Cross of St George

17. The Greatest Reward

CAPTAIN Adam Bolitho removed his boat-cloak and handed it to an army orderly, who was careful to shake it before carrying it away. It had begun to rain with the abruptness of a squall at sea, and the drops were hard and cold, almost ice.

Adam crossed to a window and wiped away the dampness with his hand. Halifax harbour was full of shipping, but he had scarcely glanced at the anchored vessels while he had been pulled ashore in the gig. He could not become accustomed to it, accept that he had to go to the land in order to see his admiral.

Keen had sent word that he needed to speak with him as soon as possible, when, under normal circumstances, they could have met aft in Valkyrie’s great cabin.

He thought of John Urquhart, now acting-captain of the ill-fated Reaper. Perhaps Keen’s summons had come at the right moment. Urquhart had been with him in the cabin, about to take his leave to assume command of Reaper, and their farewell and the significance of the moment had moved Adam more than he had believed possible. He knew that he had been seeing himself, although he had been much younger when he had been offered his first ship. But the feelings, gratitude, elation, nervousness, regret, were the same. Urquhart had said, “I’ll not forget what you have done for me, sir. I shall endeavour to make use of my experience to the best of my ability.”

Adam had answered, “Remember one thing, John. You are the captain, and they will know it. When you go across to her presently to read yourself in, think of the ship, your ship, not what she has been or might have become, but what she can be for you. All your officers are new, but most of the warrant ranks are from the original company. They are bound to make comparisons, as is the way with old Jacks.”

Urquhart had looked up at the deckhead, had heard the tramp of boots as the marines took up their positions to see him over the side. It had all been in his face. Wanting to go, to begin: needing to stay where all things were familiar.

Adam had said quietly, “Don’t concern yourself now with Valkyrie, John. It will be up to Lieutenant Dyer to fill your shoes. It is his chance, too.” He had gone to the table and opened a drawer. “Take these.” He had seen the surprise and uncertainty on Urquhart’s face, and added abruptly, “A bit weathered and salt-stained, I fear, but until you find a tailor…”

Urquhart had held the epaulettes to the light, all else forgotten. Adam had said, “My first. I hope they bring you luck.”

They had gone on deck. Handshakes, quick grins, a few cheers from some of the watching seamen. The twitter of calls, and it was done. Moments later they might hear the calls from Reaper across the harbour.

Just before they had parted Urquhart had said, “I hope we meet again soon, sir.”

“You will be too busy for social events.” He had hesitated. “In truth, I envy you!”

A door opened, and de Courcey stood waiting for him to turn from the window.

“Rear-Admiral Keen will see you now, sir.”

Adam walked past without speaking. De Courcey was different in some way, oddly subdued. Because he had shown fear when the Americans had hove into view? Did he really imagine I would run carrying tales to his admiral, as he would have done about me?

It was the general’s room which he had visited with Keen and Bolitho on another occasion, with the same large paintings of battles and dark, heavy furniture, and he realized that this had probably been Keen’s idea, rather than ask him to join him at the Massie residence.

He saw that Keen was not alone, and the other man, who was about to leave, was David St Clair.

St Clair shook his hand. “I am sorry you were kept waiting, Captain Bolitho. It seems I may be needed here in Halifax after all.”

Keen waved him to a chair as the door closed behind his other visitor. Adam studied him with interest. Keen looked strained, and unusually tense.

He said, “I have received fresh despatches from the Admiralty, but first I have to tell you that Sir Richard was correct in his belief that control of the lakes was vital.” He glanced around the room, thinking of that day in the summer when the army captain had described the first attack on York. When Gilia had asked about the officer who had been killed. “The army could not hold the vital line of water communications, and at Lake Erie they were beaten. A retreat was ordered, but it was already too late.” He slapped his hand on the table and said bitterly, “The army was cut to pieces!”

“What will it mean, sir?” Adam could not recall ever seeing Keen so distressed. So lost.

