Cross of St George Page 10

  Allday, in the shadows, nodded. That was better. More like it.

  Bolitho glanced around at them, his grey eyes keen. “Captain Dawes did not see it, because there was nothing to see. He conserved the squadron’s strength, as I so ordered, and repaired the vessels that most needed it. It was like a well-ordered plan, beyond doubt or question.”

  Avery said, “Do you believe that the outcome of the war is still undecided, sir?”

  Bolitho smiled. “We have been fighting one enemy or another for years, for some a lifetime. But always, the French were in the vanguard. Always the French.”

  Allday frowned. To him one mounseer was much like another. The old Jacks could sing and brag about it when they’d had a skinful of rum, but when it came down to it, it had always been “us” or “them.”

  “I ain’t sure I follows, Sir Richard.”

  “We are intent on defeating the French without further delay, so that we may bring naval reinforcements to these waters to contain the Americans. In turn, the Americans must break our line before that happens. I believe that the Royal Herald was destroyed by an unknown force of ships, American or French, maybe both, but under one leader, who will settle for nothing less than the destruction of our patrols and, if need be, our entire squadron.”

  Captain James Tyacke was here now, his scarred face in shadow, his blue eyes fixed on Bolitho.

  “In all the reports there is no mention of any American resentment at a new French presence, and yet we have missed or overlooked the most obvious fact, that war makes strange bedfellows. I believe that an American of great skill and determination is the single mind behind this venture. He has shown his hand. It is up to us to find and defeat him.” He looked at each of them in turn, conscious of the strength they had given him, and of their trust.

  “The face in the crowd, my friends. It was there all the time, and no one saw it.”

  Captain Adam Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and watched the afternoon working parties, each separated by craft and skill, gathered around a portion of the main deck like stall holders: no wonder it was often called the market-place. Valkyrie was big for a frigate, and like Indomitable had begun life as a small third-rate, a ship of the line.

  He had met all his officers both individually and as a wardroom at a first, informal meeting. Some, like John Urquhart, the first lieutenant, were of the original company, when Valkyrie had been commissioned and had hoisted his uncle’s flag, then a viceadmiral’s, at the foremast truck. To all accounts she had been an unhappy ship, plagued with discontent and its inevitable companion of flogging at the gangway, until her last, famous battle, and the destruction of the notorious French squadron under Baratte. Her captain, Trevenen, had been proved a coward, so often the true nature of a tyrant, and had vanished overboard under mysterious circumstances.

  Adam glanced up at Keen’s flag, whipping out stiffly from the mizzen. Here and here, men had died. His uncle had been injured, momentarily blinded in the undamaged eye, the battle lost until Rear-Admiral Herrick, who had been recovering from the amputation of his right arm, had burst on deck. Adam stared at the companion and the unmanned wheel. He could picture it as if he himself had been here. Lieutenant Urquhart had taken charge, and had proved what he could do. A quiet, serious officer, he would soon be given his own command if they were called to action.

  He watched the working parties, knowing that every man jack was well aware of his presence. The new captain. Already known, because of his achievements in Anemone and because of the family name, and the admiral who was rarely out of the news. But to these men, he was simply their new superior. Nothing which had preceded him mattered, until they had learned what he was like.

  The sailmaker and his mates were here, cross-legged, busy with palms and bright needles. Nothing was ever wasted, be it a sail ripped apart in a gale or the scrap that would eventually clothe a corpse for its final journey to the seabed. The carpenter and his crew; the boatswain making a last inspection of the new blocks and tackles above the boat tier. He saw the surgeon, George Minchin, walking alone on the larboard gangway, his face brick-red in the hard afternoon light. Another man whose story was unknown. He had been in the old Hyperion when she had gone down, with Keen as her captain. The navy was like a family, but there were so many missing faces now.

