Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

Adam had sent a letter to the boy’s mother. Had she asked for his return, he would have put him ashore and made certain that he reached her safely. She had not acknowledged the letter. Perhaps she had moved from the area, or taken up with another “uncle.” Either way, Adam thought his young charge had been quietly pleased about it.

He ran his eye critically over the frigate. Rigging well set up, sails neatly furled. She was smart enough. He could see the scarlet and blue of the receiving party by the entry port. He knew nothing of her captain, other than that this was his first command. He found he could shut it from his mind. It was not his concern. He, like Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen, who was arriving tomorrow, was a passenger. He smiled briefly. An inconvenience.

He thought with affection of his uncle, and how close they had been after his escape from the Americans. They would all meet again in Halifax. He still did not know why he had accepted Keen’s offer. Because of guilt? To allay suspicion? He knew it was neither. It was simply a feeling, like someone or something leading the way. He recalled Zennor, the quietness of the place, the hiss of the sea on the rocks beneath the cliff. Her grave. He had touched it, and had felt her spirit watching him. The little mermaid.

“Bows!” The midshipman’s voice was loud. Perhaps he had taken Adam’s silence for disapproval.

The bowman was on his feet, boat-hook poised as rudder and oars brought the boat hard round toward the main chains. The oars were tossed, showering the seamen with salt water as the boat swayed and bounced alongside.

He looked at the midshipman. “Thank you, Mr Price. That was well done.”

The youth gaped at him, as if surprised that his name was known. He thought once more of Bolitho, all the lessons learned.

They have names. He could almost hear his voice. In this life we

share, it is often all they do have.

He stood up, ensuring that the new sword was safely in position on his hip. He had never forgotten Bolitho’s cautionary tale of the senior officer who had fallen headlong over his sword, in full view of the side party.

He glanced down at the boy. “Ready, young John?” He knew that above his head they were all waiting: the ritual of receiving a captain on board. But this, too, was important.

Whitmarsh picked up his bag, his brown eyes unblinking as he stared at the tapering masts, the ensign curling out from the taffrail.

“Ready, sir.” He nodded firmly. “Aye, ready.”

Adam smiled, and climbed swiftly up the side. He still wore a dressing on the jagged wound, but it was only to protect the tender scar from the pressure of his clothing.

He stepped onto the deck and removed his hat as the Royal Marines presented arms in salute. And to remind me, so that I never forget.

“Welcome aboard, Captain Bolitho! It is an honour!”

Adam shook his hand. Very young, and in the gleaming new epaulettes, he was like a youth playing the role of captain. He thought, as I once did.

The captain, whose name was Martin Hyde, led the way aft, and said almost apologetically, “A bit crowded, I’m afraid. Rear-Admiral Keen will have my quarters, and there is an extra berth for you. I’ve arranged for your section to be screened off. I see you have a servant with you, so you should be comfortable enough. ”He hesitated. “I must ask this. What is the rear-admiral like? It is three thousand miles to Halifax, and he will be used to rather more luxury than I can offer, I imagine.”

Adam said, “He is very agreeable, and a good man in every way.”

The other captain seemed relieved. “I understand that his wife died recently. It can change one.”

Adam heard himself answer levelly, “He will leave you free to direct your ship as you will.” He would have to become accustomed to it. People would always want to know.

He saw a corporal of marines pointing out something to Whitmarsh, and the boy nodding in agreement. He belonged. But just once Adam saw him glance uncertainly along the busy deck, where the guard was falling out and the hands were returning to their work.

Hyde said, “He looks a likely lad. Young, but I’m often so desperate for bodies I’d take them from their mothers’ arms if I could!”

An officer hovered nearby, obviously the first lieutenant. Hyde said, “I am needed, Captain Bolitho. We will talk later.” He smiled, and looked even younger. “It is a privilege to have you aboard, although after three thousand miles you may feel differently.” Then he was gone.

Overhead, the familiar sounds resumed, the twitter of bosun’s calls, the “Spithead Nightingales,” the thud of bare feet, and the squeal of tackles through their blocks. His world, but not mine. Adam sat on a chest and stared around at the great cabin, where he would live, and attempt to accept a future with Keen.

He heard Whitmarsh walking behind him, still very careful of his shining new shoes with their bright buckles.

Adam said, “In that chest.” He tossed him the keys. “There’s some cognac.” He watched the boy opening it. Like the others, it could have belonged to a stranger. All new. He sighed.

John Whitmarsh asked quietly, “Be you sad, sir?”

He looked sharply at the boy. “Remember what I told you aboard Indomitable, when I asked you to come with me?”

He saw him screw up his eyes. “Aye, sir. You said that when we were sad we should remember our old ship, an’ our lost friends.”

Adam took the cup of cognac from his hand. “That is so.”

The boy watched him anxiously. “But we will get another ship, sir!”

The very simplicity of it moved him. “Yes. We will, John Whitmarsh.”

He looked toward the stern windows, streaked now with salt spray like ice rime.

“But there will always be thoughts.”

The boy had not heard him, or perhaps he had spoken only to himself: he was unpacking one of the chests in an orderly fashion, as Ozzard had taught him. He was content.

Adam stood up. And so must I be. Others depend on me. It has to be enough.

But when he had knelt by her grave, he had known then that it was not.

George Avery paused to get his bearings, and reconsider what he was doing. When he had watched her drive away in the smart blue carriage, he should have left it right there, put it back into the past with all the other memories and bitter experiences. He had returned to Jermyn Street and prowled up and down, simply to reawaken the breathtaking sensations of that chance meeting. He had almost expected to see the same two tattered veterans begging for food, but they had receded into the day’s unreality. He frowned. There had been plenty of others, though.

She had been right about one thing. Her house was close by; he was not even breathless from the walk. It was cold, with watery sunlight, but he had not needed the new boat-cloak which he carried loosely over his arm. The house, though, was enough to chill his blood. He did not quite know what he had expected, but it was large and elegant, with a presence to match. He stopped again. He should turn and go, now. And there were several carriages outside: she was not alone. Perhaps he should have gone to the house when she had asked him, to take tea. But that invitation had been two days ago. He had looked at her little card several times since then, unable to decide what to do.

And then an Admiralty messenger had brought him the letter, and the sailing date. They would leave from Plymouth, so it was time he began the long journey to Falmouth, where Sir Richard Bolitho would be requiring his presence.

Instead, he was here.

What would she say? She might not even consent to see him. He stared at the house again, trying to remember his captain, her husband. He had assumed that Mildmay had been given the old