Honour This Day

sailing as near as she dared to the Spanish coast, Dunstan hoping possibly for a careless enemy trader to run under his guns.

Perhaps the most welcome addition was the thirty-six gun frigate Tybalt, which had arrived from England only just in time to join the squadron. She was commanded by a fiery Scot named Andrew McKee, who was more used to working independently. Bolitho understood the feeling even if he could not condone it. The life of any frigate captain was perhaps the most remote and monastic of all. In a crowded ship he remained alone beyond his cabin bulkhead, dining only occasionally with his officers, completely cut off from other ships and even the men he commanded. Bolitho smiled. Until now.

They had achieved little more in the Caribbean. A few indecisive attacks on enemy shipping and harbours, but after the reckless cutting-out of the treasure-ship from La Guaira all else seemed an anti-climax. As Glassport had said when the squadron had set sail for Gibraltar. After that, life would never be the same.

In more ways than one, Bolitho thought grimly.

It had been a strange feeling to quit Antigua. He had the lurking belief that he would never see the islands again. The Islands of Death, as the luckless army garrisons called them. Even Hyperion had not been immune from fever. Three seamen employed ashore had been taken ill, and had died with the disbelief of animals at slaughter.

He stepped from the ladder as Haven crossed the deck to speak with Penhaligon the master.

The latter remarked confidently, The wind stands fair, sir. We shall anchor at eight bells.'

Haven kept very much to himself, and apart from a few fits of almost insane anger, seemed content to leave matters to Parris. It was a tense and wary relationship, which must affect the whole wardroom. And yet the orders when they came by courier brig had been welcome. The storm was still brewing over Europe, with the antagonists watching and waiting for a campaign, even a single battle which might tip the balance.

The captured frigate Consort, renamed Intrepido, had slipped out of port unseen and unchecked. It was said that she too had left for Spain, to add her weight to His Catholic Majesty's considerable navy. She would be a boost to public morale as well. A prize snatched from the English, who were as ever desperate for more frigates.

Bolitho stared at the towering Rock. Gibraltar for orders. How many times had he read those words? He looked along the busy maindeck, the hands trimming the yards, or squinting up at the restless sails. It had been in Gibraltar that he had first met with Hyperion, when this endless war had barely begun. Did ships wonder about their fates? He saw Allday lounging by the boat tier, his hat tilted down to shade his eyes from the hard glare. He would be remembering too. Bolitho saw the coxswain put one hand to his chest and grimace, then glance suspiciously around to make sure nobody had noticed. He was always in pain, but would never rest. Thinking about his son, of the girl at Ac Falmouth inn; of the last battle, or the next one.

Allday turned and looked up at the quarterdeck. Just a brief glance of recognition, as if he knew what Bolitho was thinking.

Like that dawn when he had gone to the jetty after leaving Catherine.

Allday had been there, had put his fingers to his mouth to give his piercing whistle which dismissed any boatswain's call to shame, to summon a boat.

When he had last seen Catherine he had argued with her, tried to persuade her to move away from London until they could face the storm together. She had been adamant. She intended to see Somervell, to tell him the truth. Our love must triumph.

When Bolitho had voiced his fears for her safety she had given the bubbling, uninhibited laugh he remembered so well. 'There has been no love between us, Richard. Not as you thought it was. I wanted a marriage for security, Lacey needed my strength, my backing.'

It still hurt to hear her use his name.

He could see her now, on that last evening before she had sailed. Those compelling eyes and high cheekbones, her incredible confidence.

He heard Jenour's footsteps on the worn planking. Ready to convey his orders to the other captains.

Bolitho saw a brig riding untidily on the blue water, her yards alive with flags as she conveyed news of the squadron to the Rock fortress. There might even be word from Catherine. He had reread her only letter until he knew each line perfectly.

Such a striking, vibrant woman. Somervell must be mad not to fight for her love.

One night when they had been lying together, watching the moonlight through the shutters, she had told him something of her past. He already knew about her first marriage to an English soldier-of-fortune who had died in a brawl in Spain before the Franco-Spanish Alliance. She had been just a young girl at the time, who had been raised in London, a part you would not dare to believe, dear Richard! She had laughed, and nuzzled his shoulder, but he had heard the sadness too. Before that she had been on the stage. When she was fourteen. A long hard journey to become the wife of the Inspector General. Then there had been Luis Pareja, who had been killed after Bolitho had taken their ship as a prize, then defended it against Barbary pirates.

Pareja had been twice her age, but she had cared for him deeply; for his gentle kindness above all, something which until then had been denied her.

Pareja had provided for her well, although she had had no idea that she owned anything but some jewellery she had been wearing aboard that ship when Bolitho had burst into her life.

Their first confrontation had been one of fire. She had spat out her bitter despair and hate. It was still hard to fathom when all that had changed to an equally fiery love.

He took the telescope again and trained it on the brig.

Catherine had missed the sight she had sworn to witness. Almost the last thing Bolitho had seen when Hyperion left English Harbour had been a line of grisly gibbets, their sun-blackened remains left as a reminder and a warning to other would-be pirates.

He saw Parris standing forward along the starboard gangway, to make sure that when they anchored nobody ashore would find even the smallest fault in the manoeuvre.

Parris had taken a working party ashore at Antigua to move Catherine's trunks aboard the packet-ship.

Catherine had slipped her hand through Bolitho's arm while they had watched the sailors carrying the boxes towards the jetty.

She had said, 'I don't like that man.'

Bolitho had been surprised. 'He's a good officer, brave too. What don't you like about him?'

She had shrugged, eager to change the subject. 'He gives me the shivers.'

Bolitho glanced again at the first lieutenant. How simply he could raise a grin from a seaman, or the obvious awe of a midshipman. Maybe he reminded her of someone in her past? It would be easy to picture Parris as a soldier-of-fortune.

Jenour remarked, 'My first time here, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho nodded. 'I've been glad enough to see the Rock once or twice after a rough passage.'

Captain Haven called, 'Stand by to alter course two points to larboard!'

Bolitho watched his shoulders and wondered. Or had Catherine recognised in Parris what Haven obviously believed?

Bolitho took out his watch as the seamen hurried to the braces and halliards.

'General signal. Tack in succession.'

The waiting midshipmen bustled amongst a mass of bunting, while their men bent on each flag with the speed of light.

'All acknowledged, sir!'

Haven glowered. 'About time, dammit!'

Jenour said carefully, 'I was wondering about our orders, Sir Richard?'

Bolitho smiled. 'You are not alone. North to Biscay and the damned blockade of Brest and Lorient. Or join Lord Nelson? The dice can fall either way.'

Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the other ships shortening sail in preparation for the last leg to the anchorage.

Astern of Obdurate was another veteran, Crusader.