  Adam had been on deck at first light when Indomitable had weighed, and sailed in company with two other frigates and a brig. She had made a fine sight, towering above the other ships with her pyramids of sails straining and hardening like armoured breastplates in a sharp north-westerly. He had lifted his hat, and had known that his uncle, although unseen, would have returned their private salute. In one way, he envied Tyacke his role as Bolitho’s flag captain, even as he knew it would have been the worst thing he could have attempted. This was his ship. He had to think of her as his sole responsibility, and Keen’s flag made it an important one. But it would go no further. Even if he tried, he knew he would never love this ship as he had loved Anemone.

  He thought of Keen, and the sudden energy which had surprised all those accustomed to a more leisurely chain of command. Keen had been ashore often, not merely to meet the army commanders but also to be entertained by the senior government and commercial representatives of Halifax.

  Adam had accompanied him on several occasions, as a duty more than out of curiosity. One of the most important people had been Keen’s father’s friend, a bluff, outspoken man who could have been any age between fifty and seventy, and who had achieved his present prominence by sweat rather than influence. He laughed a good deal, but Adam had noticed that his eyes always remained completely cold, like blue German steel. His name was Benjamin Massie, and Keen had told Adam that he was well known in London for his radical ideas on the expansion of trade in America, and, equally, for his impatience at anything that might prolong the hostilities.

  He was not the only person here known to Keen. Another of his father’s friends had arrived earlier, with an open-handed commission from the Admiralty to examine the possibilities of increased investment in shipbuilding, not only for the navy, but with the immediate future in mind and with an eye to improving trade with the southern ports. The enemy was a term that did not find favour with Massie and his associates.

  So what would happen next? Keen had arranged local patrols in a huge box-shaped zone that stretched from Boston to the south-west, and Sable Island and the Grand Banks six hundred miles in the opposite direction. A large area, yes, but not so vast that each patrol might lose contact with the other if the enemy chose to break out of port, or that Halifax-bound convoys or individual ships could be ambushed before they reached safety. Like the Royal Herald. A deliberate, well-planned attack with the sole intention of killing his uncle. He was not certain if Keen accepted that explanation. He had remarked, “We will assess each sighting or conflict at its face value. We must not be dragooned into scattering and so weakening our flotillas.”

  A master’s mate touched his hat to him, and Adam tried to fix his name in his mind. He smiled. Next time, perhaps.

  He heard a light step on the quarterdeck, and wondered why he disliked the new flag lieutenant so much when they had barely spoken. Perhaps it was because the Honourable Lawford de Courcey seemed so much at home with the sort of people they had met ashore. He knew who was important and why, who could be trusted, and who might rouse disapproval as far away as London if he were crossed or overruled. He would be perfectly at home at Court, but in the teeth of an enemy broadside? That remained to be seen.

  He steeled himself. It did not matter. They would put to sea in two days’ time. It was probably what they all needed. What I need.

  The flag lieutenant crossed the deck and waited to be acknowledged.

  “The admiral’s compliments, sir, and would you have his barge lowered.”

  Adam waited. When de Courcey said nothing more, he asked, “Why?”

  De Courcey smiled. “Rear-Admiral Keen is going ashore. Mr Massie wishes to
discuss some matters. There will be a social reception also, I believe.”

  “I see. I wish to discuss an additional patrol with the admiral.” He was angry, more with himself for rising to de Courcey’s bait. “It is what we are here for, remember?”

  “If I may suggest, sir …”

  Adam looked past him at the town. “You are the admiral’s aide, Mr de Courcey. Not mine.”

  “The admiral would like you to accompany him, sir.”

  Adam saw the officer of the watch studying the land with his telescope, and doubtless listening to the terse exchange as well.

  “Mr Finlay, pipe away the admiral’s barge, if you please.” He heard the shrill calls, the immediate stampede of bare feet and the bark of orders: so much a part of him, and yet he felt entirely detached from it. It was not de Courcey’s fault. Adam had been a flag lieutenant himself: it had never been an easy role, even when you served a man you loved.

  He turned, with some vague intention of clearing the air between them, but the fair-haired lieutenant had vanished.

