Cross of St George

by Kent, Alexander

  Keen touched his arm. “I should like you to meet Miss Gilia St Clair. I sent you word of her presence aboard Reaper.”

  So easily said, but Bolitho had already gone through Keen’s carefully worded report on Reaper’s surrender, and the discharge of her guns into empty sea. He felt that Keen and Adam had disagreed about something at the time. It might reveal itself later.

  His shoe caught on something as he turned, and he saw Avery’s vague outline move towards him. Troubled; but protective of him, as always.

  It was so dark after the brilliant sunlight and the dazzling reflections from the harbour that the room could have been curtained off.

  Keen was saying, “I wish to present Sir Richard Bolitho. He commands our squadron.”

  It was not to impress: it was genuine pride. Val, as he had always been, before Zenoria’s death, before Zenoria. Perhaps Catherine was correct in her belief that he would easily recover from his loss.

  The woman was younger than he had expected, in her late twenties, he thought. He had an impression of a pleasant, oval face and light brown hair; the eyes were level and serious.

  Bolitho took her hand. It was very firm; he could easily imagine her with her father aboard the stricken Reaper, watching Valkyrie running out her powerful broadside.

  She said, “I am sorry to intrude, but my father is here. I had hoped I could discover …”

  Keen said, “He is with the general. I’m sure it is quite all right for you to stay.” He gave his youthful grin. “I will take full responsibility!”

  She said, “I wanted to know about York. My father was going there to assist with the completion of a ship.”

  Bolitho listened in silence. Her father’s plans were not the source of her concern.

  Keen said, “I expect you will be returning to England sooner rather than later, Miss St Clair?”

  She shook her head. “I would like to remain here, with my father.”

  The door opened, and an urbane lieutenant almost bowed himself into the room.

  “The General’s apologies, Sir Richard. The delay was unintentional.” He seemed to see the girl for the first time. “I am not certain …”

  Bolitho said, “She is with us.”

  The adjoining room was large and crammed with heavy furniture, a soldier’s room, with two vast paintings of battles on the walls. Bolitho did not recognize the uniforms. A different war, a forgotten army.

  The general seized his hand. “Delighted, Sir Richard. Knew your father. Fine man. In India. He’d be damned proud of you!” He spoke in short, loud bursts, like mountain artillery, Bolitho thought.

  Other faces. David St Clair: good handshake, firm and hard. And there was another soldier present, tall, very assured, with the unemotional bearing of a professional.

  He bowed slightly. “Captain Charles Pierton, of the Eighth Regiment of Foot.” He paused, and said with a certain pride, “The King’s Regiment.”

  Bolitho saw the girl’s hands gripped together in her lap. Waiting with a curious defiance which succeeded only in making her appear suddenly vulnerable.

  David St Clair said quickly, “Are you feeling well, my dear?”

  She did not answer him. “May I ask you something, Captain Pierton?”

  Pierton glanced quizzically at the general, who gave a brief nod. “Of course, Miss St Clair.”

  “You were at York when the Americans attacked. My father and I would have been there too, had circumstances not dictated otherwise.”

  Her father leaned forward in his chair. “The 30-gun ship Sir Isaac Brock was burned on the slipway before the Americans could take her. I would have been too late in any case.”

  Bolitho knew that she did not even hear him.

  “Do you know Captain Anthony Loring, of your regiment, sir?”

  The soldier looked back at her steadily. “Yes, of course. He commanded the second company.” He turned to Bolitho and the other naval officers. “Ours was the only professional force at York. We had the militia and the York Volunteers, and a company of the Royal Newfoundland Regiment.” He glanced at the girl again. “And about one hundred Mississauga and Chippewa Indians.”

  Bolitho noted how easily the names rolled off his tongue: he was a seasoned campaigner, although this vast, untamed country was a far cry from Spain or France. But the others would know all these facts. It was merely an explanation for the girl’s benefit, as if he thought it was owed to her.

