Cross of St George Read online

  He recalled their host, Benjamin Massie, that night when the brig Alfriston had brought the news of Reaper’s mutiny and capture. Massie’s mistress then, and perhaps the mistress of others as well.

  “I wish you well, ma’am.” He recovered his hat from a chair, and said to the shopkeeper, “When I check my ship’s affairs against my watch, I shall remember you and this shop.”

  She was waiting on the steps. “Remember what I have said to you.” She studied his face, as if seeking something in it. “You have lost that which you can never rediscover. You must accept that.” She touched the gold lace on his lapel. “Life must still be lived.”

  She turned away, and as Adam stepped aside to avoid a mounted trooper, she vanished.

  He walked back toward the boat jetty. Be very careful. He quickened his pace as he caught sight of the water and the great array of masts and spars, like a forest. Whatever action they took, it would be Keen’s decision: he had made that more than clear. But why did it hurt so much?

  He thought suddenly of his uncle, and wished he could be with him. They could always talk; he would always listen. He had even confessed his affair with Zenoria to him.

  He saw the stairs and Valkyrie’s gig moored alongside. Midshipman Rickman, a lively fifteen-year-old, was speaking with two young women who were doing little to hide their profession from the grinning boat’s crew.

  Rickman straightened his hat and the gig’s crew came to attention when they saw their captain approaching. The two girls moved away, but not very far.

  Adam said, “Back to the ship, if you please, Mr Rickman. I see that you were not wasting your time?”

  Two blotches of scarlet appeared on the youth’s unshaven cheeks, and Adam climbed quickly into the boat. If only you knew.

  He glanced toward the captured American frigate and the other, Success, which Indomitable’s broadsides had overwhelmed in minutes, recalling the young lieutenant who had died of his wounds, son of the Captain Joseph Brice who had interviewed him during his captivity. A sick but dignified officer, who had treated him with a courtesy reminiscent of Nathan Beer. He wondered if Brice knew, and would blame himself for guiding his son into the navy.

  Face to face, blade to blade with men who spoke the same language but who had freely chosen another country …Perhaps it was better to have an enemy you could hate. In war, it was necessary to hate without questioning why.

  “Oars up!”

  He stood and reached for the hand-rope. He had barely noticed the return journey to Valkyrie.

  He saw the flag lieutenant hovering by the entry port, waiting to catch his eye. He raised his hat to the quarterdeck, and smiled.

  It was, of course, easier to hate some more than others.

  Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen turned away from Valkyrie’s stern windows as Adam, followed by the flag lieutenant, entered the great cabin.

  “I came as soon as I could, sir. I was ashore.”

  Keen said gently, “It is no great matter. You should have more leisure.” He glanced at the flag lieutenant. “Thank you, Lawford. You may carry on with the signals we discussed.”

  The door closed, reluctantly, Adam thought. “More news, sir?”

  Keen seemed unsettled. “Not exactly. But the plans have changed. Success is to leave for Antigua. I have spoken with the Dock Master, and I can see we have no choice in the matter. Halifax is crammed with vessels needing overhaul and repair, and Success was in a very poor condition after her clash with Indomitable—as much due to severe rot as to Captain Tyacke’s gunnery, I suspect.”

  Adam waited. Keen was trying to make light of it. Success was badly damaged, yes, but would sail well enough after work was completed on her rigging. But Antigua, two thousand miles away, and in the hurricane season … It was taking a chance.

  “There is another big convoy due within a week or so, supplies and equipment for the army, nothing unusual in that. Sir Richard intends to take Indomitable and two others of the squadron to escort them on the final approach. There is a possibility that the Americans might attack and attempt to scatter or sink some of them.” He regarded him calmly. “Success must have a strong consort.” He glanced around the cabin. “This ship is large enough to fight off any foolhardy privateer who might want to take her.” He smiled thinly. “And fast enough to get back to Halifax, in case of more trouble.”

