Cross of St George

by Alexander Kent

  One point of the dividers rested on Cape North, the tip of Nova Scotia that guarded the southernmost side of the entrance to the Gulf of St Lawrence. Across the strait lay Newfoundland, some fifty miles distant. A narrow passage, but easy enough for a determined captain who wanted to avoid capture and slip through the net. Keen would be thinking the same thing. Adam leaned closer to the chart. Two tiny islands, St Pierre and Miquelon, to the south of Newfoundland’s rugged coastline, were in fact French, but at the outbreak of war had been occupied by troops from the British garrison at St John’s. Keen had made no secret of his conviction that Reaper would be heading for these same islands. Reaper’s capture by the Americans would still be unknown to any of the local patrols; it would have been an obvious strategy if the enemy had intended to attack the garrison, or prey on shipping in these waters. But the brig Doon had investigated the area and had rejoined her two consorts with nothing to report. Beyond lay the Gulf of St Lawrence, the vital gateway to its great river, to Montreal and the lakes, to the naval base at Kingston and further still to York, the administrative, if small, capital of Upper Canada.

  But the Gulf was vast, with islets and bays where any ship could shelter, and bide her time until the hunt had passed her by.

  He heard shouted commands and the trill of calls. The afternoon watch was mustering aft, the air heavy with greasy smells from the galley funnel. A good measure of rum to wash it down.

  He glanced at the sailing-master’s log book. May third, 1813. He thought of the small velvet-covered volume in his chest, the carefully pressed fragments of the wild roses. May in England. It was like remembering a foreign country.

  A shadow fell across the table: Urquhart, the first lieutenant. Adam had found him a good and competent officer, firm and fair with the hands, even with the hard men, who tested every officer for any sign of weakness. It was never easy to be both as a first lieutenant. When Valkyrie’s captain, Trevenen, had broken down with terror at the height of action, it had been Urquhart who had taken over and restored discipline and order. Neither Trevenen, who had vanished mysteriously on his way to face a court-martial, nor his successor, the acting-commodore Peter Dawes, had recommended Urquhart for advancement. Urquhart had never mentioned it, nor had he shown any resentment, but Adam guessed it was only because he did not yet know his new captain well enough. Adam blamed himself for that. He was unable to encourage intimacy in Valkyrie: even when he passed a command, he still found himself half-expecting to see other faces respond. Dead faces.

  Urquhart waited patiently for his attention, and then said, ‘I would like to exercise the eighteen-pounders during the afternoon watch, sir.’

  Adam tossed down the dividers. ‘It is about all we will be doing, it seems!’

  He thought of that last night in Halifax, the lavish dinner, with their host, Massie, becoming more slurred by the minute. He thought, also, of the enticing and sensual Mrs Lovelace, laughing at Massie’s crude remarks, but keeping her foot against Adam’s under the table.

  I should not have agreed to this post. Had he accepted it to avoid being marooned in Zest?

  In his own heart, he knew he had acted out of a sense of obligation, perhaps some need to make reparation. Guilt. …

  Urquhart looked at the chart: he had a strong, thoughtful profile. Adam could well imagine him with a command of his own.

  Urquhart said, ‘It’s like picking at threads, sir. She could be anywhere.’

  ‘I know that, damn it!’ He touched the lieutenant’s sleeve. ‘I am sorry, John. That was uncalled for.’

  Urquhart eyed him warily. It was the first time the captain had called him by his first name. It had been like seeing a different person suddenly, not so much the severe stranger.

  He said, ‘If we run deeper into the Gulf we shall be hard put to keep together. If we had more ships, then. …’

  A master’s mate whispered around the door, ‘Admiral’s coming up, sir.’

  Adam knew that he was speaking to Urquhart, careful to avoid his captain’s eye.

  He straightened his back. ‘Yes. Well, we shall see.’

  Keen was standing by the weather nettings when they came out of the chart room, and Adam noticed immediately that he looked strained, troubled.

  Keen said, ‘What time will we alter course, Captain Bolitho?’

  Adam replied with equal formality, ‘In two hours, sir. We shall steer nor’ west.’ He waited, seeing Keen’s doubt, the unspoken arguments.

  ‘Are Taciturn and Doon in sight?’

