Cross of St George (31 page)

Was that the source of Allday's worry, then? Because of Bolitho's gesture, the hat with the bright gold lace, and all that it meant, and could mean, at the moment of truth. It was said that Nelson had refused to remove his decorations before his last battle, and had ordered that they should be covered before he was carried below, his backbone shot through, his life already slipping away. Another brave, sad gesture. So that his men should not know their admiral had fallen, had left them before the fight had been decided.

It was plain on Allday's homely features, and when their eyes met across the spray-patterned deck, no words were needed by either man.

“Deck there! The boats is bein' warped alongside!”

Bolitho clenched his fists, his face suddenly unable to conceal his anxiety.

Avery knew, had guessed even from the moment Bolitho had mentioned the primary importance of the boats. Despite the risks and the stark possibility of failure, he had been thinking of the alternative, that
Indomitable
would be forced to fire on boats packed with helpless men, unable to raise a finger to defend themselves. Was this part of the difference in this war? Or was it only one man's humanity?

Tyacke shouted, “Something's wrong, sir!”

York had a telescope. “The Yankee's run aground, sir!” He sounded astonished, as if he were over there, sharing the disaster.

Bolitho watched the sunlight catch the reflected glare from falling sails and a complete section of the vessel's mainmast. In the silence and intimacy of the strong lens, he almost imagined he could hear it. A big frigate, gun for gun a match for
Indomitable,
but helpless against the sea and this relentless destruction above and below. The boats were already filled or half-filled with blue uniforms, their weapons and equipment in total disarray as the truth became known to them.

Bolitho said, “Prepare to engage to starboard, Captain Tyacke.” He barely recognized his own voice. Flat, hard, and unemotional. Somebody else.

Daubeny shouted, “Starboard battery!
Run out!
”

The long twenty-four-pounders rumbled up to and through their ports, their captains making hand signals only to avoid confusion. Like a drill, one of so many. A handspike here, or men straining on tackles to train a muzzle a few more inches.

The other ship had slewed around slightly, wreckage trailing alongside as the tide continued to drop, to beach her like a wounded whale.

The wheel went over again, while York turned to watch the land, the set of the current, feeling if not seeing the danger to this ship.

“Course nor' by east, sir!”

Bolitho said, “One chance, Captain Tyacke. Two broadsides, three if you can manage it.” Their eyes met.
Time and distance.

Midshipman Essex jerked round as if he had been hit, and then shouted, “Our ships are here, sir!” He waved his hat as distant gunfire rolled across the sea like muffled thunder. Then he realized that he had just shouted at his admiral, and dropped his eyes and flushed.

“On the uproll!”

Bolitho looked along the starboard side, the gun captains with their taut trigger-lines, the emergency slow-matches streaming to the wind like incense in a temple.

Daubeny by the mainmast, his sword across one shoulder, Philip Protheroe, the fourth lieutenant, up forward with the first division of guns. And here on the quarterdeck, the newest lieutenant, Blythe, staring at each crouching seaman as if he was expecting a mutiny. The stranded ship was drawing slowly abeam, the floundering boats suddenly stilled as the reluctant sunlight threw
Indomitable
's sails across the water in patches of living shadow.

Daubeny raised his sword. “As you bear!”

Lieutenant Protheroe glanced aft and then yelled,
“Fire!”

Division by division, the guns roared out across the water, each twenty-four-pounder hurling itself inboard to be seized and manhandled like a wild beast.

Bolitho thought he saw the shockwave of the broadside rip across the water, carving a passage like some scythe from hell. Even as the first double-shotted charges and their extra packing of grape smashed into the boats and exploded into the helpless ship, Protheroe's men were already sponging out their guns, probing for burning remnants with their worms before ramming home fresh charges and balls.

The quarterdeck guns were the last to fire, and Blythe's voice almost broke in a scream as he yelled. “A guinea for the first gun, I say! A guinea!”

Bolitho watched it all with a strange numbness. Even his heart seemed to have stopped. Tyacke had trained them well; three rounds every two minutes. There would be time for the third broadside before they came about, to avoid running aground like the stricken American.

Tyacke was also watching, remembering.
Point! Ready! Fire!
The drill, always the drill. Slaves to the guns which were now repaying his hard work.

A whistle shrilled. “Ready, sir!”

“Fire!”

Boats and fragments of boats, uniformed soldiers thrashing in the water, their screams engulfed as their weapons and packs carried them down into bitter cold. Others who had been able to reach the ship's side were dragging themselves back to a security they could recognize, only to be torn down by the next controlled broadside. The American was burned and scarred by the weight of iron, but mostly it was the blood that was remarkable. On the hull, and down the side, where even the water shone pink in the sunlight.

