He had once heard Tyacke say of Sir Richard Bolitho, “I would serve no other.” He could have said the same himself, of this brave, lonely man.

He said, “Then we’re ready, sir!”

Daubeny was listening, sharing it. At first he had thought he would be unable to fill Lieutenant Scarlett’s shoes after he had fallen. He had even been afraid. That was yesterday. Now Scarlett was just another ghost, without substance or threat.

He stared up at the furled sails, moisture pouring from them like tropical rain. Like the ship, the Old Indom as the sailors called her, he was ready.

Three weeks outward-bound from Portsmouth, Hampshire, to Halifax, Nova Scotia, His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Wakeful was within days of her landfall. Even Adam Bolitho, with all his hard-won experience as a frigate captain, could not recall a more violent passage. February into March, with the Atlantic using every mood and trick against them.

Although it was Wakeful’s young captain’s first command, he had held it for two years, and two years in a frigate used almost 72

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exclusively for carrying vital despatches to flag officers and far-flung squadrons was equal to a lifetime in a lesser vessel.

South-west and into the teeth of the Atlantic gales, with men knocked senseless by incoming seas, or in danger of being hurled from the upper yards while they kicked and fisted half-frozen canvas that could tear out a man’s fingernails like pips from a lemon. Watchkeeping became a nightmare of noise and cruel discomfort; estimating their daily progress, unable even to stream the log, was based on dead reckoning, or, as the sailing-master put it, by guess and by God.

For the passengers down aft, it was uncomfortable but strangely detached from the rest of the ship and her weary company, piped again and again to the braces or aloft to reef the sails when they had only just been given a moment’s rest in their messes. Simply trying to carry hot food from the swaying, pitching galley was a test of skill.

Sealed off from the life of the ship, and her daily fight against the common enemy, Adam and his new flag officer remained curiously apart. Keen spent most of his time reading his lengthy instructions from the Admiralty, or making notes as he studied various charts beneath the wildly spiralling lanterns. They burned day and night: little light penetrated the stern windows, which were either streaming with spume from a following gale, or so smeared with salt that even the rearing waves were distorted into wild and threatening creatures.

Adam could appreciate all of it. Had Wakeful been an ordinary fleet frigate she would likely have been short-handed, or at best manned by unskilled newcomers, snatched up by the press or offered for duty by the local assize court. This required trained seamen, who had worked together long enough to know the strength of their ship and the value of their captain. He had thought often enough, as Anemone had been.

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had made it his business to visit them. No wonder he had not hesitated to offer his own quarters for their use: Hyde spent as many, if not more, hours on deck than any of his men.

Whenever possible Adam had sat with Keen in the cabin, and had washed down the wardroom fare with a plentiful supply of wine. To expect anything hot to drink was out of the question.

The wine, however, had added no intimacy to their conversations.

Hyde must have noticed that Keen had made no impossible demands, and had not once complained of discomfort, nor had he requested a change of tack to seek out calmer waters even at the expense of losing time. It was obviously something which had surprised Hyde, in spite of Adam’s first description of the admiral.

On one rare occasion when Hyde had given up the fight, and Wakeful had lain hove-to under storm canvas waiting for the weather to ease, Keen had seemed willing to share his confidences. Afterwards, Adam thought it might have been easier for both of them if they had been total strangers.

Keen had said, “I cannot tell you how pleased I was to have your letter of agreement to this appointment. We have known one another for a long time, and we have shared and lost many good friends.” He had hesitated, perhaps thinking of Hyperion; he had been Bolitho’s flag captain when the old ship had gone down, with her flag still flying. “We have seen fine ships destroyed.” They had listened to the wind, and the sea hissing against the stern windows like a cave of serpents. “The sea is no less a tyrant than war, I sometimes think.”

He had seemed to want to talk, and Adam had found himself studying his companion with new eyes. When Keen had been piped aboard at Portsmouth with full honours, and the port admiral to welcome him in person, Adam had felt the old hurt and resentment. Keen had worn no mark of mourning, either then or since. Nor had he mentioned Zenoria, other than to acknowledge 74

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the port admiral’s meaningless murmurs of condolence.

Keen had said, “When I was your uncle’s flag captain, even though I had known him since I was a lowly midshipman, I was uncertain of the measure of confidence between us. Perhaps I did not understand the true difference between the position of flag captain, and a captain like our youthful Martin Hyde. Sir Richard showed me the way, without favour, and without overriding my own opinions merely to exercise the privileges of rank. It meant a great deal to me, and I hope I did not disappoint his trust.” He had smiled, rather sadly. “Or his friendship, which means so much to me, and which helped to save my mind.” He could not think of them together. Keen, always so outwardly assured, attractive to women, his hair so fair that it looked almost white against his tanned features. But . . . as lovers . . .

He was repulsed by it.

The boy John Whitmarsh, legs braced against the movement of the deck and lower lip pouting with concentration, had carried more wine to the table.

Keen had watched him, and after he had departed had said absently, “A pleasant youth. What shall you do with him?” He had not waited for, or perhaps expected, an answer. “I used to plan things for my boy, Perran. I wish I had had more time to know him.”

The table had been cleared by Whitmarsh and one of the captain’s messmen. He had said quietly, “I want you to feel you can always speak your mind to me, Adam. Admiral and captain, but most of all friends. As I was, and am, with your uncle.” He had seemed uneasy, disturbed then by some thought. “And Lady Catherine—that goes without saying.” And then, eventually, Wakeful had changed course, north-west-by-north to take full advantage of the obliging Westerlies as, close-hauled, they started on the last leg of their journey.

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Again a note of bitterness had crept into his voice. “In the way of trade, I believe.” Then, “I just want to be doing something.

Peter Dawes might have fresh information by the time we arrive.” On another occasion, when they had been free to walk the quarterdeck, and there had even been a suggestion of sunlight on the dark, rearing crests, Keen had mentioned Adam’s escape, and John Allday’s son, who had risked everything to help him, only to fall in the battle with Unity. Keen had paused to watch some gulls skimming within inches of the sea’s face, screaming a welcome. He had said, “I remember when we were together in the boat after that damned Golden Plover went down.” He had spoken with such vehemence that Adam had felt him reliving it.

“Some birds flew over the boat. We were nearly finished. But for Lady Catherine I don’t know what we would have done. I heard your uncle say to her, tonight those birds will nest in Africa. ” He had looked at Adam without seeing him. “It made all the difference. Land, I thought. We are no longer alone, without hope.” As the miles rolled away in Wakeful’s lively wake, Adam had shared few other confidences with his new rear-admiral. Others might look at him and say, there is a favoured one, who has everything. In fact, his rank was all he had.

And then, on that last full day when they had both been on deck, the air like knives in their faces.

“Have you ever thought of getting married, Adam? You should.

This life is hard on the women, but I sometimes think . . .” Mercifully, the masthead had yelled, “Deck there! Land on th’

weather bow!”

Hyde had joined them, beaming and rubbing his raw hands.

Glad it was over, more so that he was ridding himself of his extra responsibilities.

“With good fortune we shall anchor in the forenoon tomorrow, sir.” He had been looking at the rear-admiral, but his words had been for Adam. The satisfaction of making a landfall. Even 76

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the ocean had seemed calmer, until the next challenge.

Keen had walked to the quarterdeck rail, oblivious to the idlers off-watch who were chattering, some even laughing, sharing the same elation at what they had achieved. Men against the sea.

He had said, without turning his head, “You may hoist my flag at the mizzen at first light, Captain Hyde.” Then he did turn and face them. “And, thank you.” But he had been looking past them, through them, as if he had been speaking to someone else.

Hyde had asked, “May I invite you and Captain Bolitho to sup with my officers and me, sir? It is quite an occasion for us.” Adam had seen Keen’s face. Empty, like a stranger’s.

“I think not, Captain Hyde. I have some papers to study before we anchor.” He made another attempt. “My flag captain will do the honours.”

Perhaps it had been then, and only then, that the impact of his loss had really struck him.

It would have to be a new beginning, for them both.

Richard Bolitho walked across the cabin deck, and paused by the table where Yovell was melting wax to seal one of the many written orders he had copied.

“I think that will be an end to it for today.” The deck was rising again, the rudder-head thudding noisily as the transport Royal Enterprise lifted and then ploughed into another criss-cross of deep troughs. He knew Avery was watching him from the security of a chair which was lashed firmly between two ringbolts. A rough passage, even for a ship well used to such violence. It would soon be over, and still he had not reconciled himself, or confronted his doubts at the prospect of returning to a war which could never be won, but must never be lost. He was holding on, refusing to surrender, even when they were separated by an ocean.

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a flag lieutenant whose appetite is unimpaired by the Atlantic in ill temper!”

Avery smiled. He should be used to it, to the man, by now.

But he could still be surprised by the way Bolitho seemed able to put his personal preoccupations behind him, or at least conceal them from others. From me. Avery had guessed what the return to duty had cost him, but when he had stepped aboard the transport at Plymouth there had been nothing to reveal the pain of parting from his mistress after so brief a reunion.

Bolitho was watching the last of the wax dripping onto the envelope like blood before Yovell set his seal upon it. He had not spared himself, but he knew very well that by the time they reached Halifax and rejoined the squadron everything might have changed, rendering their latest intelligence useless. Time and distance were the elements that determined the war at sea. Instinct, fate, experience, it was all and none of them, and ignorance was often fatal.

Avery watched the sea dashing across the thick stern windows.

The ship had been more comfortable than he had expected, with a tough and disciplined company used to fast passages and taking avoiding action against suspicious sails instead of standing to fight. The Admiralty orders made that very clear to every such vessel and her master: they were to deliver their passengers or small, important cargoes at any cost. They were usually under-armed; the Royal Enterprise mounted only some nine-pounders and a few swivels. Speed, not glory, was her purpose.

They’d had only one mishap. The ship had been struck by a violent squall as she was about to change tack. Her fore-topgallant mast and yard had carried away, and one of her boats had been torn from its tier and flung over the side like a piece of flotsam.

The ship’s company had got down to work immediately; they were used to such hazards, but her master, a great lump of a man 78

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named Samuel Tregullon, was outraged by the incident. A Cornishman from Penzance, Tregullon was intensely proud of his ship’s record, and her ability to carry out to the letter the instructions of the men at Admiralty who, in his view, had likely never set foot on a deck in their lives. To be delayed with such an important passenger in his care, and a fellow Cornishman at that, was bad enough. But as he had confided over a tankard of rum during a visit to the cabin, another transport, almost a sister ship of his own, the Royal Herald, had left Plymouth a few days after them, and would now reach Halifax before them.

Bolitho had commented afterwards to Avery, “Another old Cornish rivalry. I’ll lay odds that neither of them can remember how it all began.”

Bolitho had asked him about London, but he had not pressed the point, for which Avery was grateful. During the long night watches when he had lain awake, listening to the roar of the sea and the protesting groan of timbers, he had thought of little else.

He had felt no sense of triumph or revenge, as he had once believed he would. Had she been amusing herself with him? Playing with him, as she had once done? Or had he imagined that, too? A woman like her, so poised, so confident amongst people who lived in an entirely different world from his own . . . Why would she risk everything if she had no deeper feeling for him?

None of the repeated questions had been answered.

He should have left her. Should never have gone to the house in the first place. He looked across at Bolitho, who was speaking warmly with Yovell, more like old friends than admiral and servant. What would he think if he knew that his wife Belinda had been there that day, obviously just as at home in that elegant and superficial world as all the others?

Yovell stood up, and grimaced as the deck swayed over again.

“Ah, they were right about me, Sir Richard. I must be mad to share the life of a sailor!”

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He gathered his papers and prepared to leave, perhaps to join Allday and Ozzard before the evening meal. Allday would be feeling the separation badly, and there would be a long wait for that first letter, which Avery knew he would bring for him to read aloud. Another precious link in the little crew: Allday was a proud man, and Avery had been touched by the simplicity and dignity of his request that Avery read to him the letters from Unis that he could not read for himself.

Would Susanna ever write to him? He wanted to laugh at his own pathetic hopes. Of course she would not. Within weeks she would have forgotten him. She had money, she had beauty, and she was free. But he would think of her again tonight . . . He had tried to compare his position with that of Bolitho and his mistress, although he knew it was ridiculous. There was no comparison. Apart from that one memory, what had happened was a closed door, the finish of something which had always been hopeless.

He looked up, startled, afraid that he had missed something or that Bolitho had spoken to him. But they were as before, framed against the grey stern windows, the sea already losing its menace as the fading light obscured it.

Bolitho turned and looked at him. “Did you hear?” Yovell steadied himself against the table. “Another storm, Sir Richard.”

“The glass says otherwise.” He tensed. “There. Again.” Yovell said, “Thunder?”

Avery was on his feet. So unlike a ship-of-war; too long at sea with nothing but the sea to challenge you. Day after day, week in, week out. And then the boredom and the noisy routine were forgotten.

He said, “Gunfire, sir.”

There was a rap on the door and Allday stepped into the cabin. He moved so lightly when he wanted to, for such a big 80

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man, and one who was in more pain from his old wound than he would ever admit.

Bolitho said, “You heard, old friend?” Allday looked at them. “I wasn’t sure, an’ then.” He shook his shaggy head. “Not a thing to lie easy on your mind, Sir Richard.” Avery asked, “Shall I go and speak with the master, sir?” Bolitho glanced at the screen door. “No. It is not our place.” He smiled at Ozzard, who had also appeared, a tray of glasses balanced in his hands. “Not yet, in any case.” Eventually Samuel Tregullon made his way aft, his battered hat clutched in one beefy hand like a scrap of felt.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, Zur Richard, but ye’ll be knowing about the guns.” He shook his head as Ozzard offered him a glass, not because he was involved with his ship but because he usually drank only neat rum. A sailor, from his clear eyes to his thick wrists and the hands that were like pieces of meat. Collier brig, Falmouth packet, one-time smuggler and now a King’s man: what Bolitho’s father would have described as all spunyarn and marline spikes.

Tregullon nodded briefly as Ozzard replaced the glass with a tankard. “Never fear, Zur Richard. I’ll get you to Halifax as I was ordered, an’ take you there I will. I can outsail any felon, theirs or ours!” He grinned, his uneven teeth like a broken fence. “I’m too old a hand to be caught aback!” After he had gone, the distant gunfire continued for half an hour and then stopped, as if quenched by the sea itself.

The master returned, grim-faced, to say that he was resuming course and tack. It was over.

Bolitho said suddenly, “Yours is an experienced company, Captain Tregullon. None better at this work, I think you said?” Tregullon eyed him suspiciously. “I did, Zur Richard. That I did.”

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have heard. At first light the sea may ease. I feel it.” Tregullon was not convinced. “I have my orders, zur. They comes from the lords of Admiralty. No matter how I feels about it, I am not able or willing to change those orders.” He tried to smile, but it evaded him. “Not even for you, zur.” Bolitho walked to the stern windows and leaned against the glass. “The lords of Admiralty, you say?” He turned, his face in shadow, the white lock of hair above his eye like a brushstroke.

“We’re all sailors here. We all know there is someone far higher who controls our lives, and listens to our despair when it pleases Him.”

Tregullon licked his lips. “I knows that, zur. But what can I do?”

Bolitho said quietly, “There are men out there, Captain Tregullon. In need, and likely in fear. It may already be too late, and I am well aware of the risk to your ship. To you and your company.”

“Not least to you, zur!” But there was no fight in his voice.

He sighed. “Very well. I’ll do it.” He looked up angrily. “Not for you, with all respect, zur, an’ not for His Majesty, bless his soul.” He stared at his crumpled hat. “For me. It has to be so.” Bolitho and Avery ate their meal in silence: the whole ship seemed to be holding her breath. Only the creak of the rudder and the occasional thud of feet overhead gave any hint that everything had changed.

At first light, as Bolitho had expected, the wind and sea eased; and with every available telescope and lookout searching for the presence of danger Tregullon shortened sail, and, arms folded, watched the darkness falling away and the sea eventually tinge with silver to mark each trough and roller.

Avery joined Bolitho on the broad quarterdeck, where he was standing in silence by the weather side, his black hair blowing unheeded in the bitter air. Once or twice Avery saw him touch 82

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his injured eye, impatient, even resentful that his concentration was interrupted.

Captain Tregullon joined him, and said gruffly, “We tried, Zur Richard. If there was anything, we were too late.” He watched Bolitho’s profile, seeking something. “I’d best lay her on a new tack.”

He was about to shamble away when the cry came down, sharp and crisp, like the call of a hawk.

“Wreckage in th’ water, sir! Lee bow!” There was a lot of it. Planks and timber, drifting cordage and broken or upended boats, most of it charred and splintered by the fierceness of the bombardment.

