“Thank you for telling me, Thomas. I want a victory, I crave it, and I know what this has cost you.” He saw his reflection in the salt-smeared glass as the ship fell off another point or so. “I know how you feel.” He sensed the wariness. “How I would feel if anything happened to separate me from Catherine. But duty is one thing, Thomas … it has guided my feet since I first went to sea at the age of twelve … and justice is something else.” He walked around, and saw the same stubborn, closed face, the determination which had first brought them together in Phalarope.“In battle I hate to see men die for no purpose, when they have no say and no choice at all in the matter. And I’ll not turn my back on other men who have been wronged, driven to despair, and already condemned by others who are equally guilty, but not charged.”
Herrick remained very calm. “I am not surprised.” He made to rise. “Do we still sup this evening?”
Bolitho smiled: it came without effort this time. They were not enemies; the past could not die. “I had hoped for that, Thomas. Make full use of these quarters.” He picked up the despatches, and added, “I promise you that nobody will attempt to entertain you!”
Outside the cabin he found Allday loitering by an open gun-port. He had simply happened to be there, in case.
He asked, “How was it, Sir Richard? Bad?”
Bolitho smiled. “He has not changed much, old friend.”
Allday said, “Then it is bad.”
Bolitho knew that Tyacke and Avery would be waiting, united even more strongly because of something which was beyond their control.
Allday said harshly, “They’ll hang for it. I’ll shed no tears for ’em. I hates their kind. Vermin.”
Bolitho looked at him, moved by his anger. Allday had been a pressed man, taken the same day as Bryan Ferguson. So what had instilled in them both such an abiding sense of loyalty, and such courage?
It was no help to understand that Herrick knew the answer. So did Tyacke. Trust.
13 “LET THEM NEVER FORGET”
JOHN URQUHART, Valkyrie’s first lieutenant, paused in the entry port to recover his breath while he stared across at the captured American frigate Success. The wind was rising very slightly, but enough to make her plunge and stagger while the small prize crew fought to keep her under command.
He regarded the orderly, almost placid scene on the quarterdeck of this ship, in which he had served for four years, noting the curious but respectful eyes of the midshipmen, reminding him, if it were necessary, of his own crumpled and untidy appearance; then he glanced up at the sky, pale blue, washed-out and, like the ocean, almost misty in the unwavering sunshine.
He saw Adam Bolitho speaking with Ritchie, the sailing-master. Ritchie had been badly wounded in the first clash with the USS Unity, when the admiral had been almost blinded by flying splinters, and the previous captain’s nerve had broken. A day he would never forget. Neither would Ritchie, cut down by metal fragments: it was a wonder he had lived. Always a strong, tireless sailing-master of the old school, he was still trying not to show his pain and refusing to recognize his terrible limp, as if in the end it would somehow cure itself.
Urquhart touched his hat to the quarterdeck. There were countless men like Ritchie on the streets of any seaport in England.
Adam Bolitho smiled. “Hard pull, was it?”
Urquhart nodded. Three days since they had quit Halifax, with only about five hundred miles to log for it. With the perverse winds and the prospect of storms, it was not the time of year for anyone to be complacent, least of all the captain. But while Urquhart had been away from Valkyrie aboard the battered prize, the captain seemed to have changed in some way, and was quite cheerful.
Urquhart said, “I’ve had the pumps going watch by watch, sir. She’s built well enough, like most French ships, but the rot is something else. The old Indom gave her more than her share, I’d say.
Adam said, “We’ll let Success fall off a point or so. That should ease the strain.” He stared abeam at the sea’s face, set in a moving pattern of blue and pale green; it had an almost milky appearance, broken now and then by a lingering blast of wind, a north-easterly, which could make every sail strain and thunder like a roll of drums. The sea here looked almost shallow, and the drifting gulf weed intensified the effect. He smiled. But there were three thousand fathoms beneath the keel hereabouts, or so they said, although no one could know.
