Cross of St George

by Kent, Alexander

  He heard the officer-of-the-watch speaking with his midshipman in brusque, clipped tones. Laroche was a keen gambler who had felt the rough edge of Lieutenant Scarlett’s tongue the very day Scarlett had been killed in the fight with the USS Unity.

  It would be six in the morning soon, and Tyacke would come on deck. It was his custom, although he had impressed on all his officers that they were to call him at any time, day or night, if they were disturbed by any situation. Bolitho had heard him say to one lieutenant, “Better for me to lose my temper than to lose my ship!”

  If you doubt, speak out. His father had said it many times.

  He found he was walking along the weather side, his shoes avoiding ring bolts and tackles without effort. Catherine was troubled; it was made more apparent by her determination to hide it from him in her letters. Roxby was very ill, although Bolitho had seen that for himself before he had left England, and he thought it a good thing that his sister felt able to share her worries and hopes with Catherine, when their lives had been so different from one another.

  Catherine had told him about the Spanish inheritance from her late husband, Luis Pareja. All those years ago, another world, a different ship; they had both been younger then. How could either of them have known what would happen? He could recall her exactly as she had been at their first meeting, the same fiery courage he had seen after the Golden Plover had gone down.

  She was concerned about the money. He had mentioned it to Yovell, who seemed to understand all the complications, and had accompanied Catherine to the old firm of lawyers in Truro, to ensure that “she was not snared by legal roguery,” as he had put it.

  Yovell had been frank, but discreet. “Lady Catherine will become rich, sir. Perhaps very rich.” He had gauged Bolitho’s expression, a little surprised that the prospect of wealth should disquiet him, but also proud that Bolitho had confided in him and no other.

  But suppose … Bolitho paused in his pacing to watch the first glow of light, almost timid as it painted a small seam between sky and ocean. He heard a voice whisper, “Cap’n’s comin’ up, sir!” and a few seconds later Laroche’s pompous acknowledgement of Tyacke’s presence. “Good morning, sir. Course east by north. Wind’s veered a little.”

  Tyacke said nothing. Bolitho saw it all as if it were indeed broad daylight. Tyacke would examine the compass and study the small wind-vane that aided the helmsmen until they could see the sails and the masthead pendant: he would already have scanned the log book on his way here. A new day. How would it be? An empty sea, a friend, an enemy?

  He crossed to the weather side and touched his hat. “You’re about early, Sir Richard.” To anyone else, it would have seemed a question.

  Bolitho said, “Like you, James, I need to feel the day, and try to sense what it might bring.”

  Tyacke saw that his shirt was touched with pink, as the light found and explored the ship.

  “We should sight the others directly, sir. Taciturn will be well up to wind’rd, and the brig Doon closing astern. As soon as we can see them I’ll make a signal.” He was thinking of the convoy they were expecting to meet: there would be hell to pay if they did not. Any escort duty was tedious and an enormous strain, especially for frigates like Indomitable and her consort Taciturn. They were built for speed, not for the sickening motion under the reefed topsails necessary to hold station on their ponderous charges. He sniffed the air. “That damned galley—it stinks! I must have a word with the purser.”

  Bolitho stared aloft, shading his eye. The topgallant yards were pale now, the sails taut and hard-braced to hold the uncooperative wind.

  More figures had appeared: Daubeny the first lieutenant, already pointing out tasks for the forenoon watch to Hockenhull the boatswain. Tyacke touched his hat again and strode away to speak with his senior lieutenant, as though he were eager to get started.

  Bolitho remained where he was while men hurried past him. Some might glance toward his cloaked figure, but when they realized that it was the admiral they would stay clear. He sighed faintly. At least they were not afraid of him. But to be a captain again … Your own ship. Like Adam …

  He thought of him now, still at Halifax, or with Keen making a sweep along the American coast where a hundred ships like Unity or Chesapeake could be concealed. Boston, New Bedford, New York, Philadelphia. They could be anywhere.

  It had to be stopped, finished before it became another draining, endless war. America had no allies as such, but would soon find them if Britain was perceived to be failing. If only …

  He looked up, caught off-guard as the lookout’s voice penetrated the noises of sea and canvas.