Bolitho waited while the ship came into the wind, and a boat was lowered with one of the master’s mates in charge.

There were a few dead, lolling as if asleep as the waves carried them by. The boat moved slowly amongst them, the bowman pulling each sodden corpse alongside with his hook and then quickly discarding it, unwilling, it seemed, to interrupt such a final journey.

Except for one. The master’s mate took some time with it, and even without a glass Avery could see the dead face, the gaping wounds, all that was left of a man.

The boat returned and was hoisted inboard with a minimum of fuss. Avery heard the master pass his orders for getting under way again. Heavy, unhurried: the ship, as always, coming first.

Then he came aft and waited for Bolitho to face him. “My mate knew that dead sailor, Zur Richard. I expect we knew most of ’em.”

Bolitho said, “She was the Royal Herald, was she not?”

“She was, zur. Because of our losing the t’gallant mast she overreached us. They was waiting. They knew we was coming.” Then he said in a hoarse whisper, “It was you they was after, Zur Richard. They wanted you dead.”

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Bolitho touched his thick arm. “So it would seem. Instead, many good men died.”

Then he turned and looked at Avery, and beyond him, Allday. “We thought we had left the war behind, my friends. Now it has come to meet us.”

There was no anger or bitterness, only sorrow. The respite was over.

5 a F ace in the crowd

BOLITHO put down the empty cup and walked slowly to the tall stern window. Around and above him, Indomitable’s hull seemed to tremble with constant movement and purpose, so unlike the transport Royal Enterprise, which he had left the previous afternoon. He peered through the thick glass and saw her lying at anchor, his practised eye taking in the movement of seamen on her yards and in her upper rigging, while others hoisted fresh stores from a lighter alongside. Royal Enterprise would soon be off again on her next mission, with her master still brooding over the brutal destruction of the other transport which had been so well known to him and his people, and less confident now that speed was all that was required to protect them from a determined enemy.

It was halfway through the forenoon, and Bolitho had been working since first light. He had been surprised and touched by the warmth of his reception. Tyacke had come in person to collect him from Royal Enterprise, his eyes full of questions when Tregullon had mentioned the attack.

He glanced now around the cabin, which was so familiar in spite of his absence in England. Tyacke had done some fine work to get his ship repaired and ready for sea, for even in harbour the 84

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weather did not encourage such activities. But now there was a little weak sunlight to give an illusion of warmth. He touched the glass. It was an illusion.

He should be used to it. Even so, the transformation was a tribute to Indomitable’s captain. Even here in his cabin, these guns had roared defiance: now each one was lashed snugly behind sealed ports, trucks painted, barrels unmarked by fire and smoke.

He looked at the empty cup. The coffee was excellent, and he wondered how long his stock would last. He could imagine her going to that shop in St James’s Street, Number Three, part of the new world she had opened to him. Coffee, wine, so many small luxuries, which she had known he would not have bothered to obtain for himself, nor would anyone else.

Keen would be coming aboard in an hour or so: he had sent word that he would be detained by a visit from some local military commander who wanted to discuss the improved defences and shore batteries. A casual glance at any map or chart would show the sense of that. Halifax was the only real naval base left to them on the Atlantic coast. The Americans had their pick, Boston, New York, Philadelphia, as well as scores of bays and estuaries where they could conceal an armada if they so desired.

He wondered how Adam was finding his appointment as flag captain. After the freedom of a solitary command, it might be just what he needed. Conversely, it might remain only a cruel reminder of what might have been.

He closed the canvas folder he had been studying, and considered Keen’s report. A convoy of five merchantmen had been ordered to await a stronger escort off the Bermudas for their final passage to the West Indies. Until then, two brigs had been the only vessels Dawes had spared to defend them.

The convoy had never reached the Bermudas. Every ship must have been taken, or sunk.

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the matter. The disaster had happened a few days after he had hoisted his flag in Valkyrie; there was nothing he could have done.

But what of Dawes, acting-commodore until Keen’s arrival? Perhaps he had had his own reasons for allowing merchantmen to venture unprotected into an area which had become a hunting ground for enemy men-of-war and privateers alike.

He had consulted Tyacke, and Tyacke had not hesitated.

“Thinking too much of keeping his house in good order. I’m told that promotion can sometimes do that to a man.” Hard and blunt, like himself. Tyacke had even been scornful about his two new epaulettes. He had been promoted to post-captain, for rank only, the usual requirement of three years’ service as captain having been waived as a mark of favour. “I’m still the same man, Sir Richard. I think Their Lordships have a different set of values!” He had relented slightly. “But I know your hand was in it, and that I do respect.”

Yes, it had surprised Bolitho that his return had, after all, been like a homecoming. And, despite what he hoped for, it was here that he belonged.

He had described the attack on Royal Herald and had watched Tyacke’s scarred face, thoughtful, assessing each small piece of information and relating it to what he knew.

A prolonged bombardment, to catch and destroy the transport before she could find refuge in darkness. No one had heard the sound of a single shot fired in reply, not even a gesture or a final show of defiance. Nothing. It had been calculated murder. Had it been a trap set for Royal Enterprise? For him? Was it possible that a single mind had planned it so carefully, only to see it mis-fire through a fluke in the weather and an accident?

He had searched through every report Keen had gathered for him, knowing that they would be the first thing his admiral would want to see. Unless another man like Nathan Beer was abroad and at sea, unknown and undetected by the local patrols, which 86

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had been ordered to watch for any sudden ship movements, his theory seemed unlikely. But, so too was coincidence.

They wanted you dead.

Not another Nathan Beer, then. Perhaps there was no such officer with his wealth of experience and sense of honour. Beer had been a sailor first and foremost: to kill defenceless men, unable to resist, had never been his way. He wondered if his widow in Newburyport had received Beer’s sword, which Bolitho himself had sent to her. Would she care? He found himself staring at the old family sword lying on its rack, where it received Allday’s regular attention. Would that help Catherine, if the worst happened? He thought of the portrait she had commissioned for him. The real Catherine, she had called it. The painter had caught her exactly as she had wanted to be remembered, in the rough seaman’s clothing she had worn in the open boat. Perhaps she would cherish the old sword . . .

The door opened slightly, shaking him from his unwelcome thoughts, and Avery peered into the cabin. The brief stay in England had affected him deeply, Bolitho thought. He had always been withdrawn: now he had become remote, troubled and introspective. Bolitho had too much respect for George Avery to pry into it, and they had shared danger too often not to know that this unspoken understanding of one another was an anchor for them both.

Avery said, “Signal from Valkyrie, Sir Richard. Rear-Admiral Keen is about to come over to us.”

“Tell Captain Tyacke, will you?”

Avery said gently, “He knows.”

Bolitho reached for his heavy uniform coat. Irrationally, he disliked wearing it when he was working in his quarters, perhaps because he sometimes believed that it influenced his decisions, and made him think more like an admiral than a man.

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happening in his ship. Maybe that was how he had overcome his resentment, fear, even, of taking command or becoming flag captain after the private world of Larne. The purser, James Viney, had been discharged as sick and unfit for further service at sea, and Bolitho suspected that Tyacke had guessed from the outset that Viney had been falsifying his accounts in connivance with equally dishonest chandlers. It was a common enough failing, but some captains were content to let it rest. Not James Tyacke.

He allowed his mind to stray again to the attack. Suppose it had been solely to kill him? He found that he could accept it, but the motive was something else. No single man could make so much difference. Nelson had been the only one to win an overwhelming victory by inspiration alone after he himself had fallen, mortally wounded.

Avery said abruptly, “I meant to tell you, Sir Richard.” He glanced round, caught off-guard by the tramp of boots as the Royal Marines prepared to receive their visitor with full honours.

“It can wait.”

Bolitho sat on the corner of the table. “I think it will not. It has been tearing you to pieces. Good or bad, a confidence often helps to share the load.”

Avery shrugged. “I was at a reception in London.” He tried to smile. “I was like a fish out of water.” The smile would not come. “Your . . . Lady Bolitho was there. We did not speak, of course. She would not know me.”

So that was it. Unwilling to mention it because it might disturb me. He found himself speculating on the reason for Avery’s attendance.

“I would not be too certain of that, but thank you for telling me. It took courage, I think.” He picked up his hat as he heard hurrying footsteps beyond the screen door. “Especially as your admiral’s mood has been far from pleasant of late!” It was the first lieutenant, very stiff and uneasy in his new role.

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“The captain’s respects, Sir Richard.” His eyes moved swiftly around the spacious cabin, seeing it quite differently from either of them, Avery imagined.

Bolitho smiled. “Speak, Mr Daubeny. We are all agog.” The lieutenant grinned nervously. “Rear-Admiral Keen’s barge has cast off, sir.”

“We will come up directly.”

As the door closed Bolitho asked, “Then there was no attempt to involve you in scandal?”

“I would not have stood for it, Sir Richard.” In spite of the deep lines on his face and the streaks of grey in his dark hair, he looked and sounded very vulnerable, like a much younger man.

Ozzard opened the door and they walked past him.

At the foot of the companion ladder, Bolitho paused and glanced at his flag lieutenant again with sudden intuition. Or a man who was suddenly in love, and did not know what to do about it.

When he crossed the damp quarterdeck he saw Tyacke waiting for him.

“A very smart turn-out, Captain Tyacke.” The harsh, scarred face did not smile.

“I shall pass the word to the side party, Sir Richard.” Avery listened, missing nothing, thinking of the reception, the daring gowns, the arrogance. What did they know of men like these? Tyacke, with his melted face, and the courage to endure the stares, the pity and the revulsion. Or Sir Richard, who had knelt on this bloodied deck to hold the dying hand of an American captain.

How could they know?

The boatswain’s mates moistened their silver calls on their lips, side-boys waited to fend off the smart green barge, the twin lines of scarlet marines swayed slightly on the harbour current.

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It is my life. There is nothing more I want.

“Royal Marines! Present . . . ! ” The rest was lost in the din.

Again, they were of one company.

After the long day, and the comings and goings of officers and local officials paying their respects to the admiral, and the degrees of ceremony and respect that applied to each one of them, Indomitable seemed quiet, and at peace. All hands had been piped down for the night, and only the watchkeepers and the scarlet-coated sentries moved on the upper decks.

Right aft in his cabin, Bolitho watched the stars, which seemed to reflect and mingle with the glittering lights of the town. Here and there a small lantern moved on the dark water: a guard-boat or some messenger, or even a fisherman.

The day had been tiring. Adam and Valentine Keen had arrived together, and he had been aware of the momentary uneasiness when they had been reunited with Tyacke and Avery. Keen had brought his new flag lieutenant as well, the Honourable Lawford de Courcey, a slim young man with hair almost as fair as his admiral’s. Highly recommended, Keen had said, and intelligent and eager. Ambitious, too, from the little he had said; the scion of an influential family, but not a naval one. Keen had seemed pleased about it, but Bolitho had wondered if the appointment had been arranged by one of the many friends of Keen’s father.

Adam had greeted him warmly, although reserved in front of the others, and Bolitho had sensed the depression he was trying to conceal. Keen, on the other hand, had been very concerned with the war, and what they might expect when the weather mod-erated. For the destruction of the Royal Herald he could offer no explanation. Most of the active American ships were in harbour, their presence carefully monitored by a chain of brigs and other, smaller commandeered vessels. Each of the latter might offer a fine chance of promotion to any young lieutenant if fortune smiled 90

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on him: such a chance had once come to Bolitho. He touched his eye, and frowned. It seemed an eternity ago.

He had walked around Indomitable with Tyacke, as much to be seen as to inspect the full extent of the overhaul. In her struggle with Unity, Tyacke’s command had lost seventy officers, seamen and marines killed or wounded, a quarter of her company.

Replacements had been found, taken from homeward-bound ships, and a surprising number of volunteers, Nova Scotians who had earned their living from the sea before marauding warships and privateers had denied them even that.

They would settle into Indomitable’s ways; but not until they were at sea, as close-knit as her original company used to be, would they know their true value.

Bolitho had seen the startled, curious eyes, those who had never met the man whose flag flew above all of them at the mainmast truck. And some of the older hands who had knuckled their foreheads, or raised a tarred fist in greeting to show that they knew the admiral, had shared the battle and its cost with him, until the enemy’s flag had been dragged down through the smoke.

His total command had been christened the Leeward Squadron by Bethune, and Their Lordships had been more generous than he had dared to hope, giving him eight frigates and as many brigs. That did not include the heavily-armed Valkyrie, and Indomitable. In addition there were schooners, some brigantines, and two bomb vessels, the request for which the Admiralty had not even questioned. A strong, fast-moving squadron, and it would be joined by the old 74-gun ship of the line Redoubtable, which had been ordered to Antigua. With suitable intelligence gathered by the smaller patrol vessels on their endless stop-and-search missions, they should be a match for any new enemy tactics.

The larger and better-armed American frigates had already proved their superiority, until Unity had met up with this ship. And even then . . . But there was still something missing. He paced back CROSS OF S T GEORGE

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and forth across the black and white squares of the canvas deck covering, his hair almost touching the massive beams. Royal Herald had been destroyed, so a ship or ships had avoided the patrols, and perhaps slipped out of harbour, taking advantage of the foul weather. It was pointless to brush it aside, or regard it as a coincidence. And if it had been a deliberate ambush gone wrong, what steps must he take? Very soon now, the Americans would have to launch a new attack. Tyacke had been convinced that it would be a military operation, straight into Canada. Once again, all the reports suggested that any such attack could be contained. The British soldiers were from seasoned regiments, but Bolitho knew from bitter experience in that other American war that often too much reliance was placed upon local militia and volunteers, or on Indian scouts unused to the ways of the hard-line infantryman.

Speed was essential to the Americans. Napoleon was in retreat, and each day of the campaign he was being deserted by friends and erstwhile allies. Surely his defeat was inevitable, perhaps even sooner than strategists in London dared to hope. And when that happened . . . Bolitho heard again the confidence in Bethune’s voice as he had explained how a French defeat would release many more ships to join the American conflict. But until that time . . . He stopped pacing and strode to the quarter gallery, and stared down at the black, swirling current.

It must have been right there in Bethune’s gracious rooms at the Admiralty, and yet neither of them had seen or considered it.

He looked at the reflected lights until his eye watered. The carefully worded despatches, the lists of ships and squadrons that daily protected the vital lifelines to Wellington’s armies. Ships that fed his victorious regiments, and made even the smallest advance possible. Even Sillitoe had missed it, perhaps because it had not fitted into his intricate plans and the estimates with which he advised the Prince Regent. Arrogance, over-confidence: it would not be the first time that careful strategy had been undone by those in 92

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power who had seen only what they had wanted to see.

The flaw in the pattern of things, like a face in a crowd, there, but invisible.

All they had been able to see was Napoleon’s eventual defeat.

After twenty years of war it had, at last, seemed like the impossible landfall. He knew that Tyacke had made no attempt to conceal his disgust at Peter Dawes’s handling of the squadron in his admiral’s absence. Maybe Dawes was another one, blind to everything but his own advancement: promotion, which might vanish like mist if the war should suddenly end.

Bolitho considered his visitors. Keen, contained but enthusi-astic at his new appointment, desperately eager to leave the past behind, to overcome his loss. Only Adam seemed unable or unwilling to forget it.

He heard something rattle behind the pantry hatch, a subtle signal from Ozzard that he was still about, in case he was required.

And what of me? So bitter at being parted from the woman he loved that he had failed to heed the instinct gained all those years ago as a frigate captain.

Maybe it was destined to end like this. He had opened the screen door without realizing that he had moved, and the marine sentry was staring at him, transfixed. Their admiral, coatless despite the damp air between decks, who had only to raise a finger to have every man running to do his bidding. What was the matter with him?

Bolitho heard a murmur of voices from the wardroom. Perhaps Avery was there. Or James Tyacke, although he was probably working alone in his cabin. He never slept for more than an hour or two at a time. Surely there was someone he could talk to?

“Something wrong, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho let his arms fall to his sides. Allday was here, watching him, his shadow moving slowly back and forth across the new paintwork, his face devoid of surprise. As if he had known.

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“I want to talk, old friend. It’s nothing . . . I’m not sure.” He turned to the ramrod sentry who was still staring at him, eyes popping, as if his collar was choking him. “At ease, Wilson. There is nothing to fear.”

The marine swallowed. “Yessir!” As he heard the door close he wiped his face with his sleeve. His sergeant would have given him hell just for doing that. But he had been with his squad in the maintop with the other marksmen when they had thundered alongside the enemy. Only for the moment, it meant nothing. He said aloud, “Knew me name! He knew me name!” Ozzard had poured a tankard of rum and placed it on the table, not too close, in case Allday should take the liberty of thinking that he was his servant as well.

