Honour This Day (11 page)

Bolitho let the hanger drop to his side and found that he had thrust his other hand inside his shirt. He could feel his heart pounding beneath the hot, damp skin, and yet his whole being felt cold; raw like steel.

“And there she lies!” He had seen the mastheads of the great ship below the fortress. She could be nothing else but Somervell's galleon. But instead of Somervell he saw Catherine's eyes watching him. Proud and captivating. Distant.

To tear himself from the mood he slowly raised his left arm, until the early sunlight spilled down the hanger as if he had dipped it into molten gold.

The sea noises intruded from every side. Wind and spray, the lively clatter of rigging and shrouds while the deck tilted to the change of tack.

Bolitho called, “Look yonder, my lads! A reckoning indeed!”

But nobody spoke, for only
Hyperion
's ghosts understood.

7 PERHAPS THE GREATEST
V
ICTORY

B
OLITHO
held up the folded chart and strained his eyes in the faint sunlight. He would have wished to take more time to study it in the security of the schooner's tiny cabin, but every second was precious. It was all happening so swiftly, and when he glanced up again from the tilting compass-box he saw the grand road-stead opening up like some vast amphitheatre. More anchored shipping, the distance making them appear to be huddled together near the central fortress, then the coast itself, with white houses and the beginning of the twisting road which eventually led inland. Each mountain was brushed with sunshine, their blue-grey masses overlapping and reaching away, until they faded into mist and merged with the sky.

He stared for several seconds at the big Spanish ship. In size she matched
Hyperion.
It must have taken a month or more to load her with the gold and silver which had been brought overland on pack-mules and in wagons, guarded every mile of the way by soldiers.

At any minute now Lieutenant Dalmaine would open fire on the battery, before the sunlight reached out and betrayed
Thor
at her anchorage.

He tore his eyes away to look along the schooner's deck. Most of the
Spica
's crew were sitting with their backs against the weather bulwark, their eyes fixed on the British seamen. No wonder they had offered no resistance. By contrast with the neat shirts of the Swedes,
Hyperion
's men looked like pirates. He saw Dacie the boatswain's mate, his head twisted at an angle so that he could watch his men and the
Spica
's master at the same time. Dacie wore an eye patch to cover an empty socket; it gave him a villainous appearance. Parris had every right to have such confidence in him. Near the helm, Skilton, one of
Hyperion
's master's mates, in his familiar coat with the white piping, was the only one who showed any sort of uniformity.

Even Jenour had followed his admiral's example and had discarded his hat and coat. He was carrying a sword which his parents had given him, with a fine blue blade of German steel.

Bolitho tried to relax as he studied the big Spanish ship. It was a far cry from that quiet room at the Admiralty when this plan had been discussed with all the delicacy of a conference at Lloyds.

He looked at Parris, his shirt open to the waist, his dark hair streaming above his eyes in the lively offshore breeze. Was Haven right to suspect him, he wondered? It certainly made sense that any woman might prefer him to his colourless captain.

A gull dived above the topsail yard, its mewing cry merging with the far-off blare of a trumpet. Ashore or at anchor, men were stirring, cooks groping for their pots and pans.

Parris stared at him across the deck and grinned. “Rude awakening, Sir Richard!”

The crash when it came was still a surprise. It was like a double thunderclap which echoed across the water and then rolled back from the land like a returned salute.

Bolitho caught a sudden picture of Francis Inch when he had been given his first command of a bomb like Imrie's. He could almost hear his voice, as with his horse-face set in a frown of concentration he had walked past his mortars, gauging the bearing and each fall of shot.

“Run the mortar up! Muzzle to the right! Prime! Fire!”

As if responding to the memory both mortars fired again. But it was not Inch. He was gone, with so many others.

The double explosions sighed against the hull, and Bolitho tightened his grip on the hanger as flags broke from the big Spaniard's yards. They were awake now, right enough.

“Make the recognition signal, Mr Hazlewood!”

