Cross of St George (29 page)

Tyacke continued in the same unemotional tone, “All along that damnable coast, where the rivers came out to the Atlantic, the Congo, the Niger and the Gaboon, the slavers would lie close inshore, where no man-of-war of any consequence would dare to venture. Which was why they evaded capture and their just deserts for so long.” He glanced at the young captain, who did not avoid his eyes. “I think you fell in with something you were not supposed to see.” He moved to the chart and laid his hand on it. “For once, I think our Mr York was wrong. Mistaken. They didn't give chase, Captain Lloyd, because they could not. They
dared
not.” He looked at Bolitho. “Those boats, sir. So many of them. Not for picking up slaves like those cruel scum used to do, but to put an invading army ashore.”

Bolitho felt the shock and the truth of his words like a cup of icy water in his face.

“They're carrying soldiers, as they did on the lakes, except that these are larger vessels, with something bigger in prospect at the end of it!”

He thought of the army captain who had survived the first attack on York, and of the reports which had filtered through with information of a second attack three months later. Perhaps Lake Erie had already fallen to the Americans? If so, the British army would be cut off, even from retreat. The young captain had described the Americans at York as being well-trained regulars.

Bolitho said, “If these ships entered the Bay of Fundy but turned north, and not towards Nova Scotia, they could disembark soldiers who could force their way inland, knowing that supplies and reinforcements would be waiting for them once they reached the St Lawrence. It would seal off all the frontier districts of Upper Canada, like ferrets in a sack!”

He gripped Lloyd's hand warmly in farewell. “You did not fight the American, Captain Lloyd, but the news you have carried to me may yet bring us a victory. I shall ensure that you receive proper recognition. Our Nel would have put it better. He always insisted that the Fighting Instructions were not a substitute for a captain's initiative.”

Tyacke said roughly, “I'll see you over the side, Captain Lloyd.”

As the door closed, Avery said, “Is it possible, sir?”

Bolitho half-smiled. “Do you really mean, is it likely? I think it is too important to ignore, or to wait for a miracle.” He listened to the trill of calls as the fox-like captain went down to his gig.

Tyacke returned, and waited in silence while Bolitho instructed his secretary to send a brief despatch to Halifax. “We shall alter course before nightfall, James, and steer due north. Make the necessary signals.” He saw the concern in the clear eyes that watched him, from the burned remains of the face. “I know the risks, James. We all do. It was there for all of us to see, but only you recognized it. Your loneliest command was not wasted. Nor will it be.” He wondered if Tyacke had been going over it all again. The letter, the girl he might scarcely remember, or not wish to remember. One day he might share it; at the same time, Bolitho knew that he would not.

“D' you think your man Aherne is with them?”

“I am not certain, but I think it possible that he may have fallen out of favour with his superiors, like John Paul Jones.”
Like my own brother.

Tyacke was about to leave, but turned when Bolitho said with sudden bitterness, “Neither side can win this war, just as neither can afford to lose it. So let us play our part as best we can … And then, in God's mercy, let us go home!”

They stood crowded together around York's chart-table, their shadows joining in a slow dance while the lanterns swung above them.

More like conspirators than King's men, Bolitho thought. It was pitch black outside the hull, early dark as he had known it would be, the ship unusually noisy as she rolled in a steep swell. There was no land closer than seventy miles, Nova Scotia's Cape Sable to the north-east, but after the great depths to which they had become accustomed they sensed its presence. Felt it.

Bolitho glanced at their faces in the swaying light. Tyacke, his profile very calm, the burns hidden in shadow. It was possible to see him as the woman had once done: the unscarred side of his face was strongly boned and handsome. On his other side the master was measuring his bearings with some dividers, his expression one of doubt.

Avery was crammed into the small space too, with Daubeny the first lieutenant bobbing his head beneath the heavy beams as he tried to see over their shoulders.

York said, “In broad daylight it's bad enough, sir. The entrance to the bay, allowing for shallows and sandbars, is about 25 miles, less, mebbee. We'd not be able to hold our formation, and if they are ready and waiting …” He did not go on.

Tyacke was still grappling with his original idea. “They can't go in and attack anything in the dark, Isaac. They'd need to take soundings for most of the bay. The boats could be separated, swamped even, if the worst happened.”

York persisted, “The whole of that coastline is used by small vessels, fishermen mostly. A lot of the folk who made their homes in New Brunswick after the American rebellion were loyalists. They've no love for the Yankees, but …” He glanced at Bolitho. “Against trained soldiers, what could they do?”

