Cross of St George

8. Too Much to Lose

RICHARD BOLITHO leaned away from the bright sunshine that lanced through Indomitable ’s cabin windows to rest his head against the chair’s high back. It was deep and comfortable, a bergere, which Catherine had sent on board when this ship had first hoisted his flag. Yovell, his secretary, sat at the table, while Lieutenant Avery stood by the stern bench watching two of the ship’s boats pulling back from the brig Alfriston, which had met up with them at dawn.

Tyacke had made it his business to send across some fresh fruit. Having commanded a small brig himself, he would have appreciated its value to her hard-worked company.

There had been a burst of cheering when Alfriston had hove to to pass across her despatches, which was quickly quelled by officers on watch who had been very aware of their admiral’s open skylight, and perhaps the importance of the news Alfriston might have brought to him.

Tyacke had come aft, bringing the heavy canvas satchel himself.

When Bolitho asked about the cheering, he had replied impassively, “Reaper’s been retaken, Sir Richard.”

He glanced now at the heavy pile of despatches on the table. The entire report of the search for, and capture of, Reaper was there, written in Keen’s own hand rather than that of a secretary. Did he lack confidence in his own actions, or in those who supported him, he wondered. It remained a private document, and yet, despite the seals and the secrecy, Indomitable’s people had known its contents, or had guessed what had happened. Such intuition was uncanny, but not unusual.

He listened to the creak of tackles and the twitter of a bosun’s call as the next net full of stores was hoisted outboard before being lowered into a boat for Alfriston. It was difficult to look at the vast blue expanse of ocean beyond the windows. His eye was painful, and he had wanted to rub it, even though he had been warned against disturbing it. He must accept that it was getting worse.

He tried to concentrate on Keen’s careful appraisal of Reaper’s discovery and capture. He had missed out nothing, even his own despair when he had seen the hostages paraded on her deck, a human barricade against Valkyrie’s guns. He had generously praised Adam’s part in it, and his handling of the captured sailors, American and mutineers alike.

But his mind rebelled against the intrusion of duty. In the bag sent over with Keen’s despatch had been some letters, one from Catherine, the first since they had parted in Plymouth some three months ago. He had held it to his face, had seen Yovell’s discreet glance, had caught the faint reminder of her perfume.

Avery said, “The last boat’s casting off, Sir Richard.” He sounded tense, on edge. Perhaps he, too, had been hoping for a letter, although Bolitho had never known him to receive one. Like Tyacke, his only world seemed to be here.

Bolitho turned once more to Keen’s lengthy report, rereading the information concerning David St Clair and his daughter, who had been prisoners aboard Reaper. Taken from a schooner, but surely no accidental encounter? St Clair was under Admiralty contract, and Keen had mentioned that he had been intending to visit the naval dockyard at Kingston and also a shipbuilding site at York, where a 30-gun man-of-war was close to completion. The final work on the vessel had apparently been delayed by a dispute with the Provincial Marine, under whose control she would eventually be. St Clair, well used to dealing with bureaucracy, had been hoping to speed things to a satisfactory conclusion. Captains in the fleet might find it difficult to regard such a relatively small vessel as a matter of great importance, but as Keen had learned from St Clair, when in commission the new vessel would be the biggest and most powerful on the lakes. No American craft would be able to stand against her: the lakes would be held under the White Ensign. But should the Americans attack and seize her, completed or not, the effect would be disastrous. It would mean the end of Upper Canada as a British province. Just one ship; and the Americans would have known of her existence from the moment her keel had been laid. In the light of this, St Clair’s capture appeared even less of a casual misfortune. His mission had also been known: he had had to be removed. Bolitho thought of the savage gunfire, the pathetic wreckage of the Royal Herald. Or killed.

He said to Yovell, “Have our bag sent over to Alfriston. She’ll be impatient to get under way again.” He thought of the brig’s gaunt commander, and wondered what his feelings had been when he had heard of Reaper’s capture, and that her only defiance had been fired deliberately into open water.

Ozzard peered through the other door. “Captain’s coming, sir.”

Tyacke entered and glanced at the littered papers on Bolitho’s table. Bolitho thought he was probably like Alfriston ’s commander, eager to move.

