Cross of St George (7 page)

“Yes, Mr Daubeny?”

Daubeny touched his hat. “We shall complete stowage today, sir.”

Tyacke grunted, picturing his ship at a distance, her trim in the water, gauging the feel of her.

He said, “Tell my cox'n to prepare the gig when it's time. I'll go around her once more. We might still have to move some of that extra powder and shot further aft.” He was not aware of the pride that had crept into his voice. “This lady will want to fly when she finds open water again!”

Daubeny had noticed. He knew he would never be close to the captain: Tyacke kept his emotional distance, as if he were afraid to reveal his true feelings. Only with Sir Richard Bolitho had Daubeny ever seen him change, had sensed the warmth, the unspoken understanding and obvious respect of each for the other. He recalled them together, here, on this same untroubled deck. It was hard to believe that it had happened, that such chilling sights were possible. His inner voice spoke for him.
That I survived.

He said, “I shall be glad to see Sir Richard's flag hoisted again, sir.”

He did not even flinch when Tyacke faced him, as he had once done. How much worse it must be for him, he thought. The stares, the revulsion, and yes, the disapproval.

Tyacke smiled. “You speak for us both, Mr Daubeny!”

He turned away as York, the sailing-master, emerged from the companion, without a glance at the receding fog.

“You were right, Mr York! You have brought better weather for us!” Then he held up his hand and said sharply, “Listen!” The hammering and the muted thuds between decks had stopped. Only six months since that last ball had smashed into the carnage of broken men. They had done well.

York studied him gravely. So many times in the last two years he had watched the captain's moods, his anguish and his defiance. He had once heard Tyacke say of Sir Richard Bolitho, “I would serve no other.” He could have said the same himself, of this brave, lonely man.

He said, “Then we're ready, sir!”

Daubeny was listening, sharing it. At first he had thought he would be unable to fill Lieutenant Scarlett's shoes after he had fallen. He had even been afraid. That was yesterday. Now Scarlett was just another ghost, without substance or threat.

He stared up at the furled sails, moisture pouring from them like tropical rain. Like the ship, the
Old Indom
as the sailors called her, he was ready.

Three weeks outward-bound from Portsmouth, Hampshire, to Halifax, Nova Scotia, His Britannic Majesty's Ship
Wakeful
was within days of her landfall. Even Adam Bolitho, with all his hard-won experience as a frigate captain, could not recall a more violent passage. February into March, with the Atlantic using every mood and trick against them.

Although it was
Wakeful
's young captain's first command, he had held it for two years, and two years in a frigate used almost exclusively for carrying vital despatches to flag officers and far-flung squadrons was equal to a lifetime in a lesser vessel. South-west and into the teeth of the Atlantic gales, with men knocked senseless by incoming seas, or in danger of being hurled from the upper yards while they kicked and fisted half-frozen canvas that could tear out a man's fingernails like pips from a lemon. Watchkeeping became a nightmare of noise and cruel discomfort; estimating their daily progress, unable even to stream the log, was based on dead reckoning, or, as the sailing-master put it, by guess and by God.

For the passengers down aft, it was uncomfortable but strangely detached from the rest of the ship and her weary company, piped again and again to the braces or aloft to reef the sails when they had only just been given a moment's rest in their messes. Simply trying to carry hot food from the swaying, pitching galley was a test of skill.

Sealed off from the life of the ship, and her daily fight against the common enemy, Adam and his new flag officer remained curiously apart. Keen spent most of his time reading his lengthy instructions from the Admiralty, or making notes as he studied various charts beneath the wildly spiralling lanterns. They burned day and night: little light penetrated the stern windows, which were either streaming with spume from a following gale, or so smeared with salt that even the rearing waves were distorted into wild and threatening creatures.

Adam could appreciate all of it. Had
Wakeful
been an ordinary fleet frigate she would likely have been short-handed, or at best manned by unskilled newcomers, snatched up by the press or offered for duty by the local assize court. This required trained seamen, who had worked together long enough to know the strength of their ship and the value of their captain. He had thought often enough,
as
Anemone
had been.

Whenever he could be spared from his duties Captain Hyde had made it his business to visit them. No wonder he had not hesitated to offer his own quarters for their use: Hyde spent as many, if not more, hours on deck than any of his men.