Keen made an effort to compose himself. “Mean? It means we will not be able to drive the Americans out of the western frontier districts, especially not now, with winter fast approaching. It will be another stalemate. We, in the fleet, will blockade every American port. They’ll feel that as deeply as any bayonet!”

Adam tried to think without emotion. His uncle was at sea, and the brig Weazle had brought word that he was investigating the whereabouts of some enemy frigates reported heading northeast. They could be anywhere by now. He thought of Keen’s words, winter fast approaching. The fierce, bitter rain, the fogs, the damp between decks. Where had the time gone? It was October, by only a day or two, and yet you could feel it.

He roused himself from his thoughts and found that Keen was watching him gravely. “Sir Richard, your uncle and my dear friend, is to be withdrawn. That was the main point of the despatches. I shall remain in charge here.”

Adam was on his feet. “Why, sir?”

“Why, indeed? I am informed that Sir Alexander Cochrane will be taking over the whole station, which will include the Leeward Squadron. A far bigger fleet will be at his disposal, both for blockade duties and for land operations with the army. In Europe, Napoleon’s armies are in retreat on every front. It is a land war now. Our blockade has served its purpose.” He turned away, and said with the same soft bitterness, “And at what a price.”

Adam said, “I think Sir Richard should be told without delay.”

“I need all available frigates here, Adam. I have scarcely a brig available to retain contact with our patrols, let alone watch over enemy movements.”

“Sir Richard may have been called to action, sir.”

“D’ you imagine I’ve not thought as much? I couldn’t sleep because of it. But I cannot spare any more ships.”

Adam said coolly, “I understand, sir. As your flag captain, I am required to advise, and to present conclusions. My uncle would be the very first to steer away from favouritism, or from encouraging action taken purely out of personal involvement.”

“I hoped you would say that, Adam. If I were free to act…”

Adam turned away as the same orderly entered with a tray and glasses. “With the General’s compliments, sir.”

He said, “But you are not free, sir, not so long as your flag is flying above this command.”

Keen watched the soldier’s steady hand as he poured two large measures of cognac. The general lived well, it seemed.

Adam held the glass to the light from the window. Already it was as grey as winter, like a symbol of time’s relentless passage.

Keen swallowed deeply, and coughed to regain his breath. Then he said, “You may go, thank you.” When they were alone again, he said, “The warrants for the two mutineers were presented this morning. Have no fear-I signed them. Sir Richard will be spared that, at least.” It seemed to spark off another memory. “John Urquhart took command today, did he not?”

Adam said, “Yes. The custom will prevail, sir. Both prisoners will be hanged, run up to the main-yard by their own ship’s company. Reaper’s.”

Keen nodded almost absently, as if he had been listening to a stranger.

“I will order Reaper to sea immediately. Captain Urquhart can find Sir Richard and carry my despatches to him. I’ll not begin that ship’s new life with a damned execution!”

There were voices outside: de Courcey with the next visitors.

Keen glanced irritably at the door. “There is another matter, Adam. If you would prefer to take another appointment, I would understand. It has not been easy.” He looked at him directly, his eyes very still. “For either of us.”

Adam was surprised that he did not even hesitate. “I would like to remain with you, sir.” He put down the empty glass. “I shall return to Valkyrie in case I am needed.”

For the first time, Keen smiled. “You will always be that, Adam. Believe me.”

The same orderly was waiting for him with his cloak. “Stopped rainin’, sir.”

He thought of Urquhart, how he would feel when he was ordered to proceed to sea with all possible despatch. Relieved, probably. And of the mutineer, Harry Ramsay, whom he had tried to help, although he had suspected that he was guilty. At least he would be spared the final degradation of being hanged by his own shipmates.

“A moment, Captain Bolitho!”

He turned, and as if to a secret signal the front doors swung shut again.

