Cross of St George Read online

  Two army officers strode past the closed doors, their noisy laughter dying instantly when they realized what was happening within. Herrick frowned. “These observations are in my personal report, which will be presented to Their Lordships.” His eyes shifted to Bolitho. “When I am gone from here.”

  The frigate Wakeful had been taking on stores and water as he had been pulled ashore. Her work done on this station, she would be speeding back to England for fresh orders. Herrick would be taking passage in her again. Being “entertained.”

  Herrick glanced at a tumbler of water, but apparently rejected the idea. “My considered conclusion in this miserable affair is that the two ringleaders, Alick Nisbet, Master-at-Arms, and Harry Ramsay, maintopman and able-bodied seaman, are detained, with a recommendation for the maximum penalty.”

  Bolitho saw Adam clenching his fists until the knuckles were drained of blood beneath the tanned skin. He had heard about the man Ramsay, once of Anemone, whose mutilated back was living proof of the ship’s punishment book. The other man was a surprise: the master-at-arms was the symbol of discipline and, when necessary, punishment aboard any King’s ship, and he was usually hated for it.

  And now the rest. He wanted to stand up and speak on behalf of the men he did not even know, but it would have damaged whatever frail hope they might still have.

  Herrick continued, “My further instruction is that all the other seamen and landmen involved be returned to their duties forthwith. They have suffered enough, and yet, when called, they would not, could not fire upon ships of this navy, no matter what the refusal would have cost them.”

  Tyacke exclaimed, “Hell’s teeth! They’ll crucify him when he gets back to London!” He turned and looked at Bolitho, his eyes revealing a rare emotion. “I would never have believed it!”

  Herrick said with no change of expression, “I will insist that a new captain be appointed to Reaper without delay.” He glanced at Bolitho, then at Keen. “That responsibility must be yours.”

  Keen stood. “My flag captain has already suggested such an officer for promotion, sir. Lieutenant John Urquhart.” He paused. “I will support it, sir.”

  Herrick said, “Can you manage without him?”

  Keen looked at Adam, who made a gesture of agreement, and said, “We will, sir.”

  Herrick beckoned to the clerk and the major of marines.

  “Sign after my signature.” He straightened his back, and winced. “It is done.” Then he said shortly, “I wish to speak to Sir Richard Bolitho. Alone.”

  It seemed an age before the others had filed out, and the room was silent.

  Bolitho said, “You did that for me, Thomas.”

  Herrick said, “I would relish a glass—a wet, as that rascal All-day calls it.” Then he looked up at him, searching for something, and finding it. “I have nothing to lose, Richard. My flag will never fly again after this last passage. Maybe we shall meet again, but I think not. The navy is a family—you have often said as much. Once released from it, you become ordinary, like a ship laid up.”

  A horse clattered noisily across the yard by the gates, reminding Bolitho poignantly of Catherine and her Tamara. How would he tell her, describe to her all that Herrick had said, and had thrown away …

  Herrick walked to the doors, his shoulder angled stiffly, his face clearly showing the pain of his wound. He said, “You have everything to lose, as would all those godforsaken souls who depend on you, and those like you.” He added bitterly, “Though I’ve yet to meet one!”

  An invisible hand opened the doors, and Bolitho saw Avery waiting for him, his tawny eyes moving between them, trying to understand.

  “We have had a messenger from the lookout, Sir Richard. The brig Weazle is entering harbour. She has signalled that the American vessels have left Boston with others from New York. They are steering north-east.”

  Bolitho said quietly, “So they’re coming out. Pass the word to Captain Tyacke, George. I shall be aboard as soon as I can.” Avery hurried away, but stopped uncertainly and stared back at them.

  Herrick said, “Listen! Cheering! How could they know already?”

  They walked down the steps together, while the cheering rolled across the harbour like one great voice.

  Bolitho said, “They always know, Thomas. The family, remember?”

  Herrick looked back toward the barracks, his eyes suddenly, deeply fatigued.

  “Take good care, Richard.” He touched his sleeve. “I shall raise a glass to you when that young puppy hauls anchor for England!”

