Cross of St George

by Alexander Kent

  Bolitho said, ‘I want young Carleton aloft.’ He tugged out his watch and flicked open the guard.

  Tyacke read his thoughts. ‘Less than an hour, sir.’

  Bolitho glanced at his empty cup, and heard Ozzard say tentatively, ‘I could make another pot, Sir Richard.’

  ‘I think it may have to wait.’ He turned his head as somewhere, almost drowned out by the muffled hiss of the sea, he heard a man laugh. Such a small thing, but he thought of the wretched Reaper: there had been no laughter there. He remembered as if it were yesterday the evening when Tyacke had taken the lordly Midshipman Blythe below deck to visit the crowded seamen’s and marines’ messes, to show him what he had called ‘the strength of a ship’. That had been before the battle. The same strength had prevailed then. He thought of Allday’s grief. At a cost. …

  He said, ‘If we fight, we will give of our best.’ For a moment it was like hearing someone else’s voice. ‘But we must never forget those who depend on us, because they have no other choice.’

  Tyacke reached for his hat. ‘I’ll have the galley fire doused in good time, Sir Richard.’

  But Bolitho was looking at Avery. ‘Go and speak with your Mr Carleton.’ He closed his watch, but was still holding it. ‘You may pass the word now, James. It will be warm enough today.’

  As Ozzard gathered up the cups and the others left the cabin, Bolitho looked over at Allday.

  ‘Well, old friend. Why here, you must be thinking, a tiny mark on this great ocean. Are we destined to fight?’

  Allday held out the old sword and ran his eye along the edge.

  ‘Like all them other times, Sir Richard. It was meant to be. That’s it an’ all about it.’ Then he grinned, almost his old self again. ‘We’ll win, no matter what.’ He paused, and the defiant humour was gone. ‘Y’ see, Sir Richard, we’ve both got too much to lose.’ He slid the blade back into its scabbard. ‘God help them that tries to take it away!’

  Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and gripped it while he peered up at the towering mainmast with its iron-hard canvas. He was shivering, not because of the cold morning air, but with the instinctive awareness of danger that could still surprise him after a lifetime at sea. The sails were paler now, but there was no horizon, and the only movement he recognized through the thick criss-cross of rigging and flapping canvas seemed to float above the ship, keeping pace with her like a solitary sea bird. It was his flag, the Cross of St George, which flew day and night while he was in command. He thought of her letter in the pocket of his coat, and imagined he could hear her voice. My admiral of England.

  He could still taste the bitterness of coffee on his tongue, and wondered why he had not forced himself to eat. Tension, uncertainty perhaps. But fear? He smiled. Perhaps he could no longer recognize that emotion.

  Figures moved all around him, each one careful not to intrude upon his solitude. He could see Isaac York, a head taller than his mates, his slate-coloured hair blowing in the wind: a good man and a strong one. Bolitho knew that he had even tried to help Scarlett when the extent of his debts had become known. The white breeches of the lieutenants and midshipmen stood out in the lingering darkness, and he guessed that they were preparing themselves for what might happen today, each in his own fashion.

  He moved to the compass box and glanced at the tilting card. North-east by north, with the wind still firm across the larboard quarter. Men were working high overhead, feeling for frayed cordage or jammed blocks with the sureness of true seamen.

  Tyacke was down on the lee side, his lean figure framed against the pale water creaming back from the bows. One long arm moved to emphasize a point, and he could imagine Daubeny concentrating on every word. They were chalk and cheese, but the mixture seemed to work: Tyacke had a peculiar gift of being able to communicate his requirements to his subordinates without unnecessary anger or sarcasm. At first they had been afraid of him, and repulsed by the hideous scars: eventually they had all overcome such things, and had become a company of which to be proud.

  He heard a midshipman whisper to his friend and saw them look up, and he shaded his eyes and stared with them at his flag, the red cross suddenly hard and bright, touched by the first light of dawn.

  ‘Deck there!’ Carleton’s voice was clear and very loud: he was using a speaking-trumpet. ‘Sail on the larboard bow!’ A pause, and Bolitho could picture the young midshipman asking the masthead lookout his opinion. Tyacke was always careful with his choice of ‘eyes’: they were invariably experienced sailors, many of whom had grown older with the ships they were serving, or fighting.

