Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

He realized what Urquhart had asked. “Carry on as before.”

He was the captain, and yet his was never the final decision. He had always known that, but Keen’s curt remark had merely served to emphasize the fact. Perhaps it was because Keen had been used to ships of the line, and had served in frigates as a very junior officer. He tried to smile, to sweep it away. With the best of teachers. But Keen had never commanded one. It should not make any difference. But, unreasonably, it did.

As the afternoon watch drew to a close, Keen came on deck again.

“I think it is time to make the signal.” He watched the small figure of John Whitmarsh walking aft, some clean shirts folded over one arm, and smiled unexpectedly. “To be his age again, eh, Adam?”

The sudden informality, just men, was disconcerting. “Aye, sir. But I think I could manage without some of the past.”

Keen made up his mind. “You probably think I am giving up too easily. You think we should waste days, weeks even, pursuing what may be a lost cause.”

Adam said, “I still believe we should continue, sir.”

Keen shrugged. The bridge between them was gone. “It is my decision. Make the signal!”

Adam saw de Courcey hurrying toward Midshipman Rickman and the prepared hoists of bunting. Back to Halifax, then. Receptions and balls: a ship going stale at her anchorage.

“Deck there! Taciturn’s hoisted a signal!”

Adam saw another midshipman reaching for a telescope.

“Aloft, Mr Warren! Lively there!”

He knew Urquhart was watching him. He would never offer his own opinion, or mention what he had seen and heard. Adam shaded his eyes and stared at the sun, like red gold now. But there was still time. If only…

The midshipman’s young voice echoed down from the maintop. “From Taciturn, sir! Enemy in sight to the nor’-east!” Even at that distance and above the drumming chorus of canvas and rigging, Adam could hear his excitement.

Heading for the strait they had just left. Another hour, and they would have missed them. What sort of enemy, that Taciturn was so certain?

Warren shouted down again. “She’s Reaper, sir!”

Urquhart forgot himself. “Hell’s teeth! You were right, sir!”

Keen had reappeared. “What is it? Are they sure?”

Adam said, “Certain, sir.”

“They’ll run for it.” He sounded unconvinced. “Try and lose us in the Gulf.”

Adam beckoned to Urquhart. “Get the t’gallants on her!” He glanced up at the flag whipping out from the mizzen truck. “This ship could outpace Reaper, no matter what she tried!” He was surprised at his own voice. Pride, where there had been only acceptance; triumph, when he had so recently felt bitterness at Keen’s dismissal of his proposals.

Calls squealed and the deck shook to the rush of bare feet as men ran to obey them. He was aware of their excitement, the relief that something was happening, and awe, when some of the new hands looked aloft to see the topgallant sails bursting from their yards, their canvas already hard to the steady wind.

Adam took a glass and rested it on Midshipman Rickman’s shoulder. First Taciturn; the brig Doon was still not in sight from the deck. And then… He tensed, his back chilled despite the lingering warmth of the sun. A thin plume of pale canvas: Reaper. Not running, and yet they must have sighted them. Three ships on a converging tack. Reaper’s men might fight to the death; they would face it in any case after the brief formality of a court martial. They would have known the penalty for mutiny from the instant they had hauled down the flag. He licked his dry lips. And murdered their captain…

Keen spoke for him. “They dare not fight!”

Adam turned to Urquhart. “Beat to quarters, if you please. Then clear for action.” He walked to the taffrail and then back again, his mind grappling with the sudden change of fortune. A show of defiance? A bloody gesture? It would be all of that. Taciturn alone outgunned the smaller Reaper: Valkyrie could blow her out of the water without even getting to close quarters.

Keen said, “She’s holding her course.” He held out his arms as his servant appeared beside him to clip on his sword.

“Cleared for action, sir!”

Adam stared at the first lieutenant. He had barely heard the rattle of drums, the stampede of seamen and marines to their stations, and now all was still again, each long gun fully crewed, the decks sanded, the scarlet coats of the marines visible at the hammock nettings and high in the fighting-tops. They had learned well under Peter Dawes, or perhaps it was all due to the impassive Urquhart.

Keen said, “Make to Taciturn, close on Flag.” He turned away as de Courcey urged the signals party to greater efforts. The flags soared aloft.

“Acknowledged, sir!”

Of the brig Doon there was no sign, but her masthead lookouts would be watching, probably glad they were well clear of it.

“Reaper’s showing her teeth!”

Without a glass there was no apparent change, but when Adam propped his on the midshipman’s shoulder he could see the line of protruding guns along the other vessel’s side.

Keen said, “When you are ready, Captain Bolitho.” They looked at each other like strangers.

Adam shouted, “Just like the drill, Mr Urquhart!” He saw some of the nearest men turn to grin at him. “Load and run out!”

“Open the ports!” A whistle shrilled from Monteith, the fourth lieutenant, and with a chorus of yells the seamen threw themselves on their tackles and hauled their guns up and through the open ports. With the wind across the quarter, their task was easier. If they changed tack, or lost the wind-gage, it would be different: uphill all the way, as the old gun captains warned.

Adam turned as young Whitmarsh walked unhurriedly between the crouching gun crews and watchful marines, Adam’s new hanger held in his hands like a talisman. Adam looked around at the others on the quarterdeck. George Starr, his old coxswain, should be here, Hudson, who had also died, and other faces, so painfully clear that he was caught off-guard.

He waited for the boy to clip on his hanger and said, “Below with you, my lad! No heroics today!” He saw the dismay on his face and added gently, “You need no reminding either, do you?”

Keen was beside him. “What can they hope to achieve?”

Adam saw the telescopes being trained on the distant Taciturn, heard de Courcey’s smooth voice reading out a signal. Then he lowered his glass, his mind suddenly blank. “They have hostages, sir.”

“So that is what they intend. To sail directly past us, knowing we will not fire!” He seemed to consider it, with disbelief. “Would they do that?”

“It may be a bluff, sir.” But he knew it was not. It was all the enemy had left. With this wind they would be within range in less than half an hour.

Keen said, “It would be murder!”

Adam watched him, feeling his anger and revulsion. His decision, just as he had insisted earlier.

When Adam remained silent, Keen exclaimed, “For God’s sake, what should I do?”

Adam touched the hilt of his new hanger, the one he had chosen with such care in the old sword cutler’s shop in the Strand.

“Men will die in any case if we fight, sir. But to lose Reaper now would be an even greater tragedy.”

Keen seemed to sigh. “Signal Taciturn to take station astern of Flag.”

The signal was acknowledged, and Adam watched the leading frigate’s sails in momentary confusion as she began to come about as ordered. He could feel both pity and admiration for Keen. He was not going to leave the first encounter to one of his captains. As Richard Bolitho had so often said, here was where the responsibility began and ended, like the flag at the mizzen truck. Final.