Bolitho #24 - Cross of St. George Alexander Kent

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Fiction

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cross of

“One of our foremost writers of naval fiction.”

—Sunday Times

“Kent doesn’t make it easy for his hero. But he does endow S s

S tGe

G o

e r

o g

r e

t o

him with the authenticity that makes these adventures the G f

closest thing to C.S. Forester still coming off the presses.” eo

—The New York Times Book Review rge

1813: American privateers prey on British ships in the wake of the War of 1812. Admiral Richard Bolitho returns A

to Halifax to defend crown property, fi ghting fruitless skirmishes in the cold, unforgiving waters off Nova Scotia. While Bolitho’s le

enemies in the Admiralty pull strings behind the scenes to bring xa

him down, his nephew Adam rises to the grueling challenges of nd

command.

ALEXANDER KENT is the pen name of British author Douglas r

Reeman. After serving in the Royal Navy during WWII, he turned K

to writing, publishing books under his own name and the Bolitho e

series under the Kent pseudonym. The popular Bolitho novels have n

been translated into nearly two dozen languages.

www.bolithomaritimeproductions.com

ISBN: 978-0-935526-92-9

5 1 6 9 5

McBooks Press

www.mcbooks.com

9 780935 526929

Alexande

n r

de Ken

K t

the Bolitho novels: 22

cross of

S t george

Selected Historical Fiction Published by McBooks Press BY ALEXANDER KENT

BY JULIAN STOCKWIN

BY JAMES DUFFY

The Complete

Mutiny

Sand of the Arena

Midshipman Bolitho

Quarterdeck

BY JOHN BIGGINS

Stand Into Danger

Tenacious

A Sailor of Austria

In Gallant Company

Command

The Emperor’s Coloured Coat

Sloop of War

BY JAN NEEDLE

The Two-Headed Eagle

To Glory We Steer

A Fine Boy for Killing

Tomorrow the World

Command a King’s Ship

The Wicked Trade

Passage to Mutiny

BY R.F. DELDERFIELD

The Spithead Nymph

With All Despatch

Too Few for Drums

Form Line of Battle!

BY DUDLEY POPE

Seven Men of Gascony

Enemy in Sight!

Ramage

BY JAMES L. NELSON

The Flag Captain

Ramage & The Drumbeat

The Only Life That

Signal–Close Action!

Ramage & The Freebooters

Mattered

The Inshore Squadron

Governor Ramage R.N.

A Tradition of Victory

Ramage’s Prize

BY C.N. PARKINSON

Success to the Brave

Ramage & The Guillotine

The Guernseyman

Colours Aloft!

Ramage’s Diamond

Devil to Pay

Honour This Day

Ramage’s Mutiny

The Fireship

The Only Victor

Ramage & The Rebels

Touch and Go

Beyond the Reef

The Ramage Touch

So Near So Far

The Darkening Sea

Ramage’s Signal

Dead Reckoning

For My Country’s Freedom

Ramage & The Renegades

The Life and Times of

Cross of St George

Ramage’s Devil

Horatio Hornblower

Sword of Honour

Ramage’s Trial

BY NICHOLAS NICASTRO

Second to None

Ramage’s Challenge

The Eighteenth Captain

Relentless Pursuit

Ramage at Trafalgar

Between Two Fires

Man of War

Ramage & The Saracens

Heart of Oak

Ramage & The Dido

BY DOUGLAS REEMAN

Badge of Glory

BY PHILIP MCCUTCHAN

BY FREDERICK MARRYAT

First to Land

Halfhyde at the Bight

Frank Mildmay or

The Horizon

of Benin

The Naval Officer

Dust on the Sea

Halfhyde’s Island

Mr Midshipman Easy

Knife Edge

Halfhyde and the

Newton Forster or

Guns of Arrest

The Merchant Service

Twelve Seconds to Live

Halfhyde to the Narrows

Snarleyyow or

Battlecruiser

Halfhyde for the Queen

The Dog Fiend

The White Guns

Halfhyde Ordered South

The Privateersman

A Prayer for the Ship

Halfhyde on Zanatu

For Valour

BY V.A. STUART

BY DAVID DONACHIE

BY DEWEY LAMBDIN

Victors and Lords

The French Admiral

The Sepoy Mutiny

The Devil’s Own Luck

The Gun Ketch

Massacre at Cawnpore

The Dying Trade

Jester’s Fortune

The Cannons of Lucknow

A Hanging Matter

The Heroic Garrison

An Element of Chance

What Lies Buried

The Scent of Betrayal

The Valiant Sailors

BY ALEXANDER FULLERTON

A Game of Bones

The Brave Captains

Storm Force to Narvik

Hazard’s Command

On a Making Tide

Last Lift from Crete

Hazard of Huntress

Tested by Fate

All the Drowning Seas

Hazard in Circassia

Breaking the Line

A Share of Honour

Victory at Sebastopol

The Torch Bearers

BY BROOS CAMPBELL

Guns to the Far East

The Gatecrashers

No Quarter

Escape from Hell

The War of Knives

Alexander Kent

Cross of St George

the Bolitho novels: 22

McBooks Press, Inc.

www.mcbooks.com

ITHACA, NY

Published by McBooks Press 2001

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher. Requests for such permissions should be addressed to McBooks Press, Inc., ID Booth Building, 520 North Meadow St., Ithaca, NY 14850.

Cover painting by Geoffrey Huband.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Kent, Alexander.

Cross of St George / by Alexander Kent.

p. cm. — (Richard Bolitho novels ; 22) ISBN 0-935526-92-7

1. Bolitho, Richard (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Napoleonic Wars, 1800‒1815 —Fiction 3. Great Britain, History, Naval—19th century—Fiction. I. Title

PR6061.E63 C76 2001

823/.914—dc21 01-030032

vAll McBooks Press publications can be ordered by calling toll-free 1-888-BOOKS11 (1-888-266-5711).

Please call to request a free catalog.

Visit the McBooks Press website at www.mcbooks.com.

Printed in the United States of America 9 8 7 6

For my Kim with love,

and with thanks for sharing

your Canada with me.

Wherever wood can swim, there I am sure to find this flag of England.

—NAPOLEON BONAPARTE

1 S word of honour

THE ROYAL DOCKYARD at Portsmouth, usually a place of noise and constant movement, was as quiet as the grave. It had been snowing steadily for two days, and the buildings, workshops, piles of timber and ships’ stores which made up the clutter in every big yard had become only meaningless shapes. And it was still snowing. Even the familiar smells had been overwhelmed by the white blanket: the sharp tang of paint and tar, hemp and new sawdust, like the sounds, seemed smothered and distorted. And, muffled by the snow, the echoing report of the court-martial gun had gone almost unnoticed.

Set apart from the other buildings, the port admiral’s house and offices were even more isolated than usual. From one of the tall windows, which overlooked a nearby dock, it was not even possible to see the water in the harbour.

Captain Adam Bolitho wiped the damp glass and stared down at a solitary Royal Marine, whose scarlet tunic was a stark contrast to the blinding whiteness of the backdrop. It was early afternoon; it could have been sunset. He saw his reflection in the window, and the light of the blazing log fire on the other side of the room, where his companion, a nervous lieutenant, sat perched on the edge of his chair with his hands held out to the flames. At any other time Adam Bolitho could have felt sorry for him. It was never an easy or a welcome duty to be the companion . . . his mouth tightened. The escort, for someone awaiting the convenience of a court martial. Even though everyone had assured him that the verdict would be unquestionably in his favour.

They had convened this morning in the spacious hall adjoining the admiral’s house, a place more usually the venue of 8

CROSS OF S T GEORGE

receptions than a courtroom where a man’s future, even his life, could be decided. Grotesquely, there had even been a few traces of the Christmas ball which had been held there recently. Adam stared at the snow. Now it was another year: January 3, 1813. After what he had endured, he might have imagined that he would have grasped at a new beginning like a drowning man seizing a lifeline. But he could not. All he loved and cared for lay in 1812, with so many broken memories. He sensed the lieutenant shifting in his chair, and was aware of movement elsewhere. The court was reassembling. After a damned good meal, he thought: obviously one of the reasons for holding the proceedings here, rather than force the court to endure the discomfort of a long pull in an open boat to the flagship, somewhere out there in the snow at Spithead.

He touched his side, where the iron splinter had smashed him down. He had believed he was dying: at times, he had even wanted to die. Weeks and months had passed, and yet it was hard to accept that it was less than seven months since he had been wounded, and his beloved Anemone had been surrendered to the enemy, overwhelmed by the massive artillery of the U.S.S. Unity.

Even now, the memories were blurred. The agony of the wound, the suffering of his spirit, unable to accept that he was a prisoner of war. Without a ship, without hope, someone who would soon be forgotten.

He felt little pain now; even one of the fleet surgeons had praised the skill of Unity’s French surgeon, and other doctors who had done what they could for him during his captivity.

He had escaped. Men he had barely known had risked everything to hasten his freedom, and some had died for it. And there were others, who could never be repaid for what they had done for him.

The lieutenant said hoarsely, “I think they’ve returned, sir.” CROSS OF S T GEORGE

Adam acknowledged it. The man was afraid. Of me? Of having become too intimate, if it goes against me?

His frigate, Anemone, had turned to face a vastly superior enemy, out-gunned and out-manned, with many of his company sent away as prize crews. He had not acted out of arrogance, or reckless pride, but to save the convoy of three heavily laden merchantmen he had been escorting to the Bermudas. Anemone’s challenge had given the convoy time to escape, to find safety when darkness came. He remembered Unity’s impressive commander, Nathan Beer, who had had him moved to his own quarters, and had come to visit him as he was treated by the surgeon. Even through the mists of agony and delirium, Adam had sensed the big American’s presence and concern. Beer had spoken to him more like a father to his son than like a fellow captain, and an enemy.

And now Beer was dead. Adam’s uncle, Sir Richard Bolitho, had met and engaged the Americans in a brief and bloody encounter, and it had been Bolitho’s turn to give comfort to his dying adversary. Bolitho believed they had been fated to meet: neither had been surprised by the conflict or its ferocity.

Adam had been given another frigate, Zest, whose captain had been killed while engaging an unknown vessel. He had been the only casualty, just as Adam had been the only survivor from Anemone apart from a twelve-year-old ship’s boy. The others had been killed, drowned, or taken prisoner.

The only verbal evidence submitted this morning had been his own. There had been one other source of information. When Unity had been captured and taken into Halifax, they had found the log which Nathan Beer had been keeping at the time of Anemone’s attack. The court had been as silent as the falling snow as the senior clerk read aloud Beer’s comments concerning the fierce engagement, and the explosion aboard Anemone which had 10

CROSS OF S T GEORGE

ended any hope of taking her as a prize. Beer had also written that he was abandoning his pursuit of the convoy due to the damage his enemy had inflicted. At the end of the report he had written, Like father, like son.

A few quick glances were exchanged in the court, nothing more. Most of those present were either unaware of Beer’s meaning, or unwilling to remark on anything that might prejudice the outcome.

But to Adam, it had been like hearing the big American’s voice in that hushed room. As if Beer was there, offering his tes-timony to an adversary’s courage and honour.

But for Beer’s log, there was little else to confirm what had truly happened. And if I were still a prisoner? Who would be able to help? I should be remembered only as the captain who struck his colours to the enemy. Badly wounded or not, the Articles of War left little room for leniency. You were guilty, unless proven without doubt to the contrary.

He was gripping his fingers together behind his back, so hard that the pain helped to steady him. I did not strike my colours. Then, or at any time.

Curiously enough, he knew that two of the captains who were sitting on the board had also been court-martialled. Perhaps they had been remembering, comparing. Thinking of how it might have been, if the point of the sword had been towards them . . .

He moved away from the window and paused by a tall mirror. Perhaps this was where officers examined their appearance, to ensure it would meet with the admiral’s approval. Or women

. . . He stared coldly at his reflection, holding back the memory.

But she was always there. Out of reach, as she had been when she was alive, but always there. He glanced at the bright gold epaulettes. The post-captain. How proud his uncle had been. Like everything else, his uniform was new; all his other possessions lay now in his chests on the seabed. Even the sword on the court-CROSS OF S T GEORGE

martial table was a borrowed one. He thought of the beautiful blade the City merchants had presented to him: they had owned the three ships he had saved, and were showing their gratitude.

He looked away from his reflection, his eyes angry. They could afford to be grateful. So many who had fought that day would never know about it.

He said quietly, “Your duty is all but done. I have been bad company, I fear.”

The lieutenant swallowed hard. “I am proud to have been with you, sir. My father served under your uncle, Sir Richard Bolitho.

Because of what he told me, I always wanted to enter the navy.” Despite the tension and unreality of the moment, Adam was strangely moved.

“Never lose it. Love, loyalty, call it what you will. It will sustain you.” He hesitated. “It must.” They both looked at the door as it opened carefully, and the Royal Marine captain in charge of the guard peered in at them.