  At the jetty they found Allday standing at the tiller of the admiral’s barge with the crew grouped on the stairs, grinning hugely. Their places had been taken by officers, three of them captains, including Adam.

  Herrick held out his hand to Tyacke. “Your work, I presume, sir?”

  Tyacke did not smile. “All we could do at such short notice.”

  Bolitho followed him down the stairs, recalling Tyacke’s words. They’ll crucify him. But Herrick would have his way. Perhaps the “damned little upstart” Bethune had used his influence. He would know the man he had served as a midshipman better than many, and perhaps had attempted to help by subtle means.

  Allday had seen Herrick’s face and said awkwardly, “I don’t get too many chances to tell the officers what to do, an’ that’s no error!” Then he said, “Good luck, Mr Herrick.” Just for those seconds they were back on board Phalarope, young lieutenant and pressed man.

  The barge pulled away, the stroke surprisingly smart and regular. As they wended between the anchored men-of-war the cheering escorted them, some of it from Reaper herself. And this time Herrick did look back, although it was doubtful if he could see anything.

  Bolitho turned away, and saw that Keen was speaking quietly with Gilia St Clair. And suddenly, he was glad for them.

  “Call a boat, James. Sailing orders.”

  Tyacke was gazing impassively after the barge. “Aye, Sir Richard. But first …”

  Bolitho smiled, but shared the unspoken sadness. “A wet. So be it.”

  15 NO DIN OF WAR

  RICHARD BOLITHO flattened the chart very carefully on his table and opened a pair of brass dividers. He could feel the others watching him, Avery standing by the stern windows, Yovell seated comfortably in a chair, paper and pens within easy reach as always.

  Bolitho said, “Two days, and we’ve sighted nothing.” He studied the chart again, imagining his ships as they might appear to a cruising sea bird: five frigates sailing in line abreast, with Indomitable, the flagship, in the centre. The extended line of frigates, half of his entire force, could scan a great expanse of ocean in this formation. The sky was clear, with only a few streaks of pale cloud, the sea a darker blue in the cool sunlight.

  He thought of the solitary patrolling frigate, Chivalrous, which had sent the brig Weazle to Halifax with the news that the Americans were on the move again. In his mind’s eye he could see Chivalrous’s captain, Isaac Lloyd, an experienced officer, twenty-eight years old. He would be trying to keep the enemy in view, but would have sense enough not to be trapped into engaging them.

  Two days, so where were they? In the approaches to Halifax, or out further still towards St John’s in Newfoundland? He had discussed various possibilities with Tyacke and York. When he had suggested the Bay of Fundy to the north-west of Nova Scotia, York had been adamant.

  “Unlikely, sir. The bay has the world’s highest tides, twice a day for good measure. If I was the Yankee commander I wouldn’t want to get trapped in the middle of that!”

  Bolitho had been warned of the situation in the Bay of Fundy. His Admiralty Instructions had already stated that the tides could rise and fall as much as fifty feet and more, with the added risk to smaller vessels of fierce tidal bores. No place to risk a frigate, even the large Americans. Or Indomitable.

  He thought of Herrick, on his way now across the Atlantic to throw his findings in someone’s face at the Admiralty. Had he been glad to leave
, after all? Or deep inside, was the old, tenacious Herrick still hating what amounted to a dismissal from the only life he knew?

  It had obviously had a great effect on Tyacke. He had been more withdrawn than ever after Herrick had been taken out to the frigate which was to carry him back to England.

  He tossed the dividers onto the chart. Perhaps this was all a waste of time, or worse, another ruse to draw them away from something more important.

  He walked to the stern windows, and felt the ship lifting and leaning beneath him. That, too, he could see in his mind, Indomitable close-hauled on the larboard tack, the wind holding from the south-east as it had for most of the time since they had weighed anchor. Adam was openly fretting at having been left at Halifax, but Valkyrie was their second most powerful frigate: Keen might need her.

  Adam had not hesitated in recommending his first lieutenant for promotion to the questionable command of Reaper. A challenge for any man, but Adam had said bluntly, “I’d have taken her myself, had I been free to do so.” Were things between him and Val so strained?

