Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

But his mind rebelled against the intrusion of duty. In the bag sent over with Keen’s despatch had been some letters, one from Catherine, the first since they had parted in Plymouth some three months ago. He had held it to his face, had seen Yovell’s discreet glance, had caught the faint reminder of her perfume.

Avery said, “The last boat’s casting off, Sir Richard.” He sounded tense, on edge. Perhaps he, too, had been hoping for a letter, although Bolitho had never known him to receive one. Like Tyacke, his only world seemed to be here.

Bolitho turned once more to Keen’s lengthy report, rereading the information concerning David St Clair and his daughter, who had been prisoners aboard Reaper. Taken from a schooner, but surely no accidental encounter? St Clair was under Admiralty contract, and Keen had mentioned that he had been intending to visit the naval dockyard at Kingston and also a shipbuilding site at York, where a 30-gun man-of-war was close to completion. The final work on the vessel had apparently been delayed by a dispute with the Provincial Marine, under whose control she would eventually be. St Clair, well used to dealing with bureaucracy, had been hoping to speed things to a satisfactory conclusion. Captains in the fleet might find it difficult to regard such a relatively small vessel as a matter of great importance, but as Keen had learned from St Clair, when in commission the new vessel would be the biggest and most powerful on the lakes. No American craft would be able to stand against her: the lakes would be held under the White Ensign. But should the Americans attack and seize her, completed or not, the effect would be disastrous. It would mean the end of Upper Canada as a British province. Just one ship; and the Americans would have known of her existence from the moment her keel had been laid. In the light of this, St Clair’s capture appeared even less of a casual misfortune. His mission had also been known: he had had to be removed. Bolitho thought of the savage gunfire, the pathetic wreckage of the Royal Herald. Or killed.

He said to Yovell, “Have our bag sent over to Alfriston. She’ll be impatient to get under way again.” He thought of the brig’s gaunt commander, and wondered what his feelings had been when he had heard of Reaper’s capture, and that her only defiance had been fired deliberately into open water.

Ozzard peered through the other door. “Captain’s coming, sir.”

Tyacke entered and glanced at the littered papers on Bolitho’s table. Bolitho thought he was probably like Alfriston ’s commander, eager to move.

Without effort he could picture his ships on this great, empty ocean: two hundred miles south-west of the Bermudas, the other frigates Virtue and Attacker mere slivers of light on opposite horizons. Perhaps if they had not waited, the Americans would have attacked the assembled convoy, their powerful frigates destroying it or beating it into submission, no matter what the escorting men-of-war might have attempted.

A mistake, a waste of time? Or had the Americans outguessed them yet again? The enemy’s intelligence sources were without parallel. To know about St Clair and to see his involvement as a direct threat to some greater plan matched the impudent way they had seized Reaper and turned the advantage into a shame, news of which would ring throughout the fleet in spite of, or even because of, the punishments which would be meted out to the men who had mutinied against their captain, and against the Crown.

The convoy was well away, and would be standing out into the Atlantic. Their speed would be that of the slowest merchantman, a misery for the escorting frigates and brigs. But safe, in a few days’ time.

Before they had left Bermuda, Avery had gone ashore to visit Reaper’s first lieutenant at a military hospital in Hamilton. Bolitho himself would have liked to have spoken to the Reaper’s only surviving officer, who had been with his captain until the incident’s macabre and brutal conclusion, but Reaper had been one of his own squadron. He could not become personally involved with men whose warrants he might be called upon to sign.

Reaper’s captain had been a tyrant and a sadist, terms which Bolitho would never use without great consideration. He had been moved from another command to make Reaper into an efficient and reliable fighting ship once more, and to restore her reputation. But early in his tenure another side of his nature had revealed itself. Perhaps he had, in fact, been moved from that other command because of his own brutality. Any captain sailing alone had to keep the balance between discipline and tyranny firmly in his mind. Only the afterguard, with its thin ranks of Royal Marines, stood between him and open rebellion. And even if provoked, it could never be condoned.

Tyacke said, “Orders, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho turned away from the glare and saw that Yovell and Avery had left the cabin. It seemed a mutual awareness of his desire to confer privately with his flag captain: a loyalty which never failed to move him.

“I want your views, James. Return to Halifax and discover what is happening? Or remain here, and so weaken our squadron?”

Tyacke rubbed the scarred side of his face. He had seen the letter handed to Bolitho and been surprised by his own envy. If only… He thought of the wine which Catherine Somervell had sent him, like the deep green leather chair in which Bolitho was sitting, her gifts, and her abiding presence in this cabin. With a woman like that…

Bolitho asked, “What is it, James? You know me well enough to speak out.”

Tyacke dismissed the thoughts, glad that they could not be known.

“I believe the Yankees-” he smiled awkwardly, recalling Dawes, “the Americans will need to move very soon. Maybe they’ve already made a beginning. Rear-Admiral Keen’s information about the shipbuilder, this man St Clair, points to it. Once we have more ships, as Their Lordships say we will when Bonaparte is finally beaten, they’ll face a blockade of their entire coastline. Trade, supplies, ships, unable to move.” He paused, and seemed to come to a decision. “I’ve spoken to Isaac York, and he insists that this weather will hold.” Again he offered a small, attractive smile, which even his disfigurement could not diminish. “And my new purser assures me that we are well supplied for another month. The pips might squeak a bit, but we can manage.”

“Remain on this patrol? Is that what you are telling me?”

“Look, sir, if you were some high an’ mighty Yankee with good ships, albeit Frogs, at your disposal, what would you do?”

Bolitho nodded, considering it. He could even see the unknown ships in his mind, as clearly as the hollow-eyed Commander Borradaile had seen them through his telescope. Big, well-armed, free of all authority but their own.

“I’d take advantage of this south-westerly and go for the convoy, even at this stage. A long way, and a risk if you are facing the unknown. But I don’t think it is unknown to our man.”

There were muffled cheers on deck, and he left the chair to walk to the stern windows. “There goes Alfriston, James.”

Tyacke watched him, with affection and concern. Every time he thought he knew this man he found there was something more to learn. He noticed that Bolitho was shading his left eye, and saw the sadness and introspection in the profile against the light. Thinking of his letter in that same little brig, and the endless miles and transfers from ship to ship before Catherine Somervell would open and read it. Perhaps thinking, too, of his own independence as a very young commander, when each day was a challenge, but not a burden. A proud man, and a sensitive one, a man Tyacke had seen holding the hand of a dying enemy in Indomitable ’s last and greatest battle. Who had tried to comfort his coxswain when Allday’s son had been killed in that same fight. He cared, and those who knew him loved him for it. The others were content with the legend. And yet his would be the responsibility for sending Reaper’s seamen to choke from a yardarm. Tyacke had only known Reaper’s captain by reputation. It had been enough.