Cross of St George (18 page)

Tyacke was watching the other vessel, the brief savagery of action already being crowded aside by the immediate needs of command.

“Boarding parties, Mr Daubeny! The marines will go across when the ship is secured! Pass the word for the surgeon and let me know the bill—we'll see the cost of this morning's show of courage! ”

Indomitable
was responding, the carpenter and his crew already below, hammers and squeaking tackles marking their progress through the lower hull.

Then Tyacke sheathed his sword, and saw the youngest midshipman observing him closely, although his eyes were still blurred with shock. Tyacke looked steadily back at him, giving himself time to consider what had so nearly happened.

He barely knew the midshipman, who had been sent out from England as a replacement for young Deane. His eyes moved unwillingly to one of the quarterdeck guns. Right there, as others had just fallen.

“Well, Mr Campbell, what did you learn from all this?”

The boy, who was only twelve years old, hesitated under Tyacke's gaze, unused as yet to the scars, and the man who bore them.

In a small voice he answered, “We
won,
sir.”

Tyacke walked past him and touched his shoulder, something he did not often do. He was more surprised than the midshipman at the contact.

“
They lost,
Mr Campbell. It is not always the same thing!”

Bolitho was waiting for him. “She's not much of a prize, James. But her loss will be felt elsewhere!”

Tyacke smiled. Bolitho did not wish to speak of it, either.

He said, “No chance of a chase now, Sir Richard. We have others to care for.”

Bolitho stared at the dark blue water, and the other American frigate, which was already several miles clear.

“I can wait.” He tensed. Someone was crying out in agony as others attempted to move him. “They did well.”

He saw Ozzard's small figure picking his way through the discarded tackles and rammers by the guns. So much a part of it, and yet able to distance himself from all the sights and sounds around him. He was carrying a bottle, wrapped in a surprisingly clean cloth.

Tyacke was still beside him, although aware of those on every hand who were demanding his attention.

“They're lucky, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho watched Ozzard preparing a clean goblet, oblivious to everything but the job in hand.

“Some may not agree, James.”

Tyacke said abruptly, “
Trust,
sir.” One word, but it seemed to hang there even as he walked away for the final act with a vanquished enemy.

Bolitho raised the goblet to his lips as the shadow of the enemy's topmast laid its patterns on the deck beside him. He saw some of the bloodied seamen pause to watch him; a few grinned when they caught his eye, others merely stared, needing to recognize something. To remember, perhaps, or to tell somebody later, who might want to know about it. He found himself touching the locket beneath his shirt. She would understand what it meant to him. Just that one word, so simply put.

While the sun climbed higher in the clear sky to raise a misty haze on either horizon,
Indomitable
's company worked with scarcely a pause to cleanse their ship of the scars and stains of battle. The air was heady with rum, and it was hoped that a meal would be ready by noon. To the ordinary sailor, strong drink and a full belly were considered a cure for almost everything.

Below the sounds of repair and the disciplined activity, on
Indomitable
's orlop deck the contrast was stark. Beneath the ship's waterline, it was a hushed place that never saw daylight, nor would it until she was broken up. Through the ship's length it was a place for stores and spare timber, rigging and fresh water, and in the carefully guarded magazines, powder and shot. Here was the purser's store, with slop clothing and tobacco, food, and wine for the wardroom, and in the same darkness, broken here and there by clusters of lanterns, some of
Indomitable
's company, midshipmen and other junior warrant officers, lived, slept, and by the light of flickering glims studied and dreamed of promotion.

It was also a place where men were brought to survive or to die, as their wounds and injuries dictated.

Bolitho ducked low between each massive deck beam and waited for his eyes to accept the harsh change from sunlight to this gloom, from the relief and high spirits of the victors, to the men down here who might not live to see the sun again.

Because of their opening broadsides and Tyacke's superior ship-handling at close quarters,
Indomitable
's casualties, her bill, had been mercifully light. He knew from long experience that that was no consolation to the unlucky ones down on the orlop. Some were lying, or propped against the great curved timbers of the hull, bandaged, or staring at the little group around the makeshift table where the surgeon and his assistants, the lob-lolly boys, worked on their patients: their victims, the old Jacks called them.

Bolitho could hear Allday's painful breathing, and did not know why he had chosen to accompany him. He must be grateful that his son had been spared this final indignity and despair.

They were holding a man down on the table, his nakedess still revealing the powder stains of battle, his face and neck sweating as he almost choked on the rum which was being poured down his throat before the leather strap was put between his teeth. The surgeon's apron was dark with blood. No wonder they called them butchers.

But Philip Beauclerk was not typical of the uncaring, hardened surgeons who were usually found throughout the fleet. He was young and highly skilled, and had volunteered with a group of other surgeons to serve in ships-of-war, where it was known that conditions and the crude treatment of wounds often killed more men than the enemy. After his present commission Beauclerk would return to the College of Surgeons in London, where, with his colleagues, he would contribute his knowledge to a practical guide, which might help to ease the suffering of men like these.

Beauclerk had done well during the fight with the USS
Unity,
and had offered great support to Adam Bolitho when he had been brought aboard after his escape from prison. He had a composed and serious face, and the palest and steadiest eyes Bolitho had ever seen. He recalled the moment when Beauclerk had mentioned his finest tutor, Sir Piers Blachford, who had been researching the same conditions himself aboard
Hyperion.
Bolitho saw him even now, his tall, heron-like figure striding between decks, asking questions, talking to anyone he chose, a severe man, but possessing great qualities of courage and compassion, which had made even the hardest seamen respect him. Blachford had been in
Hyperion
to her last day, when she had finally given up the fight and gone down, with Bolitho's flag still flying. Many had gone down with her: they could be in no better company. And they still sang about his old ship, “How Hyperion Cleared the Way.” It always brought a cheer in the taverns and the pleasure gardens, even though those who cheered her name rarely had any idea what it was like. What
this
was like.

