Cross of St George

by Alexander Kent

  Surrounded by busy seamen whom he could barely see, Tyacke continued his walk, his forenoon solitude respected. He smiled briefly. It had not been easy, but he had welded them into one company. They had cursed him, feared him, hated him, but that was in the past.

  The lessons had been learned. He looked down at the wet deck planking. They had paid for it, too. When the mist cleared as Isaac York, the sailing-master, had claimed it would, the repairs and replaced planks and timbers would be visible despite the caulking and the tar, the fresh paint and the varnish. Men had died aplenty that day in September. Matthew Scarlett, the first lieutenant, impaled on a boarding-pike, his last scream lost in the yells and the fury, the clash of steel and the crash of gunfire. Ships fighting, men dying, many of whom had probably already been forgotten by those who had once known them. And just there … he glanced at a newly painted shot-garland, Midshipman Deane, hardly more than a child, had been pulped into nothing by one of Unity’s massive balls. And all the while the admiral and his tall flag lieutenant had walked the scarred deck, allowing themselves to be seen by the men who, because of press gang or patriotism, were fighting for their lives, for the ship. He smiled again. And, of course, for their captain, although he would never regard it in that light.

  Tyacke had always hated the thought of serving in a major war vessel, let alone one that wore an admiral’s flag. Bolitho had changed that. And strangely, in his absence, without the admiral’s flag at the mainmast truck, Tyacke felt no sense of independence or freedom. Being forced to remain in harbour undergoing repairs while they awaited orders had merely increased his feeling of confinement. Tyacke loved the open sea: more than most, he needed it. He touched the right side of his face and saw it in his mind as he did when he shaved every morning. Scored away, burned, like something inhuman. How his eye had survived was a mystery.

  He thought again of those who had fallen here, not least the one-legged cook named Troughton. He could recall the moment when he had assumed command of Indomitable, his stomach knotted with nerves as he had prepared to read himself in to the assembled company. He had forced himself to accept the stares and the pity in his previous command, the brig Larne. Small, intimate, with every hand dependent on the others, she had been his life. Bolitho himself had once referred to her as the loneliest command imaginable. He had understood that solitude was what Tyacke needed more than anything.

  He had known that first day aboard Indomitable that those who had waited in the silence for him were undoubtedly more worried about their new captain’s character than his disfigurement: he was, after all, the lord and master who could make or break any one of them as he chose. It had not made his ordeal easier, starting again under the eyes of strangers, in what had seemed a vast ship after Larne. A company of two hundred and seventy officers, seamen and Royal Marines: a world of difference.

  One man had made it possible for him: Troughton. Indomitable’s company had watched in disbelief as their new and hideously scarred captain had embraced the man, who had been crippled by the same broadside that had burst in on Tyacke’s yelling, sweating gun crews, at what they now called the Battle of the Nile. Troughton had been a young seaman then. Tyacke had always believed him dead, as most of those around him had died when his world had exploded, and left him as he was now.

  Now even Troughton was gone. Tyacke had not known until two days after the fight with the Americans. He did not even know where he had come from, or if there was anyone to mourn him.

  He felt a slight movement against his cheek, the wind returning. York might be proved right yet again. He was fortunate to have such a sailing-master: York had served as master’s mate in this ship, and had won promotion in the only way Tyacke truly respected, through skill and experience.

  So the fog would clear, and they would see the harbour once more, the ships and the town, and the well-sited central battery that would repulse any attempt, even by the most foolhardy commander, to cut out an anchored merchantman or some of the American prizes which had been brought here.

  Forlorn, and in much the same condition as she had been after the battle, the American frigate Baltimore was beyond recovery. Perhaps she would be used as a hulk or stores vessel. But isolated and partly aground as she was now, she was a constant reminder of the day when America’s superior frigates had been challenged and beaten.

