Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

Reaper’s only consort was a small, sturdy brig, Alfriston. Like so many of her hard-worked class, she had started life in the merchant service, until the demands of war had changed her role and her purpose. With the aid of a telescope she could just be seen, well astern of the merchantman, completely becalmed and sternon, like a helpless moth landed on the water.

But once rid of their slow-moving charge Reaper would be free, so why was she different from other frigates which had risen above all the setbacks and disasters of war to become legends?

Perhaps it was her silence. Despite the fact that she carried some one hundred and fifty officers, seamen and marines within her graceful hull, she seemed without life. Only the flap of empty canvas against her spars and shrouds, and the occasional creak of the rudder broke the unnatural stillness. Her decks were clean and, like her hull, freshly painted and well-maintained. Like the other ships which had fought on that September day in 1812, there was barely a mark to reveal the damage she had suffered. Her real damage went far deeper, like guilt. Like shame.

Aft by the quarterdeck rail Reaper’s captain stood with his arms folded, a stance he often took when he was thinking deeply. He was twenty-seven years old and already a post-captain, with a fair skin which seemed to defy the heat of the Caribbean or the sudden fury of the Atlantic. A serious face: he could have been described as handsome but for the thinness of his mouth. He was a man whom many would call fortunate, and well placed for the next phase of advancement. This had been Reaper’s first operational cruise after completing her repairs in Halifax, and it was his first time in command of her. A necessary step, but he knew full well why he had been appointed. Reaper’s previous captain, who had been old for his rank, a man of great experience who had left the more ordered world of the Honourable East India Company to return to service in the fleet, had fallen victim to the ruthlessness of war. Reaper had been raked at long range by the American’s massive guns, in what was believed to have been a single broadside, although few who were there could clearly remember what had happened. Reaper had been almost totally dismasted, her decks buried under fallen spars and rigging, her company torn apart. Most of her officers, including her gallant captain, had died instantly; where there had been order, there had been only chaos and terror. Amongst the upended guns and splintered decks somebody, whose identity was still unclear, had hauled down the colours. Nearby, the battle had continued until the American frigate Baltimore had drifted out of command, with many of her people either killed or wounded. Commodore Beer’s flagship Unity had been boarded and taken by Bolitho’s seamen and marines. A very close thing, but in a sea-fight there is only one victor.

Reaper could probably have done nothing more; she had already been passed by and left a drifting wreck. But to those who had fought and survived that day, she was remembered only as the ship which had surrendered while the fight had still raged around her. Their Lordships knew the value of even a small frigate at this decisive stage of the war, and a ship was only as strong as the man who commanded her. Haste, expediency, the need to forget, each had played a part, but even on this bright spring morning, with the sun burning down between the loosely flapping sails, the feeling was still here. Less than half of Reaper’s people were from her original company. Many had died in the battle; others had been too badly wounded to be of any further use. Even so, to the rest of the tightly-knit squadron, Reaper was like an outcast, and her shame was borne by all of them.

The captain came out of his thoughts and saw the first lieutenant making his way aft, pausing here and there to speak with the working parties. They had grown up in the same town, and had entered the navy as midshipmen at almost the same time. The first lieutenant was an experienced and intelligent officer, despite his youth. If he had one failing, it was his readiness to talk with the hands, even the new, untrained landmen, as if they were on equal terms, or as equal as anyone could be in a King’s ship. That would have to change. Reaper needed to be brought to her proper state of readiness and respect, no matter what it cost. His mouth twitched. There was another link. He had asked for, and obtained, the hand of the first lieutenant’s sister in marriage.

His next command would be decided… He broke off as the cry came from aloft. “Signal from Alfriston, sir!”

The captain snapped to one of the attentive midshipmen, “Take a glass up yourself and see what that fool is babbling about!”

The first lieutenant had joined him. “The lookout has no skill with flags, I’m afraid, sir.”

“He’d better mend his ways, damn him, or I’ll see his backbone at the gratings! It’s probably nothing, anyway.”

Somebody called a command and a few seamen ran smartly to the boat tier to execute it. The first lieutenant had grown accustomed to it. The silence, the instant obedience, everything carried out at the double. Try as he might, he could not accept it.

The captain said, “As soon as we receive orders and rid ourselves of Killarney, I shall want sail and gun drill every day, until we can cut the time it takes them to do every little thing. I’ll not stand for slackness. Not from any man!”

The first lieutenant watched his profile, but said nothing. Did it so change an officer who had already held a successful command? Might it change me?

This afternoon there would be the ritual of punishment. Two more floggings at the gangway, both severe, but one of which could have been avoided or reduced to some lesser penalty. The staccato roll of drums, the crack of the lash on a man’s naked back. Again and again, until it looked as if his body had been torn open by some crazed beast…

When he had voiced his opinion about extreme punishment, often at the instigation of some junior officer or midshipman, the captain had turned on him. “Popularity is a myth, a deceit! Obedience and discipline are all that count, to me and to my ship!”

Perhaps when they returned to Halifax, things might improve.

Almost without thinking, he said, “It seems likely that Sir Richard Bolitho will have hoisted his flag in Halifax again, sir.”

“Perhaps.” The captain seemed to consider it, sift it for some hidden meaning. “A flag officer of reputation. But it has to be said that any admiral is only as strong as his captains-and how they perform.”

The first lieutenant had never served with or under Sir Richard Bolitho, and yet, like the many he had spoken to, he felt as if he knew him personally.

The captain was smiling. “We shall see, sir. We shall see.”

The midshipman’s voice came shrilly from the masthead. “Signal from Alfriston, sir! Sail in sight to the nor’-west!” A small pause, as if the midshipman was frightened of the noise. “Brigantine, sir.”

The captain rubbed his hands briskly, one of his rare displays of emotion. “Not one of ours, unless the despatches are wrong.”

He swung round as the halliards and canvas came alive, the masthead pendant lifting as if suddenly awakened.

The first lieutenant exclaimed, “The master was right, sir! The wind is coming back!”

The captain nodded. “Recall the boats and have them hoisted. We are well upwind of friends and stranger alike. We’ll add another prize to our list, eh?” He shaded his eyes to watch the two boats casting off the tow lines and pulling back toward their ship. “Something for your sister’s dowry!”

The first lieutenant was surprised at the swift change of mood. It would certainly break the monotony of this snail’s pace.