Sword of Honour Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Alexander Kent

  Chronology

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1. Decisions

  2. More Than a Duty

  3. Adam

  4. The Longest Day

  5. The Prize

  6. Know Your Enemy

  7. No Choice at All

  8. One Hand for the King

  9. Too Late for Regrets

  10. A Ship of War

  11. A Sailor’s Woman

  12. Face to Face

  13. So Private and So Strong

  14. The Edge of Darkness

  15. The Next Horizon

  16. Lifeline

  17. ‘Until Hell Freezes’

  18. Final Embrace

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  About the Book

  March 1814

  Admiral Sir Richard Bolitho returns to England from several months’ rigorous patrolling off the North American coast. War with the United States has not yet ended, but news of Napoleon’s defeat and abdication has stunned a navy and a nation bled by years of European conflict. Victory has been the impossible dream and now, for Bolitho, a vision of the future and a personal peace seems attainable.

  However an unsympathetic Admiralty dispatches him to Malta. Is this appointment a compliment or a malicious ploy to keep Bolitho from the woman he loves and the freedom he craves? He cannot know, but the voice of duty speaks more insistently even than the voice of the heart, and in this familiar sea where both glory and tragedy have touched his life, Bolitho must confront the future, the renaissance of a hated tyrant, and the fulfilment of destiny.

  About the Author

  Alexander Kent is the author of twenty-eight acclaimed books featuring Richard Bolitho. Under his own name, Douglas Reeman, and in the course of a career spanning forty-five years, he has written over thirty novels and two non-fiction books.

  Also by Alexander Kent

  Midshipman Bolitho

  Stand Into Danger

  In Gallant Company

  Sloop of War

  To Glory We Steer

  Command a King’s Ship

  Passage to Mutiny

  With All Despatch

  Form Line of Battle!

  Enemy in Sight

  The Flag Captain

  Signal – Close Action!

  The Inshore Squadron

  A Tradition of Victory

  Success to the Brave

  Colours Aloft!

  Honour This Day

  The Only Victor

  Beyond the Reef

  The Darkening Sea

  For My Country’s Freedom

  Cross of St George

  Second to None

  Relentless Pursuit

  Man of War

  Band of Brothers

  Heart of Oak

  The stirring story of the life and times of Richard Bolitho is told in Alexander Kent’s bestselling novels.

  1756

  Born Falmouth, son of James Bolitho

  1768

  Entered the King’s service as a Midshipman on Manxman

  1772

  Midshipman, Gorgon (Midshipman Bolitho)

  1774

  Promoted Lieutenant, Destiny: Rio and the Caribbean (Stand into Danger)

  1775–7

  Lieutenant, Trojan, during the American Revolution. Later appointed prizemaster (In Gallant Company)

  1778

  Promoted Commander, Sparrow. Battle of the Chesapeake (Sloop of War)

  1780

  Birth of Adam, illegitimate son of Hugh Bolitho and Kerenza Pascoe

  1782

  Promoted Captain, Phalarope; West Indies: Battle of Saints (To Glory We Steer)

  1784

  Captain, Undine; India and East Indies (Command a King’s Ship)

  1787

  Captain, Tempest; Great South Sea; Tahiti; suffered serious fever (Passage to Mutiny)

  1792

  Captain, the Nore; Recruiting (With All Despatch)

  1793

  Captain, Hyperion; Mediterranean; Bay of Biscay; West Indies. Adam Pascoe, later Bolitho, enters the King’s service as a midshipman aboard Hyperion (Form Line of Battle! And Enemy in Sight)

  1795

  Promoted Flag Captain, Euryalus; involved in the Great Mutiny; Mediterranean; Promoted Commodore (The Flag Captain)

  1798

  Battle of the Nile (Signal – Close Action!)

  1800

  Promoted Rear-Admiral; Baltic; (The Inshore Squadron)

  1801

  Biscay. Prisoner of war (A Tradition of Victory)

  1802

  Promoted Vice-Admiral; West Indies (Success to the Brave)

  1803

  Mediterranean (Colours Aloft!)

