Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

Tyacke said nothing. The convoy was safe.

Bolitho took a telescope, but clung to the sight before he raised it. Big and ponderous they might be, yet in this pure, keen light they had a kind of majesty. He thought back to the Saintes, as he often did at times like this, recalling the first sight of the French fleet. A young officer had written to his mother afterwards, comparing them with the armoured knights at Agincourt.

He asked, “How many?”

Tyacke again. “Seven, sir. Or so it said in the instruction.” He repeated, “Seven,” and Bolitho thought he was wondering if their cargoes were worthwhile or necessary.

Carleton, the signals midshipman, had arrived with his men. He looked fresh and alert, and had probably eaten a huge breakfast, no matter what the galley smelled like. Bolitho nodded to him, remembering when a ship’s rat fed on breadcrumbs from the galley had been a midshipman’s delicacy. They had said it tasted like rabbit. They had lied.

Tyacke checked the compass again, impatient to make contact with the senior ship of the escort and then lay his own ship on a new tack for their return to Halifax.

Carleton called, “There is a frigate closing, sir, larboard bow.” He was peering at the bright hoist of flags, but Tyacke said, “I know her. She’s Wakeful…” Like an echo, Carleton called dutifully, “Wakeful, 38, Captain Martin Hyde.”

Bolitho turned. The ship which had brought Keen and Adam out from England, after which the Royal Herald had been pounded into a coffin for her company. Mistaken identity. Or a brutal extension of an old hatred?

Carleton cleared his throat. “She has a passenger for Indomitable, sir.”

“What?” Tyacke sounded outraged. “By whose order?”

Carleton tried again, spelling out the hoist of flags with extra care.

“Senior officer for duties in Halifax, sir.”

Tyacke said doubtfully, “That must have been a potful to spell out.” Then, surprisingly, he smiled at the tall midshipman. “That was well done. Now acknowledge.” He glanced at Bolitho, who had discarded his cloak and was facing into the frail sunlight.

Bolitho shook his head. “No, James, I do not know who.” He turned and looked at him, his eyes bleak. “But I think I know why.”

Wakeful was coming about, and a boat was already being swayed up and over the gangway in readiness for lowering. A smart, well-handled ship. The unknown senior officer would have been making comparisons. Bolitho raised the glass again and saw the way falling off the other ship, the scars of wind and sea on her lithe hull. A solitary command, the only kind to have. He said, “Have the side manned, James. A boatswain’s chair too, although I doubt if it will be needed.”

Allday was here, Ozzard, too, with his dress coat, clucking irritably over the admiral’s casual appearance.

Allday clipped on the old sword, and murmured, “Squalls, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho looked at him gravely. He of all people would remember, and understand. “I fear so, old friend. There are still enemies within our own ranks, it seems.”

He saw the marines stamping to the entry port, picking up their dressing, their bayonets gleaming like silver. Showing a mark of respect, a salute to yet another important visitor. Equally, they would not question an order to place him in front of a firing squad.

Avery hurried from the companion hatch, but hesitated as Tyacke looked over at him and shook his head very slightly in warning.

Indomitable was hove-to, her seamen obviously glad of something to break the monotony of work and drill.

Wakeful’s gig came alongside, rolling steeply in the undertow. Bolitho walked to the rail and stared down, saw the passenger rise from the stern sheets and reach for the guide-rope, disdaining the assistance of a lieutenant, and ignoring the dangling chair as Bolitho had known he would.

Coming to judge the Reaper’s mutineers. How could it be that they should meet like this, on a small pencilled cross on Isaac York’s chart? And whose hand would have made this choice, unless it were guided by malice, and perhaps personal envy?

He made himself watch as the figure climbing the side missed a stair and almost fell. But he was climbing again, each movement an effort. As it would be for any man with only one arm.

The colour-sergeant growled, “Royal Marines… Ready! ” more to cover his own surprise at the time it was taking the visitor to appear at the entry port than out of necessity.

The cocked hat and then the rear-admiral’s epaulettes appeared finally in the port, and Bolitho strode forward to meet him.

“Guard of honour! Present arms!”

The din of the drill, the squeal of calls and the strident rattle of drums drowned out his spoken welcome.

They faced one another, the visitor with his hat raised in his left hand, his hair quite grey against the deep blue of the ocean behind him. But his eyes were the same, a more intense blue even than Tyacke’s.

The noise faded, and Bolitho exclaimed, “Thomas! You, of all people!”

Rear-Admiral Thomas Herrick replaced his hat and took the proffered hand. “Sir Richard.” Then he smiled, and for those few seconds Bolitho saw the face of his oldest friend.

Tyacke stood nearby, watching impassively; he knew most of the story, and the rest he could fathom for himself.

He waited to be presented. But he saw only an executioner.

Herrick hesitated inside the great cabin as if, for a moment, he was uncertain why he had come. He glanced around, acknowledging Ozzard with his tray, remembering him. As usual on such occasions, Ozzard revealed neither surprise nor curiosity, no matter what he might be thinking.

Bolitho said, “Here, Thomas. Try this chair.”

Herrick lowered himself with a grunt into the high-backed bergere and thrust out his legs. He said, “This is more like it.”

Bolitho said, “Did you find Wakeful a mite small?”

Herrick smiled slightly. “No, not at all. But her captain, Hyde-a bright young fellow with an even brighter future, I shouldn’t wonder-he wanted to entertain me. Humour me. I don’t need it. Never did.”

Bolitho studied him. Herrick was a year or so younger than himself, but he looked old, tired, and not only because of his grey hair and the deep lines of strain around his mouth. They would be the result of his amputated arm. It had been a close thing.

Ozzard padded nearer and waited.

Bolitho said, “A drink, perhaps.” There was a thud on deck. “Your gear is being brought aboard.”

Herrick looked at his legs, stained and wet from his climb up the ship’s tumblehome. “I can’t order you to take me to Halifax.”

“It is a pleasure, Thomas. There is so much I need to hear.”

Herrick looked across at Ozzard. “Some ginger beer, if you have any?”

Ozzard did not blink. “Of course, sir.”

Herrick sighed. “I saw that rascal Allday when I came aboard. He doesn’t change much.”

“He’s a proud father now, Thomas. A little girl. In truth, he shouldn’t be here.”

Herrick took the tall glass. “None of us should.” He examined Bolitho as he sat in another chair. “You look well. I’m glad.” Then, almost angrily, “You know why I’m here? The whole damned fleet seems to!”

“The mutiny. Reaper was retaken. It was all in my report.”

“I can’t discuss it. Not until I’ve carried out my own investigation.”

“And then?”

Herrick shrugged, and winced. His pain was very evident. The steep climb up Indomitable’s side would have done him no good.

“Court of inquiry. The rest you know. We’ve seen enough mutinies in our time, eh?”

“I know. Adam captured Reaper, by the way.”

“So I hear.” He nodded. “He’d need no urging.”