Cross of St George (17 page)
Read Cross of St George Online
Authors: Alexander Kent
Bolitho said suddenly, “Your assistant, GeorgeâMr Midshipman Carleton. Doing well, isn't he?”
Avery glanced quickly at Tyacke, who gave the merest hint of a smile, but no more.
“Yes, sir, he is very good with his signals crew. He hopes to be offered promotion. He is seventeen.” The question had disconcerted him: he never really knew what Bolitho might toss his way, or why.
Tyacke said, “He's a damned sight quieter than Mr Blythe ever was.”
Bolitho felt them relaxing, except Ozzard. He was waiting to hear, to
know.
He would go below, as deep as possible into the hull, when the first shots were fired. He should be ashore, Bolitho thought, away from this life. And yet, he knew that he had nowhere to go, no one who waited for him. Even when they were in Cornwall, and Ozzard lived in his cottage on the estate, he remained profoundly alone.
Bolitho said, “I want young Carleton aloft.” He tugged out his watch and flicked open the guard.
Tyacke read his thoughts. “Less than an hour, sir.”
Bolitho glanced at his empty cup, and heard Ozzard say tentatively, “I could make another pot, Sir Richard.”
“I think it may have to wait.” He turned his head as, almost drowned out by the muffled hiss of the sea, he heard a man laugh somewhere. Such a small thing, but he thought of the wretched
Reaper:
there had been no laughter there. He remembered as if it were yesterday the evening when Tyacke had taken the lordly Midshipman Blythe below deck to visit the crowded seamen's and marines' messes, to show him what he had called “the strength of a ship.” That had been before the battle. The same strength had prevailed then. He thought of Allday's grief. At a cost â¦
He said, “If we fight, we will give of our best.” For a moment it was like hearing someone else's voice. “But we must never forget those who depend on us, because they have no other choice.”
Tyacke reached for his hat. “I'll have the galley fire doused in good time, Sir Richard.”
But Bolitho was looking at Avery. “Go and speak with your Mr Carleton.” He closed his watch, but was still holding it. “You may pass the word now, James. It will be warm enough today.”
As Ozzard gathered up the cups and the others left the cabin, Bolitho looked over at Allday.
“Well, old friend. Why here, you must be thinking, a tiny mark on this great ocean. Are we destined to fight?”
Allday held out the old sword and ran his eye along the edge.
“Like all them other times, Sir Richard. It was meant to be. That's it an' all about it.” Then he grinned, almost his old self again. “We'll win, no matter what.” He paused, and the defiant humour was gone. “Y' see, Sir Richard, we've both got too much to lose.” He slid the blade back into its scabbard. “God help them that tries to take it away!”
Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and gripped it while he peered up at the towering mainmast with its iron-hard canvas. He was shivering, not because of the cold morning air, but with the instinctive awareness of danger that could still surprise him after a lifetime at sea. The sails were paler now, but there was no horizon, and the only movement he recognized through the thick criss-cross of rigging and flapping canvas seemed to float above the ship, keeping pace with her like a solitary sea bird. It was his flag, the Cross of St George, which flew day and night while he was in command. He thought of her letter in the pocket of his coat, and imagined he could hear her voice.
My admiral of England.
He could still taste the bitterness of coffee on his tongue, and wondered why he had not forced himself to eat. Tension, uncertainty perhaps. But fear? He smiled. Perhaps he could no longer recognize that emotion.
Figures moved all around him, each one careful not to intrude upon his solitude. He could see Isaac York, a head taller than his mates, his slate-coloured hair blowing in the wind: a good man and a strong one. Bolitho knew that he had even tried to help Scarlett when the extent of his debts had become known. The white breeches of the lieutenants and midshipmen stood out in the lingering darkness, and he guessed that they were preparing themselves for what might happen today, each in his own fashion.
He moved to the compass box and glanced at the tilting card. North-east by north, with the wind still firm across the larboard quarter. Men were working high overhead, feeling for frayed cordage or jammed blocks with the sureness of true seamen.
Tyacke was down on the lee side, his lean figure framed against the pale water creaming back from the bows. One long arm moved to emphasize a point, and he could imagine Daubeny concentrating on every word. They were chalk and cheese, but the mixture seemed to work: Tyacke had a peculiar gift of being able to communicate his requirements to his subordinates without unnecessary anger or sarcasm. At first they had been afraid of him, and repulsed by the hideous scars: eventually they had all overcome such things, and had become a company of which to be proud.
He heard a midshipman whisper to his friend and saw them look up, and he shaded his eyes and stared with them at his flag, the red cross suddenly hard and bright, touched by the first light of dawn.
