The sun was strong, the air warmer than for a long time, and after the restricted confines of a frigate, even one as large as Indomitable, Bolitho was very conscious of the land, and the peculiar feeling that he did not belong here. The house was the headquarters of the general officer commanding the garrisons and defence of Nova Scotia, and below the wooden verandah soldiers were marching back and forth, drilling in platoons, front ranks kneeling to take aim at an imaginary enemy while the second ranks prepared to march through them and repeat the process: manoeuvres the army had perfected over the years, which had eventually turned the tables on Napoleon.
But Bolitho was looking at the anchored frigate directly opposite. Even without a telescope, he could see the damage and the piles of broken timber and rigging on her decks. She still flew the Stars and Stripes, but the White Ensign was hoisted above it as a symbol of victory. She was the USS Chesapeake, which had been brought to action by His Britannic Majesty’s ship Shannon. The fight had been brief but decisive, and both captains had been wounded, the American mortally.
Keen said, “A welcome victory. Shannon towed her prize into Halifax on the sixth. Couldn’t have happened at a better time, with all our other setbacks.”
Bolitho had already heard something of the engagement. Shannon’s captain, Philip Bowes Vere Broke, was both experienced and successful, and had been cruising up and down outside Boston, where Chesapeake lay at anchor. It was rumoured that he had been grieving over the loss of so many of his contemporaries to the superior American frigates. He had sent a challenge into Boston in the best tradition of chivalry, requesting that Captain Lawrence of the Chesapeake should come out and “try the fortunes of their respective flags.” If Broke had had one advantage over his American adversary, it was his dedication to and insistence upon gunnery and teamwork. He had even invented and fitted sights to all his main armament. It had won the day, but nobody had shown more distress than Broke himself when Lawrence had succumbed to his wounds.
Now, lying just beyond her like a guilty shadow, was the smaller frigate Reaper. A guard-boat was moored alongside, and her upper deck was marked with tiny scarlet figures where Royal Marine sentries kept watch over the imprisoned mutineers.
Keen glanced at him, seeing the strain on his profile as he lifted his face to the sun.
“It is good to be of one company again.”
Bolitho smiled. “Only for the moment, Val. We shall have to be on the move again shortly.” He shaded his eyes to look across at Indomitable, where Tyacke was taking on fresh water and supplies while final repairs were carried out. It was Tyacke’s reason, or rather his excuse, for not accompanying him to this meeting.
He heard Avery talking quietly with Keen’s flag lieutenant, the Honourable Lawford de Courcey. They would have little or nothing in common, he thought, and he had gathered that Adam did not care much for him, either. It was just as well. There was no room for complacency here, even amongst friends. They needed an edge, a purpose, like the old sword at his side.
There had been letters awaiting his return to Halifax, both from Catherine: he could feel them now in his coat. He would read them as soon as he could, then again later, and more slowly. But there was always the first anxiety, like a fear, that she would have changed towards him. She would be lonely beyond measure.
He turned away from the sun as he heard de Courcey greeting someone, and then another voice, a woman’s.
Keen touched his arm. “I should like you to meet Miss Gilia St Clair. I sent you word of her presence aboard Reaper.”
So easily said, but Bolitho had already gone through Keen’s carefully worded report on Reaper’s surrender, and the discharge of her guns into empty sea. He felt that Keen and Adam had disagreed about something at the time. It might reveal itself later.
His shoe caught on something as he turned, and he saw Avery’s vague outline move towards him. Troubled; but protective of him, as always.
It was so dark after the brilliant sunlight and the dazzling reflections from the harbour that the room could have been curtained off.
Keen was saying, “I wish to present Sir Richard Bolitho. He commands our squadron.”
It was not to impress: it was genuine pride. Val, as he had always been, before Zenoria’s death, before Zenoria. Perhaps Catherine was correct in her belief that he would easily recover from his loss.
The woman was younger than he had expected, in her late twenties, he thought. He had an impression of a pleasant, oval face and light brown hair; the eyes were level and serious.
Bolitho took her hand. It was very firm; he could easily imagine her with her father aboard the stricken Reaper, watching Valkyrie running out her powerful broadside.
She said, “I am sorry to intrude, but my father is here. I had hoped I could discover…”
Keen said, “He is with the general. I’m sure it is quite all right for you to stay.” He gave his youthful grin. “I will take full responsibility!”
She said, “I wanted to know about York. My father was going there to assist with the completion of a ship.”
Bolitho listened in silence. Her father’s plans were not the source of her concern.
Keen said, “I expect you will be returning to England sooner rather than later, Miss St Clair?”
She shook her head. “I would like to remain here, with my father.”
The door opened, and an urbane lieutenant almost bowed himself into the room.
“The General’s apologies, Sir Richard. The delay was unintentional.” He seemed to see the girl for the first time. “I am not certain…”
Bolitho said, “She is with us.”
The adjoining room was large and crammed with heavy furniture, a soldier’s room, with two vast paintings of battles on the walls. Bolitho did not recognize the uniforms. A different war, a forgotten army.
The general seized his hand. “Delighted, Sir Richard. Knew your father. Fine man. In India. He’d be damned proud of you!” He spoke in short, loud bursts, like mountain artillery, Bolitho thought.
Other faces. David St Clair: good handshake, firm and hard. And there was another soldier present, tall, very assured, with the unemotional bearing of a professional.
He bowed slightly. “Captain Charles Pierton, of the Eighth Regiment of Foot.” He paused, and said with a certain pride, “The King’s Regiment.”
Bolitho saw the girl’s hands gripped together in her lap. Waiting with a curious defiance which succeeded only in making her appear suddenly vulnerable.
David St Clair said quickly, “Are you feeling well, my dear?”
She did not answer him. “May I ask you something, Captain Pierton?”
Pierton glanced quizzically at the general, who gave a brief nod. “Of course, Miss St Clair.”
“You were at York when the Americans attacked. My father and I would have been there too, had circumstances not dictated otherwise.”
Her father leaned forward in his chair. “The 30-gun ship Sir Isaac Brock was burned on the slipway before the Americans could take her. I would have been too late in any case.”
Bolitho knew that she did not even hear him.
“Do you know Captain Anthony Loring, of your regiment, sir?”
The soldier looked back at her steadily. “Yes, of course. He commanded the second company.” He turned to Bolitho and the other naval officers. “Ours was the only professional force at York. We had the militia and the York Volunteers, and a company of the Royal Newfoundland Regiment.” He glanced at the girl again. “And about one hundred Mississauga and Chippewa Indians.”
Bolitho noted how easily the names rolled off his tongue: he was a seasoned campaigner, although this vast, untamed country was a far cry from Spain or France. But the others would know all these facts. It was merely an explanation for the girl’s benefit, as if he thought it was owed to her.
He continued in the same grave, precise manner. “The defences at Fort York were poor. My commanding officer believed that eventually the navy would be able to send more vessels to the lakes, to hold off the Americans until larger men-of-war were constructed. There were some seventeen hundred American soldiers that day, almost all of them regulars and well-trained. We had to gain time, to evacuate the fort and finally to burn the Sir Isaac Brock.”
She stood, and walked to the window. “Please continue.”
Pierton said quietly, “Captain Loring took his men to the lower shore where the Americans were landing. He
