Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

He was not the only person here known to Keen. Another of his father’s friends had arrived earlier, with an open-handed commission from the Admiralty to examine the possibilities of increased investment in shipbuilding, not only for the navy, but with the immediate future in mind and with an eye to improving trade with the southern ports. The enemy was a term that did not find favour with Massie and his associates.

So what would happen next? Keen had arranged local patrols in a huge box-shaped zone that stretched from Boston to the south-west, and Sable Island and the Grand Banks six hundred miles in the opposite direction. A large area, yes, but not so vast that each patrol might lose contact with the other if the enemy chose to break out of port, or that Halifax-bound convoys or individual ships could be ambushed before they reached safety. Like the Royal Herald. A deliberate, well-planned attack with the sole intention of killing his uncle. He was not certain if Keen accepted that explanation. He had remarked, “We will assess each sighting or conflict at its face value. We must not be dragooned into scattering and so weakening our flotillas.”

A master’s mate touched his hat to him, and Adam tried to fix his name in his mind. He smiled. Next time, perhaps.

He heard a light step on the quarterdeck, and wondered why he disliked the new flag lieutenant so much when they had barely spoken. Perhaps it was because the Honourable Lawford de Courcey seemed so much at home with the sort of people they had met ashore. He knew who was important and why, who could be trusted, and who might rouse disapproval as far away as London if he were crossed or overruled. He would be perfectly at home at Court, but in the teeth of an enemy broadside? That remained to be seen.

He steeled himself. It did not matter. They would put to sea in two days’ time. It was probably what they all needed. What I need.

The flag lieutenant crossed the deck and waited to be acknowledged.

“The admiral’s compliments, sir, and would you have his barge lowered.”

Adam waited. When de Courcey said nothing more, he asked, “Why?”

De Courcey smiled. “Rear-Admiral Keen is going ashore. Mr Massie wishes to discuss some matters. There will be a social reception also, I believe.”

“I see. I wish to discuss an additional patrol with the admiral.” He was angry, more with himself for rising to de Courcey’s bait. “It is what we are here for, remember?”

“If I may suggest, sir…”

Adam looked past him at the town. “You are the admiral’s aide, Mr de Courcey. Not mine.”

“The admiral would like you to accompany him, sir.”

Adam saw the officer of the watch studying the land with his telescope, and doubtless listening to the terse exchange as well.

“Mr Finlay, pipe away the admiral’s barge, if you please.” He heard the shrill calls, the immediate stampede of bare feet and the bark of orders: so much a part of him, and yet he felt entirely detached from it. It was not de Courcey’s fault. Adam had been a flag lieutenant himself: it had never been an easy role, even when you served a man you loved.

He turned, with some vague intention of clearing the air between them, but the fair-haired lieutenant had vanished.

Later, when he made his way aft to report that the barge was alongside, Adam found Keen dressed and ready to leave the ship.

He studied Adam thoughtfully, and said, “I have not forgotten about the extra patrol, you know. We should have more news when the schooner Reynard returns. She was sent up to the Bay of Fundy, although I think it an unlikely place for the enemy to loiter.”

“De Courcey told you, did he, sir?”

Keen smiled. “His duty, Adam.” He became serious again. “Be patient with him. He will prove his worth.” He paused. “Given the chance.”

There were thumps from the adjoining cabin, and two seamen padded past carrying what was obviously an empty chest to be stowed away.

Keen said, “I am settling in, you see. Not a ship of the line, but she will suffice for the present… It was suggested that I should take quarters ashore, but I think not. Speed is everything.”

Adam waited. Who had suggested it? He saw his youthful servant John Whitmarsh helping a couple of the mess men to unpack another chest.

Why cannot I be like him? Lose myself in what I do best?

There was a small, velvet-covered book on the table. He felt a sudden chill, as though awakening from a cruel dream.

Keen saw his eyes, and said, “Poetry. My late… It was packed in error. My sister is unused to the requirements of war.”

My late… Keen had been unable even to speak Zenoria’s name. He had seen the book that day when he had visited her in Hampshire on some pretext. When she had rejected him.

Keen said, “Are you interested?”

He was surprised at his own calmness, the complete emptiness he felt. Like watching someone else in a mirror.

“It is my intention that young Whitmarsh should learn to read. It might help, sir.”

He picked up the book, hardly daring to look at it.

Keen shrugged. “Well, then. Some use after all.” Then, “You will accompany me, Adam?”

He could even smile. “Yes, sir.” He felt the soft velvet in his fingers, like skin. Like her. “I shall fetch my sword directly.”

In his cabin, he pressed his back to the door and very slowly raised the book to his lips, amazed that his hands were so steady.

How could it be? He closed his eyes as if in prayer, and opened them again, knowing that it was the same book.

He held it with great care, all the ship noises and movements suddenly stilled, as though he were in another world.

The rose petals, pressed tightly in these pages for so long, were almost transparent, like lace or some delicate web. The wild roses he had cut for her that day in June, when they had ridden together on his birthday. When she had kissed him.

He closed the book and held it to his face for several seconds. There was no escape after all. He put the book into his chest and locked it: it was an unbelievable relief to discover that he had never wanted to escape from her memory. He straightened his back, and reached for his sword. From Zenoria.

STANDING LIKE a perfect model above her own reflection, His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Reaper would have held the eye of any casual onlooker, no less than a professional seaman. A 26-gun frigate, very typical of the breed which had entered the revolutionary war with France some twenty years earlier, Reaper retained the sleek lines and grace of those ships which, then as now, were always in short supply. To command such a ship was every young officer’s dream: to be free of the fleet’s apron strings and the whim of every admiral, his real chance to prove his ability, if necessary against impossible odds.

By today’s standards Reaper would appear small, not much bigger than a sloop-of-war, and certainly no match for the newer American frigates which had already proved their superiority in armament and endurance.

On this dazzling April day Reaper lay almost becalmed, her sails hanging with scarcely any movement, her masthead pendant lifeless. Ahead of her, on either bow, two of her longboats, their oars rising and falling like tired wings, attempted to hold her under command, to retain steerage-way until the wind returned.

She was almost at the end of her passage, twelve hundred miles from Kingston, Jamaica, which had already taken her nearly two weeks. At dusk the previous day they had crossed the thirtieth parallel, and tomorrow at first light, if the wind found them again, they would sight the colourful humps of the Bermudas.

Theirs was escort duty, the curse of every fast-moving man-of-war, necessary but tedious, retrimming sails and trying to keep station on their ponderous charges: a test of any captain’s forbearance. There was only one large merchantman to deliver to the Bermudas; the rest had been safely escorted to other ports in the Leeward Islands. The heavily-laden vessel, named Killarney, would eventually join a strongly defended convoy whose destination was England. Many a seaman had glanced at her motionless sails and felt envy and homesickness like a fever, merely by thinking about it.