Cross of St George

11. A Warning

RICHARD BOLITHO and Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen stood side by side and stared out across the crowded anchorage of Halifax harbour.

The sun was strong, the air warmer than for a long time, and after the restricted confines of a frigate, even one as large as Indomitable, Bolitho was very conscious of the land, and the peculiar feeling that he did not belong here. The house was the headquarters of the general officer commanding the garrisons and defence of Nova Scotia, and below the wooden verandah soldiers were marching back and forth, drilling in platoons, front ranks kneeling to take aim at an imaginary enemy while the second ranks prepared to march through them and repeat the process: manoeuvres the army had perfected over the years, which had eventually turned the tables on Napoleon.

But Bolitho was looking at the anchored frigate directly opposite. Even without a telescope, he could see the damage and the piles of broken timber and rigging on her decks. She still flew the Stars and Stripes, but the White Ensign was hoisted above it as a symbol of victory. She was the USS Chesapeake, which had been brought to action by His Britannic Majesty’s ship Shannon. The fight had been brief but decisive, and both captains had been wounded, the American mortally.

Keen said, “A welcome victory. Shannon towed her prize into Halifax on the sixth. Couldn’t have happened at a better time, with all our other setbacks.”

Bolitho had already heard something of the engagement. Shannon’s captain, Philip Bowes Vere Broke, was both experienced and successful, and had been cruising up and down outside Boston, where Chesapeake lay at anchor. It was rumoured that he had been grieving over the loss of so many of his contemporaries to the superior American frigates. He had sent a challenge into Boston in the best tradition of chivalry, requesting that Captain Lawrence of the Chesapeake should come out and “try the fortunes of their respective flags.” If Broke had had one advantage over his American adversary, it was his dedication to and insistence upon gunnery and teamwork. He had even invented and fitted sights to all his main armament. It had won the day, but nobody had shown more distress than Broke himself when Lawrence had succumbed to his wounds.

Now, lying just beyond her like a guilty shadow, was the smaller frigate Reaper. A guard-boat was moored alongside, and her upper deck was marked with tiny scarlet figures where Royal Marine sentries kept watch over the imprisoned mutineers.

Keen glanced at him, seeing the strain on his profile as he lifted his face to the sun.

“It is good to be of one company again.”

Bolitho smiled. “Only for the moment, Val. We shall have to be on the move again shortly.” He shaded his eyes to look across at Indomitable, where Tyacke was taking on fresh water and supplies while final repairs were carried out. It was Tyacke’s reason, or rather his excuse, for not accompanying him to this meeting.

He heard Avery talking quietly with Keen’s flag lieutenant, the Honourable Lawford de Courcey. They would have little or nothing in common, he thought, and he had gathered that Adam did not care much for him, either. It was just as well. There was no room for complacency here, even amongst friends. They needed an edge, a purpose, like the old sword at his side.

There had been letters awaiting his return to Halifax, both from Catherine: he could feel them now in his coat. He would read them as soon as he could, then again later, and more slowly. But there was always the first anxiety, like a fear, that she would have changed towards him. She would be lonely beyond measure.

He turned away from the sun as he heard de Courcey greeting someone, and then another voice, a woman’s.

Keen touched his arm. “I should like you to meet Miss Gilia St Clair. I sent you word of her presence aboard Reaper.”

So easily said, but Bolitho had already gone through Keen’s carefully worded report on Reaper’s surrender, and the discharge of her guns into empty sea. He felt that Keen and Adam had disagreed about something at the time. It might reveal itself later.

His shoe caught on something as he turned, and he saw Avery’s vague outline move towards him. Troubled; but protective of him, as always.

It was so dark after the brilliant sunlight and the dazzling reflections from the harbour that the room could have been curtained off.

Keen was saying, “I wish to present Sir Richard Bolitho. He commands our squadron.”

It was not to impress: it was genuine pride. Val, as he had always been, before Zenoria’s death, before Zenoria. Perhaps Catherine was correct in her belief that he would easily recover from his loss.