Allday sat on the bench seat and watched Bolitho moving restlessly about the cabin as if it were a cage.

“You remember the Saintes, old friend?” Allday nodded. Bryan Ferguson had asked him the same thing, while they had been waiting for Bolitho and his lady to return from London.

“Aye, Sir Richard. I recalls it well.” Bolitho ran his hand down the curved timbers as if to feel the life, the heartbeat of the ship.

“This old lady was there, although I don’t remember her, nor could I imagine what she might one day mean to me. Five years old, she was then.”

Allday saw him smile. Like someone speaking of an old com-rade.

“So many miles, so many people, eh?” He turned, his face composed, even sad. “But, of course, we had another ship then.

Phalarope.”

Allday sipped his rum, although he did not remember reaching for it. There had been many moments like this, before the proud admiral’s flags, the fame, and the bloody scandal. So many 94

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times. He watched him now, sharing it, very aware that he was one of the few that this man, this hero, could speak with so freely.

He would not be able to tell Unis about it, not until he was with her again. It would be out of the question to ask Lieutenant Avery to pen it for him. It would have to be later, at the right time, like the moment he had told her about his son’s death. He glanced up at the closed skylight. Just a few yards away.

Bolitho said, “Admiral Rodney broke the French line that day because the enemy’s frigates failed to discover his intentions. Our frigates did not fail.”

His eyes were distant, remembering not so much the battle between the two great fleets as the slowness of their embrace, and the slaughter which had followed. He had seen too many such encounters, and he had felt like some physical assault the hostility of those at the Admiralty when he had said that the line of battle was dead. It must have sounded like blasphemy. We’ll not see another Trafalgar, I am certain of it.

“It is every frigate captain’s main concern—his duty—to discover, to observe, and to act.”

Ozzard frowned as the door opened slightly, and Avery hesitated, uncertain why he had come.

“I’m sorry, Sir Richard. I heard . . . somebody said . . .” Bolitho gestured to a chair. “This time you did not have too far to come. Not like riding from Portsmouth to London!” Avery took a goblet from Ozzard. He looked dishevelled, as if he had been trying to sleep when some instinct had roused him.

Allday, in the shadows, nodded. That was better. More like it.

Bolitho glanced around at them, his grey eyes keen. “Captain Dawes did not see it, because there was nothing to see. He con-served the squadron’s strength, as I so ordered, and repaired the vessels that most needed it. It was like a well-ordered plan, beyond doubt or question.”

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Avery said, “Do you believe that the outcome of the war is still undecided, sir?”

Bolitho smiled. “We have been fighting one enemy or another for years, for some a lifetime. But always, the French were in the vanguard. Always the French.”

Allday frowned. To him one mounseer was much like another.

The old Jacks could sing and brag about it when they’d had a skinful of rum, but when it came down to it, it had always been

“us” or “them.”

“I ain’t sure I follows, Sir Richard.”

“We are intent on defeating the French without further delay, so that we may bring naval reinforcements to these waters to contain the Americans. In turn, the Americans must break our line before that happens. I believe that the Royal Herald was destroyed by an unknown force of ships, American or French, maybe both, but under one leader, who will settle for nothing less than the destruction of our patrols and, if need be, our entire squadron.” Captain James Tyacke was here now, his scarred face in shadow, his blue eyes fixed on Bolitho.

“In all the reports there is no mention of any American resentment at a new French presence, and yet we have missed or overlooked the most obvious fact, that war makes strange bedfel-lows. I believe that an American of great skill and determination is the single mind behind this venture. He has shown his hand.

It is up to us to find and defeat him.” He looked at each of them in turn, conscious of the strength they had given him, and of their trust.

“The face in the crowd, my friends. It was there all the time, and no one saw it.”

Captain Adam Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and watched the afternoon working parties, each separated by craft and skill, 96

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gathered around a portion of the main deck like stall holders: no wonder it was often called the market-place. Valkyrie was big for a frigate, and like Indomitable had begun life as a small third-rate, a ship of the line.

He had met all his officers both individually and as a wardroom at a first, informal meeting. Some, like John Urquhart, the first lieutenant, were of the original company, when Valkyrie had been commissioned and had hoisted his uncle’s flag, then a vice-admiral’s, at the foremast truck. To all accounts she had been an unhappy ship, plagued with discontent and its inevitable companion of flogging at the gangway, until her last, famous battle, and the destruction of the notorious French squadron under Baratte. Her captain, Trevenen, had been proved a coward, so often the true nature of a tyrant, and had vanished overboard under mysterious circumstances.

Adam glanced up at Keen’s flag, whipping out stiffly from the mizzen. Here and here, men had died. His uncle had been injured, momentarily blinded in the undamaged eye, the battle lost until Rear-Admiral Herrick, who had been recovering from the amputation of his right arm, had burst on deck. Adam stared at the companion and the unmanned wheel. He could picture it as if he himself had been here. Lieutenant Urquhart had taken charge, and had proved what he could do. A quiet, serious officer, he would soon be given his own command if they were called to action.

He watched the working parties, knowing that every man jack was well aware of his presence. The new captain. Already known, because of his achievements in Anemone and because of the family name, and the admiral who was rarely out of the news.

But to these men, he was simply their new superior. Nothing which had preceded him mattered, until they had learned what he was like.

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with palms and bright needles. Nothing was ever wasted, be it a sail ripped apart in a gale or the scrap that would eventually clothe a corpse for its final journey to the seabed. The carpenter and his crew; the boatswain making a last inspection of the new blocks and tackles above the boat tier. He saw the surgeon, George Minchin, walking alone on the larboard gangway, his face brick-red in the hard afternoon light. Another man whose story was unknown. He had been in the old Hyperion when she had gone down, with Keen as her captain. The navy was like a family, but there were so many missing faces now.

Adam had been on deck at first light when Indomitable had weighed, and sailed in company with two other frigates and a brig. She had made a fine sight, towering above the other ships with her pyramids of sails straining and hardening like armoured breastplates in a sharp north-westerly. He had lifted his hat, and had known that his uncle, although unseen, would have returned their private salute. In one way, he envied Tyacke his role as Bolitho’s flag captain, even as he knew it would have been the worst thing he could have attempted. This was his ship. He had to think of her as his sole responsibility, and Keen’s flag made it an important one. But it would go no further. Even if he tried, he knew he would never love this ship as he had loved Anemone.

He thought of Keen, and the sudden energy which had surprised all those accustomed to a more leisurely chain of command.

Keen had been ashore often, not merely to meet the army commanders but also to be entertained by the senior government and commercial representatives of Halifax.

Adam had accompanied him on several occasions, as a duty more than out of curiosity. One of the most important people had been Keen’s father’s friend, a bluff, outspoken man who could have been any age between fifty and seventy, and who had achieved his present prominence by sweat rather than influence. He laughed a good deal, but Adam had noticed that his eyes always remained 98

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completely cold, like blue German steel. His name was Benjamin Massie, and Keen had told Adam that he was well known in London for his radical ideas on the expansion of trade in America, and, equally, for his impatience at anything that might prolong the hostilities.

He was not the only person here known to Keen. Another of his father’s friends had arrived earlier, with an open-handed commission from the Admiralty to examine the possibilities of increased investment in shipbuilding, not only for the navy, but with the immediate future in mind and with an eye to improving trade with the southern ports. The enemy was a term that did not find favour with Massie and his associates.

So what would happen next? Keen had arranged local patrols in a huge box-shaped zone that stretched from Boston to the south-west, and Sable Island and the Grand Banks six hundred miles in the opposite direction. A large area, yes, but not so vast that each patrol might lose contact with the other if the enemy chose to break out of port, or that Halifax-bound convoys or individual ships could be ambushed before they reached safety. Like the Royal Herald. A deliberate, well-planned attack with the sole intention of killing his uncle. He was not certain if Keen accepted that explanation. He had remarked, “We will assess each sighting or conflict at its face value. We must not be dragooned into scattering and so weakening our flotillas.” A master’s mate touched his hat to him, and Adam tried to fix his name in his mind. He smiled. Next time, perhaps.

He heard a light step on the quarterdeck, and wondered why he disliked the new flag lieutenant so much when they had barely spoken. Perhaps it was because the Honourable Lawford de Courcey seemed so much at home with the sort of people they had met ashore. He knew who was important and why, who could be trusted, and who might rouse disapproval as far away as London if he were crossed or overruled. He would be perfectly CROSS OF S T GEORGE

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at home at Court, but in the teeth of an enemy broadside? That remained to be seen.

He steeled himself. It did not matter. They would put to sea in two days’ time. It was probably what they all needed. What I need.

The flag lieutenant crossed the deck and waited to be acknowledged.

“The admiral’s compliments, sir, and would you have his barge lowered.”

Adam waited. When de Courcey said nothing more, he asked,

“Why?”

De Courcey smiled. “Rear-Admiral Keen is going ashore. Mr Massie wishes to discuss some matters. There will be a social reception also, I believe.”

“I see. I wish to discuss an additional patrol with the admiral.” He was angry, more with himself for rising to de Courcey’s bait. “It is what we are here for, remember?”

“If I may suggest, sir . . .”

Adam looked past him at the town. “You are the admiral’s aide, Mr de Courcey. Not mine.”

“The admiral would like you to accompany him, sir.” Adam saw the officer of the watch studying the land with his telescope, and doubtless listening to the terse exchange as well.

“Mr Finlay, pipe away the admiral’s barge, if you please.” He heard the shrill calls, the immediate stampede of bare feet and the bark of orders: so much a part of him, and yet he felt entirely detached from it. It was not de Courcey’s fault. Adam had been a flag lieutenant himself: it had never been an easy role, even when you served a man you loved.

He turned, with some vague intention of clearing the air between them, but the fair-haired lieutenant had vanished.

Later, when he made his way aft to report that the barge was alongside, Adam found Keen dressed and ready to leave the ship.

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He studied Adam thoughtfully, and said, “I have not forgotten about the extra patrol, you know. We should have more news when the schooner Reynard returns. She was sent up to the Bay of Fundy, although I think it an unlikely place for the enemy to loiter.”

“De Courcey told you, did he, sir?” Keen smiled. “His duty, Adam.” He became serious again. “Be patient with him. He will prove his worth.” He paused. “Given the chance.”

There were thumps from the adjoining cabin, and two seamen padded past carrying what was obviously an empty chest to be stowed away.

Keen said, “I am settling in, you see. Not a ship of the line, but she will suffice for the present . . . It was suggested that I should take quarters ashore, but I think not. Speed is everything.” Adam waited. Who had suggested it? He saw his youthful servant John Whitmarsh helping a couple of the messmen to unpack another chest.

Why cannot I be like him? Lose myself in what I do best?

There was a small, velvet-covered book on the table. He felt a sudden chill, as though awakening from a cruel dream.

Keen saw his eyes, and said, “Poetry. My late . . . It was packed in error. My sister is unused to the requirements of war.” My late . . . Keen had been unable even to speak Zenoria’s name. He had seen the book that day when he had visited her in Hampshire on some pretext. When she had rejected him.

Keen said, “Are you interested?”

He was surprised at his own calmness, the complete empti-ness he felt. Like watching someone else in a mirror.

“It is my intention that young Whitmarsh should learn to read. It might help, sir.”

He picked up the book, hardly daring to look at it.

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Keen shrugged. “Well, then. Some use after all.” Then, “You will accompany me, Adam?”

He could even smile. “Yes, sir.” He felt the soft velvet in his fingers, like skin. Like her. “I shall fetch my sword directly.” In his cabin, he pressed his back to the door and very slowly raised the book to his lips, amazed that his hands were so steady.

How could it be? He closed his eyes as if in prayer, and opened them again, knowing that it was the same book.

He held it with great care, all the ship noises and movements suddenly stilled, as though he were in another world.

The rose petals, pressed tightly in these pages for so long, were almost transparent, like lace or some delicate web. The wild roses he had cut for her that day in June, when they had ridden together on his birthday. When she had kissed him.

He closed the book and held it to his face for several seconds.

There was no escape after all. He put the book into his chest and locked it: it was an unbelievable relief to discover that he had never wanted to escape from her memory. He straightened his back, and reached for his sword. From Zenoria.

6 bad B lood

STANDING LIKE a perfect model above her own reflection, His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Reaper would have held the eye of any casual onlooker, no less than a professional seaman. A 26-gun frigate, very typical of the breed which had entered the revolu-tionary war with France some twenty years earlier, Reaper retained the sleek lines and grace of those ships which, then as now, were always in short supply. To command such a ship was every young officer’s dream: to be free of the fleet’s apron strings and the whim 102

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of every admiral, his real chance to prove his ability, if necessary against impossible odds.

By today’s standards Reaper would appear small, not much bigger than a sloop-of-war, and certainly no match for the newer American frigates which had already proved their superiority in armament and endurance.

On this dazzling April day Reaper lay almost becalmed, her sails hanging with scarcely any movement, her masthead pendant lifeless. Ahead of her, on either bow, two of her longboats, their oars rising and falling like tired wings, attempted to hold her under command, to retain steerage-way until the wind returned.

She was almost at the end of her passage, twelve hundred miles from Kingston, Jamaica, which had already taken her nearly two weeks. At dusk the previous day they had crossed the thirti-eth parallel, and tomorrow at first light, if the wind found them again, they would sight the colourful humps of the Bermudas.

Theirs was escort duty, the curse of every fast-moving man-of-war, necessary but tedious, retrimming sails and trying to keep station on their ponderous charges: a test of any captain’s forbear-ance. There was only one large merchantman to deliver to the Bermudas; the rest had been safely escorted to other ports in the Leeward Islands. The heavily-laden vessel, named Killarney, would eventually join a strongly defended convoy whose destination was England. Many a seaman had glanced at her motionless sails and felt envy and homesickness like a fever, merely by thinking about it.

Reaper’s only consort was a small, sturdy brig, Alfriston. Like so many of her hard-worked class, she had started life in the merchant service, until the demands of war had changed her role and her purpose. With the aid of a telescope she could just be seen, well astern of the merchantman, completely becalmed and stern-on, like a helpless moth landed on the water.

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free, so why was she different from other frigates which had risen above all the setbacks and disasters of war to become legends?

Perhaps it was her silence. Despite the fact that she carried some one hundred and fifty officers, seamen and marines within her graceful hull, she seemed without life. Only the flap of empty canvas against her spars and shrouds, and the occasional creak of the rudder broke the unnatural stillness. Her decks were clean and, like her hull, freshly painted and well-maintained. Like the other ships which had fought on that September day in 1812, there was barely a mark to reveal the damage she had suffered. Her real damage went far deeper, like guilt. Like shame.

Aft by the quarterdeck rail Reaper’s captain stood with his arms folded, a stance he often took when he was thinking deeply. He was twenty-seven years old and already a post-captain, with a fair skin which seemed to defy the heat of the Caribbean or the sudden fury of the Atlantic. A serious face: he could have been described as handsome but for the thinness of his mouth. He was a man whom many would call fortunate, and well placed for the next phase of advancement. This had been Reaper’s first opera-tional cruise after completing her repairs in Halifax, and it was his first time in command of her. A necessary step, but he knew full well why he had been appointed. Reaper’s previous captain, who had been old for his rank, a man of great experience who had left the more ordered world of the Honourable East India Company to return to service in the fleet, had fallen victim to the ruthless-ness of war. Reaper had been raked at long range by the American’s massive guns, in what was believed to have been a single broadside, although few who were there could clearly remember what had happened. Reaper had been almost totally dismasted, her decks buried under fallen spars and rigging, her company torn apart.

Most of her officers, including her gallant captain, had died instantly; where there had been order, there had been only chaos and terror. Amongst the upended guns and splintered decks 104

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somebody, whose identity was still unclear, had hauled down the colours. Nearby, the battle had continued until the American frigate Baltimore had drifted out of command, with many of her people either killed or wounded. Commodore Beer’s flagship Unity had been boarded and taken by Bolitho’s seamen and marines. A very close thing, but in a sea-fight there is only one victor.

Reaper could probably have done nothing more; she had already been passed by and left a drifting wreck. But to those who had fought and survived that day, she was remembered only as the ship which had surrendered while the fight had still raged around her. Their Lordships knew the value of even a small frigate at this decisive stage of the war, and a ship was only as strong as the man who commanded her. Haste, expediency, the need to forget, each had played a part, but even on this bright spring morning, with the sun burning down between the loosely flapping sails, the feeling was still here. Less than half of Reaper’s people were from her original company. Many had died in the battle; others had been too badly wounded to be of any further use. Even so, to the rest of the tightly-knit squadron, Reaper was like an outcast, and her shame was borne by all of them.