  Sir Richard Bolitho would be back soon. Tyacke hesitated in his regular pacing. Suppose he was directed elsewhere? The Admiralty was never averse to changing its collective mind. In dispatches brought by the last courier brig Tyacke had been warned of Valentine Keen’s impending arrival in Halifax: he would hoist his flag in Valkyrie, another converted two-decker like Indomitable, with Adam Bolitho as his flag captain. It was still hard to fathom why he would want to come back to these waters. Tyacke was acquainted with Keen, and had attended his wedding, but he did not consider that he knew him as a man. This would be his first command as a flag-officer: he might be out for glory. And he had recently lost both wife and child. Tyacke touched his burned face again. It could scar a man more deeply than others might realize.

  He saw a guardboat pulling abeam, the armed marines straightening their backs in the sternsheets as Indomitable took shape above them through the thinning fog.

  He returned his mind to Valkyrie, still invisible in the misty harbour. Peter Dawes was her present captain, and acting-commodore until Keen’s arrival: he was a post-captain, young, approachable, competent. But there were limits. Dawes was an admiral’s son, and it was rumoured that he would be raised to flag rank as soon as he was replaced here. Tyacke had always nursed doubts about him, and had told Bolitho openly that Dawes might prove reluctant to risk his reputation and the prospect of promotion when they most needed his support. It was all written in the log now: history. They had fought and won on that terrible day. Tyacke could recall his own fury and despair: he had picked up a discarded boarding axe and had smashed it into one of Unity’s ladders. His own words still came in the night to mock him. And for what?

  He knew Bolitho had warned others about the difference. This was not a foreign enemy, no matter what the flags proclaimed. Not French, or Dutchman, or Spaniard, the old and familiar adversaries. You heard the same voices as your own from these settlers in the new world, who were fighting for what they considered their freedom. Accents from the West Country and the Downs, from Norfolk and Scotland: it was like fighting your own flesh and blood. That was the vital difference in this war.

  On one of his visits to Valkyrie Tyacke had aired his views on Bolitho’s recall to London. He had not minced his words. Senseless, he had called it. Bolitho was needed here, to lead, and to exploit their hard-won victory.

  He had paced the big cabin while Dawes had sat at his table, an expensive glass held in one hand. Amused? Indifferent?

  Tyacke had added, ‘The weather will ease soon. The Yankees will need to move. If they can’t win by sea, they’ll press on by land. They’ll be able to bring artillery right up to the Canadian frontier.’

  Dawes had shaken his head. ‘I think not. Some kind of settlement will be negotiated. You really should give their lordships more credit, both for what they are and what they know.’

  Tyacke had barely heard him. ‘Our soldiers captured Detroit with the whole Yankee army defending it. Do you really think they’ll not use every means to retake it, and give our soldiers a bloody nose for their trouble?’

  Dawes had been suddenly impatient. ‘There are great lakes to cross, rivers to navigate, forts to breach before they can do that. Do you imagine that our American cousins, the “Yankees” as you so colourfully call them, will not measure the cost of such foolhardy action?’

  Apart from discussing an invitation to the local army commander-in-chief’s Christmas reception, which Tyacke had declined to attend, they had scarcely spoken since.

  Becoming an admiral was more important to Dawes than anything, and it was beginning to look as if doing nothing and keeping the main part of the squadron
tied up in Halifax was far more attractive than behaving with any initiative that might rebound on him personally, and be seen as folly or worse.

  Tyacke began to pace again. Out there, like it or not, there were enemy ships, and they were a constant threat. Dawes had only permitted local patrols, and then had detached nothing larger than a brig, claiming that Adam Bolitho’s escape and vengeful attack in Zest, and Bolitho’s personal victory would have made the Americans think again before attempting once more to harass convoys between Halifax and the West Indies. Napoleon was on the retreat: the dispatches were full of it. Tyacke swore angrily. He had been hearing that same story for so many years, from the time when Napoleon had landed his army in Egypt, and French fire had burned his face away.

