Cross of St George (6 page)

She leaned toward him, and Avery saw two other women turn instantly to observe them. “There will be refreshments later. I shall have to entertain then, a little.”

She was very close, so close that he could smell her hair, her perfume, and see the rise and fall of her breasts.

“Am I as you remember,
Mister
Avery?”

She was teasing him again. Or was she.

He lowered his voice. “Exactly as I remember.”

She turned away. The music ceased and people stood to applaud, some, he thought, out of pleasure, others with relief that it was over.

An act of charity. Avery glanced around at the rich gowns, the stylish hair arrangements, the men, smiling now as the first trays of wine appeared. How much of the collection would find its way to the sailors' hospital, he wondered, and was shocked by his own cynicism.

He remained by the pillar and took a goblet of wine from a passing footman. She was moving amongst her guests without hesitation or uncertainty. He heard her laugh, and saw two of the soldiers beaming at her.

He stepped back as a solitary naval uniform, a lady on one arm, paused to speak with Lady Mildmay before heading for the door. Escaping.

She was with him again, her eyes moving across the room. “Are you enjoying yourself, Mr Avery?”

“That officer. I know him.”

“Vice-Admiral Bethune. Yes, he has risen like a bright star.” It seemed to amuse her.

“And that was his wife.” She was not as he had expected. Perhaps he had been misinformed.

She was looking at him steadily. “
Not
his wife. From what we hear, one can hardly blame him. He is very attractive, if I may say so as a woman.”

Some of the others were leaving now, their duty done. She asked suddenly, “Recalled, you said? When do you return?” She turned to smile and curtsey to a big, florid-faced man and his lady. “So good of you to come, Your Grace!” And as quickly, the smile was gone. “Tell me.”

He shrugged. “I am joining Sir Richard Bolitho's squadron.”

She put her hand to her breast again. Off guard, no longer so composed. “The Americas? The war?”

He smiled. “It is the way of sailors, madam.”

She turned again as two more women rose to leave. They smiled like old friends, but one looked directly at Avery, her eyes full of a hard curiosity.

Avery asked abruptly, “And who was
that?
”

She closed her fingers on his arm, either ignoring or not caring for the consequences.

“That was your admiral's wife, Lady Bolitho. Did you not know?”

Avery shook his head. “This is not my world.” He glanced at the door. “I have things to attend to, my lady. I did not mean to disturb you. That was not my intention.” He saw the sudden doubt in her eyes.

“Do you have a carriage?”

“I can easily obtain one. I am going to Chelsea.”

Somebody called out to her but she did not appear to hear. She said, “My carriage can take you there, and in more comfort.” She gripped his arm more tightly. “Please.” No further pretence. “Please stay.”

“I think we owe Lady Mildmay a debt of gratitude for her charming hospitality, and the dedication with which she has always carried out her work on behalf of those less fortunate.”

She bowed low, her smile confident. The shadow between her breasts made a lie of her composure.

As she straightened again, she looked directly into his eyes. “George … please, go tomorrow.”

It was madness. But there was the other madness, which they had all shared, the thunder of the great guns, the screams and the horror of battle. How could he explain, how extricate himself from this? But she had already vanished among the remaining guests.

Avery made his way through the house until he found the garden, which was already in twilight.

Madness, then. So be it.

The carriage had stopped at the crest of a slight rise, the horses stamping on the rough road, untroubled by the keen morning air.

Bolitho turned toward her, holding her hand beneath her heavy cloak, wondering how time could pass so swiftly and without mercy.

“We are almost there, Kate.”

“I know. I remember.”

They could have driven all the way from Falmouth without stopping, but had stayed the night at an inn outside Liskeard. Bolitho had been very aware of the danger of missing his ship because of a late arrival, or some accident on the road: that the tide waited for no man had been impressed upon him since he had first gone to sea at the age of twelve, or perhaps even earlier, as a child listening to his father and the local men who lived on and from the sea. Nor would he have Catherine travelling so far without some brief respite.

They had left the Turk's Head early; neither of them wanted breakfast. Even in such a small place there had been no escape from his own notoriety. People had been waiting outside the inn, and had waved and called to them, wishing them luck and happiness. Catherine had responded as she always did, although their kindness must have broken her heart. It was not next week or the week after. It was today.