The woman was younger than he had expected, in her late twenties, he thought. He had an impression of a pleasant, oval face and light brown hair; the eyes were level and serious.

Bolitho took her hand. It was very firm; he could easily imagine her with her father aboard the stricken Reaper, watching Valkyrie running out her powerful broadside.

She said, “I am sorry to intrude, but my father is here. I had hoped I could discover…”

Keen said, “He is with the general. I’m sure it is quite all right for you to stay.” He gave his youthful grin. “I will take full responsibility!”

She said, “I wanted to know about York. My father was going there to assist with the completion of a ship.”

Bolitho listened in silence. Her father’s plans were not the source of her concern.

Keen said, “I expect you will be returning to England sooner rather than later, Miss St Clair?”

She shook her head. “I would like to remain here, with my father.”

The door opened, and an urbane lieutenant almost bowed himself into the room.

“The General’s apologies, Sir Richard. The delay was unintentional.” He seemed to see the girl for the first time. “I am not certain…”

Bolitho said, “She is with us.”

The adjoining room was large and crammed with heavy furniture, a soldier’s room, with two vast paintings of battles on the walls. Bolitho did not recognize the uniforms. A different war, a forgotten army.

The general seized his hand. “Delighted, Sir Richard. Knew your father. Fine man. In India. He’d be damned proud of you!” He spoke in short, loud bursts, like mountain artillery, Bolitho thought.

Other faces. David St Clair: good handshake, firm and hard. And there was another soldier present, tall, very assured, with the unemotional bearing of a professional.

He bowed slightly. “Captain Charles Pierton, of the Eighth Regiment of Foot.” He paused, and said with a certain pride, “The King’s Regiment.”

Bolitho saw the girl’s hands gripped together in her lap. Waiting with a curious defiance which succeeded only in making her appear suddenly vulnerable.

David St Clair said quickly, “Are you feeling well, my dear?”

She did not answer him. “May I ask you something, Captain Pierton?”

Pierton glanced quizzically at the general, who gave a brief nod. “Of course, Miss St Clair.”

“You were at York when the Americans attacked. My father and I would have been there too, had circumstances not dictated otherwise.”

Her father leaned forward in his chair. “The 30-gun ship Sir Isaac Brock was burned on the slipway before the Americans could take her. I would have been too late in any case.”

Bolitho knew that she did not even hear him.

“Do you know Captain Anthony Loring, of your regiment, sir?”

The soldier looked back at her steadily. “Yes, of course. He commanded the second company.” He turned to Bolitho and the other naval officers. “Ours was the only professional force at York. We had the militia and the York Volunteers, and a company of the Royal Newfoundland Regiment.” He glanced at the girl again. “And about one hundred Mississauga and Chippewa Indians.”

Bolitho noted how easily the names rolled off his tongue: he was a seasoned campaigner, although this vast, untamed country was a far cry from Spain or France. But the others would know all these facts. It was merely an explanation for the girl’s benefit, as if he thought it was owed to her.

He continued in the same grave, precise manner. “The defences at Fort York were poor. My commanding officer believed that eventually the navy would be able to send more vessels to the lakes, to hold off the Americans until larger men-of-war were constructed. There were some seventeen hundred American soldiers that day, almost all of them regulars and well-trained. We had to gain time, to evacuate the fort and finally to burn the Sir Isaac Brock.”

She stood, and walked to the window. “Please continue.”

Pierton said quietly, “Captain Loring took his men to the lower shore where the Americans were landing. He gallantly led a bayonet charge and dispersed them. For a time. He was wounded, and died shortly afterwards. I am sorry. A good number of our men fell that day.”

Keen said, “I think you might be more comfortable in another room, Miss St Clair.”

Bolitho saw her shake her head, heedless of her hair, which had fallen loosely across her shoulder.

She asked, “Did he speak of me, Captain Pierton?”

Pierton looked at the general, and hesitated. “We were hard pressed, Miss St Clair.”

She persisted. “Ever?”

Pierton replied, “He was a very private person. A different company, you understand.”

