Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

Lloyd said, “It got a bit too warm, and I reduced sail. Not before that damn Yankee had brought down a spar and punched my forecourse full of holes. I thought that maybe he’d been ordered to fall back and engage Chivalrous. I would have accepted that, I think. But I says to meself, no, he don’t intend to fight, not now, anyways.”

Bolitho said, “Why?”

“Well, Sir Richard, he had all the time he needed, and he could see I had no other ship to support me. I knew he would have put his boats in the water, had he meant to show his mettle.” He grinned. “He may have carried more guns than my ship, but with all those boats stowed on deck we could have cut down half his men with their splinters in the first broadside!”

Tyacke roused himself from his silent contemplation and said abruptly, “Boats? How many?”

Lloyd shrugged, and glanced through the smeared windows as if to reassure himself that his ship was still riding under the Indomitable ’s lee.

“Double the usual amount, I’d say. My first lieutenant insisted that the next ship in the American’s line was likewise equipped.”

Avery said, “Moving to a new base?”

Tyacke said bluntly, “There is no other base, unless they take one of ours.” When Lloyd would have said something, Tyacke held up one hand. “I was thinking. Remembering, while you were speaking just now. When it was decided that the slave-trade was not quite respectable, unbefitting civilized powers, Their Lordships thought fit to send frigates to stamp it out. Faster, better-armed, trained companies, and yet…” He turned and looked directly at Bolitho. “They could never catch them. The slavers used small vessels, cruel, stinking hulls where men and women lived and died in their own filth, or were pitched to the sharks if a King’s ship happened to stumble on them.”

Bolitho remained silent, feeling it, sharing it. Tyacke was reliving his time in Larne. The slavers had come to fear him: the devil with half a face.

Tyacke continued in the same unemotional tone, “All along that damnable coast, where the rivers came out to the Atlantic, the Congo, the Niger and the Gaboon, the slavers would lie close inshore, where no man-of-war of any consequence would dare to venture. Which was why they evaded capture and their just deserts for so long.” He glanced at the young captain, who did not avoid his eyes. “I think you fell in with something you were not supposed to see.” He moved to the chart and laid his hand on it. “For once, I think our Mr York was wrong. Mistaken. They didn’t give chase, Captain Lloyd, because they could not. They dared not.” He looked at Bolitho. “Those boats, sir. So many of them. Not for picking up slaves like those cruel scum used to do, but to put an invading army ashore.”

Bolitho felt the shock and the truth of his words like a cup of icy water in his face.

“They’re carrying soldiers, as they did on the lakes, except that these are larger vessels, with something bigger in prospect at the end of it!”

He thought of the army captain who had survived the first attack on York, and of the reports which had filtered through with information of a second attack three months later. Perhaps Lake Erie had already fallen to the Americans? If so, the British army would be cut off, even from retreat. The young captain had described the Americans at York as being well-trained regulars.

Bolitho said, “If these ships entered the Bay of Fundy but turned north, and not towards Nova Scotia, they could disembark soldiers who could force their way inland, knowing that supplies and reinforcements would be waiting for them once they reached the St Lawrence. It would seal off all the frontier districts of Upper Canada, like ferrets in a sack!”

He gripped Lloyd’s hand warmly in farewell. “You did not fight the American, Captain Lloyd, but the news you have carried to me may yet bring us a victory. I shall ensure that you receive proper recognition. Our Nel would have put it better. He always insisted that the Fighting Instructions were not a substitute for a captain’s initiative.”

Tyacke said roughly, “I’ll see you over the side, Captain Lloyd.”

As the door closed, Avery said, “Is it possible, sir?”

Bolitho half-smiled. “Do you really mean, is it likely? I think it is too important to ignore, or to wait for a miracle.” He listened to the trill of calls as the fox-like captain went down to his gig.

Tyacke returned, and waited in silence while Bolitho instructed his secretary to send a brief despatch to Halifax. “We shall alter course before nightfall, James, and steer due north. Make the necessary signals.” He saw the concern in the clear eyes that watched him, from the burned remains of the face. “I know the risks, James. We all do. It was there for all of us to see, but only you recognized it. Your loneliest command was not wasted. Nor will it be.” He wondered if Tyacke had been going over it all again. The letter, the girl he might scarcely remember, or not wish to remember. One day he might share it; at the same time, Bolitho knew that he would not.

“D’ you think your man Aherne is with them?”

“I am not certain, but I think it possible that he may have fallen out of favour with his superiors, like John Paul Jones.” Like my own brother.

Tyacke was about to leave, but turned when Bolitho said with sudden bitterness, “Neither side can win this war, just as neither can afford to lose it. So let us play our part as best we can… And then, in God’s mercy, let us go home!”

They stood crowded together around York ’s chart-table, their shadows joining in a slow dance while the lanterns swung above them.

More like conspirators than King’s men, Bolitho thought. It was pitch black outside the hull, early dark as he had known it would be, the ship unusually noisy as she rolled in a steep swell. There was no land closer than seventy miles, Nova Scotia ’s Cape Sable to the north-east, but after the great depths to which they had become accustomed they sensed its presence. Felt it.

Bolitho glanced at their faces in the swaying light. Tyacke, his profile very calm, the burns hidden in shadow. It was possible to see him as the woman had once done: the unscarred side of his face was strongly boned and handsome. On his other side the master was measuring his bearings with some dividers, his expression one of doubt.

Avery was crammed into the small space too, with Daubeny the first lieutenant bobbing his head beneath the heavy beams as he tried to see over their shoulders.

York said, “In broad daylight it’s bad enough, sir. The entrance to the bay, allowing for shallows and sandbars, is about 25 miles, less, mebbee. We’d not be able to hold our formation, and if they are ready and waiting…” He did not go on.

Tyacke was still grappling with his original idea. “They can’t go in and attack anything in the dark, Isaac. They’d need to take soundings for most of the bay. The boats could be separated, swamped even, if the worst happened.”

York persisted, “The whole of that coastline is used by small vessels, fishermen mostly. A lot of the folk who made their homes in New Brunswick after the American rebellion were loyalists. They’ve no love for the Yankees, but…” He glanced at Bolitho. “Against trained soldiers, what could they do?”

Bolitho said, “And if they have already carried out a landing, those ships might be waiting for us to appear like ducks in a waterfowler’s sights. But it takes time-it always does. Lowering boats, packing men and weapons into them, more than likely in the dark, and with some of the soldiers half sick from the passage… Marines, now, that would be different.” He rubbed his chin, aware of its roughness: one of Allday’s shaves then, if there was time. He said, “Our captains know how to perform. We have exercised working together, although not with Mr York’s unwelcoming bay in mind!” He saw them smile, as he had known they would. It was like being driven, or perhaps led. Hearing somebody else speak, somehow finding the faith and confidence to inspire others. “And we must admit, the plan, if that is what they have in mind, is a brilliant one. Seasoned soldiers could march and fight their way northwards and meet with their other regiments on the St Lawrence. What is that, three hundred miles? I can remember as a boy when the 46th Regiment of Foot marched all the way from Devon to Scotland. And doubtless back again.”