Cross of St George Read online

  The convoy had never reached the Bermudas. Every ship must have been taken, or sunk.

  When he met Keen, he would discover his real thoughts on the matter. The disaster had happened a few days after he had hoisted his flag in Valkyrie; there was nothing he could have done. But what of Dawes, acting-commodore until Keen’s arrival? Perhaps he had had his own reasons for allowing merchantmen to venture unprotected into an area which had become a hunting ground for enemy men-of-war and privateers alike.

  He had consulted Tyacke, and Tyacke had not hesitated. “Thinking too much of keeping his house in good order. I’m told that promotion can sometimes do that to a man.” Hard and blunt, like himself. Tyacke had even been scornful about his two new epaulettes. He had been promoted to post-captain, for rank only, the usual requirement of three years’ service as captain having been waived as a mark of favour. “I’m still the same man, Sir Richard. I think Their Lordships have a different set of values!” He had relented slightly. “But I know your hand was in it, and that I do respect.”

  Yes, it had surprised Bolitho that his return had, after all, been like a homecoming. And, despite what he hoped for, it was here that he belonged.

  He had described the attack on Royal Herald and had watched Tyacke’s scarred face, thoughtful, assessing each small piece of information and relating it to what he knew.

  A prolonged bombardment, to catch and destroy the transport before she could find refuge in darkness. No one had heard the sound of a single shot fired in reply, not even a gesture or a final show of defiance. Nothing. It had been calculated murder. Had it been a trap set for Royal Enterprise? For him? Was it possible that a single mind had planned it so carefully, only to see it misfire through a fluke in the weather and an accident?

  He had searched through every report Keen had gathered for him, knowing that they would be the first thing his admiral would want to see. Unless another man like Nathan Beer was abroad and at sea, unknown and undetected by the local patrols, which had been ordered to watch for any sudden ship movements, his theory seemed unlikely. But, so too was coincidence.

  They wanted you dead.

  Not another Nathan Beer, then. Perhaps there was no such officer with his wealth of experience and sense of honour. Beer had been a sailor first and foremost: to kill defenceless men, unable to resist, had never been his way. He wondered if his widow in Newburyport had received Beer’s sword, which Bolitho himself had sent to her. Would she care? He found himself staring at the old family sword lying on its rack, where it received Allday’s regular attention. Would that help Catherine, if the worst happened? He thought of the portrait she had commissioned for him. The real Catherine, she had called it. The painter had caught her exactly as she had wanted to be remembered, in the rough seaman’s clothing she had worn in the open boat. Perhaps she would cherish the old sword …

  The door opened slightly, shaking him from his unwelcome thoughts, and Avery peered into the cabin. The brief stay in England had affected him deeply, Bolitho thought. He had always been withdrawn: now he had become remote, troubled and introspective. Bolitho had too much respect for George Avery to pry into it, and they had shared danger too often not to know that this unspoken understanding of one another was an anchor for them both.

  Avery said, “Signal from Valkyrie, Sir Richard. Rear-Admiral Keen is about to come over to us.”

  “Tell Captain Tyacke, will you?”

  Avery said gently, “He knows.”

  Bolitho reached for his heavy uniform coat. Irrationally, he disliked wearing it when he was working in his quarters, perhaps because he sometimes believed that it influenced his decisions, and made him think more like an admiral than a man.

  It was true: Tyacke did seem to know everything that was happening in his ship. Maybe that was how he had overcome his resentment, fear, even, of taking command or becoming flag captain after the private world of Larne. The purser, James Viney, had been discharged as sick and unfit for further service at sea, and Bolitho suspected that Tyacke had guessed from the outset that Viney had been falsifying his accounts in connivance with equally dishonest chandlers. It was a common enough failing, but some captains were content to let it rest. Not James Tyacke.

  He allowed his mind to stray again to the attack. Suppose it had been solely to kill him? He found that he could accept it, but the motive was something else. No single man could make so much difference. Nelson had been the only one to win an overwhelming victory by inspiration alone after he himself had fallen, mortally wounded.

