Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

“Let me.” They had knelt together, watching the sparks going up the chimney like fireflies.

She had said, “I must go. I have things to do.” She had not looked at him. Later, he had realized that she had been unable to.

The house had been like a tomb, the room facing away from the street and the occasional noise of carriage wheels.

Avery had had no experience with women, except for one brief incident with a French lady who had visited sick and wounded prisoners of war. There had been no affection, only need, an urgency which had left him feeling used and vaguely degraded.

He was still unable to believe what had happened in London.

She had appeared on the edge of the shadows, her body all in white, her feet bare on the carpet, the feet alone touched by the flickering firelight.

“Here I am, Mister Avery!” She had laughed softly, and when he had got up from the fire, “You spoke to me of your love.” She had held out her arms. “Show me.”

He had held her, gently at first, then more firmly as he had felt the curve of her spine under his hand, and had realized that beneath the flimsy gown she was naked.

Then, for the first time, he had felt her shivering, although her body was warm, even hot. He had tried to kiss her, but she had pressed her face into his shoulder, and repeated, “Show me.”

He had seized the gown, and in seconds had her in his arms again, unable to stop himself, even if his senses had permitted it. He had carried her to the great bed and had knelt over her, touching her, exploring her, kissing her from her throat to her thigh. He had seen her raise her head to watch him as he threw off his clothes, her hair like living gold in the light. Then she had laid back again, her arms spread out as if crucified.

“Show me!” She had resisted when he had gripped her wrists, and had twisted from side to side, her body arched as he had forced her down, and down, finding her, unable to wait, unwilling to restrain his desire.

She had been ready, and had drawn him to her, passionate, tender, experienced, enclosing him deeply in her body until they were both spent.

She had murmured, “That was love, Mister Avery.”

“I must leave, Susanna.” It was the first time he had called her by name.

“First, some wine.” She had lifted up on one elbow, making no attempt to cover herself. Nor did she resist when he touched her again; she reached out to provoke and arouse him once more, and he had known then that he could not leave her. At dawn’s first intrusion they had finally tasted the wine, and had crouched again by the fire, now all but dead in the faint grey light.

The rest had become blurred, unreal. Fumbling into his clothes again while she had stood watching him, quite naked but for his cocked hat. Then he had embraced her once more, unable to find the words, his mind and body still reeling from the impossible dream, which had become reality.

She had whispered, “I promised you a carriage.”

He had pressed her hair against his chin. “I shall be all right. I could possibly fly to Chelsea!”

The moment of parting had been painful, almost embarrassing.

“I am sorry if I hurt you, Susanna… I am… clumsy.”

She had smiled. “You are a man. A real man.”

He might have said, “Please write to me.” But he could not honestly say that he had. The door had closed, and he had made his way down the stairs to the street doors, where someone had placed and lighted a fresh stand of candles for his departure. Loyal and discreet.

There was a tap at the screen door, startling him, and he found Ozzard standing outside, a small tray beneath his arm. For a moment Avery though he must have been reliving it all aloud, and that Ozzard had heard him.

Ozzard said only, “Sir Richard’s compliments, sir, and he’d like to see you aft.”

“Of course.” Avery closed the door and groped for a comb. Did Ozzard never sleep either?

He sat down again and grinned ruefully. She would be laughing, maybe, but remembering too.

Perhaps he had been a worse fool than he knew. But he would never forget.

He smiled. Mister Avery.

Captain James Tyacke stepped into the stern cabin and looked around at the familiar faces, his eyes accepting the light with surprising ease after the blackness of the quarterdeck, where little more than a tiny compass lamp pierced the night.

Bolitho was standing at the table, with his hands spread on a chart, Avery by his elbow, while the plump and scholarly Yovell sat at a smaller table, his pen poised over some papers. Ozzard moved only occasionally to refill their cups with coffee but remained, as usual, silent, merely shifting from one foot to the other to betray any agitation he might feel.

And framed against the great span of thick glass windows was Allday, a drawn sword in one hand, while he moved a cloth slowly up and down the blade as Tyacke had seen him do so often. Bolitho’s oak: only death would separate them.

Tyacke shut it from his mind. “All the hands have been fed, Sir Richard. I’ve been around the ship to have a quiet word with my people.”

He could not have slept much, Bolitho thought, but he was ready now, even if his admiral were to be proved wrong. He had even considered that possibility. The ship’s company had been roused early, but they had not yet cleared for action. There was nothing worse for morale than the anti-climax of discovering that the enemy had outguessed or outmaneuvered them, and the sea was empty.

My people. That was also typical of Tyacke. He was referring to the ship’s backbone of professionals, his warrant officers, all skilled and experienced men like Isaac York, the sailing-master, Harry Duff, the gunner, and Sam Hockenhull, the squat boatswain. Men who had come up the hard way, like Alfriston’s untidy commander.

Yet against them, the lieutenants were amateurs. Even Daubeny, the first lieutenant, was still young for his position, which would not have come his way so soon but for the death of his predecessor. But that one fierce battle eight months ago had given him a maturity that seemed to surprise him more than anybody. As for the others, the most junior was Blythe, only just promoted from the midshipmen’s berth. He was big-headed and very sure of himself, but even Tyacke had overcome his dislike of him to say that he was improving. Slightly.

And Laroche, the piggy-faced third lieutenant, who had once received the rough edge of Tyacke’s tongue when he had been in charge of a press-gang, also lacked experience except for their encounter with Unity.

Tyacke was saying, “The new hands have settled down quite well, sir. As for the Nova Scotians who volunteered, I’m glad they’re with us and not the enemy!”

Bolitho stared down at the chart, the soundings and calculations between his hands. Ships meeting, the mind of an enemy, all meaningless if there was nothing when daylight came.

York had been right about the wind. It was even and steady from the south-west, and the ship, under reduced canvas, was lying well to it; when he had been on deck he had watched the spray bursting like phantoms along the lee side and up through the beak-head with its snarling lion.

Avery asked, “Will they fight or run, Sir Richard?” He saw the alertness in the grey eyes that lifted to him; there was no hint of fatigue or doubt. Bolitho had shaved, and Avery wondered what he and Allday had discussed while the big coxswain had used his razor as easily as if it were broad daylight.

His shirt was loosely fastened, and Avery had seen the glint of silver when he had stooped over the chart. The locket he always wore.

Bolitho shrugged. “Fight. If they have not already gone about and headed for port somewhere, they will have little choice, I think.” He looked up at the deckhead beams. “The wind is an ally today.”