Honour This Day (9 page)

Bolitho knew that if he sent another officer and the plan misfired, the blame would be laid at his door anyway.

They had to trust him. In his heart Bolitho knew that the next months were crucial for England, and for the fleet in particular. Leadership and trust went hand in hand. To most of his command he was a stranger and their trust had to be earned.

He considered his argument with sudden contempt.
Death-wish.
Was that a part of it too?

He concentrated on the brig's sturdy shape as she ducked and rose across steep waves. In his mind's eye he could already see the land as it would appear when they drew nearer. The anchorage at La Guaira consisted mainly of an open roadstead across the front of the town. It was known to be heavily defended by several fortresses, some of which were quite newly constructed because of the comings and goings of treasure-ships. Although La Guaira was just six miles or so from the capital, Caracas, the latter could only be reached by a twisting, mountainous road some four times that distance.

As soon as
Hyperion
and her consorts were sighted the Spanish authorities would send word to the capital with all the haste they could manage. Because of the time it would take on that precarious road, La Guaira might just as well be an island, he thought. All the intelligence they had been able to gather from traders and blockade-runners alike pointed to the captured frigate
Consort
being at Puerto Cabello, eighty miles further westward along the coast of the Main.

But suppose the enemy did not fall for the ruse, would not believe that the British men-of-war were intending to cut out the new addition to their fleet?

So much depended on Price's maps and observations, and above all, luck.

He looked down at the deck far below and bit his lip. He knew he would never have sent a subordinate to carry out such a mission even nine years back when he had commanded the old
Hyperion.
He glanced at the marines. “There's work for all of you soon, my lads.”

He swung himself down on to the futtock shrouds, more conscious of their faces split into huge grins than of the wind which flapped around his coat as if to fling him to the deck.
It was so easy.
A word, a smile, and they would die for you. It made him feel bitter and humble at the same time.

By the time he had reached the quarterdeck his mind had cleared. “Very well. In one hour we shall alter course to the sou'-west.” He saw the others nod. “Have
Upholder
and
Tetrarch
tack closer to the land. I don't want the Dons to get near enough to see our strength.” He saw Penhaligon the sailing-master give a wry smile and added, “Or our lack of it.
Thor
will hold to wind-ward of us in company with
Vesta.
Let me know when it is light enough to make signals.” He turned towards the poop and then paused. “Captain Haven, a moment if you please.”

In the great cabin the strengthening sunlight made strange patterns on the caked salt which had spattered the stern windows. Most of the ship had been cleared for action before dawn. Bolitho's quarters were like a reminder of better times, until these screens were taken down, and the cabin furniture with all traces of his occupation here were taken to the security of the hold. He glanced at the black-barrelled nine-pounders which faced their closed ports on either side of the cabin. Then these two beauties would have the place to themselves.

Haven waited for Ozzard to close the screen door and withdraw, then stood with his feet apart, his hat balanced in both hands.

Bolitho looked at the sea beyond the smeared glass. “I intend to shift to
Thor
at dusk. You will take
Hyperion
with
Vesta
and
Tetrarch
in company. By first light tomorrow you should be in sight of Puerto Cabello and the enemy will be convinced that you intend to attack. They will not know your full strength—we have been lucky in reaching this far undetected.” He turned in time to see the captain gripping his hat so fiercely that it buckled in his fingers. He had expected an outburst or perhaps the outline of an alternative strategy. Haven said nothing, but stared at him as if he had misheard.

Bolitho continued quietly, “There is no other way. If we are to capture or destroy a treasure-ship it must be done at anchor. We have too few ships for an extended search if she slips past us.”

Haven swallowed hard. “But to go
yourself,
sir? In my experience I have never known such a thing.”

“With God's help and a little luck, Captain Haven, I should be in position in the shallows to the west of La Guaira at the very moment you are making your mock attack.” He faced him steadily. “Do not risk your ships. If a large enemy force arrives you will discontinue the action and stand away. The wind is still steady at north-by-west. Mr Penhaligon believes it may back directly which would be in our favour.”

Haven looked around the cabin as if to seek an escape.

“He may be wrong, sir.”

Bolitho shrugged. “I would not
dare
to disagree with him.”

But his attempt to lighten the tension was lost as Haven blurted out, “If I am forced to withdraw, who will believe—”

Bolitho looked away to hide his disappointment. “I will have new orders written for you. No blame will be laid at your door.”

