Cross of St George

by Kent, Alexander

  Bolitho said, “Why?”

  “Well, Sir Richard, he had all the time he needed, and he could see I had no other ship to support me. I knew he would have put his boats in the water, had he meant to show his mettle.” He grinned. “He may have carried more guns than my ship, but with all those boats stowed on deck we could have cut down half his men with their splinters in the first broadside!”

  Tyacke roused himself from his silent contemplation and said abruptly, “Boats? How many?”

  Lloyd shrugged, and glanced through the smeared windows as if to reassure himself that his ship was still riding under the Indomitable’s lee.

  “Double the usual amount, I’d say. My first lieutenant insisted that the next ship in the American’s line was likewise equipped.”

  Avery said, “Moving to a new base?”

  Tyacke said bluntly, “There is no other base, unless they take one of ours.” When Lloyd would have said something, Tyacke held up one hand. “I was thinking. Remembering, while you were speaking just now. When it was decided that the slave-trade was not quite respectable, unbefitting civilized powers, Their Lordships thought fit to send frigates to stamp it out. Faster, better-armed, trained companies, and yet …” He turned and looked directly at Bolitho. “They could never catch them. The slavers used small vessels, cruel, stinking hulls where men and women lived and died in their own filth, or were pitched to the sharks if a King’s ship happened to stumble on them.”

  Bolitho remained silent, feeling it, sharing it. Tyacke was reliving his time in Larne. The slavers had come to fear him: the devil with half a face.

  Tyacke continued in the same unemotional tone, “All along that damnable coast, where the rivers came out to the Atlantic, the Congo, the Niger and the Gaboon, the slavers would lie close inshore, where no man-of-war of any consequence would dare to venture. Which was why they evaded capture and their just deserts for so long.” He glanced at the young captain, who did not avoid his eyes. “I think you fell in with something you were not supposed to see.” He moved to the chart and laid his hand on it. “For once, I think our Mr York was wrong. Mistaken. They didn’t give chase, Captain Lloyd, because they could not. They dared not.” He looked at Bolitho. “Those boats, sir. So many of them. Not for picking up slaves like those cruel scum used to do, but to put an invading army ashore.”

  Bolitho felt the shock and the truth of his words like a cup of icy water in his face.

  “They’re carrying soldiers, as they did on the lakes, except that these are larger vessels, with something bigger in prospect at the end of it!”

  He thought of the army captain who had survived the first attack on York, and of the reports which had filtered through with information of a second attack three months later. Perhaps Lake Erie had already fallen to the Americans? If so, the British army would be cut off, even from retreat. The young captain had described the Americans at York as being well-trained regulars.

  Bolitho said, “If these ships entered the Bay of Fundy but turned north, and not towards Nova Scotia, they could disembark soldiers who could force their way inland, knowing that supplies and reinforcements would be waiting for them once they reached the St Lawrence. It would seal off all the frontier districts of Upper Canada, like ferrets in a sack!”

  He gripped Lloyd’s hand warmly in farewell. “You did not fight the American, Captain Lloyd, but the news you have carried to me may yet bring us a victory. I shall ensure that you receive proper recognition. Our Nel would have put it better. He always insisted that the Fighting Instructions were not a substitute for a captain’s initiative.”

  Tyacke said roughly, “I’ll see you over the side, Captain Lloyd.”

  As the door closed, Avery said, “Is it possible, sir?”

  Bolitho half-smiled. “Do you really mean, is it likely? I think it is too important to ignore, or to wait for a miracle.” He listened to the trill of calls as the fox-like captain went down to his gig.

  Tyacke returned, and waited in silence while Bolitho instructed his secretary to send a brief despatch to Halifax. “We shall alter course before nightfall, James, and steer due north. Make the necessary signals.” He saw the concern in the clear eyes that watched him, from the burned remains of the face. “I know the risks, James. We all do. It was there for all of us to see, but only you recognized it. Your loneliest command was not wasted. Nor will it be.” He wondered if Tyacke had been going over it all again. The letter, the girl he might scarcely remember, or not wish to remember. One day he might share it; at the same time, Bolitho knew that he would not.

