Cross of St George

7. The Oldest Trick

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

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

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

He looked towards the naval anchorage, but the house hid it from view. He had never believed that his duties as flag captain could be so frustrating. Valkyrie had barely ventured out of harbour, and then only to meet an incoming convoy with more soldiers: if they landed many more this peninsula must surely sink under the weight. There was little news of the war. Roads on the mainland were bad, some still impassable. He glanced at the fading light across the harbour, the tiny boat lanterns moving like insects. Here, conditions were already much better. He had even felt the sun’s warmth on his face on his walk from the landing stage.

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

A fine old house: not “old” by English standards, but well proportioned and vaguely foreign, the architecture perhaps influenced by the French. He handed his hat to a bobbing servant and walked towards the main reception hall. There were uniforms aplenty, mostly red, with a few green coats of the local light infantry force. The house had probably been built by some prosperous merchant, but now it was used almost exclusively by people of a world he did not know, or want to. Where men like Benjamin Massie walked a challenging path between politics and the rewards of trade. He had made no secret of his impatience with the state of war between Britain and America, calling it “unpopular,” more as if it were a personal inconvenience than a bitter conflict between nations.

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

“Captain Adam Bolitho!”

There was a momentary hush, more out of surprise at his lateness than from interest, he thought. At least the footman had pronounced his name correctly.

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

“So here you are at last, Captain!” Benjamin Massie snapped his thick fingers and a tray of red wine appeared like magic. “Thought you’d forgotten us!” He gave his loud, barking laugh, and once again Adam noticed the coldness of his eyes.

He said, “The squadron’s business, sir.”

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

Keen had approached them, and was listening. “And what of my father’s other friend? I thought he might meet me here.”

Adam looked at him. Keen had deliberately interrupted, to dampen down any open disagreement before it began. Am I so obvious?

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

Keen shrugged. “I have seen little of him. I liked what I knew. Shipbuilding, with backing from the Admiralty-it sounded important.”

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

Keen said, “I had heard. So he is travelling alone?”

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

Adam raised his glass, but paused as he saw Keen’s expression. Surprise? It was deeper than that.

“I thought she was married.”

Massie took another glass from the tray. “Nothing came of it. The intended husband was a soldier.”

Keen nodded. “Yes. So I heard.”

“Well, he decided to follow the drum rather than a pretty ankle!” He gave a heavy sigh. “Then, with her mother dying so suddenly, she decided to keep David company.”

Keen looked into the nearest fire. “That’s a risk, in my view.”

Massie brushed some droplets of wine from his coat. “There, you see? You naval and military people regard everything as a hidden danger, part of some sinister strategy!” He glanced at the clock. “Time to eat soon. Better go and pump the bilges before I give the word.” He walked away, nodding to an occasional guest, deliberately ignoring others.

Keen said, “You don’t care much for him, do you?”

Adam watched a tall woman with bare shoulders bending to listen to her smaller companion, then she laughed and nudged him. She could not have been more blatant if she had been stark naked.

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

“Continue, Adam. Remember your uncle, and what he would say. There are no officers here. Just men.”

Adam put down his glass and said, “Supplies, and escorts for the ships that carry them, keeping the sea-lanes open-all essential, but they will never win a war. We need to get to grips with them as we do with the French, and all the others we have had to fight, not just stand gloating over the prospects of trade and expansion when the bloody work is comfortably past!”

Keen said quietly, “I wonder if you know how much like Sir Richard you are. If only…” He looked away. “Damnation!”

But it was not Massie: it was the flag lieutenant, de Courcey.

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

De Courcey exclaimed, “I do apologize, sir, but someone came here, to this house, without any prior arrangement or excuse, and demanded to see you.” He sounded outraged. “I sent him away with a flea in his ear, you may be sure!” His eyes moved to the footman who had taken his place on the stairs, a staff raised, ready to announce dinner. “Most inconsiderate!”

Massie was thrusting through the throng like a plough. Keen said, “Will you deal with it, Adam? I am the principal guest tonight, as you know.”

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

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

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

De Courcey said offhandedly, “Borradaile, sir. Most uncouth. I cannot imagine how he ever…”

He winced as Adam seized his arm. “Alfriston ’s commander?” He tightened his grip so that de Courcey gasped aloud, and two passing soldiers paused with interest. “Answer me, damn you!”

De Courcey recovered himself slightly. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact. I thought that under the circumstances…”

Adam released him and said, “You are a fool.” He was amazed at how calm he sounded. “How big a fool, we shall yet discover.”

De Courcey blinked as the footman’s staff tapped the stairs three times.

Adam said, “Wait here. I may want to send word to the ship.”