She was warmly dressed, her cheeks flushed from the cold air. He waited, seeing her as she had been that day when Valkyrie’s powerful broadside had been ready to fire. None of them would have survived, and she would know it.

He removed his hat, and said, “You are well, Miss St Clair?”

She did not seem to hear. “Are you remaining as flag captain to Rear-Admiral Keen?”

So Keen had confided in her. He was again surprised, that he did not care.

“I am.”

He glanced down as she laid one hand on his sleeve. “I am so glad. He needs you.” Her eyes did not falter. “And, for his sake, so do I.”

Adam studied her. He supposed that she would also know about the battle for Lake Erie, and the regiments involved.

He said, “You have my good wishes.” He allowed himself to smile, to soften it. “Both of you.”

She walked with him to the door. Then she said, “You knew Rear-Admiral Keen’s wife, I believe?”

He faced her again. “I was in love with her.” It was madness; she would tell Keen. Then, he was as certain that she would not.

She nodded: he did not know whether she was satisfied or relieved. “Thank you, Captain… I can understand now why you love your uncle. You are both the same man, in many ways.”

She tugged off her glove, and it dropped to the floor. Adam stooped to recover it, and she did not see the sudden distress in his eyes.

He took her hand, and kissed it. “You do me too much honour, Miss St Clair.”

She waited until the door had been pulled shut behind him. Her father would be impatient to see her, wanting to tell her about his new appointment here in Halifax. It would be good to see him happy, occupied with his work again.

But all she could think of was the man who had just left her, whose austere face had seemed very young and vulnerable for those few seconds, when he had picked up her glove. Something which even he had been unable to hide. And she was both moved and gladdened by it.

At four bells of the afternoon watch His Majesty’s Ship Reaper weighed anchor, and under topsails and jib wended her way towards the entrance and the open sea. Many eyes followed her, but no one cheered or wished her well. Captain Adam Bolitho followed her progress until she was lost from view. She was free.

“Deck there! Boats in the water, dead ahead!”

Tyacke walked to the compass box and then stopped as eight bells chimed out from the forecastle.

“I was beginning to wonder, Mr York.”

The sailing-master rubbed his hands. “By guess and by God, sir. It usually works!”

Tyacke peered along the length of his ship, the guns lashed firmly behind shuttered ports, men working, not certain what to expect. Indomitable was steering due west, the wind sweeping over the larboard quarter, the spray as heavy and cold as rain.

He looked aft again and saw Bolitho by the taffrail, not walking but standing, oblivious to the men around him and the marines at the nettings, where they had remained since the attack on the American boats.

York moved closer and murmured, “What ails the admiral? We prevented the landings, more than most of us dared to hope.”

Tyacke stared at the horizon, hard, hard blue in the noon light. A sun without warmth, a steady wind to fill the topsails, but without life.

Even the casualties amongst the squadron had been less than would have been suffered in a straightforward fight. But the Americans had been eager to stand away, unwilling to risk a running battle for no good purpose. If they had rallied and reformed, it would have been a different story. As it was, the frigate Attacker had been dismasted, and the smaller Wildfire had been so badly holed by long-range and well-sighted shots that she had been down by the head when she had finally been taken in tow. Most of the casualties had been in those two ships: thirty killed and many others wounded. It had been time to discontinue the action and Bolitho had known it. Tyacke had watched his face when the signals had been read out, giving details of damage and casualties. Some might think that the admiral was relieved because Indomitable had not been in the thick of it, and was unmarked. If they believed that they were bloody fools, Tyacke thought.

He swung round. “What?”

Lieutenant Daubeny flinched. “I was wondering, sir, about relighting the galley fire…”

Tyacke controlled his anger with an effort. “Well, wonder away, Mr Daubeny!” He glanced aft again, unable to forget the quiet voice, as if Bolitho had just spoken to him. When he had reported that there were no more boats in the water by the stranded and smoke-shrouded American ship, Bolitho had said, “It was murder, James. Justified in war, but murder for all that. If that was the price of victory, I don’t wish to share a part of it!”

