Cross of St George

by Kent, Alexander

  Bolitho turned from the sea. “I agree with you, James. We will remain on station.” He walked back to the table and spread his hands on the open despatches. “Another day or so. After that, time and distance can become a handicap.” He smiled. “Even to our enemy.”

  Tyacke picked up his hat. “I’ll make the necessary signals to our consorts when we alter course at two bells, sir.”

  Bolitho sat down again and rested his head against the warm green leather. He thought of May in Cornwall, the tide of pure colour, thousands of bluebells, the sea sparkling … It would soon be June. He felt his fingers tighten on the arms of the chair she had had made for him. So long. So long …

  The familiar sounds faded; the sunlight no longer tormented him as wind and rudder guided this great ship like a bridle.

  Then, and only then, did he take the letter from his coat. He held it to his face again, to his mouth, as she would have done.

  Then he opened it with great care, always with the same uncertainty, even fear.

  My dearest Beloved Richard …

  She was with him. Nothing had changed. The fear was gone.

  Lieutenant George Avery wedged his feet against his sea-chest and stared up at the deckhead in his tiny, screened cabin. Feet moved occasionally on the wet planking as men hastened to take in the slack of some running rigging.

  Outside it was pitch black, with plenty of stars but no moon. He toyed with the idea of going on deck but knew he would be in the way, or worse, those on watch might think that he had been sent to report on their progress. He glanced at his gently swaying cot and rejected it. Where was the point? He would not be able to sleep, or at least, not for long. Then his doubts would come to torment him. He considered the wardroom, but knew there would be somebody there, like himself unable to sleep, or looking for a partner for a game of cards. Like the dead Scarlett, Indomitable’s first lieutenant when she had ceased to be a private ship and had first worn Bolitho’s flag. He had wanted so much to have a command of his own, and outwardly had been a good officer, but he was being driven quietly mad by his mounting debts, his inability to stop gambling, and his desperate need to win. Avery had seen David Merrick, the acting captain of marines, sitting in the wardroom earlier, a book open on his lap to deter conversation, but his eyes unmoving. His superior, du Cann, had died that day with Scarlett and many others, but promotion seemed to have brought him no pleasure.

  He thought of Alfriston, and the letter he had seen resting between the leaves of a book on Bolitho’s table. Envy? It went deeper than that. He had even been denied the odd pleasure it gave him to read one of Allday’s letters aloud: there had been none for him from Unis, and Avery knew he was troubled, confused by a separation he had been unable to accept. Avery had seen him, too, that afternoon, motionless on the deck, alone despite the bustling hands around him. He was standing at the place where his son had died, maybe trying to see the sense of it all.

  He glanced at his small cupboard, thinking of the good cognac he kept there. If he had a drink now, he would not stop.

  More feet rushed overhead. The ship was altering course very slightly, the shrouds drumming in a muffled tattoo. And tomorrow—what then? It had been late afternoon when the brig Marvel had closed with the flagship. She had sighted two ships to the north, steering east, as far as her commander could tell. He had turned away rather than run up a hoist of signals, and he had acted wisely. Any small vessel would have run for it, if the two ships were the enemy.

  But overnight all could change. It could be a waste of time: the ships might have changed tack completely, or Marvel ’s lookouts might have been mistaken, seeing only what they expected to see, as was often the case in these hit-and-run tactics.

  He recalled Bolitho when they had first met, strengthened or troubled by a letter from Catherine, it was impossible to say. He had spoken unexpectedly of his childhood at Falmouth, and his awe of his father, Captain James Bolitho. He had said that he never doubted or questioned his vocation as a sea officer, although Avery thought privately that he was more uncertain now than at any other time.

  Of the two reported ships he had said, “If they are the enemy, it is unlikely that they will know of Reaper’s recapture. Yet, if they are truly after the convoy from Bermuda, then I think they will come at us. They are becoming too used to success. This may be one gamble too many.”

  He could have been speaking of somebody else, or some report he had read in his despatches or in the Gazette. Avery had looked around the spacious cabin, the tethered guns on either side, the books, and the fine wine cooler with the Bolitho motto on the top. The same place which had been blasted and blackened in that action, where men had fought and died, and survival had seemed like an accident or a miracle. If he returned to it now, he thought he would probably find Bolitho still sitting in the leather chair, reading one of his books, his fingers occasionally brushing against the letter which he would open again before he turned in.

  He ran his fingers through his hair and allowed the thought and the memory to intrude. As if she had suddenly appeared in this tiny hutch, the only place he could truly be alone.

  Suppose they had not met? He shook his head as if to deny it. That had only been partly the cause. I am thirty-five years old. A lieutenant without prospects, beyond serving this man for whom I care more than I would have believed humanly possible. The same Lieutenant Scarlett, during one of his many heated exchanges, had suggested that he was only waiting for the reward of promotion, for a command of his own, no matter how small. And once that might have been true. There had seemed no other course, no hope for someone of his station; even the lingering stain of his court martial would not have been forgotten in the high offices of the admiralty.

