Honour This Day Read Free Page B

thirty-two years old.
    Nelson had hoisted his own flag in Victory, a first-rate, but he had found her himself rotting as a prison hulk. He had known in his strange fashion that he had to have her as his flagship. As far as he could recall, Bolitho knew that Victory was eight years older than Hyperion.
    Somehow it seemed right that the two old ships should live again, having been discarded without much thought after all they had done.
    The outer screen door opened and Daniel Yovell, Bolitho’s secretary, stood watching him glumly.
    Bolitho relented yet again. It had been easy for none of them because of his moods, his uncertainties. Even Yovell, plump, round-shouldered and so painstaking with his work, had been careful to keep his distance for the past thirty days at sea.
    â€œThe Captain will be here shortly, Sir Richard.”
    Bolitho slipped his arms into the coat and shrugged himself into the most comfortable position without making his spine prickle with sweat.
    â€œWhere is my flag lieutenant?” Bolitho smiled suddenly. Having an official aide had also been hard to accept at the beginning. Now, after two previous flag lieutenants, he found it simple to face.
    â€œWaiting for the barge. After that,” the fat shoulders rose cheerfully, “you will meet the local dignitaries.” He had taken Bolitho’s smile as a return to better things. Yovell’s simple Devonian mind required everything to remain safely the same.
    Bolitho allowed Ozzard to stand on tip-toe to adjust his neck-cloth. For years he had always hung upon the word of admiralty or the senior officer present wherever it happened to be. It was still difficult to believe that this time there was no superior brain to question or satisfy. He was the senior officer. Of course in the end the unwritten naval rule would prevail. If right, others would take the credit. If wrong, he might well carry the blame.
    Bolitho glanced at himself in the mirror and grimaced. His hair was still black, apart from some distasteful silver ones in the rebellious lock of hair covering the old scar. The lines at the corners of his mouth were deeper, and his reflection reminded him of the picture of his older brother, Hugh, which hung in Falmouth. Like so many of those Bolitho portraits in the great grey stone house. He controlled his sudden despair. Now, apart from his loyal steward Ferguson and the servants, it was empty.
    I am here. It is what I wanted. He glanced around the cabin again. Hyperion. We nearly died together.
    Yovell turned aside, his apple-red face wary. “The Captain, Sir Richard.”
    Haven entered, his hat beneath one arm.
    â€œThe ship is secured, sir.”
    Bolitho nodded. He had told Haven not to address him by his title unless ceremony dictated otherwise. The division between them was already great enough.
    â€œI shall come up.” A shadow moved through the door and Bolitho noticed just the briefest touch of annoyance on Haven’s face. That was an improvement from total self-composure, he thought.
    Allday walked past the flag captain. “The barge is alongside, Sir Richard.” He moved to the sword rack and eyed the two weapons thoughtfully. “The proper one today?”
    Bolitho smiled. Allday had problems of his own, but he would keep them to himself until he was ready. Coxswain? A true friend was a better description. It certainly made Haven frown that one so lowly could come and go as he pleased.
    Allday stooped to clip the old Bolitho sword to the belt. The leather scabbard had been rebuilt several times, but the tarnished hilt remained the same, and the keen, outmoded blade was as sharp as ever.
    Bolitho patted the sword against his hip. “Another good friend.” Their eyes met. It was almost physical, Bolitho thought. All the influence his rank invited was nothing compared with their close bond.
    Haven was of medium build, almost stocky, with curling ginger hair. In his early thirties, he had the