  It was all the more reason for the Americans to act now, and without further delay, while British forces and a whole fleet that could otherwise be released for these waters were concentrated on the old enemy, France.

  And when peace came, that impossible dream, what would he do? There was nothing in England for him. He had felt like a stranger on his last visit, when he had been given Indomitable. Africa, then? He had been happy there. Or was that only another delusion?

  He saw the first lieutenant, John Daubeny, waiting to catch his eye. Tyacke had toyed with the idea of accepting a more senior officer to replace Scarlett. Daubeny, like most of the wardroom, was young, perhaps too young for the post of senior lieutenant. Dawes had suggested that one of his own lieutenants be appointed. Tyacke grinned fiercely. That must have decided it. In any case, Daubeny had matured on that September day, like most of them. It was the navy’s way. A man died or was transferred: another took his place. Like dead men’s shoes after a hanging. Even the pompous Midshipman Blythe, who had been confirmed lieutenant and was now the most junior officer aboard, had proved both efficient and attentive to detail, to Tyacke’s surprise, and his own division of seamen, who had known his arrogance as a midshipman, had shown him a grudging respect. They would never like him, but it was a beginning, and Tyacke was satisfied.

  ‘Yes, Mr Daubeny?’

  Daubeny touched his hat. ‘We shall complete stowage today, sir.’

  Tyacke grunted, picturing his ship at a distance, her trim in the water, gauging the feel of her.

  He said, ‘Tell my cox’n to prepare the gig when it’s time. I’ll go around her once more. We might still have to move some of that extra powder and shot further aft.’ He was not aware of the pride that had crept into his voice. ‘This lady will want to fly when she finds open water again!’

  Daubeny had noticed. He knew he would never be close to the captain: Tyacke kept his emotional distance, as if he were afraid to reveal his true feelings. Only with Sir Richard Bolitho had Daubeny ever seen him change, had sensed the warmth, the unspoken understanding and obvious respect of each for the other. He recalled them together, here, on this same untroubled deck. It was hard to believe that it had happened, that such chilling sights were possible. His inner voice spoke for him. That I survived.

  He said, ‘I shall be glad to see Sir Richard’s flag hoisted again, sir.’

  He did not even flinch when Tyacke faced him, as he had once done. How much worse it must be for him, he thought. The stares, the revulsion, and yes, the disapproval.

  Surprisingly, Tyacke smiled. ‘You speak for us both, Mr Daubeny!’

  Tyacke turned away as York, the sailing-master, emerged from the companion, without a glance at the receding fog.

  ‘You were right, Mr York! You have brought better weather for us!’ Then he held up his hand and said sharply, ‘Listen!’ The hammering and the muted thuds between decks had stopped. Only six months since that last ball had smashed into the carnage of broken men. They had done well.

  York studied him gravely. So many times in the last two years he had watched the captain’s moods, his anguish and his defiance. He had once heard Tyacke say of Sir Richard Bolitho, ‘I would serve no other.’ He could have said the same himself, of this brave, lonely man.

  He said, ‘Then we’re ready, sir!’

  Daubeny was listening, sharing it. At first he had thought he would be unable to fill Lieutenant Scarlett’s shoes after he had fallen. He had even been afraid. That was yesterday. Now Scarlett was just another ghost, without substance or threat.

  He stared up at the furled sails, moisture pouring from them like tropical rain. Like the ship, the Old Indom as the sailors called her, he was ready.

  Three weeks outward bound from Portsmouth, Hampshire to Halifax, Nova Scotia, His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Wakeful was within days of her landfall. Even Adam Bolitho, with all his hard-won experience as a frigate captain, could not recall a more violent passage. February into March, with the Atlantic using every mood and trick against them.

