Honour This Day (15 page)

Bolitho's ears seemed to fasten on to a new intrusion.

He exclaimed,
“Gunfire!”

Several men jumped at the sharpness in his voice; Allday, who was still on the ladder, turned and looked towards him.

Then the signals midshipman said excitedly, “Aye, I hear it, sir!”

Haven strode to the quarterdeck rail, his head moving from side to side, still unable to hear the sound.

Jenour came running from the poop. “Where away?” He saw Bolitho and flushed. “I beg your pardon, Sir Richard!”

Bolitho shaded his eyes as the midshipman yelled, “From
Phaedra,
sir!
Sail to the nor'-west!
”

Bolitho saw men climbing into the shrouds, their discomfort forgotten. For the moment.

Jenour asked anxiously, “What does it mean, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho said, “Signal
Phaedra
to investigate.” Minutes later when the midshipman's signalling party had run the flags up the yard Bolitho replied, “Small cannon, Stephen. Swivels or the like.”

Why had he heard, when so many others around him had not?

He said, “Signal
Tetrarch
to close on the flag.”

Allday said admiringly, “God, look at 'er go!” He was watching the sloop-of-war turning away, showing her copper in the misty sunlight, as she spread more canvas and rounded fiercely until she was close-hauled on the larboard tack.

Allday added, “Like your
Sparrow,
eh, Cap'n?” He grinned awkwardly. “I
mean
Sir Richard!”

Bolitho took a telescope from the rack. “I remember. I hope young Dunstan appreciates the greatest gift as I once did.”

None of the others understood and once again Allday was moved by the privilege.

Bolitho lowered the glass. Too much spray and haze, whirling in the wind like smoke.

A privateer perhaps? Crossing swords with a Barbuda trader. Or one of the local patrols braving the wind and sea to chase an enemy corvette?
Phaedra
would soon know. It might also be a decoy to draw their flimsy defences away from the gold and silver.

He smiled bitterly. How would Haven react to that, he wondered?

“Nor'-west-by-north, sir!” The helmsman had to yell to make himself heard above the roar of wind through the canvas and rigging, pushing the sloop-of-war hard over until it was impossible to stand upright.

Commander Alfred Dunstan gripped the quarterdeck rail and tugged his cocked hat more firmly over his wild auburn hair. He had been
Phaedra
's captain for eighteen months, his first command, and with luck still on his side might soon be transferring his single epaulette to his right shoulder, the first definite step to post-rank.

He shouted, “Bring her up two points to wind'rd, Mr Meheux! God damn it, we'll not let it escape, whatever it is!”

He saw the first lieutenant exchange a quick glance with the sailing-master.
Phaedra
seemed to be sailing as close to the wind as she dared, so that her braced yards and bulging sails appeared to be almost fore-and-aft, thrusting her over, the sea boiling around her gunports and deluging the bare-backed seamen until their tanned bodies shone like crude statuary.

Dunstan strained his eyes aloft to watch every sail, and his topmen straddled out along the yards, some doubtless remembering
Obdurate
's hands who had been lost overboard in the storm.

“Full-an'-bye, sir! Nor'-west-by-west!”

The deck and rigging protested violently, the shrouds making a vibrant thrumming sound as the ship heeled over still further.

The first lieutenant, who was twenty-three, a year younger than his captain, shouted, “She'll not take much more, sir!”

Dunstan grinned excitedly. He had a sensitive, pointed face and humorous mouth, and some people had told him he looked like Nelson. Dunstan liked the compliment, but had discovered the resemblance himself long ago, even as a midshipman in Bolitho's big first-rate
Euryalus.

“A plague on your worries! What are you, an old woman?”

They laughed like schoolboys, for Meheux was the captain's cousin, and each knew almost what the other was thinking.

Dunstan tightened his lips as a line parted on the fore-top-sail yard with the echo of a pistol shot. But two men were already working out to repair it, and he replied, “We must beat up to wind'rd in case the buggers show us a clean pair of heels an' we lose them!”

Meheux did not argue; he knew him too well. The sea boiled over the gangway and flung two men, cursing and floundering, into the scuppers. One came up against a tethered cannon and did not move. He had been knocked senseless, or had broken a rib or two. He was dragged to a hatchway, the others crouching like athletes as they gauged the moment to avoid the next incoming torrent of water.

Meheux enjoyed the excitement, just as Dunstan was never happier than when he was free of the fleet's apron strings or an admiral's authority. They did not even know the meaning or source of the gunfire; they might discover that it was another British man-of-war engaged in taking an enemy blockade-runner. If so, there was no chance of sharing the prize-money this time. The other captain would see to that.

Dunstan climbed up the ratlines of the lee shrouds, the waves seeming to swoop at his legs as he hung out to train his telescope while he waited for the next cry from the masthead.

The lookout yelled, “Fine on the starboard bow, sir!” He broke off as the ship lifted then plunged deeply into a long trough, hard down until her gilded figurehead was awash, as if
Phaedra
was on her way to the bottom. The crash must have all but shaken the lookout from his precarious perch.

Then he called, “Two ships, sir! One dismasted!”

Dunstan climbed back again and grinned as he poured water from his hat. “Fine lookout, Mr Meheux! Give him a guinea!”

The first lieutenant smiled. “He's one of
my
men, sir.”

Dunstan was wiping his telescope. “Oh, good. Then you give the feller a guinea!”

There was more sporadic firing, but because of the lively sea and the drifting curtains of spray it was impossible to determine the other vessels, except from the masthead.

Phaedra
heeled upright, and the main topsail boomed and thundered violently as the wind went out of it.