Whenever possible Adam had sat with Keen in the cabin, and had washed down the wardroom fare with a plentiful supply of wine. To expect anything hot to drink was out of the question. The wine, however, had added no intimacy to their conversations.

Hyde must have noticed that Keen had made no impossible demands, and had not once complained of discomfort, nor had he requested a change of tack to seek out calmer waters even at the expense of losing time. It was obviously something which had surprised Hyde, in spite of Adam's first description of the admiral.

On one rare occasion when Hyde had given up the fight, and
Wakeful
had lain hove-to under storm canvas waiting for the weather to ease, Keen had seemed willing to share his confidences. Afterwards, Adam thought it might have been easier for both of them if they had been total strangers.

Keen had said, “I cannot tell you how pleased I was to have your letter of agreement to this appointment. We have known one another for a long time, and we have shared and lost many good friends.” He had hesitated, perhaps thinking of
Hyperion;
he had been Bolitho's flag captain when the old ship had gone down, with her flag still flying. “We have seen fine ships destroyed.” They had listened to the wind, and the sea hissing against the stern windows like a cave of serpents. “The sea is no less a tyrant than war, I sometimes think.”

He had seemed to want to talk, and Adam had found himself studying his companion with new eyes. When Keen had been piped aboard at Portsmouth with full honours, and the port admiral to welcome him in person, Adam had felt the old hurt and resentment. Keen had worn no mark of mourning, either then or since. Nor had he mentioned Zenoria, other than to acknowledge the port admiral's meaningless murmurs of condolence.

Keen had said, “When I was your uncle's flag captain, even though I had known him since I was a lowly midshipman, I was uncertain of the measure of confidence between us. Perhaps I did not understand the true difference between the position of flag captain, and a captain like our youthful Martin Hyde. Sir Richard showed me the way, without favour, and without overriding my own opinions merely to exercise the privileges of rank. It meant a great deal to me, and I hope I did not disappoint his trust.” He had smiled, rather sadly. “Or his friendship, which means so much to me, and which helped to save my mind.”

He could not think of them together. Keen, always so outwardly assured, attractive to women, his hair so fair that it looked almost white against his tanned features. But … as lovers … He was repulsed by it.

The boy John Whitmarsh, legs braced against the movement of the deck and lower lip pouting with concentration, had carried more wine to the table.

Keen had watched him, and after he had departed had said absently, “A pleasant youth. What shall you do with him?” He had not waited for, or perhaps expected, an answer. “I used to plan things for my boy, Perran. I wish I had had more time to know him.”

The table had been cleared by Whitmarsh and one of the captain's messmen. He had said quietly, “I want you to feel you can always speak your mind to me, Adam. Admiral and captain, but most of all friends. As I was, and am, with your uncle.” He had seemed uneasy, disturbed then by some thought. “And Lady Catherine—that goes without saying.”

And then, eventually,
Wakeful
had changed course, north-westby-north to take full advantage of the obliging Westerlies as, close-hauled, they started on the last leg of their journey.

Of Halifax Keen had remarked, “My father has friends there.” Again a note of bitterness had crept into his voice. “In the way of trade, I believe.” Then, “I just want to be doing something. Peter Dawes might have fresh information by the time we arrive.”

On another occasion, when they had been free to walk the quarterdeck, and there had even been a suggestion of sunlight on the dark, rearing crests, Keen had mentioned Adam's escape, and John Allday's son, who had risked everything to help him, only to fall in the battle with
Unity
. Keen had paused to watch some gulls skimming within inches of the sea's face, screaming a welcome. He had said, “I remember when we were together in the boat after that damned
Golden Plover
went down.” He had spoken with such vehemence that Adam had felt him reliving it. “Some birds flew over the boat. We were nearly finished. But for Lady Catherine I don't know what we would have done. I heard your uncle say to her,
tonight those birds will nest in Africa.
”He had looked at Adam without seeing him. “It made all the difference. Land, I thought. We are no longer alone, without hope.”

As the miles rolled away in
Wakeful
's lively wake, Adam had shared few other confidences with his new rear-admiral. Others might look at him and say, there is a favoured one, who has everything. In fact, his rank was all he had.