  1805

  Battle of Trafalgar (Honour This Day)

  1806–7

  Good Hope and the second battle of Copenhagen (The Only Victor)

  1808

  Shipwrecked off Africa (Beyond the Reef)

  1809–10

  Mauritius campaign (The Darkening Sea)

  1812

  Promoted Admiral; Second American War (For My Country’s Freedom)

  1814

  Defence of Canada (Cross of St. George)

  1815

  Richard Bolitho killed in action (Sword of Honour) Adam Bolitho, Captain, Unrivalled. Mediterranean (Second to None)

  1816

  Anti-slavery patrols, Sierra Leone. Battle of Algiers (Relentless Pursuit)

  1817

  Flag Captain, Athena; Antigua and Caribbean (Man of War)

  1818

  Captain, Onward; Mediterranean (Heart of Oak)

  Sword of Honour

  Alexander Kent

  To Chris Patten, a man of honour, in admiration

  Sail forth – steer for the deep waters only,

  Reckless O soul, exploring, I with thee, and thou with me,

  For we are bound where manner has not yet dared to go,

  And we will risk the ship, ourselves and all.

  – Whitman

  1

  Decisions

  VICE-ADMIRAL SIR GRAHAM Bethune put down his pen and waited for the elderly Admiralty clerk to gather up the letters and despatches he had signed. As the tall double doors closed behind him, Bethune stood up and glanced at the nearest windows. Bright sunshine; he could even feel the warmth across the room, with a sky so clear that it was almost colourless.

  He heard a clock chime, and wondered how the meeting was progressing along the passageway. Senior officers, lords of Admiralty, and civilian advisers who had been called here to discuss the state of the dockyards and the needs of the medical services. At the Admiralty, it was another ordinary day.

  He moved restlessly to the window and opened it, and the sounds of London rose to greet him. The clatter of carriages and the jingle of harness, the cry of a street pedlar risking the wrath of Admiralty porters to sell his wares to the passing throng.

  Bethune caught his own reflection in the window, and smiled. Once he had thought he would never hold such an appointment; now he could hardly imagine anything else. After ships and the sea, it had seemed like something foreign. He touched the front of his waistcoat. Graham Bethune, Vice-Admiral of the Blue, one of the youngest flag officers on the Navy List. Like the uniform, the appointment fitted him perfectly.

  He leaned over the sill and watched the procession of people. Many of the carriages were open to the sunshine, revealing women in colourful hats and fine gowns. It was April of the year 1814, but the war was still a brutal fact.

  Like most serving officers, Bethune had become accust
omed to the exaggerated assurances and the promises of final victory. Reports arrived daily with news that Wellington’s armies were breaking through one French strongpoint after another; the invincible Napoleon was claimed to be on the run, deserted by all but his faithful marshals and his Old Guard.

  What did all those people down there really believe, he wondered. After so many years of war with the familiar enemy, was the prospect of peace still only a dream? He moved back into the room and stared at the painting on one wall, a frigate in action, sails pitted with shot, a full broadside spitting fire at the enemy. It was Bethune’s last command. He had confronted two big Spanish frigates, unfortunate odds even for a captain as eager as he had been. After a brisk engagement, he had run one Spaniard ashore and captured the other. Flag rank had followed almost immediately.

  He looked at the ornate clock with its simpering cherubs and thought of the one man he admired, perhaps envied, more than any other.

  Sir Richard Bolitho was back in England, fresh from that other war with the United States; Bethune had seen the letter the First Lord of the Admiralty had sent to him in Cornwall, recalling him to London. Bolitho had been his captain all those years ago in the sloop-of-war Sparrow. Another war, but they had been fighting Americans even then, a new nation born of revolution.

  No reason for the recall had been offered. Surely Sir Richard Bolitho deserved a rest after all he had done? He thought, too, of the lovely Catherine Somervell, who had come to this very office to see him. He often thought of them, together.

