Cross of St George

9. A Flag Captain

BOLITHO waited for the bows to rear across another broken roller, then raised the telescope to his eye. The sea was glinting in a million mirrors, the horizon hard and sharp like something solid.

He moved the glass very slowly until he had found the embattled ships, changing shape in a swirling pall of gun smoke.

Avery said, “Attacker ’s on station, sir.” He sounded unwilling to disturb Bolitho’s concentration.

On station. It seemed only minutes since the signal had been acknowledged; perhaps everything had been frozen in time, with only the three distant ships a reality.

Virtue was still fighting hard, engaging the enemy on either beam, her broadsides regular and well timed despite the ripped and ragged sails, and the gaps in her rigging and spars which revealed the true measure of her damage.

Two big frigates. He could see the Stars and Stripes curling from the leader’s gaff, the stabbing tongues of orange flame along her side as her battery fired, and fired again.

The nearest enemy ship was breaking off the action, her smoke rolling down across her adversary as if to swamp her, her sails flapping in disorder but without confusion, as she began to alter course. She was coming fully about. Bolitho searched his feelings: there was neither satisfaction nor even anxiety. To fight, not to run, to grasp what wind she could and use it.

Had she tried to break free and stand away, Indomitable would have outsailed her, and raked her at least twice before the other captain had been made to face an inevitable defeat.

What Adam would have done. He smiled faintly, bleakly. What I would do.

He called to one of the midshipmen. “Over here, Mr Blisset!” He waited for the youth to join him, and then rested the telescope on his shoulder. He saw the midshipman grin and wink to one of his friends. See me? I am helping the admiral!

Bolitho forgot him and all those around him as he watched a tiny cluster of coloured flags break from the other frigate. She was still engaging the defiant Virtue, and the pockmarks in her own sails showed that it was not all going in the enemy’s favour.

He rubbed his left eye with his sleeve, angry at the interruption. The signal was being acknowledged, so the engaging vessel was the senior of the two. Almost certainly the same captain who had bluffed Reaper into surrender and worse. Who had intended to go after the convoy as he had probably done with others. Had they been his guns, too, which had smashed the transport Royal Herald into oblivion? The face in the crowd.

Someone shouted, “Virtue’s mizzen is going!”

And Isaac York’s angry retort. “We can see that, Mr Essex!”

Bolitho trained the glass still further. He could feel the youth’s shoulder quivering: excitement, fear, it could be both.

The frigate was almost bows-on, leaning over as her yards were hauled round to hold her on the opposite tack. So close now, five miles or thereabouts. She would soon be on a converging course. Tyacke must have anticipated it, had put himself in the other captain’s place when he had ordered York to let Indomitable fall off two points. Either way, they would hold the wind-gage. It would be a swift, and possibly decisive, embrace.

The enemy frigate was trying to head further into the wind, but her flapping canvas filled again while she held her present course.

Bolitho heard Tyacke say, almost to himself, “Got you!”

“Royal Marines, stand to!” That was Merrick. A good officer, but one who had always been dominated by du Cann, who had been torn to bloody shreds by a swivel even as he had led his marines onto the American’s deck. Was Merrick hearing his voice even now, as he ordered his men to their stations?

He moved the glass again, his lips dry as he saw Virtue’s blurred shape falling downwind, obviously out of command, her steering gone, her remaining sails whipping in the wind like ragged banners.

Tyacke again. “Starboard battery, Mr Daubeny! Open the ports!”

A whistle shrilled, and Bolitho imagined the port lids lifting like baleful eyes along their spray-dappled side.

“Run out!”

Bolitho lowered the glass and murmured a word of thanks to the midshipman. He saw Avery watching him, and said, “The senior captain is holding off for the present.”

Tyacke joined him and exclaimed angrily, “To let another do his work for him, the bastard!”

There was a puff of smoke from the approaching frigate, and seconds later a ball slapped down beyond Indomitable’s thrusting jib-boom. Bolitho said, “You may shorten sail, Captain Tyacke.” He could have been speaking to a stranger.

