seemed, to interrupt such a final journey.
Except for one. The master’s mate took some time with it, and even without a glass Avery could see the dead face, the gaping wounds, all that was left of a man.
The boat returned and was hoisted inboard with a minimum of fuss. Avery heard the master pass his orders for getting under way again. Heavy, unhurried: the ship, as always, coming first.
Then he came aft and waited for Bolitho to face him. “My mate knew that dead sailor, Zur Richard. I expect we knew most of ’em.”
Bolitho said, “She was the Royal Herald, was she not?”
“She was, zur. Because of our losing the t’gallant mast she overreached us. They was waiting. They knew we was coming.” Then he said in a hoarse whisper, “It was you they was after, Zur Richard. They wanted you dead.”
Bolitho touched his thick arm. “So it would seem. Instead, many good men died.”
Then he turned and looked at Avery, and beyond him, Allday. “We thought we had left the war behind, my friends. Now it has come to meet us.”
There was no anger or bitterness, only sorrow. The respite was over.
5. A Face In the Crowd
BOLITHO put down the empty cup and walked slowly to the tall stern window. Around and above him, Indomitable ’s hull seemed to tremble with constant movement and purpose, so unlike the transport Royal Enterprise, which he had left the previous afternoon. He peered through the thick glass and saw her lying at anchor, his practised eye taking in the movement of seamen on her yards and in her upper rigging, while others hoisted fresh stores from a lighter alongside. Royal Enterprise would soon be off again on her next mission, with her master still brooding over the brutal destruction of the other transport which had been so well known to him and his people, and less confident now that speed was all that was required to protect them from a determined enemy.
It was halfway through the forenoon, and Bolitho had been working since first light. He had been surprised and touched by the warmth of his reception. Tyacke had come in person to collect him from Royal Enterprise, his eyes full of questions when Tregullon had mentioned the attack.
He glanced now around the cabin, which was so familiar in spite of his absence in England. Tyacke had done some fine work to get his ship repaired and ready for sea, for even in harbour the weather did not encourage such activities. But now there was a little weak sunlight to give an illusion of warmth. He touched the glass. It was an illusion.
He should be used to it. Even so, the transformation was a tribute to Indomitable ’s captain. Even here in his cabin, these guns had roared defiance: now each one was lashed snugly behind sealed ports, trucks painted, barrels unmarked by fire and smoke.
He looked at the empty cup. The coffee was excellent, and he wondered how long his stock would last. He could imagine her going to that shop in St James’s Street, Number Three, part of the new world she had opened to him. Coffee, wine, so many small luxuries, which she had known he would not have bothered to obtain for himself, nor would anyone else.
Keen would be coming aboard in an hour or so: he had sent word that he would be detained by a visit from some local military commander who wanted to discuss the improved defences and shore batteries. A casual glance at any map or chart would show the sense of that. Halifax was the only real naval base left to them on the Atlantic coast. The Americans had their pick, Boston, New York, Philadelphia, as well as scores of bays and estuaries where they could conceal an armada if they so desired.
He wondered how Adam was finding his appointment as flag captain. After the freedom of a solitary command, it might be just what he needed. Conversely, it might remain only a cruel reminder of what might have been.
He closed the canvas folder he had been studying, and considered Keen’s report. A convoy of five merchantmen had been ordered to await a stronger escort off the Bermudas for their final passage to the West Indies. Until then, two brigs had been the only vessels Dawes had spared to defend them.
The convoy had never reached the Bermudas. Every ship must have been taken, or sunk.
When he met Keen, he would discover his real thoughts on the matter. The disaster had happened a few days after he had hoisted his flag in Valkyrie; there was nothing he could have done. But what of Dawes, acting- commodore until Keen’s arrival? Perhaps he had had his own reasons for allowing merchantmen to venture unprotected into an area which had become a hunting ground for enemy men-of-war and privateers alike.
He had consulted Tyacke, and Tyacke had not hesitated. “Thinking too much of keeping his house in good order. I’m told that promotion can sometimes do that to a man.” Hard and blunt, like himself. Tyacke had even been scornful about his two new epaulettes. He had been promoted to post-captain, for rank only, the usual requirement of three years’ service as captain having been waived as a mark of favour. “I’m still the same man, Sir Richard. I think Their Lordships have a different set of values!” He had relented slightly. “But I know your hand was in it, and that I do respect.”
Yes, it had surprised Bolitho that his return had, after all, been like a homecoming. And, despite what he hoped for, it was here that he belonged.
He had described the attack on Royal Herald and had watched Tyacke’s scarred face, thoughtful, assessing each small piece of information and relating it to what he knew.
A prolonged bombardment, to catch and destroy the transport before she could find refuge in darkness. No one had heard the sound of a single shot fired in reply, not even a gesture or a final show of defiance. Nothing. It had been calculated murder. Had it been a trap set for Royal Enterprise? For him? Was it possible that a single mind had planned it so carefully, only to see it misfire through a fluke in the weather and an accident?
He had searched through every report Keen had gathered for him, knowing that they would be the first thing his admiral would want to see. Unless another man like Nathan Beer was abroad and at sea, unknown and undetected by the local patrols, which had been ordered to watch for any sudden ship movements, his theory seemed unlikely. But, so too was coincidence.
They wanted you dead.
Not another Nathan Beer, then. Perhaps there was no such officer with his wealth of experience and sense of honour. Beer had been a sailor first and foremost: to kill defenceless men, unable to resist, had never been his way. He wondered if his widow in Newburyport had received Beer’s sword, which Bolitho himself had sent to her. Would she care? He found himself staring at the old family sword lying on its rack, where it received Allday’s regular attention. Would that help Catherine, if the worst happened? He thought of the portrait she had commissioned for him. The real Catherine, she had called it. The painter had caught her exactly as she had wanted to be remembered, in the rough seaman’s clothing she had worn in the open boat. Perhaps she would cherish the old sword…
The door opened slightly, shaking him from his unwelcome thoughts, and Avery peered into the cabin. The brief stay in England had affected him deeply, Bolitho thought. He had always been withdrawn: now he had become remote, troubled and introspective. Bolitho had too much respect for George Avery to pry into it, and they had shared danger too often not to know that this unspoken understanding of one another was an anchor for them both.
Avery said, “Signal from Valkyrie, Sir Richard. Rear-Admiral Keen is about to come over to us.”
“Tell Captain Tyacke, will you?”
Avery said gently, “He knows.”
Bolitho reached for his heavy uniform coat. Irrationally, he disliked wearing it when he was working in his quarters, perhaps because he sometimes believed that it influenced his decisions, and made him think more like an admiral than a man.
It was true: Tyacke did seem to know everything that was happening in his ship. Maybe that was how he had overcome his resentment, fear, even, of taking command or becoming flag captain after the private world of Larne. The purser, James Viney, had been discharged as sick and unfit for further service at sea, and Bolitho suspected that Tyacke had guessed from the outset that Viney had been falsifying his accounts in connivance with equally dishonest chandlers. It was a common enough failing, but some captains were content to let it rest. Not James
