flags proclaimed. Not French, or Dutchman, or Spaniard, the old and familiar adversaries. You heard the same voices as your own from these settlers in the new world, who were fighting for what they considered their freedom. Accents from the West Country and the Downs, from Norfolk and Scotland: it was like fighting your own flesh and blood. That was the vital difference in this war.
On one of his visits to Valkyrie Tyacke had aired his views on Bolitho’s recall to London. He had not minced his words. Senseless, he had called it. Bolitho was needed here, to lead, and to exploit their hard-won victory.
He had paced the big cabin while Dawes had sat at his table, an expensive glass held in one hand. Amused? Indifferent?
Tyacke had added, “The weather will ease soon. The Yankees will need to move. If they can’t win by sea, they’ll press on by land. They’ll be able to bring artillery right up to the Canadian frontier.”
Dawes had shaken his head. “I think not. Some kind of settlement will be negotiated. You really should give Their Lordships more credit, both for what they are and what they know.”
Tyacke had barely heard him. “Our soldiers captured Detroit with the whole Yankee army defending it. Do you really think they’ll not use every means to retake it, and give our soldiers a bloody nose for their trouble?”
Dawes had been suddenly impatient. “There are great lakes to cross, rivers to navigate, forts to breach before they can do that. Do you imagine that our American cousins, the ‘Yankees’ as you so colourfully call them, will not measure the cost of such foolhardy action?”
Beyond discussing an invitation to the local army commander-in-chief ’s Christmas reception, which Tyacke had declined to attend, they had scarcely spoken since.
Becoming an admiral was more important to Dawes than anything, and it was beginning to look as if doing nothing and keeping the main part of the squadron tied up in Halifax was far more attractive than behaving with any initiative that might rebound on him personally, and be seen as folly or worse.
Tyacke began to pace again. Out there, like it or not, there were enemy ships, and they were a constant threat. Dawes had only permitted local patrols, and then had detached nothing larger than a brig, claiming that Adam Bolitho’s escape and vengeful attack in Zest, and Bolitho’s personal victory would have made the Americans think again before attempting once more to harass convoys between Halifax and the West Indies. Napoleon was on the retreat: the despatches were full of it. Tyacke swore angrily. He had been hearing that same story for so many years, from the time when Napoleon had landed his army in Egypt, and French fire had burned his face away.
It was all the more reason for the Americans to act now, and without further delay, while British forces and a whole fleet that could otherwise be released for these waters were concentrated on the old enemy, France.
And when peace came, that impossible dream, what would he do? There was nothing in England for him. He had felt like a stranger on his last visit, when he had been given Indomitable. Africa, then? He had been happy there. Or was that only another delusion?
He saw the first lieutenant, John Daubeny, waiting to catch his eye. Tyacke had toyed with the idea of accepting a more senior officer to replace Scarlett. Daubeny, like most of the wardroom, was young, perhaps too young for the post of senior lieutenant. Dawes had suggested that one of his own lieutenants be appointed.
Tyacke grinned fiercely. That must have decided it. In any case, Daubeny had matured on that September day, like most of them. It was the navy’s way. A man died or was transferred: another took his place. Like dead men’s shoes after a hanging. Even the pompous Midshipman Blythe, who had been confirmed lieutenant and was now the most junior officer aboard, had proved both efficient and attentive to detail, to Tyacke’s surprise, and his own division of seamen, who had known his arrogance as a midshipman, had shown him a grudging respect. They would never like him, but it was a beginning, and Tyacke was satisfied.
“Yes, Mr Daubeny?”
Daubeny touched his hat. “We shall complete stowage today, sir.”
Tyacke grunted, picturing his ship at a distance, her trim in the water, gauging the feel of her.
He said, “Tell my cox’n to prepare the gig when it’s time. I’ll go around her once more. We might still have to move some of that extra powder and shot further aft.” He was not aware of the pride that had crept into his voice. “This lady will want to fly when she finds open water again!”
Daubeny had noticed. He knew he would never be close to the captain: Tyacke kept his emotional distance, as if he were afraid to reveal his true feelings. Only with Sir Richard Bolitho had Daubeny ever seen him change, had sensed the warmth, the unspoken understanding and obvious respect of each for the other. He recalled them together, here, on this same untroubled deck. It was hard to believe that it had happened, that such chilling sights were possible. His inner voice spoke for him. That I survived.
He said, “I shall be glad to see Sir Richard’s flag hoisted again, sir.”
He did not even flinch when Tyacke faced him, as he had once done. How much worse it must be for him, he thought. The stares, the revulsion, and yes, the disapproval.
Tyacke smiled. “You speak for us both, Mr Daubeny!”
He turned away as York, the sailing-master, emerged from the companion, without a glance at the receding fog.
“You were right, Mr York! You have brought better weather for us!” Then he held up his hand and said sharply, “Listen!” The hammering and the muted thuds between decks had stopped. Only six months since that last ball had smashed into the carnage of broken men. They had done well.
York studied him gravely. So many times in the last two years he had watched the captain’s moods, his anguish and his defiance. He had once heard Tyacke say of Sir Richard Bolitho, “I would serve no other.” He could have said the same himself, of this brave, lonely man.
He said, “Then we’re ready, sir!”
Daubeny was listening, sharing it. At first he had thought he would be unable to fill Lieutenant Scarlett’s shoes after he had fallen. He had even been afraid. That was yesterday. Now Scarlett was just another ghost, without substance or threat.
He stared up at the furled sails, moisture pouring from them like tropical rain. Like the ship, the Old Indom as the sailors called her, he was ready.
Three weeks outward-bound from Portsmouth, Hampshire, to Halifax, Nova Scotia, His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Wakeful was within days of her landfall. Even Adam Bolitho, with all his hard-won experience as a frigate captain, could not recall a more violent passage. February into March, with the Atlantic using every mood and trick against them.
Although it was Wakeful’s young captain’s first command, he had held it for two years, and two years in a frigate used almost exclusively for carrying vital despatches to flag officers and far-flung squadrons was equal to a lifetime in a lesser vessel. South-west and into the teeth of the Atlantic gales, with men knocked senseless by incoming seas, or in danger of being hurled from the upper yards while they kicked and fisted half-frozen canvas that could tear out a man’s fingernails like pips from a lemon. Watch keeping became a nightmare of noise and cruel discomfort; estimating their daily progress, unable even to stream the log, was based on dead reckoning, or, as the sailing-master put it, by guess and by God.
For the passengers down aft, it was uncomfortable but strangely detached from the rest of the ship and her weary company, piped again and again to the braces or aloft to reef the sails when they had only just been given a moment’s rest in their messes. Simply trying to carry hot food from the swaying, pitching galley was a test of skill.
Sealed off from the life of the ship, and her daily fight against the common enemy, Adam and his new flag officer remained curiously apart. Keen spent most of his time reading his lengthy instructions from the Admiralty, or making notes as he studied various charts beneath the wildly spiralling lanterns. They burned day and night: little light penetrated the stern windows, which were either streaming with spume from a following gale, or so smeared with salt that even the rearing waves were distorted into wild and threatening creatures.
Adam could appreciate all of it. Had Wakeful been an ordinary fleet frigate she would likely have been short- handed, or at best manned by unskilled newcomers, snatched up by the press or offered for duty by the local assize court. This required trained seamen, who had worked together long enough to know the strength of their ship and the value of their captain. He had thought often enough, as Anemone had been.
Whenever he could be spared from his duties Captain Hyde had made it his business to visit them. No wonder he had not hesitated to offer his own quarters for their use: Hyde spent as many, if not more, hours on deck than any of his men.