From another world came the cry, “Pray be seated, ladies and gentlemen!”

“But, sir! We are expected!”

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

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

Massie said significantly, “I’ve delayed grace until your young captain can spare himself from his duties.”

Keen sat on Massie’s right hand. Facing him was a woman whom he guessed was Massie’s special guest. She was beautiful, self-assured, and amused by his scrutiny.

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

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

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

Keen felt Adam’s breath against his cheek-quick, angry. “Alfriston ’s brought word from Sir Richard. Reaper’s been taken, surrendered.” All the while he was watching Keen’s fine profile. “The admiral intends to remain with the Bermuda squadron until the convoy is safely at sea.”

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

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

He said, “It was mutiny, sir.”

“I see.” Then he looked directly at Adam, his eyes very calm, and, Adam thought afterwards, very well concealing his emotions. “I trust you have informed the ship?”

He thought of the enraged de Courcey. “Yes, sir. They will be ready.”

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

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

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

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

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

He turned slightly to look at her. Fine, brown eyes, a mouth that was used to smiling. He glanced at her hand, which lay so near to his own at this crowded table. Married, but not to anybody here. Mistress, then?

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

A footman loomed over them and her slipper moved away. But she looked at him again, and said, “We shall have to see about that, Captain.”

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

“Are you married, Captain?”

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

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

“And you, ma’am?”

She laughed, and Adam saw Massie glance up at her. At them. She replied, “Like a cloak, Captain. I wear it when it suits!”

Trick for trick.

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

The door was wedged open, and he could see the bright sunlight moving like a beacon, back and forth, to the frigate’s easy rise and fall. They had left Halifax in company with a smaller frigate, Taciturn, and the brig Doon. They had left with mixed feelings, the prospect of hunting down Reaper, the only possible way of settling the score, set against the very real likelihood of directing fire on one of their own. The Americans would have had no time to replace the surrendered frigate’s company, so many of them, except for the officers and professional warrant ranks, would be mutineers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He thought of that last night in Halifax, the lavish dinner, with their host, Massie, becoming more slurred by the minute. He thought, also, of the enticing and sensual Mrs Lovelace, laughing at Massie’s crude remarks, but keeping her foot against Adam’s under the table.

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

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

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

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

“I know that, damn it!” He touched the lieutenant’s sleeve. “I am sorry, John. That was uncalled for.”

Urquhart eyed him warily. It was the first time the captain had called him by his first name. It had been like seeing a different person suddenly, not so much the severe stranger.

He said, “If we run deeper into the Gulf we shall be hard put to keep together. If we had more ships, then…”

A master’s mate whispered around the door, “Admiral’s coming up, sir.”

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

He straightened his back. “Yes. Well, we shall see.”

Keen was standing by the weather nettings when they came out of the chartroom, and Adam noticed immediately that he looked strained, troubled.

Keen said, “What time will we alter course, Captain Bolitho?”

Adam replied with equal formality, “In two hours, sir. We shall steer nor’-west.” He waited, seeing Keen’s doubt, the unspoken arguments.

“Are Taciturn and Doon in sight?”

“Aye, sir. The masthead reported both of them at the change of watch. Good visibility. We should see another sail soon. Information maybe, some evidence that she was seen by some passing trader or fisherman.” He looked at Urquhart. “It is our best hope.”

Keen said, “We are abeam of Cape North. By nightfall we shall be stretched too far to offer support to one another.”

Adam looked away. He felt a stab of resentment without knowing why. He had been up before first light, and on deck several times during the night. There were plenty of navigational hazards in these waters and the local charts were unreliable, to say the least. It was only right that Valkyrie’s watch keepers should know that their captain was with them.

“From the information brought by Alfriston, this would seem the most likely area for independent action. Perhaps tomorrow we could decide whether or not to continue this form of search.”

Keen watched two seamen dragging new halliards along the deck. “I will decide. While the light is still good I shall want signals sent to Taciturn and Doon. The brig can close with us and carry my report to Halifax.” He faced Adam and added shortly, “We will discontinue the search before dusk.”

“Halifax, sir?”

Keen studied him grimly. “ Halifax.”

He walked toward the companion-way, and Adam saw the flag lieutenant waiting there to intercept him.

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

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

He realized what Urquhart had asked. “Carry on as before.”

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

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

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

The sudden informality, just men, was disconcerting. “Aye, sir. But I think I could manage without some of the past.”

Keen made up his mind. “You probably think I am giving up too easily. You think we should waste days, weeks even, pursuing what may be a lost cause.”

Adam said, “I still believe we should continue, sir.”

Keen shrugged. The bridge between them was gone. “It is my decision. Make the signal!”