Tyacke was shouting to his lieutenants, while high above the tilting deck the topmen were already kicking and fisting the wild canvas under control, yelling to one another as they had done so often during their endless drills and contests, mast against mast. Bolitho straightened his back. It was always the same: the big main course brailed up to lessen the risk of fire, but leaving the crouching gun crews and the bare backed seamen at the braces and halliards feeling exposed and vulnerable.

He stared at the drifting Virtue. If she survived this day, it would take months to repair and refit her. Many of her people would not see that, or any other day.

But her flag still flew, hoisted with pathetic jauntiness to an undamaged yard, and through the smoke he could see some of her seamen climbing on to the shattered gangways to cheer and gesture as Indomitable surged towards them.

Avery tore his eyes away from the other ship and looked toward Bolitho as he said, “See? They can still cheer!” He pressed one hand to his eye, but Avery had seen the emotion and the pain.

Tyacke leaned on the rail as if to control his ship single-handed.

“On the uproll, Mr Daubeny!” He drew his sword and lifted it, until the first lieutenant had turned towards him.

“When you are ready, Mr York!” York raised a hand in acknowledgment. “Helm a’lee! Hold her steady there!”

Responding to the quarter-wind, Indomitable turned slightly and without effort, her long jib-boom slicing above the other ship’s like a giant’s lance.

“Steady she is, sir! Nor’ by east!”

“Fire!”

Controlled, gun by gun, the broadside thundered out from bow to quarter, the sound so loud after the distant sea-fight that some of the seamen almost lost their grip on the braces as they hauled with all their strength to drag the yards round, to harness the wind. The oncoming frigate had been waiting, to draw closer, or to anticipate Tyacke’s first move. By a second or an hour, it was already too late, even before it had begun.

Bolitho watched Indomitable’s double-shotted broadside smashing into the other ship, and imagined that he saw her stagger as if she had run aground. He saw great holes in the sails, the wind already exploring them and tearing them apart. Severed rigging and shrouds dangled over her side, and more than one gunport had been left empty, blinded, its cannon running free to cause more havoc inboard.

“Stop your vents! Sponge out! Load! Run out!”

Even as the enemy fired, the gun crews threw themselves into their work in a barely controlled frenzy.

Gun captains peered aft where Tyacke stood watching the other frigate. Perhaps he could exclude all else but the moment and his duty; he certainly did not seem to notice as one of the packed hammocks was torn apart by a jagged splinter a few yards from his body.

Bolitho felt the hull jerk as some of the other frigate’s iron found its mark. The range was closing fast; he could even see men running to retrim the yards, and an officer waving his sword, before Tyacke’s arm came down and the guns hurled themselves inboard on their tackles once more. Through the black shrouds and stays the American frigate looked as if she would run headlong into Indomitable’s side, but it was an illusion of battle, and the sea churned between the two ships was as bright as before.

Bolitho snatched up a glass and walked to the opposite side, expecting to see the senior American frigate running into the fight, with only the smaller Attacker standing in her way. He stared with disbelief as he realized that she had already gone about, and was making more sail even as he watched.

Avery said hoarsely, “Not bluffing this time, sir!”

There was a wild cheer as the frigate’s foremast began to fall. He imagined he could hear the terrible sounds of splintering wood and tearing rigging, although his ears were still deaf from the last broadside. So slow, so very slow. He even thought he could see the final hesitation before shrouds and stays snapped under the weight, and the whole mast, complete with yards, top and sails, thundered down alongside, dragging the vessel round like some giant sea anchor.

He watched the range closing fast, the American frigate turning clumsily while some of her men ran to cut the mast adrift, their axes like bright stars in the smoky sunshine.

Daubeny called, “All loaded, sir!”

Tyacke did not seem to hear. He was watching the other ship as she drifted helplessly to the thrust of wind and current.

The American officer was still waving his sword, and the huge Stars and Stripes streamed as proudly as before.

“Strike, damn you!” But Tyacke’s voice held no anger or hatred; it was more a plea, one captain to another.

Two of the enemy’s guns recoiled in their ports and Bolitho saw more packed hammocks blasted from their nettings, and seamen reeling from their weapons while one of their number was cut in half by a ball, his legs kneeling in grotesque independence.