  He continued in the same grave, precise manner. “The defences at Fort York were poor. My commanding officer believed that eventually the navy would be able to send more vessels to the lakes, to hold off the Americans until larger men-of-war were constructed. There were some seventeen hundred American soldiers that day, almost all of them regulars and well-trained. We had to gain time, to evacuate the fort and finally to burn the Sir Isaac Brock.”

  She stood, and walked to the window. “Please continue.”

  Pierton said quietly, “Captain Loring took his men to the lower shore where the Americans were landing. He gallantly led a bayonet charge and dispersed them. For a time. He was wounded, and died shortly afterwards. I am sorry. A good number of our men fell that day.”

  Keen said, “I think you might be more comfortable in another room, Miss St Clair.”

  Bolitho saw her shake her head, heedless of her hair, which had fallen loosely across her shoulder.

  She asked, “Did he speak of me, Captain Pierton?”

  Pierton looked at the general, and hesitated. “We were hard pressed, Miss St Clair.”

  She persisted. “Ever?”

  Pierton replied, “He was a very private person. A different company, you understand.”

  She left the window and crossed over to him, then she put her hand on his arm. “That was a kind thing to say. I should not have asked.” She gripped the scarlet sleeve, unaware of everyone else. “I am so glad that you are safe.”

  The general coughed noisily. “Sending him to England on the first packet. God knows if they’ll learn anything from what happened.”

  The door closed quietly. She had gone.

  Captain Pierton exclaimed, “Damn!” He looked at the general. “My apologies, sir, but I forgot to give her something. Perhaps it would be better to send it with his other effects to Ridge … our regimental agent in Charing Cross.”

  Bolitho watched as he took a miniature painting from his tunic and laid it on the table. Charing Cross: like the casual mention of the Indians fighting with the army, it seemed so alien here. Another world.

  Keen said, “May I?”

  He held the miniature to the sunlight and studied it. “A good likeness. Very good.”

  A small tragedy of war, Bolitho thought. She had sent or given him the miniature, even though the unknown Loring had decided not to encourage a more intimate relationship. She must have been hoping to see him again when her father visited York, perhaps fearing what she might discover. Now it was too late. Her father probably knew more than he would ever disclose.

  Keen said, “Well, sir, I think it should be returned to her. If it were me …” He did not go on.

  Thinking of Zenoria? Sharing the same sense of loss?

  The general frowned. “Perhaps you’re right.” He glanced at the clock. “Time to stop now, gentlemen. I have a very acceptable claret, and I believe we should sample it. After that …”

  Bolitho stood near the window, studying the captured American, Chesapeake, and the Reaper beyond.

  He asked, “And what of York, Captain Pierton? Is it secure?”

  “Unfortunately, no, Sir Richard. My regiment withdrew in good order to Kingston, which is now doubly important if we are to withstand another attack. If the Americans had gone for Kingston in the first place …”

  “Well?”

  The general answered for him. “We would have lost Upper Canada.”

  Two servants had appeared with trays of glasses. Keen murmured, “I shall not be a moment, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho
turned as Avery joined him by the window. “We shall not wait longer than necessary.” He was concerned at the expression in the tawny eyes: they were deeply introspective, and yet, in some strange way, at peace. “What is it? Another secret, George?”

  Avery faced him, making up his mind. Perhaps he had been struggling with it all the way from the ship to this place of stamping boots and shouted orders.

  He said, “I received a letter, sir. A letter.”

  Bolitho twisted round and grasped his wrist. “A letter? Do you mean …”

  Avery smiled, rather shyly, and his face was that of a much younger man.

  “Yes, sir. From a lady.”

  Outside, in the sun-dappled passageway, Keen sat beside the girl on one of the heavy leather couches.

  He watched her as she turned the miniature over in her hands, recalling the calm acceptance in her face when he had given it to her. Resignation? Or something far deeper?

