Cross of St George Read online

  * * *

  CONTENTS

  * * *

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Alexander Kent

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1. Sword of Honour

  2. For the Love of a Lady

  3. Morning Departure

  4. Captains

  5. A Face in the Crowd

  6. Bad Blood

  7. The Oldest Trick

  8. Too Much to Lose

  9. A Flag Captain

  10. Time and Distance

  11. A Warning

  12. Code of Conduct

  13. ‘Let Them Never Forget’

  14. Verdict

  15. No Din of War

  16. Lee Shore

  17. The Greatest Reward

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  About the Book

  February 1813

  With convoys from Canada and the Caribbean falling victim to American privateers, Sir Richard Bolitho returns to Halifax to pursue a war he knows will not be won, but which neither Britain nor the United States can afford to lose.

  England’s youngest admiral desires only peace. But peace will not be found in the icy Canadian waters, where a young, angry nation asserts its identity and men who share a common heritage die in close and bloody action. Nor will there be a peace for those who follow the Cross of St George: for the embittered Adam, mourning his lover and his ship, nor for Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen, who must confront both grief and responsibility. Nor will there be peace from those enemies who use this struggle between nations as an instrument of personal revenge.

  About the Author

  Alexander Kent is the author of twenty-eight acclaimed books featuring Richard Bolitho. Under his own name, Douglas Reeman, and in the course of a career spanning forty-five years, he has written over thirty novels and two non-fiction books.

  Also by Alexander Kent

  Midshipman Bolitho

  Stand Into Danger

  In Gallant Company

  Sloop of War

  To Glory We Steer

  Command a King’s Ship

  Passage to Mutiny

  With All Despatch

  Form Line of Battle!

  Enemy in Sight

  The Flag Captain

  Signal – Close Action!

  The Inshore Squadron

  A Tradition of Victory

  Success to the Brave

  Colours Aloft!

  Honour This Day

  The Only Victor

  Beyond the Reef

  The Darkening Sea

  For My Country’s Freedom

  Sword of Honour

  Second to None

  Relentless Pursuit

  Man of War

  Heart of Oak

  The stirring story of the life and times of Richard Bolitho is told in Alexander Kent’s bestselling novels.

  1756

  Born Falmouth, son of James Bolitho

  1768

  Entered the King’s service as a Midshipman on Manxman

  1772

  Midshipman, Gorgon (Midshipman Bolitho)

  1774

  Promoted Lieutenant, Destiny: Rio and the Caribbean (Stand into Danger)

  1775–7

  Lieutenant, Trojan, during the American Revolution. Later appointed prizemaster (In Gallant Company)

  1778

  Promoted Commander, Sparrow. Battle of the Chesapeake (Sloop of War)

  1780

  Birth of Adam, illegitimate son of Hugh Bolitho and Kerenza Pascoe

  1782

  Promoted Captain, Phalarope; West Indies: Battle of Saints (To Glory We Steer)

  1784

  Captain, Undine; India and East Indies (Command a King’s Ship)

  1787

  Captain, Tempest; Great South Sea; Tahiti; suffered serious fever (Passage to Mutiny)

  1792

  Captain, the Nore; Recruiting (With All Despatch)

  1793

  Captain, Hyperion; Mediterranean; Bay of Biscay; West Indies. Adam Pascoe, later Bolitho, enters the King’s service as a midshipman aboard Hyperion (Form Line of Battle! And Enemy in Sight)

  1795

  Promoted Flag Captain, Euryalus; involved in the Great Mutiny; Mediterranean; Promoted Commodore (The Flag Captain)

  1798

  Battle of the Nile (Signal – Close Action!)

  1800

  Promoted Rear-Admiral; Baltic; (The Inshore Squadron)

  1801

  Biscay. Prisoner of war (A Tradition of Victory)

  1802

  Promoted Vice-Admiral; West Indies (Success to the Brave)

  1803

  Mediterranean (Colours Aloft!)

  1805

  Battle of Trafalgar (Honour This Day)

  1806–7

  Good Hope and the second battle of Copenhagen (The Only Victor)

  1808

  Shipwrecked off Africa (Beyond the Reef)

  1809–10

  Mauritius campaign (The Darkening Sea)

  1812

  Promoted Admiral; Second American War (For My Country’s Freedom)

  1814

  Defence of Canada (Cross of St. George)

  1815

  Richard Bolitho killed in action (Sword of Honour) Adam Bolitho, Captain, Unrivalled. Mediterranean (Second to None)

  1816

  Anti-slavery patrols, Sierra Leone. Battle of Algiers (Relentless Pursuit)

  1817

  Flag Captain, Athena; Antigua and Caribbean (Man of War)

  1818

  Captain, Onward; Mediterranean (Heart of Oak)

  For my Kim with love, and with thanks for sharing your Canada with me.

  Wherever wood can swim,

  there I am sure to find this flag of England.

