Cross of St George Page 30

  Adam tried to think without emotion. His uncle was at sea, and the brig Weazle had brought word that he was investigating the whereabouts of some enemy frigates reported heading northeast. They could be anywhere by now. He thought of Keen’s words, winter fast approaching. The fierce, bitter rain, the fogs, the damp between decks. Where had the time gone? It was October, by only a day or two, and yet you could feel it.

  He roused himself from his thoughts and found that Keen was watching him gravely. “Sir Richard, your uncle and my dear friend, is to be withdrawn. That was the main point of the despatches. I shall remain in charge here.”

  Adam was on his feet. “Why, sir?”

  “Why, indeed? I am informed that Sir Alexander Cochrane will be taking over the whole station, which will include the Leeward Squadron. A far bigger fleet will be at his disposal, both for blockade duties and for land operations with the army. In Europe, Napoleon’s armies are in retreat on every front. It is a land war now. Our blockade has served its purpose.” He turned away, and said with the same soft bitterness, “And at what a price.”

  Adam said, “I think Sir Richard should be told without delay.”

  “I need all available frigates here, Adam. I have scarcely a brig available to retain contact with our patrols, let alone watch over enemy movements.”

  “Sir Richard may have been called to action, sir.”

  “D’ you imagine I’ve not thought as much? I couldn’t sleep because of it. But I cannot spare any more ships.”

  Adam said coolly, “I understand, sir. As your flag captain, I am required to advise, and to present conclusions. My uncle would be the very first to steer away from favouritism, or from encouraging action taken purely out of personal involvement.”

  “I hoped you would say that, Adam. If I were free to act …”

  Adam turned away as the same orderly entered with a tray and glasses. “With the General’s compliments, sir.”

  He said, “But you are not free, sir, not so long as your flag is flying above this command.”

  Keen watched the soldier’s steady hand as he poured two large measures of cognac. The general lived well, it seemed.

  Adam held the glass to the light from the window. Already it was as grey as winter, like a symbol of time’s relentless passage.

  Keen swallowed deeply, and coughed to regain his breath. Then he said, “You may go, thank you.” When they were alone again, he said, “The warrants for the two mutineers were presented this morning. Have no fear—I signed them. Sir Richard will be spared that, at least.” It seemed to spark off another memory. “John Urquhart took command today, did he not?”

  Adam said, “Yes. The custom will prevail, sir. Both prisoners will be hanged, run up to the main-yard by their own ship’s company. Reaper’s.”

  Keen nodded almost absently, as if he had been listening to a stranger.

  “I will order Reaper to sea immediately. Captain Urquhart can find Sir Richard and carry my despatches to him. I’ll not begin that ship’s new life with a damned execution!”

  There were voices outside: de Courcey with the next visitors.

  Keen glanced irritably at the door. “There is another matter, Adam. If you would prefer to take another appointment, I would understand. It has not been easy.” He looked at him directly, his eyes very still. “For either of us.”

  Adam was surprised that he did not even hesitate. “I would like to remain with you, sir.” He put down the empty glass. “I shall return to Valkyrie in case I am needed.”

  For the first time, Keen smiled. “You will always be that, Adam. Believe me.”

  The same orderly was waiting for him with his cloak. “Stopped rainin’, sir.”

  He thought of Urquhart, how he would feel when he was ordered to proceed to sea with all possible despatch. Relieved, probably. And of the mutineer, Harry Ramsay, whom he had tried to help, although he had suspected that he was guilty. At least he would be spared the final degradation of being hanged by his own shipmates.

  “A moment, Captain Bolitho!”

  He turned, and as if to a secret signal the front doors swung shut again.

  She was warmly dressed, her cheeks flushed from the cold air. He waited, seeing her as she had been that day when Valkyrie’s powerful broadside had been ready to fire. None of them would have survived, and she would know it.

  He removed his hat, and said, “You are well, Miss St Clair?”

  She did not seem to hear. “Are you remaining as flag captain to Rear-Admiral Keen?”

  So Keen had confided in her. He was again surprised, that he did not care.