For a few seconds Beauclerk looked up, his eyes like chips of glass in the light of the swinging lanterns. He was a very private man, no easy thing to achieve in a crowded warship. He had known for some time of Bolitho's damaged eye, and that it had been Blachford who had told him that there was no hope for it. But he had said nothing.

The wounded seaman was quieter now, whimpering to himself, not seeing the knife in Beauclerk's hand, the saw held ready by an assistant.

“You are welcome here, Sir Richard.” He watched him, assessing him. “We are nearly done.” Then, as the seaman twisted his face toward the admiral, he gave a brief shake of his head.

Bolitho was deeply moved, and wondered if this was why he had come. This man might die: at best, he would be one more cripple thrown on the beach. His leg had been crushed, no doubt by a recoiling gun.

Tyacke's words still haunted him, from that September day when so many others had fallen.
And for what?
An enemy frigate taken, but so badly damaged that it was unlikely she would survive a sudden squall, let alone fight in the line.
Virtue
had also been severely mauled, and had lost twenty of her men. Surprisingly, her captain, the devil-may-care M'Cullom, had survived without a scratch. This time.

Indomitable
had lost only four men killed, and some fifteen wounded. Bolitho moved to the table and took the man's wrist, the surgeon's mate stepping aside, staring at Beauclerk as if for an explanation.

Bolitho closed his fingers around the man's thick wrist, and said gently, “Easy, now.” He glanced at Beauclerk and saw his lips form the name. “You did well, Parker.” He raised his voice very slightly and looked beyond, into the shadows, knowing that others were listening to his empty words. “And that applies to you all!”

He felt the wrist start to shake. It was not a movement, but a mere sensation, like something running through him, out of control. It was terror.

Beauclerk nodded to his assistants and they seized the leg, their eyes averted as the knife came down and cut deeply. Beau-clerk showed no hesitation, no outward emotion, as his patient arched his back and tried to scream through the strap. Then the saw. It seemed endless, but Bolitho knew only a matter of seconds had passed. It was followed by a sickening thud as they dropped the leg into the “wings and limbs” tub. Now the needle, the fingers bright and bloody in the swaying lantern light. Beau-clerk glanced at Bolitho's hand on the man's wrist, the admiral's gold lace against the smoke-grimed skin.

Somebody murmured, “No good, sir. Lost him.”

Beauclerk stood back. “Take him.” He turned to watch as the dead seaman was dragged from the table. “It's never easy.”

Bolitho heard Allday clearing his throat. Seeing it all again, as if it were his own son, floating away, eventually sinking into the depths.
And for what?

He stared at the table, the pools of blood, the urine, the evidence of pain. There was no dignity here in death, no answer to the question.

He walked back toward the ladder and heard Beauclerk ask, “Why did he come?” and did not linger to hear the reply. Beau-clerk saw the instant guard in Allday's eyes and added, quite gently, “You know him better than any man. I should like to understand.”

“'Cause he blames himself.” He recalled his own words when the American flag had come down. “It gets harder, see?”

“Yes. I think I do.” He wiped his bloody hands. “Thank you.” He frowned as two of the injured men raised a hoarse cheer. “That will not help him, either.” But Allday had gone.

When he returned to London it would all be so different. His experience might help others one day: it would certainly assist him in his chosen career. He looked around, recalling the admiral's austere face after that other battle, as it must have been after all those which had preceded it. And the day his nephew had been brought aboard. More like two brothers, he thought. Like love.

He smiled, knowing that if they saw it, his assistants might think him callous. London or not, nothing would ever be the same.

The captain's quarters in
Indomitable
were no longer as spacious as they had been during her life as a two-decker, but after his previous command of the brig
Larne
James Tyacke still found them palatial. Although cleared for action like the rest of the ship, they had remained undamaged by the swift bombardment, as they were on the larboard and disengaged side.

Bolitho sat in the proffered chair and listened to the muffled thuds and dragging sounds from his own stern cabin, as screens were replaced and the smoke stains were washed away, until the next time.

Tyacke said, “We got off very lightly, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho took a glass of cognac from Tyacke's coxswain, Fair-brother. He looked after his captain without fuss or fancy, and seemed a man pleased with his role, and the fact that his captain called him by his first name, Eli.

He gazed around the cabin; it was neat but spartan, with nothing to reveal any hint of the character of the man who lived and slept here. Only the big sea-chest was familiar, and he knew it was the one in which Tyacke used to carry the silk gown he had bought for the girl he intended to marry. She had refused him after his terrible injury at the Nile. How long he had carried the gown was unknown, but he had given it to Catherine to wear when he had found them after their ordeal in
Golden Plover
's longboat. Bolitho knew she had sent it back to Tyacke when they had reached England, beautifully cleaned and pressed, in case there should be another woman in the future. It was probably in the chest at this moment, a reminder of the rejection he had suffered.

Tyacke said, “I've made a full report. The prize is nothing much.” He paused. “Not after we'd finished with her. She had over fifty killed, and twice as many wounded. She was carrying a lot of extra hands, for prize crews, no doubt. If they'd managed to board us …” He shrugged. “A different story, maybe.”