The captain came out of his thoughts and saw the first lieutenant making his way aft, pausing here and there to speak with the working parties. They had grown up in the same town, and had entered the navy as midshipmen at almost the same time.

The first lieutenant was an experienced and intelligent officer, despite his youth. If he had one failing, it was his readiness to talk with the hands, even the new, untrained landmen, as if they were on equal terms, or as equal as anyone could be in a King’s ship. That would have to change. Reaper needed to be brought to her proper state of readiness and respect, no matter what it cost.

His mouth twitched. There was another link. He had asked for, and obtained, the hand of the first lieutenant’s sister in marriage.

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His next command would be decided . . . He broke off as the cry came from aloft. “Signal from Alfriston, sir!” The captain snapped to one of the attentive midshipmen,

“Take a glass up yourself and see what that fool is babbling about!” The first lieutenant had joined him. “The lookout has no skill with flags, I’m afraid, sir.”

“He’d better mend his ways, damn him, or I’ll see his backbone at the gratings! It’s probably nothing, anyway.” Somebody called a command and a few seamen ran smartly to the boat tier to execute it. The first lieutenant had grown accustomed to it. The silence, the instant obedience, everything carried out at the double. Try as he might, he could not accept it.

The captain said, “As soon as we receive orders and rid ourselves of Killarney, I shall want sail and gun drill every day, until we can cut the time it takes them to do every little thing. I’ll not stand for slackness. Not from any man!” The first lieutenant watched his profile, but said nothing. Did it so change an officer who had already held a successful command? Might it change me?

This afternoon there would be the ritual of punishment. Two more floggings at the gangway, both severe, but one of which could have been avoided or reduced to some lesser penalty. The staccato roll of drums, the crack of the lash on a man’s naked back. Again and again, until it looked as if his body had been torn open by some crazed beast . . .

When he had voiced his opinion about extreme punishment, often at the instigation of some junior officer or midshipman, the captain had turned on him. “Popularity is a myth, a deceit! Obedience and discipline are all that count, to me and to my ship!” Perhaps when they returned to Halifax, things might improve.

Almost without thinking, he said, “It seems likely that Sir Richard Bolitho will have hoisted his flag in Halifax again, sir.” 106

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“Perhaps.” The captain seemed to consider it, sift it for some hidden meaning. “A flag officer of reputation. But it has to be said that any admiral is only as strong as his captains—and how they perform.”

The first lieutenant had never served with or under Sir Richard Bolitho, and yet, like the many he had spoken to, he felt as if he knew him personally.

The captain was smiling. “We shall see, sir. We shall see.” The midshipman’s voice came shrilly from the masthead. “Signal from Alfriston, sir! Sail in sight to the nor’-west! ” A small pause, as if the midshipman was frightened of the noise. “Brigantine, sir.”

The captain rubbed his hands briskly, one of his rare displays of emotion. “Not one of ours, unless the despatches are wrong.” He swung round as the halliards and canvas came alive, the masthead pendant lifting as if suddenly awakened.

The first lieutenant exclaimed, “The master was right, sir! The wind is coming back!”

The captain nodded. “Recall the boats and have them hoisted.

We are well upwind of friends and stranger alike. We’ll add another prize to our list, eh?” He shaded his eyes to watch the two boats casting off the tow lines and pulling back toward their ship. “Something for your sister’s dowry!” The first lieutenant was surprised at the swift change of mood.

It would certainly break the monotony of this snail’s pace.

He looked away as the captain added thoughtfully, “Bring forward the punishment by an hour. It will keep them occupied, and remind them of their duty.”

Calls trilled and men ran to hoist the two dripping boats up and over the gangway while others dashed up the ratlines in readiness to make more sail, even as the slack canvas flapped and then boomed out harder to the wind. The lieutenant watched the sea’s face, the black shadows of Reaper’s masts and sails blurring like CROSS OF S T GEORGE

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ruffled fur while the hull heeled slightly, and then more firmly to the demands of wind and rudder.

The moment every frigate officer waits for. But the elation would not come.

Captain James Tyacke tucked his hat beneath his arm and waited for the marine sentry to admit him. For an instant, he saw a shadow through the screen door, and was amused. The ever-vigilant Ozzard, keeping a watchful eye out for visitors to these quarters.

He found Bolitho seated at the table, some charts with written notes on them held down by two books bound in green leather, with heavily-gilded spines. Tyacke recognized them as some of the collection Lady Catherine Somervell had sent aboard for the admiral. Even here, thousands of miles from England, she was never far away from this restless, sensitive man.

“Ah, James!” He looked up and smiled warmly. “I was hoping that you would sup with me tonight, and leave your troubles to your lieutenants for a change.”

Tyacke looked past him at the unbroken panorama of the ocean, blue and grey, disturbed here and there by long, glassy swells. In his mind’s eye he saw them all, Indomitable in the centre, with the two frigates Virtue and Attacker some eight miles off either beam. At dusk they would draw closer to one another, but in this formation they could scan an imposing range from horizon to horizon. Tyacke could also visualize each captain, just as he knew Bolitho would feel the strength of every ship under his flag. Keeping well up to windward like a loyal terrier, the brig Marvel completed this small but effective flotilla.

Bolitho said, “I can see from your expression, James, that you had forgotten the significance of this day.”

“For the moment, Sir Richard.” There was a brief silence.

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as if it were something private, “The Old Indom.” Bolitho waited for him to seat himself. It was like a signal: Ozzard was moving out of his pantry. The flag captain would be staying a while.

Tyacke said, “We’ve done a lot in that time.” Bolitho looked at the leather-bound books, remembering her at Plymouth, in the coach when they had parted. “I sometimes wonder where it will end. Or even if we are achieving anything by waiting, always waiting, for the enemy to show his teeth.”

“It will come. I feel it. When I was in Larne, ” for a moment he hesitated as if it was still too painful a memory to discuss, “the slavers had the whole ocean to pick and choose from. Every cargo of poor devils waiting to be shipped to the Indies and the Americas could be collected . . . or dropped overboard, if they were sighted by us or another patrol. But every so often . . .” He leaned forward in his chair, his scarred face suddenly clear and terrible in the reflected sunlight, “I knew, like you knew about Unity. That sixth sense, instinct, call it what you will.” Bolitho could feel the strength of the man, his deep pride in what he could do. Not something to be taken for granted, not a form of conceit, but true and real, like the old sword on its rack.

As he had known in September, when they had walked the deck together, splinters bursting from the planking as sharpshooters tried to mark them down, two men pacing up and down, making no attempt to conceal their ranks or their importance to those who depended upon them.

Avery, too, had walked with them that day. If he had any friend in this ship other than Bolitho himself, that friend was Tyacke. He wondered if he had confided his present preoccupation to him, and then knew he had not. Two men so different, and yet not dissimilar, each deeply reserved, driven in on himself.

No, Avery would not have discussed it with Tyacke, particularly if it concerned a woman.

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Unconsciously he had touched the volume of Shakespearean sonnets; she had chosen this edition with care because the print was clear, easy to read. So far away. Spring in the West Country.

Wagtails on the beach where they had walked; swifts and jack-daws; the return of beauty and vitality to the countryside.

Tyacke watched him, not without affection. Maybe it was better to be alone, with no one to draw your heart, or break it.

To know no pain. Then he recalled Bolitho’s woman boarding this ship, climbing the side like a sailor to the cheers of the men.

It was not true. Just to have somebody, to know that she was there . . . He pushed the thoughts aside: for him, they were impossible.

“I’d best go up and see the afternoon gun drill, sir.” He stood, his head brushing the deck beams. He did not appear to notice, and Bolitho knew that after Larne, Indomitable must seem like a palace.

He said, “Until tonight, then.”

But Tyacke was staring at the screen door, one hand raised as if he was listening to something. They both heard measured steps, then the tap of the sentry’s musket as he called, “First lieutenant, sir! ”

Lieutenant John Daubeny stepped into the cabin, his cheeks flushed from the salt air.

Tyacke said, “I heard a call from the masthead. What is it?” Bolitho felt the sudden tension. He had not heard the call himself. Tyacke had become part of the ship: he was the ship. In spite of his personal misgivings when he had been asked to command the flagship, they had become one.

Daubeny squinted his eyes, a habit of his when he was asked a direct or difficult question.

“Signal from Attacker, sir. Sail sighted to the nor’-west. A brig, one of ours.” He faltered under Tyacke’s intense gaze. “They are certain of it.”

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Tyacke said curtly, “Keep me informed. Muster a good signals party, and tell Mr Carleton to be ready.”

“I have attended to it, sir.”

The door closed, and Bolitho said, “You have them well drilled, James. This newcomer—what d’ you make of her?”

“We’re not expecting a courier, sir. Not here. Not yet.” He was pondering aloud. “At the Bermudas, now, that would be different. A convoy is assembling there, or should be.” Bolitho shared it, remembering how it felt. Wanting to be up there on deck, and yet aware that it might be regarded as a lack of confidence in his officers, or that they might take his presence for anxiety. He vividly recalled his own time in command, and today was no different. When the watches changed, or the hands were piped to shorten sail, his whole being protested that he should remain aloof, a man apart from the ship that served him.

The sentry called, “First lieutenant, sir! ” Daubeny came back in, more flushed than ever. “She’s the Alfriston, sir, fourteen guns. Commander Borradaile . . .” Bolitho said quickly, “I don’t know him, do I?” Tyacke shook his head. “Alfriston joined the squadron while you were in England, sir.” Then, as an afterthought, “Borradaile’s a good hand. Came up the hard way.” Bolitho was on his feet. “Signal Attacker, repeat Alfriston, close on Flag. ” He glanced out through the thick glass. “I want him here before nightfall. I can’t waste another day.” Daubeny’s face was quite untroubled now that he had shifted the responsibility to his superiors. He offered, “She should be with the Leeward escort, sir.” His confidence wilted under their combined attention. He added, almost humbly, “It was in orders, sir.”

Tyacke said, “So it was, Mr Daubeny. Now tell Mr Carleton to make the signal.”

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Ozzard closed the door. “Concerning supper, Sir Richard—”

“It might be delayed.” He looked at Tyacke. “But we will take a glass now, I think.”

Tyacke sat again, his head still cocked to catch the muffled sounds from the world outside. The squeak of halliards, the voice of the signals midshipman penetratingly clear as he spelled out the signal to his men.

He said, “You think it’s bad, sir.” It was not a question.

Bolitho watched Ozzard approaching with his tray, his small figure angled against the movement of the deck without effort.

The man without a past, or one so terrible that it clung to him like a graveyard spirit. So much a part of the little crew.

“I believe it may be our next move, James, albeit a foul one.” They drank in silence.

Jacob Borradaile, the Alfriston’s commander, was not in the least what Bolitho had been expecting. He had been on deck to observe the brig’s smart performance as she had tacked this way and that, her bulging sails salmon-pink in the failing light as she had wasted no time in taking position under Indomitable’s lee and sending a boat over the heavy swell.

Tyacke had remarked of Borradaile, a good hand. Came up the hard way. From him, there could be no higher praise.

As Tyacke escorted him aft into the cabin, Bolitho thought he had never seen such an untidy, awkward-looking figure.

Although he must have been about the same age as Avery or Tyacke, he was like some gaunt caricature, with sprouting, badly-cut hair and deep, hollow eyes; only the ill-fitting uniform revealed him to be a King’s officer. However, Bolitho, who had met every imaginable kind of man both junior and senior, was immediately impressed. He entered the cabin and took his outstretched hand without hesitation or any trace of awe. A firm grip, hard, like a true sailor’s.

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Bolitho said, “You have urgent news.” He saw the man’s quick assessment of him, as he might examine a new recruit. “But first, will you take a glass with me?”

Borradaile sat in the chair Ozzard had carefully prepared in advance. “Thank ’ee, Sir Richard. Whatever you’re taking yourself will suit famously.”

Bolitho nodded to Ozzard. Borradaile had a faint Kentish accent, like his old friend Thomas Herrick.

He sat on the stern bench and studied his visitor. In his fist, the fine goblet looked like a thimble.

He said, “In your own words. I will see that you are returned to your ship before too long.”

Borradaile stared at a sealed gunport as if he expected to see the brig across the uneasy strip of water. Alfriston had been handled well, as if one man and not an entire trained company had been in charge. Tyacke would be thinking much the same, remembering his previous command.

Borradaile said, “It was Reaper, Sir Richard. A day out from Bermuda and she broke away to chase a stranger, a small vessel—

brigantine, most likely. Alfriston was becalmed, sea like a mill pond, an’ our one remaining charge, a company ship called Killarney, was no better than we. But Reaper had the wind under her skirts and gave chase.”

Bolitho asked quietly, “Did that surprise you, so close to your destination?”

“I don’t think so.”

Bolitho said, “Man to man. This is important. To me, maybe to all of us.”

The hollow eyes settled on him. Bolitho could almost hear his mind working, weighing the rights and wrongs of something that might end in a court martial. Then he seemed almost visibly to make a decision.

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“Reaper’s captain was new to the ship, his first proper patrol away from the squadron.”

“Did you know him?” Unfair maybe, but also perhaps vital.

“Of him, sir.” He paused. “Reaper had a reputation. Maybe he was eager to give her back something he thought she’d lost.” The shipboard noises seemed to fade away as Borradaile related the hours that had decided Reaper’s fate.

“There were two frigates, sir. French-built, if I’m any judge, but wearing Yankee colours. They must have sent the brigantine as bait, an’ once Reaper changed tack to go after it, they showed themselves.” He ticked off the points on his bony fingers. “Reaper had run too far down to lee’ard to be able to claw back to her station. They must have been laughin’, it was so damned easy for them.”

Bolitho glanced at Tyacke; he was resting his chin on his hand, and his face was like stone.

Borradaile added, “I could do nothin’, sir. We’d barely picked up the wind again. All I could do was watch.” Bolitho waited, afraid of breaking the picture in the man’s thoughts. It was not uncommon. A young captain eager for a prize, no matter how small, and eager too to prove something to his ship’s company. He knew of Reaper’s bitterness after the battle, when her brave captain, James Hamilton, had been killed in the first broadside. It was so easy to be distracted for the few seconds needed by a skilful and dangerous enemy. It nearly happened to me when I was so young . . .

Borradaile gave a great sigh. “Reaper came about as soon as her captain knew what had happened. I watched it all with a big signals glass—I felt I had to. It was madness, I thought. Reaper stood no chance, a little sixth-rate against two big ’uns, forty guns apiece was my guess. But what could he do? What would any of us do, I asked myself.”

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“Did they engage immediately?”

Borradaile shook his head, his gaunt features suddenly saddened. “There were no shots fired. Not one. Reaper had run out some of her guns by then, but not all of ’em. It was then that the leading Yankee hoisted a white flag for parley and dropped a boat to go across to Reaper.”

Bolitho saw it all. Three ships, the others merely spectators.

“An hour, maybe more, maybe less, an’ the Reaper lowered her flag.” He spat it out angrily. “Without so much as a whimper!”

“Surrendered?” Tyacke leaned forward into the light. “Not even a fight?”

Alfriston’s commander seemed to truly see him for the first time, and there was compassion in the hollow eyes as they noted the full extent of his injury. “It was mutiny,” he said.

The word hung in the damp air like something obscene, dev-astating.

“The next thing I knew was, a boat was sent from Reaper with some of the ‘loyal men.’” He turned to Bolitho again. “And her captain.”

Bolitho waited. It was bad, worse than he had believed possible.

Borradaile spoke very slowly. “Just before Reaper left her station to give chase there were men being flogged at the gangway.

I could hardly believe it.” There was disgust and revulsion in his voice, from this, a man who had come up the hardest way of all, through the ranks, to achieve his own command. A man who must have seen every kind of suffering at sea, and brutality, too, in that demanding life below decks.

“Was he dead?”

“Not then, he weren’t, sir. The Yankee officers who had gone over to parley had invited Reaper’s people to join them. I heard from some of the men who were allowed away in the boat that it was the old cry of ‘dollars for shillings’—the chance of a new CROSS OF S T GEORGE

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life, better paid and well treated under the Stars and Stripes.” Bolitho thought of Adam’s Anemone. Some of her people had changed sides when the flag had come down. But this was different. It was not desertion, which was bad enough: it was mutiny.

“When they agreed, the Yankee told them they could punish their captain in the way they had suffered under his command.

That’s what they were doing all that time. First a few of the hard men, an’ then it was like a madness. They seized him up and flogged him until he was in ribbons. Two hundred, three, who could say? Alfriston don’t rate a surgeon, but we did what we could for him, an’ his senior lieutenant who was stabbed when he tried to defend him. He’ll probably live, the poor devil. I’d not be in his shoes for a sack of gold!”

