Honour This Day (19 page)

Boats were already being swayed out, the excitement of seeing the great harbour after weeks at sea contained and suppressed by leather-lunged boatswain's mates and petty officers.

“Gig approaching, sir!”

Bolitho saw the small boat rising and dipping smartly across the slight swell. Their first encounter.

“I shall go aft, Mr Jenour.” He spoke formally in front of Haven. “As soon as—”

He turned as the quartermaster yelled the age-old challenge.

“Boat ahoy?”

The answer came back from the gig.
“Firefly!”

Jenour said, “Someone's captain coming to see us already, Sir Richard.” Then he saw Bolitho's eyes, his look of relief and something more.

Bolitho said, “I shall greet
Firefly
's captain myself.”

The young commander almost bounded up
Hyperion
's tumblehome. Those who did not know stared with astonishment as their admiral threw his arms about the youthful officer who at first glance could have been his brother.

Bolitho held him and shook his shoulders gently. “Adam. Of all people.”

Commander Adam Bolitho of the brig
Firefly
grinned with delight, his teeth very white in his sunburned face.

All he could say was, “Well, Uncle!”

Bolitho stood in the centre of his cabin, while Yovell and Jenour sorted through a bag of despatches and letters which Adam had brought from the shore.

Adam said, “It was amazing bad luck, Uncle. The Frogs put to sea under Admiral Villeneuve, and Our Nel went looking for them. But while the little admiral was searching around Malta and Alexandria, Villeneuve slipped through the Strait and into the Atlantic. In God's name, Uncle, had your orders been sent earlier you might have met up with 'em! Thank the high heavens you did not!”

Bolitho smiled quietly. Adam spoke with the ease and confidence of a seasoned old campaigner, and he was twenty-four years old; twenty-five in two months' time.

Adam said, “This old ship, Uncle. Look at us now, eh?”

Bolitho nodded as Yovell placed an official Admiralty envelope before him. Adam had joined
Hyperion
as his first ship, a thin, pale youth, but with all the determination and wildness of a young colt.

Indeed, he thought. Look at us now.

So the French had put to sea at last. Past Gibraltar and across the Atlantic with Nelson eventually in hot pursuit. Villeneuve had apparently sailed westward, though for what purpose nobody seemed quite sure. Bolitho read swiftly, aware of Adam watching him. Wanting to talk with him more than anything, but needing to know what was happening; it might affect them all.

Bolitho handed the letter to Yovell and said, “So the French are on the move. Is it a trick or are they out to divide our forces?”

Adam was right. Had he been ordered to leave Antigua earlier they might well have met up with the enemy. Five third-rates against one of the finest fleets in the world. The outcome would have been in no doubt. But at least they might have delayed Villeneuve until Nelson caught up with them. He smiled.
Our Nel
indeed.

Bolitho took the next letter, already opened by Jenour, who had barely taken his eyes off the young commander since he had stepped aboard. A part of the Bolitho story he did not yet share.

Bolitho said softly, “Hell's teeth. I am to relieve Thomas Herrick at Malta.” He examined his feelings. He should be happy to see the man who was his best friend. After the court of enquiry into Valentine Keen's behaviour, when only Bolitho's word had prevented a court-martial, he was not so certain. Deep in his heart Bolitho knew Herrick had been in the right.
Would I have twisted the rules in his place?
The question had never been answered.

Adam eyed him gravely. “But first you sail for England, Uncle.” He forced a grin. “With me.”

Bolitho took the envelope from him and slit it open. It was strange that of all his people who were dear to him, only Adam had ever met the famous Nelson, had carried more despatches from him in his brig
Firefly
than anybody.

The new squadron would rest and take on victuals at Gibraltar. Nelson had written in his strange sloping hand, “Doubtless the care and attention of English Harbour will have left much to complain on!” Was there anything he did not know about?

Bolitho was to be released from his command for a brief visit to their Lordships of Admiralty. The letter ended with the barb Nelson so enjoyed. “There you may discover how well they fight their wars with words and paper instead of ordnance and good steel. . . .”

It was true that the squadron could do with fresh victualling and some spare spars. The blockade was likely to be a lengthy one. The French must return to port, if only to await reinforcements from their Spanish ally. One of which would likely be the
Intrépido.

Bolitho glanced at the pile of charts on a nearby table. The vastness of a great ocean which could hide or swallow a fleet with ease. Thank God Catherine had written her letter from England, otherwise he would have been fretting that she had been taken by the enemy.

He looked at Adam and saw the sudden apprehension in his eyes.

Bolitho said to the others, “Please leave us a while.” He touched Jenour's arm. “Delve through the rest of the pile, Stephen. I am afraid I have come to rely too much on you.”

The door closed behind them and Adam said quietly, “That was kindly done, Uncle. The flag lieutenant is another one caught in your spell.”

Bolitho asked, “What is wrong?”

Adam stood up and crossed to the stern windows. How like his father, Bolitho thought. Hugh would have been proud of him this day, to see him in command of his own ship.

“I know you hate deceit, Uncle.”

“So?”

“I once fought a stupid duel over yonder.”

“I've not forgotten, Adam.”

He shifted his feet on the checkered canvas deck. “Is it true what they're saying?”

“I expect so. Some of it anyway.”

Adam turned, his hair shining in the sunlight. “Is it what you want?”

Bolitho nodded. “I will see that no harm is done to you, Adam. You have been hurt enough, if not by your family then because of it.”

