Cross of St George

12. Code of Conduct

LIEUTENANT George Avery leaned back in his chair and put one foot on his sea-chest as if to test the ship’s movement. In the opposite corner of the small, screened cabin Allday sat on another chest, his big hands clasped together, frowning, as he tried to remember exactly what Avery had read to him.

Avery could see it as if he had left England only yesterday, and not the five months ago it was in fact. The inn at Fallowfield by the Helford River, the long walks in the countryside, untroubled by conversation with people who only spoke because they were cooped up with you in a man-of-war. Good food, time to think. To remember…

He thought now of his own letter, and wondered why he had told the admiral about her. More surprising still, that Bolitho had seemed genuinely pleased about it, although doubtless he thought his flag lieutenant was hoping for too much. A kiss and a promise. He could not imagine what Bolitho might have said if he had told him all that had happened on that single night in London. The mystery, the wildness, and the peace, when they had lain together, exhausted. For his own part, stunned that it could have been real.

His thoughts came back to Allday, and he said, “So there you are. Your little Kate is doing well. I must buy her something before we leave Halifax.”

Allday did not look up. “So small, she was. No bigger than a rabbit. Now she’s walking, you say?”

“Unis says.” He smiled. “And I’ll lay odds that she fell over a few times before she got her proper sea-legs.”

Allday shook his head. “I would have liked to see it, them first steps. I never seen anything like that afore.” He seemed troubled, rather than happy. “I should’ve been there.”

Avery was moved by what he saw. Perhaps it would be useless to point out that Bolitho had offered to leave him ashore, secure in his own home, after years of honourable service. It would be an insult. He recalled Catherine’s obvious relief that Allday was staying with her man. Maybe she sensed that his “oak” had never been more needed.

Avery listened to the regular groan of timbers as Indomitable thrust through a criss-cross of Atlantic rollers. They should have made contact with the Halifax-bound convoy yesterday, but even the friendly Trades could not always be relied upon. This was a war of supply and demand, and it was always the navy who supplied. No wonder men were driven to despair by separation and hardships which few landsmen could ever appreciate.

He heard the clatter of dishes from the wardroom, somebody laughing too loudly at some bawdy joke already heard too often. He glanced at the white screen. And beyond there, right aft, the admiral would be thinking and planning, no doubt with the scholarly Yovell waiting to record and copy instructions and orders for each of the captains, from flagship to brig, from schooner to bomb ketch. Faces he had come to know, men he had come to understand. All except the one who would be uppermost in his mind, the dead captain of Reaper. Bolitho would regard the mutiny as something personal, and the captain’s tyranny a flaw that should have been removed before it was too late.

Justice, discipline, revenge. It could not be ignored.

And what of Keen, perhaps the last of the original Happy Few? Was his new interest in Gilia St Clair merely a passing thing? Avery thought of the woman in his arms, his need of her. He was no one to judge Keen.

He looked up as familiar footsteps moved across the quarterdeck. Tyacke, visiting the watch keepers before darkness closed around them and their two consorts. If the convoy failed to appear at first light, what then? They were some five hundred miles from the nearest land. A decision would have to be made. But not by me. Nor even by Tyacke. It would fall, as always, to that same man in his cabin aft. The admiral.

He had not mentioned the letter to Tyacke: Tyacke would probably know. But Avery respected his privacy, and had come to like him greatly, more than he would have believed possible after their first stormy confrontation at Plymouth more than two years ago. Tyacke had never received a letter from anyone. Did he ever look for one, ever dare to hope for such a precious link with home?

He handed Unis’s letter to Allday, and hoped that he had read it in the manner he had intended. Allday, a man who could recognize any hoist of signals by their colours or their timing, whom he had watched patiently instructing some hapless landman or baffled midshipman in the art of splicing and rope-work, who could carve a ship model so fine that even the most critical Jack would nod admiringly, could not read. Nor could he write. It seemed cruel, unfair.

There was a tap on the door and Ozzard looked in. “Sir Richard’s compliments, sir. Would you care to lay aft for a glass?” He purposefully ignored Allday.

