Honour This Day

clouds, and the sea was no longer like blue silk.

He stared at the murky horizon, at the endless serried ranks of short, steep white horses. It looked hostile and without warmth. There had been some heavy rain in the night and every available man had been roused on deck to gather it in canvas scoops, even in humble buckets. A full glass, washed down with a tot of rum for all hands, seemed to have raised their spirits.

The deck heaved over again, for Hyperion was butting as close to the wind as she dared, her reefed topsails glinting with spray as she held station on the other ships astern.

For as Isaac Penhaligon, the master, had commented, with the wind veered again to the nor'-east, it was hard enough to dawdle until Herrick's ships joined them, without the additional problem of clawing into the wind, watch in and watch out. For if they were driven too far to the west, they would find it almost impossible to steer for Toulon should the enemy try to re-enter that harbour.

Keen pictured the chart in his mind. They were already at that point right now, another cross, a new set of bearings and the noon sights. With such poor visibility they could be miles off their estimated course.

Keen walked to the quarterdeck rail and stared along the maindeck. As usual it was busy despite the weather. Trigge the sailmaker with his assistants, squatting on the deck, their needles and palms moving intricately like parts of a mill as they repaired heavy-weather canvas brought up from below.

Trigge was experienced enough to know that if they entered the Atlantic in search of the enemy, every spare sail would be needed.

Sheargold the purser, his unsmiling features set in a permanently suspicious frown, was watching as some casks of salt-beef were hoisted through another hatch. Keen did not envy anyone in that trade. Sheargold had to plan for every league sailed, each delay or sudden change of orders which might send the ship in an opposite direction without time to restock his provisions.

Hardly anybody ever felt grateful to Sheargold. It was generally believed between decks that most pursers retired rich, having won their fortunes by scrimping on the sailors' meagre rations.

Major Adams was up forward, standing at an angle on the tilting deck while he studied a squad of marines being put through their paces. How bright the the scarlet coats and white cross belts looked in the dull light, Keen thought.

He heard the boatswain, Sam Lintott, discussing the new cutter with one of his mates. The latter was the villainous-looking one named Dacie. Keen had been told of his part in the cutting-out of the Spanish treasure-ship. He could believe all that he had heard. With his eye patch, and crooked shoulder, Dacie would frighten anybody.

Lieutenant Parris approached the rail and touched his hat.

'Permission to exercise the quarterdeck guns this afternoon, sir?'

Keen nodded. 'They will not thank you, Mr Parris, but I think it a good idea.'

Parris looked out to sea. 'Shall we meet the French, sir?'

Keen glanced at him. Outwardly easy and forthcoming with the sailors, there was something else within the man, something he was grappling with, even in casual conversation. Getting his command? Keen did not know why he had lost it in the first place. He had heard about Haven's animosity towards him. Maybe there had been another superior officer with whom he had crossed swords.

He replied, 'Sir Richard is torn between the need to watch the approaches to Toulon, and the strong possibility we will be called to support the fleet.' He thought of Bolitho in the cabin, dictating letters to Yovell or his clerk, telling young Jenour what might be expected of him if they met with the enemy. Keen had already discussed the possibility with Bolitho.

Bolitho had seemed preoccupied. 'I do not have the time to call all my captains aboard. I must pray that they know me well enough to respond when I so order.'

I do not have the time. It was uncanny. Bolitho seemed to accept it, as if a battle was inevitable.

Parris said, 'I wonder if we shall see Viscount Somervell again.'

Keen stared at him. 'Why should that concern you?' He softened his tone and added, 'I would think he is better off away from us.'

Parris nodded. 'Yes, I – I'm sorry I mentioned it, sir.' He saw the doubt in Keen's eyes. 'It is nothing to do with Sir Richard's involvement.'

Keen looked away. 'I should hope not.' He was angry at Parris's interest. More so with himself for his instant rush of protectiveness. Involvement. What everybody was probably calling it.

Keen walked to the weather side and tried to empty his mind. He took a telescope from the midshipman-of- the-watch and steadied it on the ships astern.

The three seventy-fours were somehow managing to hold their positions. The fourth, Merrye's Capricious, was almost invisible in spray and blown spume. She was far astern of the others, while work was continued to replace the main topgallant mast which had carried away in a sudden squall before they could shorten sail.

He smiled. A captain's responsibility never ceased. The man who was seen by others as a kind of god, would nevertheless pace his cabin and fret about everything.

A lookout yelled, 'Deck there! Tybalt is signallin'!'

Keen looked at the midshipman. 'Up you go, Mr Furnival. Tybalt must have news for us.'

Later, Keen went down to the cabin and reported to Bolitho.

'Tybalt has the rest of the squadron in sight to the east'rd, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho glanced across his scattered papers and smiled. He looked and sounded tired.

'That is something, Val.' He gestured to a chair. 'I would ask you to join us, but you will need to be on deck until the ships are closer.'

As he left, Sir Piers Blachford said, 'A good man. I like him.' He was half-lying in one of Bolitho's chair. The heron at rest.

Yovell gathered up his letters and the notes he would add to his various copies.

Ozzard entered to collect the empty coffee cups, while Allday, standing just inside the adjoining door, was slowly polishing the magnificent presentation sword. Bolitho's gift from the people of Falmouth for his achievements in this same sea and the events which had led up to the Battle of the Nile.

Bolitho glanced up. 'Thank you, Ozzard.'

Blachford slapped one bony fist into his- palm.

'Of course. I remember now. Ozzard is an unusual name, is it not?'

Allday's polishing cloth had stilled on the blade.

Blachford nodded, remembering. 'Your secretary and all the letters he has to copy must have brought it back to me. My people once used the services of a scrivener down by the London docks. Unusual.'

Bolitho looked at the letter which he might complete when the others had left him. He would share his feelings with Catherine. Tell her of his uncertainty about what lay ahead. It was like speaking with her. Like the moments when they had lain together, and she had encouraged him to talk, had shared those parts of his life which were still a mystery to her.

He replied, 'I've never asked him about it.'

But Blachford had not heard. 'I don't know how I could have forgotten it. I was directly involved. There was the most dastardly murder done, almost opposite the scrivener's shop. How could one forget that?'

There was a crash of breaking crockery from the pantry and Bolitho half-rose from his chair.

But Allday said quickly, Til go. He must have fallen over.'

Blachford picked up a book he had been reading and remarked, 'Not surprised in this sickening motion.'

Bolitho watched him, but there was nothing on his pointed face to suggest anything other than passing interest.

Bolitho had seen Allday's expression, had almost heard his unspoken warning.

Coincidence? There had been too many of those. Bolitho examined his feelings. Do J want to know more?

He stood up. 'I am going to take my walk.'

He could feel Blachford's eyes following him as he left the cabin.