She left the window and crossed over to him, then she put her hand on his arm. “That was a kind thing to say. I should not have asked.” She gripped the scarlet sleeve, unaware of everyone else. “I am so glad that you are safe.”

The general coughed noisily. “Sending him to England on the first packet. God knows if they’ll learn anything from what happened.”

The door closed quietly. She had gone.

Captain Pierton exclaimed, “Damn!” He looked at the general. “My apologies, sir, but I forgot to give her something. Perhaps it would be better to send it with his other effects to Ridge… our regimental agent in Charing Cross.”

Bolitho watched as he took a miniature painting from his tunic and laid it on the table. Charing Cross: like the casual mention of the Indians fighting with the army, it seemed so alien here. Another world.

Keen said, “May I?”

He held the miniature to the sunlight and studied it. “A good likeness. Very good.”

A small tragedy of war, Bolitho thought. She had sent or given him the miniature, even though the unknown Loring had decided not to encourage a more intimate relationship. She must have been hoping to see him again when her father visited York, perhaps fearing what she might discover. Now it was too late. Her father probably knew more than he would ever disclose.

Keen said, “Well, sir, I think it should be returned to her. If it were me…” He did not go on.

Thinking of Zenoria? Sharing the same sense of loss?

The general frowned. “Perhaps you’re right.” He glanced at the clock. “Time to stop now, gentlemen. I have a very acceptable claret, and I believe we should sample it. After that…”

Bolitho stood near the window, studying the captured American, Chesapeake, and the Reaper beyond.

He asked, “And what of York, Captain Pierton? Is it secure?”

“Unfortunately, no, Sir Richard. My regiment withdrew in good order to Kingston, which is now doubly important if we are to withstand another attack. If the Americans had gone for Kingston in the first place…”

“Well?”

The general answered for him. “We would have lost Upper Canada.”

Two servants had appeared with trays of glasses. Keen murmured, “I shall not be a moment, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho turned as Avery joined him by the window. “We shall not wait longer than necessary.” He was concerned at the expression in the tawny eyes: they were deeply introspective, and yet, in some strange way, at peace. “What is it? Another secret, George?”

Avery faced him, making up his mind. Perhaps he had been struggling with it all the way from the ship to this place of stamping boots and shouted orders.

He said, “I received a letter, sir. A letter.”

Bolitho twisted round and grasped his wrist. “A letter? Do you mean…”

Avery smiled, rather shyly, and his face was that of a much younger man.

“Yes, sir. From a lady.”

Outside, in the sun-dappled passageway, Keen sat beside the girl on one of the heavy leather couches.

He watched her as she turned the miniature over in her hands, recalling the calm acceptance in her face when he had given it to her. Resignation? Or something far deeper?

“It was good of you. I did not know…”

He saw her mouth quiver, and said, “While I command here at Halifax, if there is anything I can do to serve you, anything you require…”

She looked up into his face. “I will be with my father, at the Massie residence. They are… old friends.” She lowered her eyes. “Of a sort.” She looked at the miniature again. “I was younger then.”

Keen said, “It is…” He faltered. “You are very brave, and very beautiful.” He tried to smile, to break the tension within himself. “Please do not be offended. That is the very last thing I intend.”

She was watching him, her eyes steady once more. “You must have thought me a fool, an innocent in a world I know not. The sort of thing to bring a few laughs in the mess when you are all together as men.” She thrust out her hand, impetuous, but sharing his uncertainty. “Keep this, if you like. It is of no further use to me.” But the careless mood would not remain. She watched him take the miniature, his lashes pale against his sunburned skin as he gazed down at it. “And… take care. I shall think of you.”

She walked away along the passage, the sun greeting her at every window. She did not look back.

He said, “I shall depend on it.”

He walked slowly back toward the general’s room. Of course, it could not happen. It could not, not again. But it had.

Adam Bolitho paused with one foot on the high step and looked up at the shop. With the sun hot across his shoulders and the sky intensely blue above the rooftops, it was hard to remember the same street obscured by great banks of snow.