  “I am.”

  He glanced down as she laid one hand on his sleeve. “I am so glad. He needs you.” Her eyes did not falter. “And, for his sake, so do I.”

  Adam studied her. He supposed that she would also know about the battle for Lake Erie, and the regiments involved.

  He said, “You have my good wishes.” He allowed himself to smile, to soften it. “Both of you.”

  She walked with him to the door. Then she said, “You knew Rear-Admiral Keen’s wife, I believe?”

  He faced her again. “I was in love with her.” It was madness; she would tell Keen. Then, he was as certain that she would not.

  She nodded: he did not know whether she was satisfied or relieved. “Thank you, Captain … I can understand now why you love your uncle. You are both the same man, in many ways.”

  She tugged off her glove, and it dropped to the floor. Adam stooped to recover it, and she did not see the sudden distress in his eyes.

  He took her hand, and kissed it. “You do me too much honour, Miss St Clair.”

  She waited until the door had been pulled shut behind him. Her father would be impatient to see her, wanting to tell her about his new appointment here in Halifax. It would be good to see him happy, occupied with his work again.

  But all she could think of was the man who had just left her, whose austere face had seemed very young and vulnerable for those few seconds, when he had picked up her glove. Something which even he had been unable to hide. And she was both moved and gladdened by it.

  At four bells of the afternoon watch His Majesty’s Ship Reaper weighed anchor, and under topsails and jib wended her way towards the entrance and the open sea. Many eyes followed her, but no one cheered or wished her well. Captain Adam Bolitho followed her progress until she was lost from view. She was free.

  “Deck there! Boats in the water, dead ahead!”

  Tyacke walked to the compass box and then stopped as eight bells chimed out from the forecastle.

  “I was beginning to wonder, Mr York.”

  The sailing-master rubbed his hands. “By guess and by God, sir. It usually works!”

  Tyacke peered along the length of his ship, the guns lashed firmly behind shuttered ports, men working, not certain what to expect. Indomitable was steering due west, the wind sweeping over the larboard quarter, the spray as heavy and cold as rain.

  He looked aft again and saw Bolitho by the taffrail, not walking but standing, oblivious to the men around him and the marines at the nettings, where they had remained since the attack on the American boats.

  York moved closer and murmured, “What ails the admiral? We prevented the landings, more than most of us dared to hope.”

  Tyacke stared at the horizon, hard, hard blue in the noon light. A sun without warmth, a steady wind to fill the topsails, but without life.

  Even the casualties amongst the squadron had been less than would have been suffered in a straightforward fight. But the Americans had been eager to stand away, unwilling to risk a running battle for no good purpose. If they had rallied and reformed, it would have been a different story. As it was, the frigate Attacker had been dismasted, and the smaller Wildfire had been so badly holed by long-range and well-sighted shots that she had been down by the head when she had finally been taken in tow. Most of the casualties had been in those two ships: thirty killed and many others wounded. It had
been time to discontinue the action and Bolitho had known it. Tyacke had watched his face when the signals had been read out, giving details of damage and casualties. Some might think that the admiral was relieved because Indomitable had not been in the thick of it, and was unmarked. If they believed that they were bloody fools, Tyacke thought.

  He swung round. “What?”

  Lieutenant Daubeny flinched. “I was wondering, sir, about relighting the galley fire …”

  Tyacke controlled his anger with an effort. “Well, wonder away, Mr Daubeny!” He glanced aft again, unable to forget the quiet voice, as if Bolitho had just spoken to him. When he had reported that there were no more boats in the water by the stranded and smoke-shrouded American ship, Bolitho had said, “It was murder, James. Justified in war, but murder for all that. If that was the price of victory, I don’t wish to share a part of it!”

  Tyacke said abruptly, “That was unfair. Pass the word for the purser and arrange an extra tot of rum for all hands. Food too, if there is any, but the galley fire stays out until I know what’s happening.”

  Daubeny said, “I see, sir.”

  Tyacke turned away. “You do not, Mr Daubeny, but no matter.” To York he said, “Sir Richard feels it, Isaac. Cares too much. I’ve not seen him like this before, though.”