Adam's chin lifted. “I shall be all right, Uncle. Lord Nelson said to me that England needs all her sons now—”

Bolitho stared. His father had said those same words when he had given him the old sword, which should have been Hugh's but for his disgrace. It was uncanny.

Adam continued, “If one man can love another, then you have mine, Uncle. You know that already, but you may wish to remember it when others turn against you, which they will. I do not know the lady, but then I do not really know the Lady Belinda.” He looked down, embarrassed. “In God's name, I am out of my depth!”

Bolitho walked to the windows and stared hard at the nearest ship's motionless reflection.

“She has my heart, Adam. With her I am a man again. Without her I am like a ship denied sails.”

Adam faced him. “I believe this call to London is for you to settle matters. To clear the air.”

“By denying the truth?”

“It is what I think, Uncle.”

He smiled sadly. “So wise a head on so young a pair of shoulders.”

Adam shrugged, and appeared suddenly vulnerable. Like the fourteen-year-old midshipman who had once walked all the way from his home in Penzance to join Bolitho's
Hyperion
after the death of his mother. A whore she might have been, but she had tried to care for the boy. And Hugh had known nothing about it, not until it was all too late.

Adam said, “At least we will keep one another company. I have more despatches from Lord Nelson.” He eyed him steadily. “I am to carry you back to the squadron when your affairs in London are settled.”

Who had decided that, Bolitho wondered? Nelson himself, getting his own back on those who despised his infatuation with Emma Hamilton, and showing them he had a kindred spirit? Or someone more highly placed, who would use family unity to make him change his mind? He could still not accept that he was going to see Catherine again so soon. Even the news of a temporary French breakout seemed unimportant by comparison.

He recalled the others to the cabin and said, “I shall require you to remain here in my absence, Stephen.” He shook his head to cool down the protests and added, “I need you in
Hyperion;
do you know what I am saying?”

He saw understanding clearing the disappointment from the lieutenant's eyes.

Bolitho said, “An ally, if you like, someone who will send me word if anything untoward happens.”

He looked at Yovell. “Help the flag lieutenant all you can.” He forced a smile. “A rock in stormy seas, eh?”

Yovell did not smile. “I'm worried about
you,
Sir Richard.”

Bolitho looked at them. “Good friends, all of you. But just now and then I have to act alone.”

He thought suddenly of the livid scar on Somervell's neck. Was that what was intended to settle the matter? A duel?

He dismissed the idea immediately. Somervell was too anxious to please the King. No, it was to be a skirmish of a different kind.

He said, “I shall take Allday with me.”

Adam clapped one hand over his hair and exclaimed, “I am an idiot! I completely forgot it!” He pointed vaguely through the windows. “I have taken young Bankart as my own coxswain! He marched aboard
Firefly
at Plymouth when I called there for orders.”

“That was good of you, Adam.”

He grinned but it did not reach his eyes. “Only right that one bastard should help another!”

The little brig
Firefly
weighed and put to sea the following day. It was a rush from the moment Bolitho had read the despatches, and he barely had time to summon his captains and to tell them to use the next weeks to supply and refurbish their ships.

Haven had listened to the instructions without any show of surprise or excitement. Bolitho had impressed on him more than any other, that as flag captain it was his obliged duty to watch over the squadron, and not merely the affairs of his own command. He had also made it very clear that no matter what impressive plan Captain McKee of the frigate
Tybalt
should put forward as an excuse to steal away and regain his independence, it was to be denied.
I need that frigate as much, if not more than I need him.

After
Hyperion
's cabin, the brig's quarters seemed like a cupboard. Only beneath the skylight could Bolitho stand upright, and he knew that the ship's company had to exist in some parts where the deckhead was only four feet six inches high.

But the vessel seemed as lively inboard as out, and Bolitho quickly noticed that there was a very relaxed feeling between afterguard and forecastle, and was secretly proud of what his nephew had done.

He was disturbed by the fact there had been no more news from Catherine and had told himself she was trying to keep up normal appearances until the gossip died, or was transferred to another. But it worried him nevertheless, especially after reading the one letter which had been sent by Belinda.

It was a cool, and what his mother would have called a
sensible
letter. She referred only briefly to the infatuation with
this woman,
something which could be forgiven if not understood. Nothing would be allowed to stand between them.
I shall not tolerate it.
Had she written in anger he might have felt less troubled. Perhaps she had already met Catherine at one of the receptions which attracted Belinda so much. But that also seemed unlikely.

Once into the Western Ocean
Firefly
began to live up to her name. Adam kept her standing well out and away from land as day by day they beat their way around the southern shores of Portugal, then north towards the Bay of Biscay. When he asked Adam why he was standing so far out from land he explained with an awkward grin that it was to avoid the weatherbeaten ships of the blockading squadrons. “If any captain sees
Firefly
he'll make a signal for me to heave-to so that he can pass over mail for England! This time, I do not have an hour to waste!”

Bolitho found time to pity the men of the blockading squadrons. Week in and week out they tacked up and down in all weathers, while the enemy rested safely in harbour and watched their every move. It was the most hated duty of all, as
Hyperion
's newer hands would soon appreciate.

The passage of twelve hundred miles from Gibraltar to Portsmouth was one of the liveliest Bolitho could recall. He spent much of the time on deck with Adam, shouting to each other above the roar of spray and wind as the brig spread her canvas to such a degree that Bolitho wondered why the sticks were not torn out of her.