  I am not a round-eyed midshipman, or a young lieutenant with the world still for the asking. I should have stopped there. Stopped, and forgotten her …She was probably laughing about it at this very moment. Just as he knew it would break his heart, if he really believed that she was.

  I should have known. A sea officer who had proved his courage in battle, and in bitter struggle to live after being wounded. But when it came to women he was a child, an innocent.

  But it would not disperse. He was still there, and it was like a dream, something so vivid and unplanned. Something inevitable.

  The house had been almost empty; the full staff were only expected to arrive after Rear-Admiral Sir Robert Mildmay’s residence in Bath was finally closed and sold.

  She had been so calm, amused, he thought, by his concern for her reputation, assuring him that the formidable housekeeper was completely loyal and discreet, and the cook, the only other person residing in the house, was all but deaf. He had often recalled that description, loyal and discreet. Did it have a double meaning? That her affairs were numerous? He rubbed his forehead. That she might be entertaining some other man even at this moment?

  He heard footsteps outside, the click of Captain Merrick’s boots. He would be going around his sentries, inspecting places deep in the lightless hull where guards were mounted day and night. Another man with a private torment: unable to sleep, afraid of what dreams might bring. Avery smiled grimly. As well he might.

  He opened the shutter of his solitary lantern very slightly, but instead of the small flame he saw the great fire, half red, and half white ash. She had led him by the hand across the room. “It will be cold tonight.”

  He had attempted to touch her, to take her arm, but she had moved away, her eyes in shadow while she had watched him. “There is some wine on the table. It would be pleasant, don’t you think?” She had reached for the tongs beside a basket of logs.

  “Let me.” They had knelt together, watching the sparks going up the chimney like fireflies.

  She had said, “I must go. I have things to do.” She had not looked at him. Later, he had realized that she had been unable to.

  The house had been like a tomb, the room facing away from the street and the occasional noise of carriage wheels.


  Avery had had no experience with women, except for one brief incident with a French lady who had visited sick and wounded prisoners of war. There had been no affection, only need, an urgency which had left him feeling used and vaguely degraded.

  He was still unable to believe what had happened in London.

  She had appeared on the edge of the shadows, her body all in white, her feet bare on the carpet, the feet alone touched by the flickering firelight.

  “Here I am, Mister Avery!” She had laughed softly, and when he had got up from the fire, “You spoke to me of your love.” She had held out her arms. “Show me.”

  He had held her, gently at first, then more firmly as he had felt the curve of her spine under his hand, and had realized that beneath the flimsy gown she was naked.

  Then, for the first time, he had felt her shivering, although her body was warm, even hot. He had tried to kiss her, but she had pressed her face into his shoulder, and repeated, “Show me.”

  He had seized the gown, and in seconds had her in his arms again, unable to stop himself, even if his senses had permitted it. He had carried her to the great bed and had knelt over her, touching her, exploring her, kissing her from her throat to her thigh. He had seen her raise her head to watch him as he threw off his clothes, her hair like living gold in the light. Then she had laid back again, her arms spread out as if crucified.

  “Show me!” She had resisted when he had gripped her wrists, and had twisted from side to side, her body arched as he had forced her down, and down, finding her, unable to wait, unwilling to restrain his desire.

  She had been ready, and had drawn him to her, passionate, tender, experienced, enclosing him deeply in her body until they were both spent.

  She had murmured, “That was love, Mister Avery.”

  “I must leave, Susanna.” It was the first time he had called her by name.

  “First, some wine.” She had lifted up on one elbow, making no attempt to cover herself. Nor did she resist when he touched her again; she reached out to provoke and arouse him once more, and he had known then that he could not leave her. At dawn’s first intrusion they had finally tasted the wine, and had crouched again by the fire, now all but dead in the faint grey light.

  The rest had become blurred, unreal. Fumbling into his clothes again while she had stood watching him, quite naked but for his cocked hat. Then he had embraced her once more, unable to find the words, his mind and body still reeling from the impossible dream, which had become reality.

  She had whispered, “I promised you a carriage.”

  He had pressed her hair against his chin. “I shall be all right. I could possibly fly to Chelsea!”

  The moment of parting had been painful, almost embarrassing.

  “I am sorry if I hurt you, Susanna … I am … clumsy.”

  She had smiled. “You are a man. A real man.”

  He might have said, “Please write to me.” But he could not honestly say that he had. The door had closed, and he had made his way down the stairs to the street doors, where someone had placed and lighted a fresh stand of candles for his departure. Loyal and discreet.

  There was a tap at the screen door, startling him, and he found Ozzard standing outside, a small tray beneath his arm. For a moment Avery though he must have been reliving it all aloud, and that Ozzard had heard him.

  Ozzard said only, “Sir Richard’s compliments, sir, and he’d like to see you aft.”

  “Of course.” Avery closed the door and groped for a comb. Did Ozzard never sleep either?

