Bolitho thought of Adam’s Anemone. Some of her people had changed sides when the flag had come down. But this was different. It was not desertion, which was bad enough: it was mutiny.
“When they agreed, the Yankee told them they could punish their captain in the way they had suffered under his command. That’s what they were doing all that time. First a few of the hard men, an’ then it was like a madness. They seized him up and flogged him until he was in ribbons. Two hundred, three, who could say? Alfriston don’t rate a surgeon, but we did what we could for him, an’ his senior lieutenant who was stabbed when he tried to defend him. He’ll probably live, the poor devil. I’d not be in his shoes for a sack of gold!”
“And then?”
“They boarded the Killarney an’ stood away. I waited a while and then relaid my course for the Bermudas. I landed the survivors at Hamilton and made my report to the guard-ship. I was ordered to find an’ report to you, sir.” He glanced around the spacious cabin as if he had not noticed it before. “They could have taken Alfriston, too, if they’d a mind.”
Bolitho stood up and walked to the quarter gallery. He could just see the little brig’s dark silhouette, her topgallant yards still faintly pink in the dying light.
“No, Commander Borradaile. You had to be the witness, the proof that a mutiny broke out. Perhaps it was provoked, but it can never be condoned. We who command must always be aware of the dangers. And you are here. That is the other reason.”
Borradaile said, “To bring word to you, sir? That was my thought, also.”
Bolitho asked, “And the captain?”
“He died, sir, finally. Cursin’ and ravin’ to the end. His last words were, they’ll hang for it!”
“And so they will, if they are taken.” He crossed to the untidy figure and took his hand. “You have done well. I shall see that it is mentioned in my despatches.” He glanced at Tyacke. “I’d offer you promotion, but I think you’d damn me for it first! Keep your Alfriston.” In his heart, he knew that Borradaile was glad to be rid of the men sent from the surrendered frigate. The shame was still there, deeper now than ever. Like a rotten apple in a barrel, it was better to be free of them.
“See Commander Borradaile over the side, James.” He watched them leave, then returned to the quarter gallery and thrust open a window. The air was surprisingly cold, and helped to steady him.
Avery, who had been present and mute throughout the discussion, observed quietly, “A well-planned trap, a flag of truce, and mutiny provoked, if provocation were needed. And now, one of our ships under their flag.”
Bolitho faced him, his cheek wet with spray, like tears, cold tears.
“Speak out, man. Say what I know you are thinking!”
Avery lifted his shoulders in a very slight shrug. “Justice, revenge, call it what we will, but I think I understand now what you said about the face in the crowd. To lure you into a trap, to provoke you into some reckless realisation. It is you he wants.”
Bolitho listened to the trill of calls, as one captain paid his respects to another.
Avery, like Tyacke, probably shared the private conviction of the gaunt commander who had just departed: that Reaper’s captain had paid the just price of tyranny. He was not the first. Pray God he was the last.
He thought of the flag curling far above the deck and seemed to hear her voice. My admiral of England.
There was no doubt in his mind where the real responsibility would lie. Or the blame.
7 THE OLDEST TRICK
ADAM BOLITHO hesitated outside the broad, imposing house and wondered impatiently why he had come. Another reception. Merchants, senior officers from the garrison, people who always seemed to know someone important and with influence. He could have made some excuse to stay aboard Valkyrie, but at the same time he knew he was too restless to remain in his cabin or pass an hour or so away with his lieutenants.
How Keen managed to appear unruffled by all these receptions and discussions surprised him. Adam had noticed that despite his good-natured manner and his apparent ease with these imposing people, he rarely lost his way, or allowed himself to be talked out of decisions he considered were in the best interests of his command.
Adam turned his back on the house and stared out across the great natural harbour; chebucto, the Indians had once called it. It impressed him as few others had done. From the glittering span of the Bedford Basin to the narrows at the far end, the harbour was teeming with ships, a forest of masts as visible proof of Halifax’s growing strategic value. He had heard a general describe it as part of the British defensive square, which included England, Gibraltar and Bermuda. Cornwallis must have been as farseeing as he was shrewd when he had put his roots down here less than seventy years ago and built the first fortifications. Now, commanded by the hilltop citadel, it was further protected by Martello towers more commonly seen in Britanny or southern England, with smaller batteries to deter any enemy foolish enough to attempt a landing.
He looked towards the naval anchorage, but the house hid it from view. He had never believed that his duties as flag captain could be so frustrating. Valkyrie had barely ventured out of harbour, and then only to meet an incoming convoy with more soldiers: if they landed many more this peninsula must surely sink under the weight. There was little news of the war. Roads on the mainland were bad, some still impassable. He glanced at the fading light across the harbour, the tiny boat lanterns moving like insects. Here, conditions were already much better. He had even felt the sun’s warmth on his face on his walk from the landing stage.
He turned reluctantly away from the sea. The big double doors had opened discreetly, as if they had been waiting for his decision.