The other members of his “little crew” would already be aboard: Avery, more withdrawn than usual after his sojourn in London; Yovell with his books and his Bible, untroubled as always; Ozzard, who gave nothing away; and, of course, Allday. Allday was genuinely sorry to be leaving his wife and child, but there was something more to it, pride, or a certain satisfaction because he was still needed, and had returned to what he considered his proper role in life.

He had talked with Catherine throughout the night. The ship,
Royal Enterprise,
was a fleet transport, faster than most merchant vessels, and used to carrying important passengers to any destination so ordered by Their Lordships. The voyage should take three weeks to a month, weather permitting: the masters of such transports were highly experienced, making the best use of prevailing winds for an untroubled passage. So there might be a hint of early spring in Cornwall by the time he rehoisted his flag above
Indomitable
in Halifax.

At least he would have James Tyacke, as well as Adam and Keen to sustain him. What would she have?

He had told her about Belinda and her need for more money. Catherine had known, or guessed.

She had exclaimed, “Need? Self-indulgence, more likely! I'll not have that woman troubling you, Richard.”

When the inn had fallen quiet for the night they had held one another and talked, until desperate passion had brought them together for the last time.

They heard Matthew speaking softly with Ferguson. Ferguson had insisted on accompanying them, and would escort Catherine back to Falmouth rather than entrust her to the protection of a paid guard. He and Matthew had remained in the inn parlour yarning and drinking until they had eventually retired, Ferguson to one of the rooms, Matthew to sleep with his horses as he always did on the road.

Catherine twisted round to look at him again. “Remember, I am always with you. I shall write often, to let you know how it looks in Falmouth, at our house.” She touched the lock of hair above his right eye; it was almost white now, and she knew he hated it. She thought the savage scar beneath it must be the cause; the rest of his hair was as black as it had been on the day she had first seen him.

She murmured, “
So proud,
Richard.” She lowered her head and her fist struck the seat. “I will not weep. We have gone through so much, and we are so lucky. I will
not
weep.”

They had decided that they should part before he joined the ship: so different from that other time when she had climbed
Indomitable
's side and been cheered by Tyacke's sailors, many of whom had since died in that last fight with Beer's
Unity
.

But now that the time had come, it was hard to contemplate leaving her.

Reading his thoughts, she said suddenly, “May we get out, Richard, just for a few minutes?”

They climbed down and he took her arm as her cloak billowed out in the wind. Bolitho did not need any gauge: he knew the feel of it. A sailor's wind. The
Royal Enterprise
would be tugging at her cable, eager to go. He had known it all his life, though rarely as a passenger.

And there, like a dark, twisting snake, was the Hamoaze, and beyond it, misty in the damp air, Plymouth and the Sound.

She said quietly, “The hills of Devon, Richard. How well I know these places, because of you.”

“We have done and shared so much.”

She put her fingers on his mouth. “Just love me, Richard. Say that you will always love me.”

They walked back to the carriage where Matthew stood by the horses, and Ferguson, shapeless in a big coachman's caped coat, sat in silence, sharing it, as he had so many times.

The door closed and they were moving again. Downhill now, with more people about, some of whom pointed at the crest on the coach, and cheered without knowing if it was occupied or empty.

Houses next, a stableyard he remembered from his time as a junior lieutenant. He held her and looked at her, knowing what it was costing, for both of them. She was beautiful, despite the shadows beneath her eyes, as he always saw her when they were separated by the ocean.

She was saying, “I shall keep very busy, Richard. I shall help Bryan, and I will visit Nancy more often. I know she frets over Lewis. He will heed nothing the doctors tell him.”

Matthew called, “We're here, Sir Richard.”

She clung to his arm. “I shall walk with you to the jetty. They may not have sent a boat yet. I can keep you company.”

He touched her face, her hair. “The boat will be there. I am an admiral. Remember?”

She laughed. “And you once forgot to tell me!”

He embraced her. Neither moved. There was no baggage: it had been sent ahead. All he had to do was get out, and walk through the gate and to the jetty. It was so simple. That was probably what they had told themselves on the way to the guillotine …

He opened the door. “Please stay here, Kate.” He held her again, and she leaned over and kissed him. Then he stepped back and stared at the others. “Take good care of her.” He could barely see them. “For me.”