He said, “They are waiting, Captain Bolitho.” He seemed about to add something, encouragement, hope, who could tell.

But the moment passed. He banged his heels together smartly and marched out into the corridor.

When he glanced back, Adam saw the lieutenant staring after him. Trying to fix the moment in his mind, perhaps to tell his father.

He almost smiled. He had forgotten to ask him his name.

The great room was full to capacity, although who they were and what they sought here was beyond understanding. But then, he thought, there was always a good crowd for a public hanging, too.

Adam was very aware of the distance, the click of the marine captain’s heels behind him. Once he slipped. There was still powdered chalk on the polished floor, another reminder of the Christmas ball.

CROSS OF S T GEORGE

As he came around the last line of seated spectators to face the officers of the board, he saw his borrowed sword on the table; its hilt was toward him. He was shocked, not because he knew the verdict was a just one, but because he felt nothing. Nothing.

As if he, like all these others, was a mere onlooker.

The president of the court, a rear-admiral, regarded him gravely.

“Captain Adam Bolitho, the verdict of this Court is that you are honourably acquitted.” He smiled briefly. “You may be seated.” Adam shook his head. “No, sir. I prefer not.”

“Very well.” The rear-admiral opened his brief. “The Court holds that Captain Adam Bolitho not only acquitted himself of his duty in the best tradition of the Royal Navy, but in the execution of such duty has done infinite credit to himself by a very obstinate defence against a most superior force. By placing his ship between the enemy and the vessels charged to his protection, he showed both courage and initiative of the highest order.” He raised his eyes. “But for those qualities, it would seem unlikely that you would have succeeded, particularly in view of the fact that you had no knowledge of the declaration of war. Otherwise . . .” The word hung in the air. He did not need to explain further what the outcome of the court martial would have been.

All the members of the court stood up. Some were smiling broadly, obviously relieved that it was all over.

The rear-admiral said, “Retrieve your sword, Captain Bolitho.” He attempted to lighten it. “I would have thought you might be wearing that fine sword of honour I have been hearing about, eh?” Adam slid the borrowed sword into its scabbard. Leave now.

Say nothing. But he looked at the rear-admiral and the eight captains who were his court and said, “George Starr was my coxswain, sir. With his own hand he lit charges which speeded the end of my ship. But for him, Anemone would be serving in the United States navy.”

CROSS OF S T GEORGE

The rear-admiral nodded, his smile fading. “I know that. I read it in your report.”

“He was a good and honest man who served me, and his country, well.” He was aware of the sudden silence, broken only by the creak of chairs as those at the back of the great room leaned forward to hear his quiet, unemotional voice. “But they hanged him for his loyalty, as if he were a common felon.” He looked at the faces across the table, without seeing them.

His outward composure was a lie, and he knew he would break down if he persisted. “I sold the sword of honour to a collector who values such things.” He heard the murmurs of surprise behind his back. “As for the money, I gave it to George Starr’s widow. It is all she will receive, I imagine.” He bowed stiffly and turned away from the table, walking between the ranks of chairs with his hand to his side as if he expected to feel the old torment. He did not even see the expressions, sympathy, understanding, and perhaps shame: he saw only the door, which was already being opened by a white-gloved marine. His own marines and seamen had died that day, a debt no sword of honour could ever repay.

There were a few people in the outer lobby. Beyond them, he saw the falling snow, so clean after what he had attempted to describe.

One, a civilian, stepped forward and held out his hand. His face seemed vaguely familiar, yet Adam knew they had never met.

The man hesitated. “I am so sorry, Captain Bolitho. I should not detain you further after what you have just experienced.” He glanced across the room where a woman sat, gazing at them intently. “My wife, sir.”

Adam wanted to leave. Very soon the others would be milling around him, congratulating him, praising him for what he had done, when earlier they would have watched him facing the point 14

CROSS OF S T GEORGE

of the sword with equal interest. But something held him. As if someone had spoken aloud.

“If I can be of service, sir?”

The man was well over sixty years old, but there was an erect-ness, a pride in his bearing as he explained, “My name is Hudson, Charles Hudson. You see . . .” He fell silent as Adam stared at him, his composure gone.

He said, “Richard Hudson, my first lieutenant in Anemone.” He tried to clear his mind. Hudson, who had slashed down the ensign with his hanger while he himself lay wounded and unable to move. Again, it was like being an onlooker, hearing others speak . I ordered you to fight the ship! Each despairing gasp wrenching at his wound like a branding iron. And all the while Anemone was dying beneath them, even as the enemy surged alongside.

And Hudson’s last words before Adam was lowered into a boat.

If we ever meet again . . .

Adam could still hear his own answer. As God is my witness, I will kill you, damn your eyes!

“We had only one letter from him.” Hudson glanced again at his wife and Adam saw her nod, helping him. She looked frail, unwell. It had cost them dearly to come here.

He said, “How is he?”

Charles Hudson did not seem to hear. “My brother was a vice-admiral. He used his influence to have Richard appointed to your ship. When he wrote, he always spoke of you so warmly . . . he was so proud to be serving with you. When I heard about your court martial, as they dare to call it, we had to come. To see you, to thank you for what you did for Richard. He was our only son.” Adam tensed. Was. “What happened?”

“In his letter he said he wanted to find you. To explain . . .

something.” He dropped his head. “He was shot, attempting to escape. He was killed.”

Adam felt the room sway, like the deck of a ship. All that CROSS OF S T GEORGE

time, the pain and the despair, the hatred because of what had happened; and he had thought only of himself.

He said, “I shall tell my uncle when I see him. He was known to your son.” Then he took the man’s arm and led him towards his wife. “There was nothing for Richard to explain. Now he is at peace, he will know that.”

Hudson’s mother was on her feet, holding out her hand to him. Adam stooped, and kissed her cheek. It was like ice.

“Thank you.” He looked at each of them. “Your loss is my loss also.”

He glanced round as a lieutenant coughed politely, and murmured, “The port admiral wishes to see you, sir.”

“Can’t it wait?”

The lieutenant licked his lips. “I was told that it was important, sir. To you.”

Adam turned to say goodbye, but they had gone, as quietly and patiently as they had waited.

He felt his cheek. Her tears, or were they his own?

Then he followed the lieutenant, past people who smiled and reached out to touch his arm as he passed. He saw none of them.

He heard nothing but his own anger. I ordered you to fight the ship. It was something he would never forget.

Lady Catherine Somervell walked softly toward the window, her bare feet soundless as she glanced back at the bed. She listened to his breathing. Quiet now: he was asleep, after the restlessness he had tried to conceal from her.

She realized that the night was quite still, and there was a hint of moonlight for the first time. She groped for a heavy silk shawl but paused again as he stirred on the bed, one arm resting on the sheet where she had been lying.

She looked out at the ragged clouds, moving more slowly, allowing the moon to touch the street, which shone still from the 16

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night’s downpour. Across the road, which was all that separated this row of houses from the Thames, she could just discern the restless water. Like black glass in the moonlight. Even the river seemed quiet, but this was London: within hours this same road would be busy with traders on their way to market, and people setting up their stalls, rain or no rain.

She shivered, despite the thick shawl, and wondered what daylight would bring.

Little more than a month had passed since Richard Bolitho had returned home, and the guns of St Mawes battery had thundered out their salute to Falmouth’s most famous son. An admiral of England, a hero and an inspiration to the men who followed his flag.

She wanted to go to him now. Not to the public figure, but to the man, her man, whom she loved more than life itself.

This time she could not help him. His nephew had been ordered to face a court martial, the direct consequence of losing Anemone to the enemy. Richard had told her that the verdict would vindicate Adam, but she knew him so well that he could not conceal his anxiety and his doubt. His business at the Admiralty had prevented him from being at Portsmouth where the court was convened; she also knew that Adam had insisted upon facing the court alone, and unaided. He knew too well how Bolitho hated favouritism, and the manipulative use of outside influence. She smiled sadly. They were so alike, more like brothers than anything else.

Vice-Admiral Graham Bethune had assured Richard that he would inform him immediately he heard anything: the fast telegraph from Portsmouth to London could bring a despatch to the Admiralty in less than half an hour. The court had been convened yesterday morning, and as yet there had been no word. Nothing.

Had they been in Falmouth she might have distracted him, involved him in the estate’s affairs, in which she had taken such CROSS OF S T GEORGE

an interest during his long absences at sea. But their presence had been required in London. The war with the United States, which had erupted last year, was believed to be at a turning point, and Bolitho had been summoned to the Admiralty to settle doubts, or perhaps inspire confidence. She felt the old bitterness. Was there nobody else they could send? Her man had done enough, and had too often paid the price.

She must confront it: they would soon be parted again. If only they could get back to Cornwall . . . It might take all of a week, with the roads in their present state. She thought of their room at the old grey house below Pendennis Castle, the windows that faced the sea. The rides, and the walks they enjoyed so much . . .

She shivered again, but not from cold. What ghosts would wait for them when they took that particular walk, where the despairing Zenoria had flung herself to her death?

So many memories. And the other side of the coin: the envy and the gossip, even the hatred, which was more subtly revealed.

Scandal, which they had both endured and surmounted. She looked at the dark hair on the pillow. No wonder they love you.

Dearest of men.

She heard the sound of iron wheels, the first sign of life in the street. Going to fetch fish from the market, no doubt. Peace or war, the fish were always there on time.

She slipped her hand inside her gown, her fingers cold around her breast. As he had held her, and would hold her again. But not this night. They had lain without passion in one another’s arms, and she had shared his anxiety.

She had felt the cruel scar on his shoulder, where a musket ball had cut him down. So many years ago, when her husband, Luis, had been killed by Barbary pirates aboard the Navarra. She had cursed Richard on that day, blaming him for what had happened. And then, after he had been wounded, he had been plagued by the return of an old fever, which had almost claimed his life.

CROSS OF S T GEORGE

She had climbed into the cot with him, naked, to comfort him and hold the icy grip of the fever at bay. She could smile at the memory now. He had known nothing about it. So many years, and yet it could have been yesterday . . .

He had changed her life, and she knew she had changed his.

Something that went far beyond his demanding world of duty and danger, something only they shared, which made people turn and look at them when they were together. So many unspoken questions; something others could never understand.

She touched her skin again. Will he always find me beautiful when he returns from another campaign, another country? I would die for him.

She reached out to close the curtains, and then stood quite still, as if she were held by something. She shook her head, angry with herself. It was nothing. She wiped the window pane with her shawl and stared at the street below, The Walk, as it was called locally. A few patches of moonlight revealed the trees, black and bare of leaves, like charred bones. Then she heard it: the rattle of wheels on the cobbles, the gentle step of a solitary horse.

Moving slowly, as if uncertain of the way. A senior officer returning to his quarters at the barracks nearby after a night of cards, or, more likely, with his mistress.

She watched, and eventually a small carriage moved across a bar of moonlight: even the horse looked silver in the cold glow.

Two carriage lamps were burning like bright little eyes, as if they and not the horse were finding the way.

She sighed. Probably someone who had taken too much to drink, and would be overcharged by the driver for his folly.

Her hand was still beneath her breast, and she could feel her heart beating with sudden disbelief. The carriage was veering across the road towards this house.

She stared down, barely able to breathe as the door opened and a white leg paused uncertainly on the step. The coachman CROSS OF S T GEORGE

was gesturing with his whip. It was like a mime. The passenger stepped down soundlessly onto the pavement. Even the gold buttons on his coat looked like pieces of silver.

And then Richard was beside her, gripping her waist, and she imagined she must have called out, although she knew she had not.

He looked down at the road. The sea officer was peering at the houses, while the coachman waited.

“From the Admiralty?” She turned toward him.

“Not at this hour, Kate.” He seemed to come to a decision.

“I’ll go down. It must be a mistake.” Catherine looked down again, but the figure by the carriage had vanished. The bang on the front door shattered the stillness like a pistol shot. She did not care. She had to be with him, now, of all times.

She waited on the stairs, the chill air exploring her legs, as Bolitho opened the door, staring at the familiar uniform, and then at the face.

Then he exclaimed, “Catherine, it’s George Avery.” The housekeeper was here now, muttering to herself and bringing fresh candles, obviously disapproving of such goings-on.

Catherine said, “Fetch something hot, Mrs Tate. Some cognac, too.”

George Avery, Bolitho’s flag lieutenant, was sitting down as if gathering himself. Then he said, “Honourably acquitted, Sir Richard.” He saw Catherine for the first time, and made to rise.

“My lady.”

She came down, and put her hand on his shoulder. “Tell us.

I can hardly believe it.”

Avery gazed at his filthy boots. “I was there, Sir Richard. I thought it only right. I know what it is to face the possibility of disgrace and ruin at a court martial.” He repeated, “I thought it was only right. There was heavy snow on the south coast. The 20

CROSS OF S T GEORGE

telegraph towers were hidden from one another. It might have taken another day for the news to reach you.”

“But you came?” Catherine saw Bolitho grip his arm.