Without effort he could picture his ships on this great, empty ocean: two hundred miles south-west of the Bermudas, the other frigates Virtue and Attacker mere slivers of light on opposite horizons. Perhaps if they had not waited, the Americans would have attacked the assembled convoy, their powerful frigates destroying it or beating it into submission, no matter what the escorting men-of-war might have attempted.

A mistake, a waste of time? Or had the Americans outguessed them yet again? The enemy’s intelligence sources were without parallel. To know about St Clair and to see his involvement as a direct threat to some greater plan matched the impudent way they had seized Reaper and turned the advantage into a shame, news of which would ring throughout the fleet in spite of, or even because of, the punishments which would be meted out to the men who had mutinied against their captain, and against the Crown.

The convoy was well away, and would be standing out into the Atlantic. Their speed would be that of the slowest merchantman, a misery for the escorting frigates and brigs. But safe, in a few days’ time.

Before they had left Bermuda, Avery had gone ashore to visit Reaper’s first lieutenant at a military hospital in Hamilton. Bolitho himself would have liked to have spoken to the Reaper’s only surviving officer, who had been with his captain until the incident’s macabre and brutal conclusion, but Reaper had been one of his own squadron. He could not become personally involved with men whose warrants he might be called upon to sign.

Reaper’s captain had been a tyrant and a sadist, terms which Bolitho would never use without great consideration. He had been moved from another command to make Reaper into an efficient and reliable fighting ship once more, and to restore her reputation. But early in his tenure another side of his nature had revealed itself. Perhaps he had, in fact, been moved from that other command because of his own brutality. Any captain sailing alone had to keep the balance between discipline and tyranny firmly in his mind. Only the afterguard, with its thin ranks of Royal Marines, stood between him and open rebellion. And even if provoked, it could never be condoned.

Tyacke said, “Orders, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho turned away from the glare and saw that Yovell and Avery had left the cabin. It seemed a mutual awareness of his desire to confer privately with his flag captain: a loyalty which never failed to move him.

“I want your views, James. Return to Halifax and discover what is happening? Or remain here, and so weaken our squadron?”

Tyacke rubbed the scarred side of his face. He had seen the letter handed to Bolitho and been surprised by his own envy. If only… He thought of the wine which Catherine Somervell had sent him, like the deep green leather chair in which Bolitho was sitting, her gifts, and her abiding presence in this cabin. With a woman like that…

Bolitho asked, “What is it, James? You know me well enough to speak out.”

Tyacke dismissed the thoughts, glad that they could not be known.

“I believe the Yankees-” he smiled awkwardly, recalling Dawes, “the Americans will need to move very soon. Maybe they’ve already made a beginning. Rear-Admiral Keen’s information about the shipbuilder, this man St Clair, points to it. Once we have more ships, as Their Lordships say we will when Bonaparte is finally beaten, they’ll face a blockade of their entire coastline. Trade, supplies, ships, unable to move.” He paused, and seemed to come to a decision. “I’ve spoken to Isaac York, and he insists that this weather will hold.” Again he offered a small, attractive smile, which even his disfigurement could not diminish. “And my new purser assures me that we are well supplied for another month. The pips might squeak a bit, but we can manage.”

“Remain on this patrol? Is that what you are telling me?”

“Look, sir, if you were some high an’ mighty Yankee with good ships, albeit Frogs, at your disposal, what would you do?”

Bolitho nodded, considering it. He could even see the unknown ships in his mind, as clearly as the hollow-eyed Commander Borradaile had seen them through his telescope. Big, well-armed, free of all authority but their own.

“I’d take advantage of this south-westerly and go for the convoy, even at this stage. A long way, and a risk if you are facing the unknown. But I don’t think it is unknown to our man.”

There were muffled cheers on deck, and he left the chair to walk to the stern windows. “There goes Alfriston, James.”