The two flags soared aloft and broke stiffly to the wind. All they needed now was for it to drop and leave them helpless and becalmed.

Parris yelled, “Jump about, you laggards! Wave your arms and point astern, damn your eyes!” He laughed wildly as some of the seamen capered around the deck.

Bolitho waved. “Good work! We are supposed to be running from the din of war, eh?”

He snatched up a glass and levelled it towards the anchored ship. Beyond her, about half a cable distant, was a second vessel. Smaller than the one named
Ciudad de Sevilla
but probably carrying enough booty to finance an army for months.

Parris called, “She's got boarding nets rigged, Sir Richard!” He nodded. “Alter course to cross her bows!” It would appear that they were heading towards the nearest fortress for protection.

“Helm a-lee, sir!”

“Steady as she goes, nor'-east-by-east!”

Bolitho gripped a stay and watched the sails flapping and banging as the schooner lurched close to the wind; but she answered well. He winced as the mortars fired yet again, and still the shore battery remained silent. It seemed likely that the first shots had done their work, the massive balls falling to explode in a lethal flail of iron fragments and grape.

Astern there was a lot of smoke, haze too, so that the shallows where they had felt their way into the anchorage had completely vanished. It might delay
Thor
's entrance, but at least she would be safe from the battery.

He said, “Keep those other hands out of sight, Mr Parris!”

He saw Jenour watching him, remembering everything and perhaps feeling fear for the first time.

A man yelled, “
Guardboat,
starboard bow, sir!”

Bolitho trained his glass and watched the dark shape thrusting around the counter of an anchored merchantman.

Just minutes earlier each man would have been thinking of his bed. Then some wine perhaps in the sunshine before the heat drove them all to their siesta.

He saw the oars, painted bright red, pulling and backing to bring the long hull round in a tight turn.

And far beyond he could make out the shape of a Spanish frigate, her masts like bare poles while she completed a refit, or like the
Obdurate,
repairs after a violent Caribbean storm.

“Two points to starboard, Mr Parris!” Bolitho tried to steady the glass as the deck tilted yet again. He could hear more trumpet calls, most likely from the new fortress, and could imagine the startled artillerymen running to their stations, still unaware of what was happening.

Explosions maybe, but there was nothing untoward immediately obvious, except for the appearance of the Swedish schooner which was, reasonably, running for shelter. No enemy fleet, no cutting-out raid, and in any case the other fortresses would have taken care of such daring stupidity.

Bolitho watched the jib-boom swinging round until it seemed to impale the treasure-ship's forecastle, although she still stood a cable away. The guardboat was pulling towards them unhurriedly, an officer rising now to peer towards the smoke and haze.

Bolitho said, “Pass the word. The guardboat will stand between us. Make it appear we are shortening sail.”

Jenour stared at him. “
Will
we, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho smiled. “I think not.”

A sudden gust filled the topsail and a line parted high above the deck like a pistol shot.

Dacie, the formidable boatswain's mate, jabbed a seaman with his fist. “Aloft with ye, boy! See to it!”

It took just a second and yet as Dacie peered aloft, the Swedish master sprang forward and seized a musket from one of the crouching sailors. He pointed it above the bulwark and fired towards the guardboat. Bolitho saw the musket smoke fan away even as the master hit the deck, felled by one of the boarding party.

The guardboat was frantically backing water, her blades churning the sea into a mass of foam. There was no time left.

Bolitho shouted, “Run her down!
Lively!
” He forgot the shouts, even the crack of a solitary musket as the schooner tacked round and drove into the guardboat like a Trojan galley.

It felt like hitting a rock, and Bolitho saw oars and pieces of planking surging alongside, men floundering, their cries lost in the rising wind and the boom of canvas.

The treasure-ship seemed to tower above them, individual figures which moments earlier had been staring transfixed towards the explosions, running along the gangways, others pointing and gesticulating as the schooner charged towards them.

“Stand by to board!”
Bolitho gripped the hanger and tightened the lanyard around his wrist. He had forgotten the danger, even the fear of his eye's treachery, as the last half-cable fell away.