  Avery said abruptly, “I meant to tell you, Sir Richard.” He glanced round, caught off-guard by the tramp of boots as the Royal Marines prepared to receive their visitor with full honours. “It can wait.”

  Bolitho sat on the corner of the table. “I think it will not. It has been tearing you to pieces. Good or bad, a confidence often helps to share the load.”

  Avery shrugged. “I was at a reception in London.” He tried to smile. “I was like a fish out of water.” The smile would not come. “Your … Lady Bolitho was there. We did not speak, of course. She would not know me.”

  So that was it. Unwilling to mention it because it might disturb me. He found himself speculating on the reason for Avery’s attendance.

  “I would not be too certain of that, but thank you for telling me. It took courage, I think.” He picked up his hat as he heard hurrying footsteps beyond the screen door. “Especially as your admiral’s mood has been far from pleasant of late!”

  It was the first lieutenant, very stiff and uneasy in his new role.

  “The captain’s respects, Sir Richard.” His eyes moved swiftly around the spacious cabin, seeing it quite differently from either of them, Avery imagined.

  Bolitho smiled. “Speak, Mr Daubeny. We are all agog.”

  The lieutenant grinned nervously. “Rear-Admiral Keen’s barge has cast off, sir.”

  “We will come up directly.”

  As the door closed Bolitho asked, “Then there was no attempt to involve you in scandal?”

  “I would not have stood for it, Sir Richard.”

  In spite of the deep lines on his face and the streaks of grey in his dark hair, he looked and sounded very vulnerable, like a much younger man.

  Ozzard opened the door and they walked past him.

  At the foot of the companion ladder, Bolitho paused and glanced at his flag lieutenant again with sudden intuition. Or a man who was suddenly in love, and did not know what to do about it.

  When he crossed the damp quarterdeck he saw Tyacke waiting for him.

  “A very smart turn-out, Captain Tyacke.”

  The harsh, scarred face did not smile.

  “I shall pass the word to the side party, Sir Richard.”

  Avery listened, missing nothing, thinking of the reception, the daring gowns, the arrogance. What did they know of men like these? Tyacke, with his melted face, and the courage to endure the stares, the pity and the revulsion. Or Sir Richard, who had knelt on this bloodied deck to hold the dying hand of an American captain.

  How could they know?

  The boatswain’s mates moistened their silver calls on their lips, side-boys waited to fend off the smart green barge, the twin lines of scarlet marines swayed slightly on the harbour current.

  It is my life. There is nothing more I want.

  “Royal Marines! Present …!” The rest was lost in the din.

  Again, they were of one company.

  After the long day, and the comings and goings of officers and local officials paying their respects to the admiral, and the degrees of ceremony and respect that applied to each one of them, Indomitable seemed quiet, and at peace. All hands had been piped down for the night, and only the watchkeepers and the scarlet-coated sentries moved on the upper decks.

  Right aft in his cabin, Bolitho watched the stars, which seemed to reflect and mingle with the glittering lights of the town. Here and there a small lantern moved on the dark water: a guard-boat or some messenger, or e
ven a fisherman.

  The day had been tiring. Adam and Valentine Keen had arrived together, and he had been aware of the momentary uneasiness when they had been reunited with Tyacke and Avery. Keen had brought his new flag lieutenant as well, the Honourable Lawford de Courcey, a slim young man with hair almost as fair as his admiral’s. Highly recommended, Keen had said, and intelligent and eager. Ambitious, too, from the little he had said; the scion of an influential family, but not a naval one. Keen had seemed pleased about it, but Bolitho had wondered if the appointment had been arranged by one of the many friends of Keen’s father.

