Cross of St George

by Alexander Kent

  Keen had watched him, and after he had departed had said absently, ‘A pleasant youth. What shall you do with him?’ He had not waited for, or perhaps expected, an answer. ‘I used to plan things for my boy, Perran. I wish I had had more time to know him.’

  The table had been cleared by Whitmarsh and one of the captain’s messmen. He had said quietly, ‘I want you to feel you can always speak your mind to me, Adam. Admiral and captain, but most of all friends. As I was, and am, with your uncle.’ He had seemed uneasy, disturbed then by some thought. ‘And Lady Catherine – that goes without saying.’

  And then, eventually, Wakeful had changed course, northwest-by-north to take full advantage of the obliging Westerlies as, close-hauled, they started on the last leg of their journey.

  Of Halifax Keen had remarked, ‘My father has friends there.’ Again a note of bitterness had crept into his voice. ‘In the way of trade, I believe.’ Then, ‘I just want to be doing something. Peter Dawes might have fresh information by the time we arrive.’

  On another occasion, when they had been free to walk the quarterdeck, and there had even been a suggestion of sunlight on the dark, rearing crests, Keen had mentioned Adam’s escape, and John Allday’s son, who had risked everything to help him, only to fall in the battle with Unity. Keen had paused to watch some gulls skimming within inches of the sea’s face, screaming a welcome. He had said, ‘I remember when we were together in the boat after that damned Golden Plover went down.’ He had spoken with such vehemence that Adam had felt him reliving it. ‘Some birds flew over the boat. We were nearly finished. But for Lady Catherine I don’t know what we would have done. I heard your uncle say to her, tonight those birds will nest in Africa.’ He had looked at Adam without seeing him. ‘It made all the difference. Land, I thought. We are no longer alone, without hope.’

  As the miles rolled away in Wakeful’s lively wake, Adam had shared few other confidences with his new rear-admiral. Others might look at him and say, there is a favoured one, who has everything. In fact, his rank was all he had.

  And then, on that last full day when they had both been on deck, the air like knives in their faces.

  ‘Have you ever thought of getting married, Adam? You should. This life is hard on the women, but I sometimes think. …’

  Mercifully, the masthead had yelled, ‘Deck there! Land on th’ weather bow!’

  Hyde had joined them, beaming and rubbing his raw hands. Glad it was over, more so that he was ridding himself of his extra responsibilities.

  ‘With good fortune we shall anchor in the forenoon tomorrow, sir.’ He had been looking at the rear-admiral, but his words had been for Adam. The satisfaction of making a landfall. Even the ocean had seemed calmer, until the next challenge.

  Keen had walked to the quarterdeck rail, oblivious to the idlers off-watch who were chattering, some even laughing, sharing the same elation at what they had achieved. Men against the sea.

  He had said, without turning his head, ‘You may hoist my flag at the mizzen at first light, Captain Hyde.’ Then he did turn and face them. ‘And, thank you.’ But he had been looking past them, through them, as if he had been speaking to someone else.

  Hyde had asked, ‘May I invite you and Captain Bolitho to sup with my officers and me, sir? It is quite an occasion for us.’

  Adam had seen Keen’s face. Empty, like a stranger’s.

  ‘I think not, Captain Hyde. I have some papers to study before we anchor.’ He made another attempt. ‘My flag captain will do the honours.’

  Perhaps it had been then, and only then, that the impact of his loss had really struck him.

  It would have to be a new beginning, for them both.

  Richard Bolitho walked across the cabin deck, and paused by the table where Yovell was melting wax to seal one of the many written orders he had copied.

  ‘I think that will be an end to it for today.’ The deck was rising again, the rudder-head thudding noisily as the transport Royal Enterprise lifted and then ploughed into another criss-cross of deep troughs. He knew Avery was watching him from the security of a chair which was lashed firmly between two ringbolts. A rough passage, even for a ship well used to such violence. It would soon be over, and still he had not reconciled himself, or confronted his doubts at the prospect of returning to a war which could never be won, but must never be lost. He was holding on, refusing to surrender, even when they were separated by an ocean.