Tyacke watched him, with affection and concern. Every time he thought he knew this man he found there was something more to learn. He noticed that Bolitho was shading his left eye, and saw the sadness and introspection in the profile against the light. Thinking of his letter in that same little brig, and the endless miles and transfers from ship to ship before Catherine Somervell would open and read it. Perhaps thinking, too, of his own independence as a very young commander, when each day was a challenge, but not a burden. A proud man, and a sensitive one, a man Tyacke had seen holding the hand of a dying enemy in Indomitable ’s last and greatest battle. Who had tried to comfort his coxswain when Allday’s son had been killed in that same fight. He cared, and those who knew him loved him for it. The others were content with the legend. And yet his would be the responsibility for sending Reaper’s seamen to choke from a yardarm. Tyacke had only known Reaper’s captain by reputation. It had been enough.

Bolitho turned from the sea. “I agree with you, James. We will remain on station.” He walked back to the table and spread his hands on the open despatches. “Another day or so. After that, time and distance can become a handicap.” He smiled. “Even to our enemy.”

Tyacke picked up his hat. “I’ll make the necessary signals to our consorts when we alter course at two bells, sir.”

Bolitho sat down again and rested his head against the warm green leather. He thought of May in Cornwall, the tide of pure colour, thousands of bluebells, the sea sparkling… It would soon be June. He felt his fingers tighten on the arms of the chair she had had made for him. So long. So long…

The familiar sounds faded; the sunlight no longer tormented him as wind and rudder guided this great ship like a bridle.

Then, and only then, did he take the letter from his coat. He held it to his face again, to his mouth, as she would have done.

Then he opened it with great care, always with the same uncertainty, even fear.

My dearest Beloved Richard…

She was with him. Nothing had changed. The fear was gone.

Lieutenant George Avery wedged his feet against his sea-chest and stared up at the deckhead in his tiny, screened cabin. Feet moved occasionally on the wet planking as men hastened to take in the slack of some running rigging.

Outside it was pitch black, with plenty of stars but no moon. He toyed with the idea of going on deck but knew he would be in the way, or worse, those on watch might think that he had been sent to report on their progress. He glanced at his gently swaying cot and rejected it. Where was the point? He would not be able to sleep, or at least, not for long. Then his doubts would come to torment him. He considered the wardroom, but knew there would be somebody there, like himself unable to sleep, or looking for a partner for a game of cards. Like the dead Scarlett, Indomitable’s first lieutenant when she had ceased to be a private ship and had first worn Bolitho’s flag. He had wanted so much to have a command of his own, and outwardly had been a good officer, but he was being driven quietly mad by his mounting debts, his inability to stop gambling, and his desperate need to win. Avery had seen David Merrick, the acting captain of marines, sitting in the wardroom earlier, a book open on his lap to deter conversation, but his eyes unmoving. His superior, du Cann, had died that day with Scarlett and many others, but promotion seemed to have brought him no pleasure.

He thought of Alfriston, and the letter he had seen resting between the leaves of a book on Bolitho’s table. Envy? It went deeper than that. He had even been denied the odd pleasure it gave him to read one of Allday’s letters aloud: there had been none for him from Unis, and Avery knew he was troubled, confused by a separation he had been unable to accept. Avery had seen him, too, that afternoon, motionless on the deck, alone despite the bustling hands around him. He was standing at the place where his son had died, maybe trying to see the sense of it all.

He glanced at his small cupboard, thinking of the good cognac he kept there. If he had a drink now, he would not stop.

More feet rushed overhead. The ship was altering course very slightly, the shrouds drumming in a muffled tattoo. And tomorrow-what then? It had been late afternoon when the brig Marvel had closed with the flagship. She had sighted two ships to the north, steering east, as far as her commander could tell. He had turned away rather than run up a hoist of signals, and he had acted wisely. Any small vessel would have run for it, if the two ships were the enemy.

But overnight all could change. It could be a waste of time: the ships might have changed tack completely, or Marvel ’s lookouts might have been mistaken, seeing only what they expected to see, as was often the case in these hit-and-run tactics.

He recalled Bolitho when they had first met, strengthened or troubled by a letter from Catherine, it was impossible to say. He had spoken unexpectedly of his childhood at Falmouth, and his awe of his father, Captain James Bolitho. He had said that he never doubted or questioned his vocation as a sea officer, although Avery thought privately that he was more uncertain now than at any other time.

Of the two reported ships he had said, “If they are the enemy, it is unlikely that they will know of Reaper’s recapture. Yet, if they are truly after the convoy from Bermuda, then I think they will come at us. They are becoming too used to success. This may be one gamble too many.”

