Cross of St George

13. “Let Them Never Forget”

JOHN URQUHART, Valkyrie’s first lieutenant, paused in the entry port to recover his breath while he stared across at the captured American frigate Success. The wind was rising very slightly, but enough to make her plunge and stagger while the small prize crew fought to keep her under command.

He regarded the orderly, almost placid scene on the quarterdeck of this ship, in which he had served for four years, noting the curious but respectful eyes of the midshipmen, reminding him, if it were necessary, of his own crumpled and untidy appearance; then he glanced up at the sky, pale blue, washed-out and, like the ocean, almost misty in the unwavering sunshine.

He saw Adam Bolitho speaking with Ritchie, the sailing master. Ritchie had been badly wounded in the first clash with the USS Unity, when the admiral had been almost blinded by flying splinters, and the previous captain’s nerve had broken. A day he would never forget. Neither would Ritchie, cut down by metal fragments: it was a wonder he had lived. Always a strong, tireless sailing-master of the old school, he was still trying not to show his pain and refusing to recognize his terrible limp, as if in the end it would somehow cure itself.

Urquhart touched his hat to the quarterdeck. There were countless men like Ritchie on the streets of any seaport in England.

Adam Bolitho smiled. “Hard pull, was it?”

Urquhart nodded. Three days since they had quit Halifax, with only about five hundred miles to log for it. With the perverse winds and the prospect of storms, it was not the time of year for anyone to be complacent, least of all the captain. But while Urquhart had been away from Valkyrie aboard the battered prize, the captain seemed to have changed in some way, and was quite cheerful.

Urquhart said, “I’ve had the pumps going watch by watch, sir. She’s built well enough, like most French ships, but the rot is something else. The old Indom gave her more than her share, I’d say.

Adam said, “We’ll let Success fall off a point or so. That should ease the strain.” He stared abeam at the sea’s face, set in a moving pattern of blue and pale green; it had an almost milky appearance, broken now and then by a lingering blast of wind, a north-easterly, which could make every sail strain and thunder like a roll of drums. The sea here looked almost shallow, and the drifting gulf weed intensified the effect. He smiled. But there were three thousand fathoms beneath the keel hereabouts, or so they said, although no one could know.

He watched the other frigate’s sails lifting and puffing in the same passing squall. “We’ll take her in tow tomorrow, Mr Urquhart. It may slow us even more, but at least we’ll stay in company.” He saw Urquhart’s eyes move beyond his shoulder and heard the flag lieutenant’s brisk footsteps on the deck. De Courcey had kept out of his way, and had in fact probably been instructed to do so by Keen. But would he learn anything on this passage? His future seemed already assured.

De Courcey touched his hat, with a cool glance at Urquhart’s dishevelled appearance. “Is all well?” He looked at Adam. “Isn’t it taking longer than expected, sir?”

Adam gestured across the nettings. “Yonder lies the enemy, Mr de Courcey. America. In fact, Mr Ritchie insists that we are due east of Chesapeake Bay itself. I have to believe him, of course.”

Urquhart saw the sailing-master’s quick, conspiratorial grin. It was more than that. It was pleasure that the captain could now joke with him. They had all known that Captain Adam Bolitho was one of the most successful frigate captains in the fleet, and the nephew of England ’s most respected, and loved, sailor, but it had been impossible to know him as a man. Urquhart also saw and was amused by the flag lieutenant’s sudden alarm as he peered abeam, as if he expected to actually see the coastline.

Adam said, “Two hundred miles, Mr de Courcey.” He glanced up as the masthead pendant cracked out like a long whip.

Urquhart wondered if he missed the sight of a rear-admiral’s flag at the mizzen truck, or was he savouring this independence, limited though it would be?

The previous day, the lookouts had sighted two small sails to the south-west. They had been unable to leave the damaged Success to give chase, so the strangers might have been anything, coasters willing to risk the British patrols if only to earn their keep, or enemy scouts. If the captain was troubled by it, he was disguising it well.

De Courcey said suddenly, “Only two hundred miles, sir? I thought we were heading closer to the Bermudas.”

Adam smiled and touched his arm lightly, something else Urquhart had not seen him do before.

“The nor’-easterlies are friendly, Mr de Courcey, but to whom, I wonder?” He turned to Urquhart, excluding the others, his face calm, assured. “We’ll pass a tow at first light. After that…” He did not continue.

