Cross of St George (33 page)

He heard Daubeny shout, “As you bear!
Fire!
”

Down the ship's side from the crouching lion to this place here on the quarterdeck, each gun belched fire and smoke while its crew threw themselves on tackles and handspikes to hasten the reloading. But not double-shotted this time. It would take too many precious minutes.

A marine fell from the nettings without a word; there was not even a telltale scar on the deck planking to mark the shot.

Bolitho said, “Walk with me, George. Those riflemen are too eager today.”

“Run out! Ready! Fire!”

There was a cracked cheer as the
Retribution
's mizzen-mast swayed and toppled in its stays and shrouds, before falling with a crash that could be heard even above the merciless roar of cannon fire. York was holding a rag against his bloody cheek, although he had not felt the splinter which had opened it like a knife.

He called, “Her steering's adrift, sir!”

Bolitho said sharply, “Helm down, James! Our only chance!”

And then the enemy was here, no longer a distant picture of grace and cruel beauty. She was angled toward them, the water surging and spitting between the two hulls even as
Indomitable
's long jib-boom and then her bowsprit rammed into the enemy's shrouds like some giant tusk.

The force of the impact splintered
Indomitable
's main-yard, broken spars, torn rigging and wounded topmen falling on Hockenhull's spread nets like so much rubbish.

Tyacke shouted at his gun crews, “One more, lads!
Hit 'em!
”

Then he staggered and clapped one hand to his thigh, his teeth bared against the pain. Midshipman Carleton ran to help him, but Tyacke gasped, “Pike! Give me a pike, damn you!”

The midshipman thrust one towards him and stared at him, unable to move as Tyacke drove the pike into the deck and held himself upright, using it as a prop.

Bolitho felt Allday move closer, Avery too, with a pistol suddenly in one hand. Across the debris and the wounded he saw Tyacke raise a hand to him, a gesture towards the fallen masts. A bridge, joining them with the enemy.

The guns roared out and recoiled again, the crews leaping aside to pick up their cutlasses, staggering as though with a deadly fatigue while they clambered across to the other ship which had been forced alongside,
Indomitable
's splintered jib-boom dangling beside the enemy's figurehead.

There was a bang from the swivel-gun in the foretop, and a hail of canister raked a group of American seamen even as they ran to repel boarders. The marines were gasping and cheering as they fired, reloaded, and then threw themselves on the hammocks to take aim again. And again. Above it all, Bolitho could hear Tyacke shouting orders and encouragement to his men. He would not give in to anything, not even the wound in his thigh. After what he had already suffered, it was an insult to think that he might.

Lieutenant Protheroe was the first on
Retribution
's gangway, and the first to fall to a musket which was fired into his body from only a few inches away. He fell, and was trapped between the two grinding hulls. Bolitho saw him drop, and remembered him as the youngster who had welcomed him aboard.

He shouted, “To me, Indoms!
To me,
lads!”

He was dragging himself across, above the choppy water, aware of flashing pistol fire and heavier calibre shot, and of Allday close behind, croaking, “Hold back, Sir Richard! We can't fight the whole bloody ship!”

Bolitho was finding it difficult to breathe, his lungs filled with smoke and the stench of death. Then he was aboard the other ship, saw Hockenhull, the squat boatswain, kill a man with his boarding-axe and manage to grin afterwards at Allday. He must have saved him from being struck down. In the terrible blood-red rage of battle, the consuming madness, Bolitho could still remember Allday's son, and that Allday had blamed Hockenhull for posting him to the vulnerable quarterdeck, where he had died. Perhaps this would end that festering grievance.

Avery dragged at his arm, and fired point-blank into a crouching figure that had appeared at their feet. Then he, too, staggered, and Bolitho imagined he had been hit.

But Avery was shouting, trying to be heard above the shouts and cries and the clash of steel, blade to blade.