“And then?”

“They boarded the Killarney an’ stood away. I waited a while and then relaid my course for the Bermudas. I landed the survivors at Hamilton and made my report to the guard-ship. I was ordered to find an’ report to you, sir.” He glanced around the spacious cabin as if he had not noticed it before. “They could have taken Alfriston, too, if they’d a mind.” Bolitho stood up and walked to the quarter gallery. He could just see the little brig’s dark silhouette, her topgallant yards still faintly pink in the dying light.

“No, Commander Borradaile. You had to be the witness, the proof that a mutiny broke out. Perhaps it was provoked, but it can never be condoned. We who command must always be aware of the dangers. And you are here. That is the other reason.” Borradaile said, “To bring word to you, sir? That was my thought, also.”

Bolitho asked, “And the captain?”

“He died, sir, finally. Cursin’ and ravin’ to the end. His last words were, they’ll hang for it! ”

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figure and took his hand. “You have done well. I shall see that it is mentioned in my despatches.” He glanced at Tyacke. “I’d offer you promotion, but I think you’d damn me for it first! Keep your Alfriston.” In his heart, he knew that Borradaile was glad to be rid of the men sent from the surrendered frigate. The shame was still there, deeper now than ever. Like a rotten apple in a barrel, it was better to be free of them.

“See Commander Borradaile over the side, James.” He watched them leave, then returned to the quarter gallery and thrust open a window. The air was surprisingly cold, and helped to steady him.

Avery, who had been present and mute throughout the discussion, observed quietly, “A well-planned trap, a flag of truce, and mutiny provoked, if provocation were needed. And now, one of our ships under their flag.”

Bolitho faced him, his cheek wet with spray, like tears, cold tears.

“Speak out, man. Say what I know you are thinking!” Avery lifted his shoulders in a very slight shrug. “Justice, revenge, call it what we will, but I think I understand now what you said about the face in the crowd. To lure you into a trap, to provoke you into some reckless realisation. It is you he wants.” Bolitho listened to the trill of calls, as one captain paid his respects to another.

Avery, like Tyacke, probably shared the private conviction of the gaunt commander who had just departed: that Reaper’s captain had paid the just price of tyranny. He was not the first. Pray God he was the last.

He thought of the flag curling far above the deck and seemed to hear her voice. My admiral of England.

There was no doubt in his mind where the real responsibility would lie. Or the blame.

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7 the oldest T rick

ADAM BOLITHO hesitated outside the broad, imposing house and wondered impatiently why he had come. Another reception. Merchants, senior officers from the garrison, people who always seemed to know someone important and with influence. He could have made some excuse to stay aboard Valkyrie, but at the same time he knew he was too restless to remain in his cabin or pass an hour or so away with his lieutenants.

How Keen managed to appear unruffled by all these receptions and discussions surprised him. Adam had noticed that despite his good-natured manner and his apparent ease with these imposing people, he rarely lost his way, or allowed himself to be talked out of decisions he considered were in the best interests of his command.

Adam turned his back on the house and stared out across the great natural harbour; chebucto, the Indians had once called it. It impressed him as few others had done. From the glittering span of the Bedford Basin to the narrows at the far end, the harbour was teeming with ships, a forest of masts as visible proof of Halifax’s growing strategic value. He had heard a general describe it as part of the British defensive square, which included England, Gibraltar and Bermuda. Cornwallis must have been as farseeing as he was shrewd when he had put his roots down here less than seventy years ago and built the first fortifications. Now, commanded by the hilltop citadel, it was further protected by Martello towers more commonly seen in Britanny or southern England, with smaller batteries to deter any enemy foolish enough to attempt a landing.

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could be so frustrating. Valkyrie had barely ventured out of harbour, and then only to meet an incoming convoy with more soldiers: if they landed many more this peninsula must surely sink under the weight. There was little news of the war. Roads on the mainland were bad, some still impassable. He glanced at the fading light across the harbour, the tiny boat lanterns moving like insects. Here, conditions were already much better. He had even felt the sun’s warmth on his face on his walk from the landing stage.

He turned reluctantly away from the sea. The big double doors had opened discreetly, as if they had been waiting for his decision.

A fine old house: not “old” by English standards, but well proportioned and vaguely foreign, the architecture perhaps influenced by the French. He handed his hat to a bobbing servant and walked towards the main reception hall. There were uniforms aplenty, mostly red, with a few green coats of the local light infantry force.

The house had probably been built by some prosperous merchant, but now it was used almost exclusively by people of a world he did not know, or want to. Where men like Benjamin Massie walked a challenging path between politics and the rewards of trade. He had made no secret of his impatience with the state of war between Britain and America, calling it “unpopular,” more as if it were a personal inconvenience than a bitter conflict between nations.

Adam spoke to a footman, his eyes taking in the assembled throng, and noticing Keen’s fair hair at the far end. He was with Massie. There were women present, too. That had been rare on previous occasions. Yes, he should have offered some excuse and remained on board.

“Captain Adam Bolitho!”

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ness than from interest, he thought. At least the footman had pronounced his name correctly.

He walked down the side of the hall. There were heavy velvet curtains, and two great log fires: these houses were built with a Nova Scotia winter in mind.

“So here you are at last, Captain!” Benjamin Massie snapped his thick fingers and a tray of red wine appeared like magic.

“Thought you’d forgotten us!” He gave his loud, barking laugh, and once again Adam noticed the coldness of his eyes.

He said, “The squadron’s business, sir.” Massie chuckled. “That’s the trouble with this place, more soldiers than labourers, more men-o’-war than canoes! I’m told that a few years back there was five times as many brothels as banks!” He became serious instantly, as though a mask had fallen over his face. “But it’s changing. Just get this war over and we’ll see some real expansion, whole new markets. And for that we’ll need ships, and men willing to serve in them without the fear of violent death under an enemy broadside.” He winked. “Or under the lash of some over-zealous officer, eh?”

Keen had approached them, and was listening. “And what of my father’s other friend? I thought he might meet me here.” Adam looked at him. Keen had deliberately interrupted, to dampen down any open disagreement before it began. Am I so obvious?

“Oh, David St Clair?” He shook his head. “He’ll not be back for some while yet. Impetuous, that’s David. You know what he’s like.”

Keen shrugged. “I have seen little of him. I liked what I knew.

Shipbuilding, with backing from the Admiralty—it sounded important.”

“Well, since his wife died . . .” He touched Keen’s sleeve. “I forgot, Val. I’m sorry . . .”

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Keen said, “I had heard. So he is travelling alone?” Massie grinned, his clumsy remark dismissed from his mind.

“No. He’s got his daughter with him, can you imagine that? I’ll lay odds he’s regretting having to mark time for a woman, even if she is family!”

Adam raised his glass, but paused as he saw Keen’s expression.

Surprise? It was deeper than that.

“I thought she was married.”

Massie took another glass from the tray. “Nothing came of it.

The intended husband was a soldier.” Keen nodded. “Yes. So I heard.”

“Well, he decided to follow the drum rather than a pretty ankle!” He gave a heavy sigh. “Then, with her mother dying so suddenly, she decided to keep David company.” Keen looked into the nearest fire. “That’s a risk, in my view.” Massie brushed some droplets of wine from his coat. “There, you see? You naval and military people regard everything as a hidden danger, part of some sinister strategy!” He glanced at the clock. “Time to eat soon. Better go and pump the bilges before I give the word.” He walked away, nodding to an occasional guest, deliberately ignoring others.

Keen said, “You don’t care much for him, do you?” Adam watched a tall woman with bare shoulders bending to listen to her smaller companion, then she laughed and nudged him. She could not have been more blatant if she had been stark naked.

He answered, “Or those like him, sir.” He saw a footman drawing the vast curtains, hiding the dark water of the harbour from sight. “Men are dying every hour of the day. It has to be for something more than profit, surely?” He broke off.

“Continue, Adam. Remember your uncle, and what he would say. There are no officers here. Just men.” Adam put down his glass and said, “Supplies, and escorts for CROSS OF S T GEORGE

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the ships that carry them, keeping the sea-lanes open—all essential, but they will never win a war. We need to get to grips with them as we do with the French, and all the others we have had to fight, not just stand gloating over the prospects of trade and expansion when the bloody work is comfortably past!” Keen said quietly, “I wonder if you know how much like Sir Richard you are. If only . . .” He looked away. “Damnation!” But it was not Massie: it was the flag lieutenant, de Courcey.

Adam wondered what Keen had been about to say, and why the lieutenant’s arrival had disturbed his customary composure.

De Courcey exclaimed, “I do apologize, sir, but someone came here, to this house, without any prior arrangement or excuse, and demanded to see you.” He sounded outraged. “I sent him away with a flea in his ear, you may be sure!” His eyes moved to the footman who had taken his place on the stairs, a staff raised, ready to announce dinner. “Most inconsiderate!” Massie was thrusting through the throng like a plough. Keen said, “Will you deal with it, Adam? I am the principal guest tonight, as you know.”

Adam nodded. He had not known. As he walked with de Courcey to the adjoining room, he asked sharply, “Who is this intruder?”

“A damned ragged fellow, a scarecrow in the King’s coat!”

“His name, man.” He controlled his anger with difficulty: everything seemed able to penetrate his defences. He had seen his lieutenants watching him, obviously wondering what was troubling him.

De Courcey said offhandedly, “Borradaile, sir. Most uncouth.

I cannot imagine how he ever . . .” He winced as Adam seized his arm. “Alfriston’s commander?” He tightened his grip so that de Courcey gasped aloud, and two passing soldiers paused with interest. “Answer me, damn you!” De Courcey recovered himself slightly. “Well, yes, as a matter 122

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of fact. I thought that under the circumstances . . .” Adam released him and said, “You are a fool.” He was amazed at how calm he sounded. “How big a fool, we shall yet discover.” De Courcey blinked as the footman’s staff tapped the stairs three times.

Adam said, “Wait here. I may want to send word to the ship.” From another world came the cry, “Pray be seated, ladies and gentlemen!”

“But, sir! We are expected!”

Adam said sharply, “Are you deaf as well?” He turned, and walked toward the main entrance.

Meanwhile, Massie and his guests were arranging themselves around the two long tables, each place setting marked with a card, each place denoting the status of each guest or the magnitude of the favour being done.

Massie said significantly, “I’ve delayed grace until your young captain can spare himself from his duties.” Keen sat on Massie’s right hand. Facing him was a woman whom he guessed was Massie’s special guest. She was beautiful, self-assured, and amused by his scrutiny.

Massie said abruptly, “Mrs Lovelace. She has a house near Bedford Basin.”

She said, “I regret that we were not introduced earlier, Admiral Keen.” She smiled. “It is a bad sign when even our admirals are so young!”

Adam strode between the tables and paused behind Keen’s chair. An utter silence had fallen in the room.

Keen felt Adam’s breath against his cheek—quick, angry.

“Alfriston’s brought word from Sir Richard. Reaper’s been taken, surrendered.” All the while he was watching Keen’s fine profile.

“The admiral intends to remain with the Bermuda squadron until the convoy is safely at sea.”

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Keen dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Surrendered?” One word.

Adam nodded, seeing the woman sitting opposite for the first time. She smiled at him, and indicated the empty chair beside her.

He said, “It was mutiny, sir.”

“I see.” Then he looked directly at Adam, his eyes very calm, and, Adam thought afterwards, very well concealing his emotions.

“I trust you have informed the ship?” He thought of the enraged de Courcey. “Yes, sir. They will be ready.”

Keen dropped the napkin on to his lap. “Then Reaper is heading this way.” He saw the doubt in Adam’s eyes. “Trick for trick, see?” He stood up, and every face turned towards him. “I am sorry for the interruption, ladies and gentlemen. I am certain that our host will understand.” He waited for Adam to walk around the table, where a footman had drawn out the empty chair. The sound of his shoes was very loud on the polished floor, reminding him unpleasantly of that snowy day in Portsmouth, at his court martial.

Massie cleared his throat noisily. “We’ll have grace now, Rev-erend!”

Adam felt the woman’s slippered foot touching his, even as the prayer was being intoned. He was surprised that he could even smile about it.

Trick for trick. Keen was speaking calmly with Massie. We Happy Few. It was as if somebody had spoken aloud. He thought of his uncle: the mark he had left on all of them.

His companion said softly, “You say little, Captain. Should I feel insulted?”

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near to his own at this crowded table. Married, but not to anybody here. Mistress, then?

He said, “My apologies, ma’am. I am unused to such brilliance, even from the sea.” Trick for trick.

A footman loomed over them and her slipper moved away.

But she looked at him again, and said, “We shall have to see about that, Captain. ”

Adam glanced at their host. A slip of the tongue; was Keen remembering it even now, when outwardly he was so composed, so in control? Massie had spoken as if he had known of the mutiny. It was not a word to be used lightly. A rumour, a piece of gossip: Massie would have fingers in a lot of pies. It would mean only one thing. Reaper was already here.

“Are you married, Captain?”

“No.” It came out too abruptly, and he tried to soften it. “It has not been my good fortune.”

She studied him thoughtfully, with delicately raised brows. “I am surprised.”

“And you, ma’am?”

She laughed, and Adam saw Massie glance up at her. At them.

She replied, “Like a cloak, Captain. I wear it when it suits!” Trick for trick.

The Valkyrie’s chartroom was small and functional, the table barely leaving space for more than three men. Adam leaned over the chart, the brass dividers moving unhurriedly across the bearings, soundings and scribbled calculations which, to a landsman, would be meaningless.

The door was wedged open, and he could see the bright sunlight moving like a beacon, back and forth, to the frigate’s easy rise and fall. They had left Halifax in company with a smaller frigate, Taciturn, and the brig Doon. They had left with mixed feelings, the prospect of hunting down Reaper, the only possible CROSS OF S T GEORGE

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way of settling the score, set against the very real likelihood of directing fire on one of their own. The Americans would have had no time to replace the surrendered frigate’s company, so many of them, except for the officers and professional warrant ranks, would be mutineers.

But that had been five days ago, and he had sensed Keen’s uncertainty, his growing anxiety about the next decision.

One point of the dividers rested on Cape North, the tip of Nova Scotia that guarded the southernmost side of the entrance to the Gulf of St Lawrence. Across the strait lay Newfoundland, some fifty miles distant. A narrow passage, but easy enough for a determined captain who wanted to avoid capture and slip through the net. Keen would be thinking the same thing. Adam leaned closer to the chart. Two tiny islands, St Pierre and Miquelon, to the south of Newfoundland’s rugged coastline, were in fact French, but at the outbreak of war had been occupied by troops from the British garrison at St John’s. Keen had made no secret of his conviction that Reaper would be heading for these same islands. Reaper’s capture by the Americans would still be unknown to any of the local patrols; it would have been an obvious strategy if the enemy had intended to attack the garrison, or prey on shipping in these waters. But the brig Doon had investigated the area and had rejoined her two consorts with nothing to report. Beyond lay the Gulf of St Lawrence, the vital gateway to its great river, to Montreal and the lakes, to the naval base at Kingston and further still to York, the administrative, if small, capital of Upper Canada.

But the Gulf was vast, with islets and bays where any ship could shelter, and bide her time until the hunt had passed her by.

He heard shouted commands and the trill of calls. The afternoon watch was mustering aft, the air heavy with greasy smells from the galley funnel. A good measure of rum to wash it down.

He glanced at the sailing-master’s log book. May 3rd, 1813.

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He thought of the small velvet-covered volume in his chest, the carefully pressed fragments of the wild roses. May in England. It was like remembering a foreign country.

A shadow fell across the table: Urquhart, the first lieutenant.

Adam had found him a good and competent officer, firm and fair with the hands, even with the hard men, who tested every officer for any sign of weakness. It was never easy to be both as a first lieutenant. When Valkyrie’s captain, Trevenen, had broken down with terror at the height of action, it had been Urquhart who had taken over and restored discipline and order. Neither Trevenen, who had vanished mysteriously on his way to face a court martial, nor his successor, the acting-commodore Peter Dawes, had recommended Urquhart for advancement. Urquhart had never mentioned it, nor had he shown any resentment, but Adam guessed it was only because he did not yet know his new captain well enough. Adam blamed himself for that. He was unable to encourage intimacy in Valkyrie: even when he passed a command, he still found himself half-expecting to see other faces respond. Dead faces.

Urquhart waited patiently for his attention, and then said, “I would like to exercise the eighteen-pounders during the afternoon watch, sir.”

Adam tossed down the dividers. “It is about all we will be doing, it seems!”