  “Deck there! Sail on larboard bow!” The barest pause. “’Tis Taciturn, on station!”

  Tyacke said, “She’s seen us and hoisted a light. They have their wits about them.” He looked abeam as a fish leaped from the glassy rollers to avoid an early predator.

  Laroche said in his newly affected drawl, “We should sight Doon next, then.”

  Tyacke jabbed his hand forward. “Well, I hope the lookout’s eyesight is better than yours. That fore-staysail is flapping about like a washerwoman’s apron!”

  Laroche called to a boatswain’s mate, suitably crushed.

  And quite suddenly, there they were, their upper sails and rigging holding the first sunshine, their flags and pendants like pieces of painted metal.

  Tyacke said nothing. The convoy was safe.

  Bolitho took a telescope, but clung to the sight before he raised it. Big and ponderous they might be, yet in this pure, keen light they had a kind of majesty. He thought back to the Saintes, as he often did at times like this, recalling the first sight of the French fleet. A young officer had written to his mother afterwards, comparing them with the armoured knights at Agincourt.

  He asked, “How many?”

  Tyacke again. “Seven, sir. Or so it said in the instruction.” He repeated, “Seven,” and Bolitho thought he was wondering if their cargoes were worthwhile or necessary.

  Carleton, the signals midshipman, had arrived with his men. He looked fresh and alert, and had probably eaten a huge breakfast, no matter what the galley smelled like. Bolitho nodded to him, remembering when a ship’s rat fed on breadcrumbs from the galley had been a midshipman’s delicacy. They had said it tasted like rabbit. They had lied.

  Tyacke checked the compass again, impatient to make contact with the senior ship of the escort and then lay his own ship on a new tack for their return to Halifax.

  Carleton called, “There is a frigate closing, sir, larboard bow.” He was peering at the bright hoist of flags, but Tyacke said, “I know her. She’s Wakeful …” Like an echo, Carleton called dutifully, “Wakeful, 38, Captain Martin Hyde.”

  Bolitho turned. The ship which had brought Keen and Adam out from England, after which the Royal Herald had been pounded into a coffin for her company. Mistaken identity. Or a brutal extension of an old hatred?

  Carleton cleared his throat. “She has a passenger for Indomitable, sir.”

  “What?” Tyacke sounded outraged. “By whose order?”

  Carleton tried again, spelling out the hoist of flags with extra care.

  “Senior officer for duties in Halifax, sir.”

  Tyacke said doubtfully, “That must have been a potful to spell out.” Then, surprisingly, he smiled at the tall midshipman. “That was well done. Now acknowledge.” He glanced at Bolitho, who had discarded his cloak and was facing into the frail sunlight.

  Bolitho shook his head. “No, James, I do not know who.” He turned and looked at him, his eyes bleak. “But I think I know why.”

  Wakeful was coming about, and a boat was already being swayed up and over the gangway in readiness for lowering. A smart, well-handled ship. The unknown senior officer would have been making comparisons. Bolitho raised the glass again and saw the way falling off the other ship, the scars of wind and sea on her lithe hull. A solitary command, the only kind to have. He said, “Have the side manned, Ja
mes. A boatswain’s chair too, although I doubt if it will be needed.”

  Allday was here, Ozzard, too, with his dress coat, clucking irritably over the admiral’s casual appearance.

  Allday clipped on the old sword, and murmured, “Squalls, Sir Richard?”

  Bolitho looked at him gravely. He of all people would remember, and understand. “I fear so, old friend. There are still enemies within our own ranks, it seems.”

  He saw the marines stamping to the entry port, picking up their dressing, their bayonets gleaming like silver. Showing a mark of respect, a salute to yet another important visitor. Equally, they would not question an order to place him in front of a firingsquad.

  Avery hurried from the companion hatch, but hesitated as Tyacke looked over at him and shook his head very slightly in warning.

  Indomitable was hove-to, her seamen obviously glad of something to break the monotony of work and drill.