Surprisingly, Avery grinned. “I rode most of the way. I forget how many times I changed horses. Eventually I fell in with the fellow outside, otherwise I doubt I’d have found the place.” He took the glass of cognac, and his hand shook uncontrollably.

“Probably cost me a year’s pay, and I don’t think I’ll be able to sit down comfortably for a month!”

Bolitho walked to a window. Honourably acquitted. As it should be. But things did not always end as they should.

Avery finished the cognac and did not protest when Catherine refilled his glass. “Forced a few coaches and carts off the road—” He saw Bolitho’s expression and added gently, “I was not in court, Sir Richard, but he knew I was there. Your nephew was going to see the port admiral. Someone said that he has an extended leave of absence. That is all the information I have.” Bolitho looked at Catherine, and smiled. “Seventy miles on dark and treacherous roads. What sort of man would do that?” She removed the glass from Avery’s nerveless fingers as he lolled against the cushions, and was asleep.

She replied quietly, “Your sort of man, Richard. Are you at peace now?”

When they reached the bedroom they could see the river quite clearly, and there were indeed people already moving along the road. It was unlikely that anyone had noticed the sudden arrival of the carriage, or the tall sea officer banging on the door. If they had, they would think little of it. This was Chelsea, a place that minded its own business more than most.

Together they looked at the sky. It would soon be daylight, another grey January morning. But this time, with such a difference.

CROSS OF S T GEORGE

She held his arm around her waist and said, “Perhaps your next visit to the Admiralty will be the last for a while.” He felt her hair against his face. Her warmth. How they belonged.

“And then, Kate?”

“Take me home, Richard. No matter how long we must travel.” He guided her to the bed, and she laughed as the first dogs began to bark outside.

“Then you can love me. In our home.” Vice-Admiral Graham Bethune was already on his feet when Bolitho was ushered into his spacious rooms at the Admiralty, and his smile was warm and genuine.

“We are both abroad early today, Sir Richard.” His face fell slightly. “Although I fear I have not yet had news of your nephew, Captain Bolitho. The telegraph, excellent though it may be in many ways, is no match for our English weather!” Bolitho sat down as a servant removed his hat and cloak. He had walked only a few paces from the carriage, but the cloak was soaked with rain.

He smiled. “Adam was honourably acquitted.” Bethune’s astonishment was a pleasure to see. They had met several times since Bolitho’s arrival in London, but he was still surprised that Bethune’s new authority had not changed him in some way. In appearance, he had matured a good deal since his days as a midshipman in Bolitho’s first command, the little sloop-of-war Sparrow. Gone was the round-faced youth, his complexion a mass of dark freckles; here was a keen-eyed, confident flag officer who would turn any woman’s head at Court, or at the many elegant functions it was now his duty to attend. Bolitho recalled Catherine’s initial resentment when he had told her that Bethune was not only a younger man, but also his junior in rank. She was 22

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not the only one who was baffled by the ways of Admiralty.

He said, “My flag lieutenant, Avery, rode all the way from Portsmouth this morning to tell me.” Bethune nodded, his mind busy on another course. “George Avery, yes. Sir Paul Sillitoe’s nephew.” Again the boyish smile. “I am sorry. Baron Sillitoe of Chiswick, as he is now. But I am glad to know it. It must have been hard for your nephew, losing ship and liberty at one blow. And yet you appointed him to command Zest at the final encounter with Commodore Beer’s ships. Remarkable.” He walked to a table. “I sent my own report, needless to say. One has little confidence in courts martial, as we have seen many times for ourselves.”

Bolitho relaxed slightly. So Bethune had found the time to put pen to paper on Adam’s behalf. He could not imagine either of his predecessors, Godschale, or particularly Hamett-Parker, even raising a finger.

Bethune glanced at the ornate clock beside a painting of a frigate in action. Bolitho knew it was his own command, when Bethune had confronted two large Spanish frigates and, despite the odds, had run one ashore and captured the other. A good beginning, which had done his career no harm at all.

“We shall take refreshment shortly.” He coughed. “Lord Sillitoe is coming today, and I am hoping we shall learn more of the Prince Regent’s views on the American conflict.” He hesitated, momentarily unsure of himself. “One thing is almost certain. You will be required to return to that campaign. What is it now, a bare four months since you engaged and defeated Commodore Beer’s ships? But your opinions and your experience have been invaluable. I know it is asking too much of you.” Bolitho realized that he was touching his left eye. Perhaps Bethune had noticed, or maybe word of the injury and the impos-sibility of recovery had finally reached this illustrious office.

He answered, “I had expected it.”

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Bethune observed him thoughtfully. “I had the great pleasure of meeting Lady Somervell, Sir Richard. I know what this parting will mean to you.”

Bolitho said, “I know you met her. She told me. There are no secrets between us, and never will be.” Catherine had also met Bethune’s wife, at a reception at Sillitoe’s house by the river. She had said nothing about her, but she would, when she judged that the moment was right. Perhaps Bethune had an eye for the ladies?

A mistress, maybe.

He said, “You and I are friends, is that not so?” Bethune nodded, not understanding. “A small word, for what it truly means.”

“I agree.” He smiled. “Call me Richard. I feel that rank, and the past, stand in the way.”

Bethune strode to his chair, and they shook hands. “This is a far better day than I dared hope.” He grinned, and looked very young. “Richard.” Another glance at the clock. “There is another matter, which I would like to discuss with you before Lord Sillitoe arrives.” He watched him for a few seconds. “You will soon know. Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen is being appointed to a new command, which will be based in Halifax, Nova Scotia.”

“I had heard as much.” Full circle, he thought. Halifax, where he had left his flagship, Indomitable, upon his recall to England.

Was it really so short a time ago? With her had been their two equally powerful prizes, Beer’s USS Unity and the Baltimore, which together carried as much artillery as a ship of the line. Fate had decided the final meeting; determination and a bloody need to win had decided the outcome. After all the years he had been at sea, pictures could still stand out as starkly as ever. Allday’s grief, alone among all the gasping survivors as he had carried his dead son, and had lowered him into the sea. And the dying Nathan Beer, their formidable adversary, with Bolitho’s hand in his, each understanding that the meeting and its consequences 24

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had been inevitable. They had covered Beer with the American flag, and Bolitho had sent his sword to his widow in Newburyport. A place well known to men-of-war and privateers; where his own brother Hugh had once found refuge, if not peace.

Bethune said, “Rear-Admiral Keen will hoist his flag in the frigate Valkyrie. Her captain, Peter Dawes, who was your second-in-command, stands to accept promotion and is eager to take another appointment.” He paused discreetly. “His father, the admiral, suggested that the present was as good a time as any.” So Keen was going back to war, still in mourning for Zenoria. It was what he needed, or imagined he needed. Bolitho himself had known the haunting demands of grief, until he had found Catherine again.

“A new flag captain, then?” Even as he spoke, he knew who it would be. “Adam?”

Bethune did not answer directly. “You gave Zest to him out of necessity.”

“He was the best frigate captain I had.” Bethune continued, “When Zest returned to Portsmouth she was found to be in a sorry state of repair. Over four years in commission, and after two captains—three, if you count your nephew—and several sea-fights, which left her with deep and lasting damage, and without proper facilities for complete repair

. . . the last battle with Unity was the final blow. The port admiral was instructed to explain all this to your nephew after the court’s verdict was delivered. It will take months before Zest is ready for service again. Even then . . .” After the court’s verdict. Bolitho wondered if Bethune shared the true meaning. Had the sword been pointing at Adam, he would have been fortunate to have remained in the navy, even with a ship as worn and weakened as Zest.

Bethune was not unaware of it. “By which time, this war will probably be over, and your nephew, like so many others, could be CROSS OF S T GEORGE

rejected by the one calling he loves.” He unfolded a map without appearing to see it. “Rear-Admiral Keen and Captain Bolitho have always been on good terms, both under your command and elsewhere. It would seem a satisfactory solution.” Bolitho tried not to remember Adam’s face as he had seen it that day in Indomitable, when he had given him the news of Zenoria’s death. It had been like watching his heart break into pieces. How could Adam agree? Knowing that each day he would be serving alongside and under the orders of the man who had been Zenoria’s husband. The girl with moonlit eyes. She had married Keen out of gratitude. Adam had loved her . . . loved her.

But Adam, too, might be grateful for an escape provided by Keen.

A ship at sea, not an undermanned hulk suffering all the indignities of a naval dockyard. How could it work? How might it end?

He loved Adam like a son, always had loved him, ever since the youth had walked from Penzance to present himself to him after his mother’s death. Adam had confessed his affair with Zenoria: he felt that he should have known. Catherine had seen it much earlier in Adam’s face, on the day Zenoria had married Keen in the mermaid’s church at Zennor.

Madness even to think about it. Keen was going to his first truly responsible command as a flag officer. Nothing in the past could change that.

He asked, “You really believe that the war will soon end?” Bethune showed no surprise at this change of tack. “Napoleon’s armies are in retreat on every front. The Americans know this.

Without France as an ally, they will lose their last chance of dominating North America. We shall be able to release more and more ships to harass their convoys and forestall large troop movements by sea. Last September you proved, if proof were needed, that a well-placed force of powerful frigates was far more use than sixty ships of the line.” He smiled. “I can still recall their faces in the other room when you told Their Lordships that the 26

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line of battle was finished. Blasphemy, some thought, and unfortunately there are still many you have yet to convince.” Bolitho saw him look at the clock yet again. Sillitoe was late.

He knew the extent of his own influence and accepted it, knew too that people feared him. Bolitho suspected it pleased him.

Bethune was saying, “All these years, Richard, a lifetime for some. Twenty years of almost unbroken war with the French, and even before that, when we were in Sparrow during the American rebellion, we were fighting France as well.”

“We were all very young then, Graham. But I can understand why ordinary men and women have lost faith in victory, even now, when it is within our grasp.”

“But you never doubted it.”

Bolitho heard voices in the corridor. “I never doubted we would win, eventually. Victory? That is something else.” A servant opened the fine double doors and Sillitoe came unhurriedly into the room.

Catherine had described the portrait of Sillitoe’s father, which she had seen at the reception in his house. Valentine Keen had been her escort on that occasion: that would have set a few tongues wagging. But as he stood there now, in slate-grey broadcloth and gleaming white silk stock, Bolitho could compare the faces as if he had been there with her. Sillitoe’s father had been a slaver, “a black ivory captain,” he had called him. Baron Sillitoe of Chiswick had come far, and since the King had been declared insane his position as personal adviser to the Prince Regent had strengthened until there was very little in the political affairs of the nation he could not manipulate or direct.

He gave a curt bow. “You look very well and refreshed, Sir Richard. I was pleased to hear of your nephew’s exoneration.” Obviously, news travelled faster among Sillitoe’s spies than in the corridors of Admiralty.

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Sillitoe smiled, his hooded eyes, as always, concealing his thoughts.

“He is too good a captain to waste. I trust he will accept Rear-Admiral Keen’s invitation. I think he should. I believe he will.” Bethune rang for the servant. “You may bring refreshments, Tolan.” It gave him time to recover from his shock that Sillitoe’s network was more efficient than his own.

Sillitoe turned smoothly to Bolitho.

“And how is Lady Catherine? Well, I trust, and no doubt pleased to be back in town?”

Pointless to explain that Catherine wanted only to return to a quieter life in Falmouth. But one could not be certain of this man.

He who seemed to know everything probably knew that, too.

“She is happy, my lord.” He thought of her in the early hours of the morning when Avery had arrived. Happy? Yes, but concealing at the same time, and not always successfully, the deeper pain of their inevitable separation. Before Catherine, life had been very different. He had always accepted that his duty lay where his orders directed. It had to be. But his love he would leave behind, wherever she was.

Sillitoe leaned over the map. “Crucial times, gentlemen. You will have to return to Halifax, Sir Richard—you are the only one familiar with all the pieces of the puzzle. The Prince Regent was most impressed with your report and the vessels you require.” He smiled dryly. “Even the expense did not deter him. For more than a moment, that is.”

Bethune said, “The First Lord has agreed that orders will be presented within the week.” He glanced meaningfully at Bolitho.

“After that, Rear-Admiral Keen can take passage in the first available frigate, no matter who he selects as flag captain.” Sillitoe walked to a window. “Halifax. A cheerless place at this time of the year, I’m told. Arrangements can be made for you to 28

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follow, Sir Richard.” He did not turn from the window. “Perhaps the end of next month—will that suit?” Bolitho knew that Sillitoe never made idle remarks. Was he considering Catherine at last? How she would come to terms with it. Cruel; unfair; too demanding. He could almost hear her saying it. Separation and loneliness. Less than two months, then, allowing for the uncomfortable journey to Cornwall. They must not waste a minute. Together.

He replied, “You will find me ready, my lord.” Sillitoe took a glass from the servant. “Good.” His hooded eyes gave nothing away. “Excellent.” He could have been describing the wine. “A sentiment, Sir Richard. To your Happy Few!” So he even knew about that.

