It was still cold, the quarterdeck rail damp with moisture. When dawn came up that would all change: the vapour would rise from the sails and rigging like steam, and the tar in the deck seams would cling to shoes and bare feet alike.
Tyacke could see it clearly in his mind’s eye, as if he were a sea-eagle soaring high above the blue water with the ships like tiny models below: in a ragged, uneven line abreast, Indomitable in the centre and the two smaller frigates, one to starboard and one to larboard. Once they had exchanged the first signals their line would extend and take proper station. The masthead lookouts would be able to see one another, just, and together their span of vision would cover a range of some sixty miles. To the spies, and to the small trading vessels who would sell their information to anybody, the Leeward Squadron that patrolled as far north as the Canadian port of Halifax would have become well known. A protection or a threat: their presence could be interpreted either way. The big 42 -gun frigate Valkyrie was the senior ship at Halifax, and the rest of their vessels could operate either together or independently between the two main bases.
Tyacke thought of the wild storms they had weathered in the Caribbean. Given the choice he preferred these waters rather than endure Halifax’s bitter winters, where rigging could swell in the blocks and freeze, leaving any ship barely able to tack or shorten sail.
He considered the other captains, knowing them now as individuals. The necessity of that had been taught him by Bolitho. To assume you knew a captain’s mind simply because he was a captain could be as dangerous as any hurricane.
All the leagues they had sailed, in company or with the ocean to themselves. He imagined green fields in England. They had gone through another winter, into a new year, and now that year was half gone. It was June 1812 , and if it was to be as demanding as the previous year, overhauls would have to be arranged.
English Harbour at Antigua was adequate for limited repairs, but not for an extensive campaign. And should there be a seafight with more destruction to hulls and rigging . . . He sighed. When had the navy ever had enough of anything?
He stepped back from the rail and heard the first lieutenant crossing the damp planking.
“Good morning, Mr Scarlett. Is all well?”
“Aye, sir. Wind steady at nor’-east by north. Course west by north. Estimated position some 150 miles north-east of Cape Haitien.”
Tyacke smiled grimly. “As close to that damned country as I’d ever want to get!”
Scarlett asked, “What orders for the forenoon, sir?” He hesitated as Tyacke turned sharply towards him. “What is it, sir?”
Tyacke shook his head. “Nothing.” But there was something. It was like a sixth sense, which he had at first refused to accept when he had been on the anti-slavery patrols, sometimes a premonition of where his prey might be found.
He felt it now. Something would happen today. He moved restlessly across the deck, telling himself he was a fool. Like the morning when Adam Bolitho had come eagerly aboard at Antigua in response to the flagship’s signal. Immediate. When he had left Indomitable an hour or so later he had walked like a man face to face with some terrible fate.
Bolitho had sent for him and had broken the news about Rear-Admiral Keen’s wife and her death on the Cornish cliffs. Just for a moment Tyacke had imagined that Bolitho had once felt a certain tenderness for the girl. Then he had dismissed the idea, thinking of Catherine Somervell, how she had come aboard at Falmouth, and how the sailors had loved her for it.
What then? In his heart he knew the connection that bound them was a deeper secret than he would ever share. But why should a young woman’s tragedy have the power to affect them so profoundly? It happened. Women and their children often died of fever or other causes on their way to join their husbands, in the navy, or the army with its far-flung outposts and lonely forts. Even the Caribbean possessions were described as the Islands of Death. Certainly more soldiers died of fever out here than ever fell to an enemy ball or bayonet. Death was commonplace. Perhaps it was the rumour of suicide that they could not accept.
Allday would know, he thought. But when it came to sharing secrets, Allday was like the Rock of Gibraltar.
Scarlett joined him again. “The admiral’s about early, sir.”
Tyacke nodded. He wanted to shake Scarlett. A good officer and very conscientious, and as popular with the lower deck as any first lieutenant could hope to expect.
Don’t be timid with me. I told you before. My blood may be spilled before yours, and you could find yourself in command. Think of it, man. Talk to me. Share your thoughts.