Tyacke said abruptly, “That was unfair. Pass the word for the purser and arrange an extra tot of rum for all hands. Food too, if there is any, but the galley fire stays out until I know what’s happening.”

Daubeny said, “I see, sir.”

Tyacke turned away. “You do not, Mr Daubeny, but no matter.” To York he said, “Sir Richard feels it, Isaac. Cares too much. I’ve not seen him like this before, though.”

York tucked some dishevelled grey hair beneath his hat. “He’s fair troubled, right enough.”

Tyacke walked to the compass box and back again. “Let me know when you can see the boats from the deck. It will give the hands something to do when we hoist ’ em inboard.” He clapped the master on the shoulder. “A good piece of navigation, Mr York.” He turned as Allday walked aft from the companion. “You know him best, Allday. What do you think?”

Allday regarded him warily. “It’s not for me to say, sir.” He followed Tyacke’s eyes to the figure by the taffrail, the hero others never saw. So completely alone.

He made up his mind. The captain was a friend; it was not merely idle curiosity.

“He knows, sir.” He glanced at the hard, glittering horizon; unlike the admiral, he did not have to shade his eyes. “It’s today, y’ see?”

Tyacke said sharply, “The Yankees are gone, man. They’ll not be back, not till they’re ready and prepared again. Our ships will reach Halifax and the dock-master will foam at the mouth when he sees all the repairs that need doing!”

But Allday did not respond, nor did he smile.

He said, “There’s always the…” He frowned, searching for the word. “The scavenger. My wife’s brother was a line-soldier- he told me. After a battle, men lying wounded, calling out for help, with only the dead to hear them. And then the scavengers would come. To rob them, to answer a cry for help with a cutthroat blade. Scum!”

Tyacke studied his lined face, aware of the strength of the man. The admiral’s oak. He heard York ’s steady breathing beside him. He could feel it too: knew it, the way he read the wind’s direction and the set of the current in the painted sea. Tyacke was not superstitious. At least, he believed he was not.

Allday was carrying the old sword, which was part of the legend.

He said quietly, “We’ll fight this day, sir. That’s it an’ all about it!”

He walked aft, and they saw Bolitho turn toward him, as if they had just met on a street or in some country lane.

York said uneasily, “How can that be, sir?”

Allday was saying, “The hands are going to draw a wet, Sir

Richard. Can I fetch you something?”

Bolitho glanced down as he clipped the old sword onto his belt.

“Not now, old friend.” He smiled with an effort, understanding that Allday needed reassurance. “Afterwards, that would be better.”

He reached out to touch his arm, and then halted.

“Deck there! Sail on th’ larboard bow!”

They were all staring round, some at the empty sea, and others aft towards their officers. Avery was here, a telescope in his hands, his eyes darting between them. To miss nothing, to forget nothing.

Bolitho said, “Aloft with you, George. In my own mind, I can already see her.” He held up one hand. “Take your time. The people will be watching you.”

Allday took a deep breath, feeling the old pain in his chest. Scavenger.

Bolitho knew that Tyacke had turned toward him, and called to him, “Alter course. Steer west by south. That should suffice for the present.”

He turned away from them, and watched a solitary gull swooping around the quarter gallery. The spirit of some old Jack, Allday thought.

“Deck there!” Avery was a fast climber, and had a good carrying voice: he had told him that he had been in a church choir in his youth. In that other world. “She’s a frigate, sir! I-I think she’s Retribution! ”

Bolitho murmured, “I know she is, my friend.” He frowned, as Allday’s hand went to his chest. “I’ll not have you suffer for it!”

He raised his voice. “You may beat to quarters again, Captain Tyacke. We have some old scores to settle today!” He laid his hand on the sword’s hilt at his hip, and it was cold to the touch. “So let us pay them in full!”