Bolitho scarcely noticed. In his mind, he saw only her, the dark eyes defiant, but protective.

Don’ t leave me.

2 for the L ove of a lady

BRYAN FERGUSON, the one-armed steward of the Bolitho estate, opened his tobacco jar and paused before filling his pipe. He had once believed that even the simplest task would be beyond him forever: fastening a button, shaving, eating a meal, let alone filling a pipe.

If he stopped to consider it, he was a contented man, grateful even, despite his disability. He was steward to Sir Richard Bolitho and had this, his own house near the stables. One of the smaller rooms at the rear of the house was used as his estate office, not that there was much to do at this time of the year. But the rain had stopped, and they had been spared the snow that one of the post-boys had mentioned.

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He glanced around the kitchen, the very centre of things in the world he shared with Grace, his wife, who was the Bolitho housekeeper. On every hand were signs of her skills, preserves, all carefully labelled and sealed with wax, dried fruit, and at the other end of the room hanging flitches of smoked bacon. The smell could still make his mouth water. But it was no use. His mind was distracted from these gentle pleasures. He was too anxious on behalf of his closest and oldest friend, John Allday.

He looked now at the tankard of rum on the scrubbed table.

Untouched.

He said, “Come along, John, have your wet. It’s just what you need on a cold January day.”

Allday remained by the window, his troubled thoughts like a yoke on his broad shoulders.

He said at length, “I should have gone to London with him.

Where I belong, see?”

So that was it. “My God, John, you’ve not been home a dog-watch and you’re fretting about Sir Richard going to London without you! You’ve got Unis now, a baby girl too, and the snuggest little inn this side of the Helford River. You should be enjoying it.”

Allday turned and looked at him. “I knows it, Bryan. Course I do.”

Ferguson tamped home the tobacco, deeply troubled. It was even worse with Allday than the last time. He looked over at his friend, seeing the harsh lines at the corners of his mouth, caused, he thought, by the pain in his chest where a Spanish sword had struck him down. The thick, shaggy hair was patched with grey.

But his eyes were as clear as ever.

Ferguson waited for him to sit down and put his big hands around the particular pewter tankard they kept for him. Strong, scarred hands; the ignorant might think them awkward and clumsy. But Ferguson had seen them working with razor-edged 30

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knives and tools to fashion some of the most intricate ship models he had ever known. The same hands had held his child, Kate, with the gentleness of a nursemaid.

Allday asked, “When do you reckon they’ll be back, Bryan?” Ferguson passed him the lighted taper and watched him hold it to his long clay; the smoke floated toward the chimney, and the cat lying on the hearth asleep.

“One of the squire’s keepers came by and he said the roads are better than last week. Slow going for a coach and four, let alone the mail.” It was not doing any good. He said, “I was thinking, John. It’ll be thirty-one years this April since the Battle of the Saintes. It hardly seems possible, does it?” Allday shrugged. “I’m surprised you can remember it.” Ferguson glanced down at his empty sleeve. “Not a thing I could easily forget.”

Allday reached across the table and touched his arm. “Sorry, Bryan. That was not intended.”

Ferguson smiled, and Allday took a swallow of rum. “It means that I’ll be fifty-three this year.” He saw Allday’s sudden discomfort. “Well, I’ve a piece of paper to prove it.” Then he asked quietly, “How old does that make you? About the same, eh?” He knew Allday was older; he had already served at sea when they had been taken together by the press-gang on Pendower Beach.

Allday eyed him warily. “Aye, something like that.” He looked at the fire, his weathered features suddenly despairing. “I’m his cox’n, y’see. I belongs with him.” Ferguson took the stone jug and poured another generous measure. “I know you do, John. Everyone does.” He was reminded suddenly of his cramped estate office, which he had left only an hour ago when Allday had arrived unexpectedly in a carrier’s cart.

Despite the fusty ledgers, and the dampness of winter, it was as if she had been there just ahead of him. Lady Catherine had not been in his office since before Christmas, when she had left for CROSS OF S T GEORGE

London with the admiral, and yet her perfume was still there.

Like jasmine. The old house was used to the comings and goings of Bolithos down over the years, he thought, and sooner or later one of them failed to return. The house accepted it: it waited, with all its dark portraits of dead Bolithos. Waited . . . But when Lady Catherine was away, it was different. An empty place.

He said, “Lady Catherine perhaps most of all.” Something in his voice made Allday turn to look at him.

“You too, eh, Bryan?”

Ferguson said, “I’ve never known such a woman. I was with her when they found that girl.” He stared at his pipe. “All broken up, she was, but her ladyship held her like a child. I shall never forget . . . I know you’re all aback at the thought that maybe you’re getting old, John, too old for the hard life of a fighting Jack. It’s my guess that Sir Richard fears it, too. But why am I telling you this? You know him better than anybody, man!” Allday smiled, for the first time. “I was that glad about Cap’n Adam keeping out of trouble at the court martial. That’ll be one thing off Sir Richard’s mind.”

Ferguson grunted, smoking. A revenue cutter had slipped into Falmouth, and had brought the news with some despatches.

Allday said bluntly, “You knew about him and that girl, Zenoria?”

“Guessed. It goes no further. Even Grace doesn’t suspect.” Allday blew out the taper. Grace was a wonderful wife to Bryan, and had saved him after he had returned home with an arm missing. But she did enjoy a good gossip. Lucky that Bryan understood her so well.

He said, “I love my Unis more than I can say. But I’d not leave Sir Richard. Not now that it’s nearly all over.” The door opened and Grace Ferguson came into the kitchen.

“Just like two old women, you are! What about my soup?” But she looked at them fondly. “I’ve just done something about they 32

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fires. That new girl Mary’s willing enough, but she’s got the memory of a squirrel!”

Ferguson exclaimed, “Fires, Grace? Aren’t you being a bit hasty?” But his mind was not on what he was saying. He was still turning over Allday’s words. I’d not leave Sir Richard. Not now that it’s nearly all over. He tried to brush it aside, but it would not go.

What had he meant? When the war finally ended, and men paused to count the cost? Or did he fear for Sir Richard? That was nothing new. Ferguson had even heard Bolitho liken them both to a faithful dog and its master. Each fearful of leaving the other behind.

Grace looked keenly at him. “What is it, my dear?” He shook his head. “Nothing.”

Allday darted a glance between them. Although separated for long periods when he was at sea, he had no closer friends.

He said, “He thinks I’m getting old, ready to be broken up like some rotten hulk!”

She laid one hand on his thick wrist. “That’s foolish talk, you with a fine wife and a bonny baby. Old indeed!” But the smile did not touch her eyes. She knew both of them too well, and could guess what had happened.

The door opened again, and this time it was Matthew, the coachman. Like Allday, he had protested against remaining in Falmouth and entrusting Bolitho and Catherine to a common mail coach.

Ferguson was glad of the interruption. “What’s amiss, Matthew?”

Matthew grinned.

“Just heard the coach horn. Sounded it, like that other time when he was coming home!”

Ferguson said briskly, “Drive down and fetch them from the square,” but Matthew had already gone. He had been the first to know, just as he had been the first to recognize the St Mawes CROSS OF S T GEORGE

salute when Bolitho had returned to Falmouth a little over a month ago.

He paused to kiss his wife on the cheek.

“What was that for?”

Ferguson glanced at Allday. They were coming home. He smiled.

“For making up the fires for them.” But he could not repress it.

“For so many things, Grace.” He reached for his coat. “You can stop for a meal, John?”

But Allday was preparing to leave. “They’ll not want a crowd when they gets here.” He was suddenly serious. “But when he wants me, I’ll be ready. That’s it an’ all about it.” The door closed, and they looked at one another.

She said, “Taking it badly.”

Ferguson thought of the smell of jasmine. “So will she.” The smart carriage with the Bolitho crest on the door clattered away across the stableyard, the wheels striking sparks from the cobbles. For several days Matthew had been anticipating this, backing the horses into position at the time when the coach from Truro could be expected to arrive outside the King’s Head in Falmouth. Ferguson paused by the door. “Fetch some of that wine they favour, Grace.”

She watched him, remembering, as if it were yesterday, when they had snatched him away in the King’s ship. Bolitho’s ship.

And the crippled man who had returned to her. She had never put it into words before. The man I love.

She smiled. “Champagne. I don’t know what they see in it!” Now that it’s all nearly over. He might have told her what Allday had said, but she had gone, and he was glad that it would remain a secret between them.

Then he walked out into the cold, damp air and could smell the sea. Coming home. It was suddenly important that there should be no fuss: Allday had understood, even though he was bursting to know what was going to happen. It must be as if 34

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they had only been from Falmouth for a single day.

He looked over at the end stall and saw the big mare Tamara throwing her head up and down, the white flash on her forehead very clear in the dull light.

There could be no more doubt. Ferguson walked over and rubbed her muzzle.

“She’s back, my lass. And none too soon.” Half an hour later the carriage rattled into the drive. The hero and his mistress who had scandalized the country, defying both hypocrisy and convention, were home.

Lieutenant George Avery regarded himself critically in the tailor’s mirror, as he might examine a stranger. He knew very little of London, and on previous visits he had usually been on some mission to the Admiralty. The tailor’s establishment was in Jermyn Street, a bustling place of shops and elegant houses, and the air, which seemed unclean after the sea, was alive with the din of carriages and hooves.

He must have walked for miles, something he always enjoyed after the restrictions of a crowded man-of-war. He smiled at his reflection; he was quite tired, unaccustomed to so much exercise.

It was strange to have money to spend, something new to him.

This was prize-money, earned over ten years ago when he had been second-in-command of the schooner Jolie, herself a French prize. He had all but forgotten about it; it had seemed unimportant in the light of his subsequent misfortunes. He had been wounded when Jolie was overwhelmed by a French corvette, then held as a prisoner of war in France; he had been exchanged during the brief Peace of Amiens only to face a court martial, and to receive a reprimand for losing his ship, even though he had been too badly injured to prevent others from hauling down her colours. At Adam Bolitho’s court martial he had relived every moment of his own disgrace.

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He thought of the house in Chelsea, where he was still staying, and wondered if Bolitho and Catherine had reached Cornwall yet. It was difficult to accept, let alone take for granted, that they had left him to use the house as he chose. But he would have to go to Falmouth soon himself, to be with the others when Sir Richard received his final instructions. His little crew, as he called them. Avery thought it was dangerously close to being a family.

Arthur Crowe, the tailor, peered up to him. “Is everything satisfactory, sir? I shall have the other garments sent to you immediately they are ready.” Polite, almost humble. Rather different from their first meeting. Crowe had seemed about to offer some critical comment on Avery’s uniform, which had been made by the Falmouth tailor, Joshua Miller. Just another impoverished luff, at thirty-five, old for his rank, and therefore probably under a cloud of some sort, doomed to remain a lieutenant until dismissal or death settled the matter. Avery had silenced the unspoken criticism by a casual mention of his admiral’s name, and the fact that the Millers had been making uniforms for the Bolithos for generations.

He nodded. “Very satisfactory.” His gaze shifted to the bright epaulette on his right shoulder. It would take some getting used to. A solitary epaulette on the right shoulder had formerly been the mark of rank for a captain, not posted, but a captain for all that. Their Lordships, apparently at the insistence of the Prince Regent, had changed it. The solitary epaulette now signified the rank of lieutenant, at least until some new fashion was approved.

The room darkened, and he imagined that the sky was cloud-ing over again. But it was a carriage, which had stopped in the street directly opposite the window: a very elegant vehicle in deep blue, with some sort of crest on the panels. A footman had climbed down and was lowering the step. It had not been lost on the tailor: he was hurrying to his door and opening it, admitting the bitter air from the street.

Curious, Avery thought, that in all the shops he had seen 36

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there appeared to be no shortages, as if war with France and the new hostilities with America were on another planet.

He watched absently as a woman emerged from the carriage.

She wore a heavy, high-waisted coat almost the same colour as the paintwork, and her face was partly hidden by the deep brim of her bonnet as she looked down for the edge of the pavement.

Arthur Crowe bowed stiffly, his tape measure hanging around his neck like a badge of office.

“What a pleasure to see you again, my lady, on this fine brisk morning!”

Avery smiled privately. Crowe obviously made a point of knowing those who mattered, and those who did not.

He thought of Catherine Somervell, wondering if she had persuaded Bolitho to patronize this prosperous street.

Then he swung away, his mind reeling, the new epaulette, the shop, everything fading like fragments of a dream.

The door closed, and he barely dared to turn round.

Crowe said, “If you are certain I can provide nothing more, Mr Avery?”

Avery faced the door. The tailor was alone. Crowe asked, “Is something wrong, sir?”