Bolitho said, “And if they have already carried out a landing, those ships might be waiting for us to appear like ducks in a waterfowler's sights. But it takes time—it always does. Lowering boats, packing men and weapons into them, more than likely in the dark, and with some of the soldiers half sick from the passage … Marines, now, that would be different.” He rubbed his chin, aware of its roughness: one of Allday's shaves then, if there was time. He said, “Our captains know how to perform. We have exercised working together, although not with Mr York's unwelcoming bay in mind!” He saw them smile, as he had known they would. It was like being driven, or perhaps led. Hearing somebody else speak, somehow finding the faith and confidence to inspire others. “And we must admit, the plan, if that is what they have in mind, is a brilliant one. Seasoned soldiers could march and fight their way northwards and meet with their other regiments on the St Lawrence. What is that, three hundred miles? I can remember as a boy when the 46TH Regiment of Foot marched all the way from Devon to Scotland. And doubtless back again.”

York asked uneasily, “Was there more trouble up north then, sir?”

Bolitho smiled. “No, it was the King's birthday. It was his wish!”

York grinned. “Oh, well, that's different, sir!”

Bolitho picked up the dividers from the chart. “The enemy know the risks as well as we do. We shall remain in company as best we can. Each captain will have his best lookouts aloft, but they cannot work miracles. By dawn we shall be in position,
here.
” The points of the dividers came down like a harpoon. “We may become scattered overnight, but we must take that chance.”

Tyacke studied him in silence.
You will take it,
his expression said. Bolitho said, “If I were the enemy commander I would send in my landing parties, and perhaps release one of my smaller ships as close inshore as possible to offer covering fire if need be. That would even the odds.” He put down the dividers very carefully. “A little.”

Tyacke said, “If we're wrong, sir …”

“If
I
am wrong, then we will return to Halifax. At least they will be prepared there for any sudden attack.” He thought of Keen when he had spoken of St Clair's daughter: he might become a vice-admiral sooner than his highest hopes, if the enemy had outwitted this makeshift plan.

He saw Avery bending over the table to scribble some notes in his little book, and for a second their eyes met. Did Avery know that his admiral was barely able to see the markings on the chart without covering his damaged eye? He felt the sudden despair lift from his spirit, like a dawn mist rising from the water. Of course they knew, but it had become a bond, a strength, which they willingly shared with him. Again he seemed to hear Herrick's words.
We Happy Few. Dear God, don't let me fail them now.

Then he said quietly, “Thank you, gentlemen. Please carry on with your duties. Captain Tyacke?”

Tyacke was touching his scars; perhaps he no longer noticed that he was doing it.

“I would like to have the people fed before the morning watch, sir. Then, if you agree, we will clear for action.” He might have been smiling, but his face was in shadow again. “No drums, no din of war.”

Bolitho said lightly, “No
Portsmouth Lass,
either?” The same thought returned. Like conspirators. Or assassins.

Tyacke twisted round. “Mr Daubeny, do not strain your ears any further! I want all officers and senior warrant officers in the wardroom as soon as is convenient.” He added, almost as an afterthought, “We had better assemble our young gentlemen as well on this occasion. They may learn something from it.”

York left with Daubeny, probably to confer with his master's mates. It would keep them busy, and a lack of sleep was nothing new to sailors.

Avery had also departed, understanding better than most that Tyacke wished to be alone with Bolitho. Not as the officer, but as a friend. Bolitho had almost guessed what his flag captain was going to say, but it still came as a shock.

“If we meet with the enemy, and now that I have weighed the odds for and against, I think we shall, I would ask a favour.”

“What is it, James?”

“If I should fall.” He shook his head. “Please, hear me. I have written two letters. I would rest easy and with a free mind to fight this ship if I knew …” He was silent for a moment. “One is for your lady, sir, and the other for somebody I once knew … thought I knew …some fifteen years back, when I was a young luff like Mr Know-it-all Blythe.”

Bolitho touched his arm, with great affection. It was the closest to the man he had ever been.

He said, “We shall both take care tomorrow, James. I am depending on you.”

Tyacke studied the well-used chart. “Tomorrow, then.”

Later, as he made his way aft to his quarters, Bolitho heard the buzz of voices from the wardroom, rarely so crowded even in harbour. Two of the messmen were crouching down, listening at the door as closely as they dared. There was laughter too, as there must have been before greater events in history: Quiberon Bay, the Saintes, or the Nile.