  Wakeful’s gig came alongside, rolling steeply in the undertow. Bolitho walked to the rail and stared down, saw the passenger rise from the sternsheets and reach for the guide-rope, disdaining the assistance of a lieutenant, and ignoring the dangling chair as Bolitho had known he would.

  Coming to judge the Reaper’s mutineers. How could it be that they should meet like this, on a small pencilled cross on Isaac York’s chart? And whose hand would have made this choice, unless it were guided by malice, and perhaps personal envy?

  He made himself watch as the figure climbing the side missed a stair and almost fell. But he was climbing again, each movement an effort. As it would be for any man with only one arm.

  The colour-sergeant growled, “Royal Marines … Ready! ” more to cover his own surprise at the time it was taking the visitor to appear at the entry port than out of necessity.

  The cocked hat and then the rear-admiral’s epaulettes appeared finally in the port, and Bolitho strode forward to meet him.

  “Guard of honour! Present arms!”

  The din of the drill, the squeal of calls and the strident rattle of drums drowned out his spoken welcome.

  They faced one another, the visitor with his hat raised in his left hand, his hair quite grey against the deep blue of the ocean behind him. But his eyes were the same, a more intense blue even than Tyacke’s.

  The noise faded, and Bolitho exclaimed, “Thomas! You, of all people!”

  Rear-Admiral Thomas Herrick replaced his hat and took the proffered hand. “Sir Richard.” Then he smiled, and for those few seconds Bolitho saw the face of his oldest friend.

  Tyacke stood nearby, watching impassively; he knew most of the story, and the rest he could fathom for himself.

  He waited to be presented. But he saw only an executioner.

  Herrick hesitated inside the great cabin as if, for a moment, he was uncertain why he had come. He glanced around, acknowledging Ozzard with his tray, remembering him. As usual on such occasions, Ozzard revealed neither surprise nor curiosity, no matter what he might be thinking.

  Bolitho said, “Here, Thomas. Try this chair.”

  Herrick lowered himself with a grunt into the high-backed bergère and thrust out his legs. He said, “This is more like it.”

  Bolitho said, “Did you find Wakeful a mite small?”

  Herrick smiled slightly. “No, not at all. But her captain, Hyde—a bright young fellow with an even brighter future, I shouldn’t wonder—he wanted to entertain me. Humour me. I don’t need it. Never did.”

  Bolitho studied him. Herrick was a year or so younger than himself, but he looked old, tired, and not only because of his grey hair and the deep lines of strain around his mouth. They would be the result of his amputated arm. It had been a close thing.

  Ozzard padded nearer and waited.

  Bolitho said, “A drink, perhaps.” There was a thud on deck. “Your gear is being brought aboard.”

  Herrick looked at his legs, stained and wet from his climb up the ship’s tumblehome. “I can’t order you to take me to Halifax.”

  “It is a pleasure, Thomas. There is so much I need to hear.”

  Herrick looked across at Ozzard. “Some ginger beer, if you have any?”

  Ozzard did not blink. “Of course, sir.”

  Herrick sighed. “I saw that rascal Allday when I came aboard. He doesn’t change much.”

  “He’s a proud father now, Thomas. A little girl. In truth, he shouldn’t be here.”

  Herrick took the tall glass. “None of us should.” He examined Bolitho as he sat in another chair. “You look well. I’m glad.” Then, almost angrily, “You know why I’m here? The whole damned fleet seems to!”

  “The mutiny. Reaper was retaken. It was all in my report.”

  “I can’t discuss it. Not until I’ve carried out my own investigation.”

  “And then?”

  Herrick shrugged, and winced. His pain was very evident. The steep climb up Indomitable’s side would have done him no good.

  “Court of inquiry. The rest you know. We’ve seen enough mutinies in our time, eh?”

  “I know. Adam captured Reaper, by the way.”

  “So I hear.” He nodded. “He’d need no urging.”

  Calls shrilled overhead and feet thudded across the planking. Tyacke was under sail, changing tack now that the way was clear.

  Bolitho said, “I must read my despatches. I’ll not be long.”