  “D’ you think your man Aherne is with them?”

  “I am not certain, but I think it possible that he may have fallen out of favour with his superiors, like John Paul Jones.” Like my own brother.

  Tyacke was about to leave, but turned when Bolitho said with sudden bitterness, “Neither side can win this war, just as neither can afford to lose it. So let us play our part as best we can … And then, in God’s mercy, let us go home!”

  They stood crowded together around York’s chart-table, their shadows joining in a slow dance while the lanterns swung above them.

  More like conspirators than King’s men, Bolitho thought. It was pitch black outside the hull, early dark as he had known it would be, the ship unusually noisy as she rolled in a steep swell. There was no land closer than seventy miles, Nova Scotia’s Cape Sable to the north-east, but after the great depths to which they had become accustomed they sensed its presence. Felt it.

  Bolitho glanced at their faces in the swaying light. Tyacke, his profile very calm, the burns hidden in shadow. It was possible to see him as the woman had once done: the unscarred side of his face was strongly boned and handsome. On his other side the master was measuring his bearings with some dividers, his expression one of doubt.

  Avery was crammed into the small space too, with Daubeny the first lieutenant bobbing his head beneath the heavy beams as he tried to see over their shoulders.

  York said, “In broad daylight it’s bad enough, sir. The entrance to the bay, allowing for shallows and sandbars, is about 25 miles, less, mebbee. We’d not be able to hold our formation, and if they are ready and waiting …” He did not go on.

  Tyacke was still grappling with his original idea. “They can’t go in and attack anything in the dark, Isaac. They’d need to take soundings for most of the bay. The boats could be separated, swamped even, if the worst happened.”

  York persisted, “The whole of that coastline is used by small vessels, fishermen mostly. A lot of the folk who made their homes in New Brunswick after the American rebellion were loyalists. They’ve no love for the Yankees, but …” He glanced at Bolitho. “Against trained soldiers, what could they do?”

  Bolitho said, “And if they have already carried out a landing, those ships might be waiting for us to appear like ducks in a waterfowler’s sights. But it takes time—it always does. Lowering boats, packing men and weapons into them, more than likely in the dark, and with some of the soldiers half sick from the passage … Marines, now, that would be different.” He rubbed his chin, aware of its roughness: one of Allday’s shaves then, if there was time. He said, “Our captains know how to perform. We have exercised working together, although not with Mr York’s unwelcoming bay in mind!” He saw them smile, as he had known they would. It was like being driven, or perhaps led. Hearing somebody else speak, somehow finding the faith and confidence to inspire others. “And we must admit, the plan, if that is what they have in mind, is a brilliant one. Seasoned soldiers could march and fight their way northwards and meet with their other regiments on the St Lawrence. What is that, three hundred miles? I can remember as a boy when the 46TH Regiment of Foot marched all the way from Devon to Scotland. And doubtless back again.”

  York asked uneasily, “Was there more trouble up north then, sir?”

  Bolitho smiled. “No, it was the King’s birthday. It was his wish!”

  York grinned. “Oh, well, that’s differe
nt, sir!”

  Bolitho picked up the dividers from the chart. “The enemy know the risks as well as we do. We shall remain in company as best we can. Each captain will have his best lookouts aloft, but they cannot work miracles. By dawn we shall be in position, here.” The points of the dividers came down like a harpoon. “We may become scattered overnight, but we must take that chance.”

  Tyacke studied him in silence. You will take it, his expression said. Bolitho said, “If I were the enemy commander I would send in my landing parties, and perhaps release one of my smaller ships as close inshore as possible to offer covering fire if need be. That would even the odds.” He put down the dividers very carefully. “A little.”

  Tyacke said, “If we’re wrong, sir …”

  “If I am wrong, then we will return to Halifax. At least they will be prepared there for any sudden attack.” He thought of Keen when he had spoken of St Clair’s daughter: he might become a vice-admiral sooner than his highest hopes, if the enemy had outwitted this makeshift plan.

