Cross of St George (32 page)

Tyacke said abruptly, “That was unfair. Pass the word for the purser and arrange an extra tot of rum for all hands. Food too, if there is any, but the galley fire
stays out
until I know what's happening.”

Daubeny said, “I see, sir.”

Tyacke turned away. “You do not, Mr Daubeny, but no matter.” To York he said, “Sir Richard feels it, Isaac. Cares too much. I've not seen him like this before, though.”

York tucked some dishevelled grey hair beneath his hat. “He's fair troubled, right enough.”

Tyacke walked to the compass box and back again. “Let me know when you can see the boats from the deck. It will give the hands something to do when we hoist 'em inboard.” He clapped the master on the shoulder. “A good piece of navigation, Mr York.” He turned as Allday walked aft from the companion. “You know him best, Allday. What do you think?”

Allday regarded him warily. “It's not for me to say, sir.” He followed Tyacke's eyes to the figure by the taffrail, the hero others never saw. So completely alone.

He made up his mind. The captain was a friend; it was not merely idle curiosity.

“He knows, sir.” He glanced at the hard, glittering horizon; unlike the admiral, he did not have to shade his eyes. “It's today, y' see?”

Tyacke said sharply, “The Yankees are gone, man. They'll not be back, not till they're ready and prepared again. Our ships will reach Halifax and the dock-master will foam at the mouth when he sees all the repairs that need doing!”

But Allday did not respond, nor did he smile.

He said, “There's always the …” He frowned, searching for the word. “The scavenger. My wife's brother was a line-soldier— he told me. After a battle, men lying wounded, calling out for help, with only the dead to hear them. And then the scavengers would come. To rob them, to answer a cry for help with a cutthroat blade.
Scum!
”

Tyacke studied his lined face, aware of the strength of the man. The admiral's oak. He heard York's steady breathing beside him. He could feel it too: knew it, the way he read the wind's direction and the set of the current in the painted sea. Tyacke was not superstitious. At least, he believed he was not.

Allday was carrying the old sword, which was part of the legend.

He said quietly, “We'll fight this day, sir. That's it an' all about it!”

He walked aft, and they saw Bolitho turn toward him, as if they had just met on a street or in some country lane.

York said uneasily, “How can that be, sir?”

Allday was saying, “The hands are going to draw a wet, Sir Richard. Can I fetch you something?”

Bolitho glanced down as he clipped the old sword onto his belt.

“Not now, old friend.” He smiled with an effort, understanding that Allday needed reassurance. “Afterwards, that would be better.”

He reached out to touch his arm, and then halted.

“Deck there! Sail on th' larboard bow!”

They were all staring round, some at the empty sea, and others aft towards their officers. Avery was here, a telescope in his hands, his eyes darting between them. To miss nothing, to forget nothing.

Bolitho said, “Aloft with you, George. In my own mind, I can already see her.” He held up one hand. “Take your time. The people will be watching you.”

Allday took a deep breath, feeling the old pain in his chest.
Scavenger.

Bolitho knew that Tyacke had turned toward him, and called to him, “Alter course. Steer west by south. That should suffice for the present.”

He turned away from them, and watched a solitary gull swooping around the quarter gallery. The spirit of some old Jack, Allday thought.

“Deck there!” Avery was a fast climber, and had a good carrying voice: he had told him that he had been in a church choir in his youth. In that other world. “She's a frigate, sir! I—I think she's
Retribution!
”

Bolitho murmured, “I know she is, my friend.” He frowned, as Allday's hand went to his chest. “I'll not have
you
suffer for it!”

He raised his voice. “You may beat to quarters again, Captain Tyacke. We have some old scores to settle today!” He laid his hand on the sword's hilt at his hip, and it was cold to the touch. “So let us pay them in full!”

Lieutenant George Avery waited for the motion to ease, and knew that more helm had been applied. He raised his telescope, as he had on the first sight of enemy ships only hours ago. It felt like a lifetime. The same marines were still in the foretop, staring at the oncoming American as her sails emptied and filled violently, while she leaned over to the pressure. She was a heavy-looking frigate under a full press of canvas, the spray bursting beneath her beak-head and as high as the gilded figurehead. The gladiator, a short stabbing-sword glinting in the hard glare.

The corporal said, “The Yankee's crossin' our bows, lads.” But his comment was really intended for the flag lieutenant.

Avery studied the other ship, forcing himself to take his time, not to see only what he expected to see. The corporal was right. The
Retribution
would eventually cross from bow to bow; more importantly, she would find herself to leeward of
Indomitable
's broadside once they were at close quarters. He estimated it carefully. Three miles at the most. Tyacke had reduced sail to topsails and jib, driver and reefed forecourse, and
Indomitable
's progress was steady and unhurried, a floating platform for her twenty-four-pounders.

He lowered the glass and looked around at his companions. Somehow, they managed to appear very jaunty and smart in their glazed leather hats with the cockade and plume over the left ear. He noticed also that they had all shaved. They were fastidious about such details in the Corps.

“Won't be long, lads.” He saw the corporal glance at the swivel-gun, “Betsy.” He would know what to expect. They all did.

He nodded to them, and lowered himself quickly onto the ratlines. On deck once more, he strode aft, catching the hurried glances from the gun crews, a half-wave from young Protheroe. On this deck, the gun was god. Nothing else mattered but to fire and keep firing, to shut out the sights and the sounds, even when a friend cried out in agony.

He found Bolitho with Tyacke and the first lieutenant, observing from the quarterdeck. Here, too, the marines had come to life, like scarlet soldiers taken from a box, lining the packed hammock nettings while elsewhere sentries stood guard at hatches or ladders, in case a man's nerve cracked and terror tore discipline apart.