  And when the impossible had come to pass, and there was peace again, permanent or not, what would happen to Bolitho, and to all the men he had known on his way up the ladder from midshipman’s berth to Admiralty? What will happen to me? It was the only life he knew. It was his world.

  The streets and seaports were full of crippled and tattered remnants of war, rejected by a life which had all but destroyed them. Bethune was sometimes surprised that he could still be sensitive about such matters. Perhaps he had inherited that trait, too, from Sparrow’s youthful captain.

  He heard voices in the adjoining room, where his clerk held unwanted visitors at bay. He looked at the clock again. Too early for a glass. Bethune did not drink heavily or overeat; he had seen too many of his contemporaries deteriorate because they did not heed such things. He took exercise when he could, a luxury after a ship’s restricted quarters, and he enjoyed the company of women, as much as they enjoyed his. But he was discreet, or tried to be, and he told himself it was for the sake of his wife and his two young children.

  His servant was standing in the doorway.

  Bethune sighed. ‘What is it, Tolan?’

  ‘Captain McCleod is here to see you, sir.’

  Bethune looked away. ‘Ask him to come in.’

  What had made him so nervous? Guilt? Thinking perhaps of Bolitho’s mistress, who had faced the scandal and had triumphed?

  The tall captain entered the room. He had an impassive, melancholy face; Bethune could not imagine him at sea, fighting a gale or the enemy.

  ‘More despatches?’

  The captain shook his head. Even that seemed mournful. ‘From Portsmouth, sir. By telegraph, just received.’ He glanced at the ceiling as if to see through it to the device which could link the Admiralty building to the south coast more swiftly than any courier, faster than any horse, provided the weather was perfect, as it was today.

  Bethune opened it, and then hesitated. It was round, schoolboy writing, but afterwards he thought it was as though each word had been written in fire. Or blood.

  He strode past his servant and the clerk at his desk, his steps seeming unusually loud in the deserted corridor. Great paintings watched him pass, sea battles: courage and heroism, without the human agony which was so seldom shown.

  A lieutenant jumped to his feet. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but the meeting is still in progress!’

  Bethune did not even see him. He thrust open the door, and watched the mingled expressions of surprise, irritation, perhaps alarm.

  The First Lord frowned. ‘Is it so urgent, Graham?’

  Bethune wanted to lick his lips, to laugh, to weep. He had felt nothing like it before.

  ‘From the admiral commanding at Portsmouth, my lord. A despatch has just been received.’

  The admiral said evenly, ‘Take your time.’

  Bethune tried again. It was a great moment, and he was a part of it, and yet all he could feel was sadness. ‘Marshal Soult’s army was defeated by the Duke of Wellington at Toulouse. Totally. Napoleon has abdicated, surrendered to the Allies, four days ago.’

  The admiral stood, very slowly, and looked around the table. ‘Victory, gentlemen.’ The word seemed to hang in the air. ‘If only brave Nelson could have seen it.’

  Then he turned to Bethune. ‘I shall see the Prince Regent immediately. Attend to it for me.’ He dropped his voice to exclude the others. ‘It could mean Paris for you, Graham. I would feel more secure with you there.’

  Bethune found himself back in his spacious office again, without remembering the return.

  When he looked out of the window once more, nothing had changed, not the people nor the horses and carriages. Even the pedlar was still standing with his tray of wares.

  The elderly clerk was hovering by the desk. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Pass the word to the Officer-of-the-Guard for the First Lord’s carriage and escort.’

  ‘At once, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘Difficult to accept, sir. To believe ….’

  Bethune smiled and touched his arm, even as Bolitho might have done.

  Difficult to accept? It was impossible.

  Lieutenant George Avery reined his hired mount to a halt and leaned back in the saddle to admire the view. The house was beautifully designed; magnificent was the only description, he thought, and probably larger than the one where he had spent the night.

