Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

The master returned, grim-faced, to say that he was resuming course and tack. It was over.

Bolitho said suddenly, “Yours is an experienced company, Captain Tregullon. None better at this work, I think you said?”

Tregullon eyed him suspiciously. “I did, Zur Richard. That I did.”

“I think we should make every effort to investigate what we have heard. At first light the sea may ease. I feel it.”

Tregullon was not convinced. “I have my orders, zur. They comes from the lords of Admiralty. No matter how I feels about it, I am not able or willing to change those orders.” He tried to smile, but it evaded him. “Not even for you, zur.”

Bolitho walked to the stern windows and leaned against the glass. “The lords of Admiralty, you say?” He turned, his face in shadow, the white lock of hair above his eye like a brushstroke. “We’re all sailors here. We all know there is someone far higher who controls our lives, and listens to our despair when it pleases Him.”

Tregullon licked his lips. “I knows that, zur. But what can I do?”

Bolitho said quietly, “There are men out there, Captain Tregullon. In need, and likely in fear. It may already be too late, and I am well aware of the risk to your ship. To you and your company.”

“Not least to you, zur!” But there was no fight in his voice. He sighed. “Very well. I’ll do it.” He looked up angrily. “Not for you, with all respect, zur, an’ not for His Majesty, bless his soul.” He stared at his crumpled hat. “For me. It has to be so.”

Bolitho and Avery ate their meal in silence: the whole ship seemed to be holding her breath. Only the creak of the rudder and the occasional thud of feet overhead gave any hint that everything had changed.

At first light, as Bolitho had expected, the wind and sea eased; and with every available telescope and lookout searching for the presence of danger Tregullon shortened sail, and, arms folded, watched the darkness falling away and the sea eventually tinge with silver to mark each trough and roller.

Avery joined Bolitho on the broad quarterdeck, where he was standing in silence by the weather side, his black hair blowing unheeded in the bitter air. Once or twice Avery saw him touch his injured eye, impatient, even resentful that his concentration was interrupted.

Captain Tregullon joined him, and said gruffly, “We tried, Zur Richard. If there was anything, we were too late.” He watched Bolitho’s profile, seeking something. “I’d best lay her on a new tack.”

He was about to shamble away when the cry came down, sharp and crisp, like the call of a hawk.

“Wreckage in th’ water, sir! Lee bow!”

There was a lot of it. Planks and timber, drifting cordage and broken or upended boats, most of it charred and splintered by the fierceness of the bombardment.

Bolitho waited while the ship came into the wind, and a boat was lowered with one of the master’s mates in charge.

There were a few dead, lolling as if asleep as the waves carried them by. The boat moved slowly amongst them, the bowman pulling each sodden corpse alongside with his hook and then quickly discarding it, unwilling, it seemed, to interrupt such a final journey.

Except for one. The master’s mate took some time with it, and even without a glass Avery could see the dead face, the gaping wounds, all that was left of a man.

The boat returned and was hoisted inboard with a minimum of fuss. Avery heard the master pass his orders for getting under way again. Heavy, unhurried: the ship, as always, coming first.

Then he came aft and waited for Bolitho to face him. “My mate knew that dead sailor, Zur Richard. I expect we knew most of ’em.”

Bolitho said, “She was the Royal Herald, was she not?”

“She was, zur. Because of our losing the t’gallant mast she overreached us. They was waiting. They knew we was coming.” Then he said in a hoarse whisper, “It was you they was after, Zur Richard. They wanted you dead.”

Bolitho touched his thick arm. “So it would seem. Instead, many good men died.”

Then he turned and looked at Avery, and beyond him, Allday. “We thought we had left the war behind, my friends. Now it has come to meet us.”

There was no anger or bitterness, only sorrow. The respite was over.

BOLITHO put down the empty cup and walked slowly to the tall stern window. Around and above him, Indomitable ’s hull seemed to tremble with constant movement and purpose, so unlike the transport Royal Enterprise, which he had left the previous afternoon. He peered through the thick glass and saw her lying at anchor, his practised eye taking in the movement of seamen on her yards and in her upper rigging, while others hoisted fresh stores from a lighter alongside. Royal Enterprise would soon be off again on her next mission, with her master still brooding over the brutal destruction of the other transport which had been so well known to him and his people, and less confident now that speed was all that was required to protect them from a determined enemy.

It was halfway through the forenoon, and Bolitho had been working since first light. He had been surprised and touched by the warmth of his reception. Tyacke had come in person to collect him from Royal Enterprise, his eyes full of questions when Tregullon had mentioned the attack.

He glanced now around the cabin, which was so familiar in spite of his absence in England. Tyacke had done some fine work to get his ship repaired and ready for sea, for even in harbour the weather did not encourage such activities. But now there was a little weak sunlight to give an illusion of warmth. He touched the glass. It was an illusion.

He should be used to it. Even so, the transformation was a tribute to Indomitable ’s captain. Even here in his cabin, these guns had roared defiance: now each one was lashed snugly behind sealed ports, trucks painted, barrels unmarked by fire and smoke.

He looked at the empty cup. The coffee was excellent, and he wondered how long his stock would last. He could imagine her going to that shop in St James’s Street, Number Three, part of the new world she had opened to him. Coffee, wine, so many small luxuries, which she had known he would not have bothered to obtain for himself, nor would anyone else.

Keen would be coming aboard in an hour or so: he had sent word that he would be detained by a visit from some local military commander who wanted to discuss the improved defences and shore batteries. A casual glance at any map or chart would show the sense of that. Halifax was the only real naval base left to them on the Atlantic coast. The Americans had their pick, Boston, New York, Philadelphia, as well as scores of bays and estuaries where they could conceal an armada if they so desired.

He wondered how Adam was finding his appointment as flag captain. After the freedom of a solitary command, it might be just what he needed. Conversely, it might remain only a cruel reminder of what might have been.

He closed the canvas folder he had been studying, and considered Keen’s report. A convoy of five merchantmen had been ordered to await a stronger escort off the Bermudas for their final passage to the West Indies. Until then, two brigs had been the only vessels Dawes had spared to defend them.

The convoy had never reached the Bermudas. Every ship must have been taken, or sunk.

When he met Keen, he would discover his real thoughts on the matter. The disaster had happened a few days after he had hoisted his flag in Valkyrie; there was nothing he could have done. But what of Dawes, acting-commodore until Keen’s arrival? Perhaps he had had his own reasons for allowing merchantmen to venture unprotected into an area which had become a hunting ground for enemy men-of-war and privateers alike.