Then Bolitho heard it also. He lurched against a wild-eyed marine, his bloodied bayonet already levelled for a second thrust, his mind still refusing to understand. Faint but certain. Someone was cheering, and for a chilling moment he imagined that the Americans had had more men than he had believed, that they had managed to board
Indomitable
in strength. Then Tyacke must be dead. They would not otherwise get past him.

Avery gripped his arm. “D' you
hear,
sir?” He was trembling, and almost incoherent. “It's
Reaper!
She's joined the squadron!”

The explosion was sudden, and so close that Bolitho found himself flung bodily to the deck, his sword dangling from the knot around his wrist. It had felt like a searing wind, the dust and fragments from the blast like hot sand. Hands were pulling him to his feet; Allday, with his back turned, exposed to the enemy as he steadied him amongst the press of dazed and breathless men.

Bolitho gasped, unable to speak, to reassure him, but the agony in his eye was making it impossible.

He said,
“Help me.”

Allday seemed to understand, and tore his neckerchief from his throat and in two turns had tied it around Bolitho's head, covering his injured eye.

It was like being deaf, with men crawling or kneeling in utter silence beside the wounded, and peering into the faces of the dead.

Retribution
's seamen were staring at them, bewildered, shocked, beaten. Their flag had fallen with the broken mizzen-mast, but they had not surrendered. They had simply ceased to fight.

The explosion had been confined to the ship's quarterdeck. A bursting cannon, carelessly loaded for a final desperate show of defiance, or perhaps a burning wad from one of Tyacke's guns when they had fired that last broadside with muzzles almost overlapping those of the enemy. A small group of American officers were waiting near the shattered wheel, where helmsmen and others lay in the ugly attitudes of violent death.

One lieutenant held out his sword, and instantly Allday's cutlass and Avery's pistol rose in unison.

Bolitho touched the bandage across his eye, and was grateful for it. He said, “Where is your commodore?” He stared at the fallen mast, where men were still trapped in the tangled rigging like fish in a net.
Reaper
was closer, and the cheering was still going on; and he wished that he could see her.

The lieutenant stooped, and uncovered the head and shoulders of his commodore.

He handed his sword, hilt first, to Avery, and said, “Commodore Aherne, sir. He sometimes spoke of you.”

Bolitho stared down at the face, angry and contorted, frozen at the instant of death. But a stranger.

He looked beyond them, toward the open sea. Had Aherne heard the cheers, and recognized
Reaper
too?

He turned inboard again. It was right, it was justice, that it should be
Reaper
. Now a witness to victory, and to folly.

He looked around at the breathless, gasping men, the madness gone from them as they dragged the wounded and the dying away from the blood-stained chaos on deck, talking to one another, some without realizing that those who answered were the enemy.

Through the clinging smoke he could see Tyacke facing him across the narrow strip of trapped water, still propped on his pike, with the surgeon on his knees applying a dressing. Tyacke raised one bloodied hand in salute. Perhaps to his ship. To the victor.

Bolitho said, “Help me back to
Indomitable
.” It was impossible to smile. Had he really cried,
To me, Indom
s
,
only minutes ago?

Allday took his arm and guided him, watching out for anything that might take him unaware. He had guessed what had happened, and now he was certain of it. He had seen too much to be shocked or awed by the sights on every hand: in his own way, despite the brutal ugliness of death everywhere, he was satisfied.

Once again they had come through, and they were still together. It was more than enough.

Bolitho hesitated, and looked around at the two embattled ships. Men had leaned over to touch his coat as he had passed; some had grinned and spoken his name; a few had openly wept, ashamed, perhaps, that they had survived when so many had fallen.

Now they all fell silent to listen as he looked beyond them and saw
Reaper
's topsails suddenly bright in the hard sunlight. He touched the locket beneath his stained shirt, and knew she was close to him.

“It is a high price to pay, and we have paid it many times before. But we must not forget, for if we do, it will be at our peril!” He raised his head and stared up at his flag at the mainmast truck, so clean, and removed from the suffering and the hate.