Haven said, “I was not suggesting it merely for my own benefit, sir!”

Bolitho sat down on the bench seat and tried not to think of all those other times when he had sat here. Hopes, plans, anxieties.

He said, “I shall want thirty seamen from your company. I would prefer an officer whom they know to command them.”

Haven said instantly, “May I suggest my first lieutenant, sir?”

Their eyes met.
I thought you might.
He nodded. “Agreed.”

Calls trilled from the quarterdeck and Haven glanced at the door.

Bolitho said abruptly, “I have not yet finished.” He tried to remain calm but Haven's behaviour was unnerving. “If the enemy does throw a force against you there is no way that you can cover my withdrawal from La Guaira.”

Haven lifted his chin slightly. “If you say so, Sir Richard.”

“I do. In which case you will assume command of the flotilla.”

“And may I ask what you would do, sir?”

Bolitho stood up. “What I came to do.” He sensed that Allday was waiting close by the door. Another argument, when he told him he was not coming over to
Thor
with him.

“Before you leave, Captain Haven.” He tried not to blink as the mist filtered persistently across his left eye. “Do not have those men flogged. I cannot interfere, because everyone aboard would know that I had taken sides, as you already knew when you crossed swords with your senior in my presence.” He thought he saw Haven pale slightly. “These people have little enough, God knows, and to see their messmates flogged before being ordered into battle can do nothing but harm. Loyalty is all-important, but remember that while you are under my flag, loyalty goes both ways.”

Haven backed away. “I hope I know my duty, Sir Richard.”

“So do I.” He watched the door close, then exclaimed,
“God damn him!”

But it was Jenour who entered, wiping tar from his fingers with a piece of rag.

He watched as if to gauge Bolitho's mood, and said, “A fine view from up there. I have come to report that your signals have been made and acknowledged.” He glanced up as feet thudded overhead and voices echoed from the maindeck. “We are about to change tack, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho barely heard. “What is the matter with that man, eh?”

Jenour remarked, “You have told him what you intend.”

Bolitho nodded. “I'd have thought any captain would have jumped at the chance to cast his admiral adrift. I know I did.” He stared round the cabin, searching for ghosts. “Instead, he thinks of nothing but—” He checked himself. It was unthinkable to discuss the flag captain with Jenour. Was he so isolated that he could find no other solace?

Jenour said simply, “I am not so impertinent as to say what I think, Sir Richard.” He looked up and added, “But I would stand by whatever you ordered
me
to do.”

Bolitho relaxed and clapped him on the shoulder. “They say that faith can move a mountain, Stephen!”

Jenour stared. Bolitho had called him by name. It was probably a mistake.

Bolitho said, “We will transfer to
Thor
before dusk. It must be smartly done, Stephen, for we have a long way to travel.”

It was not a mistake.
Jenour seemed to glow. He stammered, “Your coxswain is waiting outside, Sir Richard.” He watched as Bolitho strode across the cabin, then chilled as he cannoned into a chair which Haven must have moved.

“Are you all right, Sir Richard?” He fell back as Bolitho turned towards him. But this time there was no anger in his sensitive features. Bolitho said quietly, “My eye troubles me a little. It is nothing. Now send in my cox'n.”

Allday walked past the lieutenant and said, “I have to speak my piece, Sir Richard. When you goes across to that bomb,” he almost spat out the word, “I'll be beside you. Like always, an' I don't give a bugger, beggin' your pardon, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho retorted, “You've been drinking, Allday.”

“A bit, sir. Just a few “wets” afore we leave the ship.” He put his head on one side like a shaggy dog. “We
will,
won't we, sir?”

It came out surprisingly easily. “Yes, old friend. Together. One more time.”

Allday regarded him gravely, sensing his despair. “Wot is it, sir?”

“I nearly told that youngster, Jenour. Nearly came right out with it.” He was talking to himself aloud. “That I'm terrified of going blind.”

Allday licked his lips. “Young Mr Jenour looks on you as a bit of a hero, sir.”

“Not like you, eh?” But neither of them smiled.

Allday had not seen him like this for a long while, not since . . .

He cursed himself, took the blame for not being here when he was needed. It made him angry when he compared Haven with Captain Keen, or Herrick. He looked around the cabin where they had shared and lost so much together. Bolitho had nobody to share it with, to lessen the load. On the messdecks the Jacks thought the admiral wanted for nothing. By Jesus, that was just what he had. Nothing.

