Cross of St George (22 page)

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.

L
IEUTENANT
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 few 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.

He heard the officer-of-the-watch speaking with his midshipman in brusque, clipped tones. Laroche was a keen gambler who had felt the rough edge of Lieutenant Scarlett's tongue the very day Scarlett had been killed in the fight with the USS
Unity
.

It would be six in the morning soon, and Tyacke would come on deck. It was his custom, although he had impressed on all his officers that they were to call him at any time, day or night, if they were disturbed by any situation. Bolitho had heard him say to one lieutenant, “Better for me to lose my temper than to lose my ship!”

If you doubt, speak out.
His father had said it many times.

He found he was walking along the weather side, his shoes avoiding ring bolts and tackles without effort. Catherine was troubled; it was made more apparent by her determination to hide it from him in her letters. Roxby was very ill, although Bolitho had seen that for himself before he had left England, and he thought it a good thing that his sister felt able to share her worries and hopes with Catherine, when their lives had been so different from one another.

Catherine had told him about the Spanish inheritance from her late husband, Luis Pareja. All those years ago, another world, a different ship; they had both been younger then. How could either of them have known what would happen? He could recall her exactly as she had been at their first meeting, the same fiery courage he had seen after the
Golden Plover
had gone down.

She was concerned about the money. He had mentioned it to Yovell, who seemed to understand all the complications, and had accompanied Catherine to the old firm of lawyers in Truro, to ensure that “she was not snared by legal roguery,” as he had put it.

Yovell had been frank, but discreet. “Lady Catherine will become rich, sir. Perhaps very rich.” He had gauged Bolitho's expression, a little surprised that the prospect of wealth should disquiet him, but also proud that Bolitho had confided in him and no other.

But suppose … Bolitho paused in his pacing to watch the first glow of light, almost timid as it painted a small seam between sky and ocean. He heard a voice whisper, “Cap'n's comin' up, sir!” and a few seconds later Laroche's pompous acknowledgement of Tyacke's presence. “Good morning, sir. Course east by north. Wind's veered a little.”

Tyacke said nothing. Bolitho saw it all as if it were indeed broad daylight. Tyacke would examine the compass and study the small wind-vane that aided the helmsmen until they could see the sails and the masthead pendant: he would already have scanned the log book on his way here. A new day. How would it be? An empty sea, a friend, an enemy?

He crossed to the weather side and touched his hat. “You're about early, Sir Richard.” To anyone else, it would have seemed a question.

Bolitho said, “Like you, James, I need to feel the day, and try to sense what it might bring.”

Tyacke saw that his shirt was touched with pink, as the light found and explored the ship.

“We should sight the others directly, sir.
Taciturn
will be well up to wind'rd, and the brig
Doon
closing astern. As soon as we can see them I'll make a signal.” He was thinking of the convoy they were expecting to meet: there would be hell to pay if they did not. Any escort duty was tedious and an enormous strain, especially for frigates like
Indomitable
and her consort
Taciturn
. They were built for speed, not for the sickening motion under the reefed topsails necessary to hold station on their ponderous charges. He sniffed the air. “That damned galley—it stinks! I must have a word with the purser.”

Bolitho stared aloft, shading his eye. The topgallant yards were pale now, the sails taut and hard-braced to hold the uncooperative wind.

More figures had appeared: Daubeny the first lieutenant, already pointing out tasks for the forenoon watch to Hockenhull the boatswain. Tyacke touched his hat again and strode away to speak with his senior lieutenant, as though he were eager to get started.

Bolitho remained where he was while men hurried past him. Some might glance toward his cloaked figure, but when they realized that it was the admiral they would stay clear. He sighed faintly. At least they were not afraid of him. But to be a captain again …
Your own ship.
Like Adam …

He thought of him now, still at Halifax, or with Keen making a sweep along the American coast where a hundred ships like
Unity
or
Chesapeake
could be concealed. Boston, New Bedford, New York, Philadelphia. They could be anywhere.

It had to be stopped, finished before it became another draining, endless war. America had no allies as such, but would soon find them if Britain was perceived to be failing. If only …

He looked up, caught off-guard as the lookout's voice penetrated the noises of sea and canvas.

“Deck there! Sail on larboard bow!” The barest pause. “'Tis
Taciturn,
on station!”

Tyacke said, “She's seen us and hoisted a light. They have their wits about them.” He looked abeam as a fish leaped from the glassy rollers to avoid an early predator.

Laroche said in his newly affected drawl, “We should sight
Doon
next, then.”

Tyacke jabbed his hand forward. “Well, I hope the lookout's eyesight is better than yours. That fore-staysail is flapping about like a washerwoman's apron!”

Laroche called to a boatswain's mate, suitably crushed.

And quite suddenly, there they were, their upper sails and rigging holding the first sunshine, their flags and pendants like pieces of painted metal.

Tyacke said nothing. The convoy was safe.

Bolitho took a telescope, but clung to the sight before he raised it. Big and ponderous they might be, yet in this pure, keen light they had a kind of majesty. He thought back to the Saintes, as he often did at times like this, recalling the first sight of the French fleet. A young officer had written to his mother afterwards, comparing them with the armoured knights at Agincourt.

He asked, “How many?”

Tyacke again. “Seven, sir. Or so it said in the instruction.” He repeated, “Seven,” and Bolitho thought he was wondering if their cargoes were worthwhile or necessary.

Carleton, the signals midshipman, had arrived with his men. He looked fresh and alert, and had probably eaten a huge breakfast, no matter what the galley smelled like. Bolitho nodded to him, remembering when a ship's rat fed on breadcrumbs from the galley had been a midshipman's delicacy. They had said it tasted like rabbit. They had lied.