He thought of that last night in Halifax, the lavish dinner, with their host, Massie, becoming more slurred by the minute.

He thought, also, of the enticing and sensual Mrs Lovelace, laughing at Massie’s crude remarks, but keeping her foot against Adam’s under the table.

I should not have agreed to this post. Had he accepted it to avoid being marooned in Zest?

In his own heart, he knew he had acted out of a sense of obligation, perhaps some need to make reparation. Guilt . . .

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Urquhart looked at the chart: he had a strong, thoughtful profile. Adam could well imagine him with a command of his own.

Urquhart said, “It’s like picking at threads, sir. She could be anywhere.”

“I know that, damn it!” He touched the lieutenant’s sleeve. “I am sorry, John. That was uncalled for.” Urquhart eyed him warily. It was the first time the captain had called him by his first name. It had been like seeing a different person suddenly, not so much the severe stranger.

He said, “If we run deeper into the Gulf we shall be hard put to keep together. If we had more ships, then . . .” A master’s mate whispered around the door, “Admiral’s coming up, sir.”

Adam knew that he was speaking to Urquhart, careful to avoid his captain’s eye.

He straightened his back. “Yes. Well, we shall see.” Keen was standing by the weather nettings when they came out of the chartroom, and Adam noticed immediately that he looked strained, troubled.

Keen said, “What time will we alter course, Captain Bolitho?” Adam replied with equal formality, “In two hours, sir. We shall steer nor’-west.” He waited, seeing Keen’s doubt, the unspoken arguments.

“Are Taciturn and Doon in sight?”

“Aye, sir. The masthead reported both of them at the change of watch. Good visibility. We should see another sail soon. Information maybe, some evidence that she was seen by some passing trader or fisherman.” He looked at Urquhart. “It is our best hope.” Keen said, “We are abeam of Cape North. By nightfall we shall be stretched too far to offer support to one another.” Adam looked away. He felt a stab of resentment without knowing why. He had been up before first light, and on deck several times during the night. There were plenty of navigational hazards 128

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in these waters and the local charts were unreliable, to say the least. It was only right that Valkyrie’s watchkeepers should know that their captain was with them.

“From the information brought by Alfriston, this would seem the most likely area for independent action. Perhaps tomorrow we could decide whether or not to continue this form of search.” Keen watched two seamen dragging new halliards along the deck. “I will decide. While the light is still good I shall want signals sent to Taciturn and Doon. The brig can close with us and carry my report to Halifax.” He faced Adam and added shortly,

“We will discontinue the search before dusk.”

“Halifax, sir?”

Keen studied him grimly. “Halifax.” He walked toward the companion-way, and Adam saw the flag lieutenant waiting there to intercept him.

“Orders, sir?” Urquhart was clearly uncomfortable at having been present during the exchange, and at having sensed a barrier which he had not seen before fall so obviously between admiral and flag captain.

Adam glanced up at the streaming masthead pendant. The wind was holding steady from the south-west. It had not shifted for days; another day would make no difference. And even when they returned to Halifax, it was unlikely that there would be fresh news from Sir Richard.

He realized what Urquhart had asked. “Carry on as before.” He was the captain, and yet his was never the final decision.

He had always known that, but Keen’s curt remark had merely served to emphasize the fact. Perhaps it was because Keen had been used to ships of the line, and had served in frigates as a very junior officer. He tried to smile, to sweep it away. With the best of teachers. But Keen had never commanded one. It should not make any difference. But, unreasonably, it did.

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As the afternoon watch drew to a close, Keen came on deck again.

“I think it is time to make the signal.” He watched the small figure of John Whitmarsh walking aft, some clean shirts folded over one arm, and smiled unexpectedly. “To be his age again, eh, Adam?”

The sudden informality, just men, was disconcerting. “Aye, sir.

But I think I could manage without some of the past.” Keen made up his mind. “You probably think I am giving up too easily. You think we should waste days, weeks even, pursuing what may be a lost cause.”

Adam said, “I still believe we should continue, sir.” Keen shrugged. The bridge between them was gone. “It is my decision. Make the signal!”

Adam saw de Courcey hurrying toward Midshipman Rickman and the prepared hoists of bunting. Back to Halifax, then. Receptions and balls: a ship going stale at her anchorage.

“Deck there! Taciturn’s hoisted a signal!” Adam saw another midshipman reaching for a telescope.

“Aloft, Mr Warren! Lively there!”

He knew Urquhart was watching him. He would never offer his own opinion, or mention what he had seen and heard. Adam shaded his eyes and stared at the sun, like red gold now. But there was still time. If only . . .

The midshipman’s young voice echoed down from the maintop. “From Taciturn, sir ! Enemy in sight to the nor’-east! ” Even at that distance and above the drumming chorus of canvas and rigging, Adam could hear his excitement.

Heading for the strait they had just left. Another hour, and they would have missed them. What sort of enemy, that Taciturn was so certain?

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Urquhart forgot himself. “Hell’s teeth! You were right, sir!” Keen had reappeared. “What is it? Are they sure?” Adam said, “Certain, sir.”

“They’ll run for it.” He sounded unconvinced. “Try and lose us in the Gulf.”

Adam beckoned to Urquhart. “Get the t’gallants on her!” He glanced up at the flag whipping out from the mizzen truck. “This ship could outpace Reaper, no matter what she tried!” He was surprised at his own voice. Pride, where there had been only acceptance; triumph, when he had so recently felt bitterness at Keen’s dismissal of his proposals.

Calls squealed and the deck shook to the rush of bare feet as men ran to obey them. He was aware of their excitement, the relief that something was happening, and awe, when some of the new hands looked aloft to see the topgallant sails bursting from their yards, their canvas already hard to the steady wind.

Adam took a glass and rested it on Midshipman Rickman’s shoulder. First Taciturn; the brig Doon was still not in sight from the deck. And then . . . He tensed, his back chilled despite the lingering warmth of the sun. A thin plume of pale canvas: Reaper.

Not running, and yet they must have sighted them. Three ships on a converging tack. Reaper’s men might fight to the death; they would face it in any case after the brief formality of a court martial. They would have known the penalty for mutiny from the instant they had hauled down the flag. He licked his dry lips. And murdered their captain . . .

Keen spoke for him. “They dare not fight!” Adam turned to Urquhart. “Beat to quarters, if you please.

Then clear for action.” He walked to the taffrail and then back again, his mind grappling with the sudden change of fortune. A show of defiance? A bloody gesture? It would be all of that.

Taciturn alone outgunned the smaller Reaper: Valkyrie could blow her out of the water without even getting to close quarters.

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Keen said, “She’s holding her course.” He held out his arms as his servant appeared beside him to clip on his sword.

“Cleared for action, sir!”

Adam stared at the first lieutenant. He had barely heard the rattle of drums, the stampede of seamen and marines to their stations, and now all was still again, each long gun fully crewed, the decks sanded, the scarlet coats of the marines visible at the hammock nettings and high in the fighting-tops. They had learned well under Peter Dawes, or perhaps it was all due to the impassive Urquhart.

Keen said, “Make to Taciturn, close on Flag. ” He turned away as de Courcey urged the signals party to greater efforts. The flags soared aloft.

“Acknowledged, sir!”

Of the brig Doon there was no sign, but her masthead lookouts would be watching, probably glad they were well clear of it.

“Reaper’s showing her teeth!” Without a glass there was no apparent change, but when Adam propped his on the midshipman’s shoulder he could see the line of protruding guns along the other vessel’s side.

Keen said, “When you are ready, Captain Bolitho.” They looked at each other like strangers.

Adam shouted, “Just like the drill, Mr Urquhart!” He saw some of the nearest men turn to grin at him. “Load and run out!”

“Open the ports!” A whistle shrilled from Monteith, the fourth lieutenant, and with a chorus of yells the seamen threw themselves on their tackles and hauled their guns up and through the open ports. With the wind across the quarter, their task was easier. If they changed tack, or lost the wind-gage, it would be different: uphill all the way, as the old gun captains warned.

Adam turned as young Whitmarsh walked unhurriedly between the crouching gun crews and watchful marines, Adam’s new hanger held in his hands like a talisman. Adam looked around 132

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at the others on the quarterdeck. George Starr, his old coxswain, should be here, Hudson, who had also died, and other faces, so painfully clear that he was caught off-guard.

He waited for the boy to clip on his hanger and said, “Below with you, my lad! No heroics today!” He saw the dismay on his face and added gently, “You need no reminding either, do you?” Keen was beside him. “What can they hope to achieve?” Adam saw the telescopes being trained on the distant Taciturn, heard de Courcey’s smooth voice reading out a signal. Then he lowered his glass, his mind suddenly blank. “They have hostages, sir.”

“So that is what they intend. To sail directly past us, knowing we will not fire!” He seemed to consider it, with disbelief. “Would they do that?”

“It may be a bluff, sir.” But he knew it was not. It was all the enemy had left. With this wind they would be within range in less than half an hour.

Keen said, “It would be murder!”

Adam watched him, feeling his anger and revulsion. His decision, just as he had insisted earlier.

When Adam remained silent, Keen exclaimed, “For God’s sake, what should I do?”

Adam touched the hilt of his new hanger, the one he had chosen with such care in the old sword cutler’s shop in the Strand.

“Men will die in any case if we fight, sir. But to lose Reaper now would be an even greater tragedy.” Keen seemed to sigh. “Signal Taciturn to take station astern of Flag.”

The signal was acknowledged, and Adam watched the leading frigate’s sails in momentary confusion as she began to come about as ordered. He could feel both pity and admiration for Keen. He was not going to leave the first encounter to one of his CROSS OF S T GEORGE

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captains. As Richard Bolitho had so often said, here was where the responsibility began and ended, like the flag at the mizzen truck. Final.

He had forgotten about Midshipman Warren, who was still in the maintop.

“Deck, there!” Then shock, disbelief. “There are prisoners on Reaper’s deck, sir!” There was a pause. “Women, too!” Keen said sharply, “D’ you still think they’re bluffing?” It was like a nightmare, Adam thought. Reaper would suffer the same fate yet again; she would be raked as she had been by the Americans, before she could even get within range.

Urquhart had gone to his station by the mainmast, his sword laid across one shoulder as if he were about to perform a ceremony.

Adam gripped the quarterdeck rail. He did not need to be told what would happen when these long eighteen-pounders, double-shotted as ordered, thundered out at the oncoming ship.

He knew that some of the gun crews were peering aft at him, and wanted to shout at them. There is no decision to be made. They must not escape.

He heard de Courcey say, “Two women, sir. The rest look like sailors.” Even he sounded dazed, unable to accept what he saw.

Adam raised his voice. “On the uproll, Mr Urquhart! As you bear!” Urquhart knew what to do: they all did. But they had to be held together, and commanded, no matter what they believed.

“Take in the t’gallants!” High overhead, men moved like mon-keys, detached from the tension and apprehension on the deck below.

Adam turned to the sailing-master. “Stand by to bring her up two points, Mr Ritchie. Then we will fire.” Keen was in the shrouds, oblivious to the spray and risk; he was holding the midshipman’s big telescope, his fair hair whipping in the wind.

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Like that day at the church in Zennor . . . Val and Zenoria

. . . He closed his eyes as Keen said harshly, “One of the hostages is David St Clair! His daughter must be with him!” He thrust the memories aside; this was no place for them. He heard Keen say, “No bluff, then.” He climbed down to the deck and faced him.

Adam said, “Stand by!” He forced himself to look at the oncoming frigate, leaning over to expose her bright copper, her gilded figurehead with the upraised scythe suddenly clear and terrible.

Each gun captain would be staring aft at the solitary figure by the rail, looking to a captain whom they knew only by reputation. But every man knew what he would see when the Valkyrie altered course, and the target filled each port. Here, a man cleared his throat; another turned to wipe sweat from his eyes.

Suppose they refuse to fire on men like themselves?

Adam felt anger pound through him. They were not like them.

I must not think of it!

He drew his hanger and raised it shoulder high.

Dear God, what are we doing?

“Alter course, Mr Ritchie!”

He swung round as the uneven roar of cannon fire rolled and echoed across the short, white-tipped waves.

With disbelief he saw Reaper’s guns recoiling in a broken broadside, in pairs and singly, until at last only one fired from the bow.

There were patches of leaping foam now; the taller water-spouts of the heavier guns churned up the sea’s face and faded almost as suddenly. A full broadside, fired into oblivion.

Keen said, “They would not fire on us!” He looked at those nearest him. “Because they knew we would destroy them!” Adam said, “The bluff failed.” He saw some of the gun crews staring at each other; two seamen even reached across an eighteen-CROSS OF S T GEORGE

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pounder to shake hands. It was no victory, but at least it was not bloody murder, either.

“Signal her to heave-to! Stand by, boarding parties!” Adam called, “Be ready to fire. We will take nothing for granted!”

He touched his hat to Keen. “I’d like to go across myself, sir.” Keen gazed past him as something like a great sigh came from the watching seamen and marines.

“She’s struck her colours, thank God.” Ritchie, the old sailing-master, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Poor old girl. She’s taken all she can, I reckon!” Adam looked at him. A toughened, unsentimental professional, but in his simple way he had said it all.

Keen said, “Take good care of St Clair and his daughter. The ordeal must have been dreadful for them.” Adam saw the boats being swayed up and over the larboard gangway: Urquhart had taught them well. The guns would still be able to fire if necessary, without being hampered by their presence.

“I will, sir.” He stared across at the other ship, her sails flapping as she came into the wind. Another minute and it would have ended differently. As it was . . . He recalled the sailing-master’s words, like an epitaph. For a ship, not for those who had betrayed her.

Keeping in line abreast, Valkyrie’s boats pulled steadily toward the other frigate. Tension remained high. If Reaper’s captors decided to resist, they might still be able to make sail and escape, or attempt it.

Adam looked over at the other boats. His captain of marines, Loftus, was very conspicuous in his scarlet tunic, an easy target for any marksman, nor would his own epaulettes have gone unnoticed. He found himself smiling slightly. Gulliver, the sixth 136

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lieutenant, glanced quickly at him, perhaps taking comfort in what he saw.

He said, “This will even the score, sir!” He spoke like a veteran. He was about twenty years old.

“Reaper, ahoy! We are coming aboard! Throw down your weapons!”

Adam touched the pistol beneath his coat. This was the moment. Some hothead, a man with nothing to lose, might use it as a last chance. Boat by boat they went alongside, and he was conscious of a strange sense of loneliness with Valkyrie hidden by this pitching hull. No chances. But would Keen order his flagship to open fire with so many of his own men on board?

It was uncanny. Like a dead ship. They scrambled up and over the gangway, weapons held ready, while from the opposite end of the vessel some of the marines were already swarming onto the forecastle. They had even swung round a swivel, and had trained it on the silent figures lining the gun deck.

His men parted to let their captain through, seeing the ship through different eyes now that she had struck. The guns which had fired blindly into the open water moved restlessly, unloaded and abandoned, rammers and sponges lying where they had been dropped. Adam walked aft to the big double-wheel, where two of his men had taken control. The hostages, released and apparently unharmed, were grouped around the mizzen-mast, while along the gun deck the seamen seemed to have separated into two distinct groups, the mutineers and the American prize crew.

There were two American lieutenants waiting for him.

“Are there any more officers aboard?” The senior of the two shook his head. “The ship is yours Captain Bolitho.”

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So they knew who he was. He said, “What were you hoping to do, Lieutenant?”

The tall officer shrugged. “My name is Robert Neill, Captain.

Reaper is a prize of war. They surrendered.”

“And you are a prisoner of war. Your men, also.” He paused.

“Captain Loftus, take charge of the others. You know what to do.” To Neill he said, “You offered British seamen a chance to mutiny. In fact, you and your captain incited it.” The man Neill sighed. “I have nothing to add.” He watched the two officers hand their swords to a marine.

“You will be well treated.” He hesitated, hating the silence, the smell of fear. “As I was.”

Then, with a nod to Loftus, he turned and walked toward the waiting hostages.

One, a silver-haired man with an alert, youthful face, stepped forward, ignoring the raised bayonet of a marine.

“My name is David St Clair.” He reached out his hand. “This is my daughter, Gilia. Your arrival was a miracle, sir. A miracle!” Adam glanced at the young woman. She was warmly dressed for travel, her eyes steady and defiant, as if this were the ordeal rather than its relief.

He said, “I have little time, Mr St Clair. I am to transfer you to my ship, Valkyrie, before it becomes too dark.” St Clair stared at him. “I know that name!” He held his daughter’s arm. “Valentine Keen’s ship, you recall it!” But she was observing Valkyrie’s seamen and marines, as if sensing the friction between them and their prisoners.

