Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

Allday saw him smile. Like someone speaking of an old comrade.

“So many miles, so many people, eh?” He turned, his face composed, even sad. “But, of course, we had another ship then. Phalarope.”

Allday sipped his rum, although he did not remember reaching for it. There had been many moments like this, before the proud admiral’s flags, the fame, and the bloody scandal. So many times. He watched him now, sharing it, very aware that he was one of the few that this man, this hero, could speak with so freely.

He would not be able to tell Unis about it, not until he was with her again. It would be out of the question to ask Lieutenant Avery to pen it for him. It would have to be later, at the right time, like the moment he had told her about his son’s death. He glanced up at the closed skylight. Just a few yards away.

Bolitho said, “Admiral Rodney broke the French line that day because the enemy’s frigates failed to discover his intentions. Our frigates did not fail.”

His eyes were distant, remembering not so much the battle between the two great fleets as the slowness of their embrace, and the slaughter which had followed. He had seen too many such encounters, and he had felt like some physical assault the hostility of those at the Admiralty when he had said that the line of battle was dead. It must have sounded like blasphemy. We’ll not see another Trafalgar, I am certain of it.

“It is every frigate captain’s main concern-his duty-to discover, to observe, and to act.”

Ozzard frowned as the door opened slightly, and Avery hesitated, uncertain why he had come.

“I’m sorry, Sir Richard. I heard… somebody said…”

Bolitho gestured to a chair. “This time you did not have too far to come. Not like riding from Portsmouth to London!”

Avery took a goblet from Ozzard. He looked dishevelled, as if he had been trying to sleep when some instinct had roused him.

Allday, in the shadows, nodded. That was better. More like it.

Bolitho glanced around at them, his grey eyes keen. “Captain Dawes did not see it, because there was nothing to see. He conserved the squadron’s strength, as I so ordered, and repaired the vessels that most needed it. It was like a well-ordered plan, beyond doubt or question.”

Avery said, “Do you believe that the outcome of the war is still undecided, sir?”

Bolitho smiled. “We have been fighting one enemy or another for years, for some a lifetime. But always, the French were in the vanguard. Always the French.”

Allday frowned. To him one mounseer was much like another. The old Jacks could sing and brag about it when they’d had a skinful of rum, but when it came down to it, it had always been “us” or “them.”

“I ain’t sure I follows, Sir Richard.”

“We are intent on defeating the French without further delay, so that we may bring naval reinforcements to these waters to contain the Americans. In turn, the Americans must break our line before that happens. I believe that the Royal Herald was destroyed by an unknown force of ships, American or French, maybe both, but under one leader, who will settle for nothing less than the destruction of our patrols and, if need be, our entire squadron.”

Captain James Tyacke was here now, his scarred face in shadow, his blue eyes fixed on Bolitho.

“In all the reports there is no mention of any American resentment at a new French presence, and yet we have missed or overlooked the most obvious fact, that war makes strange bedfellows. I believe that an American of great skill and determination is the single mind behind this venture. He has shown his hand. It is up to us to find and defeat him.” He looked at each of them in turn, conscious of the strength they had given him, and of their trust.

“The face in the crowd, my friends. It was there all the time, and no one saw it.”

Captain Adam Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and watched the afternoon working parties, each separated by craft and skill, gathered around a portion of the main deck like stall holders: no wonder it was often called the market-place. Valkyrie was big for a frigate, and like Indomitable had begun life as a small third-rate, a ship of the line.

He had met all his officers both individually and as a wardroom at a first, informal meeting. Some, like John Urquhart, the first lieutenant, were of the original company, when Valkyrie had been commissioned and had hoisted his uncle’s flag, then a vice admiral’s, at the foremast truck. To all accounts she had been an unhappy ship, plagued with discontent and its inevitable companion of flogging at the gangway, until her last, famous battle, and the destruction of the notorious French squadron under Baratte. Her captain, Trevenen, had been proved a coward, so often the true nature of a tyrant, and had vanished overboard under mysterious circumstances.

Adam glanced up at Keen’s flag, whipping out stiffly from the mizzen. Here and here, men had died. His uncle had been injured, momentarily blinded in the undamaged eye, the battle lost until Rear-Admiral Herrick, who had been recovering from the amputation of his right arm, had burst on deck. Adam stared at the companion and the unmanned wheel. He could picture it as if he himself had been here. Lieutenant Urquhart had taken charge, and had proved what he could do. A quiet, serious officer, he would soon be given his own command if they were called to action.

He watched the working parties, knowing that every man jack was well aware of his presence. The new captain. Already known, because of his achievements in Anemone and because of the family name, and the admiral who was rarely out of the news. But to these men, he was simply their new superior. Nothing which had preceded him mattered, until they had learned what he was like.

The sail maker and his mates were here, cross-legged, busy with palms and bright needles. Nothing was ever wasted, be it a sail ripped apart in a gale or the scrap that would eventually clothe a corpse for its final journey to the seabed. The carpenter and his crew; the boatswain making a last inspection of the new blocks and tackles above the boat tier. He saw the surgeon, George Minchin, walking alone on the larboard gangway, his face brick red in the hard afternoon light. Another man whose story was unknown. He had been in the old Hyperion when she had gone down, with Keen as her captain. The navy was like a family, but there were so many missing faces now.

Adam had been on deck at first light when Indomitable had weighed, and sailed in company with two other frigates and a brig. She had made a fine sight, towering above the other ships with her pyramids of sails straining and hardening like armoured breastplates in a sharp north-westerly. He had lifted his hat, and had known that his uncle, although unseen, would have returned their private salute. In one way, he envied Tyacke his role as Bolitho’s flag captain, even as he knew it would have been the worst thing he could have attempted. This was his ship. He had to think of her as his sole responsibility, and Keen’s flag made it an important one. But it would go no further. Even if he tried, he knew he would never love this ship as he had loved Anemone.

He thought of Keen, and the sudden energy which had surprised all those accustomed to a more leisurely chain of command. Keen had been ashore often, not merely to meet the army commanders but also to be entertained by the senior government and commercial representatives of Halifax.

Adam had accompanied him on several occasions, as a duty more than out of curiosity. One of the most important people had been Keen’s father’s friend, a bluff, outspoken man who could have been any age between fifty and seventy, and who had achieved his present prominence by sweat rather than influence. He laughed a good deal, but Adam had noticed that his eyes always remained completely cold, like blue German steel. His name was Benjamin Massie, and Keen had told Adam that he was well known in London for his radical ideas on the expansion of trade in America, and, equally, for his impatience at anything that might prolong the hostilities.