  ‘Aye, sir. The masthead reported both of them at the change of watch. Good visibility. We should see another sail soon. Information maybe, some evidence that she was seen by some passing trader or fisherman.’ He looked at Urquhart. ‘It is our best hope.’

  Keen said, ‘We are abeam of Cape North. By nightfall we shall be stretched too far to offer support to one another.’

  Adam looked away. He felt a stab of resentment without knowing why. He had been up before first light, and on deck several times during the night. There were plenty of navigational hazards in these waters and the local charts were unreliable, to say the least. It was only right that Valkyrie’s watchkeepers should know that their captain was with them.

  ‘From the information brought by Alfriston, this would seem the most likely area for independent action. Perhaps tomorrow we could decide whether or not to continue this form of search.’

  Keen watched two seamen dragging new halliards along the deck. ‘I will decide. While the light is still good I shall want signals sent to Taciturn and Doon. The brig can close with us and carry my report to Halifax.’ He faced Adam and added shortly, ‘We will discontinue the search before dusk.’

  ‘Halifax, sir?’

  Keen studied him grimly. ‘Halifax.’

  He walked toward the companion way, and Adam saw the flag lieutenant waiting there to intercept him.

  ‘Orders, sir?’ Urquhart was clearly uncomfortable at having been present during the exchange, and at having sensed a barrier which he had not seen before fall so obviously between admiral and flag captain.

  Adam glanced up at the streaming masthead pendant. The wind was holding steady from the south-west. It had not shifted for days; another day would make no difference. And even when they returned to Halifax, it was unlikely that there would be fresh news from Sir Richard.

  He realized what Urquhart had asked. ‘Carry on as before.’

  He was the captain, and yet his was never the final decision. He had always known that, but Keen’s curt remark had merely served to emphasize the fact. Perhaps it was because Keen had been used to ships of the line, and had served in frigates as a very junior officer. He tried to smile, to sweep it away. With the best of teachers. But Keen had never commanded one. It should not make any difference. But, unreasonably, it did.

  As the afternoon watch drew to a close, Keen came on deck again.

  ‘I think it is time to make the signal.’ He watched the small figure of John Whitmarsh walking aft, some clean shirts folded over one arm, and smiled unexpectedly. ‘To be his age again, eh, Adam?’

  The sudden informality, just men, was disconcerting. ‘Aye, sir. But I think I could manage without some of the past.’

  Keen made up his mind. ‘You probably think I am giving up too easily. You think we should waste days, weeks even, pursuing what may be a lost cause.’

  Adam said, ‘I still believe we should continue, sir.’

  Keen shrugged. The bridge between them was gone. ‘It is my decision. Make the signal!’

  Adam saw de Courcey hurrying toward Midshipman Rickman and the prepared hoists of bunting. Back to Halifax, then. Receptions and balls: a ship going stale at her anchorage.

  ‘Deck there! Taciturn’s hoisted a signal!’

  Adam saw another midshipman reaching for a telescope.

  ‘Aloft, Mr Warren! Lively there!’

  He knew Urquhart was watching him. He would never offer his own opinion, or mention what he had
seen and heard. Adam shaded his eyes and stared at the sun, like red gold now. But there was still time. If only. …

  The midshipman’s young voice echoed down from the maintop. ‘From Taciturn, sir! Enemy in sight to the nor’ east!’ Even at that distance and above the drumming chorus of canvas and rigging, Adam could hear his excitement.

  Heading for the strait they had just left. Another hour, and they would have missed them. What sort of enemy, that Taciturn was so certain?

  Warren shouted down again. ‘She’s Reaper, sir!’

  Urquhart forgot himself. ‘Hell’s teeth! You were right, sir!’

  Keen had reappeared. ‘What is it? Are they sure?’

  Adam said, ‘Certain, sir.’

  ‘They’ll run for it.’ He sounded unconvinced. ‘Try and lose us in the Gulf.’

  Adam beckoned to Urquhart. ‘Get the t’ gallants on her!’ He glanced up at the flag whipping out from the mizzen truck. ‘This ship could outpace Reaper, no matter what she tried!’ He was surprised at his own voice. Pride, where there had been only acceptance; triumph, when he had so recently felt bitterness at Keen’s dismissal of his proposals.