A fine old house: not “old” by English standards, but well proportioned and vaguely foreign, the architecture perhaps influenced by the French. He handed his hat to a bobbing servant and walked towards the main reception hall. There were uniforms aplenty, mostly red, with a few green coats of the local light infantry force. The house had probably been built by some prosperous merchant, but now it was used almost exclusively by people of a world he did not know, or want to. Where men like Benjamin Massie walked a challenging path between politics and the rewards of trade. He had made no secret of his impatience with the state of war between Britain and America, calling it “unpopular,” more as if it were a personal inconvenience than a bitter conflict between nations.
Adam spoke to a footman, his eyes taking in the assembled throng, and noticing Keen’s fair hair at the far end. He was with Massie. There were women present, too. That had been rare on previous occasions. Yes, he should have offered some excuse and remained on board.
“Captain Adam Bolitho!”
There was a momentary hush, more out of surprise at his late ness than from interest, he thought. At least the footman had pronounced his name correctly.
He walked down the side of the hall. There were heavy velvet curtains, and two great log fires: these houses were built with a Nova Scotia winter in mind.
“So here you are at last, Captain!” Benjamin Massie snapped his thick fingers and a tray of red wine appeared like magic. “Thought you’d forgotten us!” He gave his loud, barking laugh, and once again Adam noticed the coldness of his eyes.
He said, “The squadron’s business, sir.”
Massie chuckled. “That’s the trouble with this place, more soldiers than labourers, more men-o’-war than canoes! I’m told that a few years back there was five times as many brothels as banks!” He became serious instantly, as though a mask had fallen over his face. “But it’s changing. Just get this war over and we’ll see some real expansion, whole new markets. And for that we’ll need ships, and men willing to serve in them without the fear of violent death under an enemy broadside.” He winked. “Or under the lash of some over-zealous officer, eh?”
Keen had approached them, and was listening. “And what of my father’s other friend? I thought he might meet me here.”
Adam looked
at him. Keen had deliberately interrupted, to dampen down any open disagreement before it began. Am I so obvious?
“Oh, David St Clair?” He shook his head. “He’ll not be back for some while yet. Impetuous, that’s David. You know what he’s like.”
Keen shrugged. “I have seen little of him. I liked what I knew. Shipbuilding, with backing from the Admiralty—it sounded important.”
“Well, since his wife died …” He touched Keen’s sleeve. “I forgot, Val. I’m sorry …”
Keen said, “I had heard. So he is travelling alone?”
Massie grinned, his clumsy remark dismissed from his mind. “No. He’s got his daughter with him, can you imagine that? I’ll lay odds he’s regretting having to mark time for a woman, even if she is family!”
Adam raised his glass, but paused as he saw Keen’s expression. Surprise? It was deeper than that.
“I thought she was married.”
Massie took another glass from the tray. “Nothing came of it. The intended husband was a soldier.”
Keen nodded. “Yes. So I heard.”
“Well, he decided to follow the drum rather than a pretty ankle!” He gave a heavy sigh. “Then, with her mother dying so suddenly, she decided to keep David company.”
Keen looked into the nearest fire. “That’s a risk, in my view.”
Massie brushed some droplets of wine from his coat. “There, you see? You naval and military people regard everything as a hidden danger, part of some sinister strategy!” He glanced at the clock. “Time to eat soon. Better go and pump the bilges before I give the word.” He walked away, nodding to an occasional guest, deliberately ignoring others.
Keen said, “You don’t care much for him, do you?”
Adam watched a tall woman with bare shoulders bending to listen to her smaller companion, then she laughed and nudged him. She could not have been more blatant if she had been stark naked.
He answered, “Or those like him, sir.” He saw a footman drawing the vast curtains, hiding the dark water of the harbour from sight. “Men are dying every hour of the day. It has to be for something more than profit, surely?” He broke off.
“Continue, Adam. Remember your uncle, and what he would say. There are no officers here. Just men.”
Adam put down his glass and said, “Supplies, and escorts for the ships that carry them, keeping the sea-lanes open—all essential, but they will never win a war. We need to get to grips with them as we do with the French, and all the others we have had to fight, not just stand gloating over the prospects of trade and expansion when the bloody work is comfortably past!”
Keen said quietly, “I wonder if you know how much like Sir Richard you are. If only …” He looked away. “Damnation!”
But it was not Massie: it was the flag lieutenant, de Courcey.
Adam wondered what Keen had been about to say, and why the lieutenant’s arrival had disturbed his customary composure.
De Courcey exclaimed, “I do apologize, sir, but someone came here, to this house, without any prior arrangement or excuse, and demanded to see you.” He sounded outraged. “I sent him away with a flea in his ear, you may be sure!” His eyes moved to the footman who had taken his place on the stairs, a staff raised, ready to announce dinner. “Most inconsiderate!”
Massie was thrusting through the throng like a plough. Keen said, “Will you deal with it, Adam? I am the principal guest tonight, as you know.”
Adam nodded. He had not known. As he walked with de Courcey to the adjoining room, he asked sharply, “Who is this intruder?”
“A damned ragged fellow, a scarecrow in the King’s coat!”
“His name, man.” He controlled his anger with difficulty: everything seemed able to penetrate his defences. He had seen his lieutenants watching him, obviously wondering what was troubling him.