  Carleton called again, ‘She’s Attacker, sir!’ He sounded almost disappointed that it was not a first sighting of the enemy. The other frigate was one of the smaller sixth-rates, and mounted only twenty-six guns. Bolitho frowned. The same as Reaper. But she was not like Reaper. In his mind’s eye he could see Attacker’s captain, George Morrison, a tough northerner from Tyneside. But no sadist: his punishment book was one of the cleanest in the squadron.

  Avery said quietly, ‘He must sight Virtue soon, sir.’

  Bolitho looked at him, and saw the new light driving the shadows from his face.

  ‘Perhaps. We may have become separated in the night. Not for long.’

  He knew Allday was close by: he must be standing almost where his son had fallen that day.

  He pushed the thought away. This was now. Attacker was on her proper station, or soon would be, once she had sighted the flagship. The other frigate, Virtue, carried thirty-six guns. Her captain was Roger M’ Cullom, in character a little like Dampier, who had been Zest’s captain before Adam had taken command. Devil-may-care and popular, but inclined to be reckless. Whether to impress his men or for his own benefit, it was still a dangerous and, as Dampier had discovered, sometimes a fatal flaw.

  Sam Hockenhull the boatswain had come aft to speak with the first lieutenant. Bolitho noticed that he was careful to avoid contact with Allday, who still blamed him for sending his son to join the afterguard on the day he had died. The quarterdeck and poop were always ripe targets for enemy sharp-shooters and the deadly swivel guns in close combat: command and authority began and were easily ended here. It was nobody’s fault, and Hockenhull probably felt badly about it, although nothing had been said.

  Bolitho sensed the restlessness among the waiting seamen. The leading edge of tension and apprehension had passed. They might be relieved later, when there was time to think on it. Now they would feel cheated that the sea was empty. As though they had been misled.

  And here was the sun at last, giving a bronze edge to the horizon. Bolitho saw Attacker’s topsails for the first time, the faint touch of colour from her streaming masthead pendant.

  Someone gasped with alarm as a muffled bang echoed across the sea’s jagged whitecaps. One shot, the sound going on and on for seconds, as if in a mine or a long tunnel.

  Tyacke was beside him immediately. ‘Signal, Sir Richard. It’s Virtue. She’s sighted ’em!’

  Bolitho said, ‘Make more sail. Then as soon as. …’

  Carleton’s voice came down from the masthead again. ‘Deck there! Two sail in sight to the nor’ east!’

  There were more far-off shots, in earnest this time.

  Tyacke’s strong voice controlled the sudden uncertainty around him. ‘Hands aloft, Mr Daubeny! Get the royals on her!’ To York he called, ‘Weather-helm, let her fall off two points!’ He rubbed his hands. ‘Now we’ll see her fly, lads!’

  More shots, sporadic but determined. Two ships, perhaps more. Tyacke was looking toward him again.

  Bolitho said, ‘When you are ready, Captain Tyacke.’ Then he looked up as the royals thundered from their yards, adding their power to the straining masts and rigging.

  ‘Beat to quarters, Mr Daubeny! Then clear for action, if you please!’

  Daubeny was staring at him. Reliving the past, trying to face the future.

  The marine drummers were already below the poop, and at a signal
from their sergeant they began to beat out the familiar rattle, the sounds soon lost in the answering rush of feet as idlers and off-watch hands divided into teams, each of which knew precisely what was expected of them. Bolitho stood quite still, aware of the order and purpose around him, gained by months of drills and exercises, and Tyacke’s own forceful example.

  The cabin beneath his feet would be stripped bare like the rest of the ship, screens torn down, all privacy gone, until the vessel was open from bow to stern. A ship of war.

  ‘Cleared for action, sir!’ Daubeny turned back to his captain.

  Tyacke nodded. ‘That was well done.’ Then, formally, he touched his hat to his admiral. ‘Virtue is engaging without support, Sir Richard.’

  Bolitho said nothing. M’ Cullom was not the kind to wait. It would be ship to ship, evening old scores, a seizing of the initiative like any frigate captain. Carleton’s voice came down like an intrusion.

