Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

As if to some signal, a dozen or so clocks began to chime the hour, tall clocks and small, ornate timepieces for mantel or drawing room, clocks with moving figures, phases of the moon, and one with a fine square-rigger which actually dipped and lifted to each stroke of the pendulum. Each one pleased and intrigued him, and he was walking from one to another examining them when a short man in a dark coat came through a doorway by the counter. His eyes instantly and professionally examined the uniform, the bright gold epaulettes and short, curved hanger.

“And how may I be of service, Captain?”

“I require a watch. I was told…”

The man pulled out a long tray. “Each of those is tested and reliable. Not new and untried, but of excellent repute. Old friends.”

Adam thought of the ship he had just left at anchor: ready for sea. It was impossible not to be aware of the captured American frigate Chesapeake in the harbour, which he had seen from Valkyrie’s gig. A truly beautiful ship: he could even accept that at one time he would have wanted no finer command. But the emotion would not return: the loss of Anemone had been like having part of himself die. She had been escorted into Halifax by her victorious opponent Shannon on the sixth of June. My birthday. The day he had been kissed by Zenoria on the cliff track; when he had cut the wild roses with his knife for her. So young. And yet so aware.

He glanced at the array of watches. It was not vanity: he needed one now that his own had disappeared, lost or stolen when he had been wounded and transferred to the USS Unity. They might as well have left him to die.

The shopkeeper took his silence as lack of interest. “This is a very good piece, sir. Open-faced with duplex escapement, one of James McCabe’s famous breed. Made in 1806, but still quite perfect.”

Adam picked it up. Who had carried it before, he wondered. Most of the watches here had probably belonged to army or sea officers. Or their widows…

He found himself thinking with increasing bitterness of Keen’s interest in David St Clair’s daughter, Gilia. At first he had thought it was merely pity for the girl; Keen might even have been making comparisons with Zenoria, whom he had rescued from a convict transport. She had carried the mark of a whip across her back as a constant and cruel reminder, the mark of Satan, she had called it. He was being unfair to Keen, more so perhaps because of his own guilt, which never left him. That, willing or otherwise, Zenoria had been his lover.

He asked suddenly, “What about that one?”

The man gave him an approving smile. “You are an excellent judge as well as a brave frigate captain, sir!”

Adam had become accustomed to it. Here in Halifax, despite the heavy military presence and the comparative nearness of the enemy, security was a myth. Everyone knew who you were, what ship, where bound, and probably a whole lot more. He had mentioned it with some concern to Keen, who had said only, “I think we give them too much credit, Adam.”

An indefinable coolness had come between them. Because of Adam’s threat to fire on the Reaper, hostages or not, or was it something of his own making or imagination, born of that abiding sense of guilt?

He took the watch, and it rested in his palm. It was heavy, the case rubbed smooth by handling over the years.

The man said, “A rare piece, Captain. Note the cylinder escapement, the fine, clear face.” He sighed. “Mudge and Dutton, 1770. A good deal older than yourself, I daresay.”

Adam was studying the guard, the engraving well worn but still clear and vital in the dusty sunlight. A mermaid.

The shopkeeper added, “Not the kind of workmanship one finds very often these days, I fear.”

Adam held it to his ear. Recalling her face that day in Plymouth, when he had picked up her fallen glove and returned it to her. Her hand on his arm when they had walked together in the port admiral’s garden. The last time he had seen her.

“What is the story of this watch?”

The little man polished his glasses. “It came into the shop a long while ago. It belonged to a seafaring gentleman like yourself, sir… I believe he needed the money. I could find out, perhaps.”

“No.” Adam closed the guard very carefully. “I will take it.”

“It is a mite expensive, but…” He smiled, pleased that the watch had gone to a suitable owner. “I know you are a very successful frigate captain, sir. It is right and proper that you should have it!” He waited, but the responding smile was not forthcoming. “I should clean it before you take it. I can send it by hand to Valkyrie if you would prefer. I understand that you are not sailing until the day after tomorrow?”

Adam looked away. He had only just been told himself by Keen before he had come ashore.

“Thank you, but I shall take it now.” He slipped it into his pocket, haunted by her face once more. The local people of Zennor still insisted that the church where she and Keen had been married had been visited by a mermaid.

The bell jingled again and the shopkeeper glanced around, irritated by the intrusion. He met all kinds of people here: Halifax was becoming the most important sea port, and certainly the safest, set as it was at the crossroads of war. With the army to defend it and the navy to protect and supply it, there were many who regarded it as the new gateway to a continent. But this young, dark-haired captain was very different from the others. Alone, completely alone, alive to something which he would allow no one else to share.

He said, “I am sorry, Mrs Lovelace, but your clock is still misbehaving. A few days more, perhaps.”

But she was looking at Adam. “Well, Captain Bolitho, this is a pleasant surprise. I trust you are well? And how is your handsome young admiral?”

Adam bowed to her. She was dressed in dark red silk, with a matching bonnet to shade her eyes from the sun. The same direct way of looking at him, the slightly mocking smile, as if she were used to teasing people. Men.

He said, “Rear-Admiral Keen is well, ma’am.”

She was quick to notice the slight edge to his reply.

“You have been shopping, I see.” She held out her hand. “Will you show me?”

He knew that the shopkeeper was observing them with interest. No doubt he knew her well, and her reputation would make a fine piece of gossip. He was surprised to find that he had actually taken out his watch to show her.

“I needed one, Mrs Lovelace. I like it.” He saw her studying the engraved mermaid.

“I would have bought something younger for you, Captain Bolitho. But if it’s what you want, and it takes your fancy…” She glanced out at the street. “I must go. I have friends to entertain later.” She looked at him directly again, her eyes suddenly very still and serious. “You know where I live, I think.”

He answered, “On the Bedford Basin. I remember.”

For a second or two her composure and her humour were gone. She gripped his arm, and said, “Be careful. Promise me that. I know of your reputation, and a little of your background. I think perhaps you do not care for your own life any more.” When he would have spoken she silenced him, as effectively as if she had laid a finger on his lips. “Say nothing. Only do as I ask, and be very careful. Promise me.” Then she looked at him again: the invitation was very plain. “When you come back, please call on me.”

He said coolly, “What about your husband, ma’am? I think he may well object.”

She laughed, but the first vivid confidence did not return. “He is never here. Trade is his life, his whole world!” She played with the ribbon of her bonnet. “But he is no trouble.”

He recalled their host, Benjamin Massie, that night when the brig Alfriston had brought the news of Reaper’s mutiny and capture. Massie’s mistress then, and perhaps the mistress of others as well.