Lieutenant George Avery waited for the motion to ease, and knew that more helm had been applied. He raised his telescope, as he had on the first sight of enemy ships only hours ago. It felt like a lifetime. The same marines were still in the foretop, staring at the oncoming American as her sails emptied and filled violently, while she leaned over to the pressure. She was a heavy looking frigate under a full press of canvas, the spray bursting beneath her beak-head and as high as the gilded figurehead. The gladiator, a short stabbing-sword glinting in the hard glare.

The corporal said, “The Yankee’s crossin’ our bows, lads.” But his comment was really intended for the flag lieutenant.

Avery studied the other ship, forcing himself to take his time, not to see only what he expected to see. The corporal was right. The Retribution would eventually cross from bow to bow; more importantly, she would find herself to leeward of Indomitable’s broadside once they were at close quarters. He estimated it carefully. Three miles at the most. Tyacke had reduced sail to topsails and jib, driver and reefed forecourse, and Indomitable’s progress was steady and unhurried, a floating platform for her twenty-four-pounders.

He lowered the glass and looked around at his companions.

Somehow, they managed to appear very jaunty and smart in their glazed leather hats with the cockade and plume over the left ear. He noticed also that they had all shaved. They were fastidious about such details in the Corps.

“Won’t be long, lads.” He saw the corporal glance at the swivel gun, “Betsy.” He would know what to expect. They all did.

He nodded to them, and lowered himself quickly onto the ratlines. On deck once more, he strode aft, catching the hurried glances from the gun crews, a half-wave from young Protheroe.

On this deck, the gun was god. Nothing else mattered but to fire and keep firing, to shut out the sights and the sounds, even when a friend cried out in agony.

He found Bolitho with Tyacke and the first lieutenant, observing from the quarterdeck. Here, too, the marines had come to life, like scarlet soldiers taken from a box, lining the packed hammock nettings while elsewhere sentries stood guard at hatches or ladders, in case a man’s nerve cracked and terror tore discipline apart.

Avery touched his hat. “She’s Retribution right enough, Sir Richard. She wears a commodore’s broad-pendant. Fifty guns, at a guess. She changed tack.” He thought of the corporal again, the doubt in his voice. “She’ll lose the wind-gage if she remains on that tack.”

York said, “She steers nor’-east, sir.” Unruffled. Patient. Bolitho saw him tap the youngest midshipman’s arm as the child reached for the half-hour glass beside the compass box. “Easy, Mr Campbell, don’t warm the glass! I have to write the log, not you!”

The twelve-year-old midshipman looked embarrassed, and momentarily forgot the growing menace of the American’s tall sails.

Bolitho took a telescope and trained it beyond the bows. Retribution had no intention of altering course, not yet. He studied the other frigate: well-built, like so many French vessels, designed to one standard for the convenience of repair and replacement, not at the whim of an individual shipbuilder like most British men-of-war. When Taciturn and the other damaged ships reached Halifax, they would be hard put to find a mast or a spar that would match any one of them.

He said, “He is deliberately dropping downwind, James.” He sensed that Daubeny was leaning forward to listen, squinting in concentration.

Tyacke agreed. “Then he intends to use the extra elevation the wind gives him to fire at full range.” He glanced up at the braced yards, the flag and pendant streaming towards the enemy, and said grimly, “He’ll try for our spars and rigging.”

Avery turned away. The corporal had seen it, but had not fully understood. Both Bolitho and Tyacke must accept it.

Bolitho said, “Chain-shot, James?”

Tyacke shook his head. “I did hear they were using langridge, that damnable case-shot. If so…” He swung away as though to consult the compass again.

Bolitho said to Avery, “It can cripple a ship before she can fight back.” He saw the concern in Avery’s tawny eyes, but he did not fully comprehend. Damnable, Tyacke had termed it. It was far worse than that. Packed into a thin case, each shot contained bars of jagged iron, loosely linked together so that when they burst into a ship’s complex web of rigging they could tear it to pieces in one screaming broadside.