  ‘Third sail in sight, sir! There’s smoke!’

  Bolitho said, ‘Go aloft, George. Discover what you can.’

  Avery glanced at him even as he hurried to the shrouds. Afterwards, he was to recall the pain in his eyes, as if he already knew.

  More gunfire, and Bolitho saw the smoke for the first time, like a stain on the shark-blue water. He could feel the deck lifting and then shuddering down as Indomitable thrust her fourteen hundred tons into each oncoming roller. Even the yards appeared to be bending like giant bows, every sail full, each shroud and stay bar-taut under her great pyramid of sails.

  ‘Load, sir?’ Tyacke’s eyes were everywhere, even aloft, where a man had almost lost his hold as he was securing one of the nets which had been spread to protect the gun crews from falling spars.

  Bolitho glanced at the masthead pendant. Like an arrow. The enemy could not outpace this ship, nor did they have the time to beat back into the wind. M’ Cullom must have seen all this, and set it against the risk. The odds.

  ‘Yes. Load, but do not run out. Virtue has given us time. Let us use it!’

  Avery called down suddenly, ‘Virtue has lost a topmast, sir! There are two frigates engaging her!’ The rest was lost in an angry growl from the gun crews as they paused to peer up at the mainmast, their legs braced on the freshly sanded deck, their expressions shocked, but free of fear. This was different. Virtue was one of their own.

  Bolitho looked away. My men.

  More explosions, and then Avery returned to the quarterdeck.

  ‘She can’t hope to last much longer, sir.’

  ‘I know.’ He spoke sharply, angry with himself at the cost, which was already too high. ‘Make to Attacker, Close on the Flag.’ As Avery shouted for the signal party, he added, ‘Then hoist Close Action!’

  So easily said. He felt for the locket under his shirt.

  May Fate always guide you.

  A tiny mark on this great ocean, he had said to Allday.

  He turned and stared along the full length of the ship, past each unmoving gun crew, the lieutenants at the foot of each mast, then beyond the lion, with its upraised paws ready to strike.

  The sea was cleaner, and a darker blue now, the sky empty of cloud in the first frail sunlight.

  He gripped the sword at his side and tried to feel something, some emotion. No place now for any perhaps or maybe. Like all those other times, this was the moment. Now.

  And there lay the enemy.

  * * *

  9

  A Flag Captain

  * * *

  BOLITHO WAITED FOR the bows to rear across another broken roller, then raised the telescope to his eye. The sea was glinting in a million mirrors, the horizon hard and sharp like something solid.

  He moved the glass very slowly until he had found the embattled ships, changing shape in a swirling pall of gunsmoke.

  Avery said, ‘Attacker’s on station, sir.’ He sounded unwilling to disturb Bolitho’s concentration.

  On station. It seemed only minutes since the signal had been acknowledged; perhaps everything had been frozen in time, with only the three distant ships a reality.

  Virtue was still fighting hard, engaging the enemy on either beam, her broadsides regular and well timed despite the ripped and ragged sails, and the gaps in her rigging and spars which revealed the true measure of her damage.

  Two big frigates. He could see the Stars and Stripes curling from the leader’s gaff, the stabbing tongues of orange flame along her side as her battery fired, and fired again.

  The nearest enemy ship was breaking off the action, her smoke rolling down across her adversary as if to swamp her, her sails flapping in disorder but without confusion, as she began to alter course. She was coming fully about. Bolitho searched his feelings: there was neither satisfaction nor even anxiety. To fight, not to run, to grasp what wind she could and use it.

  Had she tried to break free and stand away, Indomitable would have outsailed her, and raked her at least twice before the other captain had been made to face an inevitable defeat.

  What Adam would have done. He smiled faintly, bleakly. What I would do.

  He called to one of the midshipmen. ‘Over here, Mr Blisset!’ He waited for the youth to join him, and then rested the telescope on his shoulder. He saw the midshipman grin and wink to one of his friends. See me? I am helping the admiral!

  Bolitho forgot him and all those around him as he watched a tiny cluster of coloured flags break from the other frigate. She was still engaging the defiant Virtue, and the pockmarks in her own sails showed that it was not all going in the enemy’s favour.

