Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

His thoughts dwelled again on the letter in his pocket. Perhaps she had written it out of pity, or embarrassment at what had happened. She could never realize in ten thousand years what that one letter had meant to him. Just a few sentences, simple sentiments, and wishes for his future. She had ended, Your affectionate friend, Susanna.

That was all. He straightened his coat and opened the door for Allday. It was everything.

But Avery was a practical man. Susanna, Lady Mildmay, an admiral’s widow, would not remain alone for long. Perhaps could not. She had rich friends, and he had seen for himself the confidence, born of experience, she had displayed at the reception attended by Bolitho’s wife and by Vice-Admiral Bethune. He could recall her laugher when he had mistaken Bethune’s mistress for his wife. Is that all I could hope for?

Susanna was available now. She would soon forget that night in London with her lowly lieutenant. At the same time, he was already composing the letter he would write to her, the first he had written to anyone but his sister. There was no one else now. He walked aft towards the spiralling lantern, the rigid Royal Marine sentry outside the screen doors.

Allday murmured, “I wonder what Sir Richard wants.”

Avery paused, hearing the ship, and the ocean all around them. He answered simply, “He needs us. I know very well what that means.”

It was cold on the quarterdeck, with only the smallest hint of the daylight which would soon show itself and open up the sea. Bolitho gripped the quarterdeck rail, feeling the wind on his face and in his hair, his boat-cloak giving him anonymity for awhile longer.

It was a time of day he had always found fascinating as a captain in his own ship. A vessel coming alive beneath his feet, dark figures moving like ghosts, most of them so used to their duties that they performed them without conscious thought even incomplete darkness. The morning watch went about their affairs, while the watch below cleaned the mess decks and stowed away the hammocks in the nettings, with barely an order being passed. Bolitho could smell the stench of the galley funnel; the cook must surely use axle-grease for his wares. But sailors had strong stomachs. They needed them.

He heard the officer-of-the-watch speaking with his midshipman in brusque, clipped tones. Laroche was a keen gambler who had felt the rough edge of Lieutenant Scarlett’s tongue the very day Scarlett had been killed in the fight with the USS Unity.

It would be six in the morning soon, and Tyacke would come on deck. It was his custom, although he had impressed on all his officers that they were to call him at any time, day or night, if they were disturbed by any situation. Bolitho had heard him say to one lieutenant, “Better for me to lose my temper than to lose my ship!”

If you doubt, speak out. His father had said it many times.

He found he was walking along the weather side, his shoes avoiding ring bolts and tackles without effort. Catherine was troubled; it was made more apparent by her determination to hide it from him in her letters. Roxby was very ill, although Bolitho had seen that for himself before he had left England, and he thought it a good thing that his sister felt able to share her worries and hopes with Catherine, when their lives had been so different from one another.

Catherine had told him about the Spanish inheritance from her late husband, Luis Pareja. All those years ago, another world, a different ship; they had both been younger then. How could either of them have known what would happen? He could recall her exactly as she had been at their first meeting, the same fiery courage he had seen after the Golden Plover had gone down.

She was concerned about the money. He had mentioned it to Yovell, who seemed to understand all the complications, and had accompanied Catherine to the old firm of lawyers in Truro, to ensure that “she was not snared by legal roguery,” as he had put it.

Yovell had been frank, but discreet. “Lady Catherine will become rich, sir. Perhaps very rich.” He had gauged Bolitho’s expression, a little surprised that the prospect of wealth should disquiet him, but also proud that Bolitho had confided in him and no other.

But suppose… Bolitho paused in his pacing to watch the first glow of light, almost timid as it painted a small seam between sky and ocean. He heard a voice whisper, “Cap’n’s comin’ up, sir!” and a few seconds later Laroche’s pompous acknowledgement of Tyacke’s presence. “Good morning, sir. Course east by north. Wind’s veered a little.”

Tyacke said nothing. Bolitho saw it all as if it were indeed broad daylight. Tyacke would examine the compass and study the small wind-vane that aided the helmsmen until they could see the sails and the masthead pendant: he would already have scanned the log book on his way here. A new day. How would it be? An empty sea, a friend, an enemy?

He crossed to the weather side and touched his hat. “You’re about early, Sir Richard.” To anyone else, it would have seemed a question.

Bolitho said, “Like you, James, I need to feel the day, and try to sense what it might bring.”

Tyacke saw that his shirt was touched with pink, as the light found and explored the ship.

“We should sight the others directly, sir. Taciturn will be well up to wind’rd, and the brig Doon closing astern. As soon as we can see them I’ll make a signal.” He was thinking of the convoy they were expecting to meet: there would be hell to pay if they did not. Any escort duty was tedious and an enormous strain, especially for frigates like Indomitable and her consort Taciturn.

They were built for speed, not for the sickening motion under the reefed topsails necessary to hold station on their ponderous charges. He sniffed the air. “That damned galley-it stinks! I must have a word with the purser.”

Bolitho stared aloft, shading his eye. The topgallant yards were pale now, the sails taut and hard-braced to hold the uncooperative wind.

More figures had appeared: Daubeny the first lieutenant, already pointing out tasks for the forenoon watch to Hockenhull the boatswain. Tyacke touched his hat again and strode away to speak with his senior lieutenant, as though he were eager to get started.

Bolitho remained where he was while men hurried past him. Some might glance toward his cloaked figure, but when they realized that it was the admiral they would stay clear. He sighed faintly. At least they were not afraid of him. But to be a captain again… Your own ship. Like Adam…

He thought of him now, still at Halifax, or with Keen making a sweep along the American coast where a hundred ships like Unity or Chesapeake could be concealed. Boston, New Bedford, New York, Philadelphia. They could be anywhere.

It had to be stopped, finished before it became another draining, endless war. America had no allies as such, but would soon find them if Britain was perceived to be failing. If only…

He looked up, caught off-guard as the lookout’s voice penetrated the noises of sea and canvas.

“Deck there! Sail on larboard bow!” The barest pause. “’Tis Taciturn, on station!”

Tyacke said, “She’s seen us and hoisted a light. They have their wits about them.” He looked abeam as a fish leaped from the glassy rollers to avoid an early predator.

Laroche said in his newly affected drawl, “We should sight Doon next, then.”

Tyacke jabbed his hand forward. “Well, I hope the lookout’s eyesight is better than yours. That fore-staysail is flapping about like a washerwoman’s apron!”

Laroche called to a boatswain’s mate, suitably crushed.

And quite suddenly, there they were, their upper sails and rigging holding the first sunshine, their flags and pendants like pieces of painted metal.