  Napoleon Bonaparte

  * * *

  1

  Sword of Honour

  * * *

  THE ROYAL DOCKYARD at Portsmouth, usually a place of noise and constant movement, was as quiet as the grave. It had been snowing steadily for two days, and the buildings, workshops, piles of timber and ships’ stores which made up the clutter in every big yard had become only meaningless shapes. And it was still snowing. Even the familiar smells had been overwhelmed by the white blanket: the sharp tang of paint and tar, hemp and new sawdust, like the sounds, seemed smothered and distorted. And, muffled by the snow, the echoing report of the court-martial gun had gone almost unnoticed.

  Set apart from the other buildings, the port admiral’s house and offices were even more isolated than usual. From one of the tall windows, which overlooked a nearby dock, it was not even possible to see the water in the harbour.

  Captain Adam Bolitho wiped the damp glass and stared down at a solitary Royal Marine, whose scarlet tunic was a stark contrast to the blinding whiteness of the backdrop. It was early afternoon; it could have been sunset. He saw his reflection in the window, and the light of the blazing log fire on the other side of the room, where his companion, a nervous lieutenant, sat perched on the edge of his chair with his hands held out to the flames. At any other time Adam Bolitho could have felt sorry for him. It was never an easy or a welcome duty to be the companion … his mouth tightened. The escort, for some one awaiting the convenience of a court-martial. Even though everyone had assured him that the verdict would be unquestionably in his favour.

  They had convened this morning in the spacious hall adjoining the admiral’s house, a place more usually the venue of receptions than a courtroom where a man’s future, even his life, could be decided. Grotesquely, there had even been a few traces of the Christmas ball which had been held there recently. Adam stared at the snow. Now it was
another year: January third, 1813. After what he had endured, he might have imagined that he would have grasped at a new beginning like a drowning man seizing a lifeline. But he could not. All he loved and cared for lay in 1812, with so many broken memories. He sensed the lieutenant shifting in his chair, and was aware of movement elsewhere. The court was reassembling. After a damned good meal, he thought: obviously one of the reasons for holding the proceedings here, rather than force the court to endure the discomfort of a long pull in an open boat to the flagship, somewhere out there in the snow at Spithead.

  He touched his side, where the iron splinter had smashed him down. He had believed he was dying: at times, he had even wanted to die. Weeks and months had passed, and yet it was hard to accept that it was less than seven months since he had been wounded, and his beloved Anemone had been surrendered to the enemy, overwhelmed by the massive artillery of the U.S.S. Unity. Even now, the memories were blurred. The agony of the wound, the suffering of his spirit, unable to accept that he was a prisoner of war. Without a ship, without hope, someone who would soon be forgotten.

  He felt little pain now; even one of the fleet surgeons had praised the skill of Unity’s French surgeon, and other doctors who had done what they could for him during his captivity.

  He had escaped. Men he had barely known had risked everything to hasten his freedom, and some had died for it. And there were others, who could never be repaid for what they had done for him.

  The lieutenant said hoarsely, ‘I think they’ve returned, sir.’

  Adam acknowledged it. The man was afraid. Of me? Of having become too intimate, if it goes against me?

  His frigate, Anemone, had turned to face a vastly superior enemy, out-gunned and out-manned, with many of his company sent away as prize crews. He had not acted out of arrogance, or reckless pride, but to save the convoy of three heavily laden merchantmen he had been escorting to the Bermudas. Anemone’s challenge had given the convoy time to escape, to find safety when darkness came. He remembered Unity’s impressive commander, Nathan Beer, who had had him moved to his own quarters, and had come to visit him as he was treated by the surgeon. Even through the mists of agony and delirium, Adam had sensed the big American’s presence and concern. Beer had spoken to him more like a father to his son than like a fellow captain, and an enemy.

  And now Beer was dead. Adam’s uncle, Sir Richard Bolitho, had met and engaged the Americans in a brief and bloody encounter, and it had been Bolitho’s turn to give comfort to his dying adversary. Bolitho believed they had been fated to meet: neither had been surprised by the conflict or its ferocity.

  Adam had been given another frigate, Zest, whose captain had been killed while engaging an unknown vessel. He had been the only casualty, just as Adam had been the only survivor from Anemone apart from a twelve-year-old ship’s boy. The others had been killed, drowned, or taken prisoner.

  The only verbal evidence submitted this morning had been his own. There had been one other source of information. When Unity had been captured and taken into Halifax, they had found the log which Nathan Beer had been keeping at the time of Anemone’s attack. The court had been as silent as the falling snow as the senior clerk read aloud Beer’s comments concerning the fierce engagement, and the explosion aboard Anemone which had ended any hope of taking her as a prize. Beer had also written that he was abandoning his pursuit of the convoy due to the damage his enemy had inflicted. At the end of the report he had written, Like father, like son.

  A few quick glances were exchanged in the court, nothing more. Most of those present were either unaware of Beer’s meaning, or unwilling to remark on anything that might prejudice the outcome.

