Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

“And then?”

“They boarded the Killarney an’ stood away. I waited a while and then relaid my course for the Bermudas. I landed the survivors at Hamilton and made my report to the guard-ship. I was ordered to find an’ report to you, sir.” He glanced around the spacious cabin as if he had not noticed it before. “They could have taken Alfriston, too, if they’d a mind.”

Bolitho stood up and walked to the quarter gallery. He could just see the little brig’s dark silhouette, her topgallant yards still faintly pink in the dying light.

“No, Commander Borradaile. You had to be the witness, the proof that a mutiny broke out. Perhaps it was provoked, but it can never be condoned. We who command must always be aware of the dangers. And you are here. That is the other reason.”

Borradaile said, “To bring word to you, sir? That was my thought, also.”

Bolitho asked, “And the captain?”

“He died, sir, finally. Cursin’ and ravin’ to the end. His last words were, they’ll hang for it!”

“And so they will, if they are taken.” He crossed to the untidy figure and took his hand. “You have done well. I shall see that it is mentioned in my despatches.” He glanced at Tyacke. “I’d offer you promotion, but I think you’d damn me for it first! Keep your Alfriston.” In his heart, he knew that Borradaile was glad to be rid of the men sent from the surrendered frigate. The shame was still there, deeper now than ever. Like a rotten apple in a barrel, it was better to be free of them.

“See Commander Borradaile over the side, James.” He watched them leave, then returned to the quarter gallery and thrust open a window. The air was surprisingly cold, and helped to steady him.

Avery, who had been present and mute throughout the discussion, observed quietly, “A well-planned trap, a flag of truce, and mutiny provoked, if provocation were needed. And now, one of our ships under their flag.”

Bolitho faced him, his cheek wet with spray, like tears, cold tears.

“Speak out, man. Say what I know you are thinking!”

Avery lifted his shoulders in a very slight shrug. “Justice, revenge, call it what we will, but I think I understand now what you said about the face in the crowd. To lure you into a trap, to provoke you into some reckless realisation. It is you he wants.”

Bolitho listened to the trill of calls, as one captain paid his respects to another.

Avery, like Tyacke, probably shared the private conviction of the gaunt commander who had just departed: that Reaper’s captain had paid the just price of tyranny. He was not the first. Pray God he was the last.

He thought of the flag curling far above the deck and seemed to hear her voice. My admiral of England.

There was no doubt in his mind where the real responsibility would lie. Or the blame.

ADAM BOLITHO hesitated outside the broad, imposing house and wondered impatiently why he had come. Another reception. Merchants, senior officers from the garrison, people who always seemed to know someone important and with influence. He could have made some excuse to stay aboard Valkyrie, but at the same time he knew he was too restless to remain in his cabin or pass an hour or so away with his lieutenants.

How Keen managed to appear unruffled by all these receptions and discussions surprised him. Adam had noticed that despite his good-natured manner and his apparent ease with these imposing people, he rarely lost his way, or allowed himself to be talked out of decisions he considered were in the best interests of his command.

Adam turned his back on the house and stared out across the great natural harbour; chebucto, the Indians had once called it. It impressed him as few others had done. From the glittering span of the Bedford Basin to the narrows at the far end, the harbour was teeming with ships, a forest of masts as visible proof of Halifax ’s growing strategic value. He had heard a general describe it as part of the British defensive square, which included England, Gibraltar and Bermuda. Cornwallis must have been as farseeing as he was shrewd when he had put his roots down here less than seventy years ago and built the first fortifications. Now, commanded by the hilltop citadel, it was further protected by Martello towers more commonly seen in Brittany or southern England, with smaller batteries to deter any enemy foolish enough to attempt a landing.

He looked towards the naval anchorage, but the house hid it from view. He had never believed that his duties as flag captain could be so frustrating. Valkyrie had barely ventured out of harbour, and then only to meet an incoming convoy with more soldiers: if they landed many more this peninsula must surely sink under the weight. There was little news of the war. Roads on the mainland were bad, some still impassable. He glanced at the fading light across the harbour, the tiny boat lanterns moving like insects. Here, conditions were already much better. He had even felt the sun’s warmth on his face on his walk from the landing stage.

He turned reluctantly away from the sea. The big double doors had opened discreetly, as if they had been waiting for his decision.

A fine old house: not “old” by English standards, but well proportioned and vaguely foreign, the architecture perhaps influenced by the French. He handed his hat to a bobbing servant and walked towards the main reception hall. There were uniforms aplenty, mostly red, with a few green coats of the local light infantry force. The house had probably been built by some prosperous merchant, but now it was used almost exclusively by people of a world he did not know, or want to. Where men like Benjamin Massie walked a challenging path between politics and the rewards of trade. He had made no secret of his impatience with the state of war between Britain and America, calling it “unpopular,” more as if it were a personal inconvenience than a bitter conflict between nations.

Adam spoke to a footman, his eyes taking in the assembled throng, and noticing Keen’s fair hair at the far end. He was with Massie. There were women present, too. That had been rare on previous occasions. Yes, he should have offered some excuse and remained on board.

“Captain Adam Bolitho!”

There was a momentary hush, more out of surprise at his lateness than from interest, he thought. At least the footman had pronounced his name correctly.

He walked down the side of the hall. There were heavy velvet curtains, and two great log fires: these houses were built with a Nova Scotia winter in mind.

“So here you are at last, Captain!” Benjamin Massie snapped his thick fingers and a tray of red wine appeared like magic. “Thought you’d forgotten us!” He gave his loud, barking laugh, and once again Adam noticed the coldness of his eyes.

He said, “The squadron’s business, sir.”

Massie chuckled. “That’s the trouble with this place, more soldiers than labourers, more men-o’-war than canoes! I’m told that a few years back there was five times as many brothels as banks!” He became serious instantly, as though a mask had fallen over his face. “But it’s changing. Just get this war over and we’ll see some real expansion, whole new markets. And for that we’ll need ships, and men willing to serve in them without the fear of violent death under an enemy broadside.” He winked. “Or under the lash of some over-zealous officer, eh?”

Keen had approached them, and was listening. “And what of my father’s other friend? I thought he might meet me here.”

Adam looked at him. Keen had deliberately interrupted, to dampen down any open disagreement before it began. Am I so obvious?

“Oh, David St Clair?” He shook his head. “He’ll not be back for some while yet. Impetuous, that’s David. You know what he’s like.”