Urquhart watched him walk away to speak with the sailing master again. So certain. But how could he be? Why should he be? He considered the previous two captains, the intolerant and sarcastic Trevenen, who had broken in the face of real danger, and had vanished overboard without trace, and Captain Peter Dawes, the acting-commodore, who had been unable to think beyond promotion. Any fault would reflect badly on a first lieutenant, and Urquhart had intended never to fully trust a captain again, for his own sake. No one else would care what became of him.

De Courcey remarked, “I wonder what he truly thinks?” When Urquhart remained silent, he went on, “Works all of us like a man possessed, and then when he has a spare minute, he sits down aft, teaching that boy servant of his to write!” He laughed shortly. “If that is what he is really doing!”

Urquhart said quietly, “It is rumoured that Captain Bolitho is very skilled with both blade and pistol, Mr de Courcey. I suggest you do nothing to foster or encourage scandal. It could be the end of you, in more ways than one.”

Adam came back, his face in a small frown. “May I ask you to take a meal with me, John? I doubt if Success’s fare is any sounder than her timbers!”

Urquhart smiled without reservation. “I would be grateful, sir. But are you certain?” He looked up at the pendant, then at the real strength the two helmsmen were using against the kick of the wheel.

“Yes, I am sure of it. They need the wind, the advantage of it. For us to fight with only the land at our backs, first light will be soon enough.” He looked at him keenly. “If I’m wrong, we shall be no worse off.”

For only a second, Urquhart saw the face he had just evoked for de Courcey. He could well imagine those same eyes, calm and unblinking along the barrel of a pistol in some quiet clearing at dawn, or testing the edge of his favourite sword. And quite suddenly, he was glad of it.

Adam said, almost casually, “When this is over and we are back about our rightful affairs, I intend to put you forward for promotion.”

Urquhart was taken aback. “But, sir-I don’t think-I am satisfied to serve you…” He got no further.

Adam said, “That’s enough,” and shook his arm a little for emphasis. “Never say that, John. Never even think it.” He looked up at the sky and the quivering belly of the maintopsail. “My uncle once described his first command as the greatest gift. But it is much more than that.” His eyes hardened. “Which is why I mistrust those who betray such a privilege.” Then he seemed to shake off the mood. “At noon, then. Today is Friday, is it not?” He smiled, and Urquhart wondered why there was no woman in his life. “Tonight the toast will be, a willing foe and enough sea room. A perfect sentiment!”

That evening the wind rose again, and backed to north-east-by-north. Urquhart was pulled once more to the Success, and was drenched in spray before he was halfway across.

Somehow, he did not care. The stage was set. And he was ready.

Captain Adam Bolitho walked across the black and white checkered deck covering and stared through the tall stern windows. The wind had eased a good deal overnight, but still made its presence felt in short, fierce gusts, dashing the spray high over the ship until it pattered from the dripping sails like rain.

He saw the murky outline of the other frigate, her shape distorted by the caked salt on the glass, her bearing so extreme that she appeared out of control, adrift.

It had been hard work to pass the tow across at first light, requiring tough, experienced seamanship, or as Evan Jones, the boatswain, had remarked, “All brute force and bloody ignorance!” But they had done it. Now, yawing drunkenly to each gust of wind, the Success fought her tow like a beast being led to slaughter.

He heard eight bells chime from the forecastle and made himself leave the windows. He glanced around the big cabin. Keen’s quarters: he had almost expected to see him here at the table where he had placed his own chart within easy reach, so that Ritchie or the lieutenants should not be able to watch his concern as one more hour passed. He leaned on the table, the American coastline under one palm. He had seen his uncle do this, holding the sea in his hands, translating ideas into action. In so many ways we are very alike. But in others…

He straightened his back and looked up at the skylight as somebody laughed. Urquhart had kept his word. Others might suspect his intentions, but nobody knew. And they could still laugh. It was said that when Trevenen had been in command, any sound had been offensive to him. Laughter would be like insubordination or worse.

He thought of the book of poems which Keen had given him, here in this very cabin, with, he believed, few memories of the girl who had owned it, and not knowing the pain it had aroused. And here, he had seen the miniature that Gilia St Clair had intended another to keep and cherish.

More voices came down from the quarterdeck and for a moment he thought he heard a lookout. But it was only another working party, splicing, stitching, repairing: a sailor’s lot.

The door opened and the boy John Whitmarsh stood looking in at him.

Adam asked, “What is it?”

The boy said, “You’ve not touched your breakfast, Cap’n. Coffee’s cold, too.”

Adam sat in one of Keen’s chairs and said, “No matter.”