  York tucked some dishevelled grey hair beneath his hat. “He’s fair troubled, right enough.”

  Tyacke walked to the compass box and back again. “Let me know when you can see the boats from the deck. It will give the hands something to do when we hoist ’em inboard.” He clapped the master on the shoulder. “A good piece of navigation, Mr York.” He turned as Allday walked aft from the companion. “You know him best, Allday. What do you think?”

  Allday regarded him warily. “It’s not for me to say, sir.” He followed Tyacke’s eyes to the figure by the taffrail, the hero others never saw. So completely alone.

  He made up his mind. The captain was a friend; it was not merely idle curiosity.

  “He knows, sir.” He glanced at the hard, glittering horizon; unlike the admiral, he did not have to shade his eyes. “It’s today, y’ see?”

  Tyacke said sharply, “The Yankees are gone, man. They’ll not be back, not till they’re ready and prepared again. Our ships will reach Halifax and the dock-master will foam at the mouth when he sees all the repairs that need doing!”

  But Allday did not respond, nor did he smile.

  He said, “There’s always the …” He frowned, searching for the word. “The scavenger. My wife’s brother was a line-soldier— he told me. After a battle, men lying wounded, calling out for help, with only the dead to hear them. And then the scavengers would come. To rob them, to answer a cry for help with a cutthroat blade. Scum!”

  Tyacke studied his lined face, aware of the strength of the man. The admiral’s oak. He heard York’s steady breathing beside him. He could feel it too: knew it, the way he read the wind’s direction and the set of the current in the painted sea. Tyacke was not superstitious. At least, he believed he was not.

  Allday was carrying the old sword, which was part of the legend.

  He said quietly, “We’ll fight this day, sir. That’s it an’ all about it!”

  He walked aft, and they saw Bolitho turn toward him, as if they had just met on a street or in some country lane.

  York said uneasily, “How can that be, sir?”

  Allday was saying, “The hands are going to draw a wet, Sir Richard. Can I fetch you something?”

  Bolitho glanced down as he clipped the old sword onto his belt.

  “Not now, old friend.” He smiled with an effort, understanding that Allday needed reassurance. “Afterwards, that would be better.”

  He reached out to touch his arm, and then halted.

  “Deck there! Sail on th’ larboard bow!”

  They were all staring round, some at the empty sea, and others aft towards their officers. Avery was here, a telescope in his hands, his eyes darting between them. To miss nothing, to forget nothing.

  Bolitho said, “Aloft with you, George. In my own mind, I can already see her.” He held up one hand. “Take your time. The people will be watching you.”

  Allday took a deep breath, feeling the old pain in his chest. Scavenger.

  Bolitho knew that Tyacke had turned toward him, and called to him, “Alter course. Steer west by south. That should suffice for the present.”

  He turned away from them, and watched a solitary gull swooping around the quarter gallery. The spirit of some old Jack, Allday thought.

  “Deck there!” Avery was a fast climber, and had a good carrying voice: he had told him that he had been in a church choir in his youth. In that other world. “She’s a frigate, sir! I—I think she’s Retribution!”

  Bolitho murmured, “I know she is, my friend.” He frowned, as Allday’s hand went to his chest. “I’ll not have you suffer for it!”

  He raised his voice. “You may beat to quarters again, Captain Tyacke. We have some old scores to settle today!” He laid his hand on the sword’s hilt at his hip, and it was cold to the touch. “So let us pay them in full!”

  Lieutenant George Avery waited for the motion to ease, and knew that more helm had been applied. He raised his telescope, as he had on the first sight of enemy ships only hours ago. It felt like a lifetime. The same marines were still in the foretop, staring at the oncoming American as her sails emptied and filled violently, while she leaned over to the pressure. She was a heavy-looking frigate under a full press of canvas, the spray bursting beneath her beak-head and as high as the gilded figurehead. The gladiator, a short stabbing-sword glinting in the hard glare.

