Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

He had consulted Tyacke, and Tyacke had not hesitated. “Thinking too much of keeping his house in good order. I’m told that promotion can sometimes do that to a man.” Hard and blunt, like himself. Tyacke had even been scornful about his two new epaulettes. He had been promoted to post-captain, for rank only, the usual requirement of three years’ service as captain having been waived as a mark of favour. “I’m still the same man, Sir Richard. I think Their Lordships have a different set of values!” He had relented slightly. “But I know your hand was in it, and that I do respect.”

Yes, it had surprised Bolitho that his return had, after all, been like a homecoming. And, despite what he hoped for, it was here that he belonged.

He had described the attack on Royal Herald and had watched Tyacke’s scarred face, thoughtful, assessing each small piece of information and relating it to what he knew.

A prolonged bombardment, to catch and destroy the transport before she could find refuge in darkness. No one had heard the sound of a single shot fired in reply, not even a gesture or a final show of defiance. Nothing. It had been calculated murder. Had it been a trap set for Royal Enterprise? For him? Was it possible that a single mind had planned it so carefully, only to see it misfire through a fluke in the weather and an accident?

He had searched through every report Keen had gathered for him, knowing that they would be the first thing his admiral would want to see. Unless another man like Nathan Beer was abroad and at sea, unknown and undetected by the local patrols, which had been ordered to watch for any sudden ship movements, his theory seemed unlikely. But, so too was coincidence.

They wanted you dead.

Not another Nathan Beer, then. Perhaps there was no such officer with his wealth of experience and sense of honour. Beer had been a sailor first and foremost: to kill defenceless men, unable to resist, had never been his way. He wondered if his widow in Newburyport had received Beer’s sword, which Bolitho himself had sent to her. Would she care? He found himself staring at the old family sword lying on its rack, where it received Allday’s regular attention. Would that help Catherine, if the worst happened? He thought of the portrait she had commissioned for him. The real Catherine, she had called it. The painter had caught her exactly as she had wanted to be remembered, in the rough seaman’s clothing she had worn in the open boat. Perhaps she would cherish the old sword…

The door opened slightly, shaking him from his unwelcome thoughts, and Avery peered into the cabin. The brief stay in England had affected him deeply, Bolitho thought. He had always been withdrawn: now he had become remote, troubled and introspective. Bolitho had too much respect for George Avery to pry into it, and they had shared danger too often not to know that this unspoken understanding of one another was an anchor for them both.

Avery said, “Signal from Valkyrie, Sir Richard. Rear-Admiral Keen is about to come over to us.”

“Tell Captain Tyacke, will you?”

Avery said gently, “He knows.”

Bolitho reached for his heavy uniform coat. Irrationally, he disliked wearing it when he was working in his quarters, perhaps because he sometimes believed that it influenced his decisions, and made him think more like an admiral than a man.

It was true: Tyacke did seem to know everything that was happening in his ship. Maybe that was how he had overcome his resentment, fear, even, of taking command or becoming flag captain after the private world of Larne. The purser, James Viney, had been discharged as sick and unfit for further service at sea, and Bolitho suspected that Tyacke had guessed from the outset that Viney had been falsifying his accounts in connivance with equally dishonest chandlers. It was a common enough failing, but some captains were content to let it rest. Not James Tyacke.

He allowed his mind to stray again to the attack. Suppose it had been solely to kill him? He found that he could accept it, but the motive was something else. No single man could make so much difference. Nelson had been the only one to win an overwhelming victory by inspiration alone after he himself had fallen, mortally wounded.

Avery said abruptly, “I meant to tell you, Sir Richard.” He glanced round, caught off-guard by the tramp of boots as the Royal Marines prepared to receive their visitor with full honours. “It can wait.”

Bolitho sat on the corner of the table. “I think it will not. It has been tearing you to pieces. Good or bad, a confidence often helps to share the load.”

Avery shrugged. “I was at a reception in London.” He tried to smile. “I was like a fish out of water.” The smile would not come. “Your… Lady Bolitho was there. We did not speak, of course. She would not know me.”

So that was it. Unwilling to mention it because it might disturb me. He found himself speculating on the reason for Avery’s attendance.

“I would not be too certain of that, but thank you for telling me. It took courage, I think.” He picked up his hat as he heard hurrying footsteps beyond the screen door. “Especially as your admiral’s mood has been far from pleasant of late!”

It was the first lieutenant, very stiff and uneasy in his new role.

“The captain’s respects, Sir Richard.” His eyes moved swiftly around the spacious cabin, seeing it quite differently from either of them, Avery imagined.

Bolitho smiled. “Speak, Mr Daubeny. We are all agog.”

The lieutenant grinned nervously. “Rear-Admiral Keen’s barge has cast off, sir.”

“We will come up directly.”

As the door closed Bolitho asked, “Then there was no attempt to involve you in scandal?”

“I would not have stood for it, Sir Richard.”

In spite of the deep lines on his face and the streaks of grey in his dark hair, he looked and sounded very vulnerable, like a much younger man.

Ozzard opened the door and they walked past him.

At the foot of the companion ladder, Bolitho paused and glanced at his flag lieutenant again with sudden intuition. Or a man who was suddenly in love, and did not know what to do about it.

When he crossed the damp quarterdeck he saw Tyacke waiting for him.

“A very smart turn-out, Captain Tyacke.”

The harsh, scarred face did not smile.

“I shall pass the word to the side party, Sir Richard.”

Avery listened, missing nothing, thinking of the reception, the daring gowns, the arrogance. What did they know of men like these? Tyacke, with his melted face, and the courage to endure the stares, the pity and the revulsion. Or Sir Richard, who had knelt on this bloodied deck to hold the dying hand of an American captain.

How could they know?

The boatswain’s mates moistened their silver calls on their lips, side-boys waited to fend off the smart green barge, the twin lines of scarlet marines swayed slightly on the harbour current.

It is my life. There is nothing more I want.

“Royal Marines! Present…!” The rest was lost in the din.

Again, they were of one company.

After the long day, and the comings and goings of officers and local officials paying their respects to the admiral, and the degrees of ceremony and respect that applied to each one of them, Indomitable seemed quiet, and at peace. All hands had been piped down for the night, and only the watch keepers and the scarlet coated sentries moved on the upper decks.

Right aft in his cabin, Bolitho watched the stars, which seemed to reflect and mingle with the glittering lights of the town. Here and there a small lantern moved on the dark water: a guard-boat or some messenger, or even a fisherman.

The day had been tiring. Adam and Valentine Keen had arrived together, and he had been aware of the momentary uneasiness when they had been reunited with Tyacke and Avery. Keen had brought his new flag lieutenant as well, the Honourable Lawford de Courcey, a slim young man with hair almost as fair as his admiral’s. Highly recommended, Keen had said, and intelligent and eager. Ambitious, too, from the little he had said; the scion of an influential family, but not a naval one. Keen had seemed pleased about it, but Bolitho had wondered if the appointment had been arranged by one of the many friends of Keen’s father.