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

“Deck there! Taciturn’s hoisted a signal!”

Adam saw another midshipman reaching for a telescope.

“Aloft, Mr Warren! Lively there!”

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

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

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

Warren shouted down again. “She’s Reaper, sir!”

Urquhart forgot himself. “Hell’s teeth! You were right, sir!”

Keen had reappeared. “What is it? Are they sure?”

Adam said, “Certain, sir.”

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

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

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

Adam took a glass and rested it on Midshipman Rickman’s shoulder. First Taciturn; the brig Doon was still not in sight from the deck. And then… He tensed, his back chilled despite the lingering warmth of the sun. A thin plume of pale canvas: Reaper. Not running, and yet they must have sighted them. Three ships on a converging tack. Reaper’s men might fight to the death; they would face it in any case after the brief formality of a court martial. They would have known the penalty for mutiny from the instant they had hauled down the flag. He licked his dry lips. And murdered their captain…

Keen spoke for him. “They dare not fight!”

Adam turned to Urquhart. “Beat to quarters, if you please. Then clear for action.” He walked to the taffrail and then back again, his mind grappling with the sudden change of fortune. A show of defiance? A bloody gesture? It would be all of that. Taciturn alone outgunned the smaller Reaper: Valkyrie could blow her out of the water without even getting to close quarters.

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

“Cleared for action, sir!”

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

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

“Acknowledged, sir!”

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

“Reaper’s showing her teeth!”

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

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

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

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

Adam turned as young Whitmarsh walked unhurriedly between the crouching gun crews and watchful marines, Adam’s new hanger held in his hands like a talisman. Adam looked around at the others on the quarterdeck. George Starr, his old coxswain, should be here, Hudson, who had also died, and other faces, so painfully clear that he was caught off-guard.

He waited for the boy to clip on his hanger and said, “Below with you, my lad! No heroics today!” He saw the dismay on his face and added gently, “You need no reminding either, do you?”

Keen was beside him. “What can they hope to achieve?”

Adam saw the telescopes being trained on the distant Taciturn, heard de Courcey’s smooth voice reading out a signal. Then he lowered his glass, his mind suddenly blank. “They have hostages, sir.”

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

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

Keen said, “It would be murder!”

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

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

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

“Men will die in any case if we fight, sir. But to lose Reaper now would be an even greater tragedy.”

Keen seemed to sigh. “Signal Taciturn to take station astern of Flag.”

The signal was acknowledged, and Adam watched the leading frigate’s sails in momentary confusion as she began to come about as ordered. He could feel both pity and admiration for Keen. He was not going to leave the first encounter to one of his captains. As Richard Bolitho had so often said, here was where the responsibility began and ended, like the flag at the mizzen truck. Final.

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

“Deck, there!” Then shock, disbelief. “There are prisoners on Reaper’s deck, sir!” There was a pause. “Women, too!”

Keen said sharply, “D’ you still think they’re bluffing?”

It was like a nightmare, Adam thought. Reaper would suffer the same fate yet again; she would be raked as she had been by the Americans, before she could even get within range.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adam turned to the sailing-master. “Stand by to bring her up two points, Mr Ritchie. Then we will fire.”

Keen was in the shrouds, oblivious to the spray and risk; he was holding the midshipman’s big telescope, his fair hair whipping in the wind.

Like that day at the church in Zennor… Val and Zenoria… He closed his eyes as Keen said harshly, “One of the hostages is David St Clair! His daughter must be with him!”

He thrust the memories aside; this was no place for them. He heard Keen say, “No bluff, then.” He climbed down to the deck and faced him.

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

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

Suppose they refuse to fire on men like themselves?

Adam felt anger pound through him. They were not like them. I must not think of it!

He drew his hanger and raised it shoulder high.

Dear God, what are we doing?

“Alter course, Mr Ritchie!”

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

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

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

Keen said, “They would not fire on us!” He looked at those nearest him. “Because they knew we would destroy them!”

Adam said, “The bluff failed.” He saw some of the gun crews staring at each other; two seamen even reached across an eighteen-pounder to shake hands. It was no victory, but at least it was not bloody murder, either.

“Signal her to heave-to! Stand by, boarding parties!”

Adam called, “Be ready to fire. We will take nothing for granted!”

He touched his hat to Keen. “I’d like to go across myself, sir.”

Keen gazed past him as something like a great sigh came from the watching seamen and marines.

“She’s struck her colours, thank God.”

Ritchie, the old sailing-master, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Poor old girl. She’s taken all she can, I reckon!”

Adam looked at him. A toughened, unsentimental professional, but in his simple way he had said it all.