Matthew grinned. “None better, sir!” But there was no smile in his eyes.

Ferguson was down on the road. He said, “God speed, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho stood quite still; afterwards, he thought it had been as if their spirits had joined.

Then he turned on his heel and walked through the gates.

She watched, her eyes smarting, afraid to miss the moment when he would look back. He had been right: they were waiting. Uniforms blue and scarlet; formal, austere voices. Respect for her man, an admiral of England.

But he did turn, then very slowly raised his hat and bowed to her. When she looked again, he was gone.

She waited for Ferguson to climb into the carriage, and said, “Tell Matthew to drive back along the same road.”

Ferguson replied, “The ship'll stand well out before she changes tack, m'lady. We'll not be able to see anything.”

She sat back in the seat. “I shall see him.” She looked at the passing cottages. “And he will know it.”

A
S EIGHT BELLS
chimed out from the forecastle belfry, Captain James Tyacke climbed through the companion and onto the broad quarterdeck. The air, like everything else, was wet, clinging, and cold, and the ship seemed hemmed in by an unmoving curtain of fog. He gripped his hands tightly behind his back and listened to the staccato beat of hammers, and the occasional squeak of blocks as some item of rigging was hauled aloft to the upper yards. When he looked up, it was uncanny: the topmasts and top-gallant spars were completely cut off by the fog, as if the frigate
Indomitable
had been dismasted in some phantom engagement.

He shivered, hating the climate, too used perhaps to the African sun and the south's clear blue horizons.

He stopped by the empty hammock nettings and peered down at the water alongside. Lighters were moored there, and other boats were pulling this way and that like water-beetles, vanishing and reappearing suddenly in the mist.

This was Halifax, Nova Scotia. A busy and vital seaport, and a pleasant-looking town, from the little he had seen of it. He touched the nettings, like cold metal on this dismal day. But not for long, he told himself. Very soon this work would be completed, which, considering the winter's bitter weather and the needs of all the other men-of-war sheltering here, was a record of which to be proud. Six months had passed since they had entered harbour after the savage battle with the two American frigates. The largest prize,
Unity,
had already left for England, and would be receiving all the attention she required. She had been so badly mauled that he doubted she would have survived the long Atlantic crossing if her pumps had not been kept going throughout every watch.

He gritted his teeth to prevent them from chattering. Some captains would have donned a thick boat-cloak to keep out the cold. James Tyacke did not entertain the idea.
Indomitable
's company had to work as best they could in their usual clothing, and he did not believe that he should take advantage of his rank. It was not some facile act to impress the men. It was merely Tyacke's way.

Like the empty nettings. Ordinarily, when the hands were piped to show a leg and make ready for another working day in harbour, the hammocks were neatly stowed there, and kept in the nettings during the day: when the ship was called to battle they offered the only protection from flying splinters for the helmsmen and officers on the quarterdeck. But life was hard enough in a King's ship, Tyacke thought, and here, when the only heating throughout
Indomitable
's impressive one hundred and eighty feet was the galley stove, wet hammocks at the end of the day would have made things even more uncomfortable.

Figures loomed and faded in the mist, officers waiting to ask him questions, others wanting final instructions before they were pulled ashore to collect the quantities of stores and supplies required by this ship-of-war.
My ship.
But the satisfaction would not come, and the pride he occasionally allowed himself to feel kept its distance.

It was March, 1813. He stared along the deck. It was impossible to believe that next month he would have been in command of
Indomitable
for two whole years. What next? Where bound, and to what end?
Indomitable
was more powerful than most of her class. Built as a third-rate, a ship of the line, she had been cut down to perform the role of a heavily-armed frigate, and as she had proved in September when she had stood alongside the USS
Unity,
she was more than a match for the superior American firepower with her forty 24-pounders and four 18-pounders, as well as the other weapons she carried.

Surrounded by busy seamen whom he could barely see, Tyacke continued his walk, his forenoon solitude respected. He smiled briefly. It had not been easy, but he had welded them into one company. They had cursed him, feared him, hated him, but that was in the past.