Allday was with Ozzard in the pantry, as he had known he would be. He followed Bolitho past the sentry and into the dimly lit cabin, with the sea like black glass beyond the windows. Apart from the ship's own noises, it was already quiet. Tyacke would be speaking to his officers, just as he would eventually go around the messdecks and show himself to the men who depended on him. Not to tell them why it was so, but how it must be done. But the ship already knew. Like
Sparrow
and
Phalarope
, and
Hyperion
most of all.

Allday asked, “Will Mr Avery be coming aft, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho waved him to a chair. “Rest easy, old friend. He'll find a minute to pen a letter for you.”

Allday grinned, the concern and the pain falling away. “I'd take it kindly, Sir Richard. I've never been much for book-learnin' an' the like.”

Bolitho heard Ozzard's quiet step. “Just as well for the rest of us, I daresay. So let us drink to those we care about, while we can. But we'll wait for the flag lieutenant.” He looked away. Avery had probably already written a letter of his own, to the unknown woman in London. Perhaps it was only a dream, a lost hope. But it was an anchor, one which was needed by them all.

He walked to the gun barometer and tapped it automatically, recalling Tyacke's acceptance of what must be done, his confidence in his ship. And of his words. “If I should fall …” The same words, the same voice which had spoken for all of them.

Avery entered the cabin even as the sentry shouted his arrival.

Bolitho said, “Did it go well, George?”

Avery looked at Ozzard and his tray of glasses.

“Something I heard my father say, a long time ago. That the gods never concern themselves with the protection of the innocent, only with the punishment of the guilty.” He took a glass from the unsmiling Ozzard. “I never thought I would hear it again under these circumstances.”

Bolitho waited while Allday lurched to his feet to join them.
Tomorrow, then.

Thinking of Herrick, perhaps. Of all of them.

He raised his glass. “We Happy Few!”

They would like that.

L
IEUTENANT
George Avery gripped the weather shrouds and then paused to stare up at the foremast. Like most of the ship's company, he had been on deck for over an hour, and yet his eyes were still not accustomed to the enfolding darkness. He could see the pale outline of the hard-braced topsail, but beyond it nothing save an occasional star as it flitted through long banners of cloud. He shivered; it was cold, and his clothing felt damp and clinging, and there was something else also, a kind of light-headedness, a sense of elation, which he thought had gone forever. Those days when he had been in the small schooner
Jolie,
cutting out equally small prizes from the French coast, sometimes under the noses of a shore battery … Wild, reckless times. He almost laughed into the damp air. It was madness, as it had been madness then.

He swung himself out and wedged his foot onto the first ratline, then, slowly and carefully, he began to climb, the big signals telescope hanging across his shoulder like a poacher's gun. Up and up, the shrouds vibrating beneath his grip, the tarred cordage as sharp and cold as ice. He was not afraid of heights, but he respected them: it was one of the first things he could remember when he had been appointed midshipman under his uncle's sponsorship. The seamen, who had been rough and independent although they had shown him kindness, would rush up the ratlines barefooted, the skin so calloused and hardened that they scorned the wearing of shoes, which they would keep for special occasions.

He stopped to regain his breath, and felt his body being pressed against the quivering rigging while the invisible ship beneath him leaned over to a sudden gust of wind. Like cold hands, holding him.

Even though he could see nothing below him but the unchanging outline of the upper deck, sharpened occasionally when a burst of spray cascaded over the gangways or through the beak-head, he could imagine the others standing as he had left them. So different from the usual nerve-wrenching thrill when the drums rattled and beat the hands to quarters, the orderly chaos when a ship was cleared for action from bow to stern: screens torn down, tiny hutches of cabins where the officers found their only privacy transformed into just another part of a gun deck, furniture, personal items and sea-chests dragged or winched into the lower hull, below the waterline, where the surgeon and his assistants would be preparing, remaining separate from the noise before battle: their work would come to them. On this occasion clearing for action had been an almost leisurely affair, men moving amongst familiar tackle and rigging as if it were broad daylight.

As ordered, the hands had been given a hot meal in separate watches, and only then was the galley fire doused, the last measure of rum drained.

Tyacke had remained by the quarterdeck rail, while officers and messengers had flowed around him, like extensions of the man himself. York with his master's mates, Daubeny, the first lieutenant, with a junior midshipman always trotting at his heels like a pet dog. And right aft by the companion-way where he had walked with Sir Richard, Avery could see that in his mind also. Where the command of any ship or squadron began or ended. He smiled as he recalled what Allday had said of it. “Aft, the most honour. Forward, the better man!” Bolitho had been holding his watch closely against the compass light, and had said, “Go aloft, George. Take a good glass with you. I need to know instantly. You will be my eyes today.”