“Deck there!”
Carleton's voice was clear and very loud: he was using a speaking-trumpet. “Sail on the larboard bow!” A pause, and Bolitho could picture the young midshipman asking the masthead lookout his opinion. Tyacke was always careful with his choice of “eyes”: they were invariably experienced sailors, many of whom had grown older with the ships they were serving, or fighting.
Carleton called again, “She's
Attacker,
sir!” He sounded almost disappointed that it was not a first sighting of the enemy. The other frigate was one of the smaller sixth-rates, and mounted only twenty-eight guns. Bolitho frowned. The same as
Reaper
. But she was not like
Reaper
. In his mind's eye he could see
Attacker
's captain, George Morrison, a tough northerner from Tyneside. But no sadist: his punishment book was one of the cleanest in the squadron.
Avery said quietly, “He must sight
Virtue
soon, sir.”
Bolitho looked at him, and saw the new light driving the shadows from his face.
“Perhaps. We may have become separated in the night. Not for long.”
He knew Allday was close by: he must be standing almost where his son had fallen that day.
He pushed the thought away. This was now.
Attacker
was on her proper station, or soon would be, once she had sighted the flagship. The other frigate,
Virtue
, carried thirty-six guns. Her captain was Roger M'Cullom, in character a little like Dampier, who had been
Zest
's captain before Adam had taken command. Devil-may-care and popular, but inclined to be reckless. Whether to impress his men or for his own benefit, it was still a dangerous and, as Dampier had discovered, sometimes a fatal flaw.
Sam Hockenhull the boatswain had come aft to speak with the first lieutenant. Bolitho noticed that he was careful to avoid contact with Allday, who still blamed him for sending his son to join the afterguard on the day he had died. The quarterdeck and poop were always ripe targets for enemy sharpshooters and the deadly swivel-guns in close combat: command and authority began and were easily ended here. It was nobody's fault, and Hockenhull probably felt badly about it, although nothing had been said.
Bolitho sensed the restlessness among the waiting seamen. The leading edge of tension and apprehension had passed. They might be relieved later, when there was time to think on it. Now they would feel cheated that the sea was empty. As though they had been misled.
And here was the sun at last, giving a bronze edge to the horizon. Bolitho saw
Attacker
's topsails for the first time, the faint touch of colour from her streaming masthead pendant.
Someone gasped with alarm as a muffled bang echoed across the sea's jagged whitecaps. One shot, the sound going on and on for seconds, as if in a mine or a long tunnel.
Tyacke was beside him immediately. “Signal, Sir Richard. It's
Virtue
. She's sighted 'em!”
Bolitho said, “Make more sail. Then as soon as ⦔
Carleton's voice came down from the masthead again. “Deck there! Two sail in sight to the nor'-east!”
There were more far-off shots, in earnest this time.
Tyacke's strong voice controlled the sudden uncertainty around him. “Hands aloft, Mr Daubeny! Get the royals on her!” To York he called, “Weather-helm, let her fall off two points!” He rubbed his hands. “Now we'll see her fly, lads!”
More shots, sporadic but determined. Two ships, perhaps more. Tyacke was looking toward him again.
Bolitho said, “When you are ready, Captain Tyacke.” Then he looked up as the royals thundered from their yards, adding their power to the straining masts and rigging.
“Beat to quarters, Mr Daubeny! Then clear for action, if you please!”
Daubeny was staring at him. Reliving the past, trying to face the future.
The marine drummers were already below the poop, and at a signal from their sergeant they began to beat out the familiar rattle, the sounds soon lost in the answering rush of feet as idlers and off-watch hands divided into teams, each of which knew precisely what was expected of them. Bolitho stood quite still, aware of the order and purpose around him, gained by months of drills and exercises, and Tyacke's own forceful example.
The cabin beneath his feet would be stripped bare like the rest of the ship, screens torn down, all privacy gone, until the vessel was open from bow to stern. A ship-of-war.
“Cleared for action, sir!” Daubeny turned back to his captain.
Tyacke nodded. “That was well done.” Then, formally, he touched his hat to his admiral. “
Virtue
is engaging without support, Sir Richard.”
Bolitho said nothing. M'Cullom was not the kind to wait. It would be ship to ship, evening old scores, a seizing of the initiative like any frigate captain. Carleton's voice came down like an intrusion.
“Third sail in sight, sir! There's smoke!”
Bolitho said, “Go aloft, George. Discover what you can.”
Avery glanced at him even as he hurried to the shrouds. Afterwards, he was to recall the pain in his eyes, as if he already knew.