The lessons had been learned. He looked down at the wet deck planking. They had paid for it, too. When the mist cleared as Isaac York, the sailing-master, had claimed it would, the repairs and replaced planks and timbers would be visible despite the caulking and the tar, the fresh paint and the varnish. Men had died aplenty that day in September. Matthew Scarlett, the first lieutenant, impaled on a boarding-pike, his last scream lost in the yells and the fury, the clash of steel and the crash of gunfire. Ships fighting, men dying, many of whom had probably already been forgotten by those who had once known them. And just there … he glanced at a newly painted shot-garland, Midshipman Deane, hardly more than a child, had been pulped into nothing by one of
Unity
's massive balls. And all the while the admiral and his tall flag lieutenant had walked the scarred deck, allowing themselves to be seen by the men who, because of press-gang or patriotism, were fighting for their lives, for the ship. He smiled again. And, of course, for their captain, although he would never regard it in that light.

Tyacke had always hated the thought of serving in a major war vessel, let alone one that wore an admiral's flag. Bolitho had changed that. And strangely, in his absence, without the admiral's flag at the mainmast truck, Tyacke felt no sense of independence or freedom. Being forced to remain in harbour undergoing repairs while they awaited orders had merely increased his feeling of confinement. Tyacke loved the open sea: more than most, he needed it. He touched the right side of his face and saw it in his mind as he did when he shaved every morning. Scored away, burned, like something inhuman. How his eye had survived was a mystery.

He thought again of those who had fallen here, not least the one-legged cook named Troughton. He could recall the moment when he had assumed command of
Indomitable,
his stomach knotted with nerves as he had prepared to read himself in to the assembled company. He had forced himself to accept the stares and the pity in his previous command, the brig
Larne
. Small, intimate, with every hand dependent on the others, she had been his life. Bolitho himself had once referred to her as the loneliest command imaginable. He had understood that solitude was what Tyacke needed more than anything.

He had known that first day aboard
Indomitable
that those who had waited in the silence for him were undoubtedly more worried about their new captain's character than his disfigurement: he was, after all, the lord and master who could make or break any one of them as he chose. It had not made his ordeal easier, starting again under the eyes of strangers, in what had seemed a vast ship after
Larne
. A company of two hundred seventy officers, seamen and Royal Marines: a world of difference.

One man had made it possible for him: Troughton.
Indomitable
's company had watched in disbelief as their new and hideously scarred captain had embraced the man, who had been crippled by the same broadside that had burst in on Tyacke's yelling, sweating gun crews, at what they now called the Battle of the Nile. Troughton had been a young seaman then. Tyacke had always believed him dead, as most of those around him had died when his world had exploded, and left him as he was now.

Now even Troughton was gone. Tyacke had not known until two days after the fight with the Americans. He did not even know where he had come from, or if there was anyone to mourn him.

He felt a slight movement against his cheek, the wind returning. York might be proved right yet again. He was fortunate to have such a sailing-master: York had served as master's mate in this ship, and had won promotion in the only way Tyacke truly respected, through skill and experience.

So the fog would clear, and they would see the harbour once more, the ships and the town, and the well-sited central battery that would repulse any attempt, even by the most foolhardy commander, to cut out an anchored merchantman or some of the American prizes which had been brought here.

Forlorn, and in much the same condition as she had been after the battle, the American frigate
Baltimore
was beyond recovery. Perhaps she would be used as a hulk or stores vessel. But isolated and partly aground as she was now, she was a constant reminder of the day when America's superior frigates had been challenged and beaten.

Sir Richard Bolitho would be back soon. Tyacke hesitated in his regular pacing. Suppose he was directed elsewhere? The Admiralty was never averse to changing its collective mind. In despatches brought by the last courier brig Tyacke had been warned of Valentine Keen's impending arrival in Halifax: he would hoist his flag in
Valkyrie,
another converted two-decker like
Indomitable,
with Adam Bolitho as his flag captain. It was still hard to fathom why
he
would want to come back to these waters. Tyacke was acquainted with Keen, and had attended his wedding, but he did not consider that he knew him as a man. This would be his first command as a flag officer: he might be out for glory. And he had recently lost both wife and child. Tyacke touched his burned face again. It could scar a man more deeply than others might realize.

He saw a guard-boat pulling abeam, the armed marines straightening their backs in the sternsheets as
Indomitable
took shape above them through the thinning fog.