  “It was good of you. I did not know …”

  He saw her mouth quiver, and said, “While I command here at Halifax, if there is anything I can do to serve you, anything you require …”

  She looked up into his face. “I will be with my father, at the Massie residence. They are … old friends.” She lowered her eyes. “Of a sort.” She looked at the miniature again. “I was younger then.”

  Keen said, “It is …” He faltered. “You are very brave, and very beautiful.” He tried to smile, to break the tension within himself. “Please do not be offended. That is the very last thing I intend.”

  She was watching him, her eyes steady once more. “You must have thought me a fool, an innocent in a world I know not. The sort of thing to bring a few laughs in the mess when you are all together as men.” She thrust out her hand, impetuous, but sharing his uncertainty. “Keep this, if you like. It is of no further use to me.” But the careless mood would not remain. She watched him take the miniature, his lashes pale against his sunburned skin as he gazed down at it. “And … take care. I shall think of you.”

  She walked away along the passage, the sun greeting her at every window. She did not look back.

  He said, “I shall depend on it.”

  He walked slowly back toward the general’s room. Of course, it could not happen. It could not, not again. But it had.

  Adam Bolitho paused with one foot on the high step and looked up at the shop. With the sun hot across his shoulders and the sky intensely blue above the rooftops, it was hard to remember the same street obscured by great banks of snow.

  He pushed open the door and smiled to himself as a bell jingled to announce his entrance. It was a small but elegant place which he thought would fit well into London or Exeter.

  As if to some signal, a dozen or so clocks began to chime the hour, tall clocks and small, ornate timepieces for mantel or drawing room, clocks with moving figures, phases of the moon, and one with a fine square-rigger which actually dipped and lifted to each stroke of the pendulum. Each one pleased and intrigued him, and he was walking from one to another examining them when a short man in a dark coat came through a doorway by the counter. His eyes instantly and professionally examined the uniform, the bright gold epaulettes and short, curved hanger.

  “And how may I be of service, Captain?”

  “I require a watch. I was told …”

  The man pulled out a long tray. “Each of those is tested and reliable. Not new and untried, but of excellent repute. Old friends.”

  Adam thought of the ship he had just left at anchor: ready for sea. It was impossible not to be aware of the captured American frigate Chesapeake in the harbour, which he had seen from Valkyrie’s gig. A truly beautiful ship: he could even accept that at one time he would have wanted no finer command. But the emotion would not return: the loss of Anemone had been like having part of himself die. She had been escorted into Halifax by her victorious opponent Shannon on the sixth of June. My birthday. The day he had been kissed by Zenoria on the cliff track; when he had cut the wild roses with his knife for her. So young. And yet so aware.

  He glanced at the array of watches. It was not vanity: he needed one now that his own had disappeared, lost or stolen when he had been wounded and transferred to the USS Unity. They might as well have left him to die.

  The shopkeeper took his silence as lack of interest. “This is a very good piece, sir. Open-faced with duplex escapement, one of James McCabe’s famous breed. Made in 1806, but still quite perfect.”

  Adam picked it up. Who had carried it before, he wondered. Most of the watches here had probably belonged to army or sea officers. Or their widows …

  He found himself thinking with increasing bitterness of Keen’s interest in David St Clair’s daughter, Gilia. At first he had thought it was merely pity for the girl; Keen might even have been making comparisons with Zenoria, whom he had rescued from a convict transport. She had carried the mark of a whip across her back as a constant and cruel reminder, the mark of Satan, she had called it. He was being unfair to Keen, more so perhaps because of his own guilt, which never left him. That, willing or otherwise, Zenoria had been his lover.

  He asked suddenly, “What about that one?”

  The man gave him an approving smile. “You are an excellent judge as well as a brave frigate captain, sir! ”

  Adam had become accustomed to it. Here in Halifax, despite the heavy military presence and the comparative nearness of the enemy, security was a myth. Everyone knew who you were, what ship, where bound, and probably a whole lot more. He had mentioned it with some concern to Keen, who had said only, “I think we give them too much credit, Adam.”