He pushed open the door and smiled to himself as a bell jingled to announce his entrance. It was a small but elegant place which he thought would fit well into London or Exeter.

As if to some signal, a dozen or so clocks began to chime the hour, tall clocks and small, ornate timepieces for mantel or drawing room, clocks with moving figures, phases of the moon, and one with a fine square-rigger which actually dipped and lifted to each stroke of the pendulum. Each one pleased and intrigued him, and he was walking from one to another examining them when a short man in a dark coat came through a doorway by the counter. His eyes instantly and professionally examined the uniform, the bright gold epaulettes and short, curved hanger.

“And how may I be of service, Captain?”

“I require a watch. I was told…”

The man pulled out a long tray. “Each of those is tested and reliable. Not new and untried, but of excellent repute. Old friends.”

Adam thought of the ship he had just left at anchor: ready for sea. It was impossible not to be aware of the captured American frigate Chesapeake in the harbour, which he had seen from Valkyrie’s gig. A truly beautiful ship: he could even accept that at one time he would have wanted no finer command. But the emotion would not return: the loss of Anemone had been like having part of himself die. She had been escorted into Halifax by her victorious opponent Shannon on the sixth of June. My birthday. The day he had been kissed by Zenoria on the cliff track; when he had cut the wild roses with his knife for her. So young. And yet so aware.

He glanced at the array of watches. It was not vanity: he needed one now that his own had disappeared, lost or stolen when he had been wounded and transferred to the USS Unity. They might as well have left him to die.

The shopkeeper took his silence as lack of interest. “This is a very good piece, sir. Open-faced with duplex escapement, one of James McCabe’s famous breed. Made in 1806, but still quite perfect.”

Adam picked it up. Who had carried it before, he wondered. Most of the watches here had probably belonged to army or sea officers. Or their widows…

He found himself thinking with increasing bitterness of Keen’s interest in David St Clair’s daughter, Gilia. At first he had thought it was merely pity for the girl; Keen might even have been making comparisons with Zenoria, whom he had rescued from a convict transport. She had carried the mark of a whip across her back as a constant and cruel reminder, the mark of Satan, she had called it. He was being unfair to Keen, more so perhaps because of his own guilt, which never left him. That, willing or otherwise, Zenoria had been his lover.

He asked suddenly, “What about that one?”

The man gave him an approving smile. “You are an excellent judge as well as a brave frigate captain, sir!”

Adam had become accustomed to it. Here in Halifax, despite the heavy military presence and the comparative nearness of the enemy, security was a myth. Everyone knew who you were, what ship, where bound, and probably a whole lot more. He had mentioned it with some concern to Keen, who had said only, “I think we give them too much credit, Adam.”

An indefinable coolness had come between them. Because of Adam’s threat to fire on the Reaper, hostages or not, or was it something of his own making or imagination, born of that abiding sense of guilt?

He took the watch, and it rested in his palm. It was heavy, the case rubbed smooth by handling over the years.

The man said, “A rare piece, Captain. Note the cylinder escapement, the fine, clear face.” He sighed. “Mudge and Dutton, 1770. A good deal older than yourself, I daresay.”

Adam was studying the guard, the engraving well worn but still clear and vital in the dusty sunlight. A mermaid.

The shopkeeper added, “Not the kind of workmanship one finds very often these days, I fear.”

Adam held it to his ear. Recalling her face that day in Plymouth, when he had picked up her fallen glove and returned it to her. Her hand on his arm when they had walked together in the port admiral’s garden. The last time he had seen her.

“What is the story of this watch?”

The little man polished his glasses. “It came into the shop a long while ago. It belonged to a seafaring gentleman like yourself, sir… I believe he needed the money. I could find out, perhaps.”

“No.” Adam closed the guard very carefully. “I will take it.”

“It is a mite expensive, but…” He smiled, pleased that the watch had gone to a suitable owner. “I know you are a very successful frigate captain, sir. It is right and proper that you should have it!” He waited, but the responding smile was not forthcoming. “I should clean it before you take it. I can send it by hand to Valkyrie if you would prefer. I understand that you are not sailing until the day after tomorrow?”

