Honour This Day (23 page)

Adam smiled. It was strange, he thought. He had always loved his uncle more than any man. But until now he had never envied him.

Admiral Sir Owen Godschale received Bolitho immediately upon his arrival. Bolitho had the impression that he had cut short another interview, perhaps to get this meeting over and done with without further delay.

“I have received intelligence that the French fleet outran Lord Nelson's ships. Whether he can still call them to battle is doubtful. It seems unlikely that Villeneuve will be willing to fight until he has combined forces with the Spaniards.”

Bolitho stared at the admiral's huge map. So the French were still at sea but could not remain so for long. Nelson must have believed the enemy's intention was to attack British possessions and bases in the Caribbean. Or was it merely one great exercise in strength? The French had fine ships, but they had been sealed up in harbour by an effective blockade. Villeneuve was too experienced to make an attack up the English Channel, to pave the way for Napoleon's armies, with ships and men whose skills and strength had been sapped by inactivity.

Godschale said bluntly, “So I want you to hoist your flag again and join forces with the Maltese squadron.”

“But I understood that Rear-Admiral Herrick was to be relieved?”

Godschale looked at his map. “We need every ship where she can do the most good. I have sent orders today by courier brig to Herrick's command.” He eyed him impassively. “You know him, of course.”

“Very well.”

“So it would appear that the reception I had planned must now be postponed, Sir Richard. Until quieter times, eh?”

Their eyes met. “Would I have been invited to attend
alone,
Sir Owen?” He spoke calmly but the edge was clear in his voice.

“Under the circumstances I think that would have been preferred, yes.”

Bolitho smiled. “Then under those same circumstances I am glad it is postponed.”

“I resent your damned attitude, sir!”

Bolitho faced his bluff. “One day, Sir Owen, you may have cause to remember this disgraceful conspiracy. The last time we met you told me that Nelson was not above being wrong. And neither, sir, are you! And should you too fall from grace you will most certainly discover who your true friends are!” He strode from the room, and heard the admiral slam a door behind him like a thunderclap.

Bolitho was still angry when he reached the house. Until he saw Catherine speaking with Adam, and heard a familiar voice from the adjoining study.

Then Allday stepped out of the passageway which led from the kitchen, his jaw still working on some food. They were all staring at him.

Bolitho said, “I am to return to the squadron as soon as is convenient.”

A shadow fell across the passage, and Captain Valentine Keen stepped into the light.

Bolitho clasped his hands. “Val! This is a miracle!”

Beyond his friend he saw the girl Zenoria, exactly as he had remembered her. Both of them were travel-stained, and Keen explained, “We have been on the road for two days. We were already on our way back from Cornwall and by a stroke of fate we met with the courier at a small inn where he was changing his mount.”

Fate.
That word. Bolitho said, “I don't understand.” He saw the girl's face as she walked up to him and held him, while he kissed her on the cheek. Something more had happened.

Keen said, “I am to be your flag captain, Sir Richard.” He gave Zenoria a despairing glance. “I was asked. It seemed right.” He handed Bolitho a letter. “Captain Haven is under arrest. The day after you left in
Firefly
he attacked another officer and attempted to kill him.” He watched Bolitho's face. “The commodore at Gibraltar awaits your orders.”

Bolitho sat down while Catherine stood beside him, her hand on his shoulder.

Bolitho looked up at her.
My tiger.
That poor, wretched man had broken under the strain. There was nothing much in the letter, but Bolitho knew the other officer must be Parris. He at least was alive.

Keen looked from one to the other. “I was about to suggest that your lady might care to share my home with Zenoria and my sister until we return.”

Bolitho clasped Catherine's hand; he could tell from the way the dark-haired girl from Cornwall was looking at her that it was a perfect arrangement. God alone knew they both had plenty in common.

Keen had rescued Zenoria from the transport ship
Orontes
after she had been wrongly charged and convicted of attempted murder. She had been trying to defend herself from being raped. Transportation to the penal colony in New South Wales; and she had been innocent. Keen had boarded the transport and cut her down when she was about to be flogged at the ship's master's command. She had taken one blow across her naked back before Keen had stopped the torment. Bolitho knew she would carry the scar all her life. It made him go cold to realise that the same fate could have been thrown at Catherine, but for different reasons. Jealousy and greed were pitiless enemies.

He said, “What say you, Kate?” The others seemed to fade away as if his damaged eye would only focus on her. “Will you do it?”

She said nothing but nodded very slowly. Only a blind man would have failed to see the light, the communion, between them.

“It's settled then.” Bolitho looked at their faces. “Together again.”

It seemed to include them all.

Lieutenant Vicary Parris sat in his cabin only half paying attention to the ship noises above and around him. Compared with the upper deck the cabin with its open gunport seemed almost cool.

The fifth lieutenant,
Hyperion
's youngest, stood beside the small table and stared at the open punishment book.

Parris asked again, “Well, do you think it fair, Mr Priddie?”

It was chilling, Parris thought. The vice-admiral had barely quit the Rock in
Firefly
when Haven had gone on the rampage. At sea, fighting the elements and working the ship, men were often too busy or desperate to question the demands of discipline. But
Hyperion
was in harbour, and in the hot sunshine, work about the ship and taking on fresh stores made its own slower and more comfortable routine, when men had the time to watch and to nurse resentment.

“I—I am not certain.”

Parris swore under his breath. “You wanted to pass for lieutenant, but now that you share the wardroom you seem prepared to accept any excuse for a flogging without care or favour?”