Tyacke stared at Bolitho. Nothing was said. The sudden silence was almost more painful than the explosions.

Bolitho glanced at the enemy ship, and saw that some of her seamen who had been running seconds earlier to hack away the dragging wreckage had stopped as if stricken, unable to move. But here and there a musket flashed, and he knew that her invisible marksmen could not be cheated for much longer.

He nodded. “As you bear!”

The sword fell, and in one shattering roar the starboard battery fired into the drifting smoke.

Daubeny yelled, “Reload!”

Stooping like old men, the gun crews sponged out the hot guns and rammed home the fresh charges and shining black balls from the garlands. At one of the ports the men hauled their gun back, oblivious even to the sliced corpse and the blood that soaked their trousers like paint. A fight they could understand; even the pain and fear that kept it close company were part of it, something expected. But a drifting ship, unable to steer and with most of her guns either unmanned or out of action, was something different.

A lone voice shouted, “Strike, you bloody bastard! Strike, for Jesus’ sake!” Above the wind in the rigging, it sounded like a scream.

Tyacke said, “So be it.” He dropped his sword and the guns exploded, the vivid tongues of flame appearing to reach and touch the target.

The smoke funnelled downwind, and men stood away from their guns, their eyes red-rimmed in smoke-grimed faces, sweat cutting stripes across their bodies.

Bolitho watched coldly. A ship which could not win, and which would not surrender. Where the working party had been gathered there was only splintered timber and a few corpses, tossed aside with brutal indifference. Men and pieces of men, and from her scuppers there were tiny threads of scarlet, as if the ship herself was bleeding to death. Daubeny had removed his hat, probably without knowing what he had done. But he stared aft again, his face like stone as he called, “All loaded, sir!”

Tyacke turned toward the three figures by the weather rail: Bolitho, Avery close beside him, and Allday a few paces away, his naked cutlass resting on the deck.

One more broadside would finish her completely, with so much damage below deck that she might even burst into flames, deadly to any vessel that came near her. Fire was the greatest fear of every sailor, in both war and peace.

Bolitho felt the numbness. The ache. They were waiting. Justice; revenge; the completeness of defeat.

His was the final responsibility. When he looked for the other American ship, he could barely find her beyond the smoke. But waiting, watching to see what he would do. Testing me again.

“Very well, Captain Tyacke!” He knew that some of the seamen and marines were staring at him, with disbelief, perhaps even disgust. But the gun captains were responding, answering the only discipline they understood. The trigger-lines were pulled taut, each man staring across his muzzle, the helpless target filling every open port.

Tyacke raised his sword. Remembering that moment at the Nile when hell had burst into his life and had left its mark as a permanent reminder? Or seeing just another enemy, a fragment of a war which had outlived so many, friends and foes alike?

There was a sudden burst of shouting and Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the solitary figure on the enemy’s torn and bloodied quarterdeck. No sword this time, and one arm hanging broken, or even missing in the dangling sleeve.

Very deliberately and without even turning towards Indomitable, he tugged at the halliards, and almost fell as the big Stars and Stripes spiralled down into the smoke.

Avery said in a tight voice, “He had no choice.”

Bolitho glanced at him. Like Tyacke, another memory? Of his own little schooner surrendering to the enemy, while he lay wounded and helpless?

He said, “He had every choice. Men died for no good purpose. Remember what I told you. They have no choice at all.”

He looked in Allday’s direction. “Bravely, old friend?”

Allday lifted the cutlass and balanced the blade on one hand.

“It gets harder, Sir Richard.” Then he grinned, and Bolitho thought that even the sunshine was dim by comparison. “Aye, set bravely!”

Tyacke was watching the other vessel, the brief savagery of action already being crowded aside by the immediate needs of command.

“Boarding parties, Mr Daubeny! The marines will go across when the ship is secured! Pass the word for the surgeon and let me know the bill-we’ll see the cost of this morning’s show of courage!”

Indomitable was responding, the carpenter and his crew already below, hammers and squeaking tackles marking their progress through the lower hull.

Then Tyacke sheathed his sword, and saw the youngest midshipman observing him closely, although his eyes were still blurred with shock. Tyacke looked steadily back at him, giving himself time to consider what had so nearly happened.

