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