It still saddened him. Did those words, too, have a hidden meaning?

And Allday again, taking his hat and sword from him. “They'll be here when you needs 'em, Mr Avery. Don't want our flag lieutenant gettin' all tangled up in the futtock shrouds, now, do we?”

He had written the letter Allday had requested. Like the man, it had been warmly affectionate, and yet, after all he had seen and suffered, so simple and unworldly. Avery had almost been able to see Unis opening and reading it, calling her ex-soldier brother to tell him about it. Holding it up to the child.

He shook his head, thrusting the thoughts aside, and started to climb again. Long before any of their letters reached England, they might all be dead.

The foremast's fighting-top loomed above him, reminding him of Allday's joke about the futtock shrouds. Nimble-footed top-men could scramble out and around the top without interruption, those on the leeward side hanging out, suspended, with nothing but the sea beneath them. The fighting-top was a square platform protected by a low barricade, behind which marksmen could take aim at targets on an enemy's deck. It matched the tops on the other masts, above which the shrouds and stays reached up to the next of the upper yards, and beyond.

The foremast was perhaps the most important and complicated in the ship. It carried not only the bigger course and topsails, but was connected and rigged to the bowsprit, and the smaller, vital jib and staysails. Each time a ship attempted to come about and turn across the eye of the wind, the small jibsails would act like a spur or brake to prevent her floundering to a standstill, taken all aback with her sails flattened uselessly against the masts, unable to pay off in either direction. At the height of close action, the inability to manoeuvre could mean the death of the ship.

He thought of York and men like him, the true professionals. How many people ashore would ever understand the strength and prowess of such fine sailors, when they saw a King's ship beating down-Channel under a full press of sail?

He dragged himself between the shrouds and took the easier way into the foretop by way of a small opening, the “lubber's hole,” as the old Jacks derisively termed it.

There were four Royal Marines here, their white crossbelts and the corporal's chevrons on one man's sleeve visible against the outer darkness.

“Mornin', sir! Fine day for a stroll!”

Avery unslung the telescope and smiled. That was another thing about being a flag lieutenant, neither fish nor fowl, like an outsider who had come amongst them: he was not an officer in charge of a mast or a division of guns, nor a symbol of discipline or punishment. So he was accepted. Tolerated.

He said, “Do you think it will be light soon?”

The corporal leaned against a mounted swivel-gun. It was already depressed, and covered with a piece of canvas to protect the priming from the damp air. Ready for instant use.

He replied, “'Alf hour, sir. Near as a priest's promise!”

They all laughed, as if this were only another, normal day.

Avery stared at the flapping jib and imagined the crouching lion beneath it. What if the sea was empty when daylight came? He searched his feelings. Would he be relieved, grateful?

He thought of the intensity in Bolitho's voice, the way he and Tyacke had conferred and planned. He shivered suddenly. No, the sea would not be empty of ships.
How can I be certain?
Then he thought,
Because of what we are, what he has made us.

He tried to focus his thoughts on England. London, that busy street with its bright carriages and haughty footmen, and one carriage in particular …She was lovely. She would not wait, and waste her life.

And yet, they had shared something deeper, however briefly. Surely there was a chance, a hope beyond this cold dawn?

The corporal said carefully, “I sometimes wonders what he's like, sir. The admiral, I mean.” He faltered, thinking he had gone too far. “It's just that we sees him an' you walkin' the deck sometimes, and then there was the day when 'is lady come aboard at Falmouth.” He put his hand on his companion's shoulder. “Me an' Ted was there. I'd never 'ave believed it, see?”

Avery did see. Replacing Catherine's shoes and remarking on the tar on her stocking after her climb up this ship's side. The flag breaking out, and then the cheers. Work them, drive them, break them; but these same men had seen, and remembered.

He said, “He
is
that man, Corporal. Just as she is that lady.” He could almost hear Tyacke's words.
I would serve no other.

One of the other marines, encouraged by his corporal, asked, “What will us do when th' war's over an' done with?”

Avery stared up at the great rectangle of sail, and felt the raw salt on his mouth.

“I pray to God that I shall be able to choose something for myself.”

The corporal grunted. “I'll get me other stripe an' stay in the Royals. Good victuals an' plenty of rum, an' a hard fight when you're needed! It'll do me!”

A voice echoed down from the crosstrees. “First light a-comin', sir!”

The corporal grinned. “Old Jacob up there, he's a wild one, sir!”