  Although it was Wakeful’s young captain’s first command, he had held it for two years, and two years in a frigate used almost exclusively for carrying vital dispatches to flag-officers and far-flung squadrons was equal to a lifetime in a lesser vessel. South-west and into the teeth of the Atlantic gales, with men knocked senseless by incoming seas, or in danger of being hurled from the upper yards while they kicked and fisted half-frozen canvas that could tear out a man’s fingernails like pips from a lemon. Watchkeeping became a nightmare of noise and cruel discomfort; estimating their daily progress, unable even to stream the log, was based on dead reckoning, or, as the sailing-master put it, by guess and by God.

  For the passengers down aft, it was uncomfortable but strangely detached from the rest of the ship and her weary company, piped again and again to the braces or aloft to reef the sails when they had only just been given a moment’s rest in their messes. Simply trying to carry hot food from the swaying, pitching galley was a test of skill.

  Sealed off from the life of the ship, and her daily fight against the common enemy, Adam and his new flag officer remained curiously apart. Keen spent most of his time reading his lengthy instructions from the Admiralty, or making notes as he studied various charts beneath the wildly spiralling lanterns. They burned day and night: little light penetrated the stern windows, which were either streaming with spume from a following gale, or so smeared with salt that even the rearing waves were distorted into wild and threatening creatures.

  Adam could appreciate all of it. Had Wakeful been an ordinary fleet frigate she would likely have been short-handed, or at best manned by unskilled newcomers, snatched up by the press or offered for duty by the local assize court. This required trained seamen, who had worked together long enough to know the strength of their ship and the value of their captain. He had thought often enough, as Anemone had been.

  Whenever he could be spared from his duties Captain Hyde had made it his business to visit them. No wonder he had not hesitated to offer his own quarters for their use: Hyde spent as many, if not more, hours on deck than any of his men.

  Whenever possible Adam had sat with Keen in the cabin, and had washed down the wardroom fare with a plentiful supply of wine. To expect anything hot to drink was out of the question. The wine, however, had added no intimacy to their conversations.

  Hyde must have noticed that Keen had made no impossible demands, and had not once complained of discomfort, nor had he requested a change of tack to seek out calmer waters even at the expense of losing time. It was obviously something which had surprised Hyde, in spite of Adam’s first description of the admiral.

  On one rare occasion when Hyde had given up the fight, and Wakeful had lain hove-to under storm canvas waiting for the weather to ease, Keen had seemed willing to share his confidences. Afterwards, Adam thought it might have been easier for both of them if they had been total strangers.

  Keen had said, ‘I cannot tell you how pleased I was to have your letter of agreement to this appointment. We have known one another for a long time, and we have shared and lost many good friends.’ He had hesitated, perhaps thinking of Hyperion; he had been Bolitho’s flag captain when the old ship had gone down, with her flag sti
ll flying. ‘We have seen fine ships destroyed.’ They had listened to the wind, and the sea hissing against the stern windows like a cave of serpents. ‘The sea is no less a tyrant than war, I sometimes think.’

  He had seemed to want to talk, and Adam had found himself studying his companion with new eyes. When Keen had been piped aboard at Portsmouth with full honours, and the port admiral to welcome him in person, Adam had felt the old hurt and resentment. Keen had worn no mark of mourning, either then or since. Nor had he mentioned Zenoria, other than to acknowledge the port admiral’s meaningless murmurs of condolence.

  Keen had said, ‘When I was your uncle’s flag captain, even though I had known him since I was a lowly midshipman, I was uncertain of the measure of confidence between us. Perhaps I did not understand the true difference between the position of flag captain, and a captain like our youthful Martin Hyde. Sir Richard showed me the way, without favour, and without overriding my own opinions merely to exercise the privileges of rank. It meant a great deal to me, and I hope I did not disappoint his trust.’ He had smiled, rather sadly. ‘Or his friendship, which means so much to me, and which helped to save my mind.’

  He could not think of them together. Keen, always so outwardly assured, attractive to women, his hair so fair that it looked almost white against his tanned features. But … as lovers. … He was repulsed by it.

  The boy John Whitmarsh, legs braced against the movement of the deck and lower lip pouting with concentration, had carried more wine to the table.