Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

Avery watched, at peace now in this company, the consequences of what daylight might bring somehow secondary. He heard the drumming vibration of rigging, the occasional squeal of blocks, and imagined the ship leaning over to the wind, knowing that Bolitho was seeing it also, even as they spoke.

Tyacke would consider the situation rather differently, perhaps, but with the same end in mind. How many times had this ship lived through moments like this? She was thirty-six years old, and her battle honours read like history itself: the Chesapeake, the Saintes, the Nile, and Copenhagen. So many men, so much pain. He thought of Tyacke’s fiercely contained pride for the ship he had not wanted. And she had never been beaten.

Bolitho said suddenly, “Your assistant, George-Mr Midshipman Carleton. Doing well, isn’t he?”

Avery glanced quickly at Tyacke, who gave the merest hint of a smile, but no more.

“Yes, sir, he is very good with his signals crew. He hopes to be offered promotion. He is seventeen.” The question had disconcerted him: he never really knew what Bolitho might toss his way, or why.

Tyacke said, “He’s a damned sight quieter than Mr Blythe ever was.”

Bolitho felt them relaxing, except Ozzard. He was waiting to hear, to know. He would go below, as deep as possible into the hull, when the first shots were fired. He should be ashore, Bolitho thought, away from this life. And yet, he knew that he had nowhere to go, no one who waited for him. Even when they were in Cornwall, and Ozzard lived in his cottage on the estate, he remained profoundly alone.

Bolitho said, “I want young Carleton aloft.” He tugged out his watch and flicked open the guard.

Tyacke read his thoughts. “Less than an hour, sir.”

Bolitho glanced at his empty cup, and heard Ozzard say tentatively, “I could make another pot, Sir Richard.”

“I think it may have to wait.” He turned his head as, almost drowned out by the muffled hiss of the sea, he heard a man laugh somewhere. Such a small thing, but he thought of the wretched Reaper: there had been no laughter there. He remembered as if it were yesterday the evening when Tyacke had taken the lordly Midshipman Blythe below deck to visit the crowded seamen’s and marines’ messes, to show him what he had called “the strength of a ship.” That had been before the battle. The same strength had prevailed then. He thought of Allday’s grief. At a cost…

He said, “If we fight, we will give of our best.” For a moment it was like hearing someone else’s voice. “But we must never forget those who depend on us, because they have no other choice.”

Tyacke reached for his hat. “I’ll have the galley fire doused in good time, Sir Richard.”

But Bolitho was looking at Avery. “Go and speak with your Mr Carleton.” He closed his watch, but was still holding it. “You may pass the word now, James. It will be warm enough today.”

As Ozzard gathered up the cups and the others left the cabin, Bolitho looked over at Allday.

“Well, old friend. Why here, you must be thinking, a tiny mark on this great ocean. Are we destined to fight?”

Allday held out the old sword and ran his eye along the edge.

“Like all them other times, Sir Richard. It was meant to be. That’s it an’ all about it.” Then he grinned, almost his old self again. “We’ll win, no matter what.” He paused, and the defiant humour was gone. “Y’ see, Sir Richard, we’ve both got too much to lose.” He slid the blade back into its scabbard. “God help them that tries to take it away!”

Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and gripped it while he peered up at the towering mainmast with its iron-hard canvas. He was shivering, not because of the cold morning air, but with the instinctive awareness of danger that could still surprise him after a lifetime at sea. The sails were paler now, but there was no horizon, and the only movement he recognized through the thick criss-cross of rigging and flapping canvas seemed to float above the ship, keeping pace with her like a solitary sea bird. It was his flag, the Cross of St George, which flew day and night while he was in command. He thought of her letter in the pocket of his coat, and imagined he could hear her voice. My admiral of England.

He could still taste the bitterness of coffee on his tongue, and wondered why he had not forced himself to eat. Tension, uncertainty perhaps. But fear? He smiled. Perhaps he could no longer recognize that emotion.

Figures moved all around him, each one careful not to intrude upon his solitude. He could see Isaac York, a head taller than his mates, his slate-coloured hair blowing in the wind: a good man and a strong one. Bolitho knew that he had even tried to help Scarlett when the extent of his debts had become known. The white breeches of the lieutenants and midshipmen stood out in the lingering darkness, and he guessed that they were preparing themselves for what might happen today, each in his own fashion.

He moved to the compass box and glanced at the tilting card. North-east by north, with the wind still firm across the larboard quarter. Men were working high overhead, feeling for frayed cordage or jammed blocks with the sureness of true seamen.

Tyacke was down on the lee side, his lean figure framed against the pale water creaming back from the bows. One long arm moved to emphasize a point, and he could imagine Daubeny concentrating on every word. They were chalk and cheese, but the mixture seemed to work: Tyacke had a peculiar gift of being able to communicate his requirements to his subordinates without unnecessary anger or sarcasm. At first they had been afraid of him, and repulsed by the hideous scars: eventually they had all overcome such things, and had become a company of which to be proud.

He heard a midshipman whisper to his friend and saw them look up, and he shaded his eyes and stared with them at his flag, the red cross suddenly hard and bright, touched by the first light of dawn.

“Deck there!” Carleton’s voice was clear and very loud: he was using a speaking-trumpet. “Sail on the larboard bow!” A pause, and Bolitho could picture the young midshipman asking the masthead lookout his opinion. Tyacke was always careful with his choice of “eyes”: they were invariably experienced sailors, many of whom had grown older with the ships they were serving, or fighting.

Carleton called again, “She’s Attacker, sir!” He sounded almost disappointed that it was not a first sighting of the enemy. The other frigate was one of the smaller sixth-rates, and mounted only twenty-eight guns. Bolitho frowned. The same as Reaper. But she was not like Reaper. In his mind’s eye he could see Attacker ’s captain, George Morrison, a tough northerner from Tyneside. But no sadist: his punishment book was one of the cleanest in the squadron.

Avery said quietly, “He must sight Virtue soon, sir.”

Bolitho looked at him, and saw the new light driving the shadows from his face.

“Perhaps. We may have become separated in the night. Not for long.”

He knew Allday was close by: he must be standing almost where his son had fallen that day.

He pushed the thought away. This was now. Attacker was on her proper station, or soon would be, once she had sighted the flagship. The other frigate, Virtue, carried thirty-six guns. Her captain was Roger M’Cullom, in character a little like Dampier, who had been Zest’s captain before Adam had taken command. Devil-may-care and popular, but inclined to be reckless. Whether to impress his men or for his own benefit, it was still a dangerous and, as Dampier had discovered, sometimes a fatal flaw.

Sam Hockenhull the boatswain had come aft to speak with the first lieutenant. Bolitho noticed that he was careful to avoid contact with Allday, who still blamed him for sending his son to join the afterguard on the day he had died. The quarterdeck and poop were always ripe targets for enemy sharpshooters and the deadly swivel-guns in close combat: command and authority began and were easily ended here. It was nobody’s fault, and Hockenhull probably felt badly about it, although nothing had been said.