He barely knew the midshipman, who had been sent out from England as a replacement for young Deane. His eyes moved unwillingly to one of the quarterdeck guns. Right there, as others had just fallen.

“Well, Mr Campbell, what did you learn from all this?”

The boy, who was only twelve years old, hesitated under Tyacke’s gaze, unused as yet to the scars, and the man who bore them.

In a small voice he answered, “We won, sir.”

Tyacke walked past him and touched his shoulder, something he did not often do. He was more surprised than the midshipman at the contact.

“They lost, Mr Campbell. It is not always the same thing!”

Bolitho was waiting for him. “She’s not much of a prize, James. But her loss will be felt elsewhere!”

Tyacke smiled. Bolitho did not wish to speak of it, either.

He said, “No chance of a chase now, Sir Richard. We have others to care for.”

Bolitho stared at the dark blue water, and the other American frigate, which was already several miles clear.

“I can wait.” He tensed. Someone was crying out in agony as others attempted to move him. “They did well.”

He saw Ozzard’s small figure picking his way through the discarded tackles and rammers by the guns. So much a part of it, and yet able to distance himself from all the sights and sounds around him. He was carrying a bottle, wrapped in a surprisingly clean cloth.

Tyacke was still beside him, although aware of those on every hand who were demanding his attention.

“They’re lucky, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho watched Ozzard preparing a clean goblet, oblivious to everything but the job in hand.

“Some may not agree, James.”

Tyacke said abruptly, “Trust, sir.” One word, but it seemed to hang there even as he walked away for the final act with a vanquished enemy.

Bolitho raised the goblet to his lips as the shadow of the enemy’s topmast laid its patterns on the deck beside him. He saw some of the bloodied seamen pause to watch him; a few grinned when they caught his eye, others merely stared, needing to recognize something. To remember, perhaps, or to tell somebody later, who might want to know about it. He found himself touching the locket beneath his shirt. She would understand what it meant to him. Just that one word, so simply put.

While the sun climbed higher in the clear sky to raise a misty haze on either horizon, Indomitable ’s company worked with scarcely a pause to cleanse their ship of the scars and stains of battle. The air was heady with rum, and it was hoped that a meal would be ready by noon. To the ordinary sailor, strong drink and a full belly were considered a cure for almost everything.

Below the sounds of repair and the disciplined activity, on Indomitable’s orlop deck the contrast was stark. Beneath the ship’s waterline, it was a hushed place that never saw daylight, nor would it until she was broken up. Through the ship’s length it was a place for stores and spare timber, rigging and fresh water, and in the carefully guarded magazines, powder and shot. Here was the purser’s store, with slop clothing and tobacco, food, and wine for the wardroom, and in the same darkness, broken here and there by clusters of lanterns, some of Indomitable’s company, midshipmen and other junior warrant officers, lived, slept, and by the light of flickering glims studied and dreamed of promotion.

It was also a place where men were brought to survive or to die, as their wounds and injuries dictated.

Bolitho ducked low between each massive deck beam and waited for his eyes to accept the harsh change from sunlight to this gloom, from the relief and high spirits of the victors, to the men down here who might not live to see the sun again.

Because of their opening broadsides and Tyacke’s superior ship-handling at close quarters, Indomitable’s casualties, her bill, had been mercifully light. He knew from long experience that that was no consolation to the unlucky ones down on the orlop. Some were lying, or propped against the great curved timbers of the hull, bandaged, or staring at the little group around the makeshift table where the surgeon and his assistants, the lob-lolly boys, worked on their patients: their victims, the old Jacks called them.

Bolitho could hear Allday’s painful breathing, and did not know why he had chosen to accompany him. He must be grateful that his son had been spared this final indignity and despair.

They were holding a man down on the table, his nakedness still revealing the powder stains of battle, his face and neck sweating as he almost choked on the rum which was being poured down his throat before the leather strap was put between his teeth. The surgeon’s apron was dark with blood. No wonder they called them butchers.