“I can fetch some fresh coffee, sir.” He looked at the chart and said gravely, “ Cape Breton to…” He hesitated, his lips moving as he studied the heavy print at the top of the chart. “To Delaware Bay.” He turned and stared at him, his eyes shining. “I read it, sir! Just like you said I would!”

Adam walked into the other cabin, unable to watch the boy’s excitement and pleasure. “Come here, John Whitmarsh.” He opened his chest and withdrew a parcel. “D’ you know the date of today?”

The boy shook his head. “It be Saturday, sir.”

Adam held out the parcel. “July twenty-first. I could not very well forget it. It was the day I was posted.” He tried to smile. “It was also listed in Anemone’s log as the date when you were volunteered. Your birthday.” The boy was still staring at him, and he said roughly, “Here, take it. It’s yours.”

The boy opened the parcel as if it were dangerous to touch, then gasped as he saw the finely made dirk and polished scabbard. “For me, sir?”

“Yes. Wear it. You’re thirteen now. Not an easy passage, eh?”

John Whitmarsh was still staring at it. “Mine.” It was all he said, or could say.

Adam swung round and saw the second lieutenant, William Dyer, staring in from the passageway.

Dyer seemed to be a reliable officer and Urquhart had spoken well of him, but it was too good a piece of gossip to miss. What he had just witnessed would soon be all over the wardroom. The captain giving gifts to a cabin boy. Losing his grip.

Adam quietly said, “Well, Mr Dyer?” They could think what they damned well pleased. He had known few acts of kindness when he himself had been that age. He could scarcely remember his mother, except for her constant love, and even now he did not understand how she could have given herself like a common whore in order to support her son, whose father had not known of his existence.

Dyer said, “The master sends his respects, sir, and he is anxious about our present course. We will have to change tack shortly for the next leg-a hard enough task, even without that great drag on the tow-line.”

Adam said, “The master thinks that, does he? And what do you think?”

Dyer flushed. “I thought it better coming from me, sir. In Mr Urquhart’s place, I felt it was my duty to bring his unease to your notice myself.”

Adam walked back to the chart. “You did well.” Had Urquhart seen the folly of his idea? For folly was what it would be. “You deserve an answer. So does Mr Ritchie.”

Dyer gaped as Adam swung round and shouted, “The skylight, John Whitmarsh! Open the skylight!”

The boy climbed on a chair to reach it, his new dirk still clutched in one hand.

Adam heard the wind gusting against the hull and imagined it ruffling the sea’s face, like a breeze on a field of standing corn. The cry came again. “Two sail to th’ nor’-east!”

Adam said sharply, “That is the answer, Mr Dyer. The enemy was not asleep, it seems.” To the boy he said, “Fetch my sword, if you please. We shall both be properly presented today.”

Then he laughed aloud, as if it were some secret joke. “July 21st, 1813! It will be another day to remember!”

Dyer exclaimed, “The enemy, sir? How can it be certain?”

“You doubt me?”

“But, but… if they intend to attack us they will hold the wind-gage. All the advantages will be theirs!” He did not seem able to stop. “Without the tow we might stand a chance…”

Adam saw the boy returning with his captain’s hanger. “All in good time, Mr Dyer. Tell Mr Warren to hoist Flag Seven for Success to recognize. Then pipe all hands aft. I wish to address them.”

Dyer asked in a small voice, “Will we fight, sir?”

Adam looked around the cabin, perhaps for the last time. He forced himself to wait, to feel doubt, or worse, a fear he had not known before Anemone had been lost.

He said, “Be assured, Mr Dyer, we shall win this day.” But Dyer had already hurried away.

He raised his arms so that the boy could clip on his sword, as his coxswain, George Starr, had used to do: Starr, who had been hanged for what he had done aboard Anemone after her flag had come down. Without knowing that he spoke aloud, he repeated, “We shall win this day.”

He glanced once more at the open skylight, and smiled. A very close thing. Then he walked out of the cabin, the boy following his shadow without hesitation.

Midshipman Francis Lovie lowered his telescope and wiped his streaming face with the back of his hand.

“Flag Seven, sir!”

Urquhart eyed him grimly. It had come as he expected, but it was still a shock. The captain’s private signal.