In a brief lull, Bolitho heard Allday say, “If they'd been first, sir, they'd have given no quarter to us.” He was speaking to Avery, but any reply was lost in the next roar of cannon fire.

Outside this pitiless arena of death, another struggle was taking place. Ship to ship, or two to one, if the odds were overwhelming. No line of battle, only ship to ship. Man to man.

York said hoarsely, “White flag, sir! They're finished!”

True or not, they would never know, for at that moment the third and last broadside smashed into the other ship, shattering forever the scattered remnants of a plan that might have been successful.

As men staggered from
Indomitable
's guns and ran to the braces and halliards in response to shouted commands to bring the ship about and into the wind, Bolitho took a final glance at the enemy. But even the white flag had vanished into the smoke.

Daubeny sheathed his sword, his eyes red-rimmed and bright.

“
Chivalrous
has signalled, sir. The enemy has broken off the action.” He looked at his hand, as if to see if it were shaking. “They did what they came to do.”

Tyacke tore his eyes from the flapping sails as his ship turned sedately across the wind, the masthead pendant rivalling Bolitho's Cross of St George as they streamed across the opposite side.

He said harshly, “And so, Mr Daubeny, did
we!
”

Bolitho handed the telescope to Essex. “Thank you.” Then to Tyacke, “General signal, if you please
. Discontinue the action. Report losses and damage.
” He looked across at the tall signals midshipman. “And, Mr Carleton, mark this well and spell it out in full.
Yours is the gift of courage.
”

Avery hurried across to assist the signals party, but once with them he paused, afraid to miss anything, his head still reeling from the roar of the guns and the immediate silence which had followed.

Bolitho was saying to Tyacke, “
Taciturn
will take command and lead our ships to Halifax. I fear we have lost some good men today.”

He heard Tyacke reply quietly, “We could have lost far more, Sir Richard.” He tried to lighten his tone. “At least that damned renegade in his
Retribution
failed to appear.”

Bolitho said nothing. He was staring across the quarter to the distant smoke, like a stain on a painting.

Avery turned away. The gift of courage. Our Nel would have appreciated that. He took the slate and pencil from Carleton's unsteady hands.

“Let me.”

Tyacke said, “May I change tack and recover the boats, Sir Richard?”

“Not yet, James.” His eyes were bleak. Cold, as that dawn sky had been. He gazed up at the signal for Close Action. “We are not yet done, I fear.”

C
APTAIN
Adam Bolitho removed his boat-cloak and handed it to an army orderly, who was careful to shake it before carrying it away. It had begun to rain with the abruptness of a squall at sea, and the drops were hard and cold, almost ice.

Adam crossed to a window and wiped away the dampness with his hand. Halifax harbour was full of shipping, but he had scarcely glanced at the anchored vessels while he had been pulled ashore in the gig. He could not become accustomed to it, accept that he had to go to the land in order to see his admiral.

Keen had sent word that he needed to speak with him as soon as possible, when, under normal circumstances, they could have met aft in
Valkyrie
's great cabin.

He thought of John Urquhart, now acting-captain of the ill-fated
Reaper
. Perhaps Keen's summons had come at the right moment. Urquhart had been with him in the cabin, about to take his leave to assume command of
Reaper,
and their farewell and the significance of the moment had moved Adam more than he had believed possible. He knew that he had been seeing himself, although he had been much younger when he had been offered his first ship. But the feelings, gratitude, elation, nervousness, regret, were the same. Urquhart had said, “I'll not forget what you have done for me, sir. I shall endeavour to make use of my experience to the best of my ability.”

Adam had answered, “Remember one thing, John. You are the captain, and they will know it. When you go across to her presently to read yourself in, think of the ship,
your
ship, not what she has been or might have become, but what she can be for you. All your officers are new, but most of the warrant ranks are from the original company. They are bound to make comparisons, as is the way with old Jacks.”

Urquhart had looked up at the deckhead, had heard the tramp of boots as the marines took up their positions to see him over the side. It had all been in his face. Wanting to go, to begin: needing to stay where all things were familiar.

Adam had said quietly, “Don't concern yourself now with
Valkyrie,
John. It will be up to Lieutenant Dyer to fill your shoes. It is his chance, too.” He had gone to the table and opened a drawer. “Take these.” He had seen the surprise and uncertainty on Urquhart's face, and added abruptly, “A bit weathered and salt-stained, I fear, but until you find a tailor …”

Urquhart had held the epaulettes to the light, all else forgotten. Adam had said, “My first. I hope they bring you luck.”

They had gone on deck. Handshakes, quick grins, a few cheers from some of the watching seamen. The twitter of calls, and it was done. Moments later they might hear the calls from
Reaper
across the harbour.

