Honour This Day

would never forget her and what she had done for him.

Almost out loud he said, 'I cannot believe she would run away!' The words were torn from him, and he did not even notice two people turn to stare after him.

Allday greeted him warily. 'No news, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho threw himself into a chair. 'Fetch me a glass of something, will you?'

'Some nice cool hock?'

Allday watched worriedly as Bolitho replied, 'No. Brandy this time.'

He drank two glasses before its warmth steadied his mind.

'In God's name, I am in hell.'

Allday refilled the glass. It was likely the best thing to make him forget.

He stared round the room. Get back to the sea. That he could understand.

Bolitho's head lolled and the empty glass fell unheeded on the carpet.

The dream was sudden and violent. Catherine pulling at him, her breasts bared as she was dragged away from him, her screams probing at his brain like hot irons.

He awoke with a start and saw Allday release his arm, his face full of concern.

Bolitho gasped, 'I – I'm sorry! It was a nightmare -' He stared round; the room was darker. 'How long have I been here?'

Allday watched him grimly. That don't matter now, beggin' yer pardon.' He jabbed his thumb at the door. 'There's someone here to see you. Wouldn't talk to no one else.'

Bolitho's aching mind cleared. 'What about?' He shook his head. 'No matter, fetch him in.'

He got to his feet and stared at his reflection in the window. I am losing my sanity.

Allday pouted. 'Might be a beggar.'

'Fetch him.'

He heard Allday's familiar tread, and a strange clumping step which reminded him of an old friend he had lost contact with. But the man who was ushered in by Allday was nobody he recognised, nor was his rough uniform familiar.

The visitor removed his outdated tricorn hat to reveal untidy greying hair. He was badly stooped, and Bolitho guessed it was because of his crude wooden leg.

He asked, 'Can I help you? I am -'

The man peered at him and nodded firmly. 'I knows 'oo you are, zur.'

He had a faint West Country accent, and the fashion in which he touched his forehead marked him as an old sailor.

But the uniform with its plain brass buttons was like nothing Bolitho had ever seen.

He said, 'Will you be seated?' He gestured to Allday. 'A glass for – what may I call you?'

The man balanced awkwardly on a chair and nodded again very slowly. 'You won't recall, zur. But me name's Vanzell -'

Allday exclaimed, 'Bless you, so it is!' He stared at the one-legged man and added, 'Gun-captain in th' Phalarope.'

Bolitho gripped the back of a chair to contain his racing thoughts. All those years, and yet he could not understand why he had not recognised the man called Vanzell. A Devonian like Yovell. It was over twenty years back, when he had been a boy-captain like Adam would soon be.

The Saintes Godschale had dismissed as a sentimental memory. It was not like that to Bolitho. The shattered line of battle, the roar of cannon fire while men fell and died, including his first coxswain, Stockdale, who had fallen protecting him. He glanced at Allday, seeing the same memory on his rugged features. He had been there too, as a pressed man, but one who was still with him as a faithful friend.

Vanzell watched their recognition with satisfaction. Then he said, 'I never forget, y'see. 'Ow you helped me an' th' wife when I was cast ashore after losin' me pin to a Froggie ball. You saved us, an' that's a fact, zur.' He put down the glass and stared at him with sudden determination.

'I 'card you was in London, zur. So I come meself. To try an' repay what you did for me an' th' wife, God rest her soul. There's only me now, but I'll not forget what 'appened after them bastards raked our decks that day.'

Bolitho sat down and faced him. 'What are you doing now?' He tried to conceal the anxiety and urgency in his bearing. This man, this tattered memory from the past, was frightened. For some reason it had cost a lot for him to come.

Vanzell said, 'It will lose me me job, zur.' He was thinking aloud. 'They all knows I once served under you. They'll not forgive me, not never.'

He made up his mind and studied Bolitho searchingly. 'I'm a watchman, zur, it was all I could get. They've no time for half-timbered Jacks no more.' His hand shook as he took another glass from Allday. Then he added huskily. 'I'm at th' Waites, zur.'

'What is that?'

Allday said sharply, 'It's a prison.'

Vanzell downed the glass in one gulp. 'They got 'er there. I know, 'cause I saw 'er, an' I 'card what the others was sayin' about you both.'

Bolitho could feel the blood rushing through his brain.

In a prison. It was impossible. But he knew it was true.

The man was saying to Allday, 'It's a filthy place full o' scum. Debtors an' lunatics, a bedlam you'd not believe.'

Allday glanced tightly at Bolitho. 'Oh, yes I would, matey.'

Bolitho said, 'Tell the housekeeper I shall need a carriage at once. Do you know where this place is?' Allday shook his head.

Vanzell said, 'I – I'll show 'ee, zur, one movement. He raised a key in his shaking hands.

'Please, be careful? He was almost in tears.

Bolitho caught his breath as they walked into a dimly lit corridor. There was straw scattered on the flagstones, and one of the walls was dripping wet. The stench was foul. Dirt, poverty and despair. They stopped outside the last door and the little governor said in a whisper, 'In God's name I had naught to do with it! She was given in my charge until a debt was paid. But if you are certain that -'

Bolitho did not hear him. He stared in through a small window which was heavily barred, each one worn smooth by a thousand desperate fingers.

A lantern shone through a thick glass port, like those used in a ship's hanging magazine. It was a scene from hell.

An old woman was leaning against one wall, rocking from side to side, a tendril of spittle hanging from her mouth as she crooned some forgotten tune to herself. She was filthy, and her ragged clothes were deeply soiled.

On the opposite side Catherine sat on a small wooden bench, her legs apart, her hands clasped between her knees. Her gown was torn, like the day she had come aboard Hyperion, and he saw that her feet were shoeless. Her long hair, uncombed, hung across her partly bared shoulders, hiding her face completely.

She did not move or look up as the key grated in the lock and Bolitho thrust open the door.

Then she whispered very quietly, 'If you come near me, I shall kill you.'

He held out his arms and said, 'Kate. Don't be frightened. Come to me.'

She raised her head and brushed the hair from her eyes with the back of her hand.

Still she did not move or appear to recognise him, and for a moment Bolitho imagined that she had been driven mad by these terrible circumstances.

Then she stood up and stepped a few paces unsteadily towards him.

'Is it you? Really you?' Then she shook her head and exclaimed, 'Don't touch me! I am unclean -'

Bolitho gripped her shoulders and pulled her against him, feeling her protest give way to sobs which were torn from each awful memory. He felt her skin through the back of the gown; she wore nothing else beneath it. Her body was like ice despite the foul, unmoving air. He covered her with his cloak, so that only her face and her bare feet showed in the flickering lanterns.