More gunfire, and Bolitho saw the smoke for the first time, like a stain on the shark-blue water. He could feel the deck lifting and then shuddering down as
Indomitable
thrust her fourteen hundred tons into each oncoming roller. Even the yards appeared to be bending like giant bows, every sail full, each shroud and stay bar-taut under her great pyramid of sails.
“Load, sir?” Tyacke's eyes were everywhere, even aloft, where a man had almost lost his hold as he was securing one of the nets which had been spread to protect the gun crews from falling spars.
Bolitho glanced at the masthead pendant. Like an arrow. The enemy could not outpace this ship, nor did they have the time to beat back into the wind. M'Cullom must have seen all this, and set it against the risk. The odds.
“Yes. Load, but do not run out.
Virtue
has given us time. Let us use it!”
Avery called down suddenly, “
Virtue
has lost a topmast, sir! There are two frigates engaging her!” The rest was lost in an angry growl from the gun crews as they paused to peer up at the mainmast, their legs braced on the freshly sanded deck, their expressions shocked, but free of fear. This was different.
Virtue
was one of their own.
Bolitho looked away.
My men.
More explosions, and then Avery returned to the quarterdeck.
“She can't hope to last much longer, sir.”
“I know.” He spoke sharply, angry with himself at the cost, which was already too high. “Make to
Attacker, Close on the Flag.
” As Avery shouted for the signal party, he added, “Then hoist
Close Action!
”
So easily said. He felt for the locket under his shirt.
May Fate always guide you.
A tiny mark on this great ocean, he had said to Allday.
He turned and stared along the full length of the ship, past each unmoving gun crew, the lieutenants at the foot of each mast, then beyond the lion, with its upraised paws ready to strike.
The sea was cleaner, and a darker blue now, the sky empty of cloud in the first frail sunlight.
He gripped the sword at his side and tried to feel something, some emotion. No place now for any
perhaps
or
maybe.
Like all those other times, this was the moment.
Now.
And there lay the enemy.
A
FLAG CAPTAIN
B
OLITHO
waited for the bows to rear across another broken roller, then raised the telescope to his eye. The sea was glinting in a million mirrors, the horizon hard and sharp like something solid.
He moved the glass very slowly until he had found the embattled ships, changing shape in a swirling pall of gun smoke.
Avery said, “
Attacker
's on station, sir.” He sounded unwilling to disturb Bolitho's concentration.
On station.
It seemed only minutes since the signal had been acknowledged; perhaps everything had been frozen in time, with only the three distant ships a reality.
Virtue
was still fighting hard, engaging the enemy on either beam, her broadsides regular and well timed despite the ripped and ragged sails, and the gaps in her rigging and spars which revealed the true measure of her damage.
Two big frigates. He could see the Stars and Stripes curling from the leader's gaff, the stabbing tongues of orange flame along her side as her battery fired, and fired again.
The nearest enemy ship was breaking off the action, her smoke rolling down across her adversary as if to swamp her, her sails flapping in disorder but without confusion, as she began to alter course. She was coming fully about. Bolitho searched his feelings: there was neither satisfaction nor even anxiety. To fight, not to run, to grasp what wind she could and use it.
Had she tried to break free and stand away,
Indomitable
would have outsailed her, and raked her at least twice before the other captain had been made to face an inevitable defeat.
What Adam would have done. He smiled faintly, bleakly.
What I would do.
He called to one of the midshipmen. “Over here, Mr Blisset!” He waited for the youth to join him, and then rested the telescope on his shoulder. He saw the midshipman grin and wink to one of his friends.
See me? I am helping the admiral!
Bolitho forgot him and all those around him as he watched a tiny cluster of coloured flags break from the other frigate. She was still engaging the defiant
Virtue,
and the pockmarks in her own sails showed that it was not all going in the enemy's favour.
He rubbed his left eye with his sleeve, angry at the interruption. The signal was being acknowledged, so the engaging vessel was the senior of the two. Almost certainly the same captain who had bluffed
Reaper
into surrender and worse. Who had intended to go after the convoy as he had probably done with others. Had they been his guns, too, which had smashed the transport
Royal Herald
into oblivion?
The face in the crowd.
Someone shouted, “
Virtue
's mizzen is going!”
And Isaac York's angry retort. “We can see that, Mr Essex!”
Bolitho trained the glass still further. He could feel the youth's shoulder quivering: excitement, fear, it could be both.
The frigate was almost bows-on, leaning over as her yards were hauled round to hold her on the opposite tack. So close now, five miles or thereabouts. She would soon be on a converging course. Tyacke must have anticipated it, had put himself in the other captain's place when he had ordered York to let
Indomitable
fall off two points. Either way, they would hold the wind-gage. It would be a swift, and possibly decisive, embrace.