“That lady.” He made himself look, but even the carriage had gone. Another fragment. “I thought I knew her.” Crowe watched his assistant parcelling up the new boat-cloak Avery had purchased. “Her husband was a good customer. We were sorry to lose him, although not always an easy man to sat-isfy.” He seemed to realize that it was not the answer Avery had wanted. “Lady Mildmay. The wife, or should I say, the widow, of Vice-Admiral Sir Robert Mildmay.”

It was she. Except that when he had last seen her, she had been only the wife of his captain in the old Canopus.

Crowe prompted, “Was that the lady of your acquaintance?”

“I think I was mistaken.” He picked up his hat. “Please have CROSS OF S T GEORGE

the other purchases delivered to the address I gave you.” No arguments, no hesitation. Sir Richard Bolitho’s name opened many doors.

He walked out into the street, glad to be moving again. Why should he care? Why did it matter so much? She had been unreachable then, when he had been stupid enough to believe it was more than just an amusing game to her, a passing flirtation.

Had she changed? He had caught a glimpse of her hair, honey-coloured; how many days, how many sleepless nights he had tried to forget it. Perhaps she had been part of the reason he had not resisted when his uncle, then Sir Paul Sillitoe, had suggested that he offer himself for the position of flag lieutenant to Sir Richard Bolitho. He had expected his application to be refused as soon as Bolitho had learned more about him. Instead, he had never forgotten that day in Falmouth, in the old house he had come to know so well, their kindness to him, the trust, and eventually the friendship which had done so much to heal the doubts and the injuries of the past. He had thought little more beyond the next voyage, the next challenge, even though it took him to the cannon’s mouth yet again.

And now, this. It had been a shock. He had deluded himself.

What chance would he have had? A married woman, and the wife of his own captain? It would have been like putting a pistol to his head.

Was she still as beautiful? She was two years older than himself, maybe more. She had been so alive, so vivacious. After the slur of the court martial, and then being marooned on the old Canopus, he thought until the end of his service, she had been like a bright star: he had not been the only officer who had been captivated. He quickened his pace, and halted as someone said,

“Thank you, sir!”

There were two of them. Once they had been soldiers; they even wore the tattered remnants of their red coats. One was blind, 38

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and held his head at an angle as though he were trying to picture what was happening. The other had only one arm, and was clutching a hunk of bread which had obviously been handed to him by a pot-boy from the nearby coffee-house. It had probably been left on someone’s plate.

The blind man asked, “What is it, Ted?” The other said, “Bit o’ bread. Don’t worry. We might get lucky.”

Avery could not control his disgust. He should have been used to it, but he was not. He had once come to blows with another lieutenant who had taunted him about his sensitivity.

He said sharply, “You there!” and realized that his anger and dismay had put an uncharacteristic edge to his voice. The one-armed man even cowered, but stood protectively between the officer and his blind companion.

Avery said, “I am sorry.” He was reminded suddenly of Adam Bolitho, and the presentation sword he had sold. “Take this.” He thrust some money into the grimy hand. “Have something hot to eat.”

He turned away, annoyed that such things could still move and trouble him.

He heard the blind man ask, “Who was that, Ted?” The reply was barely audible above the clatter of wheels and harness.

“A gentleman. A true gentleman.”

How many were there like that? How many more would there be? Probably soldiers from a line regiment, maybe two of Wellington’s men: shoulder to shoulder, facing French cavalry and artillery.

Living from battle to battle, until luck changed sides and turned on them.

Those around him did not realize what it was like, and would never believe that either he or his admiral could still be moved by such pitiful reminders of the cost of war. Like that moment CROSS OF S T GEORGE

in Indomitable’s cabin after Adam’s ship had been lost, and a single survivor had been dragged from the sea by the brig Woodpecker, which, against orders, had returned to the scene. That survivor had been the ship’s boy. Avery had watched Bolitho bring the child back to life with his compassion, even as he had endeavoured to discover what had happened to Adam.

Avery had once believed that his own suffering had left him indifferent to the fate of others. Bolitho had convinced him otherwise.

Somewhere a clock chimed: St James’s, Piccadilly, he thought.

He had passed it without noticing it. He looked back, but the two redcoats had gone. Like ghosts, momentarily released from some forgotten field of battle.

“Why, Mister Avery! It is you.” He stared at her, vaguely aware that she was standing in the doorway of a perfumery, with a prettily wrapped box in her arms.

It was as if the street had emptied, and, like the two ghosts, had lost all identity.

He hesitated, and removed his hat, saw her eyes move over his face, and, no doubt, he thought bitterly, the dark hair which was so thickly streaked with grey. This was the moment he had lived in his dreams, when he would sting her with sarcasm and contempt, and punish her in a way she could never forget.

She wore a fur muff on one hand, and the parcel was in danger of falling. He said abruptly, “Let me assist you,” and took it from her; it was heavy, but he scarcely noticed. “Is there someone who will carry this for you?”

She was gazing at him. “I saw what you did for those poor beggars. It was kind of you.” Her eyes rested briefly on the new epaulette. “Promotion too, I see.”

“I fear not.” She had not changed at all. Beneath the smart bonnet her hair was probably shorter, as the new fashions dictated. But her eyes were as he remembered them. Blue. Very blue.

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She seemed to recall his question. “My carriage will return for me in a moment.” Her face was full of caution now, almost uncertainty.

Avery said, “I imagined that I saw you earlier. A trick of the light, I daresay. I heard that you had lost your husband.” A moment of triumph. But it was empty.

“Last year . . .”

“I read nothing of it in the Gazette, but then, I have been away from England.” He knew he sounded curt, discourteous, but he could not help it.

She said, “It was not in battle. He had been in poor health for some time. And what of you? Are you married?”

“No,” he said.

She bit her lip. Even that little habit was painful to see. “I believe I read somewhere that you are aide to Sir Richard Bolitho.” When he remained silent she added, “That must be vastly excit-ing. I have never met him.” The slightest hesitation. “Nor have I met the famous Lady Somervell. I feel the poorer for it.” Avery heard the sound of wheels. So many others, but somehow he knew it was the carriage that matched her coat.

She asked suddenly, “Are you lodging in town?”

“I have been staying in Chelsea, my lady. I shall be leaving for the West Country when I have arranged my affairs in London.” There were two vivid spots of colour in her cheeks, which were not artificial. “You did not always address me so formally. Had you forgotten?”

He heard the carriage slowing down. It would soon be over: the impossible dream could not harm him any more. “I was in love with you then. You must have known that.” Boots clattered on the pavement. “Just the one, m’ lady?” She nodded, and watched with interest as the footman took the box from Avery, noting his expression, the tawny eyes she had always remembered.

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She said, “I have reopened the house in London. We had been living at Bath. It is not the same any more.” The footman lowered the step for her. He did not spare Avery even a glance.

She rested one hand on the carriage door. Small, well-shaped, strong.

She said, “It is not far from here. I like to be near the centre of things.” She looked up at him, searching his face, as though considering something. “Will you take tea with me? Tomorrow?

After all this time . . .”

He watched her, thinking of when he had held her. Kissed her. The only delusions had been his own.

“I think it would be unwise, my lady. There is enough gossip and slander in this town. I’ll not trouble you again.” She was inside the carriage but had lowered the window, while the footman waited, wooden-faced, to climb up beside the coachman.

For a moment she rested her hand on his, and he found himself surprised by her apparent agitation.

“Do come.” She slipped a small card into his hand. Then she glanced quickly at the footman and whispered, “What you said to me just now. Were you really?”

He did not smile. “I would have died for you.” She was still staring back at him as the dark blue carriage pulled away.

He jammed on his hat and said aloud, “Hell’s teeth, I still would!”

But the anger eluded him, and he added softly, “Susanna.” Yovell, Bolitho’s portly secretary, waited patiently near the library desk, his ample buttocks turned toward the fire. Sharing Bolitho’s life at sea as he did, Yovell knew, more than any one, the full extent of the planning and detail through which the 42

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admiral had to sift before eventually translating this paper war into written orders for his captains.

Like Bolitho’s other loyal, if difficult, servant Ozzard, Yovell had a small cottage on the estate, even as Allday had lived there when home from the sea. Yovell gave a small, amused smile. That was, until Allday had suddenly become a respectable married man.

Through one of the windows he saw a cat waiting expectantly for somebody to open the door. That was Allday to a letter, he thought, on the wrong side of every door. When he was at sea he worried about his wife and the inn at Fallowfield, and now there was the baby to add to his responsibilities. And when he was home, he fretted about being left on the beach when Bolitho returned to his flagship. Yovell had no such domestic problems.

When he wanted to give up his present work he knew Bolitho would release him, just as he knew that many people thought him quite mad to risk his life in a man-of-war.

He watched Bolitho leafing through the pile of papers, which he had been examining for most of the morning. He had only returned from London a week ago and had been occupied with Admiralty business for much of the time. Catherine Somervell had waved to him as she had left the house to call on Lewis Roxby, their near neighbour and “the King of Cornwall,” as he was dubbed behind his back. Roxby was married to Bolitho’s sister Nancy, and Yovell thought it a good thing that Catherine had family of sorts to visit while they were all away at sea.

He admired her greatly, although he knew that many men called her a whore. When the transport Golden Plover had been wrecked off the coast of Africa, Bolitho’s woman had been with them, and had not only survived the hardships of their voyage in an open boat, but had somehow held them all together, given them heart and hope when they had no reason to expect that they would live. It had made his own suffering seem almost incidental.

Bolitho looked up at him, his face remarkably calm and rested.

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Two weeks on the road from London, changing coaches and horses, being diverted by floods and fallen trees: their account of it had sounded like a nightmare.

Bolitho said, “If you would arrange for copies of these, I should like them despatched to Their Lordships as soon as possible.” He stretched his arms, and thought of the letter which had been awaiting his return. From Belinda, even though there was a lawyer’s hand at the helm. She needed more money, a sizeable increase in her allowance, for herself and their daughter Elizabeth. He rubbed the damaged eye. It had not troubled him very much since his return; perhaps the grey stillness of a Cornish winter was kinder than blazing sun and the sea’s mirrored reflections.

Elizabeth. She would be eleven years old in a few months’

time. A child he did not know, nor would he ever know her.

Belinda would make certain of that. He sometimes wondered what her friends in high society would think of the elegant Lady Bolitho if they knew she had connived with Catherine’s husband to have her falsely charged and transported like a common thief.

Catherine never spoke of it now, but she could never forget it.

And like himself, she would never forgive.

Every day since their return they had tried to enjoy to the full, knowing that time did not favour them. The roads and lanes were firmer after days of a steady south-easterly, and they had ridden for miles around the estate and had visited Roxby, who remained in poor health after suffering a stroke. Poor humour, too: Roxby adored his style of living, hunting and drinking, and entertaining lavishly at his house on the adjoining estate, balancing the pleasures of a gentleman with his obligations as farmer and magistrate.

He was even on intimate terms with the Prince Regent, and perhaps had been given his knighthood on the strength of that acquaintance. The advice of his doctors to rest and take things more quietly was like a sentence of death.

He thought of the long journey home on those appalling roads.

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Catherine had even managed to create happiness then, despite her discomfort. At one point they had been turned back by flood-ing, and set down at a small, shabby inn which had clearly shocked their fellow passengers, two well-dressed churchmen and their wives who were on their way to meet their bishop.

One of the women had said angrily, “No lady should be expected to remain in such a dreadful place!” To Bolitho she had added, “What does your wife have to say about it, I should like to know?”

Catherine had answered, “We are not married, ma’am.” She had held his arm more tightly. “This officer is running away with me!”

They had not seen their fellow passengers again. Either they had waited for another coach, or had slipped away in the night.

The room had been damp and slightly musty from lack of use, but the landlord, a jovial dwarf of a man, had soon got a fire going, and the supper he had presented would have satisfied even the greediest midshipman.

And with the rain on the window, and the fire’s dancing shadows around them, they had sunk into the feather bed and made love with such abandon that they might well have been eloping.

There had been a short letter from Adam, saying only that he was leaving with Valentine Keen for Halifax, and asking their forgiveness for not having visited them in Falmouth.

Whenever he considered their situation his mind seemed to flinch from it. Adam and Keen. The two of them together, flag captain and admiral. Like me and James Tyacke. But so different.

Two men who had loved the same woman, and Keen knew nothing about it. To share a secret was to share the guilt, Bolitho thought.

That same night at the inn, while they had lain exhausted by their love, Catherine had told him something else. She had taken CROSS OF S T GEORGE

Keen to Zennor, to the churchyard where Zenoria was buried. It was a good thirty miles from Falmouth, and they had stayed with friends of Roxby’s in Redruth overnight.

She had said, “Had we stayed anywhere else there would have been talk, more cruel gossip. I couldn’t risk that—there are still too many who wish us ill.”

Then she had told him that while Keen had been alone at the grave she had spoken with the verger. He was also the gardener, and, with his brother, the local carpenter, and had confided that he made all the coffins for the village and surrounding farms.

She said, “I thought I would ask him to see that fresh flowers were put on her grave throughout the year.” Bolitho had held her in the firelight, feeling her sadness at the memory, and what had gone before.