  Avery said gently, “We could have missed them overnight, Sir Richard.”

  “If they were looking for us, I think not.” Bolitho dismissed the thoughts, and recalled himself to the matter at hand. “Ask Mr York to let me see his notes again, will you?”

  The cabin was tilting over once more, and the brass dividers clattered onto the deck. Yovell tried to lean down to recover them, but the angle was so extreme that he sank back in his chair and mopped his face with a bright red handkerchief. But lively or not, the Old Indom was riding it well. As York had remarked with his usual cheerful confidence, “Like a bald-headed barque she is, Sir Richard. Stiff in any wind and stiff when she’s not!”

  Yovell said suddenly, “You could describe me as a civilian, could you not, Sir Richard? Despite the warlike surroundings, and our way of life, I am not truly bound to the niceties and traditions of sea officers?”

  Bolitho smiled at him. He never changed. Not even in that wretched longboat, when his hands had been raw and bleeding from pulling on an oar with the others. With Catherine.

  “I hope you remain so.”

  Yovell frowned, then polished his small gold-rimmed spectacles, something he often did when he was pondering a problem.

  “Mr Avery is your flag lieutenant—he stands between you and the captain and serves both.” He breathed on his spectacles again. “He is loyal to both. He would never speak behind the captain’s back, because you are friends. It would seem like a betrayal of trust, and the association which has grown between them.” He smiled gently. “Between all of us, if I may say so, Sir Richard.”

  There was complete silence from the pantry. Ozzard would be there, listening.

  “If it troubles you, then tell me. I felt something was amiss myself.” He turned towards the sea again. Yovell’s remark had touched him more than he cared to accept, reminding him uncomfortably of Herrick’s comments on the Happy Few. In truth, there were not many left now. Keverne, who had once commanded this ship; Charles Farquhar, once a midshipman like Bethune, who had been killed aboard his own command at Corfu. And dear Francis Inch, eager, horse-faced, married to such a pretty woman at Weymouth. Her name was Hannah …He recalled it with effort. And so many others. John Neale. Browne, with an “e,” and Avery’s predecessor, Stephen Jenour. So many. Too many. And all dead.

  He turned from the light as Yovell said quietly, “Captain Tyacke received a letter in Halifax. It was in the bag delivered by the schooner Reynard.”

  “Bad news?”

  Yovell replaced his spectacles with care. “I am told that it had travelled far. As is often the way with the fleet’s mail.”

  Bolitho stared at him. Of course. Tyacke never received letters. Like Avery, until he had been sent one by his lady in London. It was so typical of Avery to remain silent, even if he knew the cause of Tyacke’s withdrawal. He would understand. Just as he had understood Adam’s anguish at having been a prisoner of war.

  “Is it all over the ship?”

  “Only the flag lieutenant knows, sir.”

  Bolitho touched his eyelid, and recalled the gown Catherine had been given when Larne finally found them. When she had returned it to Tyacke, she had expressed the wish that it might be worn by someone worthy of him …

  He clenched his fist. Surely not the same woman? It could not be; why, after so long, and after the cruel way she had rejected him, and his disfigured face? But in his heart, he knew that it was.

  He saw Catherine, as clearly as if he had looked at her locket. They had no secrets. He knew of her visits to London, and that she occasionally consulted Sillitoe for his advice on investing the money from Spain; he trusted her completely, as she trusted him. But what if … He thought of Tyacke’s silence and reticence, the reawakened pain that must be hidden. What if … Catherine needed to be loved, just as she needed to return love.

  “If I spoke out of turn, Sir Richard …”

  Bolitho said, “You did not. It is good to be reminded sometimes of things that truly matter, and those who are out of reach.”

  Yovell was reassured, and glad that he had spoken out. As a civilian.

  The other door opened and Ozzard padded into the cabin, a coffee pot in his hands.

  “Is that the last of it, Ozzard?”