  Later, when he made his way aft to report that the barge was alongside, Adam found Keen dressed and ready to leave the ship.

  He studied Adam thoughtfully, and said, “I have not forgotten about the extra patrol, you know. We should have more news when the schooner Reynard returns. She was sent up to the Bay of Fundy, although I think it an unlikely place for the enemy to loiter.”

  “De Courcey told you, did he, sir?”

  Keen smiled. “His duty, Adam.” He became serious again. “Be patient with him. He will prove his worth.” He paused. “Given the chance.”

  There were thumps from the adjoining cabin, and two seamen padded past carrying what was obviously an empty chest to be stowed away.

  Keen said, “I am settling in, you see. Not a ship of the line, but she will suffice for the present … It was suggested that I should take quarters ashore, but I think not. Speed is everything.”

  Adam waited. Who had suggested it? He saw his youthful servant John Whitmarsh helping a couple of the messmen to unpack another chest.

  Why cannot I be like him? Lose myself in what I do best?

  There was a small, velvet-covered book on the table. He felt a sudden chill, as though awakening from a cruel dream.

  Keen saw his eyes, and said, “Poetry. My late … It was packed in error. My sister is unused to the requirements of war.”

  My late … Keen had been unable even to speak Zenoria’s name. He had seen the book that day when he had visited her in Hampshire on some pretext. When she had rejected him.

  Keen said, “Are you interested?”

  He was surprised at his own calmness, the complete emptiness he felt. Like watching someone else in a mirror.

  “It is my intention that young Whitmarsh should learn to read. It might help, sir.”

  He picked up the book, hardly daring to look at it.

  Keen shrugged. “Well, then. Some use after all.” Then, “You will accompany me, Adam?”

  He could even smile. “Yes, sir.” He felt the soft velvet in his fingers, like skin. Like her. “I shall fetch my sword directly.”

  In his cabin, he pressed his back to the door and very slowly raised the book to his lips, amazed that his hands were so steady.

  How could it be? He closed his eyes as if in prayer, and opened them again, knowing that it was the same book.

  He held it with great care, all the ship noises and movements suddenly stilled, as though he were in another world.

  The rose petals, pressed tightly in these pages for so long, were almost transparent, like lace or some delicate web. The wild roses he had cut for her that day in June, when they had ridden together on his birthday. When she had kissed him.

  He closed the book and held it to his face for several seconds. There was no escape after all. He put the book into his chest and locked it: it was an unbelievable relief to discover that he had never wanted to escape from her memory. He straightened his back, and reached for his sword. From Zenoria.

  6 BAD BLOOD

  STANDING LIKE a perfect model above her own reflection, His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Reaper would have held the eye of any casual onlooker, no less than a professional seaman. A 26-gun frigate, very typical of the breed which had entered the revolutionary war with France some twenty years earlier, Reaper retained the sleek lines and grace of those ships which, then as now, were always in short supply. To command such a ship was every young officer’s dream: to be free of the fleet’s apron strings and the whim of every admiral, his real chance to prove his ability, if necessary against impossible odds.

  By today’s standards Reaper would appear small, not much bigger than a sloop-of-war, and certainly no match for the newer American frigates which had already proved their superiority in armament and endurance.

  On this dazzling April day Reaper lay almost becalmed, her sails hanging with scarcely any movement, her masthead pendant lifeless. Ahead of her, on either bow, two of her longboats, their oars rising and falling like tired wings, attempted to hold her under command, to retain steerage-way until the wind returned.

  She was almost at the end of her passage, twelve hundred miles from Kingston, Jamaica, which had already taken her nearly two weeks. At dusk the previous day they had crossed the thirtieth parallel, and tomorrow at first light, if the wind found them again, they would sight the colourful humps of the Bermudas.