He could have been speaking of somebody else, or some report he had read in his despatches or in the Gazette. Avery had looked around the spacious cabin, the tethered guns on either side, the books, and the fine wine cooler with the Bolitho motto on the top. The same place which had been blasted and blackened in that action, where men had fought and died, and survival had seemed like an accident or a miracle. If he returned to it now, he thought he would probably find Bolitho still sitting in the leather chair, reading one of his books, his fingers occasionally brushing against the letter which he would open again before he turned in. He ran his fingers through his hair and allowed the thought and the memory to intrude. As if she had suddenly appeared in this tiny hutch, the only place he could truly be alone.

Suppose they had not met? He shook his head as if to deny it. That had only been partly the cause. I am thirty-five years old. A lieutenant without prospects, beyond serving this man for whom I care more than I would have believed humanly possible. The same Lieutenant Scarlett, during one of his many heated exchanges, had suggested that he was only waiting for the reward of promotion, for a command of his own, no matter how small. And once that might have been true. There had seemed no other course, no hope for someone of his station; even the lingering stain of his court martial would not have been forgotten in the high offices of the admiralty.

I am not a round-eyed midshipman, or a young lieutenant with the world still for the asking. I should have stopped there. Stopped, and forgotten her… She was probably laughing about it at this very moment. Just as he knew it would break his heart, if he really believed that she was.

I should have known. A sea officer who had proved his courage in battle, and in bitter struggle to live after being wounded. But when it came to women he was a child, an innocent. But it would not disperse. He was still there, and it was like a dream, something so vivid and unplanned. Something inevitable.

The house had been almost empty; the full staff were only expected to arrive after Rear-Admiral Sir Robert Mildmay’s residence in Bath was finally closed and sold.

She had been so calm, amused, he thought, by his concern for her reputation, assuring him that the formidable housekeeper was completely loyal and discreet, and the cook, the only other person residing in the house, was all but deaf. He had often recalled that description, loyal and discreet. Did it have a double meaning? That her affairs were numerous? He rubbed his forehead. That she might be entertaining some other man even at this moment?

He heard footsteps outside, the click of Captain Merrick’s boots. He would be going around his sentries, inspecting places deep in the lightless hull where guards were mounted day and night. Another man with a private torment: unable to sleep, afraid of what dreams might bring. Avery smiled grimly. As well he might.

He opened the shutter of his solitary lantern very slightly, but instead of the small flame he saw the great fire, half red, and half white ash. She had led him by the hand across the room. “It will be cold tonight.”

He had attempted to touch her, to take her arm, but she had moved away, her eyes in shadow while she had watched him. “There is some wine on the table. It would be pleasant, don’t you think?” She had reached for the tongs beside a basket of logs.

“Let me.” They had knelt together, watching the sparks going up the chimney like fireflies.

She had said, “I must go. I have things to do.” She had not looked at him. Later, he had realized that she had been unable to.

The house had been like a tomb, the room facing away from the street and the occasional noise of carriage wheels.

Avery had had no experience with women, except for one brief incident with a French lady who had visited sick and wounded prisoners of war. There had been no affection, only need, an urgency which had left him feeling used and vaguely degraded.

He was still unable to believe what had happened in London.

She had appeared on the edge of the shadows, her body all in white, her feet bare on the carpet, the feet alone touched by the flickering firelight.

“Here I am, Mister Avery!” She had laughed softly, and when he had got up from the fire, “You spoke to me of your love.” She had held out her arms. “Show me.”

He had held her, gently at first, then more firmly as he had felt the curve of her spine under his hand, and had realized that beneath the flimsy gown she was naked.

Then, for the first time, he had felt her shivering, although her body was warm, even hot. He had tried to kiss her, but she had pressed her face into his shoulder, and repeated, “Show me.”

He had seized the gown, and in seconds had her in his arms again, unable to stop himself, even if his senses had permitted it. He had carried her to the great bed and had knelt over her, touching her, exploring her, kissing her from her throat to her thigh. He had seen her raise her head to watch him as he threw off his clothes, her hair like living gold in the light. Then she had laid back again, her arms spread out as if crucified.