  The corporal said, “The Yankee’s crossin’ our bows, lads.” But his comment was really intended for the flag lieutenant.

  Avery studied the other ship, forcing himself to take his time, not to see only what he expected to see. The corporal was right. The Retribution would eventually cross from bow to bow; more importantly, she would find herself to leeward of Indomitable’s broadside once they were at close quarters. He estimated it carefully. Three miles at the most. Tyacke had reduced sail to topsails and jib, driver and reefed forecourse, and Indomitable’s progress was steady and unhurried, a floating platform for her twenty-four-pounders.

  He lowered the glass and looked around at his companions. Somehow, they managed to appear very jaunty and smart in their glazed leather hats with the cockade and plume over the left ear. He noticed also that they had all shaved. They were fastidious about such details in the Corps.

  “Won’t be long, lads.” He saw the corporal glance at the swivel-gun, “Betsy.” He would know what to expect. They all did.

  He nodded to them, and lowered himself quickly onto the ratlines. On deck once more, he strode aft, catching the hurried glances from the gun crews, a half-wave from young Protheroe. On this deck, the gun was god. Nothing else mattered but to fire and keep firing, to shut out the sights and the sounds, even when a friend cried out in agony.

  He found Bolitho with Tyacke and the first lieutenant, observing from the quarterdeck. Here, too, the marines had come to life, like scarlet soldiers taken from a box, lining the packed hammock nettings while elsewhere sentries stood guard at hatches or ladders, in case a man’s nerve cracked and terror tore discipline apart.

  Avery touched his hat. “She’s Retribution right enough, Sir Richard. She wears a commodore’s broad-pendant. Fifty guns, at a guess. She changed tack.” He thought of the corporal again, the doubt in his voice. “She’ll lose the wind-gage if she remains on that tack.”

  York said, “She steers nor’-east, sir.” Unruffled. Patient. Bolitho saw him tap the youngest midshipman’s arm as the child reached for the half-hour glass beside the compass box. “Easy, Mr Campbell, don’t warm the glass! I have to write the log, not you!”

  The twelve-year-old midshipman looked embarrassed, and momentarily forgot the growing menace of the American’s tall sails.

  Bolitho took a teles
cope and trained it beyond the bows. Retribution had no intention of altering course, not yet. He studied the other frigate: well-built, like so many French vessels, designed to one standard for the convenience of repair and replacement, not at the whim of an individual shipbuilder like most British men-of-war. When Taciturn and the other damaged ships reached Halifax, they would be hard put to find a mast or a spar that would match any one of them.

  He said, “He is deliberately dropping downwind, James.” He sensed that Daubeny was leaning forward to listen, squinting in concentration.

  Tyacke agreed. “Then he intends to use the extra elevation the wind gives him to fire at full range.” He glanced up at the braced yards, the flag and pendant streaming towards the enemy, and said grimly, “He’ll try for our spars and rigging.”

  Avery turned away. The corporal had seen it, but had not fully understood. Both Bolitho and Tyacke must accept it.

  Bolitho said, “Chain-shot, James?”

  Tyacke shook his head. “I did hear they were using langridge, that damnable case-shot. If so …” He swung away as though to consult the compass again.

  Bolitho said to Avery, “It can cripple a ship before she can fight back.” He saw the concern in Avery’s tawny eyes, but he did not fully comprehend. Damnable, Tyacke had termed it. It was far worse than that. Packed into a thin case, each shot contained bars of jagged iron, loosely linked together so that when they burst into a ship’s complex web of rigging they could tear it to pieces in one screaming broadside.

  He saw Tyacke gesturing to the gun crews and making some point urgently to Daubeny with each jab of his finger.

  That was the advantage of langridge; but against that, it took far longer to sponge and worm out each gun afterwards to avoid a fresh charge exploding in the muzzle as it was rammed home. It took time, and Tyacke would know it.

  Bolitho rubbed his damaged eye and felt it ache in response. If I were James, what would I do? He was astonished that he could even smile, recalling that almost forgotten admiral who had met his pleading for a command with the withering retort, Were a frigate captain, Bolitho …