He said, “He has always been the same, I believe.” Had he, he wondered? Or was some premonition driving Bolitho also?
It was slightly brighter now. Topgallant masts touched with pale light, as though they floated separately above the dark mass of spars and black rigging. Bolitho’s flag rippling, as if newly awakened like the man it represented. A boatswain’s mate and a handful of men checking the boats on their tier, inspecting hatch fastenings, putting fresh oil in the compass lamps. A ship coming to life.
The master’s mate-of-the-watch said softly, “Admiral’s comin’ up, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr Brickwood.” Tyacke recalled the beginning, when all these men had been unfamiliar. Knowing from his own experience and later from Bolitho’s example how important it was to remember each man’s name as well as his face. In the navy you owned little else.
The midshipman-of-the-watch, a youth named Deane, said rather loudly, “Half-past four, sir!”
Bolitho walked amongst them, his ruffled shirt very clear against the deck and the sea’s dark backdrop beyond.
“Good morning, Sir Richard.”
Bolitho looked towards him. “It is, too, Captain Tyacke.” He nodded to the first lieutenant. “And you, Mr Scarlett? Are your lookouts aloft?”
“Aye, sir.” Hesitant again: it was impossible to know what he was thinking.
Bolitho rubbed his hands. “That is a vile smell from the galley funnel. We must endeavour to take on more supplies when we return to English Harbour. Fresh fruit, with any luck.”
Tyacke hid a smile. Just for a moment Bolitho was allowing himself to be a captain again, with a captain’s concern for every man and boy aboard.
“Walk with me, James.” Together they began to pace the quarterdeck. In the dim light they could have been brothers.
Bolitho asked, “What ails that man?”
Tyacke shrugged. “He’s an officer not lacking in some fine qualities, sir, but . . .”
“Aye, James, I have often found but to be the hurdle!”
He looked up as the first thin sunlight felt its way through the tarred rigging and out along the braced main-yard. Even the sea had gained colour, a rich blue which gave it an appearance of even greater depth than the thousand-odd fathoms claimed to lie beneath Indomitable’s keel.
Tyacke watched Bolitho’s profile, the obvious pleasure it gave him to see another dawn. In spite of all his service, he could still suppress and contain his inner worries, if only for this moment of the day.
Bolitho turned aside as the usual procession of figures trooped aft to speak either with the first lieutenant or the captain. When the hands had been fed, the main deck would become the marketplace, where the professional men would work with their own little crews. The sailmaker and his mates, repairing and still more repairing. Nothing could be wasted with a ship so many hundreds of miles from harbour. The carpenter, too, with his team. He was Evan Brace, said to be the oldest man in the squadron. He certainly looked it. But he could still repair, and if necessary build, a boat as well as any man.
Bolitho heard a familiar Yorkshire voice. Joseph Foxhill was the cooper, up early to obtain deck space where he could scour and clean some of his empty casks before they were refilled.
A midshipman strode beneath the quarterdeck rail, the white patches on his collar showing brightly through the withdrawing shadows, and he was reminded painfully of Adam. He t
ended to think of him always as a midshipman, the lively colt-like boy who had joined his ship when his mother had died. He sighed. He would never forget the look on Adam’s dark features when he had told him about Zenoria. It had been pitiful to see his stunned disbelief. Like the tragedy you try to pretend has not happened. You will awake, and it will have been a dream . . .
He had not resisted when Bolitho had made him sit down, and he had asked his uncle quietly to repeat what he had said. Bolitho had listened to his own voice in the sealed cabin; he had even closed the skylight in case someone overheard. Adam was a captain, perhaps one of the best frigate captains the fleet had ever known, but in those quiet, wretched, faltering moments he had seemed that same dark-haired boy, who had walked all the way from Penzance to Falmouth with only hope and Bolitho’s name to sustain him.
He had said, “May I see Lady Catherine’s letter, Uncle?”
Bolitho had watched him, seen his eyes moving slowly over the letter line by line, perhaps sharing the intimacy, as if she too were speaking to him. Then he had said, “It was all my fault.” When he had looked up from the letter Bolitho had been shocked to see the tears running down his face. “But I could not stop. I loved her so. Now she is gone.”
