The sailing-master rubbed his hands. “By guess and by God, sir. It usually works!”
Tyacke peered along the length of his ship, the guns lashed firmly behind shuttered ports, men working, not certain what to expect. Indomitable was steering due west, the wind sweeping over the larboard quarter, the spray as heavy and cold as rain.
He looked aft again and saw Bolitho by the taffrail, not walking but standing, oblivious to the men around him and the marines at the nettings, where they had remained since the attack on the American boats.
York moved closer and murmured, “What ails the admiral? We prevented the landings, more than most of us dared to hope.”
Tyacke stared at the horizon, hard, hard blue in the noon light. A sun without warmth, a steady wind to fill the topsails, but without life.
Even the casualties amongst the squadron had been less than would have been suffered in a straightforward fight. But the Americans had been eager to stand away, unwilling to risk a running battle for no good purpose. If they had rallied and reformed, it would have been a different story. As it was, the frigate Attacker had been dismasted, and the smaller Wildfire had been so badly holed by long-range and well-sighted shots that she had been down by the head when she had finally been taken in tow. Most of the casualties had been in those two ships: thirty killed and many others wounded. It had been time to discontinue the action and Bolitho had known it. Tyacke had watched his face when the signals had been read out, giving details of damage and casualties. Some might think that the admiral was relieved because Indomitable had not been in the thick of it, and was unmarked. If they believed that they were bloody fools, Tyacke thought.
He swung round. “What?”
Lieutenant Daubeny flinched. “I was wondering, sir, about relighting the galley fire…”
Tyacke controlled his anger with an effort. “Well, wonder away, Mr Daubeny!” He glanced aft again, unable to forget the quiet voice, as if Bolitho had just spoken to him. When he had reported that there were no more boats in the water by the stranded and smoke-shrouded American ship, Bolitho had said, “It was murder, James. Justified in war, but murder for all that. If that was the price of victory, I don’t wish to share a part of it!”
Tyacke said abruptly, “That was unfair. Pass the word for the purser and arrange an extra tot of rum for all hands. Food too, if there is any, but the galley fire stays out until I know what’s happening.”
Daubeny said, “I see, sir.”
Tyacke turned away. “You do not, Mr Daubeny, but no matter.” To York he said, “Sir Richard feels it, Isaac. Cares too much. I’ve not seen him like this before, though.”
York tucked some dishevelled grey hair beneath his hat. “He’s fair troubled, right enough.”
Tyacke walked to the compass box and back again. “Let me know when you can see the boats from the deck. It will give the hands something to do when we hoist ’ em inboard.” He clapped the master on the shoulder. “A good piece of navigation, Mr York.” He turned as Allday walked aft from the companion. “You know him best, Allday. What do you think?”
Allday regarded him warily. “It’s not for me to say, sir.” He followed Tyacke’s eyes to the figure by the taffrail, the hero others never saw. So completely alone.
He made up his mind. The captain was a friend; it was not merely idle curiosity.
“He knows, sir.” He glanced at the hard, glittering horizon; unlike the admiral, he did not have to shade his eyes. “It’s today, y’ see?”
Tyacke said sharply, “The Yankees are gone, man. They’ll not be back, not till they’re ready and prepared again. Our ships will reach Halifax and the dock-master will foam at the mouth when he sees all the repairs that need doing!”
But Allday did not respond, nor did he smile.
He said, “There’s always the…” He frowned, searching for the word. “The scavenger. My wife’s brother was a line-soldier- he told me. After a battle, men lying wounded, calling out for help, with only the dead to hear them. And then the scavengers would come. To rob them, to answer a cry for help with a cutthroat blade. Scum!”
Tyacke studied his lined face, aware of the strength of the man. The admiral’s oak. He heard York ’s steady breathing beside him. He could feel it too: knew it, the way he read the wind’s direction and the set of the current in the painted sea. Tyacke was not superstitious. At least, he believed he was not.
Allday was carrying the old sword, which was part of the legend.
He said quietly, “We’ll fight this day, sir. That’s it an’ all about it!”
He walked aft, and they saw Bolitho turn toward him, as if they had just met on a street or in some country lane.
York said uneasily, “How can that be, sir?”
Allday was saying, “The hands are going to draw a wet, Sir
Richard. Can I fetch you something?”
Bolitho glanced down as he clipped the old sword onto his belt.
“Not now, old friend.” He smiled with an effort, understanding that Allday needed reassurance. “Afterwards, that would be better.”
He reached out to touch his arm, and then halted.
“Deck there! Sail on th’ larboard bow!”
They were all staring round, some at the empty sea, and others aft towards their officers. Avery was here, a telescope in his hands, his eyes darting between them. To miss nothing, to forget nothing.
Bolitho said, “Aloft with you, George. In my own mind, I can already see her.” He held up one hand. “Take your time. The people will be watching you.”
Allday took a deep breath, feeling the old pain in his chest. Scavenger.
Bolitho knew that Tyacke had turned toward him, and called to him, “Alter course. Steer west by south. That should suffice for the present.”
He turned away from them, and watched a solitary gull swooping around the quarter gallery. The spirit of some old Jack, Allday thought.
“Deck there!” Avery was a fast climber, and had a good carrying voice: he had told him that he had been in a church choir in his youth. In that other world. “She’s a frigate, sir! I-I think she’s Retribution! ”
Bolitho murmured, “I know she is, my friend.” He frowned, as Allday’s hand went to his chest. “I’ll not have you suffer for it!”
He raised his voice. “You may beat to quarters again, Captain Tyacke. We have some old scores to settle today!” He laid his hand on the sword’s hilt at his hip, and it was cold to the touch. “So let us pay them in full!”
Lieutenant George Avery waited for the motion to ease, and knew that more helm had been applied. He raised his telescope, as he had on the first sight of enemy ships only hours ago. It felt like a lifetime. The same marines were still in the foretop, staring at the oncoming American as her sails emptied and filled violently, while she leaned over to the pressure. She was a heavy looking frigate under a full press of canvas, the spray bursting beneath her beak-head and as high as the gilded figurehead. The gladiator, a short stabbing-sword glinting in the hard glare.
The corporal said, “The Yankee’s crossin’ our bows, lads.” But his comment was really intended for the flag lieutenant.
Avery studied the other ship, forcing himself to take his time, not to see only what he expected to see. The corporal was right. The Retribution would eventually cross from bow to bow; more importantly, she would find herself to leeward of Indomitable’s broadside once they were at close quarters. He estimated it carefully. Three miles at the most. Tyacke had reduced sail to topsails and jib, driver and reefed forecourse, and Indomitable’s progress was steady and unhurried, a floating platform for her twenty-four-pounders.
He lowered the glass and looked around at his companions.
Somehow, they managed to appear very jaunty and smart in their glazed leather hats with the cockade and plume over the left ear. He noticed also that they had all shaved. They were fastidious about such details in the Corps.
“Won’t be long, lads.” He saw the corporal glance at the swivel gun, “Betsy.” He would know what to expect. They all did.
He nodded to them, and lowered himself quickly onto the ratlines. On deck once more, he strode aft, catching