Allday said, “I know it's not my place to say it, but—”

Bolitho shook his head. “When did that ever stop you?”

Allday persisted, “I don't know how to put it in officers' language like.” He took a deep breath. “Cap'n Haven's wife is havin' a baby, probably dropped it by now, I shouldn't wonder.”

Bolitho stared at him. “What of it, man?”

Allday tried not to release a deep breath of relief as he saw the impatience in Bolitho's grey eyes.

“He thinks that someone else may be the father, so to speak.”

Bolitho exclaimed, “Well, even supposing—” He looked away, surprised, when he ought not to have been, at Allday's knowledge. “I see.” It was not the first time. A ship in dock, a bored wife and a likely suitor. But it had taken Allday to put his finger on it.

Bolitho eyed him sadly. How could he leave him behind? What a pair. One so cruelly wounded by a Spanish sword thrust, the other slowly going blind.

He said, “I shall write some letters.”

They looked at each other without speaking. Cornwall in late October. Grey sky, and rich hues of fallen leaves. Chipping-hammers in the fields where farmers took time to repair their walls and fences. The elderly militia drilling in the square outside the cathedral where Bolitho had been married.

Allday moved away towards Ozzard's pantry. He would ask the little man to write a letter for him to the innkeeper's daughter in Falmouth, though God alone knew if she would ever get it.

He thought of Lady Belinda and the time they had found her in the overturned coach. And of the one named Catherine who might still harbour feelings for Bolitho. A fine-looking woman, he thought, but a lot of trouble. He grinned. A sailor's woman, no matter what airs and graces she hoisted at her yards. And if she was right for Bolitho, that was all that mattered.

Alone at his table Bolitho drew the paper towards him and watched the sunlight touch the pen like fire.

In his mind he could see the words as he had written them before.
“My dearest Belinda.”

At noon he went on deck for his walk, and when Ozzard entered the cabin to tidy things he saw the paper with the pen nearby. Neither had been used.

6
“
IN
W
AR THERE ARE NO NEUTRALS―
”

T
HE TRANSFER
from
Hyperion
to the bomb-vessel
Thor
was carried out just before sunset, without mishap. Men and weapons with extra powder and shot were ferried across, the boats leaping and then almost disappearing between the crests of a deep swell.

Bolitho watched from the quarterdeck while
Hyperion
lay hove-to, her canvas booming in protest, and once again marvelled at the sunset's primitive beauty. The long undulating swell, like the boats and their labouring crews, seemed to glow like rough bronze, while even the faces around him looked unreal; like strangers.

With two of
Hyperion
's boats and thirty of her men safely transferred, Bolitho made the final crossing in a jolly-boat.

He had barely been received aboard
Thor
before he saw
Hyperion
's yards swinging round, her shadowed outline shortening as she turned away to follow the two brigs into the last of the sunset.

If Commander Ludovic Imrie was bothered by having his flag officer coming aboard his modest command, he did not show it. He displayed more surprise when Bolitho announced that he did not intend to wear his epaulettes, and suggested that Imrie, as
Thor
's commander, should follow his example.

He had remarked calmly, “Your people know you well enough. I trust that they will know me too when this affair is finished!”

Bolitho was able to forget
Hyperion
and the others as they headed further and further away towards Puerto Cabello. He could feel the tension mount around him as
Thor
made more sail and steered, close-hauled, towards the invisible shoreline.

Hour followed hour, with hushed voices calling from the chains where two leadsmen took regular soundings, so that their reports could be checked carefully against the chart and the notes Bolitho had made after his meeting with Captain Price.

The noise was loud, but deceptive. Astern on its tow-line, the clumsy lighter was pumped constantly in a battle which Imrie had admitted had begun within hours of leaving harbour. Any rise in the sea brought instant danger from flooding, and now, with both
Thor
's heavy mortars and their crews on board, the lighter's loss would spell disaster.

Bolitho prowled restlessly around the vessel's quarterdeck and pictured the land in his mind, as he had seen it that late afternoon. He had made himself climb aloft just once more, this time to the maintop, and through a rising haze had seen the tell-tale landmarks of La Guaira. The vast blue-grey range of the Caracas Mountains, and further to the west the impressive saddle-shaped peaks of the Silla de Caracas.