But Philip Beauclerk was not typical of the uncaring, hardened surgeons who were usually found throughout the fleet. He was young and highly skilled, and had volunteered with a group of other surgeons to serve in ships-of-war, where it was known that conditions and the crude treatment of wounds often killed more men than the enemy. After his present commission Beauclerk would return to the College of Surgeons in London, where, with his colleagues, he would contribute his knowledge to a practical guide, which might help to ease the suffering of men like these.

Beauclerk had done well during the fight with the USS Unity, and had offered great support to Adam Bolitho when he had been brought aboard after his escape from prison. He had a composed and serious face, and the palest and steadiest eyes Bolitho had ever seen. He recalled the moment when Beauclerk had mentioned his finest tutor, Sir Piers Blachford, who had been researching the same conditions himself aboard Hyperion. Bolitho saw him even now, his tall, heron-like figure striding between decks, asking questions, talking to anyone he chose, a severe man, but possessing great qualities of courage and compassion, which had made even the hardest seamen respect him. Blachford had been in Hyperion to her last day, when she had finally given up the fight and gone down, with Bolitho’s flag still flying. Many had gone down with her: they could be in no better company. And they still sang about his old ship, “How Hyperion Cleared the Way.” It always brought a cheer in the taverns and the pleasure gardens, even though those who cheered her name rarely had any idea what it was like. What this was like.

For a few seconds Beauclerk looked up, his eyes like chips of glass in the light of the swinging lanterns. He was a very private man, no easy thing to achieve in a crowded warship. He had known for some time of Bolitho’s damaged eye, and that it had been Blachford who had told him that there was no hope for it. But he had said nothing.

The wounded seaman was quieter now, whimpering to himself, not seeing the knife in Beauclerk’s hand, the saw held ready by an assistant.

“You are welcome here, Sir Richard.” He watched him, assessing him. “We are nearly done.” Then, as the seaman twisted his face toward the admiral, he gave a brief shake of his head.

Bolitho was deeply moved, and wondered if this was why he had come. This man might die: at best, he would be one more cripple thrown on the beach. His leg had been crushed, no doubt by a recoiling gun.

Tyacke’s words still haunted him, from that September day when so many others had fallen. And for what? An enemy frigate taken, but so badly damaged that it was unlikely she would survive a sudden squall, let alone fight in the line. Virtue had also been severely mauled, and had lost twenty of her men. Surprisingly, her captain, the devil-may-care M’Cullom, had survived without a scratch. This time.

Indomitable had lost only four men killed, and some fifteen wounded. Bolitho moved to the table and took the man’s wrist, the surgeon’s mate stepping aside, staring at Beauclerk as if for an explanation.

Bolitho closed his fingers around the man’s thick wrist, and said gently, “Easy, now.” He glanced at Beauclerk and saw his lips form the name. “You did well, Parker.” He raised his voice very slightly and looked beyond, into the shadows, knowing that others were listening to his empty words. “And that applies to you all!”

He felt the wrist start to shake. It was not a movement, but a mere sensation, like something running through him, out of control. It was terror.

Beauclerk nodded to his assistants and they seized the leg, their eyes averted as the knife came down and cut deeply. Beauclerk showed no hesitation, no outward emotion, as his patient arched his back and tried to scream through the strap. Then the saw. It seemed endless, but Bolitho knew only a matter of seconds had passed. It was followed by a sickening thud as they dropped the leg into the “wings and limbs” tub. Now the needle, the fingers bright and bloody in the swaying lantern light. Beauclerk glanced at Bolitho’s hand on the man’s wrist, the admiral’s gold lace against the smoke-grimed skin.

Somebody murmured, “No good, sir. Lost him.”

Beauclerk stood back. “Take him.” He turned to watch as the dead seaman was dragged from the table. “It’s never easy.”

Bolitho heard Allday clearing his throat. Seeing it all again, as if it were his own son, floating away, eventually sinking into the depths. And for what?

He stared at the table, the pools of blood, the urine, the evidence of pain. There was no dignity here in death, no answer to the question.

He walked back toward the ladder and heard Beauclerk ask, “Why did he come?” and did not linger to hear the reply. Beauclerk saw the instant guard in Allday’s eyes and added, quite gently, “You know him better than any man. I should like to understand.”

