Honour This Day

It had not taken long for this strange man to alter all that. If they were honest, most of those who had taken offence at his arrival would be sorry to see him leave.

Blachford was a senior member of the College of Surgeons, one of the few who had volunteered to visit the navy's squadrons, no matter at what discomfort to themselves, to examine injuries and their treatment in the spartan and often horrific conditions of a man-of-war. He was a man of boundless energy and never seemed to tire as he was ferried from one ship to the other, to meet and reason with their surgeons, to instruct each captain on the better use of their meagre facilities for caring for the sick.

And yet he was some twenty years older than Bolitho, as thin as a ramrod, with the longest and most pointed nose Bolitho had ever seen. It was more like an instrument for his trade than part of his face. Also, he was very tall, and creeping about the different decks and peering into storerooms and sickbays must have taxed his strength and his patience, but he never complained. Bolitho would miss him. It was a rare treat to share a conversation at the end of a day with a man whose world was healing, rather than running an elusive enemy to ground.

Bolitho had received two letters from Catherine, both in the same parcel from a naval schooner.

She was safe and well in the Hampshire house which was owned by Keen's father. He was a powerful man in the City of London, and kept the country house as a retreat. He had welcomed Catherine there, just as he had Zenoria. The favour went two ways, because one of Keen's sisters was there also, her husband, a lieutenant with the Channel Fleet, having been lost at sea. A comfort, and a warning too.

He nodded to Yovell, who gathered up the papers and withdrew.

Bolitho said, 'I expect that your ship will meet with us soon. I hope we have helped in your research?'

Blachford eyed him thoughtfully. 'I am always amazed that casualties are not greater when I see the hell-holes in which they endure their suffering. It will take time to compare our findings at the College of Surgeons. It will be well spent. The recognition of wounds, the responses of the victims, a division of causes, be they gunshot or caused by thrusting or slashing blades. Immediate recognition can save time, and eventually lives. Mortification, gangrene and the terror it brings with it, each must be treated differently.'

Bolitho tried to imagine this same, reedy man with the wispy white hair in the midst of a battle. Surprisingly, it was not difficult.

He said, 'It is something we all dread.'

Blachford smiled faintly. 'That is very honest. I am afraid one tends to think of senior officers as glory-seeking men without heart.'

Bolitho smiled back. 'Both our worlds appear different from the outside. When I joined my first ship I was a boy. I had to learn that the packed, frightening world between decks was not just a mass, a mindless body. It took me a long time.' He stared at the glittering reflections that moved across one of the guns which shared the cabin, as Hyperion responded to a breath of wind. 'I am still learning.'

Through the open skylight he heard the shrill of a call, the slap of bare feet as the watch on deck responded to the order to man the braces yet again, and retrim the great yards to hold this cupful of wind. He heard Parris, too, and was reminded of a strange incident when one of the infrequent Levantine gales had swept down on them from the east, throwing the ship into confusion.

A man had gone overboard, probably like Keen's sister's husband, and while the ship forged away with the gale, the sailor had floundered astern, waiting to perish. For no ship could be brought about in such a blow without the real risk of dismasting her. Some captains would not even have considered it.

Keen had been on deck and had yelled for the quarter-boat to be cast adrift. The man overboard could obviously swim; there was a chance he might be able to reach the boat. There were also some captains who would have denied even that, saying that any boat was worth far more than a common seaman who might die anyway.

But Parris had shinned down to the boat with a handful of volunteers. The next morning the wind had backed and dropped, its amusement at their efforts postponed. They had recovered the boat, and the half-drowned seaman.

Parris had been sick with pain from his wounded shoulder, and Blachford had examined it afresh, and had done all he could. Bolitho had seen respect on Keen's face, just as he had recorded Parris's fanatical determination to prove himself. Because of him, there was one family in Portsmouth who would not grieve just yet. Blachford must also have been thinking of it, as well as all the other small incidents which when moulded into one hull made a fighting ship.

He remarked, 'That was a brave thing your lieutenant did. Not many would even attempt it. It can be no help to see your own ship being carried further and further away until you are quite alone.'

Bolitho called for Ozzard. 'Some wine?' He smiled. 'You are only unpopular aboard this ship if you ask for water!'

The joke hid the truth. They had to divide the squadron soon. If they did not water the ships… He shut it from his mind as Ozzard entered the cabin.

And all the time he felt Blachford watching him. He had only once touched on the subject of his eye, but had dropped the matter when Bolitho had made light of it.

Blachford said abruptly, 'You must do something about your eye. I have a fine colleague who will be pleased to examine it if I ask him.'

Bolitho watched Ozzard as he poured the wine. There was nothing on the little man's face to show he was listening to every word.

Bolitho spread his hands. 'What can I do? Leave the squadron when at any moment the enemy may break out?'

Blachford was unmoved. 'You have a second-in-command. Are you afraid to delegate? I did hear that you took the treasure galleon because you would not risk another in your place.'

Bolitho smiled. 'Perhaps I did not care about the risk.'

Blachford sipped his wine but his eyes remained on Bolitho. Bolitho was reminded of a watchful heron in the reeds at Falmouth. Waiting to strike.

'But that has changed?' The heron blinked at him.

'You are playing games with me.'

'Not really. To cure the sick is one thing. To understand the leaders who decide if a man shall live or die is another essential part of my studies.'

Bolitho stood up and moved restlessly about the cabin. 'I am the cat on the wrong side of every door. When I am at home I fret about my ships and my sailors. Once here and I yearn for just a sight of England, the feel of grass underfoot, the smell of the land.'

Blachford said quietly, 'Think about it. A raging gale like the one I shared with you, the sting of salt spray and the constant demands of duty are no place for what you need.' He made up his mind. 'I tell you this. If you do not heed my warning you will lose all sight in that eye.'

Bolitho looked down at him and smiled sadly. 'And if I hand over my flag? Can you be sure the eye will be saved?'

Blachford shrugged. 'I am certain of nothing, but -'

Bolitho touched his shoulder. 'Aye, the but; it is always there. No, I cannot leave. Call me what you will, but I am needed here.' He waved his hand towards the water. 'Hundreds of men are depending on me, just as their sons will probably depend on your eventual findings, eh?'

Blachford sighed. 'I call you stubborn.'

Bolitho said. 'lam not ready for the surgeon's wings-and-limbs tub just yet, and I do not yearn for glory as some will proclaim.'

'At least think about it.' Blachford waited and added gently, 'You have another to consider now.'

Bolitho looked up as a far-off voice cried out, 'Deck there! Sail on the lee bow!'

Bolitho laughed. 'With luck that will be your passage to England. I fear I am no match for your devious ways.'

Blachford stood up and ducked his head between the massive beams. 'I never thought it, but I'll be sorry to go.' He looked at Bolitho curiously. 'How can you know that from a masthead's call?'

Bolitho grinned. 'No other ship would dare come near us!'

Later, as the newcomer drew closer, the officer-of-the-watch reported to Keen that she was the brig Firefly. The vessel which, like the old Superb in Nelson's