“Man the braces there! Let her fall off three points!” Dunstan released his grip on the rail. The wind was dropping significantly so that the hull had to be brought under command to take advantage of it.

“Nor'-nor'-west, sir! Steady as she goes!”

Meheux gasped, “By God, there they are.”

Dunstan raised his glass again. “Hell's teeth! It's that damn schooner we were looking for!”

Meheux studied his profile, the wild hair flapping beneath the battered hat which Dunstan always wore at sea. Once, in his cups, Dunstan had confided, “I'll get meself a new hat when I'm posted, not before!”

Meheux said, “The one with the Inspector General's lady aboard?”

Dunstan grinned broadly. Meheux was a reliable and promising officer. He was a child where women were concerned.

“I can see why our vice-admiral was so concerned!”

A man yelled, “They're casting adrift, sir! They've seen us, by God!”

Dunstan's smile faded. “Stand by on deck! Starboard battery load, but don't run out!” He gripped the lieutenant's arm. “A bloody pirate if I'm any judge, Josh!”

The first lieutenant's name was Joshua. Dunstan only used it when he was really excited.

Dunstan said urgently, “We'll take him first. Put some good marksmen in the tops. She's a fancy little brigantine, worth a guinea or two, wouldn't you say?” He saw Meheux hurry away, the glint of steel as a boarding party was mustered clear of the gun crews and their rammers.

The schooner was dismasted although someone had tried to put up a jury rig. In that gale it must have been a nightmare.

Meheux came back, strapping on his favourite hanger.

“What about the others, sir?”

Dunstan trained the glass, then swore as a puff of smoke followed by a sharp bang showed that the pirate had fired on his ship.

“God blast their bloody eyes!” Dunstan raised his arms as he had seen Bolitho do when they had prepared for battle, so that his coxswain could clip on his sword. “Open the ports!
Run out!
”

He recalled what Meheux had just asked him. “If they're alive we'll take them next, if not—” He shrugged. “One thing is certain, they're not going anywhere!”

He glanced around and winced as the pirate fired again and a ball slapped down alongside. The stage was set.

Dunstan drew his sword and held it over his head. He felt the chill run down his arm, as if the blade was made of ice. He remembered crouching with another midshipman on
Euryalus
's quarterdeck, sick with terror, yet unable to tear his eyes away as the enemy's great mountain of sails had towered above the gang-way. And Bolitho standing out on the exposed deck, his sword in the air, each gun captain watching, sweating out the agonising seconds which had been like hours. Eternity.

Dunstan grinned and brought his arm down with a flourish.

“Fire!”

The small brigantine came up floundering into the wind, her foremast gone, her decks covered with torn canvas and piles of rigging. That well-aimed broadside had also shot away the helm, or killed the men around it. The vessel was out of control, and one man who ran on to the poop with a raised musket was shot down instantly by
Phaedra
's marksmen.

“
Hands aloft! Shorten sail!
Take in the main course!” Dunstan sheathed his sword and watched the other vessel reeling under
Phaedra
's lee. The fight was already over. “Stand by to board!” Some of the seamen were clambering into the shrouds, their muskets cocked and ready, while others waited like eager hounds to get to grips. It was rare to catch a pirate. Dunstan watched his first lieutenant bracing his legs to jump as the sloop-of-war sidled heavily alongside. He knew it would be a madman who put up a defence. This was what his sailors did best. They would offer no quarter if one of their own was cut down.

There was a ragged cheer as the red ensign was hoisted up the brigantine's mainmast.

Dunstan glanced at the low-lying shape of the schooner. She must be badly holed, and looked ready to capsize.

It would mean risking a boat despite the lively waves.

He called, “Mr Grant! Jolly boat, lively with you! Stand clear if the buggers fire on you!”

The boat lifted and dipped away from the side, the other lieutenant trying to stay upright as he looked towards the schooner. Once he stared astern, then gestured wildly towards
Phaedra.

Dunstan stared up and then laughed aloud, feeling some of the tension draining out of him.

Bolitho would have had something to say about that. He shouted, “Run up the Colours!” He saw Meheux clambering inboard again. “We fought under no flag, dammit!”

He saw his cousin's face and asked, “How was it, Josh?”

The lieutenant sheathed his hanger and let out a long sigh.

“One of the bastards had a go at us, slashed poor Tom Makin across the chest, but he'll live.”

They both watched as a corpse splashed down between the two hulls.

“He'll not try that again!”

Leaving the prize crew on board,
Phaedra
cast off, and under reduced canvas, edged towards the listing schooner.

Dunstan watched as the boarding party climbed across her sloping deck. Two men, obviously pirates who had been left stranded by the brigantine, charged to the attack. Lieutenant Grant shot one with his pistol; the other ducked and retreated towards the companion-way. A seaman balanced his cutlass and then flung it like a spear. In the telescope's lens everything was silent, but Dunstan swore he could hear the scream as the man tumbled headlong, the blade embedded in his back.

“I'll not go alongside. Stand by to come about! Ready on deck!”

Dunstan lowered the glass, as if what he saw was too private. The woman, her gown almost torn off her back, yet strangely proud as she allowed the sailors to guide her towards the jolly-boat. Dunstan saw her pause just once as she passed the dead pirate, shot down by Lieutenant Grant. He saw her spit on him and kick the cutlass from his hand. Hate, contempt and anger; but no sort of fear.

Dunstan looked as the first lieutenant. “Man the side, Josh. This is something we shall all remember.”

Then later, when
Phaedra
with her prize making a painful progress astern, sighted the flagship, Dunstan discovered another moment which he would never forget.