He returned his mind to the
Valkyrie,
still invisible in the misty harbour. Peter Dawes was her present captain, and acting-commodore until Keen's arrival: he was a post-captain, young, approachable, competent. But there were limits. Dawes was an admiral's son, and it was rumoured that he would be raised to flag rank as soon as he was replaced here. Tyacke had always nursed doubts about him, and had told Bolitho openly that Dawes might prove reluctant to risk his reputation and the prospect of promotion when they most needed his support. It was all written in the log now: history. They had fought and won on that terrible day. Tyacke could recall his own fury and despair: he had picked up a discarded boarding-axe and had smashed it into one of
Unity
's ladders. His own words still came in the night to mock him.
And for what?

He knew Bolitho had warned others about the difference. This was not a foreign enemy, no matter what the flags proclaimed. Not French, or Dutchman, or Spaniard, the old and familiar adversaries. You heard the same voices as your own from these settlers in the new world, who were fighting for what they considered their freedom. Accents from the West Country and the Downs, from Norfolk and Scotland: it was like fighting your own flesh and blood. That was the vital difference in this war.

On one of his visits to
Valkyrie
Tyacke had aired his views on Bolitho's recall to London. He had not minced his words. Senseless, he had called it. Bolitho was needed here, to lead, and to exploit their hard-won victory.

He had paced the big cabin while Dawes had sat at his table, an expensive glass held in one hand. Amused? Indifferent?

Tyacke had added, “The weather will ease soon. The Yankees will need to move. If they can't win by sea, they'll press on by land. They'll be able to bring artillery right up to the Canadian frontier.”

Dawes had shaken his head. “I think not. Some kind of settlement will be negotiated. You really should give Their Lordships more credit, both for what they are and what they know.”

Tyacke had barely heard him. “Our soldiers captured Detroit with the whole Yankee army defending it. Do you really think they'll not use every means to retake it, and give our soldiers a bloody nose for their trouble?”

Dawes had been suddenly impatient. “There are great lakes to cross, rivers to navigate, forts to breach before they can do that. Do you imagine that our American cousins, the ‘Yankees' as you so colourfully call them, will not measure the cost of such foolhardy action?”

Beyond discussing an invitation to the local army commanderin-chief 's Christmas reception, which Tyacke had declined to attend, they had scarcely spoken since.

Becoming an admiral was more important to Dawes than anything, and it was beginning to look as if doing nothing and keeping the main part of the squadron tied up in Halifax was far more attractive than behaving with any initiative that might rebound on him personally, and be seen as folly or worse.

Tyacke began to pace again. Out there, like it or not, there were enemy ships, and they were a constant threat. Dawes had only permitted local patrols, and then had detached nothing larger than a brig, claiming that Adam Bolitho's escape and vengeful attack in
Zest,
and Bolitho's personal victory would have made the Americans think again before attempting once more to harass convoys between Halifax and the West Indies. Napoleon was on the retreat: the despatches were full of it. Tyacke swore angrily. He had been hearing that same story for so many years, from the time when Napoleon had landed his army in Egypt, and French fire had burned his face away.

It was all the more reason for the Americans to act now, and without further delay, while British forces and a whole fleet that could otherwise be released for these waters were concentrated on the old enemy, France.

And when peace came, that impossible dream, what would he do? There was nothing in England for him. He had felt like a stranger on his last visit, when he had been given
Indomitable
. Africa, then? He had been happy there. Or was that only another delusion?

He saw the first lieutenant, John Daubeny, waiting to catch his eye. Tyacke had toyed with the idea of accepting a more senior officer to replace Scarlett. Daubeny, like most of the wardroom, was young, perhaps too young for the post of senior lieutenant. Dawes had suggested that one of his own lieutenants be appointed. Tyacke grinned fiercely. That must have decided it. In any case, Daubeny had matured on that September day, like most of them. It was the navy's way. A man died or was transferred: another took his place. Like dead men's shoes after a hanging. Even the pompous Midshipman Blythe, who had been confirmed lieutenant and was now the most junior officer aboard, had proved both efficient and attentive to detail, to Tyacke's surprise, and his own division of seamen, who had known his arrogance as a midshipman, had shown him a grudging respect. They would never like him, but it was a beginning, and Tyacke was satisfied.