  He saw Avery bending over the table to scribble some notes in his little book, and for a second their eyes met. Did Avery know that his admiral was barely able to see the markings on the chart without covering his damaged eye? He felt the sudden despair lift from his spirit, like a dawn mist rising from the water. Of course they knew, but it had become a bond, a strength, which they willingly shared with him. Again he seemed to hear Herrick’s words. We Happy Few. Dear God, don’t let me fail them now.

  Then he said quietly, “Thank you, gentlemen. Please carry on with your duties. Captain Tyacke?”

  Tyacke was touching his scars; perhaps he no longer noticed that he was doing it.

  “I would like to have the people fed before the morning watch, sir. Then, if you agree, we will clear for action.” He might have been smiling, but his face was in shadow again. “No drums, no din of war.”

  Bolitho said lightly, “No Portsmouth Lass, either?” The same thought returned. Like conspirators. Or assassins.

  Tyacke twisted round. “Mr Daubeny, do not strain your ears any further! I want all officers and senior warrant officers in the wardroom as soon as is convenient.” He added, almost as an afterthought, “We had better assemble our young gentlemen as well on this occasion. They may learn something from it.”

  York left with Daubeny, probably to confer with his master’s mates. It would keep them busy, and a lack of sleep was nothing new to sailors.

  Avery had also departed, understanding better than most that Tyacke wished to be alone with Bolitho. Not as the officer, but as a friend. Bolitho had almost guessed what his flag captain was going to say, but it still came as a shock.

  “If we meet with the enemy, and now that I have weighed the odds for and against, I think we shall, I would ask a favour.”

  “What is it, James?”

  “If I should fall.” He shook his head. “Please, hear me. I have written two letters. I would rest easy and with a free mind to fight this ship if I knew …” He was silent for a moment. “One is for your lady, sir, and the other for somebody I once knew … thought I knew …some fifteen years back, when I was a young luff like Mr Know-it-all Blythe.”

  Bolitho touched his arm, with great affection. It was the closest to the man he had ever been.

  He said, “We shall both take care tomorrow, James. I am depending on you.”

  Tyacke studied the well-used chart. “Tomorrow, then.”

  Later, as he made his way aft to his quarters, Bolitho heard the buzz of voices from the wardroom, rarely so crowded even in harbour. Two of the messmen were crouching down, listening at the door as closely as they dared. There was laughter too, as there must have been before greater events in history: Quiberon Bay, the Saintes, or the Nile.

  Allday was with Ozzard in the pantry, as he had known he would be. He followed Bolitho past the sentry and into the dimly lit cabin, with the sea like black glass beyond the windows. Apart from the ship’s own noises, it was already quiet. Tyacke would be speaking to his officers, just as he would eventually go around the messdecks and show himself to the men who depended on him. Not to tell them why it was so, but how it must be done. But the ship already knew. Like Sparrow and Phalarope, and Hyperion most of all.

  Allday asked, “Will Mr Avery be coming aft, Sir Richard?”

  Bolitho waved him to a chair. “Rest easy, old friend. He’ll find a minute to pen a letter for you.”

  Allday grinned, the concern and the pain falling away. “I’d take it kindly, Sir Richard. I’ve never been much for book-learnin’ an’ the like.”

  Bolitho heard Ozzard’s quiet step. “Just as well for the rest of us, I daresay. So let us drink to those we care about, while we can. But we’ll wait for the flag lieutenant.” He looked away. Avery had probably already written a letter of his own, to the unknown woman in London. Perhaps it was only a dream, a lost hope. But it was an anchor, one which was needed by them all.

  He walked to the gun barometer and tapped it automatically, recalling Tyacke’s acceptance of what must be done, his confidence in his ship. And of his words. “If I should fall …” The same words, the same voice which had spoken for all of them.

  Avery entered the cabin even as the sentry shouted his arrival.

  Bolitho said, “Did it go well, George?”

  Avery looked at Ozzard and his tray of glasses.

