Honour This Day

his hat to Bolitho, barely able to suppress a smile.

'The master was right about our arrival here, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho raised his telescope to scan the familiar walls and batteries of Valletta. 'Only just.'

It had been a lengthy passage from Gibraltar, over eight days to log the weary twelve hundred miles. It had given Keen time to impress his methods on the whole ship, but had filled Bolitho with misgivings at the forthcoming meeting with Hernck.

He said slowly, 'Only three ships-of-the-hne, Val.' He had recognised Hernck's flagship Benbow almost as soon as the masthead lookouts. Once his own flagship, and like Hyperion, full of memories. Keen would be remembering her for very different reasons. Here he had faced a court of enquiry presided over by Herrick. It could have ruined him, but for Bolitho's intervention. Past history? It seemed unlikely he would ever forget.

Bolitho said, 'I can make out the frigate yonder, anchored beyond Benbow.' He had been afraid that she would have been sent elsewhere. She was named La Mouette, a French prize taken off Toulon while Bolitho had been at Antigua. She was a small vessel of only twenty-six guns, but beggars could not be choosers. Any frigate was welcome at this stage of the war against the new cat-and-mouse methods used by the French.

Keen said, 'But it raises our line of battle to eight.' He smiled. 'We have managed with far less in the past.'

Jenour stood slightly apart, supervising the signals midshipmen with their bright flags strewn about in apparent disorder.

Bolitho crossed to the opposite side to watch as the next astern, Thynne's Obdurate, took in more sail and tacked slowly after her admiral.

He pictured Herrick in Benbow, watching perhaps as the five major ships of Bolitho's squadron moved ponderously on a converging tack in readiness to anchor. It was very hot, and Bolitho had seen the sunlight flash on many telescopes amongst the anchored ships. Would Herrick be regretting this meeting, he wondered? Or thinking how their friendship had been born out of battle and a near mutiny in that other war against the American rebels?

He said, 'Very well, Mr Jenour, you may signal now.'

He glanced at Keen's profile. 'We shall just beat eight bells, Val, and so save Mr Penhaligon's reputation!'

'All acknowledged, sir!'

As the signal was briskly hauled to the deck, the ships faced up to the feeble breeze and dropped anchor.

Bolitho said, 'I have to go aft. I shall require my barge directly.'

Keen faced him. 'You'll not wait for the rear-admiral to come aboard, Sir Richard?'

Keen must have guessed that he was going to visit Benbow mainly to avoid having to greet Herrick with all the usual formalities. Their last meeting had been across the court's table. When next they met it would have to be as man-to-man. For both their sakes.

'Old friends do not need to rest on tradition, Val.' Bolitho hoped it sounded more convincing than it felt.

He tried to push it from his mind. Herrick had been here a long time; he might well have news of the enemy. Intelligence was everything. Without the little scraps of information gathered by the patrols and casual encounters they were helpless.

He heard Allday calling hoarsely to his barge crew, the creak of tackles as the boat, soon followed by others, was swayed up and over the gangway.

A few local craft were already approaching the ships, their hulls crammed with cheap wares to tempt the sailors to part with their money. Like Portsmouth and any other seaport, there would be women too for the land- starved men if the captains turned a blind eye. It must be hard for any man to accept, Bolitho thought. The officers came and went as duty permitted, but only trusted hands and those of the press-gangs were ever allowed to set foot ashore. Month in and year out, it was a marvel there had not been more outbreaks of rebellion in the fleet.

He thought of Catherine as he had left her. Keen would be thinking the same about Zenoria. It would be ten thousand times worse if they could not meet until the war had ended, or they had been thrown on the beach as rejected cripples, like the one-legged man.

He went to his cabin and collected some letters which had been brought on board Firefly at the last moment. For Herrick. He gave a grim smile. Like bearing gifts.

Ozzard pattered round him, his eyes everywhere, to make sure that Bolitho had forgotten nothing.

It made Bolitho think of Catherine's face when he had presented her with the fan Ozzard had cleaned.

She had said, 'Keep it. It is all I have to give you. Have it by you. Then I shall be near when you need me.'

He sighed and walked out past the sentry and Keen's open cabin door, where fresh white paint disguised where Haven's pistol had been fired. Haven was lucky that Parris was still alive.

Or was he? His career was wrecked, and there would be nothing waiting for him when he eventually reached his home.

He walked into the bright sunlight and saw the Royal Marines assembled at the entry port, boatswain's mates with their silver calls, Keen and Jenour ready to pay their respects.

Major Adams of the Royal Marines raised his sword and barked:

'Guard ready, sir!'

Keen looked at Bolitho. 'Barge alongside, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho raised his hat to the quarterdeck and saw bare-backed seamen working aloft on the mizzen yard peering down at him, their feet dangling m space.

One ship. One company.

Bolitho hurried down to the barge. The memories would have to wait.

Rear-Admiral Thomas Herrick stood with his hands grasped behind his back and watched the other ships anchoring, while the wind fell away to leave their sails almost empty. Gunsmoke from exchanged salutes drifted towards the shore, and Herrick tensed as he saw the green barge being lowered alongside Hyperion almost as soon as the Jack was hoisted forward.

Captain Hector Gossage remarked, 'It seems that the vice-admiral is coming to us immediately, sir.'

Herrick grunted. There were so many new faces in his command, and his flag captain had only been with him for a few months. His predecessor, Dewar, had gone home m ill health and Herrick still missed him.

Herrick said, 'Prepare to receive him. Full guard. You know what to do.'

He wanted to be left alone, to think. When he had received his new orders from Sir Owen Godschale at the Admiralty, Herrick had thought of little else. The last time he had met Bolitho had been here in the Mediterranean when Benbow had been under heavy attack from Jobert's squadron. Re-united in battle, friends meeting against the heartless terms of war. But afterwards, when Bolitho had sailed for England, Herrick had thought a great deal about the court of enquiry, how Bolitho had cursed them after he had heard of Inch's death. Hernck still believed that Bolitho's hurt and anger had been directed at him, not the anonymous court.

He thought of Godschale's personal letter, which had accompanied the changed orders. Hernck had already learned of the liaison between Bolitho and the woman he had known as Catherine Pareja. He had always felt ill-at- ease with her, out of his depth. A proud, uninhibited woman. In his eyes she lacked modesty, humility. He thought of his dear, loving Dulcie at their new house in Kent. Not a bit like her at all.

How brave Dulcie had been when she had been told finally that she could not bear him any children. She had said softly, 'If only we had met earlier, Thomas. Maybe we would have had a fine son to follow you into the navy.'

He thought of Bolitho's life in Falmouth, the same old grey house where he had been entertained when Bolitho had commanded Phalarope, and he had risen to become his first lieutenant. It seemed like a century ago.

Hernck had always been stocky, but he had filled out comfortably since he had married Dulcie, and had risen to the unbelievable height of rear-admiral as well. He had been out here so long that his round, honest face was almost the colour of mahogany, which made his bright blue eyes and the streaks of grey in his hair seem all the more noticeable.

What could Richard Bolitho be thinking of He had a lovely wife and daughter he could be proud of. Any serving officer could envy his record, fights won at cost to himself, but never failing to hold his men's values close to his