Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

Bolitho saw the girl’s hands gripped together in her lap. Waiting with a curious defiance which succeeded only in making her appear suddenly vulnerable.

David St Clair said quickly, “Are you feeling well, my dear?”

She did not answer him. “May I ask you something, Captain Pierton?”

Pierton glanced quizzically at the general, who gave a brief nod. “Of course, Miss St Clair.”

“You were at York when the Americans attacked. My father and I would have been there too, had circumstances not dictated otherwise.”

Her father leaned forward in his chair. “The 30-gun ship Sir Isaac Brock was burned on the slipway before the Americans could take her. I would have been too late in any case.”

Bolitho knew that she did not even hear him.

“Do you know Captain Anthony Loring, of your regiment, sir?”

The soldier looked back at her steadily. “Yes, of course. He commanded the second company.” He turned to Bolitho and the other naval officers. “Ours was the only professional force at York. We had the militia and the York Volunteers, and a company of the Royal Newfoundland Regiment.” He glanced at the girl again. “And about one hundred Mississauga and Chippewa Indians.”

Bolitho noted how easily the names rolled off his tongue: he was a seasoned campaigner, although this vast, untamed country was a far cry from Spain or France. But the others would know all these facts. It was merely an explanation for the girl’s benefit, as if he thought it was owed to her.

He continued in the same grave, precise manner. “The defences at Fort York were poor. My commanding officer believed that eventually the navy would be able to send more vessels to the lakes, to hold off the Americans until larger men-of-war were constructed. There were some seventeen hundred American soldiers that day, almost all of them regulars and well-trained. We had to gain time, to evacuate the fort and finally to burn the Sir Isaac Brock.”

She stood, and walked to the window. “Please continue.”

Pierton said quietly, “Captain Loring took his men to the lower shore where the Americans were landing. He gallantly led a bayonet charge and dispersed them. For a time. He was wounded, and died shortly afterwards. I am sorry. A good number of our men fell that day.”

Keen said, “I think you might be more comfortable in another room, Miss St Clair.”

Bolitho saw her shake her head, heedless of her hair, which had fallen loosely across her shoulder.

She asked, “Did he speak of me, Captain Pierton?”

Pierton looked at the general, and hesitated. “We were hard pressed, Miss St Clair.”

She persisted. “Ever?”

Pierton replied, “He was a very private person. A different company, you understand.”

She left the window and crossed over to him, then she put her hand on his arm. “That was a kind thing to say. I should not have asked.” She gripped the scarlet sleeve, unaware of everyone else. “I am so glad that you are safe.”

The general coughed noisily. “Sending him to England on the first packet. God knows if they’ll learn anything from what happened.”

The door closed quietly. She had gone.

Captain Pierton exclaimed, “Damn!” He looked at the general. “My apologies, sir, but I forgot to give her something. Perhaps it would be better to send it with his other effects to Ridge… our regimental agent in Charing Cross.”

Bolitho watched as he took a miniature painting from his tunic and laid it on the table. Charing Cross: like the casual mention of the Indians fighting with the army, it seemed so alien here. Another world.

Keen said, “May I?”

He held the miniature to the sunlight and studied it. “A good likeness. Very good.”

A small tragedy of war, Bolitho thought. She had sent or given him the miniature, even though the unknown Loring had decided not to encourage a more intimate relationship. She must have been hoping to see him again when her father visited York, perhaps fearing what she might discover. Now it was too late. Her father probably knew more than he would ever disclose.

Keen said, “Well, sir, I think it should be returned to her. If it were me…” He did not go on.

Thinking of Zenoria? Sharing the same sense of loss?

The general frowned. “Perhaps you’re right.” He glanced at the clock. “Time to stop now, gentlemen. I have a very acceptable claret, and I believe we should sample it. After that…”

Bolitho stood near the window, studying the captured American, Chesapeake, and the Reaper beyond.

He asked, “And what of York, Captain Pierton? Is it secure?”

“Unfortunately, no, Sir Richard. My regiment withdrew in good order to Kingston, which is now doubly important if we are to withstand another attack. If the Americans had gone for Kingston in the first place…”

“Well?”

The general answered for him. “We would have lost Upper Canada.”

Two servants had appeared with trays of glasses. Keen murmured, “I shall not be a moment, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho turned as Avery joined him by the window. “We shall not wait longer than necessary.” He was concerned at the expression in the tawny eyes: they were deeply introspective, and yet, in some strange way, at peace. “What is it? Another secret, George?”

Avery faced him, making up his mind. Perhaps he had been struggling with it all the way from the ship to this place of stamping boots and shouted orders.

He said, “I received a letter, sir. A letter.”

Bolitho twisted round and grasped his wrist. “A letter? Do you mean…”

Avery smiled, rather shyly, and his face was that of a much younger man.

“Yes, sir. From a lady.”

Outside, in the sun-dappled passageway, Keen sat beside the girl on one of the heavy leather couches.

He watched her as she turned the miniature over in her hands, recalling the calm acceptance in her face when he had given it to her. Resignation? Or something far deeper?

“It was good of you. I did not know…”

He saw her mouth quiver, and said, “While I command here at Halifax, if there is anything I can do to serve you, anything you require…”

She looked up into his face. “I will be with my father, at the Massie residence. They are… old friends.” She lowered her eyes. “Of a sort.” She looked at the miniature again. “I was younger then.”

Keen said, “It is…” He faltered. “You are very brave, and very beautiful.” He tried to smile, to break the tension within himself. “Please do not be offended. That is the very last thing I intend.”

She was watching him, her eyes steady once more. “You must have thought me a fool, an innocent in a world I know not. The sort of thing to bring a few laughs in the mess when you are all together as men.” She thrust out her hand, impetuous, but sharing his uncertainty. “Keep this, if you like. It is of no further use to me.” But the careless mood would not remain. She watched him take the miniature, his lashes pale against his sunburned skin as he gazed down at it. “And… take care. I shall think of you.”

She walked away along the passage, the sun greeting her at every window. She did not look back.

He said, “I shall depend on it.”

He walked slowly back toward the general’s room. Of course, it could not happen. It could not, not again. But it had.

Adam Bolitho paused with one foot on the high step and looked up at the shop. With the sun hot across his shoulders and the sky intensely blue above the rooftops, it was hard to remember the same street obscured by great banks of snow.

He pushed open the door and smiled to himself as a bell jingled to announce his entrance. It was a small but elegant place which he thought would fit well into London or Exeter.