He saw Tyacke gesturing to the gun crews and making some point urgently to Daubeny with each jab of his finger.

That was the advantage of langridge; but against that, it took far longer to sponge and worm out each gun afterwards to avoid a fresh charge exploding in the muzzle as it was rammed home. It took time, and Tyacke would know it.

Bolitho rubbed his damaged eye and felt it ache in response. If I were James, what would I do? He was astonished that he could even smile, recalling that almost forgotten admiral who had met his pleading for a command with the withering retort, Were a frigate captain, Bolitho…

I would hold my fire and pray that the regular drills hold firm, if all else fails.

Lieutenant Blythe called, “The enemy’s running out, sir!”

Tyacke said, “Aye, and he’ll likely check each gun himself.”

Bolitho saw Allday watching him. Even Tyacke had accepted Aherne, had given him body and personality. A man with so much hatred. Retribution. And yet if he crossed this very deck, I would not know him. Perhaps it was the best kind of enemy. Faceless.

Once again, he looked at the sky and the searing reflections beneath it. Two ships with an entire ocean to witness their efforts to kill one another.

He covered his undamaged eye and tested the other. His vision was blurred; he had come to accept that. But the colours remained true, and the enemy was close enough now to show her flag, and the commodore’s broad-pendant standing out in the wind like a great banner.

Tyacke said, “Ready, Sir Richard.”

“Very well, James.” So close, so private, as if they shared the deck only with ghosts. “For what we are about to receive…”

Tyacke waved his fist, and the order echoed along the upper deck.

“Open the ports! Run out!” And from the waist of the ship where the gunner’s mates were already passing out cutlasses and axes from the arms chest, Lieutenant Daubeny’s voice, very clear and determined.

“Lay for the foremast, gun captains! And fire on the uproll!”

The older hands were already crouching down, as yet unable to see their target.

Tyacke yelled, “Put your helm down! Off heads’l sheets!”

Indomitable began to turn, using the wind across her quarter to her best advantage. Round and further still, so that the other frigate appeared to be ensnared in the shrouds as Indomitable’s bowsprit passed over her, to hold her on the larboard side.

The distance was falling away more quickly, and Bolitho saw the topmen darting amongst the thrashing sails like tiny puppets on invisible strings.

The air quivered and then erupted in a drawn-out explosion, smoke billowing from the American’s guns which was then driven inboard and away across the water.

It seemed to take an age, an eternity. When the broadside ploughed into Indomitable’s masts and rigging, it was as if the whole ship was bellowing in agony. Tiny vignettes stood out amidst the smoke and falling wreckage. A seaman torn apart by the jagged iron as it ripped through the piled hammocks, and hurled more men, screaming and kicking, to the opposite side. Midshipman Essex, stock-still, staring with horror at his white breeches, which were splashed with blood and pieces of human skin cut so finely that they could have been the work of a surgeon. Essex opened and closed his mouth but no sound came, until a running seaman punched his arm and yelled something, and ran on to help others who were hacking away fallen cordage.

Avery stared up, ice-cold as the fore-topgallant mast splintered apart, stays and halliards flying like severed snakes, before thundering down and over the side. He wiped his eyes and looked again. It was suddenly important, personal. He saw the four scarlet figures in the top, peering up at the broken mast, but otherwise untouched.

“A hand here!”

Avery ran to help as York caught one of his master’s mates, who had been impaled on a splinter as big as his wrist.

York stepped into his place, and muttered hoarsely, “Hold on, Nat!”

Avery lowered the man to the deck. He would hear nothing ever again. When he was able to look up once more, Avery saw the American’s topgallant sails standing almost alongside. He knew it was impossible; she was still half a cable away.

He heard Daubeny shout, “As you bear! Fire! ”

Down the ship’s side from the crouching lion to this place here on the quarterdeck, each gun belched fire and smoke while its crew threw themselves on tackles and handspikes to hasten the reloading. But not double-shotted this time. It would take too many precious minutes.