Just before they had parted Urquhart had said, “I hope we meet again soon, sir.”

“You will be too busy for social events.” He had hesitated. “In truth, I envy you!”

A door opened, and de Courcey stood waiting for him to turn from the window.

“Rear-Admiral Keen will see you now, sir.”

Adam walked past without speaking. De Courcey was different in some way, oddly subdued. Because he had shown fear when the Americans had hove into view?
Did he really imagine I would run carrying tales to his admiral, as he would have done about me?

It was the general's room which he had visited with Keen and Bolitho on another occasion, with the same large paintings of battles and dark, heavy furniture, and he realized that this had probably been Keen's idea, rather than ask him to join him at the Massie residence.

He saw that Keen was not alone, and the other man, who was about to leave, was David St Clair.

St Clair shook his hand. “I am sorry you were kept waiting, Captain Bolitho. It seems I may be needed here in Halifax after all.”

Keen waved him to a chair as the door closed behind his other visitor. Adam studied him with interest. Keen looked strained, and unusually tense.

He said, “I have received fresh despatches from the Admiralty, but first I have to tell you that Sir Richard was correct in his belief that control of the lakes was vital.” He glanced around the room, thinking of that day in the summer when the army captain had described the first attack on York. When Gilia had asked about the officer who had been killed. “The army could not hold the vital line of water communications, and at Lake Erie they were beaten. A retreat was ordered, but it was already too late.” He slapped his hand on the table and said bitterly, “The army was cut to pieces!”

“What will it mean, sir?” Adam could not recall ever seeing Keen so distressed. So lost.

Keen made an effort to compose himself. “Mean? It means we will not be able to drive the Americans out of the western frontier districts, especially not now, with winter fast approaching. It will be another stalemate. We, in the fleet, will blockade every American port. They'll feel that as deeply as any bayonet!”

Adam tried to think without emotion. His uncle was at sea, and the brig
Weazle
had brought word that he was investigating the whereabouts of some enemy frigates reported heading northeast. They could be anywhere by now. He thought of Keen's words,
winter fast approaching.
The fierce, bitter rain, the fogs, the damp between decks. Where had the time gone? It was October, by only a day or two, and yet you could feel it.

He roused himself from his thoughts and found that Keen was watching him gravely. “Sir Richard, your uncle and my dear friend, is to be withdrawn. That was the main point of the despatches. I shall remain in charge here.”

Adam was on his feet. “Why, sir?”

“Why, indeed? I am informed that Sir Alexander Cochrane will be taking over the whole station, which will include the Leeward Squadron. A far bigger fleet will be at his disposal, both for blockade duties and for land operations with the army. In Europe, Napoleon's armies are in retreat on every front. It is a land war now. Our blockade has served its purpose.” He turned away, and said with the same soft bitterness, “And at what a price.”

Adam said, “I think Sir Richard should be told without delay.”

“I need all available frigates here, Adam. I have scarcely a brig available to retain contact with our patrols, let alone watch over enemy movements.”

“Sir Richard may have been called to action, sir.”

“D' you imagine I've not thought as much? I couldn't sleep because of it. But I cannot spare any more ships.”

Adam said coolly, “I understand, sir. As your flag captain, I am required to advise, and to present conclusions. My uncle would be the very first to steer away from favouritism, or from encouraging action taken purely out of personal involvement.”

“I hoped you would say that, Adam. If I were free to act …”

Adam turned away as the same orderly entered with a tray and glasses. “With the General's compliments, sir.”

He said, “But you are not free, sir, not so long as your flag is flying above this command.”

Keen watched the soldier's steady hand as he poured two large measures of cognac. The general lived well, it seemed.

Adam held the glass to the light from the window. Already it was as grey as winter, like a symbol of time's relentless passage.

Keen swallowed deeply, and coughed to regain his breath. Then he said, “You may go, thank you.” When they were alone again, he said, “The warrants for the two mutineers were presented this morning. Have no fear—
I
signed them. Sir Richard will be spared that, at least.” It seemed to spark off another memory. “John Urquhart took command today, did he not?”

Adam said, “Yes. The custom will prevail, sir. Both prisoners will be hanged, run up to the main-yard by their own ship's company.
Reaper
's.”

Keen nodded almost absently, as if he had been listening to a stranger.

“I will order Reaper to sea immediately. Captain Urquhart can find Sir Richard and carry my despatches to him. I'll not begin that ship's new life with a damned execution!”

There were voices outside: de Courcey with the next visitors.

Keen glanced irritably at the door. “There is another matter, Adam. If you would prefer to take another appointment, I would understand. It has not been easy.” He looked at him directly, his eyes very still. “For either of us.”