Penhaligon could be rightfully proud of his navigation, he thought. Allday barely left his side after they had come aboard, and Bolitho could hear his uneven breathing, his fingers drumming against the hilt of a heavy cutlass.

It made Bolitho touch the unfamiliar shape of the hanger at his belt. The prospect of action right inside the enemy's territory occupied everyone's mind, but Bolitho doubted if Allday had missed his decision to leave the old family sword behind in
Hyperion.
He had almost lost it once before. Allday would be remembering that too, thinking Bolitho had left it with Ozzard only because he believed he might not return.

Adam would wear the sword one day. It would never fall into enemy hands again.

Later, in Imrie's small cabin, they peered at the chart behind shuttered stern windows.
Thor
was cleared for action, but her chance would come only if the first part succeeded. Bolitho traced the twisting shallows with the dividers, as Price must have done before his ship had driven ashore. He felt the others crowding around and against him. Imrie and his senior master's mate, Lieutenant Parris, and
Thor
's second lieutenant, who would cover the attack.

Bolitho wondered momentarily if Parris was thinking about the floggings, which had been cancelled at Haven's order. Or of the fact that Haven had insisted that the two culprits should be included in the raiding party. All the bad eggs in one basket maybe, he thought.

He pulled out his watch and laid it beneath a low-slung lantern.

“
Thor
will anchor within the half-hour. All boats will cast off immediately, the jolly-boat leading. Soundings must be taken, but not unnecessarily. Stealth is vital. We must be in position by dawn.” He glanced at their grim expressions. “Questions?”

Dalmaine,
Thor
's second lieutenant, raised his hand.

“What if the Don has moved, sir?”

It was amazing how easy they found it to speak up, Bolitho thought. Without the intimidating vice-admiral's epaulettes, and in their own ship, they had already spoken of their ideas, their anxieties as well. It was like being in a frigate or a sloop-of-war, all over again.

“Then we will be unlucky.” Bolitho smiled and saw Jenour's eyes watching the brass dividers as he tapped the chart. “But there have been no reports of any large ships on the move.”

The lieutenant persisted, “And the battery, sir. Suppose we cannot take it by surprise?”

It was Imrie who answered. “I would suggest, Mr Dalmaine, that all your pride in your mortars will have been misplaced!”

The others laughed. It was the first healthy sign.

Bolitho said, “We destroy the battery, then
Thor
can follow through the sandbars. Her carronades will more than take care of any guardboats.” He stood up carefully to avoid the low beams. “And then we shall attack.”

Parris said, “And if we are repulsed, Sir Richard?”

Their eyes met across the small table. Bolitho studied his gipsy good looks, the reckless candour in his voice. A West Country man, probably from Dorset. Allday's blunt words seemed to intrude, and he thought of the small portrait in Haven's cabin.

He said, “The treasure-ship must be sunk, fired if possible. It may not prevent salvage, but the delay will be considerable for the Don's coffers!”

“I see, sir.” Parris rubbed his chin. “The wind's backed. It could help us.” He spoke without emotion, not as a lieutenant who might well be dead, or screaming under a Spanish surgeon's knife by morning, but as a man used to command.

He was considering alternatives.
Suppose, if, perhaps.

Bolitho watched him. “So shall we be about it, gentlemen?” They met his gaze. Did they know, he wondered? Would they still trust his judgment? He smiled in spite of his thoughts. Haven certainly trusted nobody!

Imrie said cheerfully, “Och, Sir Richard, we'll a' be rich men by noon!”

They left the cabin, stooping and groping like cripples. Bolitho waited until Imrie alone remained.

“It must be said. If I fall, you must withdraw if you think fit.”

Imrie studied him thoughtfully. “If
you
fall, Sir Richard, it will be because I've failed you.” He glanced around the cramped cabin. “We'll make you proud, you'll see, sir!”

Bolitho walked out into the darkness and stared at the stars until his mind was steady again.

Why did you never get used to it? The simple loyalty. Their honesty with one another, which was unknown or ignored by so many people at home.

Thor
dropped anchor, and as she swung to her cable in a lively current, the boats were manhandled alongside or hoisted outboard with such speed that Bolitho guessed that her commander had been drilling and preparing for this moment since he had weighed at English Harbour.

He settled himself in the sternsheets of the jolly-boat, which even in the darkness seemed heavy, low in the water with her weight of men and weapons. He had discarded his coat and hat and could have been another lieutenant like Parris.

