Cross of St George (8 page)
Read Cross of St George Online
Authors: Alexander Kent
Bolitho had commented afterwards to Avery, “Another old Cornish rivalry. I'll lay odds that neither of them can remember how it all began.”
Bolitho had asked him about London, but he had not pressed the point, for which Avery was grateful. During the long night watches when he had lain awake, listening to the roar of the sea and the protesting groan of timbers, he had thought of little else.
He had felt no sense of triumph or revenge, as he had once believed he would. Had she been amusing herself with him? Playing with him, as she had once done? Or had he imagined that, too? A woman like her, so poised, so confident amongst people who lived in an entirely different world from his own ⦠Why would she risk everything if she had no deeper feeling for him?
None of the repeated questions had been answered.
He should have left her. Should never have gone to the house in the first place. He looked across at Bolitho, who was speaking warmly with Yovell, more like old friends than admiral and servant. What would he think if he knew that his wife Belinda had been there that day, obviously just as at home in that elegant and superficial world as all the others?
Yovell stood up, and grimaced as the deck swayed over again. “Ah, they were right about me, Sir Richard. I must be mad to share the life of a sailor!”
He gathered his papers and prepared to leave, perhaps to join Allday and Ozzard before the evening meal. Allday would be feeling the separation badly, and there would be a long wait for that first letter, which Avery knew he would bring for him to read aloud. Another precious link in the little crew: Allday was a proud man, and Avery had been touched by the simplicity and dignity of his request that Avery read to him the letters from Unis that he could not read for himself.
Would Susanna ever write to him? He wanted to laugh at his own pathetic hopes. Of course she would not. Within weeks she would have forgotten him. She had money, she had beauty, and she was free. But he would think of her again tonight ...He had tried to compare his position with that of Bolitho and his mistress, although he knew it was ridiculous. There was no comparison. Apart from that one memory, what had happened was a closed door, the finish of something which had always been hopeless.
He looked up, startled, afraid that he had missed something or that Bolitho had spoken to him. But they were as before, framed against the grey stern windows, the sea already losing its menace as the fading light obscured it.
Bolitho turned and looked at him. “Did you hear?”
Yovell steadied himself against the table. “Another storm, Sir Richard.”
“The glass says otherwise.” He tensed. “There. Again.”
Yovell said, “Thunder?”
Avery was on his feet. So unlike a ship-of-war; too long at sea with nothing but the sea to challenge you. Day after day, week in, week out. And then the boredom and the noisy routine were forgotten.
He said, “Gunfire, sir.”
There was a rap on the door and Allday stepped into the cabin. He moved so lightly when he wanted to, for such a big man, and one who was in more pain from his old wound than he would ever admit.
Bolitho said, “You heard, old friend?”
Allday looked at them. “I wasn't sure, an' then.” He shook his shaggy head. “Not a thing to lie easy on your mind, Sir Richard.”
Avery asked, “Shall I go and speak with the master, sir?”
Bolitho glanced at the screen door. “No. It is not our place.” He smiled at Ozzard, who had also appeared, a tray of glasses balanced in his hands. “Not yet, in any case.”
Eventually Samuel Tregullon made his way aft, his battered hat clutched in one beefy hand like a scrap of felt.
“Beggin' yer pardon, Zur Richard, but ye'll be knowing about the guns.” He shook his head as Ozzard offered him a glass, not because he was involved with his ship but because he usually drank only neat rum. A sailor, from his clear eyes to his thick wrists and the hands that were like pieces of meat. Collier brig, Falmouth packet, one-time smuggler and now a King's man: what Bolitho's father would have described as
all spunyarn and marline spikes.
Tregullon nodded briefly as Ozzard replaced the glass with a tankard. “Never fear, Zur Richard. I'll get you to Halifax as I was ordered, an' take you there I will. I can outsail any felon, theirs or ours!” He grinned, his uneven teeth like a broken fence. “I'm too old a hand to be caught aback!”
After he had gone, the distant gunfire continued for half an hour and then stopped, as if quenched by the sea itself.
The master returned, grim-faced, to say that he was resuming course and tack. It was over.
Bolitho said suddenly, “Yours is an experienced company, Captain Tregullon. None better at this work, I think you said?”
Tregullon eyed him suspiciously. “I did, Zur Richard. That I did.”
“I think we should make every effort to investigate what we have heard. At first light the sea may ease. I feel it.”
Tregullon was not convinced. “I have my orders, zur. They comes from the lords of Admiralty. No matter how I feels about it, I am not able or willing to change those orders.” He tried to smile, but it evaded him. “Not even for you, zur.”
Bolitho walked to the stern windows and leaned against the glass. “The lords of Admiralty, you say?” He turned, his face in shadow, the white lock of hair above his eye like a brushstroke. “We're all sailors here. We all know there is someone far higher who controls our lives, and listens to our despair when it pleases Him.”
Tregullon licked his lips. “I knows that, zur. But what can I do?”
Bolitho said quietly, “There are men out there, Captain Tregullon. In need, and likely in fear. It may already be too late, and I am well aware of the risk to your ship. To you and your company.”