  It had been a pleasant ride from central London to this place on the bank of the Thames, and it had given him time to think, to prepare for this meeting with his uncle, Lord Sillitoe of Chiswick. He had sensed the jubilant mood of the people all around him, had seen their smiles and waves when he had passed; apparently it was unusual to sight a naval officer on horseback.

  But it was more than that, so much more. The impossible had become a fact, and it seemed as if every man and woman in the city was in the streets to make certain that the news was not just another cruel rumour. Napoleon, the tyrant, the oppressor who had sought to enslave a continent, was beaten, a prisoner of the victorious Allies.

  This morning she had watched him while he dressed and readied himself for this meeting. He could still feel the power and the passion of their intimacy. Could this relationship, too, be more than a passing dream?

  He glanced at a church clock. He was five minutes early. His uncle would expect it, even though it was said that he made a deliberate point of being late for his own appointments.

  And yet, Avery scarcely knew him. His uncle, Sir Paul Sillitoe as he had been then, had suggested that he should apply for the appointment of flag lieutenant to Sir Richard Bolitho. As the date for that first meeting had drawn near, he had almost withdrawn the application, knowing that it would only end in another disappointment. He had been wounded, and had been a prisoner of war. Upon his exchange, he had been required to face a court-martial for the loss of his ship, even though she had been lost through the captain’s recklessness, and his own wound had rendered him helpless and unable to prevent his men striking to a superior enemy.

  The memory of his first meeting with Bolitho, the hero and the legend, was very vivid; it would never leave him, and their association had restored him, had perhaps even made him something he might otherwise never have been.

  But his uncle? A man of enormous power and influence; and now that Sillitoe had also become a personal adviser to the Prince Regent, that power was greatly feared, if not respected.

  He patted the horse’s flank, and spoke to the stable-hand who had come
running to take his rein.

  ‘See to her, will you. I doubt that I shall be here very long.’

  Doors opened before he reached them, the sun streaming in to greet him from windows that faced the Thames, and the slow-moving masts of local traders making use of the tide. A fine staircase, elegant pillars, but also a spartan lack of ornaments and paintings, which his uncle would doubtless find flippant, and obtrusive.

  A hard-faced servant in gilt-buttoned livery confronted him in the spacious hallway. Avery had heard it said that most of Sillitoe’s servants resembled prize-fighters, and now he saw that it was true.

  ‘If you will wait in the library, sir.’ He did not drop his eyes, again, like a fighter wary of a treacherous attack.

  Avery nodded in acknowledgement. The man did not ask for his name; he would know. Otherwise, he would not be here.

  He walked into the library and stared out across the river. Peace. He felt the pain in his wounded shoulder, always a reminder, should he need one. He thought of her body arched against his; she had insisted on seeing the deep scar, and had kissed it with such gentleness that he had been both surprised and moved.

  He caught sight of himself in a tall mirror; like a stranger, he thought. He still could not get used to the single epaulette on his shoulder.

  They had all endured so much together. But when he tried to imagine the future, beyond the day or the week, it was like being lost, in a fog.

  The war was over. Hostilities continued along the border of Canada and the United States, but that could not last much longer. And what of us? ‘We Happy Few’, as Bolitho had often called them. Adam Bolitho was still in Halifax as flag captain to Rear-Admiral Keen; Captain James Tyacke would be waiting for a new appointment, with the frigate Indomitable paid off to await her own fate.

  He stared at his reflection. Still only a lieutenant, with streaks of grey in his dark hair to show what the war had cost him. Thirty-five years old. He grinned, surprised that he was able to consider a future without prospects, once Sir Richard Bolitho came ashore for good. In his heart, it was what Bolitho wanted, and Avery felt very privileged to know the inner, private man. Brave in his decisions, unwavering in their execution, but after the cannon had fallen silent and the enemy’s flag had come down through the smoke, Avery had seen the other man, sensitive, grieving for those who had fallen, because he had required it of them.