  Adam walked to the table, and hesitated as he saw the miniature lying beside Keen’s open log book. It took him completely by surprise, and he scarcely heard Keen say, “I am required to remain here. I command in Halifax. The rest of our ships may be needed elsewhere.”

  He could not take his eyes from the miniature, recognizing the subject at once. The smile, which had been painted for someone else to cherish, to keep.

  Keen said abruptly, “It will be nothing to you, Adam. Certain other commanders, I would have to consider more carefully. Success will be safer in English Harbour. At best, she can be used as a guard-ship, and at worst, her spars and weapons will be put to good use there. What do you say?”

  Adam faced him, angry that he could not accept it, that he himself had no right to refuse.

  “I think it’s too risky, sir.”

  Keen seemed surprised. “You, Adam? You talk of risk? To the world at large it will merely be the departure of two big frigates, and even if enemy intelligence discovers their destination, what then? It will be too late to act upon it, surely.”

  Adam touched the heavy watch in his pocket, remembering the small shop, the peaceful chorus of clocks, the owner’s matter-of-fact mention of Valkyrie, almost to the time of her departure.

  He said bluntly, “There is no security here, sir. I shall be away for a month. Anything could happen in that time.”

  Keen smiled, perhaps relieved. “The war will keep, Adam. I trust you with this mission because I want you to carry orders to the captain in charge at Antigua. A difficult man in many ways. He needs to be reminded of the fleet’s requirements there.”

  He saw Adam’s eyes move to the miniature once more. “An endearing young lady. Courageous, too.” He paused. “I know what you are thinking. My loss is hard to believe, harder still to accept.”

  Adam clenched his fists so tightly that the bones ached. You don’t understand. How can you forget her? Betray her?

  He said, “I will make all the arrangements, sir. I’ll pick a prize crew from spare hands at the base.”

  “Who will you put in charge of Success? ”

  Adam contained his anger with an almost physical effort. “John Urquhart, sir. A good first lieutenant—I’m surprised he hasn’t been chosen for promotion, or even a command.”

  The door opened an inch, and de Courcey coughed politely.

  Keen said sharply, “What is it?”

  “Your barge is ready, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Keen picked up the miniature, and after a moment’s hesitation placed it in a drawer and turned the key. “I shall be aboard later. I’ll send word.” He looked at him steadily. “The day after tomorrow, then.”

  Adam thrust his hat beneath his arm. “I’ll see you over the side, sir.”

  Keen nodded to two midshipmen who sprang out of his way by the companion ladder. “I’d be obliged if you would take my flag lieutenant with you when you sail. Good experience. See how the professionals do things.” He seemed about to say something else, but changed his mind.

  As the barge pulled away from Valkyrie’s shadow, Adam saw the first lieutenant walking across the quarterdeck in deep conversation with Ritchie, the sailing-master.

  They eyed him as he approached, and Adam was again reminded that he did not truly know these men, just as he accepted that it was his own fault.

  “Come forward with me, Mr Urquhart.” To the master he added, “You’ve been told, I take it.”

  “Aye, sir. The Leeward Islands again. Bad time o’ year.” But Adam was already out of earshot, striding along the starboard gangway with Urquhart in step beside him. Below, men working
at the gun tackles or flaking down unwanted cordage paused only briefly to glance up at them.

  Adam halted on the forecastle deck and rested one foot on a crouching carronade, the “smasher,” as the Jacks called them. Opposite them lay the captured Success, and although her side and upperworks still bore the scars of Indomitable’s iron, her masts were set up, with men working on the yards to secure each new sail. They had done well to achieve so much in so short a time. And beyond her, the beautiful Chesapeake, and Reaper swinging, untroubled, to her cable. Did ships know or care who handled, or betrayed, or loved them?

  Urquhart said, “If the weather stays friendly, we’ll not have much trouble, sir.”

  Adam leaned over the rail, past one great catted anchor to the imposing gilded figurehead: one of Odin’s faithful servants, a stern-faced maiden in breastplate and horned helmet, one hand raised as if to welcome her dead hero to Valhalla. It was not beautiful. He tried to thrust the thought aside. Not like Anemone. But through the smoke and the din of war, it would certainly impress an enemy.

