took her -'

Bolitho groped for his remaining hand and held it between his own.

'I shall see that your people are taken care of.' His words sounded so empty he wanted to cry out, to weep. 'Is there anyone''

Murray tried again, but his eyes remained like feverish slits.

'I – I – ' his mind was clouding over. 'My mother – there's nobody else now -' His voice trailed away again.

Bolitho made himself watch. Like candles being snuffed out. He heard Allday outside the door, Jenour swallowing hard as if he needed to vomit.

In a remarkably clear voice Murray said, 'It's dark now, sir. I'll be able to sleep.' His hand bunched between Bolitho's. 'Thank you for -'

Bolitho stood up slowly. 'Yes, you sleep.' He pulled the sheet over the dead man's face and stared at the hard sunlight until he was blinded by it. It's dark now For ever.

He crossed to the door by the terrace and knew Jenour was going to say something, to try and help when there was none to offer.

'Leave me.' He did not turn. 'Please.'

Then he walked to the terrace wall and pressed both hands upon it. The stone was hot, like the sun on his face.

He raised his head and stared again at the glare. He could remember as a small boy seeing the family crest, carved in stone above the great fireplace at Falmouth. He had been tracing it with one finger when his father had entered and had picked him up in his arms.

The words below the crest stood out in his mind. Pro Ltbertate Patna. for my country's freedom.

What young men like Murray, Dunstan and Jenour all believed.

He clenched his fists until the pain steadied him.

They had not even begun to live yet.

He turned sharply as he heard footsteps to his left and seemingly below him. He had been staring so hard at the glare that he could see nothing but a vague shadow.

'Who is that? What do you want?' He twisted his head further, unaware of the edge to his voice or its helplessness.

She said, 'I came to find you.' She stood quite still at the top of some rough stone steps which led down to a small pathway. 'I heard what happened.' Another pause, which to Bolitho seemed endless, then she added quietly, 'Are you all right?'

He looked at the flagstones and saw the image of his shoes sharpen as the pain and mist in his eye slowly withdrew.

'Yes. One of my officers. I barely knew him -' He could not continue.

She remained at her distance as if afraid of him or what she might cause.

She said, 'I know. I am so sorry.'

Bolitho stared at the nearest door. 'How could you marry that man? I've met some callous bastards in my time, but-' He struggled to recover his composure. She had done it again. Like being stripped naked, with neither defence nor explanation.

She did not answer directly. 'Did he ask about the second treasure galleon?'

Bolitho felt the fight draining from him. He had almost expected Somervell to ask him just that. Both of them would have known where that might lead.

He said, 'I apologise. It was unforgivable of me. I had no right to question your motives, or his for that matter.'

She watched him gravely, one hand holding a lace mantilla in place over her dark hair as the hot wind whipped across the parapet. Then she stepped up on to the terrace and faced him. 'You look tired, Richard.'

He dared at last to look at her. She was wearing a sea-green gown, but his heart sank when he realised that