Keen said, “Take good care of St Clair and his daughter. The ordeal must have been dreadful for them.”

Adam saw the boats being swayed up and over the larboard gangway: Urquhart had taught them well. The guns would still be able to fire if necessary, without being hampered by their presence.

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

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

Adam looked over at the other boats. His captain of marines, Loftus, was very conspicuous in his scarlet tunic, an easy target for any marksman, nor would his own epaulettes have gone unnoticed. He found himself smiling slightly. Gulliver, the sixth lieutenant, glanced quickly at him, perhaps taking comfort in what he saw.

He said, “This will even the score, sir!”

He spoke like a veteran. He was about twenty years old.

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

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

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

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

There were two American lieutenants waiting for him.

“Are there any more officers aboard?”

The senior of the two shook his head. “The ship is yours Captain Bolitho.”

Adam concealed his surprise. “Mr Gulliver, take your party and search the ship.” He added sharply as the lieutenant hurried away, “If anyone resists, kill him.”

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

The tall officer shrugged. “My name is Robert Neill, Captain. Reaper is a prize of war. They surrendered.”

“And you are a prisoner of war. Your men, also.” He paused. “Captain Loftus, take charge of the others. You know what to do.” To Neill he said, “You offered British seamen a chance to mutiny. In fact, you and your captain incited it.”

The man Neill sighed. “I have nothing to add.”

He watched the two officers hand their swords to a marine. “You will be well treated.” He hesitated, hating the silence, the smell of fear. “As I was.”

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

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

“My name is David St Clair.” He reached out his hand. “This is my daughter, Gilia. Your arrival was a miracle, sir. A miracle!”

Adam glanced at the young woman. She was warmly dressed for travel, her eyes steady and defiant, as if this were the ordeal rather than its relief.

He said, “I have little time, Mr St Clair. I am to transfer you to my ship, Valkyrie, before it becomes too dark.”

St Clair stared at him. “I know that name!” He held his daughter’s arm. “Valentine Keen’s ship, you recall it!” But she was observing Valkyrie’s seamen and marines, as if sensing the friction between them and their prisoners.

Adam said, “His flagship. I am his flag captain.”

St Clair said smoothly, “Of course. He is promoted now.”

Adam said, “How were you taken, sir?”

“We were on passage in the schooner Crystal, out of Halifax, bound for the St Lawrence. Admiralty business.” He seemed to become aware of Adam’s impatience and continued, “These others are her crew. The woman is the master’s wife, who was aboard with him.”

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

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

“What is it, Laker?”

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

“Send them over to the ship. Their own men, too. Lively now!”

His eyes moved to the gangway where one of the guns was still abandoned on its tackles. There was a great stain on the planking, like black tar. It must be blood. Perhaps it marked the place where they had flogged their captain without mercy.

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

One of the American lieutenants paused with his escort. “Tell me one thing, Captain. Would you have fired, hostages or not?”

Adam swung away. “Take them across.”

St Clair’s daughter said quietly, “I wondered that myself, Captain.” She was shivering now, despite her warm clothing, the shock and realization of what had happened cutting away her reserve.

St Clair put his arm around her, and said, “The guns were loaded and ready. At the last minute some of the men, her original people, I believe, fired them to show their intentions.”

Adam said, “The American lieutenant, Neill, is probably asking himself the same question that he put to me.” He looked the girl directly in the eyes. “In war, there are few easy choices.”

“Boat’s ready, sir!”

“Have you any baggage to be taken across?”

St Clair guided his daughter to the side, where a boatswain’s chair had been rigged for her.

“None. There was no time. Afterwards, they destroyed the Crystal. There was an explosion of some kind.”

Adam looked around the deserted deck, at his own men, who were waiting to get Reaper under way again. They would probably have preferred to send her to the bottom. And so would I.

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

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

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

She murmured, “What will become of them?”

Adam said curtly, “They will hang.”

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

Adam turned suddenly. “That man! Come here!”

The seaman, still wearing a crumpled, red-checkered shirt, came over immediately and knuckled his forehead. “Sir?”

“I know you!”

“Aye, Cap’n Bolitho. I was a maintopman in Anemone two years back. You put me ashore when I was took sick o’ fever.”

Memory came, and with it the names of the past. “Ramsay, what in hell’s name happened, man?” He had forgotten the girl, who was listening intently, her father, the others, everything but this one, familiar face. There was no fear in it, but it was the face of a man already condemned, a man who had known the nearness of death in the past, and had accepted it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gulliver said uneasily, “Ready, sir.”

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

“Lower away! Easy, lads!”

Then he straightened his back and turned to face the others. He was the captain again.