Avery nodded. He had been expecting the invitation, and hoping that it would come.

Ozzard added sharply, “You too, of course. If you’re not too busy.”

Avery watched. Another precious fragment: Ozzard’s rudeness matched only by Allday’s awakening grin. He could have killed the little man with his elbow. They knew each other’s strength, weakness too, in all likelihood. Maybe they even knew his.

His thoughts dwelled again on the letter in his pocket. Perhaps she had written it out of pity, or embarrassment at what had happened. She could never realize in ten thousand years what that one letter had meant to him. Just a few sentences, simple sentiments, and wishes for his future. She had ended, Your affectionate friend, Susanna.

That was all. He straightened his coat and opened the door for Allday. It was everything.

But Avery was a practical man. Susanna, Lady Mildmay, an admiral’s widow, would not remain alone for long. Perhaps could not. She had rich friends, and he had seen for himself the confidence, born of experience, she had displayed at the reception attended by Bolitho’s wife and by Vice-Admiral Bethune. He could recall her laugher when he had mistaken Bethune’s mistress for his wife. Is that all I could hope for?

Susanna was available now. She would soon forget that night in London with her lowly lieutenant. At the same time, he was already composing the letter he would write to her, the first he had written to anyone but his sister. There was no one else now. He walked aft towards the spiralling lantern, the rigid Royal Marine sentry outside the screen doors.

Allday murmured, “I wonder what Sir Richard wants.”

Avery paused, hearing the ship, and the ocean all around them. He answered simply, “He needs us. I know very well what that means.”

It was cold on the quarterdeck, with only the smallest hint of the daylight which would soon show itself and open up the sea. Bolitho gripped the quarterdeck rail, feeling the wind on his face and in his hair, his boat-cloak giving him anonymity for awhile longer.

It was a time of day he had always found fascinating as a captain in his own ship. A vessel coming alive beneath his feet, dark figures moving like ghosts, most of them so used to their duties that they performed them without conscious thought even incomplete darkness. The morning watch went about their affairs, while the watch below cleaned the mess decks and stowed away the hammocks in the nettings, with barely an order being passed. Bolitho could smell the stench of the galley funnel; the cook must surely use axle-grease for his wares. But sailors had strong stomachs. They needed them.

He heard the officer-of-the-watch speaking with his midshipman in brusque, clipped tones. Laroche was a keen gambler who had felt the rough edge of Lieutenant Scarlett’s tongue the very day Scarlett had been killed in the fight with the USS Unity.

It would be six in the morning soon, and Tyacke would come on deck. It was his custom, although he had impressed on all his officers that they were to call him at any time, day or night, if they were disturbed by any situation. Bolitho had heard him say to one lieutenant, “Better for me to lose my temper than to lose my ship!”

If you doubt, speak out. His father had said it many times.

He found he was walking along the weather side, his shoes avoiding ring bolts and tackles without effort. Catherine was troubled; it was made more apparent by her determination to hide it from him in her letters. Roxby was very ill, although Bolitho had seen that for himself before he had left England, and he thought it a good thing that his sister felt able to share her worries and hopes with Catherine, when their lives had been so different from one another.

Catherine had told him about the Spanish inheritance from her late husband, Luis Pareja. All those years ago, another world, a different ship; they had both been younger then. How could either of them have known what would happen? He could recall her exactly as she had been at their first meeting, the same fiery courage he had seen after the Golden Plover had gone down.

She was concerned about the money. He had mentioned it to Yovell, who seemed to understand all the complications, and had accompanied Catherine to the old firm of lawyers in Truro, to ensure that “she was not snared by legal roguery,” as he had put it.

Yovell had been frank, but discreet. “Lady Catherine will become rich, sir. Perhaps very rich.” He had gauged Bolitho’s expression, a little surprised that the prospect of wealth should disquiet him, but also proud that Bolitho had confided in him and no other.