He took the telescope from Lovie’s hands and trained it towards the other ship. His ship. Where he had been trusted, even liked by some when he had stood between Valkyrie’s company and a tyrant of a captain. As it must have been in Reaper, and in too many other ships. Adam Bolitho’s words seemed to intrude through all his doubts and uncertainties. I mistrust those who betray such a privilege. He watched the familiar figures leap into the lens, men he knew so well: Lieutenant Dyer, and beside him the most junior lieutenant, Charles Gulliver, not long ago a midshipman like the one who was sharing this dangerous task with him. Lovie was seventeen, and Urquhart liked to believe that he himself had played his part in making him what he was. Lovie was ready to sit his examination for lieutenant.

He moved the glass slightly, feeling the warm spray on his mouth and hair. Ritchie was there, listening intently with his master’s mates close by, Barlow, the new lieutenant of marines, his face as scarlet as his tunic in the misty sunlight. Beyond them the mass of sailors, some of whom he knew and trusted, and others whom he accepted would never change, the hard men who saw all authority as a deadly enemy. But fight? Yes, they would do that well enough.

And there was the captain, his back towards him, his shoulders shining and wet as if he did not care, did not feel anything beyond his instinct, which had not failed him.

Lovie asked, “What will the captain tell them, sir?”

Urquhart did not look at him. “What I will tell you, Mr Lovie. We will stand by the tow, and break it when we are so ordered.”

Lovie watched his profile. Urquhart was the only first lieutenant he had ever known, and secretly he hoped that he himself would be as good, if he ever got the chance.

He said, “The fuse you laid, sir. You’ve known all this time.”

Urquhart watched the image in the glass. Men cheering: but for the wind they would have heard the sound from here.

“Guessed would be closer to the truth. I thought it was a last resort to prevent the prize being retaken.” He lowered the glass and regarded him intently. “And then, suddenly I understood. Captain Bolitho knew, and had already decided what he must do.”

Lovie frowned. “But there’s two of them, sir. Suppose…”

Urquhart smiled. “Aye, suppose-that one word, which never appears in despatches.” He recalled Adam Bolitho’s face when he had first come aboard and had read himself in: a sensitive, guarded face, which betrayed little of what it must have cost him to lose a ship, be a prisoner of war, and endure the ritual of a court martial. When, very rarely, he allowed himself to relax, as he had yesterday when they had shared a meal, Urquhart had glimpsed the man behind the mask. In some ways, still a prisoner. Of something, or someone.

Urquhart said, “You stand fast and watch the tow. Call me immediately if anything happens.” He was about to add something humourous, but changed his mind abruptly and headed for the companion-way. Knowledge came like a blow in the face, something he could not forget or ignore. Lovie was standing where he had left him, perhaps dreaming of the day when he, too, would wear a lieutenant’s rank.

Urquhart clattered down the ladder and stood for a few minutes in the shadows to compose himself. It was not the first time this had happened, and he had heard others, more experienced, speak of it. But in his heart he knew that Midshipman Lovie would not be alive by the end of the day.

A gunner’s mate was watching him, a slow-match moving in his fist like a solitary evil eye.

“All ready, Jago?” It was something to say. The gunner’s mate was a true seaman, which was why he had picked him in the first place. Trevenen had had him flogged for some trivial offence and Urquhart had clashed with the captain about it. The rift had cost him dearly; he knew that now. Even Dawes had never mentioned the possibility of promotion to him. But his efforts had earned him Jago’s trust, and something far stronger, although he would carry the scars of that unjustified flogging to the grave.

Jago grinned. “Just give the word, sir!”

No question, no doubts. Perhaps it was better to be like that.

He looked up the ladder, to a patch of pale blue sky. “The boats will be warped alongside. The rest is up to us.”

He walked on through the ship, where many men had once worked and lived, hoped too. Men who spoke the same language, but whose common heritage had become like an unbroken reef between nations at war.

Urquhart listened to the creak of the tiller, and the lonely clank of a single pump.

It was almost done. The ship was already dead.

Ritchie called, “Course is south south-east, sir. Steady as she goes.”

Adam walked a few paces to the rail and back again. It seemed strangely still and quiet after the tapping drums had beaten Valkyrie’s seamen and marines to quarters. He had felt the sudden unnerving excitement, and after that, the cheering. It had been unexpected, and overwhelming. These men were still strangers for the most part, because he had kept them so, but their huzzas had been infectious, and he had seen Ritchie forgetting himself so far as to shake hands with George Minchin, the surgeon, who had made a rare appearance on deck to listen to the captain speaking. Minchin was a butcher of the old orlop tradition, but in spite of his brutal trade and his dependence on rum, he had saved more lives than he had lost, and had won the praise of the great surgeon, Sir Piers Blachford, when he had been aboard Hyperion.