  Adam had greeted him warmly, although reserved in front of the others, and Bolitho had sensed the depression he was trying to conceal. Keen, on the other hand, had been very concerned with the war, and what they might expect when the weather moderated. For the destruction of the Royal Herald he could offer no explanation. Most of the active American ships were in harbour, their presence carefully monitored by a chain of brigs and other, smaller commandeered vessels. Each of the latter might offer a fine chance of promotion to any young lieutenant if fortune smiled on him: such a chance had once come to Bolitho. He touched his eye, and frowned. It seemed an eternity ago.

  He had walked around Indomitable with Tyacke, as much to be seen as to inspect the full extent of the overhaul. In her struggle with Unity, Tyacke’s command had lost seventy officers, seamen and marines killed or wounded, a quarter of her company. Replacements had been found, taken from homeward-bound ships, and a surprising number of volunteers, Nova Scotians who had earned their living from the sea before marauding warships and privateers had denied them even that.

  They would settle into Indomitable’s ways; but not until they were at sea, as close-knit as her original company used to be, would they know their true value.

  Bolitho had seen the startled, curious eyes, those who had never met the man whose flag flew above all of them at the mainmast truck. And some of the older hands who had knuckled their foreheads, or raised a tarred fist in greeting to show that they knew the admiral, had shared the battle and its cost with him, until the enemy’s flag had been dragged down through the smoke.

  His total command had been christened the Leeward Squadron by Bethune, and Their Lordships had been more generous than he had dared to hope, giving him eight frigates and as many brigs. That did not include the heavily-armed Valkyrie, and Indomitable. In addition there were schooners, some brigantines, and two bomb vessels, the request for which the Admiralty had not even questioned. A strong, fast-moving squadron, and it would be joined by the old 74-gun ship of the line Redoubtable, which had been ordered to Antigua. With suitable intelligence gathered by the smaller patrol vessels on their endless stop-and-search missions, they should be a match for any new enemy tactics. The larger and better-armed American frigates had already proved their superiority, until Unity had met up with this ship. And even then … But there was still something missing. He paced back and forth across the black and white squares of the canvas deck covering, his hair almost touching the massive beams. Royal Herald had been destroyed, so a ship or ships had avoided the patrols, and perhaps slipped out of harbour, taking advantage of the foul weather. It was pointless to brush it aside, or regard it as a coincidence. And if it had been a deliberate ambush gone wrong, what steps must he take? Very soon now, the Americans would have to launch a new attack. Tyacke had been convinced that it would be a military operation, straight into Canada. Once again, all the reports suggested that any such attack could be contained. The British soldiers were from seasoned regiments, but Bolitho knew from bitter experience in that other American war that often too much reliance was placed upon local militia and volunteers, or on Indian scouts unused to the ways of the hard-line infantryman.

  Speed was essential to the Americans. Napoleon was in retreat, and each day of the campaign he was being deserted by friends and erstwhile allies. Surely his defeat was inevitable, perhaps even sooner than strategists in London dared to hope. And when that happened … Bolitho heard again the confidence in Bethune’s voice as he had explained how a French defeat would release many more ships to join the American conflict. But until that time ...He stopped pacing and strode to the quarter gallery, and stared down at the black, swirling current.

  It must have been right there in Bethune’s gracious rooms at the Admiralty, and yet neither of them had seen or considered it. He looked at the reflected lights until his eye watered. The carefully worded despatches, the lists of ships and squadrons that daily protected the vital lifelines to Wellington’s armies. Ships that fed his victorious regiments, and made even the smallest advance possible. Even Sillitoe had missed it, perhaps because it had not fitted into his intricate plans and the estimates with which he advised the Prince Regent. Arrogance, over-confidence: it would not be the first time that careful strategy had been undone by those in power who had seen only what they had wanted to see.

  The flaw in the pattern of things, like a face in a crowd, there, but invisible.

  All they had been able to see was Napoleon’s eventual defeat. After twenty years of war it had, at last, seemed like the impossible landfall. He knew that Tyacke had made no attempt to conceal his disgust at Peter Dawes’s handling of the squadron in his admiral’s absence. Maybe Dawes was another one, blind to everything but his own advancement: promotion, which might vanish like mist if the war should suddenly end.