“Down helm! Take in the tops'l!”

Shots whimpered overhead and one gouged a tall splinter from the deck like a clerk's quill.

“Hold your fire!” Parris strode forward, his eyes narrowed against the glare while he watched his men, as they hunched down close to the point of impact.

Bolitho saw the sagging boarding nets, faces peering through them at the schooner, one solitary figure reloading a musket, his leg wrapped around the foremast shrouds.

Halfway down the Spaniard's side a port-lid rose like an awakened man opening one eye.

Then he saw the gun muzzle lumber into view, and seconds later the livid orange tongue, followed by the savage bang of an explosion. It was a wild gesture and nothing more; the ball eventually hit open water like an enraged dolphin.

As the last of the sails were freed to the wind, the
Spica
's jib boom plunged through the Spaniard's larboard rigging and shivered to splinters. Broken cordage and blocks showered down on the forecastle before both ships jarred finally together with a terrible crash.
Spica
's foretopmast fell like a severed branch, but men ran amongst torn canvas and snakes of useless rigging, oblivious to everything but the need to board the enemy.

“Swivels!”
Bolitho dragged the midshipman aside as the nearest swivel jerked back on its mounting and blasted the packed canister across the other ship's beakhead. Men fell kicking into the sea, their screams lost as Parris signalled the six-pounders to add their weight to the attack.

Allday ran, panting at Bolitho's side as he leapt on to the bulwark, the hanger dangling from his wrist. To board her from aft would have been impossible; her high stern, a mass of gilded carving, rose above her reflection like an ornate cliff.

The forecastle was different. Men clambered across the beakhead, hacking aside resistance, while others slashed and cut their way through the nets.

A pike darted through a net like a serpent's tongue and one of Parris's men fell back, clutching his stomach, his eyes horrified as he dropped into the water below.

Another turned to stare after him then gurgled as a pike thrust into him, withdrew and struck again, the point taking him in the throat and reappearing through his neck.

But Dacie and some of the seamen were on deck, pausing to fire into the defenders before slashing aside the remaining nets. Bolitho felt someone seize his wrist and haul him through a hole in the netting. Another toppled against him, his eyes glazing as a ball smashed into his chest like the blow of a hammer.

“To me, Hyperions!” Parris waved his hanger and Bolitho saw it was running with blood.
“Starboard gangway!”

Shots banged and whimpered over their heads, and two more men fell writhing and gasping, their agony marked by the stains across the planking.

Bolitho stared round wildly as some swivels blasted the Spaniard's high poop, cutting down a handful of men who had appeared there as if by magic. Mere seconds, and yet his mind recorded that they were only partly dressed or stark naked; probably some of the ship's officers roused from their sleep by the sudden attack.

Parris's men were on the starboard gangway, where another swivel was seized and depressed towards an open hatch as more faces peered up at them.

The remainder of Parris's boarders were already leaving the little schooner, and Bolitho heard the thud of axes as the Swedes took the opportunity to hack their vessel clear of the treasure-ship, complete with
Hyperion
's longboats.

Dacie brandished his boarding axe. “At 'em, you buggers!”

Every man Jack would know now that there was no retreat. It was victory or death. They would receive no quarter from the Spaniards after what they had done.

Bolitho paused on the gangway, his eyes watering from drifting smoke as the scrambling seamen spread out into purposeful patterns. Two to the big double-wheel below the poop, others already swarming aloft to loose the topsails while Dacie rushed forward to cut the huge anchor cable.

Shots cracked from hatchways to be answered instantly by reloaded swivels, the packed canister smashing into the men crammed on the companion ladders and turning them into flailing, bloody gruel. One Spaniard appeared from nowhere, his sword cutting down a seaman who crouched on all fours, already badly wounded from the first encounter.

Bolitho saw the little midshipman, Hazlewood, staring at the wild-eyed sailor, his dirk gripped in one hand while the Spaniard charged towards him.