He watched the other frigate’s sails lifting and puffing in the same passing squall. “We’ll take her in tow tomorrow, Mr Urquhart. It may slow us even more, but at least we’ll stay in company.” He saw Urquhart’s eyes move beyond his shoulder and heard the flag lieutenant’s brisk footsteps on the deck. De Courcey had kept out of his way, and had in fact probably been instructed to do so by Keen. But would he learn anything on this passage? His future seemed already assured.
De Courcey touched his hat, with a cool glance at Urquhart’s dishevelled appearance. “Is all well?” He looked at Adam. “Isn’t it taking longer than expected, sir?”
Adam gestured across the nettings. “Yonder lies the enemy, Mr de Courcey. America. In fact, Mr Ritchie insists that we are due east of Chesapeake Bay itself. I have to believe him, of course.”
Urquhart saw the sailing-master’s quick, conspiratorial grin. It was more than that. It was pleasure that the captain could now joke with him. They had all known that Captain Adam Bolitho was one of the most successful frigate captains in the fleet, and the nephew of England’s most respected, and loved, sailor, but it had been impossible to know him as a man. Urquhart also saw and was amused by the flag lieutenant’s sudden alarm as he peered abeam, as if he expected to actually see the coastline.
Adam said, “Two hundred miles, Mr de Courcey.” He glanced up as the masthead pendant cracked out like a long whip.
Urquhart wondered if he missed the sight of a rear-admiral’s flag at the mizzen truck, or was he savouring this independence, limited though it would be?
The previous day, the lookouts had sighted two small sails to the south-west. They had been unable to leave the damaged Success to give chase, so the strangers might have been anything, coasters willing to risk the British patrols if only to earn their keep, or enemy scouts. If the captain was troubled by it, he was disguising it well.
De Courcey said suddenly, “Only two hundred miles, sir? I thought we were heading closer to the Bermudas.”
Adam smiled and touched his arm lightly, something else Urquhart had not seen him do before.
“The nor’-easterlies are friendly, Mr de Courcey, but to whom, I wonder?” He turned to Urquhart, excluding the others, his face calm, assured. “We’ll pass a tow at first light. After that …” He did not continue.
Urquhart watched him walk away to speak with the sailing-master again. So certain. But how could he be? Why should he be? He considered the previous two captains, the intolerant and sarcastic Trevenen, who had broken in the face of real danger, and had vanished overboard without trace, and Captain Peter Dawes, the acting-commodore, who had been unable to think beyond promotion. Any fault would reflect badly on a first lieutenant, and Urquhart had intended never to fully trust a captain again, for his own sake. No one else would care what became of him.
De Courcey remarked, “I wonder what he truly thinks?” When Urquhart remained silent, he went on, “Works all of us like a man possessed, and then when he has a spare minute, he sits down aft, teaching that boy servant of his to write!” He laughed shortly. “If that is what he is really doing!”
Urquhart said quietly, “It is rumoured that Captain Bolitho is very skilled with both blade and pistol, Mr de Courcey. I suggest you do nothing to foster or encourage scandal. It could be the end of you, in more ways than one.”
Adam came back, his face in a small frown. “May I ask you to take a meal with me, John? I doubt if Success’s fare is any sounder than her timbers!”
Urquhart smiled without reservation. “I would be grateful, sir. But are you certain?” He looked up at the pendant, then
at the real strength the two helmsmen were using against the kick of the wheel.
“Yes, I am sure of it. They need the wind, the advantage of it. For us to fight with only the land at our backs, first light will be soon enough.” He looked at him keenly. “If I’m wrong, we shall be no worse off.”
For only a second, Urquhart saw the face he had just evoked for de Courcey. He could well imagine those same eyes, calm and unblinking along the barrel of a pistol in some quiet clearing at dawn, or testing the edge of his favourite sword. And quite suddenly, he was glad of it.
Adam said, almost casually, “When this is over and we are back about our rightful affairs, I intend to put you forward for promotion.”
Urquhart was taken aback. “But, sir—I don’t think—I am satisfied to serve you …” He got no further.