“Show me!” She had resisted when he had gripped her wrists, and had twisted from side to side, her body arched as he had forced her down, and down, finding her, unable to wait, unwilling to restrain his desire.

She had been ready, and had drawn him to her, passionate, tender, experienced, enclosing him deeply in her body until they were both spent.

She had murmured, “That was love, Mister Avery.”

“I must leave, Susanna.” It was the first time he had called her by name.

“First, some wine.” She had lifted up on one elbow, making no attempt to cover herself. Nor did she resist when he touched her again; she reached out to provoke and arouse him once more, and he had known then that he could not leave her. At dawn’s first intrusion they had finally tasted the wine, and had crouched again by the fire, now all but dead in the faint grey light.

The rest had become blurred, unreal. Fumbling into his clothes again while she had stood watching him, quite naked but for his cocked hat. Then he had embraced her once more, unable to find the words, his mind and body still reeling from the impossible dream, which had become reality.

She had whispered, “I promised you a carriage.”

He had pressed her hair against his chin. “I shall be all right. I could possibly fly to Chelsea!”

The moment of parting had been painful, almost embarrassing.

“I am sorry if I hurt you, Susanna… I am… clumsy.”

She had smiled. “You are a man. A real man.”

He might have said, “Please write to me.” But he could not honestly say that he had. The door had closed, and he had made his way down the stairs to the street doors, where someone had placed and lighted a fresh stand of candles for his departure. Loyal and discreet.

There was a tap at the screen door, startling him, and he found Ozzard standing outside, a small tray beneath his arm. For a moment Avery though he must have been reliving it all aloud, and that Ozzard had heard him.

Ozzard said only, “Sir Richard’s compliments, sir, and he’d like to see you aft.”

“Of course.” Avery closed the door and groped for a comb. Did Ozzard never sleep either?

He sat down again and grinned ruefully. She would be laughing, maybe, but remembering too.

Perhaps he had been a worse fool than he knew. But he would never forget.

He smiled. Mister Avery.

Captain James Tyacke stepped into the stern cabin and looked around at the familiar faces, his eyes accepting the light with surprising ease after the blackness of the quarterdeck, where little more than a tiny compass lamp pierced the night.

Bolitho was standing at the table, with his hands spread on a chart, Avery by his elbow, while the plump and scholarly Yovell sat at a smaller table, his pen poised over some papers. Ozzard moved only occasionally to refill their cups with coffee but remained, as usual, silent, merely shifting from one foot to the other to betray any agitation he might feel.

And framed against the great span of thick glass windows was Allday, a drawn sword in one hand, while he moved a cloth slowly up and down the blade as Tyacke had seen him do so often. Bolitho’s oak: only death would separate them.

Tyacke shut it from his mind. “All the hands have been fed, Sir Richard. I’ve been around the ship to have a quiet word with my people.”

He could not have slept much, Bolitho thought, but he was ready now, even if his admiral were to be proved wrong. He had even considered that possibility. The ship’s company had been roused early, but they had not yet cleared for action. There was nothing worse for morale than the anti-climax of discovering that the enemy had outguessed or outmaneuvered them, and the sea was empty.

My people. That was also typical of Tyacke. He was referring to the ship’s backbone of professionals, his warrant officers, all skilled and experienced men like Isaac York, the sailing-master, Harry Duff, the gunner, and Sam Hockenhull, the squat boatswain. Men who had come up the hard way, like Alfriston’s untidy commander.

Yet against them, the lieutenants were amateurs. Even Daubeny, the first lieutenant, was still young for his position, which would not have come his way so soon but for the death of his predecessor. But that one fierce battle eight months ago had given him a maturity that seemed to surprise him more than anybody. As for the others, the most junior was Blythe, only just promoted from the midshipmen’s berth. He was big-headed and very sure of himself, but even Tyacke had overcome his dislike of him to say that he was improving. Slightly.

And Laroche, the piggy-faced third lieutenant, who had once received the rough edge of Tyacke’s tongue when he had been in charge of a press-gang, also lacked experience except for their encounter with Unity.

Tyacke was saying, “The new hands have settled down quite well, sir. As for the Nova Scotians who volunteered, I’m glad they’re with us and not the enemy!”