Adam was surprised that he did not even hesitate. “I would like to remain with you, sir.” He put down the empty glass. “I shall return to
Valkyrie
in case I am needed.”

For the first time, Keen smiled. “You will always be that, Adam. Believe me.”

The same orderly was waiting for him with his cloak. “Stopped rainin', sir.”

He thought of Urquhart, how he would feel when he was ordered to proceed to sea with all possible despatch. Relieved, probably. And of the mutineer, Harry Ramsay, whom he had tried to help, although he had suspected that he was guilty. At least he would be spared the final degradation of being hanged by his own shipmates.

“A moment, Captain Bolitho!”

He turned, and as if to a secret signal the front doors swung shut again.

She was warmly dressed, her cheeks flushed from the cold air. He waited, seeing her as she had been that day when
Valkyrie
's powerful broadside had been ready to fire. None of them would have survived, and she would know it.

He removed his hat, and said, “You are well, Miss St Clair?”

She did not seem to hear. “Are you remaining as flag captain to Rear-Admiral Keen?”

So Keen had confided in her. He was again surprised, that he did not care.

“I am.”

He glanced down as she laid one hand on his sleeve. “I am so glad. He needs you.” Her eyes did not falter. “And, for his sake, so do I.”

Adam studied her. He supposed that she would also know about the battle for Lake Erie, and the regiments involved.

He said, “You have my good wishes.” He allowed himself to smile, to soften it. “Both of you.”

She walked with him to the door. Then she said, “You knew Rear-Admiral Keen's wife, I believe?”

He faced her again. “I was in love with her.” It was madness; she would tell Keen. Then, he was as certain that she would not.

She nodded: he did not know whether she was satisfied or relieved. “Thank you, Captain … I can understand now why you love your uncle. You are both the same man, in many ways.”

She tugged off her glove, and it dropped to the floor. Adam stooped to recover it, and she did not see the sudden distress in his eyes.

He took her hand, and kissed it. “You do me too much honour, Miss St Clair.”

She waited until the door had been pulled shut behind him. Her father would be impatient to see her, wanting to tell her about his new appointment here in Halifax. It would be good to see him happy, occupied with his work again.

But all she could think of was the man who had just left her, whose austere face had seemed very young and vulnerable for those few seconds, when he had picked up her glove. Something which even he had been unable to hide. And she was both moved and gladdened by it.

At four bells of the afternoon watch His Majesty's Ship
Reaper
weighed anchor, and under topsails and jib wended her way towards the entrance and the open sea. Many eyes followed her, but no one cheered or wished her well. Captain Adam Bolitho followed her progress until she was lost from view. She was free.

“Deck there! Boats in the water, dead ahead!”

Tyacke walked to the compass box and then stopped as eight bells chimed out from the forecastle.

“I
was
beginning to wonder, Mr York.”

The sailing-master rubbed his hands. “By guess and by God, sir. It usually works!”

Tyacke peered along the length of his ship, the guns lashed firmly behind shuttered ports, men working, not certain what to expect.
Indomitable
was steering due west, the wind sweeping over the larboard quarter, the spray as heavy and cold as rain.

He looked aft again and saw Bolitho by the taffrail, not walking but standing, oblivious to the men around him and the marines at the nettings, where they had remained since the attack on the American boats.

York moved closer and murmured, “What ails the admiral? We prevented the landings, more than most of us dared to hope.”

Tyacke stared at the horizon, hard, hard blue in the noon light. A sun without warmth, a steady wind to fill the topsails, but without life.

Even the casualties amongst the squadron had been less than would have been suffered in a straightforward fight. But the Americans had been eager to stand away, unwilling to risk a running battle for no good purpose. If they had rallied and reformed, it would have been a different story. As it was, the frigate
Attacker
had been dismasted, and the smaller
Wildfire
had been so badly holed by long-range and well-sighted shots that she had been down by the head when she had finally been taken in tow. Most of the casualties had been in those two ships: thirty killed and many others wounded. It had been time to discontinue the action and Bolitho had known it. Tyacke had watched his face when the signals had been read out, giving details of damage and casualties. Some might think that the admiral was relieved because
Indomitable
had not been in the thick of it, and was unmarked. If they believed that they were bloody fools, Tyacke thought.

He swung round.
“What?”

Lieutenant Daubeny flinched. “I was wondering, sir, about relighting the galley fire …”

Tyacke controlled his anger with an effort. “Well,
wonder away,
Mr Daubeny!” He glanced aft again, unable to forget the quiet voice, as if Bolitho had just spoken to him. When he had reported that there were no more boats in the water by the stranded and smoke-shrouded American ship, Bolitho had said, “It was murder, James. Justified in war, but murder for all that. If that was the price of victory, I don't wish to share a part of it!”