  He said, ‘Well, George, we will dine directly. I am glad I have a flag lieutenant whose appetite is unimpaired by the Atlantic in ill temper!’

  Avery smiled. He should be used to it, to the man, by now. But he could still be surprised by the way Bolitho seemed able to put his personal preoccupations behind him, or at least conceal them from others. From me. Avery had guessed what the return to duty had cost him, but when he had stepped aboard the transport at Plymouth there had been nothing to reveal the pain of parting from his mistress after so brief a reunion.

  Bolitho was watching the last of the wax dripping onto the envelope like blood before Yovell set his seal upon it. He had not spared himself, but he knew very well that by the time they reached Halifax and rejoined the squadron everything might have changed, rendering their latest intelligence useless. Time and distance were the elements that determined the war at sea. Instinct, fate, experience, it was all and none of them, and ignorance was often fatal.

  Avery watched the sea dashing across the thick stern windows. The ship had been more comfortable than he had expected, with a tough and disciplined company used to fast passages and taking avoiding action against suspicious sails instead of standing to fight. The Admiralty orders made that very clear to every such vessel and her master: they were to deliver their passengers or small, important cargoes at any cost. They were usually under-armed; the Royal Enterprise mounted only some nine-pounders and a few swivels. Speed, not glory, was her purpose.

  They had had only one mishap. The ship had been struck by a violent squall as she was about to change tack. Her fore topgallant mast and yard had carried away, and one of her boats had been torn from its tier and flung over the side like a piece of flotsam. The ship’s company had got down to work immediately; they were used to such hazards, but her master, a great lump of a man named Samuel Tregullon, was outraged by the incident. A Cornishman from Penzance, Tregullon was intensely proud of his ship’s record, and her ability to carry out to the letter the instructions of the men at Admiralty who, in his view, had likely never set foot on a deck in their lives. To be delayed with such an important passenger in his care, and a fellow Cornishman at that, was bad enough. But as he had confided over a tankard of rum during a visit to the cabin, another transport, almost a sister ship of his own, the Royal Herald, had left Plymouth a few days after them, and would now reach Halifax before them.

  Bolitho had commented afterwards to Avery, ‘Another old Cornish rivalry. I’ll lay odds that neither of them can remember how it all began.’

  Bolitho had asked him about London, but he had not pressed the point, for which Avery was grateful. During the long night watches when he had lain awake, listening to the roar of the sea and the protesting groan of timbers, he had thought of little else.

  He had felt no sense of triumph or revenge, as he had once believed he would. Had she been amusing herself with him? Playing with him, as she had once done? Or had he imagined that, too? A woman like her, so poised, so confident amongst people who lived in an entirely different world from his own. … Why would she risk everything if she had no deeper feeling for him?

  None of the repeated questions had been answered.

  He should have left her. Should never have gone to the house in the first place. He looked across at Bolitho, who was speaking warmly with Yovell, more like old friends than admiral and servant. What would he think if he knew that his wife Belinda had been there that day, obviously just as at home in that elegant and superficial world as all the others?

  Yovell stood up, and grimaced
as the deck swayed over again. ‘Ah, they were right about me, Sir Richard. I must be mad to share the life of a sailor!’

  He gathered his papers and prepared to leave, perhaps to join Allday and Ozzard before the evening meal. Allday would be feeling the separation badly, and there would be a long wait for that first letter, which Avery knew he would bring for him to read aloud. Another precious link in the little crew: Allday was a proud man, and Avery had been touched by the simplicity and dignity of his request that Avery read to him the letters from Unis that he could not read for himself.

  Would Susanna ever write to him? He wanted to laugh at his own pathetic hopes. Of course she would not. Within weeks she would have forgotten him. She had money, she had beauty, and she was free. But he would think of her again tonight. …

  He had tried to compare his position with that of Bolitho and his mistress, although he knew it was ridiculous. There was no comparison. Apart from that one memory, what had happened was a closed door, the finish of something which had always been hopeless.

  He looked up, startled, afraid that he had missed something or that Bolitho had spoken to him. But they were as before, framed against the grey stern windows, the sea already losing its menace as the fading light obscured it.