Bolitho stared down at the chart, the soundings and calculations between his hands. Ships meeting, the mind of an enemy, all meaningless if there was nothing when daylight came.

York had been right about the wind. It was even and steady from the south-west, and the ship, under reduced canvas, was lying well to it; when he had been on deck he had watched the spray bursting like phantoms along the lee side and up through the beak-head with its snarling lion.

Avery asked, “Will they fight or run, Sir Richard?” He saw the alertness in the grey eyes that lifted to him; there was no hint of fatigue or doubt. Bolitho had shaved, and Avery wondered what he and Allday had discussed while the big coxswain had used his razor as easily as if it were broad daylight.

His shirt was loosely fastened, and Avery had seen the glint of silver when he had stooped over the chart. The locket he always wore.

Bolitho shrugged. “Fight. If they have not already gone about and headed for port somewhere, they will have little choice, I think.” He looked up at the deckhead beams. “The wind is an ally today.”

Avery watched, at peace now in this company, the consequences of what daylight might bring somehow secondary. He heard the drumming vibration of rigging, the occasional squeal of blocks, and imagined the ship leaning over to the wind, knowing that Bolitho was seeing it also, even as they spoke.

Tyacke would consider the situation rather differently, perhaps, but with the same end in mind. How many times had this ship lived through moments like this? She was thirty-six years old, and her battle honours read like history itself: the Chesapeake, the Saintes, the Nile, and Copenhagen. So many men, so much pain. He thought of Tyacke’s fiercely contained pride for the ship he had not wanted. And she had never been beaten.

Bolitho said suddenly, “Your assistant, George-Mr Midshipman Carleton. Doing well, isn’t he?”

Avery glanced quickly at Tyacke, who gave the merest hint of a smile, but no more.

“Yes, sir, he is very good with his signals crew. He hopes to be offered promotion. He is seventeen.” The question had disconcerted him: he never really knew what Bolitho might toss his way, or why.

Tyacke said, “He’s a damned sight quieter than Mr Blythe ever was.”

Bolitho felt them relaxing, except Ozzard. He was waiting to hear, to know. He would go below, as deep as possible into the hull, when the first shots were fired. He should be ashore, Bolitho thought, away from this life. And yet, he knew that he had nowhere to go, no one who waited for him. Even when they were in Cornwall, and Ozzard lived in his cottage on the estate, he remained profoundly alone.

Bolitho said, “I want young Carleton aloft.” He tugged out his watch and flicked open the guard.

Tyacke read his thoughts. “Less than an hour, sir.”

Bolitho glanced at his empty cup, and heard Ozzard say tentatively, “I could make another pot, Sir Richard.”

“I think it may have to wait.” He turned his head as, almost drowned out by the muffled hiss of the sea, he heard a man laugh somewhere. Such a small thing, but he thought of the wretched Reaper: there had been no laughter there. He remembered as if it were yesterday the evening when Tyacke had taken the lordly Midshipman Blythe below deck to visit the crowded seamen’s and marines’ messes, to show him what he had called “the strength of a ship.” That had been before the battle. The same strength had prevailed then. He thought of Allday’s grief. At a cost…

He said, “If we fight, we will give of our best.” For a moment it was like hearing someone else’s voice. “But we must never forget those who depend on us, because they have no other choice.”

Tyacke reached for his hat. “I’ll have the galley fire doused in good time, Sir Richard.”

But Bolitho was looking at Avery. “Go and speak with your Mr Carleton.” He closed his watch, but was still holding it. “You may pass the word now, James. It will be warm enough today.”

As Ozzard gathered up the cups and the others left the cabin, Bolitho looked over at Allday.

“Well, old friend. Why here, you must be thinking, a tiny mark on this great ocean. Are we destined to fight?”

Allday held out the old sword and ran his eye along the edge.

“Like all them other times, Sir Richard. It was meant to be. That’s it an’ all about it.” Then he grinned, almost his old self again. “We’ll win, no matter what.” He paused, and the defiant humour was gone. “Y’ see, Sir Richard, we’ve both got too much to lose.” He slid the blade back into its scabbard. “God help them that tries to take it away!”

Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and gripped it while he peered up at the towering mainmast with its iron-hard canvas. He was shivering, not because of the cold morning air, but with the instinctive awareness of danger that could still surprise him after a lifetime at sea. The sails were paler now, but there was no horizon, and the only movement he recognized through the thick criss-cross of rigging and flapping canvas seemed to float above the ship, keeping pace with her like a solitary sea bird. It was his flag, the Cross of St George, which flew day and night while he was in command. He thought of her letter in the pocket of his coat, and imagined he could hear her voice. My admiral of England.

He could still taste the bitterness of coffee on his tongue, and wondered why he had not forced himself to eat. Tension, uncertainty perhaps. But fear? He smiled. Perhaps he could no longer recognize that emotion.

Figures moved all around him, each one careful not to intrude upon his solitude. He could see Isaac York, a head taller than his mates, his slate-coloured hair blowing in the wind: a good man and a strong one. Bolitho knew that he had even tried to help Scarlett when the extent of his debts had become known. The white breeches of the lieutenants and midshipmen stood out in the lingering darkness, and he guessed that they were preparing themselves for what might happen today, each in his own fashion.

He moved to the compass box and glanced at the tilting card. North-east by north, with the wind still firm across the larboard quarter. Men were working high overhead, feeling for frayed cordage or jammed blocks with the sureness of true seamen.

Tyacke was down on the lee side, his lean figure framed against the pale water creaming back from the bows. One long arm moved to emphasize a point, and he could imagine Daubeny concentrating on every word. They were chalk and cheese, but the mixture seemed to work: Tyacke had a peculiar gift of being able to communicate his requirements to his subordinates without unnecessary anger or sarcasm. At first they had been afraid of him, and repulsed by the hideous scars: eventually they had all overcome such things, and had become a company of which to be proud.

He heard a midshipman whisper to his friend and saw them look up, and he shaded his eyes and stared with them at his flag, the red cross suddenly hard and bright, touched by the first light of dawn.

“Deck there!” Carleton’s voice was clear and very loud: he was using a speaking-trumpet. “Sail on the larboard bow!” A pause, and Bolitho could picture the young midshipman asking the masthead lookout his opinion. Tyacke was always careful with his choice of “eyes”: they were invariably experienced sailors, many of whom had grown older with the ships they were serving, or fighting.

Carleton called again, “She’s Attacker, sir!” He sounded almost disappointed that it was not a first sighting of the enemy. The other frigate was one of the smaller sixth-rates, and mounted only twenty-eight guns. Bolitho frowned. The same as Reaper. But she was not like Reaper. In his mind’s eye he could see Attacker ’s captain, George Morrison, a tough northerner from Tyneside. But no sadist: his punishment book was one of the cleanest in the squadron.

Avery said quietly, “He must sight Virtue soon, sir.”

Bolitho looked at him, and saw the new light driving the shadows from his face.

“Perhaps. We may have become separated in the night. Not for long.”

He knew Allday was close by: he must be standing almost where his son had fallen that day.

He pushed the thought away. This was now. Attacker was on her proper station, or soon would be, once she had sighted the flagship. The other frigate, Virtue, carried thirty-six guns. Her captain was Roger M’Cullom, in character a little like Dampier, who had been Zest’s captain before Adam had taken command. Devil-may-care and popular, but inclined to be reckless. Whether to impress his men or for his own benefit, it was still a dangerous and, as Dampier had discovered, sometimes a fatal flaw.

Sam Hockenhull the boatswain had come aft to speak with the first lieutenant. Bolitho noticed that he was careful to avoid contact with Allday, who still blamed him for sending his son to join the afterguard on the day he had died. The quarterdeck and poop were always ripe targets for enemy sharpshooters and the deadly swivel-guns in close combat: command and authority began and were easily ended here. It was nobody’s fault, and Hockenhull probably felt badly about it, although nothing had been said.

Bolitho sensed the restlessness among the waiting seamen. The leading edge of tension and apprehension had passed. They might be relieved later, when there was time to think on it. Now they would feel cheated that the sea was empty. As though they had been misled.

And here was the sun at last, giving a bronze edge to the horizon. Bolitho saw Attacker ’s topsails for the first time, the faint touch of colour from her streaming masthead pendant.