Bolitho had said, “I was a part of it, too.” Catherine’s words seemed to ring in his mind. The Mark of Satan. Was there, could there be substance in the old Cornish beliefs and superstitions?
After that they had sat mostly in silence, until at last Adam had made to leave.
“I grieve for Rear-Admiral Keen. His loss is all the more tragic because . . .” He had left the rest unsaid.
He had picked up his hat and straightened his uniform. When he returned to his ship they would only see him as their captain. So it must be.
But as Bolitho had watched him climb down into his boat to the trill of calls, he had seen only the midshipman.
He stirred himself as voices pealed down from aloft.
“Deck there! Zest in sight to larboard!”
Like yesterday, and all the others before it. He could picture the rakish 38 -gun frigate, her captain too, Paul Dampier, young, perhaps too headstrong, and very ambitious. Rather like Peter Dawes, the admiral’s son who now commanded Valkyrie out of Halifax.
“Deck there! Reaper in sight to starboard!” A smaller frigate of 26 guns. James Hamilton, her captain, was old for his rank and had been attached to the Honourable East India Company until he had re-entered the navy at his own request.
And away to windward would be the little brig Marvel. Ready to run down on anything suspicious, to search coves and inlets where her larger consorts might lose their keels; to run errands, almost anything. Bolitho had often seen Tyacke watching her whenever she was close by. Still remembering. Marvel was very like his Larne.
He saw Allday at the foot of the quarterdeck ladder. He had his head on one side, and was ignoring the rush of seamen to trim the yards again, urged on no doubt by the smell of breakfast.
Bolitho asked sharply, “What is it?”
Allday looked at him impassively. “Not certain, sir.”
“Deck there! Sail in sight to th’ nor’-east!”
Tyacke glanced around until he found Midshipman Blythe. “Aloft with you, my lad, and take a glass!”
There was an edge to his voice and Bolitho saw him stare at the horizon, already glassy bright and searing.
“Prepare to make more sail, Mr Scarlett!”
Blythe had reached the mainmast crosstrees. “Sail to the nor’-east, sir!” Just the slightest hesitation. “Schooner, sir!”
Scarlett remarked, “Well, she’s not running away.”
With Indomitable and the other two frigates hove-to, and the brig Marvel making sail to block the stranger’s escape if she proved hostile, every available glass was trained despite the heavy, regular swell.
Midshipman Cleugh, Blythe’s haughty assistant, called in his squeaky voice, “She’s Reynard, sir!”
Scarlett said, “Courier. I wonder what she wants?”
Nobody answered.
Allday climbed silently up the ladder and stood at Bolitho’s shoulder.
“I’ve got a feeling, sir. Something’s wrong.”
It was almost an hour before the schooner was near enough to drop a boat. Her captain, a wild-eyed lieutenant named Tully, was taken down to the cabin where Bolitho was pretending to enjoy some of Ozzard’s coffee.
“Well, Mr Tully, and what have you brought me?”
He watched as Avery opened the bag and then dragged out the sealed and weighted envelope.
But the schooner’s young captain exclaimed, “It’s war, sir! The Americans are already at the Canadian frontier . . .”
Bolitho took the despatches from Avery’s hand. “Where are their ships?” One letter was from Captain Dawes in Valkyrie. He had taken his ships to sea as already arranged, and would await fresh orders as they had planned, it seemed so long ago.
He repeated, “But where are their ships?”
Dawes had written as a postscript, Commodore Beer’s squadron quit Sandy Hook during a storm.
He could almost hear the words. A total responsibility. But he felt nothing. It was what he had expected. Hoped, perhaps. To end it once and for all.
Tyacke, who had been waiting in silence, asked suddenly, “What is the date of origin, sir?”
Avery replied, “Ten days ago, sir.”
Bolitho stood up, aware of the silence in the ship, despite the heavy movement. Ten days, and they had been at war without knowing it.
He swung round. “The next convoy from Jamaica?”