But suppose… Bolitho paused in his pacing to watch the first glow of light, almost timid as it painted a small seam between sky and ocean. He heard a voice whisper, “Cap’n’s comin’ up, sir!” and a few seconds later Laroche’s pompous acknowledgement of Tyacke’s presence. “Good morning, sir. Course east by north. Wind’s veered a little.”

Tyacke said nothing. Bolitho saw it all as if it were indeed broad daylight. Tyacke would examine the compass and study the small wind-vane that aided the helmsmen until they could see the sails and the masthead pendant: he would already have scanned the log book on his way here. A new day. How would it be? An empty sea, a friend, an enemy?

He crossed to the weather side and touched his hat. “You’re about early, Sir Richard.” To anyone else, it would have seemed a question.

Bolitho said, “Like you, James, I need to feel the day, and try to sense what it might bring.”

Tyacke saw that his shirt was touched with pink, as the light found and explored the ship.

“We should sight the others directly, sir. Taciturn will be well up to wind’rd, and the brig Doon closing astern. As soon as we can see them I’ll make a signal.” He was thinking of the convoy they were expecting to meet: there would be hell to pay if they did not. Any escort duty was tedious and an enormous strain, especially for frigates like Indomitable and her consort Taciturn.

They were built for speed, not for the sickening motion under the reefed topsails necessary to hold station on their ponderous charges. He sniffed the air. “That damned galley-it stinks! I must have a word with the purser.”

Bolitho stared aloft, shading his eye. The topgallant yards were pale now, the sails taut and hard-braced to hold the uncooperative wind.

More figures had appeared: Daubeny the first lieutenant, already pointing out tasks for the forenoon watch to Hockenhull the boatswain. Tyacke touched his hat again and strode away to speak with his senior lieutenant, as though he were eager to get started.

Bolitho remained where he was while men hurried past him. Some might glance toward his cloaked figure, but when they realized that it was the admiral they would stay clear. He sighed faintly. At least they were not afraid of him. But to be a captain again… Your own ship. Like Adam…

He thought of him now, still at Halifax, or with Keen making a sweep along the American coast where a hundred ships like Unity or Chesapeake could be concealed. Boston, New Bedford, New York, Philadelphia. They could be anywhere.

It had to be stopped, finished before it became another draining, endless war. America had no allies as such, but would soon find them if Britain was perceived to be failing. If only…

He looked up, caught off-guard as the lookout’s voice penetrated the noises of sea and canvas.

“Deck there! Sail on larboard bow!” The barest pause. “’Tis Taciturn, on station!”

Tyacke said, “She’s seen us and hoisted a light. They have their wits about them.” He looked abeam as a fish leaped from the glassy rollers to avoid an early predator.

Laroche said in his newly affected drawl, “We should sight Doon next, then.”

Tyacke jabbed his hand forward. “Well, I hope the lookout’s eyesight is better than yours. That fore-staysail is flapping about like a washerwoman’s apron!”

Laroche called to a boatswain’s mate, suitably crushed.

And quite suddenly, there they were, their upper sails and rigging holding the first sunshine, their flags and pendants like pieces of painted metal.

Tyacke said nothing. The convoy was safe.

Bolitho took a telescope, but clung to the sight before he raised it. Big and ponderous they might be, yet in this pure, keen light they had a kind of majesty. He thought back to the Saintes, as he often did at times like this, recalling the first sight of the French fleet. A young officer had written to his mother afterwards, comparing them with the armoured knights at Agincourt.

He asked, “How many?”

Tyacke again. “Seven, sir. Or so it said in the instruction.” He repeated, “Seven,” and Bolitho thought he was wondering if their cargoes were worthwhile or necessary.

Carleton, the signals midshipman, had arrived with his men. He looked fresh and alert, and had probably eaten a huge breakfast, no matter what the galley smelled like. Bolitho nodded to him, remembering when a ship’s rat fed on breadcrumbs from the galley had been a midshipman’s delicacy. They had said it tasted like rabbit. They had lied.

Tyacke checked the compass again, impatient to make contact with the senior ship of the escort and then lay his own ship on a new tack for their return to Halifax.

