Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

Yovell said suddenly, “You could describe me as a civilian, could you not, Sir Richard? Despite the warlike surroundings, and our way of life, I am not truly bound to the niceties and traditions of sea officers?”

Bolitho smiled at him. He never changed. Not even in that wretched longboat, when his hands had been raw and bleeding from pulling on an oar with the others. With Catherine.

“I hope you remain so.”

Yovell frowned, then polished his small gold-rimmed spectacles, something he often did when he was pondering a problem.

“Mr Avery is your flag lieutenant-he stands between you and the captain and serves both.” He breathed on his spectacles again. “He is loyal to both. He would never speak behind the captain’s back, because you are friends. It would seem like a betrayal of trust, and the association which has grown between them.” He smiled gently. “Between all of us, if I may say so, Sir Richard.”

There was complete silence from the pantry. Ozzard would be there, listening.

“If it troubles you, then tell me. I felt something was amiss myself.” He turned towards the sea again. Yovell’s remark had touched him more than he cared to accept, reminding him uncomfortably of Herrick’s comments on the Happy Few. In truth, there were not many left now. Keverne, who had once commanded this ship; Charles Farquhar, once a midshipman like Bethune, who had been killed aboard his own command at Corfu. And dear Francis Inch, eager, horse-faced, married to such a pretty woman at Weymouth. Her name was Hannah… He recalled it with effort. And so many others. John Neale. Browne, with an “e,” and Avery’s predecessor, Stephen Jenour. So many. Too many. And all dead.

He turned from the light as Yovell said quietly, “Captain Tyacke received a letter in Halifax. It was in the bag delivered by the schooner Reynard.”

“Bad news?”

Yovell replaced his spectacles with care. “I am told that it had travelled far. As is often the way with the fleet’s mail.”

Bolitho stared at him. Of course. Tyacke never received letters. Like Avery, until he had been sent one by his lady in London. It was so typical of Avery to remain silent, even if he knew the cause of Tyacke’s withdrawal. He would understand. Just as he had understood Adam’s anguish at having been a prisoner of war.

“Is it all over the ship?”

“Only the flag lieutenant knows, sir.”

Bolitho touched his eyelid, and recalled the gown Catherine had been given when Larne finally found them. When she had returned it to Tyacke, she had expressed the wish that it might be worn by someone worthy of him…

He clenched his fist. Surely not the same woman? It could not be; why, after so long, and after the cruel way she had rejected him, and his disfigured face? But in his heart, he knew that it was.

He saw Catherine, as clearly as if he had looked at her locket. They had no secrets. He knew of her visits to London, and that she occasionally consulted Sillitoe for his advice on investing the money from Spain; he trusted her completely, as she trusted him. But what if… He thought of Tyacke’s silence and reticence, the reawakened pain that must be hidden. What if… Catherine needed to be loved, just as she needed to return love.

“If I spoke out of turn, Sir Richard…”

Bolitho said, “You did not. It is good to be reminded sometimes of things that truly matter, and those who are out of reach.”

Yovell was reassured, and glad that he had spoken out. As a civilian.

The other door opened and Ozzard padded into the cabin, a coffee pot in his hands.

“Is that the last of it, Ozzard?”

Ozzard glanced severely at the pot. “No, Sir Richard. Two weeks more, at most. After that…”

Avery returned to the cabin, and Bolitho saw him waiting while he took a cup from the tray, gauging the moment when the ship staggered through a confusion of broken crests. Ozzard had poured a cup for the flag lieutenant, almost grudgingly. What did he think about; what occupied his mind in all the months and years he had been at sea? A man who had obliterated his past, but, like Yovell, an educated one, who could read classical works, and had the handwriting of a scholar. It seemed as if he wanted no future, either.

Bolitho took the notes Avery had brought, and said, “One more day. We might fall in with a courier from Halifax. Rear Admiral Keen may have more news.”

Avery asked, “These American ships, sir-will they wish to challenge us?”

“Whatever they intend, George, I shall need every trick we can muster. Just as I will need all of my officers to be at their best, if fight we must.”

Avery glanced at Yovell, and lowered his voice. “You know about the captain’s letter, sir?”

“Yes. Now I do, and I appreciate and respect your feelings, and your reluctance to discuss it.” He paused. “However, James Tyacke is not only the captain of my flagship, he is the ship, no matter how he might dispute that!”

“Yes. I am sorry, Sir Richard. I thought-”

“Don’t be sorry. Loyalty comes in many guises.”

They looked at the door as the sentry called, “First lieutenant, sir! ”

Lieutenant John Daubeny stepped into the cabin, his slim figure angled in the entrance like that of a drunken sailor.

“The captain’s respects, Sir Richard. Taciturn has signalled. Sail in sight to the nor’-west.”

Avery remarked quietly, “She’ll have a hard beat to reach us, sir.”

“One of ours, you believe?”

Avery nodded. “Chivalrous. Must be her. She’d soon turn and run with the wind otherwise.”

Bolitho smiled unconsciously at his judgment. “I agree. My compliments to the captain, Mr Daubeny. Make a signal. General. To be repeated to all our ships. Close on Flag.”

He could see them, tiny dabs of colour as the flags broke from their yards, to be repeated to the next vessel even though she might barely be in sight. The chain of command, the overall responsibility. Daubeny waited, noting everything, to go in the next letter to his mother.

Bolitho glanced up at the skylight. Tyacke with his ship. A man alone, perhaps now more than ever.

“I shall come up at seven bells, Mr Daubeny.”

But the first lieutenant had gone, the signal already hoisted.

He touched the locket beneath his shirt.

Stay close, dear Kate. Don’t leave me.

They met with the 30-gun frigate Chivalrous in late afternoon, Indomitable and her consorts having made more sail to hasten the rendezvous. It would also ensure that Captain Isaac Lloyd could board the flagship with time to return to his own command before nightfall, or in case the wind freshened enough to prevent the use of a boat.

Lloyd was only twenty-eight but had the face of an older, more seasoned officer, with dark, steady eyes and pointed features that gave him the demeanour of a watchful fox. He used the chart in Bolitho’s cabin, his finger jabbing at the various positions which York had already estimated.

“Six of them all told. I could scarce believe my eyes, Sir Richard. Probably all frigates, including a couple of large ones.” He jabbed the chart again. “I signalled Weazle to make all haste to Halifax, but I fully expected the Yankees to try and put a stop to it.” He gave a short, barking laugh: a fox indeed, Bolitho thought. “It was as if we did not exist. They continued to the nor’-east, cool as you please. I decided to harry the rearmost one, so I set me royals and t’gallants and chased them. That changed things. A few signals were exchanged, and then the rearmost frigate opened fire with her chasers. I had to admit, Sir Richard, it was damn’ good shootin’.”

Bolitho sensed Tyacke beside him, listening, perhaps considering how he might have reacted in Lloyd’s shoes. Yovell was writing busily and did not raise his head. Avery was holding some of York ’s notes, although he was not reading, and his face was set in a frown.