  “I want you to take charge of Success. You will have a prize crew, but only enough hands to work the ship. Her fighting ability has not yet been determined.”

  He watched the lieutenant’s face, strong, intelligent, but still wary of his captain. Not afraid, but unsure.

  “Now hear me, Mr Urquhart, and keep what I ask of you to yourself. If I hear one word from elsewhere it will lie at your door, understood?”

  Urquhart nodded, his eyes very calm. “You can rely on that.”

  Adam touched his arm. “I rely on you.”

  He thought suddenly of the miniature of Gilia St Clair. Her smile, which Keen had appropriated as his own.

  “Now, this is what you must do.”

  But even as he spoke, his mind still clung to it. Perhaps Keen was right. After the battle, losing his ship and the agony of imprisonment, there was always a chance of becoming crippled by caution.

  When he had finished explaining what he required, Urquhart said, “May I ask you, sir, have you never feared being killed?”

  Adam smiled a little, and turned his back on the figurehead.

  “No.” He saw John Whitmarsh walking along the deck beside one of the new midshipmen, who was about his own age. They both seemed to sense his eyes upon them and paused to peer up into the sun at the shadows on the forecastle. The midshipman touched his hat; Whitmarsh raised one hand in a gesture which was not quite a wave.

  Urquhart remarked, “You certainly have a way with youngsters, sir.”

  Adam looked at him, the smile gone. “Your question, John. It is true to say that I have … died … many times. Does that suit?”

  It was probably the closest they had ever been.

  12 CODE OF CONDUCT

  LIEUTENANT George Avery leaned back in his chair and put one foot on his sea-chest as if to test the ship’s movement. In the opposite corner of the small, screened cabin Allday sat on another chest, his big hands clasped together, frowning, as he tried to remember exactly what Avery had read to him.

  Avery could see it as if he had left England only yesterday, and not the five months ago it was in fact. The inn at Fallow-field by the Helford River, the long walks in the countryside, untroubled by conversation with people who only spoke because they were cooped up with you in a man-of-war. Good food, time to think. To remember …

  He thought now of his own letter, and wondered why he had told the admiral about her. More surprising still, that Bolitho had seemed genuinely pleased about it, although doubtless he thought his flag lieutenant was hoping for too much. A kiss and a promise. He could not imagine what Bolitho might have said if he had told him all that had happened on that single night in London. The mystery, the wildness, and the peace, when they had lain together, exhausted. For his own part, stunned that it could have been real.

  His thoughts came back to Allday, and he said, “So there you are. Your little Kate is doing well. I must buy her something before we leave Halifax.”

  Allday did not look up. “So small, she was. No bigger than a rabbit. Now she’s walking, you say? ”

  “Unis says.” He smiled. “And I’ll lay odds that she fell over a few times before she got her proper sea-legs.”

  Allday shook his head. “I would have liked to see it, them first steps. I never seen anything like that afore.” He seemed troubled, rather than happy. “I should’ve been there.”

  Avery was moved by what he saw. Perhaps it would be useless to point out that Bolitho had offered to leave him ashore, secure in his own home, after years of honourable service. It would be an insult. He recalled Catherine’s obvious relief that Allday was staying with her man. Maybe she sensed that his “oak” had never been more needed.

  Avery listened to the regular groan of timbers as Indomitable thrust through a criss-cross of Atlantic rollers. They should have made contact with the Halifax-bound convoy yesterday, but even the friendly Trades could not always be relied upon. This was a war of supply and demand, and it was always the navy who supplied. No wonder men were driven to despair by separation and hardships which few landsmen could ever appreciate.

  He heard the clatter of dishes from the wardroom, somebody laughing too loudly at some bawdy joke already heard too often. He glanced at the white screen. And beyond there, right aft, the admiral would be thinking and planning, no doubt with the scholarly Yovell waiting to record and copy instructions and orders for each of the captains, from flagship to brig, from schooner to bomb ketch. Faces he had come to know, men he had come to understand. All except the one who would be uppermost in his mind, the dead captain of Reaper. Bolitho would regard the mutiny as something personal, and the captain’s tyranny a flaw that should have been removed before it was too late.