Adam said, “His flagship. I am his flag captain.” St Clair said smoothly, “Of course. He is promoted now.” Adam said, “How were you taken, sir?”

“We were on passage in the schooner Crystal, out of Halifax, bound for the St Lawrence. Admiralty business.” He seemed to become aware of Adam’s impatience and continued, “These 138

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others are her crew. The woman is the master’s wife, who was aboard with him.”

“I was told of your business here, sir. I thought it dangerous, at the time.” He glanced at the girl again. “I was proved right, it seems.”

A boatswain’s mate was waiting, trying to catch his eye.

“What is it, Laker?”

The man seemed surprised that his new captain should know his name. “The two Yankee officers, sir . . .”

“Send them over to the ship. Their own men, too. Lively now!” His eyes moved to the gangway where one of the guns was still abandoned on its tackles. There was a great stain on the planking, like black tar. It must be blood. Perhaps it marked the place where they had flogged their captain without mercy.

He called, “And run up our colours!” It was a small enough gesture, amid so much shame.

One of the American lieutenants paused with his escort. “Tell me one thing, Captain. Would you have fired, hostages or not?” Adam swung away. “Take them across.” St Clair’s daughter said quietly, “I wondered that myself, Captain.” She was shivering now, despite her warm clothing, the shock and realization of what had happened cutting away her reserve.

St Clair put his arm around her, and said, “The guns were loaded and ready. At the last minute some of the men, her original people, I believe, fired them to show their intentions.” Adam said, “The American lieutenant, Neill, is probably asking himself the same question that he put to me.” He looked the girl directly in the eyes. “In war, there are few easy choices.”

“Boat’s ready, sir!”

“Have you any baggage to be taken across?” St Clair guided his daughter to the side, where a boatswain’s chair had been rigged for her.

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“None. There was no time. Afterwards, they destroyed the Crystal. There was an explosion of some kind.” Adam looked around the deserted deck, at his own men, who were waiting to get Reaper under way again. They would probably have preferred to send her to the bottom. And so would I.

He walked to the side, and ensured that the girl was securely seated.

“You will be more comfortable in the flagship, ma’am. We shall be returning to Halifax.”

Some of Reaper’s original company, urged ungently by Loftus’s marines, were already being taken below, to be secured for the remainder of the passage.

She murmured, “What will become of them?” Adam said curtly, “They will hang.” She studied him, as if searching his face for something. “Had they fired on your ship we would all be dead, is that not so?” When Adam remained silent, she persisted, “Surely that must be taken into consideration.”

Adam turned suddenly. “That man! Come here!” The seaman, still wearing a crumpled, red-checkered shirt, came over immediately and knuckled his forehead. “Sir?”

“I know you!”

“Aye, Cap’n Bolitho. I was a maintopman in Anemone two years back. You put me ashore when I was took sick o’ fever.” Memory came, and with it the names of the past. “Ramsay, what in hell’s name happened, man?” He had forgotten the girl, who was listening intently, her father, the others, everything but this one, familiar face. There was no fear in it, but it was the face of a man already condemned, a man who had known the nearness of death in the past, and had accepted it.

“It ain’t my place, Cap’n Bolitho. Not with you. That’s all over, done with.” He came to a decision, and very deliberately dragged his shirt over his head. Then he said, “No disrespect to you, miss.

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But for you, I think we would have fired.” Then he turned his back, allowing the fading sunlight to fall across his skin.

Adam said, “Why?” He heard the girl give a strangled sob. It must seem far worse to her.

The seaman named Ramsay had been so cruelly flogged that his body was barely human. Some of the torn flesh had not yet healed.

He pulled his shirt on again. “Because he enjoyed it.”

“I am sorry, Ramsay.” He touched his arm impulsively, knowing that Lieutenant Gulliver was watching him with disbelief. “I will do what I can for you.”

When he looked again, the man was gone. There was no hope, and he would know it. And yet those few words had meant so much, to both of them.

Gulliver said uneasily, “Ready, sir.” But before the boatswain’s chair was swung out to be lowered into the waiting boat, Adam said to St Clair’s daughter, “Sometimes, there are no choices whatsoever.”

“Lower away! Easy, lads!”

Then he straightened his back and turned to face the others.

He was the captain again.

8 too M uch to lose

RICHARD BOLITHO leaned away from the bright sunshine that lanced through Indomitable ’s cabin windows to rest his head against the chair’s high back. It was deep and comfortable, a bergère, which Catherine had sent on board when this ship had first hoisted his flag. Yovell, his secretary, sat at the table, while Lieutenant Avery stood by the stern bench watching two of the CROSS OF S T GEORGE

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ship’s boats pulling back from the brig Alfriston, which had met up with them at dawn.

Tyacke had made it his business to send across some fresh fruit. Having commanded a small brig himself, he would have appreciated its value to her hard-worked company.

There had been a burst of cheering when Alfriston had hove-to to pass across her despatches, which was quickly quelled by officers on watch who had been very aware of their admiral’s open skylight, and perhaps the importance of the news Alfriston might have brought to him.

Tyacke had come aft, bringing the heavy canvas satchel himself.

When Bolitho asked about the cheering, he had replied impassively, “Reaper’s been retaken, Sir Richard.” He glanced now at the heavy pile of despatches on the table.

The entire report of the search for, and capture of, Reaper was there, written in Keen’s own hand rather than that of a secretary.

Did he lack confidence in his own actions, or in those who supported him, he wondered. It remained a private document, and yet, despite the seals and the secrecy, Indomitable’s people had known its contents, or had guessed what had happened. Such intuition was uncanny, but not unusual.

He listened to the creak of tackles and the twitter of a bosun’s call as the next net full of stores was hoisted outboard before being lowered into a boat for Alfriston. It was difficult to look at the vast blue expanse of ocean beyond the windows. His eye was painful, and he had wanted to rub it, even though he had been warned against disturbing it. He must accept that it was getting worse.

He tried to concentrate on Keen’s careful appraisal of Reaper’s discovery and capture. He had missed out nothing, even his own despair when he had seen the hostages paraded on her deck, a 142

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human barricade against Valkyrie’s guns. He had generously praised Adam’s part in it, and his handling of the captured sailors, American and mutineers alike.

But his mind rebelled against the intrusion of duty. In the bag sent over with Keen’s despatch had been some letters, one from Catherine, the first since they had parted in Plymouth some three months ago. He had held it to his face, had seen Yovell’s discreet glance, had caught the faint reminder of her perfume.

Avery said, “The last boat’s casting off, Sir Richard.” He sounded tense, on edge. Perhaps he, too, had been hoping for a letter, although Bolitho had never known him to receive one. Like Tyacke, his only world seemed to be here.

Bolitho turned once more to Keen’s lengthy report, rereading the information concerning David St Clair and his daughter, who had been prisoners aboard Reaper. Taken from a schooner, but surely no accidental encounter? St Clair was under Admiralty contract, and Keen had mentioned that he had been intending to visit the naval dockyard at Kingston and also a shipbuilding site at York, where a 30-gun man-of-war was close to completion. The final work on the vessel had apparently been delayed by a dispute with the Provincial Marine, under whose control she would eventually be. St Clair, well used to dealing with bureaucracy, had been hoping to speed things to a satisfactory conclusion. Captains in the fleet might find it difficult to regard such a relatively small vessel as a matter of great importance, but as Keen had learned from St Clair, when in commission the new vessel would be the biggest and most powerful on the lakes. No American craft would be able to stand against her: the lakes would be held under the White Ensign. But should the Americans attack and seize her, completed or not, the effect would be disastrous. It would mean the end of Upper Canada as a British province. Just one ship; and the Americans would have known of her existence from the moment her keel had been laid. In the light of this, St Clair’s CROSS OF S T GEORGE

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capture appeared even less of a casual misfortune. His mission had also been known: he had had to be removed. Bolitho thought of the savage gunfire, the pathetic wreckage of the Royal Herald.

Or killed.

He said to Yovell, “Have our bag sent over to Alfriston. She’ll be impatient to get under way again.” He thought of the brig’s gaunt commander, and wondered what his feelings had been when he had heard of Reaper’s capture, and that her only defiance had been fired deliberately into open water.

Ozzard peered through the other door. “Captain’s coming, sir.” Tyacke entered and glanced at the littered papers on Bolitho’s table. Bolitho thought he was probably like Alfriston’s commander, eager to move.

Without effort he could picture his ships on this great, empty ocean: two hundred miles south-west of the Bermudas, the other frigates Virtue and Attacker mere slivers of light on opposite horizons. Perhaps if they had not waited, the Americans would have attacked the assembled convoy, their powerful frigates destroying it or beating it into submission, no matter what the escorting men-of-war might have attempted.

A mistake, a waste of time? Or had the Americans outguessed them yet again? The enemy’s intelligence sources were without parallel. To know about St Clair and to see his involvement as a direct threat to some greater plan matched the impudent way they had seized Reaper and turned the advantage into a shame, news of which would ring throughout the fleet in spite of, or even because of, the punishments which would be meted out to the men who had mutinied against their captain, and against the Crown.

The convoy was well away, and would be standing out into the Atlantic. Their speed would be that of the slowest merchantman, a misery for the escorting frigates and brigs. But safe, in a few days’ time.

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Reaper’s first lieutenant at a military hospital in Hamilton. Bolitho himself would have liked to have spoken to the Reaper’s only surviving officer, who had been with his captain until the incident’s macabre and brutal conclusion, but Reaper had been one of his own squadron. He could not become personally involved with men whose warrants he might be called upon to sign.

Reaper’s captain had been a tyrant and a sadist, terms which Bolitho would never use without great consideration. He had been moved from another command to make Reaper into an efficient and reliable fighting ship once more, and to restore her reputation. But early in his tenure another side of his nature had revealed itself. Perhaps he had, in fact, been moved from that other command because of his own brutality. Any captain sailing alone had to keep the balance between discipline and tyranny firmly in his mind. Only the afterguard, with its thin ranks of Royal Marines, stood between him and open rebellion. And even if provoked, it could never be condoned.

Tyacke said, “Orders, Sir Richard?” Bolitho turned away from the glare and saw that Yovell and Avery had left the cabin. It seemed a mutual awareness of his desire to confer privately with his flag captain: a loyalty which never failed to move him.

“I want your views, James. Return to Halifax and discover what is happening? Or remain here, and so weaken our squadron?” Tyacke rubbed the scarred side of his face. He had seen the letter handed to Bolitho and been surprised by his own envy. If only . . . He thought of the wine which Catherine Somervell had sent him, like the deep green leather chair in which Bolitho was sitting, her gifts, and her abiding presence in this cabin. With a woman like that . . .

Bolitho asked, “What is it, James? You know me well enough to speak out.”

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Tyacke dismissed the thoughts, glad that they could not be known.

“I believe the Yankees—” he smiled awkwardly, recalling Dawes, “the Americans will need to move very soon. Maybe they’ve already made a beginning. Rear-Admiral Keen’s information about the shipbuilder, this man St Clair, points to it. Once we have more ships, as Their Lordships say we will when Bona-parte is finally beaten, they’ll face a blockade of their entire coastline. Trade, supplies, ships, unable to move.” He paused, and seemed to come to a decision. “I’ve spoken to Isaac York, and he insists that this weather will hold.” Again he offered a small, attractive smile, which even his disfigurement could not diminish. “And my new purser assures me that we are well supplied for another month. The pips might squeak a bit, but we can manage.”

“Remain on this patrol? Is that what you are telling me?”

“Look, sir, if you were some high an’ mighty Yankee with good ships, albeit Frogs, at your disposal, what would you do?” Bolitho nodded, considering it. He could even see the unknown ships in his mind, as clearly as the hollow-eyed Commander Borradaile had seen them through his telescope. Big, well-armed, free of all authority but their own.

“I’d take advantage of this south-westerly and go for the convoy, even at this stage. A long way, and a risk if you are facing the unknown. But I don’t think it is unknown to our man.” There were muffled cheers on deck, and he left the chair to walk to the stern windows. “There goes Alfriston, James.” Tyacke watched him, with affection and concern. Every time he thought he knew this man he found there was something more to learn. He noticed that Bolitho was shading his left eye, and saw the sadness and introspection in the profile against the light.

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miles and transfers from ship to ship before Catherine Somervell would open and read it. Perhaps thinking, too, of his own independence as a very young commander, when each day was a challenge, but not a burden. A proud man, and a sensitive one, a man Tyacke had seen holding the hand of a dying enemy in Indomitable’s last and greatest battle. Who had tried to comfort his coxswain when Allday’s son had been killed in that same fight.

He cared, and those who knew him loved him for it. The others were content with the legend. And yet his would be the responsibility for sending Reaper’s seamen to choke from a yardarm.

Tyacke had only known Reaper’s captain by reputation. It had been enough.

Bolitho turned from the sea. “I agree with you, James. We will remain on station.” He walked back to the table and spread his hands on the open despatches. “Another day or so. After that, time and distance can become a handicap.” He smiled. “Even to our enemy.”

Tyacke picked up his hat. “I’ll make the necessary signals to our consorts when we alter course at two bells, sir.” Bolitho sat down again and rested his head against the warm green leather. He thought of May in Cornwall, the tide of pure colour, thousands of bluebells, the sea sparkling . . . It would soon be June. He felt his fingers tighten on the arms of the chair she had had made for him. So long. So long . . .

The familiar sounds faded; the sunlight no longer tormented him as wind and rudder guided this great ship like a bridle.

Then, and only then, did he take the letter from his coat. He held it to his face again, to his mouth, as she would have done.

Then he opened it with great care, always with the same uncertainty, even fear.

My dearest Beloved Richard . . .

She was with him. Nothing had changed. The fear was gone.

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Lieutenant George Avery wedged his feet against his sea-chest and stared up at the deckhead in his tiny, screened cabin. Feet moved occasionally on the wet planking as men hastened to take in the slack of some running rigging.

Outside it was pitch black, with plenty of stars but no moon.

He toyed with the idea of going on deck but knew he would be in the way, or worse, those on watch might think that he had been sent to report on their progress. He glanced at his gently swaying cot and rejected it. Where was the point? He would not be able to sleep, or at least, not for long. Then his doubts would come to torment him. He considered the wardroom, but knew there would be somebody there, like himself unable to sleep, or looking for a partner for a game of cards. Like the dead Scarlett, Indomitable’s first lieutenant when she had ceased to be a private ship and had first worn Bolitho’s flag. He had wanted so much to have a command of his own, and outwardly had been a good officer, but he was being driven quietly mad by his mounting debts, his inability to stop gambling, and his desperate need to win. Avery had seen David Merrick, the acting captain of marines, sitting in the wardroom earlier, a book open on his lap to deter conversation, but his eyes unmoving. His superior, du Cann, had died that day with Scarlett and many others, but promotion seemed to have brought him no pleasure.

He thought of Alfriston, and the letter he had seen resting between the leaves of a book on Bolitho’s table. Envy? It went deeper than that. He had even been denied the odd pleasure it gave him to read one of Allday’s letters aloud: there had been none for him from Unis, and Avery knew he was troubled, confused by a separation he had been unable to accept. Avery had seen him, too, that afternoon, motionless on the deck, alone despite the bustling hands around him. He was standing at the place where his son had died, maybe trying to see the sense of it all.

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He glanced at his small cupboard, thinking of the good cognac he kept there. If he had a drink now, he would not stop.

More feet rushed overhead. The ship was altering course very slightly, the shrouds drumming in a muffled tattoo. And tomorrow—what then? It had been late afternoon when the brig Marvel had closed with the flagship. She had sighted two ships to the north, steering east, as far as her commander could tell. He had turned away rather than run up a hoist of signals, and he had acted wisely. Any small vessel would have run for it, if the two ships were the enemy.

But overnight all could change. It could be a waste of time: the ships might have changed tack completely, or Marvel’s lookouts might have been mistaken, seeing only what they expected to see, as was often the case in these hit-and-run tactics.

He recalled Bolitho when they had first met, strengthened or troubled by a letter from Catherine, it was impossible to say. He had spoken unexpectedly of his childhood at Falmouth, and his awe of his father, Captain James Bolitho. He had said that he never doubted or questioned his vocation as a sea officer, although Avery thought privately that he was more uncertain now than at any other time.

Of the two reported ships he had said, “If they are the enemy, it is unlikely that they will know of Reaper’s recapture. Yet, if they are truly after the convoy from Bermuda, then I think they will come at us. They are becoming too used to success. This may be one gamble too many.”