Carleton called, “There is a frigate closing, sir, larboard bow.” He was peering at the bright hoist of flags, but Tyacke said, “I know her. She’s Wakeful…” Like an echo, Carleton called dutifully, “Wakeful, 38, Captain Martin Hyde.”

Bolitho turned. The ship which had brought Keen and Adam out from England, after which the Royal Herald had been pounded into a coffin for her company. Mistaken identity. Or a brutal extension of an old hatred?

Carleton cleared his throat. “She has a passenger for Indomitable, sir.”

“What?” Tyacke sounded outraged. “By whose order?”

Carleton tried again, spelling out the hoist of flags with extra care.

“Senior officer for duties in Halifax, sir.”

Tyacke said doubtfully, “That must have been a potful to spell out.” Then, surprisingly, he smiled at the tall midshipman. “That was well done. Now acknowledge.” He glanced at Bolitho, who had discarded his cloak and was facing into the frail sunlight.

Bolitho shook his head. “No, James, I do not know who.” He turned and looked at him, his eyes bleak. “But I think I know why.”

Wakeful was coming about, and a boat was already being swayed up and over the gangway in readiness for lowering. A smart, well-handled ship. The unknown senior officer would have been making comparisons. Bolitho raised the glass again and saw the way falling off the other ship, the scars of wind and sea on her lithe hull. A solitary command, the only kind to have. He said, “Have the side manned, James. A boatswain’s chair too, although I doubt if it will be needed.”

Allday was here, Ozzard, too, with his dress coat, clucking irritably over the admiral’s casual appearance.

Allday clipped on the old sword, and murmured, “Squalls, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho looked at him gravely. He of all people would remember, and understand. “I fear so, old friend. There are still enemies within our own ranks, it seems.”

He saw the marines stamping to the entry port, picking up their dressing, their bayonets gleaming like silver. Showing a mark of respect, a salute to yet another important visitor. Equally, they would not question an order to place him in front of a firing squad.

Avery hurried from the companion hatch, but hesitated as Tyacke looked over at him and shook his head very slightly in warning.

Indomitable was hove-to, her seamen obviously glad of something to break the monotony of work and drill.

Wakeful’s gig came alongside, rolling steeply in the undertow. Bolitho walked to the rail and stared down, saw the passenger rise from the stern sheets and reach for the guide-rope, disdaining the assistance of a lieutenant, and ignoring the dangling chair as Bolitho had known he would.

Coming to judge the Reaper’s mutineers. How could it be that they should meet like this, on a small pencilled cross on Isaac York’s chart? And whose hand would have made this choice, unless it were guided by malice, and perhaps personal envy?

He made himself watch as the figure climbing the side missed a stair and almost fell. But he was climbing again, each movement an effort. As it would be for any man with only one arm.

The colour-sergeant growled, “Royal Marines… Ready! ” more to cover his own surprise at the time it was taking the visitor to appear at the entry port than out of necessity.

The cocked hat and then the rear-admiral’s epaulettes appeared finally in the port, and Bolitho strode forward to meet him.

“Guard of honour! Present arms!”

The din of the drill, the squeal of calls and the strident rattle of drums drowned out his spoken welcome.

They faced one another, the visitor with his hat raised in his left hand, his hair quite grey against the deep blue of the ocean behind him. But his eyes were the same, a more intense blue even than Tyacke’s.

The noise faded, and Bolitho exclaimed, “Thomas! You, of all people!”

Rear-Admiral Thomas Herrick replaced his hat and took the proffered hand. “Sir Richard.” Then he smiled, and for those few seconds Bolitho saw the face of his oldest friend.

Tyacke stood nearby, watching impassively; he knew most of the story, and the rest he could fathom for himself.

He waited to be presented. But he saw only an executioner.

Herrick hesitated inside the great cabin as if, for a moment, he was uncertain why he had come. He glanced around, acknowledging Ozzard with his tray, remembering him. As usual on such occasions, Ozzard revealed neither surprise nor curiosity, no matter what he might be thinking.

