Honour This Day

'No more as a hulk. This time with honour!' He swung away from the rail. 'I am ready.'

It took another hour for Hyperion to disappear. She dipped slowly by the bows, and standing on the Spaniard's poop Bolitho heard the sea rushing through the ports, sweeping away wreckage, eager for the kill.

Even the Spanish prisoners who gathered along the bulwarks to watch were strangely silent.

Hammocks floated free of the nettings, and a corpse by the wheel rolled over as if it had been only feigning death.

Bolitho found that he was gripping his sword, pressing it against the fan in his pocket with all his strength.

They were all going with her. He held his breath as the sea rolled relentlessly aft towards the quarterdeck until only the poop, and the opposite end of the ship, his flag above the sinking masthead, marked her presence.

He remembered the words of the dying sailor.

Hyperion cleared the way, as she always had.

He said aloud, 'There'll be none better than you, old lady!'

When he looked again she had gone, and only bubbles and the scum of flotsam remained as she made her last voyage to the seabed.

Keen glanced at the stricken survivors around him and was inclined to agree.

Epilogue

Bolitho paused near the edge of the cliff and stared hard across Falmouth Bay. There was no snow on the ground, but the wind which swept the cliffs and hurled spume high above the rocks below was bitterly cold, and the low dark-bellied clouds hinted at sleet before dusk.

Bolitho felt his hair whipping in the wind, drenched with salt and rain. He had been watching a small brig beating up from the Helf ord River, but had lost sight of her in the wintry spray which blew from the sea like smoke.

It was hard to believe that tomorrow was the first day in another year, that even after returning here he was still gripped by a sense of disbelief and loss.

When Hyperion had gone down he had tried to console himself that she had not made a vain sacrifice, nor had the men who had died that day in the Mediterranean sunshine.

Had the Spanish squadron been able to join with the Combined Fleet at Cadiz, Nelson might well have been beaten into submission.

Bolitho had transferred to the frigate Tybalt for passage to Gibraltar and had left Herrick in command of the squadron, although most of the ships would need dockyard care without delay.

At the Rock he had been stunned by the news. The Combined Fleet had broken out without waiting for more support, but outnumbered or not, Nelson had won a resounding victory; in a single battle had smashed the enemy, had destroyed or captured two-thirds of their fleet, and by so doing had laid low any hope Napoleon still held of invading England.

But the battle, fought in unruly seas off Cape Trafalgar, had cost Nelson his life. Grief transmitted itself through the whole fleet, and aboard Tybalt where none of the men had ever set eyes on him, they were shocked beyond belief, as if they had known him as a friend. The battle itself was completely overshadowed by Nelson's death, and when to Bolitho eventually reached Plymouth he discovered it was the same wherever he went.

Bolitho watched the sea boil over the rocks, then tugged his cloak closer about his body.

He thought of Nelson, the man he had so wanted to meet, to walk and talk with him as sailor to sailor. How close their lives had been. Like parallel lines on a chart. He recalled seeing Nelson just once during the ill-fated attack on Toulon. It was curious to recall that he had seen Nelson only at a distance aboard the flagship; he had waved to Bolitho, a rather shabby young captain who was to change their world. Stranger still, the flagship Nelson had been visiting for orders was that same Victory, He thought also of the few letters he had received from him, and all in the last months aboard Hyperion. Written in his odd, sloping hand, self-taught after losing his right arm, There you may discover how well they fight their wars with words and paper instead of ordnance and good steel. He had never spared words for pompous authority.

And the words which had meant so much to Bolitho when he had asked for, and had been reluctantly given, Hyperion as his flagship. Give Bolitho any ship he wants. He is a sailor, not a landsman. Bolitho was glad that Adam had met him, and been known by him.

He glanced back along the winding cliff path towards Penden-nis Castle. The battlements were partly hidden by mist, like low cloud; everything was grey and threatening. He could not remember how long he had been walking or why he had come. Nor did he remember when he had ever felt so alone.

Upon returning to England he had paid a brief visit to the Admiralty with his report. No senior had been available to see him. They were all engaged in preparing for Nelson's funeral, apparently. Bolitho had ignored the obvious snub, and had been glad to leave London for Falmouth. There were no letters for him from Catherine. It was like losing her again. But Keen would see her when he joined Zenona in Hampshire.

Then I shall write to her. It was surprising how nervous it made him feel. Unsure of himself, like the first time. How would she see him after their separation?

He walked on into the wind, his boots squeaking in the sodden grass. Nelson would be buried at St Paul 's, with all the pomp and ceremony which could be arranged.

It made him bitter to think that those who would be singing hymns of praise the loudest, would be the very same who had envied and disdained him the most.

He thought of the house now hidden by the brow of the hill. He had been glad that Christmas had been over when he reached home. His moods of loneliness and loss would have cast a wet blanket over all festivities. He had seen no one, and he imagined Allday back at the house, yarning with Ferguson about the battle, adding bits here and there as he always did.

Bolitho had thought often of the battle. At least there had been no mourning in Falmouth. Only three of Hyperion's company had come from the port, and all had survived.

There had been a letter from Adam waiting for him. The one shining light to m?rk his return.

Adam was at Chatham. He had been appointed captain, in command of a new fifth-rate now completing m the Royal Dockyard there. He had got his wish. He had earned it.

He stopped again, suddenly tired, and realising he had eaten nothing since breakfast. Now it was afternoon, and darkness would soon arrive to make this path a dangerous place to walk. He turned, his cloak swirling about him like a sail.

How well his men had fought that day. The Gazette had summed it up in a few lines, overshadowed by a nation's sense of mourning. On 15th October last, some hundred miles to the East of Cartagena ships of the Mediterranean squadron under the flag of Vice-Admiral Sir Richard Bolitho KB encountered a superior Spanish force of twelve sail-of-trie-line. After a fierce engagement the enemy withdrew, leaving six prizes in British hands. God Save The King. Hyperion was not mentioned, nor the men who now lay with her in peace. Bolitho quickened his pace and almost stumbled, not from any blindness, but because of the emotion which blurred his eyes.

God damn them all, he thought. Those same hypocrites would praise the little admiral now that they no longer had to fear his honesty. But the true people would remember his name, and so would ensure that it lived forever. For Adam's new navy, and the ones which would follow.

A figure was approaching by way of the path which ran closest to the edge. He peered through the mist and rain and saw the person wore a blue cloak like his own.

In an hour, maybe less, it would be dangerous here. A stranger perhaps?

… She came towards him very slowly, her hair, as dark as his own, streaming untied in the bitter wind off the sea.

Allday must have told her. He was the only one in the house who knew about this walk. This