Lieutenant Dyer said, “The enemy are on the same bearing, sir.”

Adam had seen them briefly, two frigates, the same ones or others unknown to him. Perhaps it did not matter. But he knew that it did.

He glanced astern and pictured the two ships as he had last seen them. Their captains would have marked Valkyrie’s every change of course, no matter how small. They would expect them to cast off the tow: any captain would, unless he wanted to sacrifice his ship without a fight.

Suppose they did not swallow the ruse? He might lose Urquhart and his prize crew, or be forced to leave them, if only to save his own command.

Run? He beckoned to the signals midshipman. “Mr Warren! Get aloft with your glass and tell me what you see.” He turned, and watched de Courcey walking stiffly to the lee side as if to study some marines, who were climbing to the maintop with more ammunition for the swivel there. He had removed his epaulette and the twist of gold lace that proclaimed him to be an admiral’s flag lieutenant, perhaps in the hope of offering a less tempting target if the enemy drew close enough.

Adam heard the midshipman yell, “The rear ship wears a broad-pendant, sir!”

He breathed out slowly. A commodore then, like Nathan Beer… He dismissed the thought. No, not at all like the impressive Beer. He must forget him. It was not merely foolish to show admiration for an enemy, it was also dangerous. If this was the man his uncle suspected, there could be no admiration. Out of personal hatred, he had already tried to avenge himself on Sir Richard Bolitho by any means he could invent, and Adam was almost convinced that it was the same mind which had planned to use him as bait to tempt his uncle into a rescue attempt. He often thought of that bare but strangely beautiful room, where he had been interrogated by the American captain, Brice. Perhaps Brice would recall that meeting when he received news of his son’s death.

Hatred was the key, if it was in fact Rory Aherne, whose father had been hanged for treason in Ireland. An incident long forgotten in the confusion and pain of many years of war, but he had not forgotten: nor would he forgive. Perhaps it had given this unknown Aherne a purpose, and allowed him to achieve a measure of fame which might otherwise have escaped him. A renegade, a privateer, who had found a place in America ’s young but aggressive navy. Some might sing his praises for a while, but renegades were never fully trusted. Like John Paul Jones, the Scot who had found glory and respect in battles against England. Nevertheless, he had never been offered another command, famous or not.

He frowned. Like my father…

There was a dull bang, which echoed around the ship as if the sound were trapped in a cave. The solitary ball ripped abeam of the Success before splashing down in a cloud of spray.

Somebody said, “Bow-chaser.”

Dyer remarked, “First shot.”

Adam took out his watch and opened the guard, remembering the dim shop, the ticking clocks, the silvery chorus of chimes. He did not glance at the mermaid, trying not to think of her or hear her voice. Not now. She would understand, and forgive him.

He said, “Note it in the log, Mr Ritchie. The date and the time. I fear that only you will know the place!”

Ritchie grinned, as Adam had known he would. Was it so easy to make men smile, even in the face of death?

He closed the watch with a snap and returned it to his pocket.

“Leading ship is changing tack, sir. I think she intends to close with the prize!”

The lieutenant sounded surprised. Baffled. Adam had tried to explain, when the lower deck had been cleared and the hands piped aft. All night long the two American frigates had beaten and clawed their way into the teeth of the wind. All night long: determined, confident that they would take and hold the windgage, so that Valkyrie could either stand and fight against the odds, or become the quarry in a stern-chase, to be pounded into submission at long range or finally driven aground.

They had not cheered out of any sense of duty: they had seen and done too much already to need to prove themselves. Perhaps they had cheered simply because he had told them, and they knew, just this once, what they were doing, and why.

He strode to the shrouds and climbed into the ratlines, his legs soaked with spray as he levelled his telescope at a point beyond Urquhart’s temporary command.

There she was. A big frigate, thirty-eight guns at least, French built like Success. Before the glass misted over, he saw hurrying figures massing along the enemy’s gangway. Success was under tow, her guns still secured and unmanned. The whole of Halifax had probably heard about it, and there were many other ears only too ready to listen.

He returned to the deck. “Make the signal, Mr Warren. Cast off! ”

He could see the upper yards of the enemy frigate criss-crossing with those of Success, but knew that they were not yet close, let alone alongside. There were a few shots: marksmen in the tops testing the range, seeking a kill like hounds after a wounded stag.

Success seemed to suddenly grow in size and length as the tow broke free and she yawed around, her few sails in wild disorder to the wind.