Adam said, “That’s enough,” and shook his arm a little for emphasis. “Never say that, John. Never even think it.” He looked up at the sky and the quivering belly of the maintopsail. “My uncle once described his first command as the greatest gift. But it is much more than that.” His eyes hardened. “Which is why I mistrust those who betray such a privilege.” Then he seemed to shake off the mood. “At noon, then. Today is Friday, is it not?” He smiled, and Urquhart wondered why there was no woman in his life. “Tonight the toast will be, a willing foe and enough sea room. A perfect sentiment!”
That evening the wind rose again, and backed to north-east-by-north. Urquhart was pulled once more to the Success, and was drenched in spray before he was halfway across.
Somehow, he did not care. The stage was set. And he was ready.
Captain Adam Bolitho walked across the black and white checkered deck covering and stared through the tall stern windows. The wind had eased a good deal overnight, but still made its presence felt in short, fierce gusts, dashing the spray high over the ship until it pattered from the dripping sails like rain.
He saw the murky outline of the other frigate, her shape distorted by the caked salt on the glass, her bearing so extreme that she appeared out of control, adrift.
It had been hard work to pass the tow across at first light, requiring tough, experienced seamanship, or as Evan Jones, the boatswain, had remarked, “All brute force and bloody ignorance!” But they had done it. Now, yawing drunkenly to each gust of wind, the Success fought her tow like a beast being led to slaughter.
He heard eight bells chime from the forecastle and made himself leave the windows. He glanced around the big cabin. Keen’s quarters: he had almost expected to see him here at the table where he had placed his own chart within easy reach, so that Ritchie or the lieutenants should not be able to watch his concern as one more hour passed. He leaned on the table, the American coastline under one palm. He had seen his uncle do this, holding the sea in his hands, translating ideas into action. In so many ways we are very alike. But in others …
He straightened his back and looked up at the skylight as somebody laughed. Urquhart had kept his word. Others might suspect his intentions, but nobody knew. And they could still laugh. It was said that when Trevenen had been in command, any sound had been offensive to him. Laughter would be like insubordination or worse.
He thought of the book of poems which Keen had given him, here in this very cabin, with, he believed, few memories of the girl who had owned it, and not knowing the pain it had aroused. And here, he had seen the miniature that Gilia St Clair had intended another to keep and cherish.
More voices came down from the quarterdeck and for a moment he thought he heard a lookout. But it was only another working party, splicing, stitching, repairing: a sailor’s lot.
The door opened and the boy John Whitmarsh stood looking in at him.
Adam asked, “What is it?”
The boy said, “You’ve not touched your breakfast, Cap’n. Coffee’s cold, too.”
Adam sat in one of Keen’s chairs and said, “No matter.”
“I can fetch some fresh coffee, sir.” He looked at the chart and said gravely, “Cape Breton to …” He hesitated, his lips moving as he studied the heavy print at the top of the chart. “To Delaware Bay.” He turned and stared at him, his eyes shining. “I read it, sir! Just like you said I would!”
Adam walked into the other cabin, unable to watch the boy’s excitement and pleasure. “Come here, John Whitmarsh.” He opened his chest and withdrew a parcel. “D’ you know the date of today?”
The boy shook his head. “It be Saturday, sir.”
Adam held out the parcel. “July twenty-first. I could not very well forget it. It was the day I was posted.” He tried to smile. “It was also listed in Anemone’s log as the date when you were volunteered. Your birthday.” The boy was still staring at him, and he said roughly, “Here, take it. It’s yours.”
The boy opened the parcel as if it were dangerous to touch, then gasped as he saw the finely made dirk and polished scabbard. “For me, sir?”
“Yes. Wear it. You’re thirteen now. Not an easy passage, eh?”
John Whitmarsh was still staring at it. “Mine.” It was all he said, or could say.
Adam swung round and saw the second lieutenant, William Dyer, staring in from the passageway.
Dyer seemed to be a reliable officer and Urquhart had spoken well of him, but it was too good a piece of gossip to miss. What he had just witnessed would soon be all over the wardroom. The captain giving gifts to a cabin boy. Losing his grip.
Adam quietly said, “Well, Mr Dyer?” They could think what they damned well pleased. He had known few acts of kindness when he himself had been that age. He could scarcely remember his mother, except for her constant love, and even now he did not understand how she could have given herself like a common whore in order to support her son, whose father had not known of his existence.