Someone gasped with alarm as a muffled bang echoed across the sea’s jagged whitecaps. One shot, the sound going on and on for seconds, as if in a mine or a long tunnel.

Tyacke was beside him immediately. “Signal, Sir Richard. It’s

Virtue. She’s sighted ’em!”

Bolitho said, “Make more sail. Then as soon as…”

Carleton’s voice came down from the masthead again. “Deck there! Two sail in sight to the nor’-east!”

There were more far-off shots, in earnest this time.

Tyacke’s strong voice controlled the sudden uncertainty around him. “Hands aloft, Mr Daubeny! Get the royals on her!” To York he called, “Weather-helm, let her fall off two points!” He rubbed his hands. “Now we’ll see her fly, lads!”

More shots, sporadic but determined. Two ships, perhaps more. Tyacke was looking toward him again.

Bolitho said, “When you are ready, Captain Tyacke.” Then he looked up as the royals thundered from their yards, adding their power to the straining masts and rigging.

“Beat to quarters, Mr Daubeny! Then clear for action, if you please!”

Daubeny was staring at him. Reliving the past, trying to face the future.

The marine drummers were already below the poop, and at a signal from their sergeant they began to beat out the familiar rattle, the sounds soon lost in the answering rush of feet as idlers and off-watch hands divided into teams, each of which knew precisely what was expected of them. Bolitho stood quite still, aware of the order and purpose around him, gained by months of drills and exercises, and Tyacke’s own forceful example.

The cabin beneath his feet would be stripped bare like the rest of the ship, screens torn down, all privacy gone, until the vessel was open from bow to stern. A ship-of-war.

“Cleared for action, sir!” Daubeny turned back to his captain.

Tyacke nodded. “That was well done.” Then, formally, he touched his hat to his admiral. “Virtue is engaging without support, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho said nothing. M’Cullom was not the kind to wait. It would be ship to ship, evening old scores, a seizing of the initiative like any frigate captain. Carleton’s voice came down like an intrusion.

“Third sail in sight, sir! There’s smoke!”

Bolitho said, “Go aloft, George. Discover what you can.”

Avery glanced at him even as he hurried to the shrouds. Afterwards, he was to recall the pain in his eyes, as if he already knew.

More gunfire, and Bolitho saw the smoke for the first time, like a stain on the shark-blue water. He could feel the deck lifting and then shuddering down as Indomitable thrust her fourteen hundred tons into each oncoming roller. Even the yards appeared to be bending like giant bows, every sail full, each shroud and stay bar-taut under her great pyramid of sails.

“Load, sir?” Tyacke’s eyes were everywhere, even aloft, where a man had almost lost his hold as he was securing one of the nets which had been spread to protect the gun crews from falling spars.

Bolitho glanced at the masthead pendant. Like an arrow. The enemy could not outpace this ship, nor did they have the time to beat back into the wind. M’Cullom must have seen all this, and set it against the risk. The odds.

“Yes. Load, but do not run out. Virtue has given us time. Let us use it!”

Avery called down suddenly, “ Virtue has lost a topmast, sir! There are two frigates engaging her!” The rest was lost in an angry growl from the gun crews as they paused to peer up at the mainmast, their legs braced on the freshly sanded deck, their expressions shocked, but free of fear. This was different. Virtue was one of their own.

Bolitho looked away. My men.

More explosions, and then Avery returned to the quarterdeck.

“She can’t hope to last much longer, sir.”

“I know.” He spoke sharply, angry with himself at the cost, which was already too high. “Make to Attacker, Close on the Flag.” As Avery shouted for the signal party, he added, “Then hoist Close Action! ”

So easily said. He felt for the locket under his shirt.

May Fate always guide you.

A tiny mark on this great ocean, he had said to Allday.

He turned and stared along the full length of the ship, past each unmoving gun crew, the lieutenants at the foot of each mast, then beyond the lion, with its upraised paws ready to strike.

The sea was cleaner, and a darker blue now, the sky empty of cloud in the first frail sunlight.

He gripped the sword at his side and tried to feel something, some emotion. No place now for any perhaps or maybe. Like all those other times, this was the moment. Now.

And there lay the enemy.