He could have been speaking of somebody else, or some report he had read in his despatches or in the Gazette. Avery had looked around the spacious cabin, the tethered guns on either side, the books, and the fine wine cooler with the Bolitho motto on the top. The same place which had been blasted and blackened in that action, where men had fought and died, and survival had seemed like an accident or a miracle. If he returned to it now, he CROSS OF S T GEORGE

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thought he would probably find Bolitho still sitting in the leather chair, reading one of his books, his fingers occasionally brushing against the letter which he would open again before he turned in.

He ran his fingers through his hair and allowed the thought and the memory to intrude. As if she had suddenly appeared in this tiny hutch, the only place he could truly be alone.

Suppose they had not met? He shook his head as if to deny it. That had only been partly the cause. I am thirty-five years old.

A lieutenant without prospects, beyond serving this man for whom I care more than I would have believed humanly possible. The same Lieutenant Scarlett, during one of his many heated exchanges, had suggested that he was only waiting for the reward of promotion, for a command of his own, no matter how small. And once that might have been true. There had seemed no other course, no hope for someone of his station; even the lingering stain of his court martial would not have been forgotten in the high offices of the admiralty.

I am not a round-eyed midshipman, or a young lieutenant with the world still for the asking. I should have stopped there. Stopped, and forgotten her . . . She was probably laughing about it at this very moment. Just as he knew it would break his heart, if he really believed that she was.

I should have known. A sea officer who had proved his courage in battle, and in bitter struggle to live after being wounded. But when it came to women he was a child, an innocent.

But it would not disperse. He was still there, and it was like a dream, something so vivid and unplanned. Something inevitable.

The house had been almost empty; the full staff were only expected to arrive after Rear-Admiral Sir Robert Mildmay’s residence in Bath was finally closed and sold.

She had been so calm, amused, he thought, by his concern for her reputation, assuring him that the formidable housekeeper was completely loyal and discreet, and the cook, the only other 150

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person residing in the house, was all but deaf. He had often recalled that description, loyal and discreet. Did it have a double meaning? That her affairs were numerous? He rubbed his forehead. That she might be entertaining some other man even at this moment?

He heard footsteps outside, the click of Captain Merrick’s boots. He would be going around his sentries, inspecting places deep in the lightless hull where guards were mounted day and night. Another man with a private torment: unable to sleep, afraid of what dreams might bring. Avery smiled grimly. As well he might.

He opened the shutter of his solitary lantern very slightly, but instead of the small flame he saw the great fire, half red, and half white ash. She had led him by the hand across the room. “It will be cold tonight.”

He had attempted to touch her, to take her arm, but she had moved away, her eyes in shadow while she had watched him.

“There is some wine on the table. It would be pleasant, don’t you think?” She had reached for the tongs beside a basket of logs.

“Let me.” They had knelt together, watching the sparks going up the chimney like fireflies.

She had said, “I must go. I have things to do.” She had not looked at him. Later, he had realized that she had been unable to.

The house had been like a tomb, the room facing away from the street and the occasional noise of carriage wheels.

Avery had had no experience with women, except for one brief incident with a French lady who had visited sick and wounded prisoners of war. There had been no affection, only need, an urgency which had left him feeling used and vaguely degraded.

He was still unable to believe what had happened in London.

She had appeared on the edge of the shadows, her body all in white, her feet bare on the carpet, the feet alone touched by the flickering firelight.

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“Here I am, Mister Avery!” She had laughed softly, and when he had got up from the fire, “You spoke to me of your love.” She had held out her arms. “Show me.”

He had held her, gently at first, then more firmly as he had felt the curve of her spine under his hand, and had realized that beneath the flimsy gown she was naked.

Then, for the first time, he had felt her shivering, although her body was warm, even hot. He had tried to kiss her, but she had pressed her face into his shoulder, and repeated, “Show me.” He had seized the gown, and in seconds had her in his arms again, unable to stop himself, even if his senses had permitted it.

He had carried her to the great bed and had knelt over her, touching her, exploring her, kissing her from her throat to her thigh.

He had seen her raise her head to watch him as he threw off his clothes, her hair like living gold in the light. Then she had laid back again, her arms spread out as if crucified.

“Show me!” She had resisted when he had gripped her wrists, and had twisted from side to side, her body arched as he had forced her down, and down, finding her, unable to wait, unwilling to restrain his desire.

She had been ready, and had drawn him to her, passionate, tender, experienced, enclosing him deeply in her body until they were both spent.

She had murmured, “That was love, Mister Avery.”

“I must leave, Susanna.” It was the first time he had called her by name.

“First, some wine.” She had lifted up on one elbow, making no attempt to cover herself. Nor did she resist when he touched her again; she reached out to provoke and arouse him once more, and he had known then that he could not leave her. At dawn’s first intrusion they had finally tasted the wine, and had crouched again by the fire, now all but dead in the faint grey light.

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again while she had stood watching him, quite naked but for his cocked hat. Then he had embraced her once more, unable to find the words, his mind and body still reeling from the impossible dream, which had become reality.

She had whispered, “I promised you a carriage.” He had pressed her hair against his chin. “I shall be all right.

I could possibly fly to Chelsea!”

The moment of parting had been painful, almost embarrassing.

“I am sorry if I hurt you, Susanna . . . I am . . . clumsy.” She had smiled. “You are a man. A real man.” He might have said, “Please write to me.” But he could not honestly say that he had. The door had closed, and he had made his way down the stairs to the street doors, where someone had placed and lighted a fresh stand of candles for his departure. Loyal and discreet.

There was a tap at the screen door, startling him, and he found Ozzard standing outside, a small tray beneath his arm. For a moment Avery though he must have been reliving it all aloud, and that Ozzard had heard him.

Ozzard said only, “Sir Richard’s compliments, sir, and he’d like to see you aft.”

“Of course.” Avery closed the door and groped for a comb.

Did Ozzard never sleep either?

He sat down again and grinned ruefully. She would be laughing, maybe, but remembering too.

Perhaps he had been a worse fool than he knew. But he would never forget.

He smiled. Mister Avery.

Captain James Tyacke stepped into the stern cabin and looked around at the familiar faces, his eyes accepting the light with surprising ease after the blackness of the quarterdeck, where little more than a tiny compass lamp pierced the night.

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Bolitho was standing at the table, with his hands spread on a chart, Avery by his elbow, while the plump and scholarly Yovell sat at a smaller table, his pen poised over some papers. Ozzard moved only occasionally to refill their cups with coffee but remained, as usual, silent, merely shifting from one foot to the other to betray any agitation he might feel.

And framed against the great span of thick glass windows was Allday, a drawn sword in one hand, while he moved a cloth slowly up and down the blade as Tyacke had seen him do so often.

Bolitho’s oak: only death would separate them.

Tyacke shut it from his mind. “All the hands have been fed, Sir Richard. I’ve been around the ship to have a quiet word with my people.”

He could not have slept much, Bolitho thought, but he was ready now, even if his admiral were to be proved wrong. He had even considered that possibility. The ship’s company had been roused early, but they had not yet cleared for action. There was nothing worse for morale than the anti-climax of discovering that the enemy had outguessed or outmaneuvered them, and the sea was empty.

My people. That was also typical of Tyacke. He was referring to the ship’s backbone of professionals, his warrant officers, all skilled and experienced men like Isaac York, the sailing-master, Harry Duff, the gunner, and Sam Hockenhull, the squat boatswain. Men who had come up the hard way, like Alfriston’s untidy commander.

Yet against them, the lieutenants were amateurs. Even Daubeny, the first lieutenant, was still young for his position, which would not have come his way so soon but for the death of his predecessor. But that one fierce battle eight months ago had given him a maturity that seemed to surprise him more than anybody. As for the others, the most junior was Blythe, only just promoted from the midshipmen’s berth. He was big-headed and 154

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very sure of himself, but even Tyacke had overcome his dislike of him to say that he was improving. Slightly.

And Laroche, the piggy-faced third lieutenant, who had once received the rough edge of Tyacke’s tongue when he had been in charge of a press-gang, also lacked experience except for their encounter with Unity.

Tyacke was saying, “The new hands have settled down quite well, sir. As for the Nova Scotians who volunteered, I’m glad they’re with us and not the enemy!” Bolitho stared down at the chart, the soundings and calculations between his hands. Ships meeting, the mind of an enemy, all meaningless if there was nothing when daylight came.

York had been right about the wind. It was even and steady from the south-west, and the ship, under reduced canvas, was lying well to it; when he had been on deck he had watched the spray bursting like phantoms along the lee side and up through the beak-head with its snarling lion.

Avery asked, “Will they fight or run, Sir Richard?” He saw the alertness in the grey eyes that lifted to him; there was no hint of fatigue or doubt. Bolitho had shaved, and Avery wondered what he and Allday had discussed while the big coxswain had used his razor as easily as if it were broad daylight.

His shirt was loosely fastened, and Avery had seen the glint of silver when he had stooped over the chart. The locket he always wore.

Bolitho shrugged. “Fight. If they have not already gone about and headed for port somewhere, they will have little choice, I think.” He looked up at the deckhead beams. “The wind is an ally today.”

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blocks, and imagined the ship leaning over to the wind, knowing that Bolitho was seeing it also, even as they spoke.

Tyacke would consider the situation rather differently, perhaps, but with the same end in mind. How many times had this ship lived through moments like this? She was thirty-six years old, and her battle honours read like history itself: the Chesapeake, the Saintes, the Nile, and Copenhagen. So many men, so much pain. He thought of Tyacke’s fiercely contained pride for the ship he had not wanted. And she had never been beaten.

Bolitho said suddenly, “Your assistant, George—Mr Midshipman Carleton. Doing well, isn’t he?” Avery glanced quickly at Tyacke, who gave the merest hint of a smile, but no more.

“Yes, sir, he is very good with his signals crew. He hopes to be offered promotion. He is seventeen.” The question had disconcerted him: he never really knew what Bolitho might toss his way, or why.

Tyacke said, “He’s a damned sight quieter than Mr Blythe ever was.”

Bolitho felt them relaxing, except Ozzard. He was waiting to hear, to know. He would go below, as deep as possible into the hull, when the first shots were fired. He should be ashore, Bolitho thought, away from this life. And yet, he knew that he had nowhere to go, no one who waited for him. Even when they were in Cornwall, and Ozzard lived in his cottage on the estate, he remained profoundly alone.

Bolitho said, “I want young Carleton aloft.” He tugged out his watch and flicked open the guard.

Tyacke read his thoughts. “Less than an hour, sir.” Bolitho glanced at his empty cup, and heard Ozzard say ten-tatively, “I could make another pot, Sir Richard.”

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drowned out by the muffled hiss of the sea, he heard a man laugh somewhere. Such a small thing, but he thought of the wretched Reaper: there had been no laughter there. He remembered as if it were yesterday the evening when Tyacke had taken the lordly Midshipman Blythe below deck to visit the crowded seamen’s and marines’ messes, to show him what he had called

“the strength of a ship.” That had been before the battle. The same strength had prevailed then. He thought of Allday’s grief.

At a cost . . .

He said, “If we fight, we will give of our best.” For a moment it was like hearing someone else’s voice. “But we must never forget those who depend on us, because they have no other choice.” Tyacke reached for his hat. “I’ll have the galley fire doused in good time, Sir Richard.”

But Bolitho was looking at Avery. “Go and speak with your Mr Carleton.” He closed his watch, but was still holding it. “You may pass the word now, James. It will be warm enough today.” As Ozzard gathered up the cups and the others left the cabin, Bolitho looked over at Allday.

“Well, old friend. Why here, you must be thinking, a tiny mark on this great ocean. Are we destined to fight?” Allday held out the old sword and ran his eye along the edge.

“Like all them other times, Sir Richard. It was meant to be.

That’s it an’ all about it.” Then he grinned, almost his old self again. “We’ll win, no matter what.” He paused, and the defiant humour was gone. “Y’ see, Sir Richard, we’ve both got too much to lose.” He slid the blade back into its scabbard. “God help them that tries to take it away!”

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after a lifetime at sea. The sails were paler now, but there was no horizon, and the only movement he recognized through the thick criss-cross of rigging and flapping canvas seemed to float above the ship, keeping pace with her like a solitary sea bird. It was his flag, the Cross of St George, which flew day and night while he was in command. He thought of her letter in the pocket of his coat, and imagined he could hear her voice. My admiral of England.

He could still taste the bitterness of coffee on his tongue, and wondered why he had not forced himself to eat. Tension, uncertainty perhaps. But fear? He smiled. Perhaps he could no longer recognize that emotion.

Figures moved all around him, each one careful not to intrude upon his solitude. He could see Isaac York, a head taller than his mates, his slate-coloured hair blowing in the wind: a good man and a strong one. Bolitho knew that he had even tried to help Scarlett when the extent of his debts had become known.

The white breeches of the lieutenants and midshipmen stood out in the lingering darkness, and he guessed that they were preparing themselves for what might happen today, each in his own fashion.

He moved to the compass box and glanced at the tilting card.

North-east by north, with the wind still firm across the larboard quarter. Men were working high overhead, feeling for frayed cordage or jammed blocks with the sureness of true seamen.

Tyacke was down on the lee side, his lean figure framed against the pale water creaming back from the bows. One long arm moved to emphasize a point, and he could imagine Daubeny concentrating on every word. They were chalk and cheese, but the mixture seemed to work: Tyacke had a peculiar gift of being able to com-municate his requirements to his subordinates without unnecessary anger or sarcasm. At first they had been afraid of him, and repulsed by the hideous scars: eventually they had all overcome 158

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such things, and had become a company of which to be proud.

He heard a midshipman whisper to his friend and saw them look up, and he shaded his eyes and stared with them at his flag, the red cross suddenly hard and bright, touched by the first light of dawn.

“Deck there!” Carleton’s voice was clear and very loud: he was using a speaking-trumpet. “Sail on the larboard bow!” A pause, and Bolitho could picture the young midshipman asking the masthead lookout his opinion. Tyacke was always careful with his choice of “eyes”: they were invariably experienced sailors, many of whom had grown older with the ships they were serving, or fighting.

Carleton called again, “She’s Attacker, sir!” He sounded almost disappointed that it was not a first sighting of the enemy. The other frigate was one of the smaller sixth-rates, and mounted only twenty-eight guns. Bolitho frowned. The same as Reaper. But she was not like Reaper. In his mind’s eye he could see Attacker’s captain, George Morrison, a tough northerner from Tyneside. But no sadist: his punishment book was one of the cleanest in the squadron.

Avery said quietly, “He must sight Virtue soon, sir.” Bolitho looked at him, and saw the new light driving the shadows from his face.

“Perhaps. We may have become separated in the night. Not for long.”

He knew Allday was close by: he must be standing almost where his son had fallen that day.

He pushed the thought away. This was now. Attacker was on her proper station, or soon would be, once she had sighted the flagship. The other frigate, Virtue, carried thirty-six guns. Her captain was Roger M’Cullom, in character a little like Dampier, who had been Zest’s captain before Adam had taken command.

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to impress his men or for his own benefit, it was still a dangerous and, as Dampier had discovered, sometimes a fatal flaw.

Sam Hockenhull the boatswain had come aft to speak with the first lieutenant. Bolitho noticed that he was careful to avoid contact with Allday, who still blamed him for sending his son to join the afterguard on the day he had died. The quarterdeck and poop were always ripe targets for enemy sharpshooters and the deadly swivel-guns in close combat: command and authority began and were easily ended here. It was nobody’s fault, and Hockenhull probably felt badly about it, although nothing had been said.

Bolitho sensed the restlessness among the waiting seamen.

The leading edge of tension and apprehension had passed. They might be relieved later, when there was time to think on it. Now they would feel cheated that the sea was empty. As though they had been misled.

And here was the sun at last, giving a bronze edge to the horizon. Bolitho saw Attacker’s topsails for the first time, the faint touch of colour from her streaming masthead pendant.

Someone gasped with alarm as a muffled bang echoed across the sea’s jagged whitecaps. One shot, the sound going on and on for seconds, as if in a mine or a long tunnel.

Tyacke was beside him immediately. “Signal, Sir Richard. It’s Virtue. She’s sighted ’em!” Bolitho said, “Make more sail. Then as soon as . . .” Carleton’s voice came down from the masthead again. “Deck there! Two sail in sight to the nor’-east!” There were more far-off shots, in earnest this time.

Tyacke’s strong voice controlled the sudden uncertainty around him. “Hands aloft, Mr Daubeny! Get the royals on her!” To York he called, “Weather-helm, let her fall off two points!” He rubbed his hands. “Now we’ll see her fly, lads!” More shots, sporadic but determined. Two ships, perhaps more.

Tyacke was looking toward him again.

160

CROSS OF S T GEORGE

Bolitho said, “When you are ready, Captain Tyacke.” Then he looked up as the royals thundered from their yards, adding their power to the straining masts and rigging.