  He rubbed his left eye with his sleeve, angry at the interruption. The signal was being acknowledged, so the engaging vessel was the senior of the two. Almost certainly the same captain who had bluffed Reaper into surrender and worse. Who had intended to go after the convoy as he had probably done with others. Had they been his guns, too, which had smashed the transport Royal Herald into oblivion? The face in the crowd.

  Someone shouted, ‘Virtue’s mizzen is going!’

  And Isaac York’s angry retort. ‘We can see that, Mr Essex!’

  Bolitho trained the glass still further. He could feel the youth’s shoulder quivering: excitement, fear, it could be both.

  The frigate was almost bows-on, leaning over as her yards were hauled round to hold her on the opposite tack. So close now, five miles or thereabouts. She would soon be on a converging course. Tyacke must have anticipated it, had put himself in the other captain’s place when he had ordered York to let Indomitable fall off two points. Either way, they would hold the wind-gage. It would be a swift, and possibly decisive, embrace.

  The enemy frigate was trying to head further into the wind, but her flapping canvas filled again while she held her present course.

  Bolitho heard Tyacke say, almost to himself, ‘Got you!’

  ‘Royal Marines, stand to!’ That was Merrick. A good officer, but one who had always been dominated by du Cann, who had been torn to bloody shreds by a swivel even as he had led his marines onto the American’s deck. Was Merrick hearing his voice even now, as he ordered his men to their stations?

  He moved the glass again, his lips dry as he saw Virtue’s blurred shape falling downwind, obviously out of command, her steering gone, her remaining sails whipping in the wind like ragged banners.

  Tyacke again. ‘Starboard battery, Mr Daubeny! Open the ports!’

  A whistle shrilled, and Bolitho imagined the portlids lifting like baleful eyes along their spray-dappled side.

  ‘Run out!’

  Bolitho lowered the glass and murmured a word of thanks to the midshipman. He saw Avery watching him, and said, ‘The senior captain is holding off for the present.’

  Tyacke joined him and exclaimed angrily, ‘To let another do his work for him, the bastard!’

  There was a puff of smoke from the approaching frigate, and seconds later a ball slapped down beyond Indomitable’s thrusting jib-boom. Bolitho said, ‘You may shorten sail, Captain Tyacke.’ He could have b
een speaking to a stranger.

  Tyacke was shouting to his lieutenants, while high above the tilting deck the topmen were already kicking and fisting the wild canvas under control, yelling to one another as they had done so often during their endless drills and contests, mast against mast. Bolitho straightened his back. It was always the same: the big maincourse brailed up to lessen the risk of fire, but leaving the crouching gun crews and the barebacked seamen at the braces and halliards feeling exposed and vulnerable.

  He stared at the drifting Virtue. If she survived this day, it would take months to repair and refit her. Many of her people would not see that, or any other day.

  But her flag still flew, hoisted with pathetic jauntiness to an undamaged yard, and through the smoke he could see some of her seamen climbing on to the shattered gangways to cheer and gesture as Indomitable surged towards them.

  Avery tore his eyes away from the other ship and looked toward Bolitho as he said, ‘See? They can still cheer!’ He pressed one hand to his eye, but Avery had seen the emotion and the pain.

  Tyacke leaned on the rail as if to control his ship single-handed.

  ‘On the uproll, Mr Daubeny!’ He drew his sword and lifted it, until the first lieutenant had turned towards him.

  ‘When you are ready, Mr York!’

  York raised a hand in acknowledgment. ‘Helm a-lee! Hold her steady there!’

  Responding to the quarter-wind, Indomitable turned slightly and without effort, her long jib-boom slicing above the other ships like a giant’s lance.

  ‘Steady she is, sir! Nor’ by east!’

  ‘Fire!’

  Controlled, gun by gun, the broadside thundered out from bow to quarter, the sound so loud after the distant sea-fight that some of the seamen almost lost their grip on the braces as they hauled with all their strength to drag the yards round, to harness the wind. The oncoming frigate had been waiting, to draw closer, or to anticipate Tyacke’s first move. By a second or an hour, it was already too late, even before it had begun.