Honour This Day

Bolitho's glance rested on the sword rack beside the screen. His own old sword, and the fine presentation one. How could Haven have understood? It was not his fault. Bolitho had taken his apparent dissatisfaction with his command like a personal insult. He had snapped, 'This ship may be old, Captain Haven, but she has out-sailed many far younger! The Chesapeake, the Saintes, Toulon and Biscay – her battle honours read like a history of the navy itself!' It was unfair, but Haven should have known better.

Every yard of that tour had been a rebirth of memory. Only the faces and voices did not fit. But the ship was the same. New masts, and most of her armament replaced by heavier artillery than when she had faced the broadsides of Lequiller's Tornade, gleaming paint and neatly tarred seams; nothing could disguise his Hyperion. He stared round the cabin, seeing it as before. And she was thirty-two years old. When she had been built at Dept-ford she had had the pick of Kentish oak. Those days of shipbuilding were gone forever, and now most forests had been stripped of their best timber to feed the needs of the fleet.

It was ironic that the great Tornade had been a new ship, yet she had been paid off as a prison-hulk some four years back. He felt his left eye again and cursed wretchedly as the mist seemed to drift across it. He thought of Haven and the others who served this old ship day and night. Did they know or guess that the man whose flag flew from the foremast truck was partially blind in his left eye? Bolitho clenched his fists as he relived that moment, falling to the deck, blinded by sand from the bucket an enemy ball had blasted apart.

He waited for his composure to return. No, Haven did not seem to notice anything beyond his duties.

Bolitho touched one of the chairs and pictured the length and breadth of his flagship. So much of him was in her. His brother had died on the upper deck, had fallen to save his only son Adam, although the boy had been unaware that he was still alive, at the time. And dear Inch who had risen to become Hyperion's first lieutenant. He could see him now, with his anxious, horse-faced grin. Now he too was dead, with so many of their 'happy few'.

And Cheney had also walked these decks-he pushed the chair aside and crossed angrily to the open stern windows.

'You called, Sir Richard?'

It was Ozzard, his mole-like servant. It would be no ship at all without him.

Bolitho turned. He must have spoken her name aloud. How many times; and how long would he suffer like this?

He said, 'I – I am sorry, Ozzard.' He did not go on.

Ozzard folded his paw-like hands under his apron and looked at the glittering anchorage.

'Old times, Sir Richard.'

'Aye.' Bolitho sighed. 'We had better be about it, eh?'

Ozzard held up the heavy coat with its shining epaulettes. Beyond the screen door Bolitho heard the trill of more calls and the squeak of tackles as boats were swayed out for lowering alongside.

Landfall. Once it had been such a magic word.

Ozzard busied himself with the coat but did not bring either sword from the rack. He and Allday were great friends even though most people would see them as chalk and cheese. And Allday would not allow anyone but himself to clip on the sword. Like the old ship, Bolitho thought, Allday was of the best English oak, and when he was gone none would take his place.

He imagined that Ozzard was dismayed that he had chosen the two-decker when he could have had the pick of any first-rate he wanted. At the Admiralty they had gently suggested that although Hyperion was ready for sea again, after a three-year overhaul and refit she might never recover from that last savage battle.

Curiously it had been Nelson, the hero whom Bolitho had never met, who had settled the matter. Someone at the Admiralty must have written to the little admiral to tell him of Bolitho's request. Nelson had sent his own views in a despatch to Their Lordships with typical brevity.

Give Bolitho any ship he wants. He is a sailor, not a landsman.

It would amuse Our Nel, Bolitho thought. Hyperion had been set aside as a hulk until her recommissioning just a few months ago, and she was thirty-two years old.

Nelson had hoisted his own flag in Victory, a first-rate, but he had found her himself rotting as a prison hulk. He had known in his strange fashion that he had to have her as his flagship. As far as he could recall, Bolitho knew that Victory was eight years older than Hyperion.

Somehow it seemed right that the two old ships should live again, having been discarded without much thought after all they had done.

The outer screen door opened and Daniel Yovell, Bolitho's secretary, stood watching him glumly.

Bolitho relented yet again. It had been easy for none of them because of his moods, his uncertainties. Even Yovell, plump, round-shouldered and so painstaking with his work, had been careful to keep his distance for the past thirty days at sea.

'The Captain will be here shortly, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho slipped his arms into the coat and shrugged himself into the most comfortable position without making his spine prickle with sweat.

'Where is my flag lieutenant?' Bolitho smiled suddenly. Having an official aide had also been hard to accept at the beginning. Now, after two previous flag lieutenants, he found it simple to face.

'Waiting for the barge. After that,' the fat shoulders rose cheerfully, 'you will meet the local dignitaries.' He had taken Bolitho's smile as a return to better things. Yovell's simple Devonian mind required everything to remain safely the same.

Bolitho allowed Ozzard to stand on tip-toe to adjust his neckcloth. For years he had always hung upon the word of admiralty or the senior officer present wherever it happened to be. It was still difficult to believe that this time there was no superior brain to question or satisfy. He was the senior officer. Of course in the end the unwritten naval rule would prevail. If right, others would take the credit. If wrong, he might well carry the blame.

Bolitho glanced at himself in the mirror and grimaced. His hair was still black, apart from some distasteful silver ones in the rebellious lock of hair covering the old scar. The lines at the corners of his mouth were deeper, and his reflection reminded him of the picture of his older brother, Hugh, which hung in Falmouth. Like so many of those Bolitho portraits in the great grey stone house. He controlled his sudden despair. Now, apart from his loyal steward Ferguson and the servants, it was empty.

Iam here. It is what I wanted. He glanced around the cabin again. Hyperion. We nearly died together.

Yovell turned aside, his apple-red face wary. 'The Captain, Sir Richard.'

Haven entered, his hat beneath one arm.

'The ship is secured, sir.'

Bolitho nodded. He had told Haven not to address him by his title unless ceremony dictated otherwise. The division between them was already great enough.

'I shall come up.' A shadow moved through the door and Bolitho noticed just the briefest touch of annoyance on Haven's face. That was an improvement from total self-composure, he thought.

Allday walked past the flag captain. 'The barge is alongside, Sir Richard.' He moved to the sword rack and eyed the two weapons thoughtfully. 'The proper one today?'

Bolitho smiled. Allday had problems of his own, but he would keep them to himself until he was ready. Coxswain? A true friend was a better description. It certainly made Haven frown that one so lowly could come and go as he pleased.

Allday stooped to clip the old Bolitho sword to the belt. The leather scabbard had been rebuilt several times, but the tarnished hilt remained the same, and the keen, outmoded blade was as sharp as ever.

Bolitho patted the sword against his hip. 'Another good friend.' Their eyes met. It was almost physical, Bolitho thought. All the influence his rank invited was nothing compared with their close bond.

Haven was of medium build, almost stocky, with curling ginger hair. In his early thirties, he had the look of a sound lawyer or city merchant, and his expression today was quietly expectant, giving nothing away. Bolitho had visited his cabin on one occasion and had remarked on a small portrait, of a beautiful girl with streaming hair,