Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

“Are you married, Captain?”

“No.” It came out too abruptly, and he tried to soften it. “It has not been my good fortune.”

She studied him thoughtfully, with delicately raised brows. “I am surprised.”

“And you, ma’am?”

She laughed, and Adam saw Massie glance up at her. At them. She replied, “Like a cloak, Captain. I wear it when it suits!”

Trick for trick.

The Valkyrie’s chartroom was small and functional, the table barely leaving space for more than three men. Adam leaned over the chart, the brass dividers moving unhurriedly across the bearings, soundings and scribbled calculations which, to a landsman, would be meaningless.

The door was wedged open, and he could see the bright sunlight moving like a beacon, back and forth, to the frigate’s easy rise and fall. They had left Halifax in company with a smaller frigate, Taciturn, and the brig Doon. They had left with mixed feelings, the prospect of hunting down Reaper, the only possible way of settling the score, set against the very real likelihood of directing fire on one of their own. The Americans would have had no time to replace the surrendered frigate’s company, so many of them, except for the officers and professional warrant ranks, would be mutineers.

But that had been five days ago, and he had sensed Keen’s uncertainty, his growing anxiety about the next decision.

One point of the dividers rested on Cape North, the tip of Nova Scotia that guarded the southernmost side of the entrance to the Gulf of St Lawrence. Across the strait lay Newfoundland, some fifty miles distant. A narrow passage, but easy enough for a determined captain who wanted to avoid capture and slip through the net. Keen would be thinking the same thing. Adam leaned closer to the chart. Two tiny islands, St Pierre and Miquelon, to the south of Newfoundland ’s rugged coastline, were in fact French, but at the outbreak of war had been occupied by troops from the British garrison at St John’s. Keen had made no secret of his conviction that Reaper would be heading for these same islands. Reaper’s capture by the Americans would still be unknown to any of the local patrols; it would have been an obvious strategy if the enemy had intended to attack the garrison, or prey on shipping in these waters. But the brig Doon had investigated the area and had rejoined her two consorts with nothing to report. Beyond lay the Gulf of St Lawrence, the vital gateway to its great river, to Montreal and the lakes, to the naval base at Kingston and further still to York, the administrative, if small, capital of Upper Canada.

But the Gulf was vast, with islets and bays where any ship could shelter, and bide her time until the hunt had passed her by.

He heard shouted commands and the trill of calls. The afternoon watch was mustering aft, the air heavy with greasy smells from the galley funnel. A good measure of rum to wash it down.

He glanced at the sailing-master’s log book. May 3rd, 1813.

He thought of the small velvet-covered volume in his chest, the carefully pressed fragments of the wild roses. May in England. It was like remembering a foreign country.

A shadow fell across the table: Urquhart, the first lieutenant. Adam had found him a good and competent officer, firm and fair with the hands, even with the hard men, who tested every officer for any sign of weakness. It was never easy to be both as a first lieutenant. When Valkyrie’s captain, Trevenen, had broken down with terror at the height of action, it had been Urquhart who had taken over and restored discipline and order. Neither Trevenen, who had vanished mysteriously on his way to face a court martial, nor his successor, the acting-commodore Peter Dawes, had recommended Urquhart for advancement. Urquhart had never mentioned it, nor had he shown any resentment, but Adam guessed it was only because he did not yet know his new captain well enough. Adam blamed himself for that. He was unable to encourage intimacy in Valkyrie: even when he passed a command, he still found himself half-expecting to see other faces respond. Dead faces.

Urquhart waited patiently for his attention, and then said, “I would like to exercise the eighteen-pounders during the afternoon watch, sir.”

Adam tossed down the dividers. “It is about all we will be doing, it seems!”

He thought of that last night in Halifax, the lavish dinner, with their host, Massie, becoming more slurred by the minute. He thought, also, of the enticing and sensual Mrs Lovelace, laughing at Massie’s crude remarks, but keeping her foot against Adam’s under the table.

I should not have agreed to this post. Had he accepted it to avoid being marooned in Zest?

In his own heart, he knew he had acted out of a sense of obligation, perhaps some need to make reparation. Guilt…

Urquhart looked at the chart: he had a strong, thoughtful profile. Adam could well imagine him with a command of his own.

Urquhart said, “It’s like picking at threads, sir. She could be anywhere.”

“I know that, damn it!” He touched the lieutenant’s sleeve. “I am sorry, John. That was uncalled for.”

Urquhart eyed him warily. It was the first time the captain had called him by his first name. It had been like seeing a different person suddenly, not so much the severe stranger.

He said, “If we run deeper into the Gulf we shall be hard put to keep together. If we had more ships, then…”

A master’s mate whispered around the door, “Admiral’s coming up, sir.”

Adam knew that he was speaking to Urquhart, careful to avoid his captain’s eye.

He straightened his back. “Yes. Well, we shall see.”

Keen was standing by the weather nettings when they came out of the chartroom, and Adam noticed immediately that he looked strained, troubled.

Keen said, “What time will we alter course, Captain Bolitho?”

Adam replied with equal formality, “In two hours, sir. We shall steer nor’-west.” He waited, seeing Keen’s doubt, the unspoken arguments.

“Are Taciturn and Doon in sight?”

“Aye, sir. The masthead reported both of them at the change of watch. Good visibility. We should see another sail soon. Information maybe, some evidence that she was seen by some passing trader or fisherman.” He looked at Urquhart. “It is our best hope.”

Keen said, “We are abeam of Cape North. By nightfall we shall be stretched too far to offer support to one another.”

Adam looked away. He felt a stab of resentment without knowing why. He had been up before first light, and on deck several times during the night. There were plenty of navigational hazards in these waters and the local charts were unreliable, to say the least. It was only right that Valkyrie’s watch keepers should know that their captain was with them.

“From the information brought by Alfriston, this would seem the most likely area for independent action. Perhaps tomorrow we could decide whether or not to continue this form of search.”

Keen watched two seamen dragging new halliards along the deck. “I will decide. While the light is still good I shall want signals sent to Taciturn and Doon. The brig can close with us and carry my report to Halifax.” He faced Adam and added shortly, “We will discontinue the search before dusk.”

“Halifax, sir?”

Keen studied him grimly. “ Halifax.”

He walked toward the companion-way, and Adam saw the flag lieutenant waiting there to intercept him.

“Orders, sir?” Urquhart was clearly uncomfortable at having been present during the exchange, and at having sensed a barrier which he had not seen before fall so obviously between admiral and flag captain.

Adam glanced up at the streaming masthead pendant. The wind was holding steady from the south-west. It had not shifted for days; another day would make no difference. And even when they returned to Halifax, it was unlikely that there would be fresh news from Sir Richard.