“Loyalty is like trust, and must surely reach in both directions.” He looked at the slow-moving topsails again. “But it is the greatest reward of all.”

It was over.

T
HE CARRIAGE
with the Bolitho crest on its doors, freshly washed that morning, came to a halt by the church. It was cold even for March, but Catherine Somervell did not notice it.

Bryan Ferguson opened the door and lowered the step for her.

“Why not wait in there, my lady? 'Tis warmer, to be sure.” He seemed concerned, anxious that something might go wrong even now. She took his hand and stepped down onto the cobbles, and glanced toward the waterfront.

It was like any other day, and yet it was entirely different. Even the people seemed to be waiting, drawn together as was so often the way in seaports. A rumour, a message, a signal-gun, or a ship in distress. The people of Falmouth had seen it all before.

She adjusted her long green cloak, and the fastening at the throat. She had dressed carefully, taken her time, even though every fibre of her body had screamed at her to leave the house without delay. It still did not seem possible that Richard was coming, that he was probably within a mile of Falmouth at this moment.

She could recall the exact time when the letter had been brought by fast courier from Bethune at the Admiralty. She had already received one from Richard; it had touched on the battle, but he had avoided mentioning the many who had died. Bethune had told her that
Indomitable
was ordered to Plymouth, to be handed over to the care of carpenters and riggers there, eventually. But she was to be paid off upon arrival. A battered ship with her own memories and wounds, and like many of her company, she would wait now, and see if she was needed again.

The church clock at King Charles the Martyr chimed very slowly. Noon. She had been deeply suspicious of Bethune's written suggestion that she await Richard's return in Falmouth, and briefly she had conjured up old or unknown enemies who, even at this last precious opportunity, would attempt to reunite Richard with his wife under some pretext or other.

When she had composed herself and considered it, dismissing her fears, she knew the real reason.
Indomitable
was to be paid off in Plymouth, and Richard would be saying farewell to so many familiar faces. Others had already left, like shadows, carrying memories she could only imagine. He did not want her to see the ship now, but to remember her as she had been when she had climbed aboard, and they had cheered her for it, and Richard's flag had broken out above all of them.

He was alive; he was coming home. It was all that mattered. She had sensed that there were other matters, which Bethune had left unwritten
. I am ready.

To Ferguson she said, “I shall be all right. I shall know you are here.” She brushed a strand of dark hair from her eyes, and looked up at Young Matthew on his box, framed against the cold, pale sky. “Both of you.”

There would be others here today. Unis, waiting for John All-day, although she had not yet seen her: this was a private moment for all who shared it. Perhaps it symbolized, more than anything, the elusive dream of peace, after so many years of sacrifice and separation. Bethune had said that the war was almost over. The allies had scored another crushing victory over Napoleon at Laon, and Wellington had captured Bordeaux: there was even talk of disbanding the local militia, the sea fencibles too. She thought with regret and affection of Lewis Roxby; how proud he would have been on this day. Nancy had visited her often: a sailor's daughter as well as Richard's sister, she was a great comfort to Catherine. And without Roxby's presence filling every room at that great, empty house, it had helped her also. But she would stay away today. She understood, better than most.

She walked on, towards the moored vessels in the harbour, the swaying masts and spars which were now so familiar to her. The smells, too, were a far cry from the slums of her childhood, or the elegant London she had shared with Richard. Fresh bread and fish, tar and oakum, and the salt of the ever-present sea.

She saw people glance at her, some with curiosity, some familiarity, but without hostility. She would always be a stranger here, but never an intruder, and she was grateful for that.

She saw one of the coastguards with his companion, the same pair who had been on the beach as the tide had receded, and she had taken Zenoria's slight, broken body in her arms.

He nodded and removed his hat to her. “Fine day, m'lady.”

“I hope so, Tom.”

She walked on, until she stood on the very edge of the jetty. And the war in North America? It took second place to most of these people, for whom France had been the enemy for so long. Too long.

