here when he has carried out my instructions.”
“Remember when you were my flag captain, Val. Trust extends in two directions. It has to be the strongest link in the chain of command.”
Keen stared at him. “I have never forgotten that. I owe everything to you… and Catherine.” He smiled, ruefully, Bolitho thought, and said, “And to Adam, I know that!” He touched his pocket, and Bolitho wondered if he carried the miniature there. So that was it. This was, after all, Benjamin Massie’s house, and the St Clairs would be staying here also. It was not difficult to guess what had come between Keen and his flag captain. The girl with moonlit eyes.
In fairness, it might prove to be the best thing that could happen to Keen. As Catherine had predicted… A brave and defiant young woman, one strong enough to help Keen in his future. And able to stand up against his father, he thought grimly.
Adam would not regard it in that light at all.
“And what of the latest intelligence, Val?”
Keen took two goblets from a cupboard. “The Americans have brought two more frigates to Boston. I ordered Chivalrous and the brig Weazle to patrol outside the port. If they come out…”
Bolitho said, “I think they will. And soon.” He looked up, and asked, “And York-is there any more news?”
Keen shrugged. “Very little. It takes so long to reach here. But David St Clair told me that weapons and supplies were stored there for our ships on the lakes. They might have seized or destroyed them. Either way, it will make our vessels less able to control Lake Erie, which St Clair insists is the vital key to the whole area.”
“And tell me about Miss St Clair.” He saw Keen start, so that some of the claret he was about to pour pattered onto the table. He added gently, “I shall not pry, Val. I am a friend; remember that, too.”
Keen filled the two goblets. “I admire her greatly. I have told her as much.” He faced him again. “Perhaps I delude myself.” He gave his boyish smile, which Bolitho had seen from his youth to this moment, and seemed relieved that he had at last spoken openly about it.
Bolitho thought of Adam’s despair, his agony when he had read Catherine’s letter, breaking the news of Zenoria’s lonely and terrible death. But he said, “Thank you for sharing it with me. I wish you good fortune, Val. You deserve it.” He returned the smile, touched by Keen’s obvious relief. “I mean it. You cannot be an admiral all of the time!”
Keen said suddenly, “I am told that Rear-Admiral Herrick is here. Transferred to Indomitable when you made your rendezvous with the convoy.” He did not attempt to soften his tone.
“I know there was no love lost between you, Val. He does not relish this mission, let me assure you.”
Keen said shortly, “The right man for the task, I think. He has known what it is to sit on both sides of the table at a court martial!”
“That is past, Val. It has to be.”
Keen persisted, “But what can he do? Ninety men, British sailors. Hang them or flog them? The crime was done, the penalty is already decided. It has always been so.”
Bolitho moved to the window again, and saw Avery speaking with Gilia St Clair.
Without turning he asked, “When you met up with Reaper, and before she struck to you, did you believe that Adam would order the guns to fire on them?” He waited a few seconds. “Hostages or not?”
“I… am not certain.”
Bolitho saw the girl throw back her head and laugh at something Avery had said. Caught up in a war, and now in something more personal. She had talked with Adam: she would have known, or guessed, how near death might have been that day.
He walked away from the window, turning his back on the light. “The schooner Crystal in which the St Clairs were on passage when Reaper captured them-who owned her?”
“I believe it was Benjamin Massie. You have a very good memory for names.”
Bolitho put down the glass, thankful for the sunlight behind him, hiding his face and his thoughts.
“It’s getting better all the while, Val!”
Richard Bolitho stepped onto the jetty stairs and waited for Tyacke and his flag lieutenant to follow him. Across the heads of the barge crew Allday was watching him, sharing it all with him, even if he probably saw things differently.
Bolitho said to him, “I’m not certain how long we shall be.”
Allday squinted into the hard light. “We’ll be here, Sir Richard.”
They walked up to the roadway in silence, and Bolitho noted that the air felt cooler despite the sun. It was September: could the year be passing so quickly?
He thought of the letter he had received from Catherine, telling him of Roxby’s final hours, and describing the funeral in detail so that he felt he had been there with her. Quite a grand affair, as was appropriate for a knight of the Hanoverian Guelphic Order: Roxby had been well liked by his own set of people, respected by all those who worked for him, and feared by many others who had crossed his path in his other role as magistrate. He had a been a fair man, but he would have had little patience with today’s happenings. Even in the barge Bolitho had sensed the tension, the oarsmen avoiding his eyes, Avery staring abeam at the anchored Reaper, and Tyacke quite detached from it all, more withdrawn than he had been for many months.
He raised his hat to a troop of soldiers as they clattered past on perfectly matched horses, their young ensign raising his sabre with a flourish at the sight of an admiral’s uniform.
All these soldiers. When would they be called upon to fight, or was the die already cast? Tyacke, like David St Clair, had been right about the Americans and their determination to take and hold the lakes. They had made another raid on York, and had burned supply sheds and military equipment which had been abandoned when the British army had retreated to Kingston three months ago. The need to wrest control of Lake Erie from the Americans was vital, to protect the line of water communications and keep open the army’s only supply route, without which they would be forced into further retreat, and perhaps even surrender.
He saw the barracks gates ahead of them, and realized with pleasure that he was not out of breath.
The guard had turned out for them, with bayonets glinting as they walked into the main building. A corporal opened the doors for them, and Bolitho saw his eyes move briefly to Tyacke’s disfigured face, and then just as hastily away. He knew that Tyacke had noticed, and wondered if that was why he was so unusually remote. He was intensely aware of the stares, the pity, and the revulsion: he was never allowed to forget, and Bolitho knew that that was why he avoided going ashore whenever possible.
More doors and clicking heels, and then they entered a large, spartan room containing a table and two rows of chairs. Keen and Adam were already present, as was the languid de Courcey. A dusty-looking civilian clerk sat at one end of the table, a major of the Royal Marines at the other. Despite the room’s bare austerity, it already had the atmosphere of an official court.
They shook hands, more like strangers than friends. Bolitho had seen very little of Adam since his return from Antigua, but had written to congratulate him on his destruction of the prize and her attacker, with the loss of only one man. It was hard to tell what Adam really thought about it.
The other door was opened and Rear-Admiral Thomas Herrick walked straight to the table and sat down, his eyes moving briefly across their faces, his own impassive, with nothing to reveal the strain under which he had placed himself with his personally conducted enquiry into the loss and recapture of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Reaper.
Bolitho knew that Herrick had read all the statements, including that taken by Avery from Reaper’s badly injured first lieutenant at Hamilton, and Adam’s account of the recapture from the Americans when Reaper’s guns had been discharged into the sea. Herrick had also spoken with David St Clair, and very likely with St Clair’s daughter. Bolitho recalled the moment at the general’s house when the youthful captain of the King’s Regiment had handed the girl’s miniature over to Keen. This latest attack on York had occasioned no more casualties, as the British army had not returned to the burned-out fort, but she must have thought of it, all the same: the man she had loved, and had believed had cared deeply for her, lying up there somewhere with his dead soldiers. The Americans had quit York after only three days; perhaps the stores and weapons they had hoped to find were already gone, or had been destroyed during the first attack. Compared with many other battles, the action was not one of the most significant, but in proportion it was certainly one of the bloodiest; and the full consequences were still to be measured.