“’Cause he blames himself.” He recalled his own words when the American flag had come down. “It gets harder, see?”

“Yes. I think I do.” He wiped his bloody hands. “Thank you.” He frowned as two of the injured men raised a hoarse cheer. “That will not help him, either.” But Allday had gone.

When he returned to London it would all be so different. His experience might help others one day: it would certainly assist him in his chosen career. He looked around, recalling the admiral’s austere face after that other battle, as it must have been after all those which had preceded it. And the day his nephew had been brought aboard. More like two brothers, he thought. Like love.

He smiled, knowing that if they saw it, his assistants might think him callous. London or not, nothing would ever be the same.

The captain’s quarters in Indomitable were no longer as spacious as they had been during her life as a two-decker, but after his previous command of the brig Larne James Tyacke still found them palatial. Although cleared for action like the rest of the ship, they had remained undamaged by the swift bombardment, as they were on the larboard and disengaged side.

Bolitho sat in the proffered chair and listened to the muffled thuds and dragging sounds from his own stern cabin, as screens were replaced and the smoke stains were washed away, until the next time.

Tyacke said, “We got off very lightly, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho took a glass of cognac from Tyacke’s coxswain, Fairbrother. He looked after his captain without fuss or fancy, and seemed a man pleased with his role, and the fact that his captain called him by his first name, Eli.

He gazed around the cabin; it was neat but spartan, with nothing to reveal any hint of the character of the man who lived and slept here. Only the big sea-chest was familiar, and he knew it was the one in which Tyacke used to carry the silk gown he had bought for the girl he intended to marry. She had refused him after his terrible injury at the Nile. How long he had carried the gown was unknown, but he had given it to Catherine to wear when he had found them after their ordeal in Golden Plover’s longboat. Bolitho knew she had sent it back to Tyacke when they had reached England, beautifully cleaned and pressed, in case there should be another woman in the future. It was probably in the chest at this moment, a reminder of the rejection he had suffered.

Tyacke said, “I’ve made a full report. The prize is nothing much.” He paused. “Not after we’d finished with her. She had over fifty killed, and twice as many wounded. She was carrying a lot of extra hands, for prize crews, no doubt. If they’d managed to board us…” He shrugged. “A different story, maybe.”

He studied Bolitho curiously, having heard about his visit to the orlop and that he had restrained one of the badly wounded as the surgeon had taken off his leg. He thought with a mental shudder of Beauclerk’s pale eyes. A cold fish, like the rest of his breed.

Bolitho said, “She was the USS Success, formerly the French Dryade.” He looked up at Tyacke, and felt his scrutiny like something physical. “Her captain was killed.”

“Aye. It was like a slaughterhouse. Our gun captains have learned well.” There was the pride again, which even the horror he had described could not diminish.

He held his goblet to the light and said, “When I became your flag captain, it was an even greater challenge than I had expected.” He gave his faint, attractive smile. “And I knew I was going into deep water from the start. It wasn’t just the size of the ship, and my responsibility to all her people, but also my role within the squadron. I had been so used to a small command-a seclusion which, looking back, I know I myself created. And then, under your flag, there were the other ships, and the whims and weaknesses of their captains.”

Bolitho said nothing. It was one of those rare moments of confidence, something he did not wish to interrupt, a mutual trust which had made itself felt between them from the very beginning, when they had first met in Tyacke’s schooner Miranda.

Tyacke said abruptly, “I started keeping my own log book. I discovered that a flag captain should never rely on memory alone. And when your nephew was brought aboard wounded, after his escape from that Yankee prison, I made notes on everything he told me.” He glanced at a sealed gunport as if he could see the American prize riding under Indomitable’s lee. Victors and vanished were working together aboard her to fit a jury-rig, which, with luck and fair sailing, might take her to Halifax.

“There was a lieutenant aboard the Success. A young man, so badly hurt by splinters that I wondered what was keeping him alive.” He cleared his throat, as if embarrassed by the emotion his voice revealed. “I talked with him for a while. He was in great pain. There was nothing anyone could do.”

Bolitho saw it with a poignant clarity, as if he had been there with them. This strong, remote man sitting with an enemy, perhaps the only one truly able to share his suffering.