Avery touched his hat. “She's
Retribution
right enough, Sir Richard. She wears a commodore's broad-pendant. Fifty guns, at a guess. She changed tack.” He thought of the corporal again, the doubt in his voice. “She'll lose the wind-gage if she remains on that tack.”

York said, “She steers nor'-east, sir.” Unruffled. Patient. Bolitho saw him tap the youngest midshipman's arm as the child reached for the half-hour glass beside the compass box. “Easy, Mr Campbell, don't warm the glass!
I
have to write the log, not you!”

The twelve-year-old midshipman looked embarrassed, and momentarily forgot the growing menace of the American's tall sails.

Bolitho took a telescope and trained it beyond the bows.
Retribution
had no intention of altering course, not yet. He studied the other frigate: well-built, like so many French vessels, designed to one standard for the convenience of repair and replacement, not at the whim of an individual shipbuilder like most British men-of-war. When
Taciturn
and the other damaged ships reached Halifax, they would be hard put to find a mast or a spar that would match any one of them.

He said, “He is deliberately dropping downwind, James.” He sensed that Daubeny was leaning forward to listen, squinting in concentration.

Tyacke agreed. “Then he intends to use the extra elevation the wind gives him to fire at full range.” He glanced up at the braced yards, the flag and pendant streaming towards the enemy, and said grimly, “He'll try for our spars and rigging.”

Avery turned away. The corporal had seen it, but had not fully understood. Both Bolitho and Tyacke must accept it.

Bolitho said, “Chain-shot, James?”

Tyacke shook his head. “I did hear they were using langridge, that damnable case-shot. If so …” He swung away as though to consult the compass again.

Bolitho said to Avery, “It can cripple a ship before she can fight back.” He saw the concern in Avery's tawny eyes, but he did not fully comprehend.
Damnable,
Tyacke had termed it. It was far worse than that. Packed into a thin case, each shot contained bars of jagged iron, loosely linked together so that when they burst into a ship's complex web of rigging they could tear it to pieces in one screaming broadside.

He saw Tyacke gesturing to the gun crews and making some point urgently to Daubeny with each jab of his finger.

That was the advantage of langridge; but against that, it took far longer to sponge and worm out each gun afterwards to avoid a fresh charge exploding in the muzzle as it was rammed home. It took time, and Tyacke would know it.

Bolitho rubbed his damaged eye and felt it ache in response.
If I were James, what would I do?
He was astonished that he could even smile, recalling that almost forgotten admiral who had met his pleading for a command with the withering retort,
Were
a frigate captain, Bolitho …

I would hold my fire and pray that the regular drills hold firm, if all else fails.

Lieutenant Blythe called, “The enemy's running out, sir!”

Tyacke said, “Aye, and he'll likely check each gun himself.”

Bolitho saw Allday watching him. Even Tyacke had accepted Aherne, had given him body and personality. A man with so much hatred. Retribution.
And yet if he crossed this very deck, I would not know him.
Perhaps it was the best kind of enemy. Faceless.

Once again, he looked at the sky and the searing reflections beneath it. Two ships with an entire ocean to witness their efforts to kill one another.

He covered his undamaged eye and tested the other. His vision was blurred; he had come to accept that. But the colours remained true, and the enemy was close enough now to show her flag, and the commodore's broad-pendant standing out in the wind like a great banner.

Tyacke said, “Ready, Sir Richard.”

“Very well, James.” So close, so private, as if they shared the deck only with ghosts. “For what we are about to receive …”

Tyacke waved his fist, and the order echoed along the upper deck.

“Open the ports! Run out!”
And from the waist of the ship where the gunner's mates were already passing out cutlasses and axes from the arms chest, Lieutenant Daubeny's voice, very clear and determined.

“Lay for the foremast, gun captains! And fire on the uproll!”

The older hands were already crouching down, as yet unable to see their target.

Tyacke yelled, “Put your helm down! Off heads'l sheets!”

Indomitable
began to turn, using the wind across her quarter to her best advantage. Round and further still, so that the other frigate appeared to be ensnared in the shrouds as
Indomitable
's bowsprit passed over her, to hold her on the larboard side.

The distance was falling away more quickly, and Bolitho saw the topmen darting amongst the thrashing sails like tiny puppets on invisible strings.

The air quivered and then erupted in a drawn-out explosion, smoke billowing from the American's guns which was then driven inboard and away across the water.

It seemed to take an age, an eternity. When the broadside ploughed into
Indomitable
's masts and rigging, it was as if the whole ship was bellowing in agony. Tiny vignettes stood out amidst the smoke and falling wreckage. A seaman torn apart by the jagged iron as it ripped through the piled hammocks, and hurled more men, screaming and kicking, to the opposite side. Midshipman Essex, stock-still, staring with horror at his white breeches, which were splashed with blood and pieces of human skin cut so finely that they could have been the work of a surgeon. Essex opened and closed his mouth but no sound came, until a running seaman punched his arm and yelled something, and ran on to help others who were hacking away fallen cordage.

Avery stared up, ice-cold as the fore-topgallant mast splintered apart, stays and halliards flying like severed snakes, before thundering down and over the side. He wiped his eyes and looked again. It was suddenly important, personal. He saw the four scarlet figures in the top, peering up at the broken mast, but otherwise untouched.

“A hand here!”

Avery ran to help as York caught one of his master's mates, who had been impaled on a splinter as big as his wrist.

York stepped into his place, and muttered hoarsely, “Hold on, Nat!”

Avery lowered the man to the deck. He would hear nothing ever again. When he was able to look up once more, Avery saw the American's topgallant sails standing almost alongside. He knew it was impossible; she was still half a cable away.