Samuel Whitbread, the wealthy and influential brewer, had thundered out in the House of Commons that the war with America should be ended without delay. He had reminded the honourable members of that other occasion when peace had been grudgingly signed after the War of Independence, and Pitt had then remarked,
A defensive war can only end in inevitable defeat.
She lifted her chin. So be it, then.

She heard laughter and noisy voices, and turned to see a group of discharged sailors loitering, watching the harbour. The ones she had heard Allday scornfully denounce as old Jacks who refought their battles every day in the inns and ale-houses, until the parlour lanterns were swinging like those of a ship in Biscay.

But they belonged here today: they were members of what Richard would call the family. One or two of them waved in acknowledgement, privileged to be part of his homecoming. She turned away. There was not one whole man amongst them.

Someone exclaimed, “There she be, lads!”

Catherine looked across the water, her face like ice in the wind off Falmouth Bay and here in Carrick Roads.

The coastguard said, “'Tis the
Pickle
. Quite right an' proper.”

For my benefit?

She watched the little schooner moving between some moored lighters, distinguished from her merchant sisters only by a large, new White Ensign streaming from her peak.

HM Schooner
Pickle
.
Right and proper.
Her eyes pricked with sudden emotion, but she was determined to miss nothing.
Pickle
was a fairly regular visitor here, as she was at every port and naval station between Plymouth and Spithead. Carrying despatches and mail, and sometimes passengers, to the port admirals, or to the ships resting from their arduous blockade duties, sheltering in Torbay and protected from the gales by Berry Head.

But here,
Pickle
would always be remembered for her part in a single, greater event. She had run into Falmouth, and from here her commander, Lieutenant John Lapenotiere, had taken a post-chaise non-stop to the Admiralty, a journey of some 37 hours. And all the way the cry had gone with him, of England's greatest victory at Trafalgar, to raise the heart of the nation. And to numb it just as quickly, with the news that Nelson, the people's hero, was dead.

She wondered if Richard had made any comparison, but knew he would not. His memories would be with James Tyacke and the others.

She touched her throat.
And his hopes with me.

She saw the sails being brought under control, heaving lines snaking ashore to seamen and onlookers alike.
Pickle
had come alongside, her ensign very clear against the grey stones. Lieutenant Avery and Yovell would come by road with Richard's possessions …She was filling her mind with irrelevant thoughts to control her emotion.

The chair, the wine cooler which she had had made when the other had been lost with his ship.
If it had survived the last action
…She walked to the end of the jetty, unfastening her cloak so that he should see her, and his fan-shaped pendant resting at her breast.

She saw the blue and white of uniforms, heard people on the jetty raising a cheer, not merely for the hero, but for Falmouth's own son.

The baker's wife was here with her small daughter, the child looking pleased but rather puzzled by the bunch of wild daffodils which she had been given to present as their own welcome.

Then she saw him, straight-backed and tall in his fine gold-laced coat, the old family sword at his side. And close on his heels, turning only to wave to the men on the schooner, was All-day, as she had known he would be.

She stood and watched him, oblivious to the cold. It was so important, too important to ruin in the presence of all these smiling, cheering faces. There were tears, too: there would be many who were not so lucky today. But the tears would not be hers.

The baker's wife gave her little girl a gentle push, and she trotted forward with her daffodils.

Catherine clenched one fist until she felt her nails break the skin, as Richard brushed against the child with his knee.

Allday was there in an instant: she had heard that he was good with children. The puckered face which had been about to burst into tears was all smiles again. The moment was past.

Catherine held out her arms. Richard had not seen the child.
He could not.

Afterwards, she did not recall speaking, although she must have said something. Allday had grinned, and had made light of it.

Only in the carriage did she hold him, take his hands and press them against her to disperse his uncertainty, and his despair.

It was not a dream, and the ache would be gone until the next time, if it had to be.

Once he'd kissed her neck and said, “Don't leave me.”

She had answered strongly, for both of them,
“Never.”

Beyond the harbour, the sea was quieter now. Waiting.