  Calls squealed and the deck shook to the rush of bare feet as men ran to obey them. He was aware of their excitement, the relief that something was happening, and awe, when some of the new hands looked aloft to see the topgallant sails bursting from their yards, their canvas already hard to the steady wind.

  Adam took a glass and rested it on Midshipman Rickman’s shoulder. First Taciturn; the brig Doon was still not in sight from the deck. And then. … He tensed, his back chilled despite the lingering warmth of the sun. A thin plume of pale canvas: Reaper. Not running, and yet they must have sighted them. Three ships on a converging tack. Reaper’s men might fight to the death; they would face it in any case after the brief formality of a court-martial. They would have known the penalty for mutiny from the instant they had hauled down the flag. He licked his dry lips. And murdered their captain. …

  Keen spoke for him. ‘They dare not fight!’

  Adam turned to Urquhart. ‘Beat to quarters, if you please. Then clear for action.’ He walked to the taffrail and then back again, his mind grappling with the sudden change of fortune. A show of defiance? A bloody gesture? It would be all of that. Taciturn alone outgunned the smaller Reaper: Valkyrie could blow her out of the water without even getting to close quarters.

  Keen said, ‘She’s holding her course.’ He held out his arms as his servant appeared beside him to clip on his sword.

  ‘Cleared for action, sir!’

  Adam stared at the first lieutenant. He had barely heard the rattle of drums, the stampede of seamen and marines to their stations, and now all was still again, each long gun fully crewed, the decks sanded, the scarlet coats of the marines visible at the hammock nettings and high in the fighting tops. They had learned well under Peter Dawes, or perhaps it was all due to the impassive Urquhart.

  Keen said, ‘Make to Taciturn, close on Flag.’ He turned away as de Courcey urged the signals party to greater efforts. The flags soared aloft.

  ‘Acknowledged, sir!’

  Of the brig Doon there was no sign, but her masthead lookouts would be watching, probably glad they were well clear of it.

  ‘Reaper’s showing her teeth!’

  Without a glass there was no apparent change, but when Adam propped his on the midshipman’s shoulder he could see the line of protruding guns along the other vessel’s side.

  Keen said, ‘When you are ready, Captain Bolitho.’ They looked at each other like strangers.

  Adam shouted, ‘Just like the drill, Mr Urquhart!’ He saw some of the nearest men turn to grin at him. ‘Load and run out!’

  ‘Open the ports!’ A whistle shrilled from Monteith, the fourth lieutenant, and with a chorus of yells the seamen threw themselves on their tackles and hauled their guns up and through the open ports. With the wind across the quarter, their task was easier. If they changed tack, or lost the wind-gage, it would be different: uphill all the way, as the old gun captains warned.

  Adam turned as young Whitmarsh walked unhurriedly between the crouching gun crews and watchful marines, Adam’s new hanger held in his hands like a talisman. Adam looked around at the others on the quarterdeck. George Starr, his old coxswain, should be here, Hudson, who had also died, and other faces, so painfully clear that he was caught off-guard.

  He waited for the boy to clip on his hanger and said, ‘Below with you, my lad! No heroics today!’ He saw the dismay on his face and added gently, ‘You need no reminding either, do you?’

  Keen was beside him. ‘What can they hope to achieve?’

  Adam saw the telescopes being trained on the distant Taciturn, heard de Courcey’s smooth voice reading out a signal. Then he lowered his glass, his mind suddenly blank. ‘They have hostages, sir.’

  ‘So that is what they intend. To sail directly past us, knowing we will not fire!’ He seemed to consider it, with disbelief. ‘Would they do that?’

  ‘It may be a bluff, sir.’ But he knew it was not. It was all the enemy had left. With this wind they would be within range in less than half an hour.

  Keen said, ‘It would be murder!’

  Adam watched him, feeling his anger and revulsion. His decision, just as he had insisted earlier.

  When Adam remained silent, Keen exclaimed, ‘For God’s sake, what should I do?’

  Adam touched the hilt of his new hanger, the one he had chosen with such care in the old sword cutler’s shop in the Strand.