Then she had said, “He would take no payment, Richard. He told me that ‘a young sea captain’ had already arranged it with him. After that, I went into the church, and I could see Adam’s face as I saw it that day, when Val and Zenoria were married.” What strange and perverse fate had brought Adam and Keen together? It could restore, or just as easily destroy them.

Yovell was polishing his small gold-rimmed spectacles. “When will Mr Avery be joining us, Sir Richard?” Bolitho eyed him thoughtfully. A man of many parts: it was rumoured that Yovell had been a schoolmaster at one time. He could well believe it. It was hard to imagine him as he had been in the boat after Golden Plover had gone down, his hands, unused to seamen’s work, torn and bleeding on the oars, his face burned raw by the sun. But he could remember not a single word of complaint. A scholar, a man who enjoyed his Bible as another might relish a game of dice: even his casual question about the flag lieutenant held genuine interest. Perhaps they were two of a kind, both enigmatic in their fashion. George Avery was a quiet, 46

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often withdrawn man; even Sillitoe appeared not to know much about his nephew. Or care, possibly. Sillitoe’s sister had been Avery’s mother: of Sillitoe’s brother, who had so inspired Avery that he had seemed to look upon him as a father whenever they had met, Bolitho knew nothing. Sillitoe’s brother had been a naval officer, and very likely had sponsored Avery for his first appointment as midshipman. Avery’s own father, and austere upbringing in a religious family, had never dampened his eager-ness to follow the sea. Sillitoe’s brother, in the Ganges, had fallen at the Battle of Copenhagen, like so many on that bloody day.

There was little to do in London for a lieutenant without connections, he thought, although Catherine had hinted that there had once been a woman in Avery’s life.

Only a woman could scar him so deeply.

She was probably right.

He said, “Mr Avery will be coming down in a week or so. Or whenever he likes.” Or perhaps Avery would leave it until the last minute. Maybe he could not bear to see others who did not hide their love from one another, when he himself had no one.

He listened to the muffled thud of hooves. “Her ladyship is home early.”

Yovell was at the window, and shook his head. “No, Sir Richard, it’s a messenger.” He did not turn. “Despatches, no doubt.”

Bolitho stood, trying to prepare himself as his secretary went out to deal with it. So soon. So soon. A month more, and already they were warning him of his departure. It would have been better if they had allowed him to remain in Indomitable; and in the same second he knew that was a lie. To be with her, only for an hour, would have made all this worthwhile.

Yovell came back, holding the familiar canvas envelope with its Admiralty fouled anchor, to dispel any lingering hope he might have had.

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Yovell returned to the window and peered out at the trees. The cat, he noticed, had disappeared. He thought of Allday again. It was going to be difficult.

He listened to the knife slitting the envelope. The messenger was in the kitchen being given something hot to drink, no doubt full of envy for those who lived in great houses such as these. He heard Bolitho say quietly, “It is brought forward by a week. We take passage for Halifax on February eighteenth.” When he turned from the window he thought his admiral seemed very composed: the man everyone expected to see. Beyond the reach of any personal emotion.

He said, “It is not the first time, Sir Richard.” Bolitho seized a pen and bent over the papers on the desk.

“Give the fellow this receipt.” He stood up and held his cuff over his eye as he faced the light. “I shall ride out to meet Lady Catherine. Tell Matthew, will you?”

Yovell hurried away, not wanting to leave, but understanding that he had to confront the prospect of separation alone. Three weeks, then an ocean, a world apart.

He closed the door quietly behind him. Perhaps cats had the right ideas about life, he thought.

They met by the slate wall that marked the boundary of Roxby’s estate. She did not dismount until he got down and walked to her, and then she slid from the saddle and waited for him to hold her, her hair blowing out freely in the salt breeze.

“You’ve heard. How long?”

“Three weeks.”

She pressed her face to his so that he would not see her eyes.

“We will make it a lifetime, dearest of men. Always, always, I will be with you.” She said it without anger or bitterness. Time was too precious to waste.

He said, “I don’t want to go. I hate the thought of it.” 48

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Through his cloak she could feel him shivering, as if he were cold or ill. She knew he was neither.

He said, “Why must you suffer because of me, because of what I am?”

“Because I understand. Like your mother and all those before her. I will wait, as they did, and I will miss you more than any words can describe.” Then she did look at him, her dark eyes very steady. “Above all, I am so very proud of you. When this is over, we shall be together, and nothing will ever force us apart again.” He touched her face and her throat. “It is all I want.” He kissed her very gently, so gently that she wanted to cry.

But she was strong, too strong to allow the tears to come. She knew how much he needed her and it gave her the courage that was necessary, perhaps more now than at any other time.

“Take me home, Richard. A lifetime, remember?” They walked in silence, the horses following companionably behind them. At the top of the rise they saw the sea, and she felt him grip her arm more tightly. As if he had come face to face with the enemy.

3 M orning departure

CAPTAIN ADAM BOLITHO tightened his boat-cloak around his neck as the jolly-boat pulled out strongly into the Solent. A strange departure from Portsmouth, he thought: without the snow, everything was normal again. Noise, bustle, marching men, and many boats milling around the stairs, waiting to carry their officers out to the ships at anchor.

Except that this was not his ship. He had paused only briefly to step aboard the frigate Zest, to sign some papers, to take his leave as quickly as possible. The ship had fought well; without CROSS OF S T GEORGE

her, even Indomitable’s formidable artillery might not have been able to beat the Yankees into submission. But that was as far as it went. He never felt that Zest was really his ship, nor had he attempted to make her so. His ship lay on the seabed, her beautiful figurehead staring into the deeper darkness, so many of her company still with her.

The midshipman in charge of the jolly-boat was very aware of his passenger’s rank and reputation: even the name of Bolitho had sent a flood of rumours through the ship.

Adam looked at the chests at his feet. All new, everything, even the fighting sword he had purchased with such care. The rest lay with Anemone.

He glanced at his small companion. John Whitmarsh, who had been the only one saved from the sea, had served in Anemone for almost two years before she foundered. A mere child. He had been “volunteered” by an uncle, if uncle he was, after the boy’s father, a deep-water fisherman, had drowned off the Goodwins.

John was to be his servant. Adam had never seen such pride or such gratitude when he had asked him. The boy still did not understand the lifeline had been for his captain, and not the other way round.

The midshipman said stiffly, “There she lies, sir.” Adam tugged down his hat. She was the Wakeful, a 38-gun frigate, hard-worked and in constant demand like most of her breed. Now she was completing the last tasks before sailing, taking on fresh water, fruit if there was any available, and, of course, men. Even the most dedicated press-gang would be hard put to find any suitable hands in a naval port.

He looked at the boy again. Not much different in spite of his smart new jacket and white trousers. Ozzard had taught him some of it; the rest he would learn quickly enough. He was bright, and if he was nervous or still suffering from his experiences and the memory of seeing his best friend, another ship’s 50

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boy of the same age, drift away beyond help, he did not show it.

Adam had sent a letter to the boy’s mother. Had she asked for his return, he would have put him ashore and made certain that he reached her safely. She had not acknowledged the letter.

Perhaps she had moved from the area, or taken up with another

“uncle.” Either way, Adam thought his young charge had been quietly pleased about it.

He ran his eye critically over the frigate. Rigging well set up, sails neatly furled. She was smart enough. He could see the scarlet and blue of the receiving party by the entry port. He knew nothing of her captain, other than that this was his first command. He found he could shut it from his mind. It was not his concern. He, like Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen, who was arriving tomorrow, was a passenger. He smiled briefly. An inconvenience.

He thought with affection of his uncle, and how close they had been after his escape from the Americans. They would all meet again in Halifax. He still did not know why he had accepted Keen’s offer. Because of guilt? To allay suspicion? He knew it was neither. It was simply a feeling, like someone or something leading the way. He recalled Zennor, the quietness of the place, the hiss of the sea on the rocks beneath the cliff. Her grave. He had touched it, and had felt her spirit watching him. The little mermaid.

“Bows!” The midshipman’s voice was loud. Perhaps he had taken Adam’s silence for disapproval.

The bowman was on his feet, boat-hook poised as rudder and oars brought the boat hard round toward the main chains. The oars were tossed, showering the seamen with salt water as the boat swayed and bounced alongside.

He looked at the midshipman. “Thank you, Mr Price. That was well done.”

The youth gaped at him, as if surprised that his name was known. He thought once more of Bolitho, all the lessons learned.

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They have names. He could almost hear his voice. In this life we share, it is often all they do have.

He stood up, ensuring that the new sword was safely in position on his hip. He had never forgotten Bolitho’s cautionary tale of the senior officer who had fallen headlong over his sword, in full view of the side party.

He glanced down at the boy. “Ready, young John?” He knew that above his head they were all waiting: the ritual of receiving a captain on board. But this, too, was important.

Whitmarsh picked up his bag, his brown eyes unblinking as he stared at the tapering masts, the ensign curling out from the taffrail.

“Ready, sir.” He nodded firmly. “Aye, ready.” Adam smiled, and climbed swiftly up the side. He still wore a dressing on the jagged wound, but it was only to protect the tender scar from the pressure of his clothing.

He stepped onto the deck and removed his hat as the Royal Marines presented arms in salute. And to remind me, so that I never forget.

“Welcome aboard, Captain Bolitho! It is an honour!” Adam shook his hand. Very young, and in the gleaming new epaulettes, he was like a youth playing the role of captain. He thought, as I once did.

The captain, whose name was Martin Hyde, led the way aft, and said almost apologetically, “A bit crowded, I’m afraid. Rear-Admiral Keen will have my quarters, and there is an extra berth for you. I’ve arranged for your section to be screened off. I see you have a servant with you, so you should be comfortable enough.” He hesitated. “I must ask this. What is the rear-admiral like? It is three thousand miles to Halifax, and he will be used to rather more luxury than I can offer, I imagine.” Adam said, “He is very agreeable, and a good man in every way.”

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The other captain seemed relieved. “I understand that his wife died recently. It can change one.”

Adam heard himself answer levelly, “He will leave you free to direct your ship as you will.” He would have to become accustomed to it. People would always want to know.

He saw a corporal of marines pointing out something to Whitmarsh, and the boy nodding in agreement. He belonged. But just once Adam saw him glance uncertainly along the busy deck, where the guard was falling out and the hands were returning to their work.

Hyde said, “He looks a likely lad. Young, but I’m often so desperate for bodies I’d take them from their mothers’ arms if I could!”

An officer hovered nearby, obviously the first lieutenant. Hyde said, “I am needed, Captain Bolitho. We will talk later.” He smiled, and looked even younger. “It is a privilege to have you aboard, although after three thousand miles you may feel differently.” Then he was gone.

Overhead, the familiar sounds resumed, the twitter of bosun’s calls, the “Spithead Nightingales,” the thud of bare feet, and the squeal of tackles through their blocks. His world, but not mine.

Adam sat on a chest and stared around at the great cabin, where he would live, and attempt to accept a future with Keen.

He heard Whitmarsh walking behind him, still very careful of his shining new shoes with their bright buckles.

Adam said, “In that chest.” He tossed him the keys. “There’s some cognac.” He watched the boy opening it. Like the others, it could have belonged to a stranger. All new. He sighed.

John Whitmarsh asked quietly, “Be you sad, sir?” He looked sharply at the boy. “Remember what I told you aboard Indomitable, when I asked you to come with me?” He saw him screw up his eyes. “Aye, sir. You said that when we were sad we should remember our old ship, an’ our lost friends.” CROSS OF S T GEORGE

Adam took the cup of cognac from his hand. “That is so.” The boy watched him anxiously. “But we will get another ship, sir!”

The very simplicity of it moved him. “Yes. We will, John Whitmarsh.”

He looked toward the stern windows, streaked now with salt spray like ice rime.

“But there will always be thoughts.” The boy had not heard him, or perhaps he had spoken only to himself: he was unpacking one of the chests in an orderly fashion, as Ozzard had taught him. He was content.

Adam stood up. And so must I be. Others depend on me. It has to be enough.

But when he had knelt by her grave, he had known then that it was not.

George Avery paused to get his bearings, and reconsider what he was doing. When he had watched her drive away in the smart blue carriage, he should have left it right there, put it back into the past with all the other memories and bitter experiences. He had returned to Jermyn Street and prowled up and down, simply to reawaken the breathtaking sensations of that chance meeting.

He had almost expected to see the same two tattered veterans begging for food, but they had receded into the day’s unreality.

He frowned. There had been plenty of others, though.

She had been right about one thing. Her house was close by; he was not even breathless from the walk. It was cold, with watery sunlight, but he had not needed the new boat-cloak which he carried loosely over his arm. The house, though, was enough to chill his blood. He did not quite know what he had expected, but it was large and elegant, with a presence to match. He stopped again. He should turn and go, now. And there were several carriages outside: she was not alone. Perhaps he should have gone 54

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to the house when she had asked him, to take tea. But that invitation had been two days ago. He had looked at her little card several times since then, unable to decide what to do.