  An indefinable coolness had come between them. Because of Adam’s threat to fire on the Reaper, hostages or not, or was it something of his own making or imagination, born of that abiding sense of guilt?

  He took the watch, and it rested in his palm. It was heavy, the case rubbed smooth by handling over the years.

  The man said, “A rare piece, Captain. Note the cylinder escapement, the fine, clear face.” He sighed. “Mudge and Dutton, 1770. A good deal older than yourself, I daresay.”

  Adam was studying the guard, the engraving well worn but still clear and vital in the dusty sunlight. A mermaid.

  The shopkeeper added, “Not the kind of workmanship one finds very often these days, I fear.”

  Adam held it to his ear. Recalling her face that day in Plymouth, when he had picked up her fallen glove and returned it to her. Her hand on his arm when they had walked together in the port admiral’s garden. The last time he had seen her.

  “What is the story of this watch?”

  The little man polished his glasses. “It came into the shop a long while ago. It belonged to a seafaring gentleman like yourself, sir … I believe he needed the money. I could find out, perhaps.”

  “No.” Adam closed the guard very carefully. “I will take it.”

  “It is a mite expensive, but …” He smiled, pleased that the watch had gone to a suitable owner. “I know you are a very successful frigate captain, sir. It is right and proper that you should have it!” He waited, but the responding smile was not forthcoming. “I should clean it before you take it. I can send it by hand to Valkyrie if you would prefer. I understand that you are not sailing until the day after tomorrow? ”

  Adam looked away. He had only just been told himself by Keen before he had come ashore.

  “Thank you, but I shall take it now.” He slipped it into his pocket, haunted by her face once more. The local people of Zennor still insisted that the church where she and Keen had been married had been visited by a mermaid.

  The bell jingled again and the shopkeeper glanced around, irritated by the intrusion. He met all kinds of people here: Halifax was becoming the most important sea port, and certainly the safest, set as it was at the crossroads of war. With the army to defend it and the navy to protect and supply it, there were many who regarded it as the new gateway to a continent. But this young, dark-haired captain was very differen
t from the others. Alone, completely alone, alive to something which he would allow no one else to share.

  He said, “I am sorry, Mrs Lovelace, but your clock is still misbehaving. A few days more, perhaps.”

  But she was looking at Adam. “Well, Captain Bolitho, this is a pleasant surprise. I trust you are well? And how is your handsome young admiral?”

  Adam bowed to her. She was dressed in dark red silk, with a matching bonnet to shade her eyes from the sun. The same direct way of looking at him, the slightly mocking smile, as if she were used to teasing people. Men.

  He said, “Rear-Admiral Keen is well, ma’am.”

  She was quick to notice the slight edge to his reply.

  “You have been shopping, I see.” She held out her hand. “Will you show me?”

  He knew that the shopkeeper was observing them with interest. No doubt he knew her well, and her reputation would make a fine piece of gossip. He was surprised to find that he had actually taken out his watch to show her.

  “I needed one, Mrs Lovelace. I like it.” He saw her studying the engraved mermaid.

  “I would have bought something younger for you, Captain Bolitho. But if it’s what you want, and it takes your fancy …” She glanced out at the street. “I must go. I have friends to entertain later.” She looked at him directly again, her eyes suddenly very still and serious. “You know where I live, I think.”

  He answered, “On the Bedford Basin. I remember.”

  For a second or two her composure and her humour were gone. She gripped his arm, and said, “Be careful. Promise me that. I know of your reputation, and a little of your background. I think perhaps you do not care for your own life any more.” When he would have spoken she silenced him, as effectively as if she had laid a finger on his lips. “Say nothing. Only do as I ask, and be very careful. Promise me.” Then she looked at him again: the invitation was very plain. “When you come back, please call on me.”

  He said coolly, “What about your husband, ma’am? I think he may well object.”

  She laughed, but the first vivid confidence did not return. “He is never here. Trade is his life, his whole world!” She played with the ribbon of her bonnet. “But he is no trouble.”