Adam looked away. He had only just been told himself by Keen before he had come ashore.

“Thank you, but I shall take it now.” He slipped it into his pocket, haunted by her face once more. The local people of Zennor still insisted that the church where she and Keen had been married had been visited by a mermaid.

The bell jingled again and the shopkeeper glanced around, irritated by the intrusion. He met all kinds of people here: Halifax was becoming the most important sea port, and certainly the safest, set as it was at the crossroads of war. With the army to defend it and the navy to protect and supply it, there were many who regarded it as the new gateway to a continent. But this young, dark-haired captain was very different from the others. Alone, completely alone, alive to something which he would allow no one else to share.

He said, “I am sorry, Mrs Lovelace, but your clock is still misbehaving. A few days more, perhaps.”

But she was looking at Adam. “Well, Captain Bolitho, this is a pleasant surprise. I trust you are well? And how is your handsome young admiral?”

Adam bowed to her. She was dressed in dark red silk, with a matching bonnet to shade her eyes from the sun. The same direct way of looking at him, the slightly mocking smile, as if she were used to teasing people. Men.

He said, “Rear-Admiral Keen is well, ma’am.”

She was quick to notice the slight edge to his reply.

“You have been shopping, I see.” She held out her hand. “Will you show me?”

He knew that the shopkeeper was observing them with interest. No doubt he knew her well, and her reputation would make a fine piece of gossip. He was surprised to find that he had actually taken out his watch to show her.

“I needed one, Mrs Lovelace. I like it.” He saw her studying the engraved mermaid.

“I would have bought something younger for you, Captain Bolitho. But if it’s what you want, and it takes your fancy…” She glanced out at the street. “I must go. I have friends to entertain later.” She looked at him directly again, her eyes suddenly very still and serious. “You know where I live, I think.”

He answered, “On the Bedford Basin. I remember.”

For a second or two her composure and her humour were gone. She gripped his arm, and said, “Be careful. Promise me that. I know of your reputation, and a little of your background. I think perhaps you do not care for your own life any more.” When he would have spoken she silenced him, as effectively as if she had laid a finger on his lips. “Say nothing. Only do as I ask, and be very careful. Promise me.” Then she looked at him again: the invitation was very plain. “When you come back, please call on me.”

He said coolly, “What about your husband, ma’am? I think he may well object.”

She laughed, but the first vivid confidence did not return. “He is never here. Trade is his life, his whole world!” She played with the ribbon of her bonnet. “But he is no trouble.”

He recalled their host, Benjamin Massie, that night when the brig Alfriston had brought the news of Reaper’s mutiny and capture. Massie’s mistress then, and perhaps the mistress of others as well.

“I wish you well, ma’am.” He recovered his hat from a chair, and said to the shopkeeper, “When I check my ship’s affairs against my watch, I shall remember you and this shop.”

She was waiting on the steps. “Remember what I have said to you.” She studied his face, as if seeking something in it. “You have lost that which you can never rediscover. You must accept that.” She touched the gold lace on his lapel. “Life must still be lived.”

She turned away, and as Adam stepped aside to avoid a mounted trooper, she vanished.

He walked back toward the boat jetty. Be very careful. He quickened his pace as he caught sight of the water and the great array of masts and spars, like a forest. Whatever action they took, it would be Keen’s decision: he had made that more than clear. But why did it hurt so much?

He thought suddenly of his uncle, and wished he could be with him. They could always talk; he would always listen. He had even confessed his affair with Zenoria to him.

He saw the stairs and Valkyrie’s gig moored alongside. Midshipman Rickman, a lively fifteen-year-old, was speaking with two young women who were doing little to hide their profession from the grinning boat’s crew.

Rickman straightened his hat and the gig’s crew came to attention when they saw their captain approaching. The two girls moved away, but not very far.

Adam said, “Back to the ship, if you please, Mr Rickman. I see that you were not wasting your time?”