De Courcey said offhandedly, “Borradaile, sir. Most uncouth. I cannot imagine how he ever …”
He winced as Adam seized his arm. “Alfriston’s commander?” He tightened his grip so that de Courcey gasped aloud, and two passing soldiers paused with interest. “Answer me, damn you!”
De Courcey recovered himself slightly. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact. I thought that under the circumstances …”
Adam released him and said, “You are a fool.” He was amazed at how calm he sounded. “How big a fool, we shall yet discover.”
De Courcey blinked as the footman’s staff tapped the stairs three times.
Adam said, “Wait here. I may want to send word to the ship.”
From another world came the cry, “Pray be seated, ladies and gentlemen!”
“But, sir! We are expected!”
Adam said sharply, “Are you deaf as well?” He turned, and walked toward the main entrance.
Meanwhile, Massie and his guests were arranging themselves around the two long tables, each place setting marked with a card, each place denoting the status of each guest or the magnitude of the favour being done.
Massie said significantly, “I’ve delayed grace until your young captain can spare himself from his duties.”
Keen sat on Massie’s right hand. Facing him was a woman whom he guessed was Massie’s special guest. She was beautiful, self-assured, and amused by his scrutiny.
Massie said abruptly, “Mrs Lovelace. She has a house near Bedford Basin.”
She said, “I regret that we were not introduced earlier, Admiral Keen.” She smiled. “It is a bad sign when even our admirals are so young!”
Adam strode between the tables and paused behind Keen’s chair. An utter silence had fallen in the room.
Keen felt Adam’s breath against his cheek—quick, angry. “Alfriston’s brought word from Sir Richard. Reaper’s been taken, surrendered.” All the while he was watching Keen’s fine profile. “The admiral intends to remain with the Bermuda squadron until the convoy is safely at sea.”
Keen dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Surrendered?” One word.
Adam nodded, seeing the woman sitting opposite for the first time. She smiled at him, and indicated the empty chair beside her.
He said, “It was mutiny, sir.”
“I see.” Then he looked directly at Adam, his eyes very calm, and, Adam thought afterwards, very well concealing his emotions. “I trust you have informed the ship?”
He thought of the enraged de Courcey. “Yes, sir. They will be ready.”
Keen dropped the napkin on to his lap. “Then Reaper is heading this way.” He saw the doubt in Adam’s eyes. “Trick for trick, see?” He stood up, and every face turned towards him. “I am sorry for the interruption, ladies and gentlemen. I am certain that our host will understand.” He waited for Adam to walk around the table, where a footman had drawn out the empty chair. The sound of his shoes was very loud on the polished floor, reminding him unpleasantly of that snowy day in Portsmouth, at his court martial.
Massie cleared his throat noisily. “We’ll have grace now, Reverend!”
Adam felt the woman’s slippered foot touching his, even as the prayer was being intoned. He was surprised that he could even smile about it.
Trick for trick. Keen was speaking calmly with Massie. We Happy Few. It was as if somebody had spoken aloud. He thought of his uncle: the mark he had left on all of them.
His companion said softly, “You say little, Captain. Should I feel insulted?”
He turned slightly to look at her. Fine, brown eyes, a mouth that was used to smiling. He glanced at her hand, which lay so near to his own at this crowded table. Married, but not to anybody here. Mistress, then?
He said, “My apologies, ma’am. I am unused to such brilliance, even from the sea.” Trick for trick.
A footman loomed over them and her slipper moved away. But she looked at him again, and said, “We shall have to see about that, Captain.”
Adam glanced at their host. A slip of the tongue; was Keen remembering it even now, when outwardly he was so composed, so in control? Massie had spoken as if he had know
n of the mutiny. It was not a word to be used lightly. A rumour, a piece of gossip: Massie would have fingers in a lot of pies. It would mean only one thing. Reaper was already here.
“Are you married, Captain?”
“No.” It came out too abruptly, and he tried to soften it. “It has not been my good fortune.”
She studied him thoughtfully, with delicately raised brows. “I am surprised.”
“And you, ma’am?”
She laughed, and Adam saw Massie glance up at her. At them. She replied, “Like a cloak, Captain. I wear it when it suits!”
Trick for trick.
The Valkyrie’s chartroom was small and functional, the table barely leaving space for more than three men. Adam leaned over the chart, the brass dividers moving unhurriedly across the bearings, soundings and scribbled calculations which, to a landsman, would be meaningless.
The door was wedged open, and he could see the bright sunlight moving like a beacon, back and forth, to the frigate’s easy rise and fall. They had left Halifax in company with a smaller frigate, Taciturn, and the brig Doon. They had left with mixed feelings, the prospect of hunting down Reaper, the only possible way of settling the score, set against the very real likelihood of directing fire on one of their own. The Americans would have had no time to replace the surrendered frigate’s company, so many of them, except for the officers and professional warrant ranks, would be mutineers.
But that had been five days ago, and he had sensed Keen’s uncertainty, his growing anxiety about the next decision.
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.
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