  Bolitho turned and looked at him. ‘Did you hear?’

  Yovell steadied himself against the table. ‘Another storm, Sir Richard.’

  ‘The glass says otherwise.’ He tensed. ‘There. Again.’

  Yovell said, ‘Thunder?’

  Avery was on his feet. So unlike a ship of war; too long at sea with nothing but the sea to challenge you. Day after day, week in, week out. And then the boredom and the noisy routine were forgotten.

  He said, ‘Gunfire, sir.’

  There was a rap on the door and Allday stepped into the cabin. He moved so lightly when he wanted to, for such a big man, and one who was in more pain from his old wound than he would ever admit.

  Bolitho said, ‘You heard, old friend?’

  Allday looked at them. ‘I wasn’t sure, an’ then.’ He shook his shaggy head. ‘Not a thing to lie easy on your mind, Sir Richard.’

  Avery asked, ‘Shall I go and speak with the master, sir?’

  Bolitho glanced at the screen door. ‘No. It is not our place.’ He smiled at Ozzard, who had also appeared, a tray of glasses balanced in his hands. ‘Not yet, in any case.’

  Eventually Samuel Tregullon made his way aft, his battered hat clutched in one beefy hand like a scrap of felt.

  ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, Zur Richard, but ye’ll be knowing about the guns.’ He shook his head as Ozzard offered him a glass, not because he was involved with his ship but because he usually drank only neat rum. A sailor, from his clear eyes to his thick wrists and the hands that were like pieces of meat. Collier brig, Falmouth packet, one-time smuggler and now a King’s man: what Bolitho’s father would have described as all spunyarn and marline spikes.

  Tregullon nodded briefly as Ozzard replaced the glass with a tankard. ‘Never fear, Zur Richard. I’ll get you to Halifax as I was ordered, an’ take you there I will. I can outsail any felon, theirs or ours!’ He grinned, his uneven teeth like a broken fence. ‘I’m too old a hand to be caught aback!’

  After he had gone, the distant gunfire continued for half an hour and then stopped, as if quenched by the sea itself.

  The master returned, grim-faced, to say that he was resuming course and tack. It was over.

  Bolitho said suddenly, ‘Yours is an experienced company, Captain Tregullon. None better at this work, I think you said?’

  Tregullon eyed him suspiciously. ‘I did, Zur Richard. That I did.’

  ‘I think we should make every effort to investigate what we have heard. At first light the sea may ease. I feel it.’

  Tregullon was not convinced. ‘I have my orders, zur. They comes from the lords of Admiralty. No matter how I feels about it, I am not able or willing to change those orders.’ He tried to smile, but it evaded him. ‘Not even for you, zur.’

  Bolitho walked to the stern windows and leaned against the glass. ‘The lords of Admiralty, you say?’ He turned, his face in shadow, the white lock of hair above his eye like a brushstroke. ‘We’re all sailors here. We all know there is someone far higher who controls our lives, and listens to our despair when it pleases Him.’

  Tregullon licked his lips. ‘I knows that, zur. But what can I do?’

  Bolitho said quietly, ‘There are men out there, Captain Tregullon. In need, and likely in fear. It may already be too late, and I am well aware of the risk to your ship. To you and your company.’

  ‘Not least to you, zur!’ But there was no fight in his voice. He sighed. ‘Very well. I’ll do it.’ He looked up angrily. ‘Not for you, with all respect, zur, an’ not for His Majesty, bless his soul.’ He stared at his crumpled hat. ‘For me. It has to be so.’

  Bolitho and Avery ate their meal in silence: the whole ship seemed to be holding her breath. Only the creak of the rudder and the occasional thud of feet overhead gave any hint that everything had changed.

  At first light, as Bolitho had expected, the wind and sea eased; and with every available telescope and lookout searching for the presence of danger Tregullon shortened sail, and, arms folded, watched the darkness falling away and the sea eventually tinge with silver to mark each trough and roller.