The enemy frigate was trying to head further into the wind, but her flapping canvas filled again while she held her present course.
Bolitho heard Tyacke say, almost to himself,
“Got you!”
“Royal Marines, stand to!”
That was Merrick. A good officer, but one who had always been dominated by du Cann, who had been torn to bloody shreds by a swivel even as he had led his marines onto the American's deck. Was Merrick hearing his voice even now, as he ordered his men to their stations?
He moved the glass again, his lips dry as he saw
Virtue
's blurred shape falling downwind, obviously out of command, her steering gone, her remaining sails whipping in the wind like ragged banners.
Tyacke again. “Starboard battery, Mr Daubeny! Open the ports!”
A whistle shrilled, and Bolitho imagined the portlids lifting like baleful eyes along their spray-dappled side.
“Run out!”
Bolitho lowered the glass and murmured a word of thanks to the midshipman. He saw Avery watching him, and said, “The senior captain is holding off for the present.”
Tyacke joined him and exclaimed angrily, “To let another do his work for him, the bastard!”
There was a puff of smoke from the approaching frigate, and seconds later a ball slapped down beyond
Indomitable
's thrusting jib-boom. Bolitho said, “You may shorten sail, Captain Tyacke.” He could have been speaking to a stranger.
Tyacke was shouting to his lieutenants, while high above the tilting deck the topmen were already kicking and fisting the wild canvas under control, yelling to one another as they had done so often during their endless drills and contests, mast against mast. Bolitho straightened his back. It was always the same: the big main course brailed up to lessen the risk of fire, but leaving the crouching gun crews and the barebacked seamen at the braces and halliards feeling exposed and vulnerable.
He stared at the drifting
Virtue
. If she survived this day, it would take months to repair and refit her. Many of her people would not see that, or any other day.
But her flag still flew, hoisted with pathetic jauntiness to an undamaged yard, and through the smoke he could see some of her seamen climbing on to the shattered gangways to cheer and gesture as
Indomitable
surged towards them.
Avery tore his eyes away from the other ship and looked toward Bolitho as he said, “See? They can still cheer!” He pressed one hand to his eye, but Avery had seen the emotion and the pain.
Tyacke leaned on the rail as if to control his ship single-handed.
“On the uproll, Mr Daubeny!” He drew his sword and lifted it, until the first lieutenant had turned towards him.
“When you are ready, Mr York!” York raised a hand in acknowledgment. “Helm a'lee! Hold her steady there!”
Responding to the quarter-wind,
Indomitable
turned slightly and without effort, her long jib- boom slicing above the other ship's like a giant's lance.
“Steady she is, sir! Nor' by east!”
“Fire!”
Controlled, gun by gun, the broadside thundered out from bow to quarter, the sound so loud after the distant sea-fight that some of the seamen almost lost their grip on the braces as they hauled with all their strength to drag the yards round, to harness the wind. The oncoming frigate had been waiting, to draw closer, or to anticipate Tyacke's first move. By a second or an hour, it was already too late, even before it had begun.
Bolitho watched
Indomitable
's double-shotted broadside smashing into the other ship, and imagined that he saw her stagger as if she had run aground. He saw great holes in the sails, the wind already exploring them and tearing them apart. Severed rigging and shrouds dangled over her side, and more than one gunport had been left empty, blinded, its cannon running free to cause more havoc inboard.
“Stop your vents! Sponge out! Load! Run out!”
Even as the enemy fired, the gun crews threw themselves into their work in a barely controlled frenzy.
Gun captains peered aft where Tyacke stood watching the other frigate. Perhaps he could exclude all else but the moment and his duty; he certainly did not seem to notice as one of the packed hammocks was torn apart by a jagged splinter a few yards from his body.
Bolitho felt the hull jerk as some of the other frigate's iron found its mark. The range was closing fast; he could even see men running to retrim the yards, and an officer waving his sword, before Tyacke's arm came down and the guns hurled themselves inboard on their tackles once more. Through the black shrouds and stays the American frigate looked as if she would run headlong into
Indomitable
's side, but it was an illusion of battle, and the sea churned between the two ships was as bright as before.
Bolitho snatched up a glass and walked to the opposite side, expecting to see the senior American frigate running into the fight, with only the smaller
Attacker
standing in her way. He stared with disbelief as he realized that she had already gone about, and was making more sail even as he watched.
Avery said hoarsely, “Not bluffing this time, sir!”
