Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

He had forgotten about Midshipman Warren, who was still in the maintop.

“Deck, there!” Then shock, disbelief. “There are prisoners on Reaper’s deck, sir!” There was a pause. “Women, too!”

Keen said sharply, “D’ you still think they’re bluffing?”

It was like a nightmare, Adam thought. Reaper would suffer the same fate yet again; she would be raked as she had been by the Americans, before she could even get within range.

Urquhart had gone to his station by the mainmast, his sword laid across one shoulder as if he were about to perform a ceremony.

Adam gripped the quarterdeck rail. He did not need to be told what would happen when these long eighteen-pounders, double-shotted as ordered, thundered out at the oncoming ship.

He knew that some of the gun crews were peering aft at him, and wanted to shout at them. There is no decision to be made. They must not escape.

He heard de Courcey say, “Two women, sir. The rest look like sailors.” Even he sounded dazed, unable to accept what he saw.

Adam raised his voice. “On the uproll, Mr Urquhart! As you bear!” Urquhart knew what to do: they all did. But they had to be held together, and commanded, no matter what they believed.

“Take in the t’gallants!” High overhead, men moved like monkeys, detached from the tension and apprehension on the deck below.

Adam turned to the sailing-master. “Stand by to bring her up two points, Mr Ritchie. Then we will fire.”

Keen was in the shrouds, oblivious to the spray and risk; he was holding the midshipman’s big telescope, his fair hair whipping in the wind.

Like that day at the church in Zennor… Val and Zenoria… He closed his eyes as Keen said harshly, “One of the hostages is David St Clair! His daughter must be with him!”

He thrust the memories aside; this was no place for them. He heard Keen say, “No bluff, then.” He climbed down to the deck and faced him.

Adam said, “Stand by!” He forced himself to look at the oncoming frigate, leaning over to expose her bright copper, her gilded figurehead with the upraised scythe suddenly clear and terrible.

Each gun captain would be staring aft at the solitary figure by the rail, looking to a captain whom they knew only by reputation. But every man knew what he would see when the Valkyrie altered course, and the target filled each port. Here, a man cleared his throat; another turned to wipe sweat from his eyes.

Suppose they refuse to fire on men like themselves?

Adam felt anger pound through him. They were not like them. I must not think of it!

He drew his hanger and raised it shoulder high.

Dear God, what are we doing?

“Alter course, Mr Ritchie!”

He swung round as the uneven roar of cannon fire rolled and echoed across the short, white-tipped waves.

With disbelief he saw Reaper’s guns recoiling in a broken broadside, in pairs and singly, until at last only one fired from the bow.

There were patches of leaping foam now; the taller waterspouts of the heavier guns churned up the sea’s face and faded almost as suddenly. A full broadside, fired into oblivion.

Keen said, “They would not fire on us!” He looked at those nearest him. “Because they knew we would destroy them!”

Adam said, “The bluff failed.” He saw some of the gun crews staring at each other; two seamen even reached across an eighteen-pounder to shake hands. It was no victory, but at least it was not bloody murder, either.

“Signal her to heave-to! Stand by, boarding parties!”

Adam called, “Be ready to fire. We will take nothing for granted!”

He touched his hat to Keen. “I’d like to go across myself, sir.”

Keen gazed past him as something like a great sigh came from the watching seamen and marines.

“She’s struck her colours, thank God.”

Ritchie, the old sailing-master, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Poor old girl. She’s taken all she can, I reckon!”

Adam looked at him. A toughened, unsentimental professional, but in his simple way he had said it all.

Keen said, “Take good care of St Clair and his daughter. The ordeal must have been dreadful for them.”

Adam saw the boats being swayed up and over the larboard gangway: Urquhart had taught them well. The guns would still be able to fire if necessary, without being hampered by their presence.

“I will, sir.” He stared across at the other ship, her sails flapping as she came into the wind. Another minute and it would have ended differently. As it was… He recalled the sailing master’s words, like an epitaph. For a ship, not for those who had betrayed her.

Keeping in line abreast, Valkyrie’s boats pulled steadily toward the other frigate. Tension remained high. If Reaper’s captors decided to resist, they might still be able to make sail and escape, or attempt it.

Adam looked over at the other boats. His captain of marines, Loftus, was very conspicuous in his scarlet tunic, an easy target for any marksman, nor would his own epaulettes have gone unnoticed. He found himself smiling slightly. Gulliver, the sixth lieutenant, glanced quickly at him, perhaps taking comfort in what he saw.

He said, “This will even the score, sir!”

He spoke like a veteran. He was about twenty years old.

“Reaper, ahoy! We are coming aboard! Throw down your weapons!”

Adam touched the pistol beneath his coat. This was the moment. Some hothead, a man with nothing to lose, might use it as a last chance. Boat by boat they went alongside, and he was conscious of a strange sense of loneliness with Valkyrie hidden by this pitching hull. No chances. But would Keen order his flagship to open fire with so many of his own men on board?

It was uncanny. Like a dead ship. They scrambled up and over the gangway, weapons held ready, while from the opposite end of the vessel some of the marines were already swarming onto the forecastle. They had even swung round a swivel, and had trained it on the silent figures lining the gun deck.

His men parted to let their captain through, seeing the ship through different eyes now that she had struck. The guns which had fired blindly into the open water moved restlessly, unloaded and abandoned, rammers and sponges lying where they had been dropped. Adam walked aft to the big double-wheel, where two of his men had taken control. The hostages, released and apparently unharmed, were grouped around the mizzen-mast, while along the gun deck the seamen seemed to have separated into two distinct groups, the mutineers and the American prize crew.

There were two American lieutenants waiting for him.

“Are there any more officers aboard?”

The senior of the two shook his head. “The ship is yours Captain Bolitho.”

Adam concealed his surprise. “Mr Gulliver, take your party and search the ship.” He added sharply as the lieutenant hurried away, “If anyone resists, kill him.”

So they knew who he was. He said, “What were you hoping to do, Lieutenant?”

The tall officer shrugged. “My name is Robert Neill, Captain. Reaper is a prize of war. They surrendered.”

“And you are a prisoner of war. Your men, also.” He paused. “Captain Loftus, take charge of the others. You know what to do.” To Neill he said, “You offered British seamen a chance to mutiny. In fact, you and your captain incited it.”

The man Neill sighed. “I have nothing to add.”

He watched the two officers hand their swords to a marine. “You will be well treated.” He hesitated, hating the silence, the smell of fear. “As I was.”

Then, with a nod to Loftus, he turned and walked toward the waiting hostages.

One, a silver-haired man with an alert, youthful face, stepped forward, ignoring the raised bayonet of a marine.