  Bolitho considered his visitors. Keen, contained but enthusiastic at his new appointment, desperately eager to leave the past behind, to overcome his loss. Only Adam seemed unable or unwilling to forget it.

  He heard something rattle behind the pantry hatch, a subtle signal from Ozzard that he was still about, in case he was required.

  And what of me? So bitter at being parted from the woman he loved that he had failed to heed the instinct gained all those years ago as a frigate captain.

  Maybe it was destined to end like this. He had opened the screen door without realizing that he had moved, and the marine sentry was staring at him, transfixed. Their admiral, coatless despite the damp air between decks, who had only to raise a finger to have every man running to do his bidding. What was the matter with him?

  Bolitho heard a murmur of voices from the wardroom. Perhaps Avery was there. Or James Tyacke, although he was probably working alone in his cabin. He never slept for more than an hour or two at a time. Surely there was someone he could talk to?

  “Something wrong, Sir Richard?”

  Bolitho let his arms fall to his sides. Allday was here, watching him, his shadow moving slowly back and forth across the new paintwork, his face devoid of surprise. As if he had known.

  “I want to talk, old friend. It’s nothing … I’m not sure.” He turned to the ramrod sentry who was still staring at him, eyes popping, as if his collar was choking him. “At ease, Wilson. There is nothing to fear.”

  The marine swallowed. “Yessir!” As he heard the door close he wiped his face with his sleeve. His sergeant would have given him hell just for doing that. But he had been with his squad in the maintop with the other marksmen when they had thundered alongside the enemy. Only for the moment, it meant nothing. He said aloud, “Knew me name! He knew me name!”

  Ozzard had poured a tankard of rum and placed it on the table, not too close, in case Allday should take the liberty of thinking that he was his servant as well.

  Allday sat on the bench seat and watched Bolitho moving restlessly about the cabin as if it were a cage.

  “You remember the Saintes, old friend?”

  Allday nodded. Bryan Ferguson had asked him the same thing, while they had been waiting for Bolitho and his lady to return from London.

  “Aye, Sir Richard. I recalls it well.”

  Bolitho ran his hand down the curved timbers as if to feel the life, the heartbeat of the ship.

  “This old lady was there, although I don’t remember her, nor could I imagine what she might one day mean to me. five years old, she was then.”
<
br />   Allday saw him smile. Like someone speaking of an old comrade.

  “So many miles, so many people, eh?” He turned, his face composed, even sad. “But, of course, we had another ship then. Phalarope.”

  Allday sipped his rum, although he did not remember reaching for it. There had been many moments like this, before the proud admiral’s flags, the fame, and the bloody scandal. So many times. He watched him now, sharing it, very aware that he was one of the few that this man, this hero, could speak with so freely.

  He would not be able to tell Unis about it, not until he was with her again. It would be out of the question to ask Lieutenant Avery to pen it for him. It would have to be later, at the right time, like the moment he had told her about his son’s death. He glanced up at the closed skylight. Just a few yards away.

  Bolitho said, “Admiral Rodney broke the French line that day because the enemy’s frigates failed to discover his intentions. Our frigates did not fail.”

  His eyes were distant, remembering not so much the battle between the two great fleets as the slowness of their embrace, and the slaughter which had followed. He had seen too many such encounters, and he had felt like some physical assault the hostility of those at the Admiralty when he had said that the line of battle was dead. It must have sounded like blasphemy. We’ll not see another Trafalgar, I am certain of it.

  “It is every frigate captain’s main concern—his duty—to discover, to observe, and to act.”

  Ozzard frowned as the door opened slightly, and Avery hesitated, uncertain why he had come.

  “I’m sorry, Sir Richard. I heard … somebody said …”

  Bolitho gestured to a chair. “This time you did not have too far to come. Not like riding from Portsmouth to London!”

  Avery took a goblet from Ozzard. He looked dishevelled, as if he had been trying to sleep when some instinct had roused him.