Adam clenched his fists against his thighs. Come on. Come on. It was taking too long. They would be up to her in minutes, but still might sheer away if they suspected anything.

Warren said hoarsely, “One boat pulling away, sir!”

Adam nodded, his eyes stinging but unable to blink. Urquhart’s boat would be next, and soon. Or not at all.

More shots, and he saw the gleam of sunlight on steel as the boarders prepared to hack their way aboard the drifting prize. He tried to shut it from his thoughts. He shouted, “Stand by to come about, Mr Ritchie! Mr Monteith, more hands on the weather braces there!” He saw the gun captains crouched low and ready, while they waited for the next order.

He felt rather than saw de Courcey by the quarterdeck rail, speaking rapidly to himself, as though he were praying. The enemy’s yards were being hauled round, to lessen the impact when the two hulls ground together.

Adam saw the boat pulling away from both ships, fear giving them the strength and the purpose.

Somebody said quietly, “The first lieutenant’s left it too late.”

He snapped, “Hold your bloody noise, damn you!” and barely recognized his own voice.

Ritchie saw it first: all the years at sea in many different conditions, matching his eye against sun and star, wind and current.

A man who, even without a sextant, could probably find his way back to Plymouth.

“Smoke, sir!” He glared round at his mates. “By Jesus, he done it!”

The explosion was like a fiery wind, so great that despite the thousands of fathoms of sea beneath them, it felt as if they had run aground on solid rock. Then the flames, leaping from hatches and through fiery holes that opened in the decks like craters, the wind exploring and driving them until her sails became blackened rags and her rigging was spitting sparks. The fires spread rapidly to the American grappled alongside, where jubilant figures had been cheering and waving their weapons only seconds before.

Adam raised his fist.

“For you, George Starr, and you, John Bankart. Let them never forget! ”

“There’s the other boat now, sir!” Dyer sounded shocked by what he was seeing, the very savagery of it.

Ritchie called, “Standing by, sir!”

Adam raised the telescope, and then said, “Belay that, Mr Ritchie.”

He’d seen the first lieutenant at the tiller, the remaining seamen lying back on their looms, no doubt staring at the exploding flames which had almost consumed them. Beside Urquhart lay the midshipman, Lovie, staring at the smoke and the sky, and seeing neither.

To those around him Adam said, “We’ll pick them up first- we have the time we need. I’ll not lose John Urquhart now.”

The two frigates were completely ablaze, and appeared to be leaning toward one another in a final embrace. Success’s bilge had been blown out in the first explosion, and, grappled to her attacker, she was taking the American with her to the bottom.

A few men were splashing about in the water; others floated away, already dead or dying from their burns. From a corner of his eye Adam saw Urquhart’s small boat drifting clear of Valkyrie’s side. It was empty: only the midshipman’s coat with its white patches lay in the sternsheets to mark the price of courage.

He hardened himself to it, and tried to exclude the sounds of ships breaking up, guns tearing adrift and thundering through the flames and choking smoke, where even now a few demented souls would be stumbling and falling, calling for help when there was none to respond.

Midshipman Warren called, “The other ship’s standing away, sir!” Adam looked at him and saw the tears on his cheeks. All this horror, but he was able to think only of his friend, Lovie.

Ritchie cleared his throat. “Give chase, sir?”

Adam looked at the upturned faces. “I think not, Mr Ritchie. Back the mizzen tops’l while we recover the other boat.” He could not see the American ship with the commodore’s broad-pendant: it was lost in the smoke, or the painful obscurity of his own vision.

“Two down, one to go. I think we can rest on a promise.”

He saw Urquhart coming slowly toward him. Two members of a gun’s crew stood to touch his arm as he passed. He paused only to say something to Adam’s servant, Whitmarsh, who, despite orders, had been on deck throughout. He would be remembering, too. Perhaps this was also vengeance for him.

Adam stretched out his hand. “I am relieved that you did not leave it too late.”

Urquhart looked at him gravely. “Almost.” His handshake was firm, thankful. “I’m afraid I lost Mr Lovie. I liked him. Very much.”

Adam thought of one of his own midshipmen, who had died on that other day. It was pointless, destructive to have friends, to encourage others to form friendships which would only end in death.

When he looked again, Success and the American were gone. There was only a great haze of smoke, like steam from a volcano, as if the ocean itself were burning in the deep, and wreckage, men and pieces of men.

He walked to the opposite side and wondered why he had not known. To hate was not enough.