And then, on that last full day when they had both been on deck, the air like knives in their faces.

“Have you ever thought of getting married, Adam? You should. This life is hard on the women, but I sometimes think …”

Mercifully, the masthead had yelled, “Deck there! Land on th' weather bow!”

Hyde had joined them, beaming and rubbing his raw hands. Glad it was over, more so that he was ridding himself of his extra responsibilities.

“With good fortune we shall anchor in the forenoon tomorrow, sir.” He had been looking at the rear-admiral, but his words had been for Adam. The satisfaction of making a landfall. Even the ocean had seemed calmer, until the next challenge.

Keen had walked to the quarterdeck rail, oblivious to the idlers off-watch who were chattering, some even laughing, sharing the same elation at what they had achieved. Men against the sea.

He had said, without turning his head, “You may hoist my flag at the mizzen at first light, Captain Hyde.” Then he did turn and face them. “And, thank you.” But he had been looking past them, through them, as if he had been speaking to someone else.

Hyde had asked, “May I invite you and Captain Bolitho to sup with my officers and me, sir? It is quite an occasion for us.”

Adam had seen Keen's face. Empty, like a stranger's.

“I think not, Captain Hyde. I have some papers to study before we anchor.” He made another attempt. “My flag captain will do the honours.”

Perhaps it had been then, and only then, that the impact of his loss had really struck him.

It would have to be a new beginning, for them both.

Richard Bolitho walked across the cabin deck, and paused by the table where Yovell was melting wax to seal one of the many written orders he had copied.

“I think that will be an end to it for today.” The deck was rising again, the rudder-head thudding noisily as the transport
Royal Enterprise
lifted and then ploughed into another criss-cross of deep troughs. He knew Avery was watching him from the security of a chair which was lashed firmly between two ringbolts. A rough passage, even for a ship well used to such violence. It would soon be over, and still he had not reconciled himself, or confronted his doubts at the prospect of returning to a war which could never be won, but must never be lost. He was holding on, refusing to surrender, even when they were separated by an ocean.

He said, “Well, George, we will dine directly. I am glad I have a flag lieutenant whose appetite is unimpaired by the Atlantic in ill temper!”

Avery smiled. He should be used to it, to the man, by now. But he could still be surprised by the way Bolitho seemed able to put his personal preoccupations behind him, or at least conceal them from others.
From me.
Avery had guessed what the return to duty had cost him, but when he had stepped aboard the transport at Plymouth there had been nothing to reveal the pain of parting from his mistress after so brief a reunion.

Bolitho was watching the last of the wax dripping onto the envelope like blood before Yovell set his seal upon it. He had not spared himself, but he knew very well that by the time they reached Halifax and rejoined the squadron everything might have changed, rendering their latest intelligence useless. Time and distance were the elements that determined the war at sea. Instinct, fate, experience, it was all and none of them, and ignorance was often fatal.

Avery watched the sea dashing across the thick stern windows. The ship had been more comfortable than he had expected, with a tough and disciplined company used to fast passages and taking avoiding action against suspicious sails instead of standing to fight. The Admiralty orders made that very clear to every such vessel and her master: they were to deliver their passengers or small, important cargoes at any cost. They were usually under-armed; the
Royal Enterprise
mounted only some nine-pounders and a few swivels. Speed, not glory, was her purpose.

They'd had only one mishap. The ship had been struck by a violent squall as she was about to change tack. Her fore-topgallant mast and yard had carried away, and one of her boats had been torn from its tier and flung over the side like a piece of flotsam. The ship's company had got down to work immediately; they were used to such hazards, but her master, a great lump of a man named Samuel Tregullon, was outraged by the incident. A Cornishman from Penzance, Tregullon was intensely proud of his ship's record, and her ability to carry out to the letter the instructions of the men at Admiralty who, in his view, had likely never set foot on a deck in their lives. To be delayed with such an important passenger in his care, and a fellow Cornishman at that, was bad enough. But as he had confided over a tankard of rum during a visit to the cabin, another transport, almost a sister ship of his own, the
Royal Herald,
had left Plymouth a few days after them, and would now reach Halifax before them.