“Not least to you, zur!” But there was no fight in his voice. He sighed. “Very well. I'll do it.” He looked up angrily. “Not for you, with all respect, zur, an' not for His Majesty, bless his soul.” He stared at his crumpled hat. “For
me.
It has to be so.”
Bolitho and Avery ate their meal in silence: the whole ship seemed to be holding her breath. Only the creak of the rudder and the occasional thud of feet overhead gave any hint that everything had changed.
At first light, as Bolitho had expected, the wind and sea eased; and with every available telescope and lookout searching for the presence of danger Tregullon shortened sail, and, arms folded, watched the darkness falling away and the sea eventually tinge with silver to mark each trough and roller.
Avery joined Bolitho on the broad quarterdeck, where he was standing in silence by the weather side, his black hair blowing unheeded in the bitter air. Once or twice Avery saw him touch his injured eye, impatient, even resentful that his concentration was interrupted.
Captain Tregullon joined him, and said gruffly, “We tried, Zur Richard. If there was anything, we were too late.” He watched Bolitho's profile, seeking something. “I'd best lay her on a new tack.”
He was about to shamble away when the cry came down, sharp and crisp, like the call of a hawk.
“Wreckage in th' water, sir! Lee bow!”
There was a lot of it. Planks and timber, drifting cordage and broken or upended boats, most of it charred and splintered by the fierceness of the bombardment.
Bolitho waited while the ship came into the wind, and a boat was lowered with one of the master's mates in charge.
There were a few dead, lolling as if asleep as the waves carried them by. The boat moved slowly amongst them, the bowman pulling each sodden corpse alongside with his hook and then quickly discarding it, unwilling, it seemed, to interrupt such a final journey.
Except for one. The master's mate took some time with it, and even without a glass Avery could see the dead face, the gaping wounds, all that was left of a man.
The boat returned and was hoisted inboard with a minimum of fuss. Avery heard the master pass his orders for getting under way again. Heavy, unhurried: the ship, as always, coming first.
Then he came aft and waited for Bolitho to face him. “My mate knew that dead sailor, Zur Richard. I expect we knew most of 'em.”
Bolitho said, “She was the
Royal Herald,
was she not?”
“She was, zur. Because of our losing the t'gallant mast she overreached us. They was waiting. They knew we was coming.” Then he said in a hoarse whisper, “It was you they was after, Zur Richard. They wanted you dead.”
Bolitho touched his thick arm. “So it would seem. Instead, many good men died.”
Then he turned and looked at Avery, and beyond him, All-day. “We thought we had left the war behind, my friends. Now it has come to meet us.”
There was no anger or bitterness, only sorrow. The respite was over.
F
ACE IN THE CROWD
B
OLITHO
put down the empty cup and walked slowly to the tall stern window. Around and above him,
Indomitable
's hull seemed to tremble with constant movement and purpose, so unlike the transport
Royal Enterprise,
which he had left the previous afternoon. He peered through the thick glass and saw her lying at anchor, his practised eye taking in the movement of seamen on her yards and in her upper rigging, while others hoisted fresh stores from a lighter alongside.
Royal Enterprise
would soon be off again on her next mission, with her master still brooding over the brutal destruction of the other transport which had been so well known to him and his people, and less confident now that speed was all that was required to protect them from a determined enemy.
It was halfway through the forenoon, and Bolitho had been working since first light. He had been surprised and touched by the warmth of his reception. Tyacke had come in person to collect him from
Royal Enterprise,
his eyes full of questions when Tregullon had mentioned the attack.
He glanced now around the cabin, which was so familiar in spite of his absence in England. Tyacke had done some fine work to get his ship repaired and ready for sea, for even in harbour the weather did not encourage such activities. But now there was a little weak sunlight to give an illusion of warmth. He touched the glass. It
was
an illusion.
He should be used to it. Even so, the transformation was a tribute to
Indomitable
's captain. Even here in his cabin, these guns had roared defiance: now each one was lashed snugly behind sealed ports, trucks painted, barrels unmarked by fire and smoke.
He looked at the empty cup. The coffee was excellent, and he wondered how long his stock would last. He could imagine her going to that shop in St James's Street, Number Three, part of the new world she had opened to him. Coffee, wine, so many small luxuries, which she had known he would not have bothered to obtain for himself, nor would anyone else.
Keen would be coming aboard in an hour or so: he had sent word that he would be detained by a visit from some local military commander who wanted to discuss the improved defences and shore batteries. A casual glance at any map or chart would show the sense of that. Halifax was the only real naval base left to them on the Atlantic coast. The Americans had their pick, Boston, New York, Philadelphia, as well as scores of bays and estuaries where they could conceal an armada if they so desired.
He wondered how Adam was finding his appointment as flag captain. After the freedom of a solitary command, it might be just what he needed. Conversely, it might remain only a cruel reminder of what might have been.
He closed the canvas folder he had been studying, and considered Keen's report. A convoy of five merchantmen had been ordered to await a stronger escort off the Bermudas for their final passage to the West Indies. Until then, two brigs had been the only vessels Dawes had spared to defend them.
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 â¦
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 â¦!
” 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 even 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.