A marine fell from the nettings without a word; there was not even a telltale scar on the deck planking to mark the shot.

Bolitho said, “Walk with me, George. Those riflemen are too eager today.”

“Run out! Ready! Fire!”

There was a cracked cheer as the Retribution’s mizzen-mast swayed and toppled in its stays and shrouds, before falling with a crash that could be heard even above the merciless roar of cannon fire. York was holding a rag against his bloody cheek, although he had not felt the splinter which had opened it like a knife.

He called, “Her steering’s adrift, sir!”

Bolitho said sharply, “Helm down, James! Our only chance!”

And then the enemy was here, no longer a distant picture of grace and cruel beauty. She was angled toward them, the water surging and spitting between the two hulls even as Indomitable’s long jib-boom and then her bowsprit rammed into the enemy’s shrouds like some giant tusk.

The force of the impact splintered Indomitable’s main-yard, broken spars, torn rigging and wounded topmen falling on Hockenhull’s spread nets like so much rubbish.

Tyacke shouted at his gun crews, “One more, lads! Hit ’em! ”

Then he staggered and clapped one hand to his thigh, his teeth bared against the pain. Midshipman Carleton ran to help him, but Tyacke gasped, “Pike! Give me a pike, damn you!”

The midshipman thrust one towards him and stared at him, unable to move as Tyacke drove the pike into the deck and held himself upright, using it as a prop.

Bolitho felt Allday move closer, Avery too, with a pistol suddenly in one hand. Across the debris and the wounded he saw Tyacke raise a hand to him, a gesture towards the fallen masts. A bridge, joining them with the enemy.

The guns roared out and recoiled again, the crews leaping aside to pick up their cutlasses, staggering as though with a deadly fatigue while they clambered across to the other ship which had been forced alongside, Indomitable’s splintered jib-boom dangling beside the enemy’s figurehead.

There was a bang from the swivel-gun in the foretop, and a hail of canister raked a group of American seamen even as they ran to repel boarders. The marines were gasping and cheering as they fired, reloaded, and then threw themselves on the hammocks to take aim again. And again. Above it all, Bolitho could hear Tyacke shouting orders and encouragement to his men. He would not give in to anything, not even the wound in his thigh. After what he had already suffered, it was an insult to think that he might.

Lieutenant Protheroe was the first on Retribution’s gangway, and the first to fall to a musket which was fired into his body from only a few inches away. He fell, and was trapped between the two grinding hulls. Bolitho saw him drop, and remembered him as the youngster who had welcomed him aboard.

He shouted, “To me, Indoms! To me, lads!”

He was dragging himself across, above the choppy water, aware of flashing pistol fire and heavier calibre shot, and of Allday close behind, croaking, “Hold back, Sir Richard! We can’t fight the whole bloody ship!”

Bolitho was finding it difficult to breathe, his lungs filled with smoke and the stench of death. Then he was aboard the other ship, saw Hockenhull, the squat boatswain, kill a man with his boarding-axe and manage to grin afterwards at Allday. He must have saved him from being struck down. In the terrible blood red rage of battle, the consuming madness, Bolitho could still remember Allday’s son, and that Allday had blamed Hockenhull for posting him to the vulnerable quarterdeck, where he had died. Perhaps this would end that festering grievance.

Avery dragged at his arm, and fired point-blank into a crouching figure that had appeared at their feet. Then he, too, staggered, and Bolitho imagined he had been hit.

But Avery was shouting, trying to be heard above the shouts and cries and the clash of steel, blade to blade.

Then Bolitho heard it also. He lurched against a wild-eyed marine, his bloodied bayonet already levelled for a second thrust, his mind still refusing to understand. Faint but certain. Someone was cheering, and for a chilling moment he imagined that the Americans had had more men than he had believed, that they had managed to board Indomitable in strength. Then Tyacke must be dead. They would not otherwise get past him.