  He sat down again and grinned ruefully. She would be laughing, maybe, but remembering too.

  Perhaps he had been a worse fool than he knew. But he would never forget.

  He smiled. Mister Avery.

  Captain James Tyacke stepped into the stern cabin and looked around at the familiar faces, his eyes accepting the light with surprising ease after the blackness of the quarterdeck, where little more than a tiny compass lamp pierced the night.

  Bolitho was standing at the table, with his hands spread on a chart, Avery by his elbow, while the plump and scholarly Yovell sat at a smaller table, his pen poised over some papers. Ozzard moved only occasionally to refill their cups with coffee but remained, as usual, silent, merely shifting from one foot to the other to betray any agitation he might feel.

  And framed against the great span of thick glass windows was Allday, a drawn sword in one hand, while he moved a cloth slowly up and down the blade as Tyacke had seen him do so often. Bolitho’s oak: only death would separate them.

  Tyacke shut it from his mind. “All the hands have been fed, Sir Richard. I’ve been around the ship to have a quiet word with my people.”

  He could not have slept much, Bolitho thought, but he was ready now, even if his admiral were to be proved wrong. He had even considered that possibility. The ship’s company had been roused early, but they had not yet cleared for action. There was nothing worse for morale than the anti-climax of discovering that the enemy had outguessed or outmaneuvered them, and the sea was empty.

  My people. That was also typical of Tyacke. He was referring to the ship’s backbone of professionals, his warrant officers, all skilled and experienced men like Isaac York, the sailing-master, Harry Duff, the gunner, and Sam Hockenhull, the squat boatswain. Men who had come up the hard way, like Alfriston’s untidy commander.

  Yet against them, the lieutenants were amateurs. Even Daubeny, the first lieutenant, was still young for his position, which would not have come his way so soon but for the death of his predecessor. But that one fierce battle eight months ago had given him a maturity that seemed to surprise him more than anybody. As for the others, the most junior was Blythe, only just promoted from the midshipmen’s berth. He was big-headed and very sure of himself, but even Tyacke had overcome his dislike of him to say that he was improving. Slightly.

  And Laroche, the piggy-faced third lieutenant, who had once received the rough edge of Tyacke’s tongue when he had been in charge of a press-gang, also lacked experience except for their encounter with Unity.

  Tyacke was saying, “The new hands have settled down quite well, sir. As for the Nova Scotians who volunteered, I’m glad they’re with us and not the enemy!”

  Bolitho stared down at the chart, the soundings and calculations between his hands. Ships meeting, the mind of an enemy, all meaningless if there was nothing when daylight came.

  York had been right about the wind. It was even and steady from the south-west, and the ship, under reduced canvas, was lying well to it; when he had been on deck he had watched the spray bursting like phantoms along the lee side and up through the beak-head with its snarling lion.

  Avery asked, “Will they fight or run, Sir Richard?” He saw the alertness in the grey eyes that lifted to him; there was no hint of fatigue or doubt. Bolitho had shaved, and Avery wondered what he and Allday had discussed while the big coxswain had used his razor as easily as if it were broad daylight.

  His shirt was loosely fastened, and Avery had seen the glint of silver when he had stooped over the chart. The locket he always wore.

  Bolitho shrugged. “Fight. If they have not already gone about and headed for port somewhere, they will have little choice, I think.” He looked up at the deckhead beams. “The wind is an ally today.”

  Avery watched, at peace now in this company, the consequences of what daylight might bring somehow secondary. He heard the drumming vibration of rigging, the occasional squeal of blocks, and imagined the ship leaning over to the wind, knowing that Bolitho was seeing it also, even as they spoke.

  Tyacke would consider the situation rather differently, perhaps, but with the same end in mind. How many times had this ship lived through moments like this? She was thirty-six years old, and her battle honours read like history itself: the Chesapeake, the Saintes, the Nile, and Copenhagen. So many men, so much pain. He thought of Tyacke’s fiercely contained pride for the ship he had not wanted. And she had never been beaten.
/>   Bolitho said suddenly, “Your assistant, George—Mr Midshipman Carleton. Doing well, isn’t he?”

  Avery glanced quickly at Tyacke, who gave the merest hint of a smile, but no more.

  “Yes, sir, he is very good with his signals crew. He hopes to be offered promotion. He is seventeen.” The question had disconcerted him: he never really knew what Bolitho might toss his way, or why.

  Tyacke said, “He’s a damned sight quieter than Mr Blythe ever was.”

  Bolitho felt them relaxing, except Ozzard. He was waiting to hear, to know. He would go below, as deep as possible into the hull, when the first shots were fired. He should be ashore, Bolitho thought, away from this life. And yet, he knew that he had nowhere to go, no one who waited for him. Even when they were in Cornwall, and Ozzard lived in his cottage on the estate, he remained profoundly alone.

  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, almost drowned out by the muffled hiss of the sea, he heard a man laugh somewhere. 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 …