  Avery joined Bolitho on the broad quarterdeck, where he was standing in silence by the weather side, his black hair blowing unheeded in the bitter air. Once or twice Avery saw him touch his injured eye, impatient, even resentful that his concentration was interrupted.

  Captain Tregullon joined him, and said gruffly, ‘We tried, Zur Richard. If there was anything, we were too late.’ He watched Bolitho’s profile, seeking something. ‘I’d best lay her on a new tack.’

  He was about to shamble away when the cry came down, sharp and crisp, like the call of a hawk.

  ‘Wreckage in th’ water, sir! Lee bow!’

  There was a lot of it. Planks and timber, drifting cordage and broken or upended boats, most of it charred and splintered by the fierceness of the bombardment.

  Bolitho waited while the ship came into the wind, and a boat was lowered with one of the master’s mates in charge.

  There were a few dead, lolling as if asleep as the waves carried them by. The boat moved slowly amongst them, the bowman pulling each sodden corpse alongside with his hook and then quickly discarding it, unwilling, it seemed, to interrupt such a final journey.

  Except for one. The master’s mate took some time with it, and even without a glass Avery could see the dead face, the gaping wounds, all that was left of a man.

  The boat returned and was hoisted inboard with a minimum of fuss. Avery heard the master pass his orders for getting under way again. Heavy, unhurried: the ship, as always, coming first.

  Then he came aft and waited for Bolitho to face him. ‘My mate knew that dead sailor, Zur Richard. I expect we knew most of ’em.’

  Bolitho said, ‘She was the Royal Herald, was she not?’

  ‘She was, zur. Because of our losing the t’gallant mast she overreached us. They was waiting. They knew we was coming.’ Then he said in a hoarse whisper, ‘It was you they was after, Zur Richard. They wanted you dead.’

  Bolitho touched his thick arm. ‘So it would seem. Instead, many good men died.’

  Then he turned and looked at Avery, and beyond him, Allday. ‘We thought we had left the war behind, my friends. Now it has come to meet us.’

  There was no anger or bitterness, only sorrow. The respite was over.

  * * *

  5

  A Face in the Crowd

  * * *

  BOLITHO PUT DOWN the empty cup and walked slowly to the tall stern window. Around and above him, Indomitable’s hull seemed to tremble with constant movement and purpose, so unlike the transport Royal Enterprise, which he had left the previous afternoon. He peered through the thick glass and saw her lying at anchor, his practised eye
taking in the movement of seamen on her yards and in her upper rigging, while others hoisted fresh stores from a lighter alongside. Royal Enterprise would soon be off again on her next mission, with her master still brooding over the brutal destruction of the other transport which had been so well known to him and his people, and less confident now that speed was all that was required to protect them from a determined enemy.

  It was halfway through the forenoon, and Bolitho had been working since first light. He had been surprised and touched by the warmth of his reception. Tyacke had come in person to collect him from Royal Enterprise, his eyes full of questions when Tregullon had mentioned the attack.

  He glanced now around the cabin, which was so familiar in spite of his absence in England. Tyacke had done some fine work to get his ship repaired and ready for sea, for even in harbour the weather did not encourage such activities. But now there was a little weak sunlight to give an illusion of warmth. He touched the glass. It was an illusion.

  He should be used to it. Even so, the transformation was a tribute to Indomitable’s captain. Even here in his cabin, these guns had roared defiance: now each one was lashed snugly behind sealed ports, trucks painted, barrels unmarked by fire and smoke.

  He looked at the empty cup. The coffee was excellent, and he wondered how long his stock would last. He could imagine her going to that shop in St James’s Street, Number Three, part of the new world she had opened to him. Coffee, wine, so many small luxuries, which she had known he would not have bothered to obtain for himself, nor would any one else.

  Keen would be coming aboard in an hour or so: he had sent word that he would be detained by a visit from some local military commander who wanted to discuss the improved defences and shore batteries. A casual glance at any map or chart would show the sense of that. Halifax was the only real naval base left to them on the Atlantic coast. The Americans had their pick, Boston, New York, Philadelphia, as well as scores of bays and estuaries where they could conceal an armada if they so desired.