Priddie hung his head. “The Captain insisted—”

“Yes, he would.” Parris leaned back and counted seconds to restore his temper. At any other time he would have requested, even demanded a transfer to another ship, and to hell with the consequences. But he had lost his last command; he wanted, no, he
needed
any recommendation which might offer the opening to another promotion.

He had served under several captains. Some brave, some too cautious. Others ran their ships like the King's Regulations and would never take a risk which might raise an admiral's eyebrow. He had even served under the worst kind of all, a sadist who punished men for the sake of it, who had watched every breath-stopping stroke of the cat until the victim's back had been like seared meat.

There was no defence against Haven. He simply hated him. He used the weapon of his complete authority to punish seamen without proper consideration as if to force his first lieutenant to challenge it.

He touched the book. “Look at this, man. Two dozen lashes for fighting. They were skylarking in the dog watches, nothing more; you must have seen that?”

Priddie flushed. “The Captain said that discipline on deck was lax. That eyes ashore would be watching. He would tolerate no more slackness.”

Parris bit off a harsh retort. Priddie had not yet forgotten what it was like to be a midshipman. As first lieutenant he should do something. He could appeal to no one; the other captains would see his behaviour as betrayal, something which might rebound on their own authority if encouraged. Right or wrong, the captain was like a god. Only one man cared enough to stop it, and he was on passage for England with trouble enough of his own if he did not bow down to threats. It seemed unlikely that Bolitho would bend a knee to anyone if he believed what he was doing was right.

Parris considered the ship's surgeon, George Minchin. But he had tried before to no avail. Minchin was a drunkard like so many ships' surgeons. Butchers, at whose hands more men died than ever did because of their original injury or wound.

Hyperion
was supposed to be getting a senior surgeon, one of several being sent into the various squadrons to observe and report on what they discovered. But that was later. It was now he was needed.

Parris said, “Leave it to me.” He saw the lieutenant's eyes light up, thankful that he was no longer involved.

Parris added angrily, “You'll never hold a command, Mr Priddie, unless you face up to the rank you carry.”

He climbed to the quarterdeck and watched the seamen swaying up new rigging to the mizzen top. There was a strong smell of fresh tar for blacking-down, the sounds of hammers and an adze as Horrocks the carpenter and his mates completed work on a new cutter, built from materials to hand. They worked well, he thought, would even be happy, but for the cloud which always hung over the poop.

With a sigh he made his way aft and waited for the Royal Marine sentry to announce him.

Captain Haven was sitting at his desk, papers arranged within easy reach, his coat hanging from the chairback as he fanned his face with his handkerchief.

“Well, Mr Parris? I have much to do.”

Parris made himself ignore the obvious dismissal. He noticed that the pens on the desk were all clean and dry. Haven had written nothing. It was as if he had prepared for this, had been expecting his visit despite the hint of rejection.

Parris began carefully, “The two men for punishment, sir.”

“Oh, which two? I was beginning to believe that the people did much as they pleased.”

“Trotter and Dixon, sir. They have not been in any trouble before. Had the fifth lieutenant come to me—” He got no further.

Haven snapped, “But you were not aboard, sir. No, you were elsewhere, I believe?”

“Under your orders, sir.”

“Don't be impertinent!” Haven shifted on his chair. It reminded Parris of a fisherman he had watched when he had felt something take the hook.

Haven said, “They were behaving in a disgusting and disorderly fashion! I saw them. As usual I had to stop the rot.”

“But two dozen lashes, sir. I could give them a week's extra work. Discipline would be upheld, and I think Mr Priddie would learn from it.”

“I see, you are blaming the junior lieutenant now.” He smiled. Parris could feel the strain clutching at him like claws. “Men will be flogged, and Mr Priddie will take the blame for it. God damn your eyes, sir! Do you think I give a sniff for what they think? I command here, they will do my bidding,
do I make myself clear?
” He was shouting.

Parris said, “You do, sir.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Haven watched him, his eyes slitted in the filtered sunlight. “Your part in the cutting-out will be known at the Admiralty, I have no doubt. But you can crawl after our admiral's coat-tails as long as you like. I shall see that your disloyalty and damned arrogance are noted fully when your case for promotion is considered again!”

Parris felt the cabin sway. “Did you call me disloyal, sir?”

Haven almost screamed at him. “Yes, you lecherous swine, I bloody well did!”

Parris stared at him. It was worse than anything which had happened before. He saw the sunlight at the bottom of the captain's door blackened in places by feet. There were men out there listening. God, he thought, despairingly, what chance do we have if we stand into battle?

He said, “I think we may both have spoken out of turn, sir.”

“Don't you ever dare to reprimand me, blast you! I suppose that when you lie in your cot you think of me down aft, sneer because of the foul deed you committed—well, answer me, you bloody hound!”

Parris knew he should summon another officer, just as he knew he would strike Haven down in the next few seconds. Something, like a warning in his sleep, seemed to stay his anger and resentment.
He wants you to strike him. He wants you as his next victim.

Haven slumped back in his chair, as if the strength and fury had left him. But when he looked up again Parris saw it was still there in his eyes, like fires of hate.

In an almost conversational voice Haven said, “You really thought I would not find you out? Could you be
that
stupid?”

Parris held his breath, his heart pounding; he had believed that nothing more could unseat him.

Haven continued, “I know your ways and manners, the love you bear for yourself. Oh yes, I am not without some wit and understanding.” He pointed at the portrait of his wife but kept his eyes on Parris.