  Ozzard glanced severely at the pot. “No, Sir Richard. Two weeks more, at most. After that …”

  Avery returned to the cabin, and Bolitho saw him waiting while he took a cup from the tray, gauging the moment when the ship staggered through a confusion of broken crests. Ozzard had poured a cup for the flag lieutenant, almost grudgingly. What did he think about; what occupied his mind in all the months and years he had been at sea? A man who had obliterated his past, but, like Yovell, an educated one, who could read classical works, and had the handwriting of a scholar. It seemed as if he wanted no future, either.

  Bolitho took the notes Avery had brought, and said, “One more day. We might fall in with a courier from Halifax. Rear-Admiral Keen may have more news.”

  Avery asked, “These American ships, sir—will they wish to challenge us?”

  “Whatever they intend, George, I shall need every trick we can muster. Just as I will need all of my officers to be at their best, if fight we must.”

  Avery glanced at Yovell, and lowered his voice. “You know about the captain’s letter, sir?”

  “Yes. Now I do, and I appreciate and respect your feelings, and your reluctance to discuss it.” He paused. “However, James Tyacke is not only the captain of my flagship, he is the ship, no matter how he might dispute that!”

  “Yes. I am sorry, Sir Richard. I thought—”

  “Don’t be sorry. Loyalty comes in many guises.”

  They looked at the door as the sentry called, “First lieutenant, sir!”

  Lieutenant John Daubeny stepped into the cabin, his slim figure angled in the entrance like that of a drunken sailor.

  “The captain’s respects, Sir Richard. Taciturn has signalled. Sail in sight to the nor’-west.”

  Avery remarked quietly, “She’ll have a hard beat to reach us, sir.”

  “One of ours, you believe?”

  Avery nodded. “Chivalrous. Must be her. She’d soon turn and run with the wind otherwise.”

  Bolitho smiled unconsciously at his judgment. “I agree. My compliments to the captain, Mr Daubeny. Make a signal. General. To be repeated to all our ships. Close on flag.”

  He could see them, tiny dabs of colour as the flags broke from their yards, to be repeated to the next vessel even though she might barely be in sight. The chain of command, the overall responsibility. Daubeny waited, noting everything, to go in the next letter to his mother.

  Bolitho glanced up at the skylight. Tyacke with his ship. A man alone, perhaps now more than ever.

  “I shall come up at seven bells, Mr Daubeny.”

  But the first lieutenant had gone, the signal already hoisted.

  H
e touched the locket beneath his shirt.

  Stay close, dear Kate. Don’t leave me.

  They met with the 30-gun frigate Chivalrous in late afternoon, Indomitable and her consorts having made more sail to hasten the rendezvous. It would also ensure that Captain Isaac Lloyd could board the flagship with time to return to his own command before nightfall, or in case the wind freshened enough to prevent the use of a boat.

  Lloyd was only twenty-eight but had the face of an older, more seasoned officer, with dark, steady eyes and pointed features that gave him the demeanour of a watchul fox. He used the chart in Bolitho’s cabin, his finger jabbing at the various positions which York had already estimated.

  “Six of them all told. I could scarce believe my eyes, Sir Richard. Probably all frigates, including a couple of large ones.” He jabbed the chart again. “I signalled Weazle to make all haste to Halifax, but I fully expected the Yankees to try and put a stop to it.” He gave a short, barking laugh: a fox indeed, Bolitho thought. “It was as if we did not exist. They continued to the nor’-east, cool as you please. I decided to harry the rearmost one, so I set me royals and t’gallants and chased them. That changed things. A few signals were exchanged, and then the rearmost frigate opened fire with her chasers. I had to admit, Sir Richard, it was damn’ good shootin’.”

  Bolitho sensed Tyacke beside him, listening, perhaps considering how he might have reacted in Lloyd’s shoes. Yovell was writing busily and did not raise his head. Avery was holding some of York’s notes, although he was not reading, and his face was set in a frown.

  Lloyd said, “It got a bit too warm, and I reduced sail. Not before that damn Yankee had brought down a spar and punched my forecourse full of holes. I thought that maybe he’d been ordered to fall back and engage Chivalrous. I would have accepted that, I think. But I says to meself, no, he don’t intend to fight, not now, anyways.”