Tyacke said, “Sailed. They’d not know either.”
Bolitho stared at the chair by the stern bench. Where Adam had sat with Catherine’s letter. Where his heart had broken.
He asked, “What escort?” He saw Tyacke’s face. He, too, had known that this was coming. But how could that be?
Avery said, “ Anemone, sir. If they were not expecting . . .”
Bolitho interrupted him sharply. “Make a signal to Zest and Reaper, repeated Marvel. Close on flagship and remain in company. ” He looked directly at Tyacke, excluding everyone else. “We shall lay a course for the Mona Passage.” He could recall it so clearly, that much-disputed channel to the west of Puerto Rico, where he and so many faces now lost had fought battles now forgotten by most people.
It was the obvious route for any Jamaica convoy. Heavily laden merchantmen would stand no chance against ships like the U.S.S. Unity, or men like Nathan Beer.
Unless the escort saw through the deception and turned to defend the convoy against overwhelming odds, as Seraphis had faced John Paul Jones’s Bonhomme Richard in that other war against the same enemy.
It was just possible. That convoy had been saved. Seraphis had been beaten into submission.
He looked at Tyacke but in his heart, he saw only Adam.
“All the sail she can carry, James. I think we are sorely needed.”
But a voice seemed to echo back, mocking him.
Too late. Too late.
Richard Hudson, first lieutenant of the 38 -gun frigate Anemone, strode aft to the quarterdeck even as eight bells chimed out from the forecastle. He touched his forehead as a mark of respect to the second lieutenant, whom he was about to relieve. Like the other officers he wore only his shirt and breeches, and was hatless, and he could feel even the lightest garment plastered to his body like a second skin.
“The afternoon watch is aft, sir.”
The words were formal and timeless, the navy’s custom from the Indian Ocean to the Arctic, if so ordered.
The other young lieutenant, the same age as himself, replied with equal precision, “The course remains at south-east by south, the wind has backed to about north by west.”
Around and below them, midshipmen and the duty watch took their stations while others filled in their time splicing and stitching, the endless tasks of maintaining a ship-of-war.
Hudson took a telescope from i
ts rack and winced as he held it to his eye. It was as hot as a gun-barrel. For a moment or two he moved the glass across the drifting heat haze and the dark blue water until he found the shimmering pyramids of sail, the three big merchantmen which Anemone had been escorting from Port Royal, and would continue to escort until they had reached the Bermudas, where they would join a larger convoy for the Atlantic crossing.
Even the thought of England made Hudson lick his lips. Summer, yes, but it might be raining. Cool breezes, wet grass under foot. But it was not to be. He realised that the second lieutenant who had been in charge of the forenoon watch was still beside him. He wanted to talk, up here where he could not be heard. It made Hudson feel both guilty and disloyal. He was the first lieutenant, responsible only to the captain for the running and organisation of the ship and her company.
How could things have changed so much in less than a year? When his uncle, a retired vice-admiral, had obtained him the appointment in Anemone through a friend in the Admiralty, he had been overjoyed. Like most ambitious young officers he had yearned for a frigate, and to be second-in-command to such a famous captain had been like a dream coming true.
Captain Adam Bolitho was all that a frigate commander was supposed to be: dashing and reckless, but not one to risk lives for his own ends or glory. The fact that Bolitho’s uncle, who commanded their important little squadron, was as celebrated and loved in the fleet as he was notorious in society ashore, gave the appointment an added relish. Or it had, until the day Adam Bolitho had returned to Anemone after his summons to the flagship at English Harbour. He had always been a hard worker, and had expected others to follow his example: often he carried out tasks normally done by common seamen, if only to prove to the landmen and others pressed against their will that he was not asking the impossible of them.
Now he was driving himself to and beyond the limit. Month by month they had patrolled as near to the American mainland as possible, unless other ships were in close company. They had stopped and searched ships of every flag and taken many deserters, and on several occasions had fired on neutral vessels which had showed no inclination to heave-to for inspection. A quarter of Anemone ’s total company were even now in captured prizes and making either for Antigua or Bermuda.
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