Honour This Day

shredding through the shrouds and stays, laying bare the water on either beam.

The naked seaman threw back his head and stared, half-blinded, at the sails above, his wrists and ankles rubbed raw by the irons.

'Stand by on the quarterdeck!' Sinclair glared. 'Ready with our number. I don't want to be mistaken for a Frenchie!'

Wright had to admit it was a wise precaution. Another ship new to the station might easily recognise La Mouette as French-built. Act first, think later, was the rule in sea warfare.

The lookout called, 'She's a frigate, sir! Runnin' with the wind!'

Sinclair grunted, 'Converging tack.' He peered up to seek out the masthead pendant, but it was still hidden above a last banner of mist. Then like a curtain rising the sea became bright and clear, and Sinclair gestured as the other ship seemed to rise from the water itself.

She was a big frigate, and Sinclair glanced above at the gaff to make certain his own ensign was clearly displayed.

'She's hoisting a signal, sir!'

Sinclair watched as La Mouette's number broke from the yard.

'You see, Mr Wright, if you train the people to respond as they should -'

His words were lost as somebody yelled, 'Christ! She's runnin' out!'

All down the other frigate's side the gunports had opened as one, and now, shining in the bright sunshine, her whole larboard battery trundled into view.

Wright ran to the rail and shouted, 'Belay that! Beat to quarters!'

Then the world exploded into a shrieking din of flame and whirling splinters. Men and pieces of men painted the deck in vivid scarlet patterns. But Wright was on his knees, and some of the screams he knew were his own.

His reeling mind held on to the horrific picture for only seconds. The naked man tied to the gun, but no longer complaining. He had no head. The foremast going over the side, the signals midshipman rolling and whimpering like a sick dog.

The picture froze and faded. He was dead.

Commander Alfred Dunstan sat cross-legged at the table in Phaedra's cramped cabin and studied the chart in silence.

Opposite him, his first lieutenant Joshua Meheux waited for a decision, his ear pitched to the creak and clatter of rigging. Astern through the open windows he could see the thick mist following the sloop-of-war, heard the second lieutenant calling another change of masthead lookouts. In any fog or mist even the best lookout was subject to false sightings. After an hour or so he would see only what he expected to see. A darker patch of fog would become a lee shore, or the topsail of another vessel about to collide. He watched his cousin. It was incredible how Dunstan was able to make his ship's company understand exactly what he needed from them.

He glanced round the small cabin, where they had had so many discussions, made plans, celebrated battles and birthdays with equal enthusiasm. He looked at the great tubs of oranges and lemons which filled most of the available space. Phaedra had run down on a Genoese trader just before the sea-mist had enveloped them.

They were short of water, desperately so, but the mass of fresh fruit which Dunstan had commandeered, as he had put it, had tilted the balance for the moment.

Dunstan glanced up from the chart and smiled. 'Smells like Bridport on market day, don't it?'

His shirt was crumpled and stained, but better that than have the ship's company believe that water rationing did not apply to the officers as well.

Dunstan tapped the chart with his dividers. 'Another day, and I shall have to come about. We are sorely needed with the squadron. Besides, Captain Sinclair will have an alternative rendezvous. But for this mist, I'd wager we would have sighted his ship days ago.'

Meheux asked, 'Do you know him?'

Dunstan lowered his head to peer more closely at his calculations. 'I know o’him.'

The lieutenant smiled to himself. Dunstan was in command. He would go no further in discussing another captain. Even with his cousin.

Dunstan leaned back and ruffled his wild auburn hair. 'God, I itch like a poxed-up whore¹' He grinned. 'I think Sir Richard intends to join the fleet under Nelson. Though he will take all the blame if the French outpace him and slip back into port in these waters.'

He reached under the table and then produced a decanter of claret. 'Better than water anyway.' He poured two large glasses. Til bet that our vice-admiral will be in enough hot water as it is! God damn it, any man who can accept the wrath of Admiralty and that of the dandified Inspector General must be made of stern stuff.'

'What was he like as a captain?'

Dunstan looked at him, his eyes distant. 'Brave, courteous. No conceit.'

'You liked him''

Dunstan swallowed the claret; the casual question had slipped through his guard.

'I worshipped the deck he walked on. All of us in the gunroom did, I believe.' He shook his head. 'I'd stand beside him any day.'

There was a tap at the door and a midshipman, dressed in an even grubbier shirt than his captain's, peered in at them.

The second lieutenant's respects, sir, and he thinks the mist may be clearing.'

They looked up as the deck quivered very slightly, and the hull murmured a gentle protest at being disturbed again.

'By God, the wind is returning.' Dunstan's eyes gleamed. 'My compliments to the second lieutenant, Mr Valliant. I shall come up presently.' As the boy left he winked at Meheux. 'With a name like his he should go far in the navy!'

Dunstan held up the decanter and grimaced. It was almost empty.

He remarked, 'It will be a drier ship than usual, I fear.' Then he became serious again. 'Now this is what I intend -'

Meheux stared at the decanter as the glass stopper rattled for several seconds.

Their eyes met. Meheux said, 'Thunder?'

Dunstan was groping for his shabby hat. 'Not this time, by God. That came from iron guns, my friend!'

He slipped his arms into his coat and climbed up the companion ladder to the deck.

He glanced through the drifting mist, seeing his seamen standing and listening. Such a small vessel, yet so many men, he thought vaguely. He tensed as the booming roar sighed through the mist and imagined he could feel the sullen vibration against the hull. Faces had turned aft towards him. Instantly he remembered Bolitho, when they had all stared at him as if expecting salvation and understanding, because he had been their captain.

Dunstan tucked one hand into his old seagoing coat with the tarnished buttons. I am ready. Now they look to me.

Meheux was the first to speak.

'Shall we stand away until we are sure what is happening, sir?'

He did not reply directly. 'Call all hands. Have the people lay aft.'

They came running to the pipe, and when they were all packed from side to side, with some clinging to the mizzen shrouds and on the upturned cutter, Meheux touched his hat, his eyes curious.

'Lower deck cleared, sir.'

Dunstan said, 'In a moment we shall clear for action. No fuss, no beat of a drum. Not this time. You will go to quarters in the manner you have learned so well.' He looked at those nearest him, youngsters like their officers, grizzled old hands such as the boatswain and the carpenter. Faces he had taught himself to know and recognise, so that he could call any one of them by name even in pitch darkness. At any other time the thought would have made him smile. For it was often said that his hero Nelson had the same knack of knowing his people, even now that he had reached flag rank.

But he did not smile. 'Listen!' The booming roar echoed through the mist. Each man would hear it differently. Ships at war, or the sound of enraged surf on a reef. Thunder across the hills in a home land which had produced most of these men.

'I intend to continue on this tack.' His eyes moved over them. 'One of those ships must be a friend. We shall