Dyer said, “The master sends his respects, sir, and he is anxious about our present course. We will have to change tack shortly for the next leg—a hard enough task, even without that great drag on the tow-line.”
Adam said, “The master thinks that, does he? And what do you think?”
Dyer flushed. “I thought it better coming from me, sir. In Mr Urquhart’s place, I felt it was my duty to bring his unease to your notice myself.”
Adam walked back to the chart. “You did well.” Had Urquhart seen the folly of his idea? For folly was what it would be. “You deserve an answer. So does Mr Ritchie.”
Dyer gaped as Adam swung round and shouted, “The skylight, John Whitmarsh! Open the skylight!”
The boy climbed on a chair to reach it, his new dirk still clutched in one hand.
Adam heard the wind gusting against the hull and imagined it ruffling the sea’s face, like a breeze on a field of standing corn. The cry came again. “Two sail to th’ nor’-east!”
Adam said sharply, “That is the answer, Mr Dyer. The enemy was not asleep, it seems.” To the boy he said, “Fetch my sword, if you please. We shall both be properly presented today.”
Then he laughed aloud, as if it were some secret joke. “July 21st, 1813! It will be another day to remember!”
Dyer exclaimed, “The enemy, sir? How can it be certain?”
“You doubt me?”
“But, but … if they intend to attack us they will hold the wind-gage. All the advantages will be theirs!” He did not seem able to stop. “Without the tow we might stand a chance …”
Adam saw the boy returning with his captain’s hanger. “All in good time, Mr Dyer. Tell Mr Warren to hoist flag Seven for Success to recognize. Then pipe all hands aft. I wish to address them.”
Dyer asked in a small voice, “Will we fight, sir?”
Adam looked around the cabin, perhaps for the last time. He forced himself to wait, to feel doubt, or worse, a fear he had not known before Anemone had been lost.
He said, “Be assured, Mr Dyer, we shall win this day.” But Dyer had already hurried away.
He raised his arms so that the boy could clip on his sword, as his coxswain, George Starr,
had used to do: Starr, who had been hanged for what he had done aboard Anemone after her flag had come down. Without knowing that he spoke aloud, he repeated, “We shall win this day.”
He glanced once more at the open skylight, and smiled. A very close thing. Then he walked out of the cabin, the boy following his shadow without hesitation.
Midshipman Francis Lovie lowered his telescope and wiped his streaming face with the back of his hand.
“flag Seven, sir!”
Urquhart eyed him grimly. It had come as he expected, but it was still a shock. The captain’s private signal.
He took the telescope from Lovie’s hands and trained it towards the other ship. His ship. Where he had been trusted, even liked by some when he had stood between Valkyrie’s company and a tyrant of a captain. As it must have been in Reaper, and in too many other ships. Adam Bolitho’s words seemed to intrude through all his doubts and uncertainties. I mistrust those who betray such a privilege. He watched the familiar figures leap into the lens, men he knew so well: Lieutenant Dyer, and beside him the most junior lieutenant, Charles Gulliver, not long ago a midshipman like the one who was sharing this dangerous task with him. Lovie was seventeen, and Urquhart liked to believe that he himself had played his part in making him what he was. Lovie was ready to sit his examination for lieutenant.
He moved the glass slightly, feeling the warm spray on his mouth and hair. Ritchie was there, listening intently with his master’s mates close by, Barlow, the new lieutenant of marines, his face as scarlet as his tunic in the misty sunlight. Beyond them the mass of sailors, some of whom he knew and trusted, and others whom he accepted would never change, the hard men who saw all authority as a deadly enemy. But fight? Yes, they would do that well enough.
And there was the captain, his back towards him, his shoulders shining and wet as if he did not care, did not feel anything beyond his instinct, which had not failed him.
Lovie asked, “What will the captain tell them, sir?”
Urquhart did not look at him. “What I will tell you, Mr Lovie. We will stand by the tow, and break it when we are so ordered.”
Cross of St George Page 23