Avery gripped his arm. “D’ you hear, sir?” He was trembling, and almost incoherent. “It’s Reaper! She’s joined the squadron!”

The explosion was sudden, and so close that Bolitho found himself flung bodily to the deck, his sword dangling from the knot around his wrist. It had felt like a searing wind, the dust and fragments from the blast like hot sand. Hands were pulling him to his feet; Allday, with his back turned, exposed to the enemy as he steadied him amongst the press of dazed and breathless men.

Bolitho gasped, unable to speak, to reassure him, but the agony in his eye was making it impossible.

He said, “Help me.”

Allday seemed to understand, and tore his neckerchief from his throat and in two turns had tied it around Bolitho’s head, covering his injured eye.

It was like being deaf, with men crawling or kneeling in utter silence beside the wounded, and peering into the faces of the dead.

Retribution’s seamen were staring at them, bewildered, shocked, beaten. Their flag had fallen with the broken mizzen-mast, but they had not surrendered. They had simply ceased to fight.

The explosion had been confined to the ship’s quarterdeck. A bursting cannon, carelessly loaded for a final desperate show of defiance, or perhaps a burning wad from one of Tyacke’s guns when they had fired that last broadside with muzzles almost overlapping those of the enemy. A small group of American officers were waiting near the shattered wheel, where helmsmen and others lay in the ugly attitudes of violent death.

One lieutenant held out his sword, and instantly Allday’s cutlass and Avery’s pistol rose in unison.

Bolitho touched the bandage across his eye, and was grateful for it. He said, “Where is your commodore?” He stared at the fallen mast, where men were still trapped in the tangled rigging like fish in a net. Reaper was closer, and the cheering was still going on; and he wished that he could see her.

The lieutenant stooped, and uncovered the head and shoulders of his commodore.

He handed his sword, hilt first, to Avery, and said, “Commodore Aherne, sir. He sometimes spoke of you.”

Bolitho stared down at the face, angry and contorted, frozen at the instant of death. But a stranger.

He looked beyond them, toward the open sea. Had Aherne heard the cheers, and recognized Reaper too?

He turned inboard again. It was right, it was justice, that it should be Reaper. Now a witness to victory, and to folly.

He looked around at the breathless, gasping men, the madness gone from them as they dragged the wounded and the dying away from the blood-stained chaos on deck, talking to one another, some without realizing that those who answered were the enemy.

Through the clinging smoke he could see Tyacke facing him across the narrow strip of trapped water, still propped on his pike, with the surgeon on his knees applying a dressing. Tyacke raised one bloodied hand in salute. Perhaps to his ship. To the victor.

Bolitho said, “Help me back to Indomitable.” It was impossible to smile. Had he really cried, To me, Indoms, only minutes ago?

Allday took his arm and guided him, watching out for anything that might take him unaware. He had guessed what had happened, and now he was certain of it. He had seen too much to be shocked or awed by the sights on every hand: in his own way, despite the brutal ugliness of death everywhere, he was satisfied.

Once again they had come through, and they were still together. It was more than enough.

Bolitho hesitated, and looked around at the two embattled ships. Men had leaned over to touch his coat as he had passed; some had grinned and spoken his name; a few had openly wept, ashamed, perhaps, that they had survived when so many had fallen.

Now they all fell silent to listen as he looked beyond them and saw Reaper’s topsails suddenly bright in the hard sunlight. He touched the locket beneath his stained shirt, and knew she was close to him.

“It is a high price to pay, and we have paid it many times before. But we must not forget, for if we do, it will be at our peril!” He raised his head and stared up at his flag at the mainmast truck, so clean, and removed from the suffering and the hate.

“Loyalty is like trust, and must surely reach in both directions.” He looked at the slow-moving topsails again. “But it is the greatest reward of all.”

It was over.