Honour This Day

He held on to the nettings and slitted his eyes against the gale. It was strong but clammy, so that it did nothing to refresh his tired limbs. Two days since they had clawed their way out of English Harbour to assemble their small but priceless convoy. In that time they had barely logged fifty miles.

By night they rode out the storm under a reefed maintopsail and little else, while the four transports and the smaller vessels lay hove-to as best they could under savage conditions.

Secrecy was now of secondary importance and Hyperion burned flares and her vice- admiral's top-lights to try and hold the ships together. Then as each dawn found them it had taken a full day to reassemble the badly scattered ships and to begin the formation all over again. Everything was wet, and as the men toiled aloft to fight the wind-crazed sails or stumbled to replace their companions on the bilge-pumps, many must have wondered what was keeping them afloat.

Bolitho stared abeam and saw the faint sheen of the sloop-of-war's topgallants. Phaedra was standing up to windward, heeling every so often as the waves lifted her slender hull like a toy. The brig Upholder was invisible, far ahead in the van, and the other brig Tetrarch was an equal distance astern.

Bolitho climbed up a few steps on a poop ladder and felt the cloak stream away from him, his shirt already soaked with spray and spindrift. There was Obdurate, half-a-mile astern, her black and buff bows shining like glass as the waves burst into her. It felt strange to have another third-rate in company again, although he doubted if Thynne was thanking him for it. After a long stay in harbour, repairing the last storm battering she had suffered, it was likely that Obdurate's people were cursing their change of roles.

Bolitho climbed down to the deck again. There were four seamen at the big wheel, and nearby Penhaligon the master was in deep conversation with one of his mates.

The wind had backed decisively to the south-west and they had been blown many miles off their original course. But if the sailing master was troubled he did not show it.

All around, above and along the maindeck, men were working to repair any storm damage. Lines to be replaced or spliced, sails to be sent down, to be patched or discarded.

Bolitho glanced at the nearest gangway where a boatswain's mate was supervising the unrigging of a grating.

Another flogging. It had been worse than usual, even after Ozzard had closed the cabin skylight. The wild chorus of the wind through stays and shrouds, the occasional boom of reefed topsails, and all the while the rattle of drums and the sickening crack of the lash across a man's naked back.

He saw blood on the gangway, already fading and paling in the flung spray. Three dozen lashes. A man driven too far in the middle of the storm, an officer unable to deal with it on the spot.

Haven was in his quarters writing his log, or re-reading the letters which had been brought in the courier bag.

Bolitho was glad he was not here. Only his influence remained. The men who hurried about the decks looked strained, resentful. Even Jenour, who had not served very much at sea, had remarked on it.

Bolitho beckoned to the signals midshipman. 'The glass, if you please, Mr Furnival.' He noticed the youth's hands, raw from working all night aloft, and then trying to assume the dress and bearing of a King's officer by day.

Bolitho raised the glass and saw the sloop-of-war swim sharply into focus, the creaming wash of sea as she tilted her gunports into a deep swell. He wondered what her commander, Dunstan, was thinking as he rode out the wind and waves to hold station on his admiral. It was a far cry from Euryalus's midshipman's berth.

He moved the glass still further and saw a green brush-stroke of land far away on the larboard bow. Another island, Barbuda. They should have left it to starboard on the first day. He thought of the schooner, of Catherine who had asked the master to take her around Antigua to St John's instead of using the road.

A small vessel like that would stand no chance against such a gale. Her master could either run with the wind, or try to find shelter. Better ships would have suffered in the storm; some might have perished. He clenched his fingers around the telescope until they ached. Why did she do it? She could be lying fathoms deep, or clinging to some wreckage. She might even have seen Hyperion's toplights, have known it was his ship.

He heard the master call to the officer-of-the-watch, 'I would approve if you could get the t'gallants on her, Mr Mansforth.'

The lieutenant nodded, his face brick-red from the salt spray. 'I -1 shall inform the Captain.' He was very aware of the figure by the weather side, with the boat-cloak swirling around him. Hatless, his black hair plastered to his forehead, he looked more like a highwayman than a vice-admiral.

Jenour emerged from the poop and touched his hat. 'Any orders, Sir Richard?'

Bolitho returned the glass to the midshipman. 'The wind has eased. Please make a signal to the transports to keep closed up. We are not out of trouble yet.'

The four ships which were sharing most of the treasure were keeping downwind of the two seventy-fours. With a brig scouting well ahead, and the other trailing astern like a guard-dog, they should be warned in time should a suspicious sail show itself. Then Hyperion and Obdurate could gauge their moment before running down on the convoy, or beating up to windward to join Phaedra.

Flags soared up to the yards and stiffened to the wind like painted metal.

'Acknowledged, Sir Richard.' Then in a hushed voice Jenour added, The Captain is coming.'

Bolitho felt the bitterness rising within him. They were more like conspirators than of one company.

Haven walked slowly across the streaming planking, his eyes on the gun-breechings, flaked lines, coiled braces, everything.

He was apparently satisfied that he had nothing to fear from what he saw, and crossed the deck to Bolitho.

He touched his hat, his face expressionless while his eyes explored Bolitho's wet shirt and spray-dappled breeches.

'I intend to make more sail, Sir Richard. We should carry it well enough.'

Bolitho nodded. 'Signal Obdurate so that they conform. I don't want us to become separated.' Captain Thynne had lost two men overboard the previous day and had backed his mizzen topsail while he had attempted to send away the quarter boat. Neither of the luckless men was recovered. They had either fallen too far from aloft and been knocked senseless when they hit the sea, or like most sailors, were unable to swim. Bolitho had not intended to mention it.

But Haven snorted, 'I will make the signal at once, Sir Richard. Thynne wants to drill his people the better, and not dawdle about when some fool goes outboard through his own carelessness!'

He gestured to the lieutenant of the watch.

'Hands aloft and loose t'gan'sls, Mr Mansforth!' He looked at the midshipman. 'General signal. Make more sail.' His arm shot out across the quarterdeck rail. 'That man! Just what the bloody hell is he about?'

The seaman in question had been wringing out his checkered shirt in an effort to dry it.

He stood stockstill, his eyes on the quarterdeck, while others moved aside in case they too might draw Haven's wrath.

A boatswain's mate yelled, 'Tis all right, sir! I told him to do it!'

Haven turned away, suddenly furious.

But Bolitho had seen the gratitude in the seaman's eyes and knew that the boatswain's mate had told him nothing of the kind. Were they all so sick of Haven that even the afterguard were against him?

'Captain Haven!' Bolitho saw him turn, the anger gone. It was unnerving how he could work up a sudden rage and disperse it to order. 'A word, if you please.'

The midshipman called, 'All acknowledged, sir.'

Bolitho said, 'This ship has never been in action under your command or beneath my flag. I'll trouble you to remember it when next you berate a man who has been running hither and thither for two days and nights.' He was finding it hard to keep his voice level and under control. 'When the time comes to beat to quarters in earnest, you