  ‘Men will die in any case if we fight, sir. But to lose Reaper now would be an even greater tragedy.’

  Keen seemed to sigh. ‘Signal Taciturn to take station astern of Flag.’

  The signal was acknowledged, and Adam watched the leading frigate’s sails in momentary confusion as she began to come about as ordered. He could feel both pity and admiration for Keen. He was not going to leave the first encounter to one of his captains. As Richard Bolitho had so often said, here was where the responsibility began and ended, like the flag at the mizzen-truck. Final.

  He had forgotten about Midshipman Warren, who was still in the maintop.

  ‘Deck, there!’ Then shock, disbelief. ‘There are prisoners on Reaper’s deck, sir!’ There was a pause. ‘Women, too!’

  Keen said sharply, ‘D’ you still think they’re bluffing?’

  It was like a nightmare, Adam thought. Reaper would suffer the same fate yet again; she would be raked as she had been by the Americans, before she could even get within range.

  Urquhart had gone to his station by the mainmast, his sword laid across one shoulder as if he were about to perform a ceremony.

  Adam gripped the quarterdeck rail. He did not need to be told what would happen when these long eighteen-pounders, double-shotted as ordered, thundered out at the oncoming ship.

  He knew that some of the gun crews were peering aft at him, and wanted to shout at them. There is no decision to be made. They must not escape.

  He heard de Courcey say, ‘Two women, sir. The rest look like sailors.’ Even he sounded dazed, unable to accept what he saw.

  Adam raised his voice. ‘On the uproll, Mr Urquhart! As you bear!’ Urquhart knew what to do: they all did. But they had to be held together, and commanded, no matter what they believed.

  ‘Take in the t’ gallants!’ High overhead, men moved like monkeys, detached from the tension and apprehension on the deck below.

  Adam turned to the sailing-master. ‘Stand by to bring her up two points, Mr Ritchie. Then we will fire.’

  Keen was in the shrouds, oblivious to the spray and risk; he was holding the midshipman’s big telescope, his fair hair whipping in the wind.

  Like that day at the church in Zennor. … Val and Zenoria. … He closed his eyes as Keen said harshly, ‘One of the hostages is David St Clair! His daughter must be with him!’

  He thrust the memories aside; this was no place for them. He heard Keen say, ‘No bluff, then
.’ He climbed down to the deck and faced him.

  Adam said, ‘Stand by!’ He forced himself to look at the oncoming frigate, leaning over to expose her bright copper, her gilded figurehead with the upraised scythe suddenly clear and terrible.

  Each gun captain would be staring aft at the solitary figure by the rail, looking to a captain whom they knew only by reputation. But every man knew what he would see when Valkyrie altered course, and the target filled each port. Here, a man cleared his throat; another turned to wipe the sweat from his eyes.

  Suppose they refused to fire on men like themselves?

  Adam felt the anger pound through him. They were not like them. I must not think of it!

  He drew his hanger and raised it shoulder-high.

  Dear God, what are we doing?

  ‘Alter course, Mr Ritchie!’

  He swung round as the uneven roar of cannon fire rolled and echoed across the short, white-tipped waves.

  With disbelief he saw Reaper’s guns recoiling in a broken broadside, in pairs or singly, until at last only one fired from the bow.

  There were leaping patches of foam now; the taller waterspouts of the heavier guns churned up the sea’s face and faded almost as suddenly. A full broadside, fired into oblivion.

  Keen said, ‘They would not fire on us!’ He looked at those nearest him. ‘Because they knew we would destroy them!’

  Adam said, ‘The bluff failed.’ He saw some of the gun crews staring at each other; two seamen even reached across their eighteen-pounder to shake hands. It was no victory, but at least it was not bloody murder, either.

  ‘Signal her to heave to! Stand by, boarding parties!’

  Adam called, ‘Be ready to fire. We will take nothing for granted!’

  He touched his hat to Keen. ‘I’d like to go across myself, sir.’

  Keen gazed past him as something like a great sigh came from the watching seamen and marines.

  ‘She’s struck her colours, thank God.’

  Richie, the old sailing-master, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Poor old girl. She’s taken all she can, I reckon!’

  Adam looked at him. A toughened, unsentimental professional, but in his simple way he had said it all.