Two blotches of scarlet appeared on the youth’s unshaven cheeks, and Adam climbed quickly into the boat. If only you knew.

He glanced toward the captured American frigate and the other, Success, which Indomitable’s broadsides had overwhelmed in minutes, recalling the young lieutenant who had died of his wounds, son of the Captain Joseph Brice who had interviewed him during his captivity. A sick but dignified officer, who had treated him with a courtesy reminiscent of Nathan Beer. He wondered if Brice knew, and would blame himself for guiding his son into the navy.

Face to face, blade to blade with men who spoke the same language but who had freely chosen another country… Perhaps it was better to have an enemy you could hate. In war, it was necessary to hate without questioning why.

“Oars up!”

He stood and reached for the hand-rope. He had barely noticed the return journey to Valkyrie.

He saw the flag lieutenant hovering by the entry port, waiting to catch his eye. He raised his hat to the quarterdeck, and smiled.

It was, of course, easier to hate some more than others.

Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen turned away from Valkyrie’s stern windows as Adam, followed by the flag lieutenant, entered the great cabin.

“I came as soon as I could, sir. I was ashore.”

Keen said gently, “It is no great matter. You should have more leisure.” He glanced at the flag lieutenant. “Thank you, Lawford. You may carry on with the signals we discussed.”

The door closed, reluctantly, Adam thought. “More news, sir?”

Keen seemed unsettled. “Not exactly. But the plans have changed. Success is to leave for Antigua. I have spoken with the Dock Master, and I can see we have no choice in the matter. Halifax is crammed with vessels needing overhaul and repair, and Success was in a very poor condition after her clash with Indomitable- as much due to severe rot as to Captain Tyacke’s gunnery, I suspect.”

Adam waited. Keen was trying to make light of it. Success was badly damaged, yes, but would sail well enough after work was completed on her rigging. But Antigua, two thousand miles away, and in the hurricane season… It was taking a chance.

“There is another big convoy due within a week or so, supplies and equipment for the army, nothing unusual in that. Sir Richard intends to take Indomitable and two others of the squadron to escort them on the final approach. There is a possibility that the Americans might attack and attempt to scatter or sink some of them.” He regarded him calmly. “Success must have a strong consort.” He glanced around the cabin. “This ship is large enough to fight off any foolhardy privateer who might want to take her.” He smiled thinly. “And fast enough to get back to Halifax, in case of more trouble.”

Adam walked to the table, and hesitated as he saw the miniature lying beside Keen’s open log book. It took him completely by surprise, and he scarcely heard Keen say, “I am required to remain here. I command in Halifax. The rest of our ships may be needed elsewhere.”

He could not take his eyes from the miniature, recognizing the subject at once. The smile, which had been painted for someone else to cherish, to keep.

Keen said abruptly, “It will be nothing to you, Adam. Certain other commanders, I would have to consider more carefully. Success will be safer in English Harbour. At best, she can be used as a guard-ship, and at worst, her spars and weapons will be put to good use there. What do you say?”

Adam faced him, angry that he could not accept it, that he himself had no right to refuse.

“I think it’s too risky, sir.”

Keen seemed surprised. “You, Adam? You talk of risk? To the world at large it will merely be the departure of two big frigates, and even if enemy intelligence discovers their destination, what then? It will be too late to act upon it, surely.”

Adam touched the heavy watch in his pocket, remembering the small shop, the peaceful chorus of clocks, the owner’s matter-of-fact mention of Valkyrie, almost to the time of her departure.

He said bluntly, “There is no security here, sir. I shall be away for a month. Anything could happen in that time.”

Keen smiled, perhaps relieved. “The war will keep, Adam. I trust you with this mission because I want you to carry orders to the captain in charge at Antigua. A difficult man in many ways. He needs to be reminded of the fleet’s requirements there.”

He saw Adam’s eyes move to the miniature once more. “An endearing young lady. Courageous, too.” He paused. “I know what you are thinking. My loss is hard to believe, harder still to accept.”