There was a wild cheer as the frigate's foremast began to fall. He imagined he could hear the terrible sounds of splintering wood and tearing rigging, although his ears were still deaf from the last broadside. So slow, so very slow. He even thought he could see the final hesitation before shrouds and stays snapped under the weight, and the whole mast, complete with yards, top and sails, thundered down alongside, dragging the vessel round like some giant sea anchor.
He watched the range closing fast, the American frigate turning clumsily while some of her men ran to cut the mast adrift, their axes like bright stars in the smoky sunshine.
Daubeny called, “All loaded, sir!”
Tyacke did not seem to hear. He was watching the other ship as she drifted helplessly to the thrust of wind and current.
The American officer was still waving his sword, and the huge Stars and Stripes streamed as proudly as before.
“Strike, damn you!”
But Tyacke's voice held no anger or hatred; it was more a plea, one captain to another.
Two of the enemy's guns recoiled in their ports and Bolitho saw more packed hammocks blasted from their nettings, and seamen reeling from their weapons while one of their number was cut in half by a ball, his legs kneeling in grotesque independence.
Tyacke stared at Bolitho. Nothing was said. The sudden silence was almost more painful than the explosions.
Bolitho glanced at the enemy ship, and saw that some of her seamen who had been running seconds earlier to hack away the dragging wreckage had stopped as if stricken, unable to move. But here and there a musket flashed, and he knew that her invisible marksmen could not be cheated for much longer.
He nodded. “As you bear!”
The sword fell, and in one shattering roar the starboard battery fired into the drifting smoke.
Daubeny yelled,
“Reload!”
Stooping like old men, the gun crews sponged out the hot guns and rammed home the fresh charges and shining black balls from the garlands. At one of the ports the men hauled their gun back, oblivious even to the sliced corpse and the blood that soaked their trousers like paint. A fight they could understand; even the pain and fear that kept it close company were part of it, something expected. But a drifting ship, unable to steer and with most of her guns either unmanned or out of action, was something different.
A lone voice shouted, “Strike, you bloody bastard! Strike, for Jesus' sake!” Above the wind in the rigging, it sounded like a scream.
Tyacke said, “So be it.” He dropped his sword and the guns exploded, the vivid tongues of flame appearing to reach and touch the target.
The smoke funnelled downwind, and men stood away from their guns, their eyes red-rimmed in smoke-grimed faces, sweat cutting stripes across their bodies.
Bolitho watched coldly. A ship which could not win, and which would not surrender. Where the working party had been gathered there was only splintered timber and a few corpses, tossed aside with brutal indifference. Men and pieces of men, and from her scuppers there were tiny threads of scarlet, as if the ship herself was bleeding to death. Daubeny had removed his hat, probably without knowing what he had done. But he stared aft again, his face like stone as he called, “All loaded, sir!”
Tyacke turned toward the three figures by the weather rail: Bolitho, Avery close beside him, and Allday a few paces away, his naked cutlass resting on the deck.
One more broadside would finish her completely, with so much damage below deck that she might even burst into flames, deadly to any vessel that came near her. Fire was the greatest fear of every sailor, in both war and peace.
Bolitho felt the numbness. The ache. They were waiting. Justice; revenge; the completeness of defeat.
His was the final responsibility. When he looked for the other American ship, he could barely find her beyond the smoke. But waiting, watching to see what he would do.
Testing me again.
“Very well, Captain Tyacke!” He knew that some of the seamen and marines were staring at him, with disbelief, perhaps even disgust. But the gun captains were responding, answering the only discipline they understood. The trigger-lines were pulled taut, each man staring across his muzzle, the helpless target filling every open port.
Tyacke raised his sword. Remembering that moment at the Nile when hell had burst into his life and had left its mark as a permanent reminder? Or seeing just another enemy, a fragment of a war which had outlived so many, friends and foes alike?
There was a sudden burst of shouting and Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the solitary figure on the enemy's torn and bloodied quarterdeck. No sword this time, and one arm hanging broken, or even missing in the dangling sleeve.
Very deliberately and without even turning towards
Indomitable
, he tugged at the halliards, and almost fell as the big Stars and Stripes spiralled down into the smoke.
Avery said in a tight voice, “He had no choice.”
Bolitho glanced at him. Like Tyacke, another memory? Of his own little schooner surrendering to the enemy, while he lay wounded and helpless?
He said, “He had every choice. Men died for no good purpose. Remember what I told you.
They
have no choice at all.”
He looked in Allday's direction. “Bravely, old friend?”
Allday lifted the cutlass and balanced the blade on one hand.
“It gets harder, Sir Richard.” Then he grinned, and Bolitho thought that even the sunshine was dim by comparison. “Aye, set bravely!”
