Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

Tyacke was also watching, remembering. Point! Ready! Fire! The drill, always the drill. Slaves to the guns which were now repaying his hard work.

A whistle shrilled. “Ready, sir!”

“Fire!”

Boats and fragments of boats, uniformed soldiers thrashing in the water, their screams engulfed as their weapons and packs carried them down into bitter cold. Others who had been able to reach the ship’s side were dragging themselves back to a security they could recognize, only to be torn down by the next controlled broadside. The American was burned and scarred by the weight of iron, but mostly it was the blood that was remarkable. On the hull, and down the side, where even the water shone pink in the sunlight.

In a brief lull, Bolitho heard Allday say, “If they’d been first, sir, they’d have given no quarter to us.” He was speaking to Avery, but any reply was lost in the next roar of cannon fire.

Outside this pitiless arena of death, another struggle was taking place. Ship to ship, or two to one, if the odds were overwhelming. No line of battle, only ship to ship. Man to man.

York said hoarsely, “White flag, sir! They’re finished!”

True or not, they would never know, for at that moment the third and last broadside smashed into the other ship, shattering forever the scattered remnants of a plan that might have been successful.

As men staggered from Indomitable’s guns and ran to the braces and halliards in response to shouted commands to bring the ship about and into the wind, Bolitho took a final glance at the enemy. But even the white flag had vanished into the smoke.

Daubeny sheathed his sword, his eyes red-rimmed and bright.

“Chivalrous has signalled, sir. The enemy has broken off the action.” He looked at his hand, as if to see if it were shaking. “They did what they came to do.”

Tyacke tore his eyes from the flapping sails as his ship turned sedately across the wind, the masthead pendant rivalling Bolitho’s Cross of St George as they streamed across the opposite side.

He said harshly, “And so, Mr Daubeny, did we!”

Bolitho handed the telescope to Essex. “Thank you.” Then to Tyacke, “General signal, if you please. Discontinue the action. Report losses and damage.” He looked across at the tall signals midshipman. “And, Mr Carleton, mark this well and spell it out in full. Yours is the gift of courage.”

Avery hurried across to assist the signals party, but once with them he paused, afraid to miss anything, his head still reeling from the roar of the guns and the immediate silence which had followed.

Bolitho was saying to Tyacke, “Taciturn will take command and lead our ships to Halifax. I fear we have lost some good men today.”

He heard Tyacke reply quietly, “We could have lost far more, Sir Richard.” He tried to lighten his tone. “At least that damned renegade in his Retribution failed to appear.”

Bolitho said nothing. He was staring across the quarter to the distant smoke, like a stain on a painting.

Avery turned away. The gift of courage. Our Nel would have appreciated that. He took the slate and pencil from Carleton’s unsteady hands.

“Let me.”

Tyacke said, “May I change tack and recover the boats, Sir Richard?”

“Not yet, James.” His eyes were bleak. Cold, as that dawn sky had been. He gazed up at the signal for Close Action. “We are not yet done, I fear.”

CAPTAIN Adam Bolitho removed his boat-cloak and handed it to an army orderly, who was careful to shake it before carrying it away. It had begun to rain with the abruptness of a squall at sea, and the drops were hard and cold, almost ice.

Adam crossed to a window and wiped away the dampness with his hand. Halifax harbour was full of shipping, but he had scarcely glanced at the anchored vessels while he had been pulled ashore in the gig. He could not become accustomed to it, accept that he had to go to the land in order to see his admiral.

Keen had sent word that he needed to speak with him as soon as possible, when, under normal circumstances, they could have met aft in Valkyrie’s great cabin.

He thought of John Urquhart, now acting-captain of the ill-fated Reaper. Perhaps Keen’s summons had come at the right moment. Urquhart had been with him in the cabin, about to take his leave to assume command of Reaper, and their farewell and the significance of the moment had moved Adam more than he had believed possible. He knew that he had been seeing himself, although he had been much younger when he had been offered his first ship. But the feelings, gratitude, elation, nervousness, regret, were the same. Urquhart had said, “I’ll not forget what you have done for me, sir. I shall endeavour to make use of my experience to the best of my ability.”

Adam had answered, “Remember one thing, John. You are the captain, and they will know it. When you go across to her presently to read yourself in, think of the ship, your ship, not what she has been or might have become, but what she can be for you. All your officers are new, but most of the warrant ranks are from the original company. They are bound to make comparisons, as is the way with old Jacks.”

Urquhart had looked up at the deckhead, had heard the tramp of boots as the marines took up their positions to see him over the side. It had all been in his face. Wanting to go, to begin: needing to stay where all things were familiar.

Adam had said quietly, “Don’t concern yourself now with Valkyrie, John. It will be up to Lieutenant Dyer to fill your shoes. It is his chance, too.” He had gone to the table and opened a drawer. “Take these.” He had seen the surprise and uncertainty on Urquhart’s face, and added abruptly, “A bit weathered and salt-stained, I fear, but until you find a tailor…”

Urquhart had held the epaulettes to the light, all else forgotten. Adam had said, “My first. I hope they bring you luck.”

They had gone on deck. Handshakes, quick grins, a few cheers from some of the watching seamen. The twitter of calls, and it was done. Moments later they might hear the calls from Reaper across the harbour.

Just before they had parted Urquhart had said, “I hope we meet again soon, sir.”

“You will be too busy for social events.” He had hesitated. “In truth, I envy you!”

A door opened, and de Courcey stood waiting for him to turn from the window.

“Rear-Admiral Keen will see you now, sir.”

Adam walked past without speaking. De Courcey was different in some way, oddly subdued. Because he had shown fear when the Americans had hove into view? Did he really imagine I would run carrying tales to his admiral, as he would have done about me?

It was the general’s room which he had visited with Keen and Bolitho on another occasion, with the same large paintings of battles and dark, heavy furniture, and he realized that this had probably been Keen’s idea, rather than ask him to join him at the Massie residence.

He saw that Keen was not alone, and the other man, who was about to leave, was David St Clair.

St Clair shook his hand. “I am sorry you were kept waiting, Captain Bolitho. It seems I may be needed here in Halifax after all.”

Keen waved him to a chair as the door closed behind his other visitor. Adam studied him with interest. Keen looked strained, and unusually tense.

He said, “I have received fresh despatches from the Admiralty, but first I have to tell you that Sir Richard was correct in his belief that control of the lakes was vital.” He glanced around the room, thinking of that day in the summer when the army captain had described the first attack on York. When Gilia had asked about the officer who had been killed. “The army could not hold the vital line of water communications, and at Lake Erie they were beaten. A retreat was ordered, but it was already too late.” He slapped his hand on the table and said bitterly, “The army was cut to pieces!”