  “Something I heard my father say, a long time ago. That the gods never concern themselves with the protection of the innocent, only with the punishment of the guilty.” He took a glass from the unsmiling Ozzard. “I never thought I would hear it again under these circumstances.”

  Bolitho waited while Allday lurched to his feet to join them. Tomorrow, then.

  Thinking of Herrick, perhaps. Of all of them.

  He raised his glass. “We Happy Few!”

  They would like that.

  16 LEE SHORE

  LIEUTENANT George Avery gripped the weather shrouds and then paused to stare up at the foremast. Like most of the ship’s company, he had been on deck for over an hour, and yet his eyes were still not accustomed to the enfolding darkness. He could see the pale outline of the hard-braced topsail, but beyond it nothing save an occasional star as it flitted through long banners of cloud. He shivered; it was cold, and his clothing felt damp and clinging, and there was something else also, a kind of light-headedness, a sense of elation, which he thought had gone forever. Those days when he had been in the small schooner Jolie, cutting out equally small prizes from the French coast, sometimes under the noses of a shore battery … Wild, reckless times. He almost laughed into the damp air. It was madness, as it had been madness then.

  He swung himself out and wedged his foot onto the first ratline, then, slowly and carefully, he began to climb, the big signals telescope hanging across his shoulder like a poacher’s gun. Up and up, the shrouds vibrating beneath his grip, the tarred cordage as sharp and cold as ice. He was not afraid of heights, but he respected them: it was one of the first things he could remember when he had been appointed midshipman under his uncle’s sponsorship. The seamen, who had been rough and independent although they had shown him kindness, would rush up the ratlines barefooted, the skin so calloused and hardened that they scorned the wearing of shoes, which they would keep for special occasions.

  He stopped to regain his breath, and felt his body being pressed against the quivering rigging while the invisible ship beneath him leaned over to a sudden gust of wind. Like cold hands, holding him.

  Even though he could see nothing below him but the unchanging outline of the upper deck, sharpened occasionally when a burst of spray cascaded over the gangways or through the beak-head, he could imagine the others standing as he had left them. So different from the usual nerve-wrenching thrill when the drums rattled and beat the hands to quarters, the orderly chaos when a ship was cleared for action from bow to stern: screens torn down, tiny hutches of cabins where the officers found their only privacy transformed into just anot
her part of a gun deck, furniture, personal items and sea-chests dragged or winched into the lower hull, below the waterline, where the surgeon and his assistants would be preparing, remaining separate from the noise before battle: their work would come to them. On this occasion clearing for action had been an almost leisurely affair, men moving amongst familiar tackle and rigging as if it were broad daylight.

  As ordered, the hands had been given a hot meal in separate watches, and only then was the galley fire doused, the last measure of rum drained.

  Tyacke had remained by the quarterdeck rail, while officers and messengers had flowed around him, like extensions of the man himself. York with his master’s mates, Daubeny, the first lieutenant, with a junior midshipman always trotting at his heels like a pet dog. And right aft by the companion-way where he had walked with Sir Richard, Avery could see that in his mind also. Where the command of any ship or squadron began or ended. He smiled as he recalled what Allday had said of it. “Aft, the most honour. Forward, the better man!” Bolitho had been holding his watch closely against the compass light, and had said, “Go aloft, George. Take a good glass with you. I need to know instantly. You will be my eyes today.”

  It still saddened him. Did those words, too, have a hidden meaning?

  And Allday again, taking his hat and sword from him. “They’ll be here when you needs ’em, Mr Avery. Don’t want our flag lieutenant gettin’ all tangled up in the futtock shrouds, now, do we?”

  He had written the letter Allday had requested. Like the man, it had been warmly affectionate, and yet, after all he had seen and suffered, so simple and unworldly. Avery had almost been able to see Unis opening and reading it, calling her ex-soldier brother to tell him about it. Holding it up to the child.

  He shook his head, thrusting the thoughts aside, and started to climb again. Long before any of their letters reached England, they might all be dead.