Bolitho said, “Here, Thomas. Try this chair.”

Herrick lowered himself with a grunt into the high-backed bergere and thrust out his legs. He said, “This is more like it.”

Bolitho said, “Did you find Wakeful a mite small?”

Herrick smiled slightly. “No, not at all. But her captain, Hyde-a bright young fellow with an even brighter future, I shouldn’t wonder-he wanted to entertain me. Humour me. I don’t need it. Never did.”

Bolitho studied him. Herrick was a year or so younger than himself, but he looked old, tired, and not only because of his grey hair and the deep lines of strain around his mouth. They would be the result of his amputated arm. It had been a close thing.

Ozzard padded nearer and waited.

Bolitho said, “A drink, perhaps.” There was a thud on deck. “Your gear is being brought aboard.”

Herrick looked at his legs, stained and wet from his climb up the ship’s tumblehome. “I can’t order you to take me to Halifax.”

“It is a pleasure, Thomas. There is so much I need to hear.”

Herrick looked across at Ozzard. “Some ginger beer, if you have any?”

Ozzard did not blink. “Of course, sir.”

Herrick sighed. “I saw that rascal Allday when I came aboard. He doesn’t change much.”

“He’s a proud father now, Thomas. A little girl. In truth, he shouldn’t be here.”

Herrick took the tall glass. “None of us should.” He examined Bolitho as he sat in another chair. “You look well. I’m glad.” Then, almost angrily, “You know why I’m here? The whole damned fleet seems to!”

“The mutiny. Reaper was retaken. It was all in my report.”

“I can’t discuss it. Not until I’ve carried out my own investigation.”

“And then?”

Herrick shrugged, and winced. His pain was very evident. The steep climb up Indomitable’s side would have done him no good.

“Court of inquiry. The rest you know. We’ve seen enough mutinies in our time, eh?”

“I know. Adam captured Reaper, by the way.”

“So I hear.” He nodded. “He’d need no urging.”

Calls shrilled overhead and feet thudded across the planking. Tyacke was under sail, changing tack now that the way was clear.

Bolitho said, “I must read my despatches. I’ll not be long.”

“I can tell you some of it. We heard just before we weighed anchor. Wellington has won a great victory over the French at Victoria, their last main stronghold in Spain, I understand. They are in retreat.” His face was closed, distant. “All these years we’ve prayed and waited for this, clung to it when all else seemed lost.” He held out the empty glass. “And now it’s happened, I can’t feel anything, anything at all.”

Bolitho watched him with an indefinable sadness. They had seen and done so much together: blazing sun and screaming gales, blockade and patrols off countless shores, ships lost, good men killed, and more still would die before the last trumpet sounded.

“And you, Thomas? What have you been doing?”

He nodded to Ozzard and took the refilled glass. “The scraps. Visiting dockyards, inspecting coastal defences, anything no one else wanted to do. I was even offered a two-year contract as governor of the new sailors’ hospital. Two years. It was all they could find.”

“And what of this investigation, Thomas?”

“Do you remember John Cotgrave? He was the Judge Advocate at my court martial. He sits at the top of the legal tree where the Admiralty’s concerned. It was his idea.”

Bolitho waited, only the taste of cognac on his tongue to remind him that he had taken a drink. There was no bitterness in Herrick’s tone, not even resignation. It was as if he had lost everything, and believed in nothing, least of all the life he had once loved so dearly.

“They want no long drawn-out drama, no fuss. All they want is a verdict to show that justice is upheld.” He gave the thin smile again. “Has a familiar tune, don’t you think?”

He looked towards the stern windows, and the sea beyond. “As for me, I sold the house in Kent. It was too big, anyway. It was so empty, so desolate without…” He hesitated. “Without Dulcie.”

“What will you do, Thomas?”

“After this? I shall quit the navy. I don’t want to be another relic, an old salt-horse who doesn’t want to hear when he is surplus to Their Lordships’ requirements!”

There was a tap at the door, and as the sentry had remained silent Bolitho knew that it was Tyacke.