Avery thought of Tyacke's description of the seaman named Jacob, the best lookout in the squadron. Once a saddle-maker, a highly skilled trade, he had found his wife in the arms of another man, and had killed both of them. The Assizes had offered him the choice of the gibbet or the navy. He had outlived many others with no such notoriety.

Avery withdrew the big telescope from its case, while the marines made a space for him and even found him something to kneel on.

One of them put his hand on the swivel-gun and chuckled. “Don't you go bumpin' into old Betsy 'ere, sir. You might set 'er off by accident, an' blow the 'ead off our poor sergeant. That'd be a true shame, wouldn't it, lads?” They all laughed. Four marines on a windswept perch in the middle of nowhere. They had probably no idea where they were, or where bound tomorrow.

Avery knelt, and felt the low barricade shivering under the great weight of spars and canvas, and all the miles of rigging that ruled the lives of such men as these.
Of one company.

He held his breath and trained the glass with great care, but saw only cloud and darkness. Old Jacob on his lofty lookout would see it first.

He was shivering again, unable to stop.

“'Ere, sir.” A hand reached out from somewhere. “Nelson's blood!”

Avery took it gratefully. It was against all regulations: they knew it, and so did he.

The corporal murmured, “To wish us luck, eh, lads?”

Avery swallowed, and felt the rum driving out the cold. The fear. He stared out again.
You will be my eyes today.
As if he were right beside him.

And suddenly, there they were. The enemy.

Captain James Tyacke watched the shadowy figures of Hockenhull, the boatswain, and a party of seamen as they hauled on lines and secured them to bollards. Every one of
Indomitable
's boats was in the water, towing astern like a single unwieldy sea anchor, and although he could scarcely see them, he knew that the nets were already spread across the gun deck. The scene was set.

Tyacke searched his feelings for doubt. Had there been any? But if so, they were gone as soon as the old lookout's doleful voice had called down from the foremast crosstrees. Avery would be peering through his glass, searching for details, numbers, the strength of the enemy.

York remarked, “Wind's falling away, sir. Steady enough, though.”

Tyacke glanced over at Bolitho's tall figure framed against the pale barrier of packed hammocks, and saw him nod. It was time: it had to be. But the wind was everything.

He said sharply, “Shake out the second reef, Mr Daubeny! Set fores'l and driver!” To himself he added,
where are our damned ships?
They might have become scattered during the breezy night; better that than risk a collision, now of all times. He heard the first lieutenant's tame midshipman repeating his instructions in a shrill voice, edged with uncertainty at the prospect of something unknown to him.

He considered his other lieutenants, and frowned. Boys in the King's uniform. Even Daubeny was young for his responsibilities. The words repeated themselves in his mind.
If I fall
… It would be Daubeny's skill, or lack of it, that would determine their success or failure.

He heard Allday murmur something and Bolitho's quick laugh, and was surprised that it could still move him. Steady him, like the iron hoops around each great mast, holding them together.

The marines had laid down their weapons, and had manned the mizzen braces as the driver filled and cracked to the wind.

He knew that Isaac York was hovering nearby, wanting to speak to him, to pass the time as friends usually did before an action. Just in case. But he could not waste time in conversation now. He needed to be alive and alert to everything, from the men at the big double-wheel to the ship's youngest midshipman, who was about to turn the half-hour glass beside the compass box.

He saw his own coxswain, Fairbrother, peering down at the boats under tow.

“Worried, Eli?” He saw him grin. He was no Allday, but he was doing his best.

“They'll all need a lick o' paint when we picks 'em up, sir.”

But Tyacke had turned away, his eyes assessing the nearest guns, the crews, some bare-backed despite the cold wind, standing around them, waiting for the first orders. Decks sanded to prevent men slipping, in spray or perhaps in blood. Rammers, sponges, and worms, the tools of their trade, close to hand.

Lieutenant Laroche drawled, “Here comes the flag lieutenant.”

Avery climbed the ladder to the quarterdeck, and Allday handed him his hat and sword.

He said, “Six sail right enough, Sir Richard. I think the tide's on the ebb.”

York muttered, “It would be.”

“I think one of the frigates is towing
all
the boats, sir. It's too far and too dark to be sure.”

Tyacke said, “Makes sense. It would hold them all together. Keep 'em fresh and ready for landing.”

Bolitho said, “We can't wait. Alter course now.” He looked at Tyacke, and afterwards he imagined he had seen him smile, even though his features were in shadow. “As soon as we sight our ships, signal them to
attack at will.
This is no time for a line of battle!”

Avery recalled the consternation at the Admiralty when Bolitho had voiced his opinions on the fleet's future.