Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

Calls shrilled overhead and feet thudded across the planking. Tyacke was under sail, changing tack now that the way was clear.

Bolitho said, “I must read my despatches. I’ll not be long.”

“I can tell you some of it. We heard just before we weighed anchor. Wellington has won a great victory over the French at Victoria, their last main stronghold in Spain, I understand. They are in retreat.” His face was closed, distant. “All these years we’ve prayed and waited for this, clung to it when all else seemed lost.” He held out the empty glass. “And now it’s happened, I can’t feel anything, anything at all.”

Bolitho watched him with an indefinable sadness. They had seen and done so much together: blazing sun and screaming gales, blockade and patrols off countless shores, ships lost, good men killed, and more still would die before the last trumpet sounded.

“And you, Thomas? What have you been doing?”

He nodded to Ozzard and took the refilled glass. “The scraps. Visiting dockyards, inspecting coastal defences, anything no one else wanted to do. I was even offered a two-year contract as governor of the new sailors’ hospital. Two years. It was all they could find.”

“And what of this investigation, Thomas?”

“Do you remember John Cotgrave? He was the Judge Advocate at my court martial. He sits at the top of the legal tree where the Admiralty’s concerned. It was his idea.”

Bolitho waited, only the taste of cognac on his tongue to remind him that he had taken a drink. There was no bitterness in Herrick’s tone, not even resignation. It was as if he had lost everything, and believed in nothing, least of all the life he had once loved so dearly.

“They want no long drawn-out drama, no fuss. All they want is a verdict to show that justice is upheld.” He gave the thin smile again. “Has a familiar tune, don’t you think?”

He looked towards the stern windows, and the sea beyond. “As for me, I sold the house in Kent. It was too big, anyway. It was so empty, so desolate without…” He hesitated. “Without Dulcie.”

“What will you do, Thomas?”

“After this? I shall quit the navy. I don’t want to be another relic, an old salt-horse who doesn’t want to hear when he is surplus to Their Lordships’ requirements!”

There was a tap at the door, and as the sentry had remained silent Bolitho knew that it was Tyacke.

He entered the cabin and said, “On our new course, Sir Richard. Taciturn and Doon will remain with the convoy as you ordered. The wind’s freshening, but it’ll suit me.”

Herrick said, “You sound pleased with her, Captain Tyacke.”

Tyacke stood beneath one of the lanterns.

“She’s the fastest sailer I’ve ever known, sir.” He turned the scarred side of his face towards him, perhaps deliberately. “I hope you will be comfortable on board, sir.”

Bolitho said, “Will you sup with us this evening, James?”

Tyacke looked at him, and his eyes spoke for him.

“I must ask your forgiveness, sir, but I have some extra duties to attend to. At some other time, I would be honoured.”

The door closed, and Herrick said, “When I’ve left the ship, he means.” Bolitho began to protest. “I do understand. A ship, a King’s ship no less, has mutinied against rightful authority. At any time in war it is a crime beyond comparison, and now when we face a new enemy, with the additional temptation of better pay and more humane treatment, it is all the more dangerous. I will doubtless hear that the uprising was caused by a captain’s brutality… sadism… I have seen it all before, in my early days as a lieutenant.”

He was speaking of Phalarope, without mentioning her name, although it was as if he had shouted it aloud.

“Some will say that the choice of captain was faulty, that it was favouritism, or the need to remove him from his previous appointment-that too is not uncommon. So what do we say? That because of these ‘mistakes’ it was a just solution to dip the colours to an enemy, to mutiny, and to cause the death of that captain, be he saint or damned sinner? There can be no excuse. There never was.” He leaned forward and glanced around the shadowed cabin, but Ozzard had vanished. They were alone. “I am your friend, although at times I have not shown it. But I know you of old, Richard, and could guess what you might do, even if you have not yet considered it. You would risk everything, throw it all away on a point of honour and, may I say it, decency. You would speak up for those mutineers, no matter what it cost. I tell you now, Richard, it would cost you everything. They would destroy you. They would not merely be victims of their own folly-they would be martyrs. Bloody saints, if some had their way!”

He paused: he seemed wearied suddenly. “But you do have many friends. What you have done and have tried to do will not be forgotten. Even that damned upstart Bethune confided that he feared for your reputation. So much envy, so much deceit.”

Bolitho walked past the big chair and laid his hand for a moment on the stooped shoulder.

“Thank you for telling me, Thomas. I want a victory, I crave it, and I know what this has cost you.” He saw his reflection in the salt-smeared glass as the ship fell off another point or so. “I know how you feel.” He sensed the wariness. “How I would feel if anything happened to separate me from Catherine. But duty is one thing, Thomas… it has guided my feet since I first went to sea at the age of twelve… and justice is something else.” He walked around, and saw the same stubborn, closed face, the determination which had first brought them together in Phalarope. “In battle I hate to see men die for no purpose, when they have no say and no choice at all in the matter. And I’ll not turn my back on other men who have been wronged, driven to despair, and already condemned by others who are equally guilty, but not charged.”

Herrick remained very calm. “I am not surprised.” He made to rise. “Do we still sup this evening?”

Bolitho smiled: it came without effort this time. They were not enemies; the past could not die. “I had hoped for that, Thomas. Make full use of these quarters.” He picked up the despatches, and added, “I promise you that nobody will attempt to entertain you!”

Outside the cabin he found Allday loitering by an open gunport. He had simply happened to be there, in case.

He asked, “How was it, Sir Richard? Bad?”

Bolitho smiled. “He has not changed much, old friend.”

Allday said, “Then it is bad.”

Bolitho knew that Tyacke and Avery would be waiting, united even more strongly because of something which was beyond their control.

Allday said harshly, “They’ll hang for it. I’ll shed no tears for ’em. I hates their kind. Vermin.”

Bolitho looked at him, moved by his anger. Allday had been a pressed man, taken the same day as Bryan Ferguson. So what had instilled in them both such an abiding sense of loyalty, and such courage?

It was no help to understand that Herrick knew the answer. So did Tyacke. Trust.

JOHN URQUHART, Valkyrie’s first lieutenant, paused in the entry port to recover his breath while he stared across at the captured American frigate Success. The wind was rising very slightly, but enough to make her plunge and stagger while the small prize crew fought to keep her under command.

He regarded the orderly, almost placid scene on the quarterdeck of this ship, in which he had served for four years, noting the curious but respectful eyes of the midshipmen, reminding him, if it were necessary, of his own crumpled and untidy appearance; then he glanced up at the sky, pale blue, washed-out and, like the ocean, almost misty in the unwavering sunshine.