He entered the cabin and said, “On our new course, Sir Richard. Taciturn and Doon will remain with the convoy as you ordered. The wind’s freshening, but it’ll suit me.”

Herrick said, “You sound pleased with her, Captain Tyacke.”

Tyacke stood beneath one of the lanterns.

“She’s the fastest sailer I’ve ever known, sir.” He turned the scarred side of his face towards him, perhaps deliberately. “I hope you will be comfortable on board, sir.”

Bolitho said, “Will you sup with us this evening, James?”

Tyacke looked at him, and his eyes spoke for him.

“I must ask your forgiveness, sir, but I have some extra duties to attend to. At some other time, I would be honoured.”

The door closed, and Herrick said, “When I’ve left the ship, he means.” Bolitho began to protest. “I do understand. A ship, a King’s ship no less, has mutinied against rightful authority. At any time in war it is a crime beyond comparison, and now when we face a new enemy, with the additional temptation of better pay and more humane treatment, it is all the more dangerous. I will doubtless hear that the uprising was caused by a captain’s brutality… sadism… I have seen it all before, in my early days as a lieutenant.”

He was speaking of Phalarope, without mentioning her name, although it was as if he had shouted it aloud.

“Some will say that the choice of captain was faulty, that it was favouritism, or the need to remove him from his previous appointment-that too is not uncommon. So what do we say? That because of these ‘mistakes’ it was a just solution to dip the colours to an enemy, to mutiny, and to cause the death of that captain, be he saint or damned sinner? There can be no excuse. There never was.” He leaned forward and glanced around the shadowed cabin, but Ozzard had vanished. They were alone. “I am your friend, although at times I have not shown it. But I know you of old, Richard, and could guess what you might do, even if you have not yet considered it. You would risk everything, throw it all away on a point of honour and, may I say it, decency. You would speak up for those mutineers, no matter what it cost. I tell you now, Richard, it would cost you everything. They would destroy you. They would not merely be victims of their own folly-they would be martyrs. Bloody saints, if some had their way!”

He paused: he seemed wearied suddenly. “But you do have many friends. What you have done and have tried to do will not be forgotten. Even that damned upstart Bethune confided that he feared for your reputation. So much envy, so much deceit.”

Bolitho walked past the big chair and laid his hand for a moment on the stooped shoulder.

“Thank you for telling me, Thomas. I want a victory, I crave it, and I know what this has cost you.” He saw his reflection in the salt-smeared glass as the ship fell off another point or so. “I know how you feel.” He sensed the wariness. “How I would feel if anything happened to separate me from Catherine. But duty is one thing, Thomas… it has guided my feet since I first went to sea at the age of twelve… and justice is something else.” He walked around, and saw the same stubborn, closed face, the determination which had first brought them together in Phalarope. “In battle I hate to see men die for no purpose, when they have no say and no choice at all in the matter. And I’ll not turn my back on other men who have been wronged, driven to despair, and already condemned by others who are equally guilty, but not charged.”

Herrick remained very calm. “I am not surprised.” He made to rise. “Do we still sup this evening?”

Bolitho smiled: it came without effort this time. They were not enemies; the past could not die. “I had hoped for that, Thomas. Make full use of these quarters.” He picked up the despatches, and added, “I promise you that nobody will attempt to entertain you!”

Outside the cabin he found Allday loitering by an open gunport. He had simply happened to be there, in case.

He asked, “How was it, Sir Richard? Bad?”

Bolitho smiled. “He has not changed much, old friend.”

Allday said, “Then it is bad.”

Bolitho knew that Tyacke and Avery would be waiting, united even more strongly because of something which was beyond their control.

Allday said harshly, “They’ll hang for it. I’ll shed no tears for ’em. I hates their kind. Vermin.”

Bolitho looked at him, moved by his anger. Allday had been a pressed man, taken the same day as Bryan Ferguson. So what had instilled in them both such an abiding sense of loyalty, and such courage?

It was no help to understand that Herrick knew the answer. So did Tyacke. Trust.