Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

Even though he could see nothing below him but the unchanging outline of the upper deck, sharpened occasionally when a burst of spray cascaded over the gangways or through the beakhead, he could imagine the others standing as he had left them. So different from the usual nerve-wrenching thrill when the drums rattled and beat the hands to quarters, the orderly chaos when a ship was cleared for action from bow to stern: screens torn down, tiny hutches of cabins where the officers found their only privacy transformed into just another part of a gun deck, furniture, personal items and sea-chests dragged or winched into the lower hull, below the waterline, where the surgeon and his assistants would be preparing, remaining separate from the noise before battle: their work would come to them. On this occasion clearing for action had been an almost leisurely affair, men moving amongst familiar tackle and rigging as if it were broad daylight.

As ordered, the hands had been given a hot meal in separate watches, and only then was the galley fire doused, the last measure of rum drained.

Tyacke had remained by the quarterdeck rail, while officers and messengers had flowed around him, like extensions of the man himself. York with his master’s mates, Daubeny, the first lieutenant, with a junior midshipman always trotting at his heels like a pet dog. And right aft by the companion-way where he had walked with Sir Richard, Avery could see that in his mind also. Where the command of any ship or squadron began or ended. He smiled as he recalled what Allday had said of it. “Aft, the most honour. Forward, the better man!” Bolitho had been holding his watch closely against the compass light, and had said, “Go aloft, George. Take a good glass with you. I need to know instantly. You will be my eyes today.”

It still saddened him. Did those words, too, have a hidden meaning?

And Allday again, taking his hat and sword from him. “They’ll be here when you needs ’em, Mr Avery. Don’t want our flag lieutenant gettin’ all tangled up in the futtock shrouds, now, do we?”

He had written the letter Allday had requested. Like the man, it had been warmly affectionate, and yet, after all he had seen and suffered, so simple and unworldly. Avery had almost been able to see Unis opening and reading it, calling her ex-soldier brother to tell him about it. Holding it up to the child.

He shook his head, thrusting the thoughts aside, and started to climb again. Long before any of their letters reached England, they might all be dead.

The foremast’s fighting-top loomed above him, reminding him of Allday’s joke about the futtock shrouds. Nimble-footed topmen could scramble out and around the top without interruption, those on the leeward side hanging out, suspended, with nothing but the sea beneath them. The fighting-top was a square platform protected by a low barricade, behind which marksmen could take aim at targets on an enemy’s deck. It matched the tops on the other masts, above which the shrouds and stays reached up to the next of the upper yards, and beyond.

The foremast was perhaps the most important and complicated in the ship. It carried not only the bigger course and topsails, but was connected and rigged to the bowsprit, and the smaller, vital jib and staysails. Each time a ship attempted to come about and turn across the eye of the wind, the small jibsails would act like a spur or brake to prevent her floundering to a standstill, taken all aback with her sails flattened uselessly against the masts, unable to pay off in either direction. At the height of close action, the inability to manoeuvre could mean the death of the ship.

He thought of York and men like him, the true professionals. How many people ashore would ever understand the strength and prowess of such fine sailors, when they saw a King’s ship beating down-Channel under a full press of sail?

He dragged himself between the shrouds and took the easier way into the foretop by way of a small opening, the “lubber’s hole,” as the old Jacks derisively termed it.

There were four Royal Marines here, their white crossbelts and the corporal’s chevrons on one man’s sleeve visible against the outer darkness.

“Mornin’, sir! Fine day for a stroll!”

Avery unslung the telescope and smiled. That was another thing about being a flag lieutenant, neither fish nor fowl, like an outsider who had come amongst them: he was not an officer in charge of a mast or a division of guns, nor a symbol of discipline or punishment. So he was accepted. Tolerated.

He said, “Do you think it will be light soon?”

The corporal leaned against a mounted swivel-gun. It was already depressed, and covered with a piece of canvas to protect the priming from the damp air. Ready for instant use.

He replied, “’Alf hour, sir. Near as a priest’s promise!”

They all laughed, as if this were only another, normal day.

Avery stared at the flapping jib and imagined the crouching lion beneath it. What if the sea was empty when daylight came? He searched his feelings. Would he be relieved, grateful?

He thought of the intensity in Bolitho’s voice, the way he and Tyacke had conferred and planned. He shivered suddenly. No, the sea would not be empty of ships. How can I be certain? Then he thought, Because of what we are, what he has made us.

He tried to focus his thoughts on England. London, that busy street with its bright carriages and haughty footmen, and one carriage in particular… She was lovely. She would not wait, and waste her life.

And yet, they had shared something deeper, however briefly. Surely there was a chance, a hope beyond this cold dawn?

The corporal said carefully, “I sometimes wonders what he’s like, sir. The admiral, I mean.” He faltered, thinking he had gone too far. “It’s just that we sees him an’ you walkin’ the deck sometimes, and then there was the day when ’is lady come aboard at Falmouth.” He put his hand on his companion’s shoulder. “Me an’ Ted was there. I’d never ’ave believed it, see?”

Avery did see. Replacing Catherine’s shoes and remarking on the tar on her stocking after her climb up this ship’s side. The flag breaking out, and then the cheers. Work them, drive them, break them; but these same men had seen, and remembered.

He said, “He is that man, Corporal. Just as she is that lady.” He could almost hear Tyacke’s words. I would serve no other.

One of the other marines, encouraged by his corporal, asked, “What will us do when th’ war’s over an’ done with?”

Avery stared up at the great rectangle of sail, and felt the raw salt on his mouth.

“I pray to God that I shall be able to choose something for myself.”

The corporal grunted. “I’ll get me other stripe an’ stay in the Royals. Good victuals an’ plenty of rum, an’ a hard fight when you’re needed! It’ll do me!”

A voice echoed down from the crosstrees. “First light a-comin’, sir!”

The corporal grinned. “Old Jacob up there, he’s a wild one, sir!”

Avery thought of Tyacke’s description of the seaman named Jacob, the best lookout in the squadron. Once a saddle-maker, a highly skilled trade, he had found his wife in the arms of another man, and had killed both of them. The Assizes had offered him the choice of the gibbet or the navy. He had outlived many others with no such notoriety.

Avery withdrew the big telescope from its case, while the marines made a space for him and even found him something to kneel on.

One of them put his hand on the swivel-gun and chuckled. “Don’t you go bumpin’ into old Betsy ’ere, sir. You might set ’er off by accident, an’ blow the ’ead off our poor sergeant. That’d be a true shame, wouldn’t it, lads?” They all laughed. Four marines on a windswept perch in the middle of nowhere. They had probably no idea where they were, or where bound tomorrow.