Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

The lieutenant swallowed hard. “I am proud to have been with you, sir. My father served under your uncle, Sir Richard Bolitho. Because of what he told me, I always wanted to enter the navy.”

Despite the tension and unreality of the moment, Adam was strangely moved.

“Never lose it. Love, loyalty, call it what you will. It will sustain you.” He hesitated. “It must.”

They both looked at the door as it opened carefully, and the Royal Marine captain in charge of the guard peered in at them.

He said, “They are waiting, Captain Bolitho.” He seemed about to add something, encouragement, hope, who could tell. But the moment passed. He banged his heels together smartly and marched out into the corridor.

When he glanced back, Adam saw the lieutenant staring after him. Trying to fix the moment in his mind, perhaps to tell his father.

He almost smiled. He had forgotten to ask him his name.

The great room was full to capacity, although who they were and what they sought here was beyond understanding. But then, he thought, there was always a good crowd for a public hanging, too.

Adam was very aware of the distance, the click of the marine captain’s heels behind him. Once he slipped. There was still powdered chalk on the polished floor, another reminder of the Christmas ball.

As he came around the last line of seated spectators to face the officers of the board, he saw his borrowed sword on the table; its hilt was toward him. He was shocked, not because he knew the verdict was a just one, but because he felt nothing. Nothing. As if he, like all these others, was a mere onlooker.

The president of the court, a rear-admiral, regarded him gravely.

“Captain Adam Bolitho, the verdict of this Court is that you are honourably acquitted.” He smiled briefly. “You may be seated.”

Adam shook his head. “No, sir. I prefer not.”

“Very well.” The rear-admiral opened his brief. “The Court holds that Captain Adam Bolitho not only acquitted himself of his duty in the best tradition of the Royal Navy, but in the execution of such duty has done infinite credit to himself by a very obstinate defence against a most superior force. By placing his ship between the enemy and the vessels charged to his protection, he showed both courage and initiative of the highest order.” He raised his eyes. “But for those qualities, it would seem unlikely that you would have succeeded, particularly in view of the fact that you had no knowledge of the declaration of war. Otherwise…” The word hung in the air. He did not need to explain further what the outcome of the court martial would have been.

All the members of the court stood up. Some were smiling broadly, obviously relieved that it was all over.

The rear-admiral said, “Retrieve your sword, Captain Bolitho.” He attempted to lighten it. “I would have thought you might be wearing that fine sword of honour I have been hearing about, eh?”

Adam slid the borrowed sword into its scabbard. Leave now. Say nothing. But he looked at the rear-admiral and the eight captains who were his court and said, “George Starr was my coxswain, sir. With his own hand he lit charges which speeded the end of my ship. But for him, Anemone would be serving in the United States navy.”

The rear-admiral nodded, his smile fading. “I know that. I read it in your report.”

“He was a good and honest man who served me, and his country, well.” He was aware of the sudden silence, broken only by the creak of chairs as those at the back of the great room leaned forward to hear his quiet, unemotional voice. “But they hanged him for his loyalty, as if he were a common felon.”

He looked at the faces across the table, without seeing them. His outward composure was a lie, and he knew he would break down if he persisted. “I sold the sword of honour to a collector who values such things.” He heard the murmurs of surprise behind his back. “As for the money, I gave it to George Starr’s widow. It is all she will receive, I imagine.”

He bowed stiffly and turned away from the table, walking between the ranks of chairs with his hand to his side as if he expected to feel the old torment. He did not even see the expressions, sympathy, understanding, and perhaps shame: he saw only the door, which was already being opened by a white-gloved marine. His own marines and seamen had died that day, a debt no sword of honour could ever repay.

There were a few people in the outer lobby. Beyond them, he saw the falling snow, so clean after what he had attempted to describe.

One, a civilian, stepped forward and held out his hand. His face seemed vaguely familiar, yet Adam knew they had never met.

The man hesitated. “I am so sorry, Captain Bolitho. I should not detain you further after what you have just experienced.” He glanced across the room where a woman sat, gazing at them intently. “My wife, sir.”

Adam wanted to leave. Very soon the others would be milling around him, congratulating him, praising him for what he had done, when earlier they would have watched him facing the point of the sword with equal interest. But something held him. As if someone had spoken aloud.

“If I can be of service, sir?”

The man was well over sixty years old, but there was an erectness, a pride in his bearing as he explained, “My name is Hudson, Charles Hudson. You see…” He fell silent as Adam stared at him, his composure gone.

He said, “Richard Hudson, my first lieutenant in Anemone.” He tried to clear his mind. Hudson, who had slashed down the ensign with his hanger while he himself lay wounded and unable to move. Again, it was like being an onlooker, hearing others speak. I ordered you to fight the ship! Each despairing gasp wrenching at his wound like a branding iron. And all the while Anemone was dying beneath them, even as the enemy surged alongside. And Hudson ’s last words before Adam was lowered into a boat. If we ever meet again…

Adam could still hear his own answer. As God is my witness, I will kill you, damn your eyes!

“We had only one letter from him.” Hudson glanced again at his wife and Adam saw her nod, helping him. She looked frail, unwell. It had cost them dearly to come here.

He said, “How is he?”

Charles Hudson did not seem to hear. “My brother was a vice admiral. He used his influence to have Richard appointed to your ship. When he wrote, he always spoke of you so warmly… he was so proud to be serving with you. When I heard about your court martial, as they dare to call it, we had to come. To see you, to thank you for what you did for Richard. He was our only son.”

Adam tensed. Was. “What happened?”

“In his letter he said he wanted to find you. To explain… something.” He dropped his head. “He was shot, attempting to escape. He was killed.”

Adam felt the room sway, like the deck of a ship. All that time, the pain and the despair, the hatred because of what had happened; and he had thought only of himself.

He said, “I shall tell my uncle when I see him. He was known to your son.” Then he took the man’s arm and led him towards his wife. “There was nothing for Richard to explain. Now he is at peace, he will know that.”

Hudson ’s mother was on her feet, holding out her hand to him. Adam stooped, and kissed her cheek. It was like ice.

“Thank you.” He looked at each of them. “Your loss is my loss also.”

He glanced round as a lieutenant coughed politely, and murmured, “The port admiral wishes to see you, sir.”

“Can’t it wait?”

The lieutenant licked his lips. “I was told that it was important, sir. To you.”

Adam turned to say goodbye, but they had gone, as quietly and patiently as they had waited.

He felt his cheek. Her tears, or were they his own?