Adam clenched his fists so tightly that the bones ached. You don’t understand. How can you forget her? Betray her?

He said, “I will make all the arrangements, sir. I’ll pick a prize crew from spare hands at the base.”

“Who will you put in charge of Success? ”

Adam contained his anger with an almost physical effort. “John Urquhart, sir. A good first lieutenant-I’m surprised he hasn’t been chosen for promotion, or even a command.”

The door opened an inch, and de Courcey coughed politely.

Keen said sharply, “What is it?”

“Your barge is ready, sir.”

“Thank you.” Keen picked up the miniature, and after a moment’s hesitation placed it in a drawer and turned the key. “I shall be aboard later. I’ll send word.” He looked at him steadily. “The day after tomorrow, then.”

Adam thrust his hat beneath his arm. “I’ll see you over the side, sir.”

Keen nodded to two midshipmen who sprang out of his way by the companion ladder. “I’d be obliged if you would take my flag lieutenant with you when you sail. Good experience. See how the professionals do things.” He seemed about to say something else, but changed his mind.

As the barge pulled away from Valkyrie’s shadow, Adam saw the first lieutenant walking across the quarterdeck in deep conversation with Ritchie, the sailing-master.

They eyed him as he approached, and Adam was again reminded that he did not truly know these men, just as he accepted that it was his own fault.

“Come forward with me, Mr Urquhart.” To the master he added, “You’ve been told, I take it.”

“Aye, sir. The Leeward Islands again. Bad time o’ year.” But Adam was already out of earshot, striding along the starboard gangway with Urquhart in step beside him. Below, men working at the gun tackles or flaking down unwanted cordage paused only briefly to glance up at them.

Adam halted on the forecastle deck and rested one foot on a crouching carronade, the “smasher,” as the Jacks called them. Opposite them lay the captured Success, and although her side and upper works still bore the scars of Indomitable’s iron, her masts were set up, with men working on the yards to secure each new sail. They had done well to achieve so much in so short a time. And beyond her, the beautiful Chesapeake, and Reaper swinging, untroubled, to her cable. Did ships know or care who handled, or betrayed, or loved them?

Urquhart said, “If the weather stays friendly, we’ll not have much trouble, sir.”

Adam leaned over the rail, past one great catted anchor to the imposing gilded figurehead: one of Odin’s faithful servants, a stern-faced maiden in breastplate and horned helmet, one hand raised as if to welcome her dead hero to Valhalla. It was not beautiful. He tried to thrust the thought aside. Not like Anemone. But through the smoke and the din of war, it would certainly impress an enemy.

“I want you to take charge of Success. You will have a prize crew, but only enough hands to work the ship. Her fighting ability has not yet been determined.”

He watched the lieutenant’s face, strong, intelligent, but still wary of his captain. Not afraid, but unsure.

“Now hear me, Mr Urquhart, and keep what I ask of you to yourself. If I hear one word from elsewhere it will lie at your door, understood?”

Urquhart nodded, his eyes very calm. “You can rely on that.”

Adam touched his arm. “I rely on you. ”

He thought suddenly of the miniature of Gilia St Clair. Her smile, which Keen had appropriated as his own.

“Now, this is what you must do.”

But even as he spoke, his mind still clung to it. Perhaps Keen was right. After the battle, losing his ship and the agony of imprisonment, there was always a chance of becoming crippled by caution.

When he had finished explaining what he required, Urquhart said, “May I ask you, sir, have you never feared being killed?”

Adam smiled a little, and turned his back on the figurehead.

“No.” He saw John Whitmarsh walking along the deck beside one of the new midshipmen, who was about his own age. They both seemed to sense his eyes upon them and paused to peer up into the sun at the shadows on the forecastle. The midshipman touched his hat; Whitmarsh raised one hand in a gesture which was not quite a wave.

Urquhart remarked, “You certainly have a way with youngsters, sir.”

Adam looked at him, the smile gone. “Your question, John. It is true to say that I have… died… many times. Does that suit?”

It was probably the closest they had ever been.