Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

They shook hands, more like strangers than friends. Bolitho had seen very little of Adam since his return from Antigua, but had written to congratulate him on his destruction of the prize and her attacker, with the loss of only one man. It was hard to tell what Adam really thought about it.

The other door was opened and Rear-Admiral Thomas Herrick walked straight to the table and sat down, his eyes moving briefly across their faces, his own impassive, with nothing to reveal the strain under which he had placed himself with his personally conducted enquiry into the loss and recapture of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Reaper.

Bolitho knew that Herrick had read all the statements, including that taken by Avery from Reaper’s badly injured first lieutenant at Hamilton, and Adam’s account of the recapture from the Americans when Reaper’s guns had been discharged into the sea. Herrick had also spoken with David St Clair, and very likely with St Clair’s daughter. Bolitho recalled the moment at the general’s house when the youthful captain of the King’s Regiment had handed the girl’s miniature over to Keen. This latest attack on York had occasioned no more casualties, as the British army had not returned to the burned-out fort, but she must have thought of it, all the same: the man she had loved, and had believed had cared deeply for her, lying up there somewhere with his dead soldiers. The Americans had quit York after only three days; perhaps the stores and weapons they had hoped to find were already gone, or had been destroyed during the first attack. Compared with many other battles, the action was not one of the most significant, but in proportion it was certainly one of the bloodiest; and the full consequences were still to be measured.

Herrick looked up from his file of papers.

“This is an official court of enquiry into the loss and recapture of His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Reaper, intelligence of which I am authorized and ordered to summarize for the Lords of Admiralty, for their guidance and final approval.”

He waited for the clerk to pass him another sheet of paper.

“We are all very well aware of the consequences of bad example, and of poor leadership. It is often too simple to be wise after an event which has already done so much wrong and caused so much damage.” For only a moment, his blue eyes rested on Bolitho. “In all these years of war, against one foe or another, we have won many victories. However, we have never won the freedom to question or challenge what we did, or why we were so ordered.” He almost smiled. “And I fear we never will, in our lifetimes.”

He looked down again. “We require no reminding of the absolute need for order and discipline at all times. Without them, we are a shambles, a disgrace to the fleet in which we serve.” His shoulder moved, and the empty sleeve swayed slightly; he did not appear to notice. “It is a lesson which any captain forgets at his peril.”

Bolitho glanced at his companions. Keen and Adam had both been his midshipmen, and had learned the hazards and the rewards on their way up the ladder of promotion. De Courcey was listening intently, but his expression was devoid of understanding. James Tyacke was leaning back in the shadows as if to conceal his face, but his hands, which rested in his lap, were very tense, locked together as if he, too, were preparing for the inevitable. Like those others who would be waiting: some ninety souls, whose suffering under a sadistic captain would soon be obliterated in the name of justice.

He saw Adam gazing at him with unblinking eyes, his face drawn, as if he were in pain. But Bolitho knew it was a deeper pain even than the body’s wounds: he was reliving the loss of his ship, the flag coming down while he lay where he had fallen on that bloody day. Remembering those who had fought and died at his bidding. Men who, as Herrick had rightly said, had never known the freedom to question or challenge what they were ordered to do.

He thought Adam must be remembering their many long conversations, each gaining from the other’s experience. He was headstrong and impetuous, but his love had never been in doubt, caring always for the man who would be called upon to sign the warrants for those condemned to be hanged, or at best flogged into something inhuman.

Bolitho touched the locket beneath the fresh shirt he wore, and thought he saw understanding in Adam’s face.

Herrick was saying, “The Americans are, fortunately, a nation of magpies. They are slow to throw away items which may be of historic interest at some later time.” He gestured to the clerk, and waited while he opened a large, canvas-covered volume.

Herrick continued, without expression, “Reaper’s punishment book. It tells me more than five hundred written reports and dying declarations. This captain was not long in command and on his first active service as such, and yet this book reads like a chapter from Hell itself.”

Bolitho could almost feel Tyacke’s sudden tension. Wanting to speak out. But Herrick knew for himself what quarterdeck tyranny could be: Bolitho had become his captain in Phalarope all those years ago only because the previous captain had been removed. Another tyrant.

“To go back to that day, gentlemen. The mutiny, which we now know was both inspired and encouraged by the Americans who boarded that unhappy ship. There were ringleaders, of course, but without American aid and a ready presence, who could swear to the truth of what would have happened?” He peered at his papers, as he must have done every day since his arrival in Halifax. “Vengeance is a terrible disease, but in this case it was probably inevitable. We know that Reaper’s captain died as a result of the flogging he received that day.” He looked up sharply, his eyes hard. “I have known common seamen die even under a legal flogging. We must not allow the deed to overshadow or dispel the cause.”

Two army officers strode past the closed doors, their noisy laughter dying instantly when they realized what was happening within. Herrick frowned. “These observations are in my personal report, which will be presented to Their Lordships.” His eyes shifted to Bolitho. “When I am gone from here.”

The frigate Wakeful had been taking on stores and water as he had been pulled ashore. Her work done on this station, she would be speeding back to England for fresh orders. Herrick would be taking passage in her again. Being “entertained.”

Herrick glanced at a tumbler of water, but apparently rejected the idea. “My considered conclusion in this miserable affair is that the two ringleaders, Alick Nisbet, Master-at-Arms, and Harry Ramsay, maintopman and able-bodied seaman, are detained, with a recommendation for the maximum penalty.”

Bolitho saw Adam clenching his fists until the knuckles were drained of blood beneath the tanned skin. He had heard about the man Ramsay, once of Anemone, whose mutilated back was living proof of the ship’s punishment book. The other man was a surprise: the master-at-arms was the symbol of discipline and, when necessary, punishment aboard any King’s ship, and he was usually hated for it.

And now the rest. He wanted to stand up and speak on behalf of the men he did not even know, but it would have damaged whatever frail hope they might still have.

Herrick continued, “My further instruction is that all the other seamen and landmen involved be returned to their duties forthwith. They have suffered enough, and yet, when called, they would not, could not fire upon ships of this navy, no matter what the refusal would have cost them.”

Tyacke exclaimed, “Hell’s teeth! They’ll crucify him when he gets back to London!” He turned and looked at Bolitho, his eyes revealing a rare emotion. “I would never have believed it!”