“In some ways he reminded me of your nephew, sir. I thought it was the battle, being beaten, knowing he was paying with his life. But it wasn’t that. He simply could not believe that their other ship had cut and run-had left them to fight alone.”

There were whispering voices outside the door, officers needing advice or instructions. Tyacke would know of their presence, but nothing would move him until he was ready.

He said, “The lieutenant’s name was Brice, Mark Brice. He had prepared a letter to be despatched should the worst happen.” He was momentarily bitter. “I’ve warned others about that kind of maudlin sentiment. It’s… it’s asking for death.”

“Brice?” Bolitho felt a chill of recognition run through him, as though he were hearing Adam’s own voice as he had described it to him. “It was a Captain Joseph Brice who invited Adam to change sides when he was captured.”

Tyacke said, “Yes. He was that captain’s son. An address in Salem.”

“And the letter?”

“The usual, sir. Duty and love of country, not a lot of value when you’re dead.” He picked up a small book from the table. “Still, I’m glad I wrote it down.”

“And the other ship, James? Is that what’s troubling you?”

Tyacke shrugged heavily. “Well, I learned quite a bit from them. She’s the USS Retribution, another ex-Frenchman, Le Gladiateur. Forty guns, maybe more.” Then he said, “There’s no doubt in my mind that these were the ships that took Reaper.”

He glared at the door. “I shall have to go, sir. Please make use of these quarters until yours are ready.”

He hesitated by the door, as though grappling with something. “You were once a flag captain yourself, sir?”

Bolitho smiled. “Yes. A very long time ago, in a three-decker. Euryalus, one hundred guns. I learned a great deal in her.” He waited, knowing there was more.

Tyacke said, “The American lieutenant had heard about it. Your time in Euryalus, I mean.”

“But that was all of seventeen years ago, James. This lieutenant, Brice, would hardly have been old enough…”

Tyacke said bluntly, “Retribution’s captain told him. About you, about Euryalus. But he died before he could tell me anything more.”

He opened the door a few inches. “Wait!” There were a few murmurings from beyond, and then he added sharply, “Well, do it, or I’ll find somebody else better suited.” He turned toward Bolitho again. “Retribution’s captain is named Aherne.” He hesitated. “That’s all I know.”

Bolitho was on his feet, without realizing that he had left the chair. The big three-decker Euryalus had seemed the final step to flag rank, and he had carried even more responsibility than was usual for a flag captain. His admiral, Rear-Admiral Sir Charles Thelwall, had been old for his rank; he was dying, and he knew it. But England was facing heavy odds, with France and Spain confident of an early invasion. It had been in Euryalus that he had first met Catherine…

Tyacke’s coxswain held out the bottle. “Another, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho saw Tyacke’s unconcealed surprise when he accepted. He said slowly, “Dangerous times, James.” He was thinking aloud. “We were ordered to Ireland. A French squadron was reported ready to support an uprising. Had it come about, the balance might have shifted against England there and then. There was even worse to follow… the great mutinies in the fleet at the Nore and Spithead. Dangerous times, indeed.”

“And Ireland, sir?”

“There were a few battles. I think the strain of the responsibility finally killed Sir Charles Thelwall. A fine man, a gentle man. I much admired him.” He faced Tyacke, his eyes suddenly hard. “And of course there was the inevitable aftermath of recrimination and punishment meted out to those who had conspired against the King. It proved nothing, it solved nothing. One of those hanged for treason was a patriot called Daniel Aherne, the scapegoat who became a martyr.” He picked up his glass, and found that it was empty. “So, James, we have found the missing face: Rory Aherne. I knew he had gone to America, but that is all I know. Seventeen years. A long time to nurture hatred.”

Tyacke said, “How can we be sure?”

“I am certain, James. Coincidence, fate, who knows?” He smiled briefly. “Retribution, eh? A good choice.”

He thought suddenly of Catherine’s words to him, when they had first been thrown together. Men are made for war, and you are no exception.

That was then, but can we ever change?

Aloud he said, “Call me when we get under way, James. And thank you.”

Tyacke paused. “Sir?”

“For being a flag captain, James. That, and so much more.”