And then an Admiralty messenger had brought him the letter, and the sailing date. They would leave from Plymouth, so it was time he began the long journey to Falmouth, where Sir Richard Bolitho would be requiring his presence.

Instead, he was here.

What would she say? She might not even consent to see him.

He stared at the house again, trying to remember his captain, her husband. He had assumed that Mildmay had been given the old Canopus as an insult, because of some past misdemeanour. Perhaps he had offended someone in high places: it was not uncommon. That was why I was sent to her. Taken originally as a prize from the French at the Nile, she had received such a battering and had subsequently been worked so hard that her greatest enemy was rot.

But Mildmay had left the ship while she had been in dock, and had been promoted to flag rank, with further promotion two years later. Now he was dead.

He felt his confidence, never very great, wavering. He would make an even bigger fool of himself this time.

The double doors of the house were before him, although he did not recall having mounted the steps. As though he had been secretly observed, one of them swung inward, opened by a tall, rather severe-looking woman dressed from neck to toe in grey, with a bunch of keys hanging from the chatelaine at her waist.

“Yes?” Her eyes moved over him swiftly. She was probably more used to senior officers and the quality, he thought, and, surprisingly, it made him smile. It was the same assessment and dismissal that the Jermyn Street tailor had given him.

He said, “I wish to speak to Lady Mildmay.” CROSS OF S T GEORGE

The eyes moved on, looking for a carriage or some other evidence of respectability.

“She is not expecting your visit?” It was not really a question.

Avery heard music, a pianoforte, and in the sudden stillness applause, like a scattering of dry leaves.

“No, not exactly. I—”

“What is it, Mrs Pepyat? I thought I—” Avery removed his hat. “I am sorry, my lady.” She was standing by the great, curving staircase, one hand to the bosom of her gown, as if she had been surprised or annoyed by the intrusion.

She said, “Mister Avery, you keep a poor diary!” But she smiled, and walked to meet him. “Is something amiss?” He took the cool hand she offered and kissed the back of it.

“I am recalled, my lady. I must leave for Cornwall shortly.” The pianoforte had started to play again, and Avery said, “I will leave.

You are entertaining.”

She watched him, her blue eyes questioning. “No, no. That is a Mr Blount—he comes from Highgate to play for us, to raise money for the sailors’ hospital at Greenwich.” She shrugged. “It is an amiable way to meet old friends, or acquaintances, if you prefer . . .” She smiled. “You like music, Mr Avery? It is Mozart, very fashionable, it seems.”

Avery was listening. “Yes. His Fantasy in C Minor.” He did not see her raised brows. “I sang in the choir, and my father’s organist used to entertain us with that music afterwards.” He must go. The formidable Mrs Pepyat obviously thought so.

“Take this gentleman’s hat and cloak.” A footman darted out from nowhere, and took them from him. His line of retreat was severed.

She slipped her arm through his and guided him toward a tall doorway.

“We will sit by this pillar. See? No one has noticed a thing.” 56

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He sat beside her. Although she had released his arm he could still feel her touch. The room was full, the women, some young, some not so young, sitting attentively, with here and there an expensively shod foot tapping in time to the music. The men were mostly older, and there were several red uniforms: senior officers putting on a brave face for society’s sake, but, for the most part, obviously bored. The pianist named Blount was very small, with the frame of a youth, but his face could have been that of an old portrait, and Avery knew simply by watching him that he had completely dismissed his audience from his mind.

She leaned toward him, and Avery saw two other women turn instantly to observe them. “There will be refreshments later. I shall have to entertain then, a little.” She was very close, so close that he could smell her hair, her perfume, and see the rise and fall of her breasts.

“Am I as you remember, Mister Avery?” She was teasing him again. Or was she.

He lowered his voice. “Exactly as I remember.” She turned away. The music ceased and people stood to applaud, some, he thought, out of pleasure, others with relief that it was over.

An act of charity. Avery glanced around at the rich gowns, the stylish hair arrangements, the men, smiling now as the first trays of wine appeared. How much of the collection would find its way to the sailors’ hospital, he wondered, and was shocked by his own cynicism.

He remained by the pillar and took a goblet of wine from a passing footman. She was moving amongst her guests without hesitation or uncertainty. He heard her laugh, and saw two of the soldiers beaming at her.

He stepped back as a solitary naval uniform, a lady on one arm, paused to speak with Lady Mildmay before heading for the door. Escaping.

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She was with him again, her eyes moving across the room.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Mr Avery?”

“That officer. I know him.”

“Vice-Admiral Bethune. Yes, he has risen like a bright star.” It seemed to amuse her.

“And that was his wife.” She was not as he had expected. Perhaps he had been misinformed.

She was looking at him steadily. “Not his wife. From what we hear, one can hardly blame him. He is very attractive, if I may say so as a woman.”

Some of the others were leaving now, their duty done. She asked suddenly, “Recalled, you said? When do you return?” She turned to smile and curtsey to a big, florid-faced man and his lady. “So good of you to come, Your Grace!” And as quickly, the smile was gone. “Tell me.”

He shrugged. “I am joining Sir Richard Bolitho’s squadron.” She put her hand to her breast again. Off guard, no longer so composed. “The Americas? The war?”

He smiled. “It is the way of sailors, madam.” She turned again as two more women rose to leave. They smiled like old friends, but one looked directly at Avery, her eyes full of a hard curiosity.

Avery asked abruptly, “And who was that? ” She closed her fingers on his arm, either ignoring or not caring for the consequences.

“That was your admiral’s wife, Lady Bolitho. Did you not know?”

Avery shook his head. “This is not my world.” He glanced at the door. “I have things to attend to, my lady. I did not mean to disturb you. That was not my intention.” He saw the sudden doubt in her eyes.

“Do you have a carriage?”

“I can easily obtain one. I am going to Chelsea.” 58

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Somebody called out to her but she did not appear to hear.

She said, “My carriage can take you there, and in more comfort.” She gripped his arm more tightly. “Please.” No further pretence.

“Please stay.”

“I think we owe Lady Mildmay a debt of gratitude for her charming hospitality, and the dedication with which she has always carried out her work on behalf of those less fortunate.” She bowed low, her smile confident. The shadow between her breasts made a lie of her composure.

As she straightened again, she looked directly into his eyes.

“George . . . please, go tomorrow.” It was madness. But there was the other madness, which they had all shared, the thunder of the great guns, the screams and the horror of battle. How could he explain, how extricate himself from this? But she had already vanished among the remaining guests.

Avery made his way through the house until he found the garden, which was already in twilight.

Madness, then. So be it.

The carriage had stopped at the crest of a slight rise, the horses stamping on the rough road, untroubled by the keen morning air.

Bolitho turned toward her, holding her hand beneath her heavy cloak, wondering how time could pass so swiftly and without mercy.

“We are almost there, Kate.”

“I know. I remember.”

They could have driven all the way from Falmouth without stopping, but had stayed the night at an inn outside Liskeard.

Bolitho had been very aware of the danger of missing his ship because of a late arrival, or some accident on the road: that the tide waited for no man had been impressed upon him since he had first gone to sea at the age of twelve, or perhaps even earlier, CROSS OF S T GEORGE

as a child listening to his father and the local men who lived on and from the sea. Nor would he have Catherine travelling so far without some brief respite.

They had left the Turk’s Head early; neither of them wanted breakfast. Even in such a small place there had been no escape from his own notoriety. People had been waiting outside the inn, and had waved and called to them, wishing them luck and happiness. Catherine had responded as she always did, although their kindness must have broken her heart. It was not next week or the week after. It was today.

The other members of his “little crew” would already be aboard: Avery, more withdrawn than usual after his sojourn in London; Yovell with his books and his Bible, untroubled as always; Ozzard, who gave nothing away; and, of course, Allday. Allday was genuinely sorry to be leaving his wife and child, but there was something more to it, pride, or a certain satisfaction because he was still needed, and had returned to what he considered his proper role in life.

He had talked with Catherine throughout the night. The ship, Royal Enterprise, was a fleet transport, faster than most merchant vessels, and used to carrying important passengers to any destination so ordered by Their Lordships. The voyage should take three weeks to a month, weather permitting: the masters of such transports were highly experienced, making the best use of prevailing winds for an untroubled passage. So there might be a hint of early spring in Cornwall by the time he rehoisted his flag above Indomitable in Halifax.

At least he would have James Tyacke, as well as Adam and Keen to sustain him. What would she have?

He had told her about Belinda and her need for more money.

Catherine had known, or guessed.

She had exclaimed, “Need? Self-indulgence, more likely! I’ll not have that woman troubling you, Richard.” 60

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When the inn had fallen quiet for the night they had held one another and talked, until desperate passion had brought them together for the last time.

They heard Matthew speaking softly with Ferguson. Ferguson had insisted on accompanying them, and would escort Catherine back to Falmouth rather than entrust her to the protection of a paid guard. He and Matthew had remained in the inn parlour yarning and drinking until they had eventually retired, Ferguson to one of the rooms, Matthew to sleep with his horses as he always did on the road.

Catherine twisted round to look at him again. “Remember, I am always with you. I shall write often, to let you know how it looks in Falmouth, at our house.” She touched the lock of hair above his right eye; it was almost white now, and she knew he hated it. She thought the savage scar beneath it must be the cause; the rest of his hair was as black as it had been on the day she had first seen him.

She murmured, “So proud, Richard.” She lowered her head and her fist struck the seat. “I will not weep. We have gone through so much, and we are so lucky. I will not weep.” They had decided that they should part before he joined the ship: so different from that other time when she had climbed Indomitable’s side and been cheered by Tyacke’s sailors, many of whom had since died in that last fight with Beer’s Unity.

But now that the time had come, it was hard to contemplate leaving her.

Reading his thoughts, she said suddenly, “May we get out, Richard, just for a few minutes?”

They climbed down and he took her arm as her cloak billowed out in the wind. Bolitho did not need any gauge: he knew the feel of it. A sailor’s wind. The Royal Enterprise would be tugging at her cable, eager to go. He had known it all his life, though rarely as a passenger.

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And there, like a dark, twisting snake, was the Hamoaze, and beyond it, misty in the damp air, Plymouth and the Sound.

She said quietly, “The hills of Devon, Richard. How well I know these places, because of you.”

“We have done and shared so much.”

She put her fingers on his mouth. “Just love me, Richard. Say that you will always love me.”

They walked back to the carriage where Matthew stood by the horses, and Ferguson, shapeless in a big coachman’s caped coat, sat in silence, sharing it, as he had so many times.

The door closed and they were moving again. Downhill now, with more people about, some of whom pointed at the crest on the coach, and cheered without knowing if it was occupied or empty.

Houses next, a stableyard he remembered from his time as a junior lieutenant. He held her and looked at her, knowing what it was costing, for both of them. She was beautiful, despite the shadows beneath her eyes, as he always saw her when they were separated by the ocean.

She was saying, “I shall keep very busy, Richard. I shall help Bryan, and I will visit Nancy more often. I know she frets over Lewis. He will heed nothing the doctors tell him.” Matthew called, “We’re here, Sir Richard.” She clung to his arm. “I shall walk with you to the jetty. They may not have sent a boat yet. I can keep you company.” He touched her face, her hair. “The boat will be there. I am an admiral. Remember?”

She laughed. “And you once forgot to tell me!” He embraced her. Neither moved. There was no baggage: it had been sent ahead. All he had to do was get out, and walk through the gate and to the jetty. It was so simple. That was probably what they had told themselves on the way to the guil-lotine . . .

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He opened the door. “Please stay here, Kate.” He held her again, and she leaned over and kissed him. Then he stepped back and stared at the others. “Take good care of her.” He could barely see them. “For me.”

Matthew grinned. “None better, sir!” But there was no smile in his eyes.

Ferguson was down on the road. He said, “God speed, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho stood quite still; afterwards, he thought it had been as if their spirits had joined.

Then he turned on his heel and walked through the gates.

She watched, her eyes smarting, afraid to miss the moment when he would look back. He had been right: they were waiting.

Uniforms blue and scarlet; formal, austere voices. Respect for her man, an admiral of England.

But he did turn, then very slowly raised his hat and bowed to her. When she looked again, he was gone.

She waited for Ferguson to climb into the carriage, and said,

“Tell Matthew to drive back along the same road.” Ferguson replied, “The ship’ll stand well out before she changes tack, m’lady. We’ll not be able to see anything.” She sat back in the seat. “I shall see him.” She looked at the passing cottages. “And he will know it.” 4 C aptains

AS EIGHT BELLS chimed out from the forecastle belfry, Captain James Tyacke climbed through the companion and onto the broad quarterdeck. The air, like everything else, was wet, clinging, and cold, and the ship seemed hemmed in by an unmoving curtain of fog. He gripped his hands tightly behind his back and listened to CROSS OF S T GEORGE

the staccato beat of hammers, and the occasional squeak of blocks as some item of rigging was hauled aloft to the upper yards. When he looked up, it was uncanny: the topmasts and topgallant spars were completely cut off by the fog, as if the frigate Indomitable had been dismasted in some phantom engagement.