Allday and Jenour were crowded against him, and while Allday watched the oarsmen with a critical eye, the flag lieutenant said excitedly, “They'll never believe this!”

By “they,” he meant his parents, Bolitho guessed.

It seemed to sum up his whole command, he decided. Captains or seamen, there were more sons than fathers.

He heard the grind of long sweeps as the lighter was cast adrift from
Thor
's quarter, spray bursting over the blades until two more boats flung over their tow-lines.

It was a crazy plan, but one which might just work. Bolitho plucked his shirt away from his body. Sweat or spray, he could not be sure. He concentrated on the time, the whispered soundings, the steady rise and fall of oars. He did not even dare to peer astern to ensure that the others were following.

The boats were at the mercy of the currents and tides around the invisible sandbars. One minute gurgling beneath the keel, and the next with all the oars thrashing and heaving to prevent the hull from being swung in the wrong direction.

He pictured Parris with the main body of men, and Dalmaine in the lighter with his mortars, the hands bailing to keep the craft afloat. So close inshore he would not dare to use the pumps now.

There was a startled gasp from the bows, and the coxswain called hoarsely, “
Oars!
Easy, lads!”

With the blades stilled and dripping above either beam, the jolly-boat pirouetted around in the channel like an untidy sea-creature. A man scrambled aft and stared at Bolitho for several seconds.

He gasped, “Vessel anchored dead ahead, sir!” He faltered, as if suddenly aware that he was addressing his admiral. “Small 'un, sir. Schooner mebbee!”

Jenour groaned softly. “What damned luck! We'd never—”

Bolitho swung round. “Shutter the lantern astern!” He prayed that Parris would see it in time. An alarm now would catch them in the open. It was too far to pull back, impossible to slip past the anchored ship without being challenged.

He heard himself say, “Very well, Cox'n. Give way all. Very steady now.” He recalled Keen's calm voice when he had spoken with his gun crews before a battle. Like a rider quieting a troubled mount.

He said, “It's up to us. No turning back.” He made each word sink in but it was like speaking into darkness or an empty boat. “Steer a little to larboard, Cox'n.” He heard a rasp of steel, and a petty officer saying in a fierce whisper, “No, don't load! The first man to loose off a ball will feel my dirk in 'is belly!”

And suddenly there she was. Tall, spiralling masts and furled sails, a shaded anchor light which threw thin gold lines up her shrouds. Bolitho stared at it as the boat glided towards her bows and outstretched jib-boom.

Was it to be here, like this?

He heard the oars being hauled inboard with elaborate care, the sudden scramble in the bows where the keen-eyed seaman had first sighted this unexpected stranger.

Allday muttered restlessly, “Come on, you buggers, let's be 'avin' you!”

Bolitho stood up and saw the jib-boom swooping above him as the current carried them into the hull like a piece of driftwood. Jenour was crouching beside him, his hanger already drawn, his head thrown back as if expecting a shot.

“Grapnel!”

It thudded over the bulwark even as the boat surged alongside.

“At 'em, lads!”
The fury of the man's whisper was like a trumpet call. Bolitho felt himself knocked and carried up the side, seizing lines, scrabbling for handholds, until with something like madness they flung themselves on to the vessel's deck.

A figure ran from beneath the foremast, his yell of alarm cut short as a seaman brought him down with a cudgel; two other shapes seemed to rise up under their feet and in those split seconds Bolitho realised that the anchor watch had been asleep on deck.

Around him he could sense the wildness of his men, the claws of tension giving way to a brittle hatred of anything that spoke or moved.

Voices echoed below deck, and Bolitho shouted, “Easy, lads! Hold fast!” He listened to one voice in particular rising above the rest and knew it was speaking a language he did not recognise.

Jenour gasped, “Swedish, sir!”

Bolitho watched the boarding party prodding at the schooner's crew, as singly or in small groups they clambered through two hatches to gape at their change of circumstances.

Bolitho heard the stealthy movement of oars nearby and guessed that Parris with one of his boats was close alongside. He had probably been expecting a sudden challenge, the raking murder of swivels.

Bolitho snapped, “Ask Mr Parris if he has one of his Swedish hands on board!” Like most men-of-war
Hyperion
had the usual smattering of foreign seamen in her company. Some were pressed, others volunteers. There were even a few French sailors who had signed on with their old enemy rather than face the grim prospects of a prison hulk on the Medway.