Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

Adam had greeted him warmly, although reserved in front of the others, and Bolitho had sensed the depression he was trying to conceal. Keen, on the other hand, had been very concerned with the war, and what they might expect when the weather moderated. For the destruction of the Royal Herald he could offer no explanation. Most of the active American ships were in harbour, their presence carefully monitored by a chain of brigs and other, smaller commandeered vessels. Each of the latter might offer a fine chance of promotion to any young lieutenant if fortune smiled on him: such a chance had once come to Bolitho. He touched his eye, and frowned. It seemed an eternity ago.

He had walked around Indomitable with Tyacke, as much to be seen as to inspect the full extent of the overhaul. In her struggle with Unity, Tyacke’s command had lost seventy officers, seamen and marines killed or wounded, a quarter of her company. Replacements had been found, taken from homeward-bound ships, and a surprising number of volunteers, Nova Scotians who had earned their living from the sea before marauding warships and privateers had denied them even that.

They would settle into Indomitable ’s ways; but not until they were at sea, as close-knit as her original company used to be, would they know their true value.

Bolitho had seen the startled, curious eyes, those who had never met the man whose flag flew above all of them at the mainmast truck. And some of the older hands who had knuckled their foreheads, or raised a tarred fist in greeting to show that they knew the admiral, had shared the battle and its cost with him, until the enemy’s flag had been dragged down through the smoke.

His total command had been christened the Leeward Squadron by Bethune, and Their Lordships had been more generous than he had dared to hope, giving him eight frigates and as many brigs. That did not include the heavily-armed Valkyrie, and Indomitable. In addition there were schooners, some brigantines, and two bomb vessels, the request for which the Admiralty had not even questioned. A strong, fast-moving squadron, and it would be joined by the old 74-gun ship of the line Redoubtable, which had been ordered to Antigua. With suitable intelligence gathered by the smaller patrol vessels on their endless stop-and search missions, they should be a match for any new enemy tactics. The larger and better-armed American frigates had already proved their superiority, until Unity had met up with this ship. And even then… But there was still something missing. He paced back and forth across the black and white squares of the canvas deck covering, his hair almost touching the massive beams. Royal Herald had been destroyed, so a ship or ships had avoided the patrols, and perhaps slipped out of harbour, taking advantage of the foul weather. It was pointless to brush it aside, or regard it as a coincidence. And if it had been a deliberate ambush gone wrong, what steps must he take? Very soon now, the Americans would have to launch a new attack. Tyacke had been convinced that it would be a military operation, straight into Canada. Once again, all the reports suggested that any such attack could be contained. The British soldiers were from seasoned regiments, but Bolitho knew from bitter experience in that other American war that often too much reliance was placed upon local militia and volunteers, or on Indian scouts unused to the ways of the hard-line infantryman.

Speed was essential to the Americans. Napoleon was in retreat, and each day of the campaign he was being deserted by friends and erstwhile allies. Surely his defeat was inevitable, perhaps even sooner than strategists in London dared to hope. And when that happened… Bolitho heard again the confidence in Bethune’s voice as he had explained how a French defeat would release many more ships to join the American conflict. But until that time… He stopped pacing and strode to the quarter gallery, and stared down at the black, swirling current.

It must have been right there in Bethune’s gracious rooms at the Admiralty, and yet neither of them had seen or considered it. He looked at the reflected lights until his eye watered. The carefully worded despatches, the lists of ships and squadrons that daily protected the vital lifelines to Wellington ’s armies. Ships that fed his victorious regiments, and made even the smallest advance possible. Even Sillitoe had missed it, perhaps because it had not fitted into his intricate plans and the estimates with which he advised the Prince Regent. Arrogance, over-confidence: it would not be the first time that careful strategy had been undone by those in power who had seen only what they had wanted to see.

The flaw in the pattern of things, like a face in a crowd, there, but invisible.

All they had been able to see was Napoleon’s eventual defeat. After twenty years of war it had, at last, seemed like the impossible landfall. He knew that Tyacke had made no attempt to conceal his disgust at Peter Dawes’s handling of the squadron in his admiral’s absence. Maybe Dawes was another one, blind to everything but his own advancement: promotion, which might vanish like mist if the war should suddenly end.

Bolitho considered his visitors. Keen, contained but enthusiastic at his new appointment, desperately eager to leave the past behind, to overcome his loss. Only Adam seemed unable or unwilling to forget it.

He heard something rattle behind the pantry hatch, a subtle signal from Ozzard that he was still about, in case he was required.

And what of me? So bitter at being parted from the woman he loved that he had failed to heed the instinct gained all those years ago as a frigate captain.

Maybe it was destined to end like this. He had opened the screen door without realizing that he had moved, and the marine sentry was staring at him, transfixed. Their admiral, coatless despite the damp air between decks, who had only to raise a finger to have every man running to do his bidding. What was the matter with him?

Bolitho heard a murmur of voices from the wardroom. Perhaps Avery was there. Or James Tyacke, although he was probably working alone in his cabin. He never slept for more than an hour or two at a time. Surely there was someone he could talk to?

“Something wrong, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho let his arms fall to his sides. Allday was here, watching him, his shadow moving slowly back and forth across the new paintwork, his face devoid of surprise. As if he had known.

“I want to talk, old friend. It’s nothing… I’m not sure.” He turned to the ramrod sentry who was still staring at him, eyes popping, as if his collar was choking him. “At ease, Wilson. There is nothing to fear.”

The marine swallowed. “Yessir!” As he heard the door close he wiped his face with his sleeve. His sergeant would have given him hell just for doing that. But he had been with his squad in the maintop with the other marksmen when they had thundered alongside the enemy. Only for the moment, it meant nothing. He said aloud, “Knew me name! He knew me name!”

Ozzard had poured a tankard of rum and placed it on the table, not too close, in case Allday should take the liberty of thinking that he was his servant as well.

Allday sat on the bench seat and watched Bolitho moving restlessly about the cabin as if it were a cage.

“You remember the Saintes, old friend?”

Allday nodded. Bryan Ferguson had asked him the same thing, while they had been waiting for Bolitho and his lady to return from London.

“Aye, Sir Richard. I recalls it well.”

Bolitho ran his hand down the curved timbers as if to feel the life, the heartbeat of the ship.

“This old lady was there, although I don’t remember her, nor could I imagine what she might one day mean to me. Five years old, she was then.”