He shivered, hating the climate, too used perhaps to the African sun and the south’s clear blue horizons.

He stopped by the empty hammock nettings and peered down at the water alongside. Lighters were moored there, and other boats were pulling this way and that like water-beetles, vanishing and reappearing suddenly in the mist.

This was Halifax, Nova Scotia. A busy and vital seaport, and a pleasant-looking town, from the little he had seen of it. He touched the nettings, like cold metal on this dismal day. But not for long, he told himself. Very soon this work would be completed, which, considering the winter’s bitter weather and the needs of all the other men-of-war sheltering here, was a record of which to be proud. Six months had passed since they had entered harbour after the savage battle with the two American frigates. The largest prize, Unity, had already left for England, and would be receiving all the attention she required. She had been so badly mauled that he doubted she would have survived the long Atlantic crossing if her pumps had not been kept going throughout every watch.

He gritted his teeth to prevent them from chattering. Some captains would have donned a thick boat-cloak to keep out the cold. James Tyacke did not entertain the idea. Indomitable ’s company had to work as best they could in their usual clothing, and he did not believe that he should take advantage of his rank.

It was not some facile act to impress the men. It was merely Tyacke’s way.

Like the empty nettings. Ordinarily, when the hands were piped to show a leg and make ready for another working day in 64

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harbour, the hammocks were neatly stowed there, and kept in the nettings during the day: when the ship was called to battle they offered the only protection from flying splinters for the helmsmen and officers on the quarterdeck. But life was hard enough in a King’s ship, Tyacke thought, and here, when the only heating throughout Indomitable’s impressive one hundred and eighty feet was the galley stove, wet hammocks at the end of the day would have made things even more uncomfortable.

Figures loomed and faded in the mist, officers waiting to ask him questions, others wanting final instructions before they were pulled ashore to collect the quantities of stores and supplies required by this ship-of-war. My ship. But the satisfaction would not come, and the pride he occasionally allowed himself to feel kept its distance.

It was March, 1813. He stared along the deck. It was impossible to believe that next month he would have been in command of Indomitable for two whole years. What next? Where bound, and to what end? Indomitable was more powerful than most of her class. Built as a third-rate, a ship of the line, she had been cut down to perform the role of a heavily-armed frigate, and as she had proved in September when she had stood alongside the USS Unity, she was more than a match for the superior American firepower with her forty 24-pounders and four 18-pounders, as well as the other weapons she carried.

Surrounded by busy seamen whom he could barely see, Tyacke continued his walk, his forenoon solitude respected. He smiled briefly. It had not been easy, but he had welded them into one company. They had cursed him, feared him, hated him, but that was in the past.

The lessons had been learned. He looked down at the wet deck planking. They had paid for it, too. When the mist cleared as Isaac York, the sailing-master, had claimed it would, the repairs and replaced planks and timbers would be visible despite the CROSS OF S T GEORGE

caulking and the tar, the fresh paint and the varnish. Men had died aplenty that day in September. Matthew Scarlett, the first lieutenant, impaled on a boarding-pike, his last scream lost in the yells and the fury, the clash of steel and the crash of gunfire.

Ships fighting, men dying, many of whom had probably already been forgotten by those who had once known them. And just there . . . he glanced at a newly painted shot-garland, Midshipman Deane, hardly more than a child, had been pulped into nothing by one of Unity’s massive balls. And all the while the admiral and his tall flag lieutenant had walked the scarred deck, allowing themselves to be seen by the men who, because of press-gang or patriotism, were fighting for their lives, for the ship. He smiled again. And, of course, for their captain, although he would never regard it in that light.

Tyacke had always hated the thought of serving in a major war vessel, let alone one that wore an admiral’s flag. Bolitho had changed that. And strangely, in his absence, without the admiral’s flag at the mainmast truck, Tyacke felt no sense of independence or freedom. Being forced to remain in harbour undergoing repairs while they awaited orders had merely increased his feeling of confinement. Tyacke loved the open sea: more than most, he needed it. He touched the right side of his face and saw it in his mind as he did when he shaved every morning. Scored away, burned, like something inhuman. How his eye had survived was a mystery.

He thought again of those who had fallen here, not least the one-legged cook named Troughton. He could recall the moment when he had assumed command of Indomitable, his stomach knot-ted with nerves as he had prepared to read himself in to the assembled company. He had forced himself to accept the stares and the pity in his previous command, the brig Larne. Small, intimate, with every hand dependent on the others, she had been his life. Bolitho himself had once referred to her as the loneliest 66

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command imaginable. He had understood that solitude was what Tyacke needed more than anything.

He had known that first day aboard Indomitable that those who had waited in the silence for him were undoubtedly more worried about their new captain’s character than his disfigurement: he was, after all, the lord and master who could make or break any one of them as he chose. It had not made his ordeal easier, starting again under the eyes of strangers, in what had seemed a vast ship after Larne. A company of two hundred seventy officers, seamen and Royal Marines: a world of difference.

One man had made it possible for him: Troughton.

Indomitable’s company had watched in disbelief as their new and hideously scarred captain had embraced the man, who had been crippled by the same broadside that had burst in on Tyacke’s yelling, sweating gun crews, at what they now called the Battle of the Nile. Troughton had been a young seaman then. Tyacke had always believed him dead, as most of those around him had died when his world had exploded, and left him as he was now.

Now even Troughton was gone. Tyacke had not known until two days after the fight with the Americans. He did not even know where he had come from, or if there was anyone to mourn him.

He felt a slight movement against his cheek, the wind returning. York might be proved right yet again. He was fortunate to have such a sailing-master: York had served as master’s mate in this ship, and had won promotion in the only way Tyacke truly respected, through skill and experience.

So the fog would clear, and they would see the harbour once more, the ships and the town, and the well-sited central battery that would repulse any attempt, even by the most foolhardy commander, to cut out an anchored merchantman or some of the American prizes which had been brought here.

Forlorn, and in much the same condition as she had been after CROSS OF S T GEORGE

the battle, the American frigate Baltimore was beyond recovery.

Perhaps she would be used as a hulk or stores vessel. But isolated and partly aground as she was now, she was a constant reminder of the day when America’s superior frigates had been challenged and beaten.

Sir Richard Bolitho would be back soon. Tyacke hesitated in his regular pacing. Suppose he was directed elsewhere? The Admiralty was never averse to changing its collective mind. In despatches brought by the last courier brig Tyacke had been warned of Valentine Keen’s impending arrival in Halifax: he would hoist his flag in Valkyrie, another converted two-decker like Indomitable, with Adam Bolitho as his flag captain. It was still hard to fathom why he would want to come back to these waters.

Tyacke was acquainted with Keen, and had attended his wedding, but he did not consider that he knew him as a man. This would be his first command as a flag officer: he might be out for glory.

And he had recently lost both wife and child. Tyacke touched his burned face again. It could scar a man more deeply than others might realize.

He saw a guard-boat pulling abeam, the armed marines straightening their backs in the sternsheets as Indomitable took shape above them through the thinning fog.

He returned his mind to the Valkyrie, still invisible in the misty harbour. Peter Dawes was her present captain, and acting-commodore until Keen’s arrival: he was a post-captain, young, approachable, competent. But there were limits. Dawes was an admiral’s son, and it was rumoured that he would be raised to flag rank as soon as he was replaced here. Tyacke had always nursed doubts about him, and had told Bolitho openly that Dawes might prove reluctant to risk his reputation and the prospect of promotion when they most needed his support. It was all written in the log now: history. They had fought and won on that terrible day. Tyacke could recall his own fury and despair: he had 68

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picked up a discarded boarding-axe and had smashed it into one of Unity’s ladders. His own words still came in the night to mock him. And for what?

He knew Bolitho had warned others about the difference.

This was not a foreign enemy, no matter what the flags proclaimed. Not French, or Dutchman, or Spaniard, the old and familiar adversaries. You heard the same voices as your own from these settlers in the new world, who were fighting for what they considered their freedom. Accents from the West Country and the Downs, from Norfolk and Scotland: it was like fighting your own flesh and blood. That was the vital difference in this war.

On one of his visits to Valkyrie Tyacke had aired his views on Bolitho’s recall to London. He had not minced his words. Senseless, he had called it. Bolitho was needed here, to lead, and to exploit their hard-won victory.

He had paced the big cabin while Dawes had sat at his table, an expensive glass held in one hand. Amused? Indifferent?

Tyacke had added, “The weather will ease soon. The Yankees will need to move. If they can’t win by sea, they’ll press on by land. They’ll be able to bring artillery right up to the Canadian frontier.”

Dawes had shaken his head. “I think not. Some kind of settlement will be negotiated. You really should give Their Lordships more credit, both for what they are and what they know.” Tyacke had barely heard him. “Our soldiers captured Detroit with the whole Yankee army defending it. Do you really think they’ll not use every means to retake it, and give our soldiers a bloody nose for their trouble?”

Dawes had been suddenly impatient. “There are great lakes to cross, rivers to navigate, forts to breach before they can do that.

Do you imagine that our American cousins, the ‘Yankees’ as you so colourfully call them, will not measure the cost of such foolhardy action?”

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Beyond discussing an invitation to the local army commander-in-chief ’s Christmas reception, which Tyacke had declined to attend, they had scarcely spoken since.

Becoming an admiral was more important to Dawes than anything, and it was beginning to look as if doing nothing and keeping the main part of the squadron tied up in Halifax was far more attractive than behaving with any initiative that might rebound on him personally, and be seen as folly or worse.

Tyacke began to pace again. Out there, like it or not, there were enemy ships, and they were a constant threat. Dawes had only permitted local patrols, and then had detached nothing larger than a brig, claiming that Adam Bolitho’s escape and vengeful attack in Zest, and Bolitho’s personal victory would have made the Americans think again before attempting once more to harass convoys between Halifax and the West Indies. Napoleon was on the retreat: the despatches were full of it. Tyacke swore angrily.

He had been hearing that same story for so many years, from the time when Napoleon had landed his army in Egypt, and French fire had burned his face away.

It was all the more reason for the Americans to act now, and without further delay, while British forces and a whole fleet that could otherwise be released for these waters were concentrated on the old enemy, France.

And when peace came, that impossible dream, what would he do? There was nothing in England for him. He had felt like a stranger on his last visit, when he had been given Indomitable.

Africa, then? He had been happy there. Or was that only another delusion?

He saw the first lieutenant, John Daubeny, waiting to catch his eye. Tyacke had toyed with the idea of accepting a more senior officer to replace Scarlett. Daubeny, like most of the wardroom, was young, perhaps too young for the post of senior lieutenant.

Dawes had suggested that one of his own lieutenants be appointed.

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Tyacke grinned fiercely. That must have decided it. In any case, Daubeny had matured on that September day, like most of them.

It was the navy’s way. A man died or was transferred: another took his place. Like dead men’s shoes after a hanging. Even the pompous Midshipman Blythe, who had been confirmed lieutenant and was now the most junior officer aboard, had proved both efficient and attentive to detail, to Tyacke’s surprise, and his own division of seamen, who had known his arrogance as a midshipman, had shown him a grudging respect. They would never like him, but it was a beginning, and Tyacke was satisfied.

“Yes, Mr Daubeny?”

Daubeny touched his hat. “We shall complete stowage today, sir.”

Tyacke grunted, picturing his ship at a distance, her trim in the water, gauging the feel of her.

He said, “Tell my cox’n to prepare the gig when it’s time. I’ll go around her once more. We might still have to move some of that extra powder and shot further aft.” He was not aware of the pride that had crept into his voice. “This lady will want to fly when she finds open water again!”

Daubeny had noticed. He knew he would never be close to the captain: Tyacke kept his emotional distance, as if he were afraid to reveal his true feelings. Only with Sir Richard Bolitho had Daubeny ever seen him change, had sensed the warmth, the unspoken understanding and obvious respect of each for the other.

He recalled them together, here, on this same untroubled deck.

It was hard to believe that it had happened, that such chilling sights were possible. His inner voice spoke for him. That I survived.

He said, “I shall be glad to see Sir Richard’s flag hoisted again, sir.”

He did not even flinch when Tyacke faced him, as he had once CROSS OF S T GEORGE

done. How much worse it must be for him, he thought. The stares, the revulsion, and yes, the disapproval.

Tyacke smiled. “You speak for us both, Mr Daubeny!” He turned away as York, the sailing-master, emerged from the companion, without a glance at the receding fog.

“You were right, Mr York! You have brought better weather for us!” Then he held up his hand and said sharply, “Listen!” The hammering and the muted thuds between decks had stopped.

Only six months since that last ball had smashed into the car-nage of broken men. They had done well.

York studied him gravely. So many times in the last two years he had watched the captain’s moods, his anguish and his defiance.

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