Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

He saw Adam Bolitho speaking with Ritchie, the sailing master. Ritchie had been badly wounded in the first clash with the USS Unity, when the admiral had been almost blinded by flying splinters, and the previous captain’s nerve had broken. A day he would never forget. Neither would Ritchie, cut down by metal fragments: it was a wonder he had lived. Always a strong, tireless sailing-master of the old school, he was still trying not to show his pain and refusing to recognize his terrible limp, as if in the end it would somehow cure itself.

Urquhart touched his hat to the quarterdeck. There were countless men like Ritchie on the streets of any seaport in England.

Adam Bolitho smiled. “Hard pull, was it?”

Urquhart nodded. Three days since they had quit Halifax, with only about five hundred miles to log for it. With the perverse winds and the prospect of storms, it was not the time of year for anyone to be complacent, least of all the captain. But while Urquhart had been away from Valkyrie aboard the battered prize, the captain seemed to have changed in some way, and was quite cheerful.

Urquhart said, “I’ve had the pumps going watch by watch, sir. She’s built well enough, like most French ships, but the rot is something else. The old Indom gave her more than her share, I’d say.

Adam said, “We’ll let Success fall off a point or so. That should ease the strain.” He stared abeam at the sea’s face, set in a moving pattern of blue and pale green; it had an almost milky appearance, broken now and then by a lingering blast of wind, a north-easterly, which could make every sail strain and thunder like a roll of drums. The sea here looked almost shallow, and the drifting gulf weed intensified the effect. He smiled. But there were three thousand fathoms beneath the keel hereabouts, or so they said, although no one could know.

He watched the other frigate’s sails lifting and puffing in the same passing squall. “We’ll take her in tow tomorrow, Mr Urquhart. It may slow us even more, but at least we’ll stay in company.” He saw Urquhart’s eyes move beyond his shoulder and heard the flag lieutenant’s brisk footsteps on the deck. De Courcey had kept out of his way, and had in fact probably been instructed to do so by Keen. But would he learn anything on this passage? His future seemed already assured.

De Courcey touched his hat, with a cool glance at Urquhart’s dishevelled appearance. “Is all well?” He looked at Adam. “Isn’t it taking longer than expected, sir?”

Adam gestured across the nettings. “Yonder lies the enemy, Mr de Courcey. America. In fact, Mr Ritchie insists that we are due east of Chesapeake Bay itself. I have to believe him, of course.”

Urquhart saw the sailing-master’s quick, conspiratorial grin. It was more than that. It was pleasure that the captain could now joke with him. They had all known that Captain Adam Bolitho was one of the most successful frigate captains in the fleet, and the nephew of England ’s most respected, and loved, sailor, but it had been impossible to know him as a man. Urquhart also saw and was amused by the flag lieutenant’s sudden alarm as he peered abeam, as if he expected to actually see the coastline.

Adam said, “Two hundred miles, Mr de Courcey.” He glanced up as the masthead pendant cracked out like a long whip.

Urquhart wondered if he missed the sight of a rear-admiral’s flag at the mizzen truck, or was he savouring this independence, limited though it would be?

The previous day, the lookouts had sighted two small sails to the south-west. They had been unable to leave the damaged Success to give chase, so the strangers might have been anything, coasters willing to risk the British patrols if only to earn their keep, or enemy scouts. If the captain was troubled by it, he was disguising it well.

De Courcey said suddenly, “Only two hundred miles, sir? I thought we were heading closer to the Bermudas.”

Adam smiled and touched his arm lightly, something else Urquhart had not seen him do before.

“The nor’-easterlies are friendly, Mr de Courcey, but to whom, I wonder?” He turned to Urquhart, excluding the others, his face calm, assured. “We’ll pass a tow at first light. After that…” He did not continue.

Urquhart watched him walk away to speak with the sailing master again. So certain. But how could he be? Why should he be? He considered the previous two captains, the intolerant and sarcastic Trevenen, who had broken in the face of real danger, and had vanished overboard without trace, and Captain Peter Dawes, the acting-commodore, who had been unable to think beyond promotion. Any fault would reflect badly on a first lieutenant, and Urquhart had intended never to fully trust a captain again, for his own sake. No one else would care what became of him.

De Courcey remarked, “I wonder what he truly thinks?” When Urquhart remained silent, he went on, “Works all of us like a man possessed, and then when he has a spare minute, he sits down aft, teaching that boy servant of his to write!” He laughed shortly. “If that is what he is really doing!”

Urquhart said quietly, “It is rumoured that Captain Bolitho is very skilled with both blade and pistol, Mr de Courcey. I suggest you do nothing to foster or encourage scandal. It could be the end of you, in more ways than one.”

Adam came back, his face in a small frown. “May I ask you to take a meal with me, John? I doubt if Success’s fare is any sounder than her timbers!”

Urquhart smiled without reservation. “I would be grateful, sir. But are you certain?” He looked up at the pendant, then at the real strength the two helmsmen were using against the kick of the wheel.

“Yes, I am sure of it. They need the wind, the advantage of it. For us to fight with only the land at our backs, first light will be soon enough.” He looked at him keenly. “If I’m wrong, we shall be no worse off.”

For only a second, Urquhart saw the face he had just evoked for de Courcey. He could well imagine those same eyes, calm and unblinking along the barrel of a pistol in some quiet clearing at dawn, or testing the edge of his favourite sword. And quite suddenly, he was glad of it.

Adam said, almost casually, “When this is over and we are back about our rightful affairs, I intend to put you forward for promotion.”

Urquhart was taken aback. “But, sir-I don’t think-I am satisfied to serve you…” He got no further.

Adam said, “That’s enough,” and shook his arm a little for emphasis. “Never say that, John. Never even think it.” He looked up at the sky and the quivering belly of the maintopsail. “My uncle once described his first command as the greatest gift. But it is much more than that.” His eyes hardened. “Which is why I mistrust those who betray such a privilege.” Then he seemed to shake off the mood. “At noon, then. Today is Friday, is it not?” He smiled, and Urquhart wondered why there was no woman in his life. “Tonight the toast will be, a willing foe and enough sea room. A perfect sentiment!”

That evening the wind rose again, and backed to north-east-by-north. Urquhart was pulled once more to the Success, and was drenched in spray before he was halfway across.

Somehow, he did not care. The stage was set. And he was ready.

Captain Adam Bolitho walked across the black and white checkered deck covering and stared through the tall stern windows. The wind had eased a good deal overnight, but still made its presence felt in short, fierce gusts, dashing the spray high over the ship until it pattered from the dripping sails like rain.

He saw the murky outline of the other frigate, her shape distorted by the caked salt on the glass, her bearing so extreme that she appeared out of control, adrift.

It had been hard work to pass the tow across at first light, requiring tough, experienced seamanship, or as Evan Jones, the boatswain, had remarked, “All brute force and bloody ignorance!” But they had done it. Now, yawing drunkenly to each gust of wind, the Success fought her tow like a beast being led to slaughter.