  “I can tell you some of it. We heard just before we weighed anchor. Wellington has won a great victory over the French at Vitoria, their last main stronghold in Spain, I understand. They are in retreat.” His face was closed, distant. “All these years we’ve prayed and waited for this, clung to it when all else seemed lost.” He held out the empty glass. “And now it’s happened, I can’t feel anything, anything at all.”

  Bolitho watched him with an indefinable sadness. They had seen and done so much together: blazing sun and screaming gales, blockade and patrols off countless shores, ships lost, good men killed, and more still would die before the last trumpet sounded.

  “And you, Thomas? What have you been doing?”

  He nodded to Ozzard and took the refilled glass. “The scraps. Visiting dockyards, inspecting coastal defences, anything no one else wanted to do. I was even offered a two-year contract as governor of the new sailors’ hospital. Two years. It was all they could find.”

  “And what of this investigation, Thomas?”

  “Do you remember John Cotgrave? He was the Judge Advocate at my court martial. He sits at the top of the legal tree where the Admiralty’s concerned. It was his idea.”

  Bolitho waited, only the taste of cognac on his tongue to remind him that he had taken a drink. There was no bitterness in Herrick’s tone, not even resignation. It was as if he had lost everything, and believed in nothing, least of all the life he had once loved so dearly.

  “They want no long drawn-out drama, no fuss. All they want is a verdict to show that justice is upheld.” He gave the thin smile again. “Has a familiar tune, don’t you think?”

  He looked towards the stern windows, and the sea beyond. “As for me, I sold the house in Kent. It was too big, anyway. It was so empty, so desolate without …” He hesitated. “Without Dulcie.”

  “What will you do, Thomas?”

  “After this? I shall quit the navy. I don’t want to be another relic, an old salt-horse who doesn’t want to hear when he is surplus to Their Lordships’ requirements!”

  There was a tap at the door, and as the sentry had remained silent Bolitho knew that it was Tyacke.

  He entered the cabin and said, “On our new course, Sir Richard. Taciturn and Doon will remain with the convoy as you ordered. The wind’s freshening, but it’ll suit me.”

  Herrick said, “You sound pleased with her, Captain Tyacke.”

  Tyacke stood beneath one of the lanterns.

  “She’s the fastest sailer I’ve ever known, sir.” He turned the scarred side of his face towards him, perhaps deliberately. “I hope you will be comfortable on board
, sir.”

  Bolitho said, “Will you sup with us this evening, James?”

  Tyacke looked at him, and his eyes spoke for him.

  “I must ask your forgiveness, sir, but I have some extra duties to attend to. At some other time, I would be honoured.”

  The door closed, and Herrick said, “When I’ve left the ship, he means.” Bolitho began to protest. “I do understand. A ship, a King’s ship no less, has mutinied against rightful authority. At any time in war it is a crime beyond comparison, and now when we face a new enemy, with the additional temptation of better pay and more humane treatment, it is all the more dangerous. I will doubtless hear that the uprising was caused by a captain’s brutality … sadism … I have seen it all before, in my early days as a lieutenant.”

  He was speaking of Phalarope, without mentioning her name, although it was as if he had shouted it aloud.

  “Some will say that the choice of captain was faulty, that it was favouritism, or the need to remove him from his previous appointment—that too is not uncommon. So what do we say? That because of these ‘mistakes’ it was a just solution to dip the colours to an enemy, to mutiny, and to cause the death of that captain, be he saint or damned sinner? There can be no excuse. There never was.” He leaned forward and glanced around the shadowed cabin, but Ozzard had vanished. They were alone. “I am your friend, although at times I have not shown it. But I know you of old, Richard, and could guess what you might do, even if you have not yet considered it. You would risk everything, throw it all away on a point of honour and, may I say it, decency. You would speak up for those mutineers, no matter what it cost. I tell you now, Richard, it would cost you everything. They would destroy you. They would not merely be victims of their own folly—they would be martyrs. Bloody saints, if some had their way!”

  He paused: he seemed wearied suddenly. “But you do have many friends. What you have done and have tried to do will not be forgotten. Even that damned upstart Bethune confided that he feared for your reputation. So much envy, so much deceit.”

  Bolitho walked past the big chair and laid his hand for a moment on the stooped shoulder.