  Theirs was escort duty, the curse of every fast-moving man-of-war, necessary but tedious, retrimming sails and trying to keep station on their ponderous charges: a test of any captain’s forbearance. There was only one large merchantman to deliver to the Bermudas; the rest had been safely escorted to other ports in the Leeward Islands. The heavily-laden vessel, named Killarney, would eventually join a strongly defended convoy whose destination was England. Many a seaman had glanced at her motionless sails and felt envy and homesickness like a fever, merely by thinking about it.

  Reaper’s only consort was a small, sturdy brig, Alfriston. Like so many of her hard-worked class, she had started life in the merchant service, until the demands of war had changed her role and her purpose. With the aid of a telescope she could just be seen, well astern of the merchantman, completely becalmed and stern-on, like a helpless moth landed on the water.

  But once rid of their slow-moving charge Reaper would be free, so why was she different from other frigates which had risen above all the setbacks and disasters of war to become legends?

  Perhaps it was her silence. Despite the fact that she carried some one hundred and fifty officers, seamen and marines within her graceful hull, she seemed without life. Only the flap of empty canvas against her spars and shrouds, and the occasional creak of the rudder broke the unnatural stillness. Her decks were clean and, like her hull, freshly painted and well-maintained. Like the other ships which had fought on that September day in 1812, there was barely a mark to reveal the damage she had suffered. Her real damage went far deeper, like guilt. Like shame.

  Aft by the quarterdeck rail Reaper’s captain stood with his arms folded, a stance he often took when he was thinking deeply. He was twenty-seven years old and already a post-captain, with a fair skin which seemed to defy the heat of the Caribbean or the sudden fury of the Atlantic. A serious face: he could have been described as handsome but for the thinness of his mouth. He was a man whom many would call fortunate, and well placed for the next phase of advancement. This had been Reaper’s first operational cruise after completing her repairs in Halifax, and it was his first time in command of her. A necessary step, but he knew full well why he had been appointed. Reaper’s previous captain, who had been old for his rank, a man of great experience who had left the more ordered world of the Honourable East India Company to return to service in the fleet, had fallen victim to the ruthlessness of war. Reaper had been raked at long range by the American’s massive guns, in what was believed to have been a single broadside, although few who were there could clearly remember what had hap
pened. Reaper had been almost totally dismasted, her decks buried under fallen spars and rigging, her company torn apart. Most of her officers, including her gallant captain, had died instantly; where there had been order, there had been only chaos and terror. Amongst the upended guns and splintered decks somebody, whose identity was still unclear, had hauled down the colours. Nearby, the battle had continued until the American frigate Baltimore had drifted out of command, with many of her people either killed or wounded. Commodore Beer’s flagship Unity had been boarded and taken by Bolitho’s seamen and marines. A very close thing, but in a sea-fight there is only one victor.

  Reaper could probably have done nothing more; she had already been passed by and left a drifting wreck. But to those who had fought and survived that day, she was remembered only as the ship which had surrendered while the fight had still raged around her. Their Lordships knew the value of even a small frigate at this decisive stage of the war, and a ship was only as strong as the man who commanded her. Haste, expediency, the need to forget, each had played a part, but even on this bright spring morning, with the sun burning down between the loosely flapping sails, the feeling was still here. Less than half of Reaper’s people were from her original company. Many had died in the battle; others had been too badly wounded to be of any further use. Even so, to the rest of the tightly-knit squadron, Reaper was like an outcast, and her shame was borne by all of them.

  The captain came out of his thoughts and saw the first lieutenant making his way aft, pausing here and there to speak with the working parties. They had grown up in the same town, and had entered the navy as midshipmen at almost the same time. The first lieutenant was an experienced and intelligent officer, despite his youth. If he had one failing, it was his readiness to talk with the hands, even the new, untrained landmen, as if they were on equal terms, or as equal as anyone could be in a King’s ship. That would have to change. Reaper needed to be brought to her proper state of readiness and respect, no matter what it cost. His mouth twitched. There was another link. He had asked for, and obtained, the hand of the first lieutenant’s sister in marriage. His next command would be decided … He broke off as the cry came from aloft. “Signal from Alfriston, sir!”