  Justice, discipline, revenge. It could not be ignored.

  And what of Keen, perhaps the last of the original Happy Few? Was his new interest in Gilia St Clair merely a passing thing? Avery thought of the woman in his arms, his need of her. He was no one to judge Keen.

  He looked up as familiar footsteps moved across the quarterdeck. Tyacke, visiting the watchkeepers before darkness closed around them and their two consorts. If the convoy failed to appear at first light, what then? They were some five hundred miles from the nearest land. A decision would have to be made. But not by me. Nor even by Tyacke. It would fall, as always, to that same man in his cabin aft. The admiral.

  He had not mentioned the letter to Tyacke: Tyacke would probably know. But Avery respected his privacy, and had come to like him greatly, more than he would have believed possible after their first stormy confrontation at Plymouth more than two years ago. Tyacke had never received a letter from anyone. Did he ever look for one, ever dare to hope for such a precious link with home?

  He handed Unis’s letter to Allday, and hoped that he had read it in the manner he had intended. Allday, a man who could recognize any hoist of signals by their colours or their timing, whom he had watched patiently instructing some hapless landman or baffled midshipman in the art of splicing and rope-work, who could carve a ship model so fine that even the most critical Jack would nod admiringly, could not read. Nor could he write. It seemed cruel, unfair.

  There was a tap on the door and Ozzard looked in. “Sir Richard’s compliments, sir. Would you care to lay aft for a glass?” He purposefully ignored Allday.

  Avery nodded. He had been expecting the invitation, and hoping that it would come.

  Ozzard added sharply, “You too, of course. If you’re not too busy.”

  Avery watched. Another precious fragment: Ozzard’s rudeness matched only by Allday’s awakening grin. He could have killed the little man with his elbow. They knew each other’s strength, weakness too, in all likelihood. Maybe they even knew his.

  His thoughts dwelled again on the letter in his pocket. Perhaps she had written it out of pity, or embarrassment at what had happened. She could never realize in ten thousand years what that one letter had meant to him. Just a f
ew sentences, simple sentiments, and wishes for his future. She had ended, Your affectionate friend, Susanna.

  That was all. He straightened his coat and opened the door for Allday. It was everything.

  But Avery was a practical man. Susanna, Lady Mildmay, an admiral’s widow, would not remain alone for long. Perhaps could not. She had rich friends, and he had seen for himself the confidence, born of experience, she had displayed at the reception attended by Bolitho’s wife and by Vice-Admiral Bethune. He could recall her laugher when he had mistaken Bethune’s mistress for his wife. Is that all I could hope for?

  Susanna was available now. She would soon forget that night in London with her lowly lieutenant. At the same time, he was already composing the letter he would write to her, the first he had written to anyone but his sister. There was no one else now.

  He walked aft towards the spiralling lantern, the rigid Royal Marine sentry outside the screen doors.

  Allday murmured, “I wonder what Sir Richard wants.”

  Avery paused, hearing the ship, and the ocean all around them.

  He answered simply, “He needs us. I know very well what that means.”

  It was cold on the quarterdeck, with only the smallest hint of the daylight which would soon show itself and open up the sea.

  Bolitho gripped the quarterdeck rail, feeling the wind on his face and in his hair, his boat-cloak giving him anonymity for a while longer.

  It was a time of day he had always found fascinating as a captain in his own ship. A vessel coming alive beneath his feet, dark figures moving like ghosts, most of them so used to their duties that they performed them without conscious thought even in complete darkness. The morning watch went about their affairs, while the watch below cleaned the messdecks and stowed away the hammocks in the nettings, with barely an order being passed. Bolitho could smell the stench of the galley funnel; the cook must surely use axle-grease for his wares. But sailors had strong stomachs. They needed them.