  But to Adam, it had been like hearing the big American’s voice in that hushed room. As if Beer was there, offering his testimony to an adversary’s courage and honour.

  But for Beer’s log, there was little else to confirm what had truly happened. And if I were still a prisoner? Who would be able to help? I should be remembered only as the captain who struck his colours to the enemy. Badly wounded or not, the Articles of War left little room for leniency. You were guilty, unless proven without doubt to the contrary.

  He was gripping his fingers together behind his back, so hard that the pain helped to steady him. I did not strike my colours. Then, or at any time.

  Curiously enough, he knew that two of the captains who were sitting on the board had also been court-martialled. Perhaps they had been remembering, comparing. Thinking of how it might have been, if the point of the sword had been towards them. …

  He moved away from the window and paused by a tall mirror. Perhaps this was where officers examined their appearance, to ensure it would meet with the admiral’s approval. Or women. … He stared coldly at his reflection, holding back the memory. But she was always there. Out of reach, as she had been when she was alive, but always there. He glanced at the bright gold epaulettes. The post-captain. How proud his uncle had been. Like everything else, his uniform was new; all his other possessions lay now in his chests on the sea-bed. Even the sword on the court-martial table was a borrowed one. He thought of the beautiful blade the City merchants had presented to him: they had owned the three ships he had saved, and were showing their gratitude. He looked away from his reflection, his eyes angry. They could afford to be grateful. So many who had fought that day would never know about it.

  He said quietly, ‘Your duty is all but done. I have been bad company, I fear.’

  The lieutenant swallowed hard. ‘I am proud to have been with you, sir. My father served under your uncle, Sir Richard Bolitho. Because of what he told me, I always wanted to enter the navy.’

  Despite the tension and unreality of the moment, Adam was strangely moved.

  ‘Never lose it. Love, loyalty, call it what you will. It will sustain you.’ He hesitated. ‘It must.’

  They both looked at the door as it opened carefully, and the Royal Marine captain in charge of the guard peered in at them.

  He said, ‘They are waiting, Captain Bolitho.’ He seemed about to add something, encouragement, hope, who could tell. But the moment passed. He banged his heels together smartly and marched out into the corridor.

  When he glanced back, Adam saw the lieutenant staring after him. Trying to fix the moment in his mind, perhaps to tell his father.

  He almost smiled. He had forgotten to ask him his name.

  The great room was full to capacity, although who they were and what they sought here was beyond understanding. But then, he thought, there was always a good crowd for a public hanging, too.

  Adam was very aware of the distance, the click of the marine captain’s heels behind him. Once he slipped. There was still powdered chalk on the polished floor, another reminder of the Christmas ball.

  As he came around the last line of seated spectators to face the officers of the board, he saw his borrowed sword on the table; its hilt was toward him. He was shocked, not because he knew the verdict was a just one, but because he felt nothing. Nothing. As if he, like all these others, was a mere onlooker.

  The president of the court, a rear-admiral, regarded him gravely.

  ‘Captain Adam Bolitho, the verdict of this Court is that you are honourably acquitted.’ He smiled briefly. ‘You may be seated.’

  Adam shook his head. ‘No, sir. I prefer not.’

  ‘Very well.’ The rear-admiral opened his brief. ‘The Court holds that Captain Adam Bolitho not only acquitted himself of his duty in the best tradition of the Royal Navy, but in the execution of such duty has done infinite credit to himself by a very obstinate defence against a most superior force. By placing his ship between the enemy and the vessels charged to his protection, he showed both courage and initiative of the highest order.’ He raised his eyes. ‘But for those qualities, it would seem unlikely that you would have succeeded, particularly in view of the fact that you had no knowledge of the declaration of war. Otherwise. …’ The word hung in the air. He did not need to explain further what the
outcome of the court-martial would have been.

  All the members of the court stood up. Some were smiling broadly, obviously relieved that it was all over.

  The rear-admiral said, ‘Retrieve your sword, Captain Bolitho.’ He attempted to lighten it. ‘I would have thought you might be wearing that fine sword of honour I have been hearing about, eh?’

  Adam slid the borrowed sword into its scabbard. Leave now. Say nothing. But he looked at the rear-admiral and the eight captains who were his court and said, ‘George Starr was my coxswain, sir. With his own hand he lit charges which speeded the end of my ship. But for him, Anemone would be serving in the United States navy.’

  The rear-admiral nodded, his smile fading. ‘I know that. I read it in your report.’

  ‘He was a good and honest man who served me, and his country, well.’ He was aware of the sudden silence, broken only by the creak of chairs as those at the back of the great room leaned forward to hear his quiet, unemotional voice. ‘But they hanged him for his loyalty, as if he were a common felon.’

  He looked at the faces across the table, without seeing them. His outward composure was a lie, and he knew he would break down if he persisted. ‘I sold the sword of honour to a collector who values such things.’ He heard the murmurs of surprise behind his back. ‘As for the money, I gave it to George Starr’s widow. It is all she will receive, I imagine.’

  He bowed stiffly and turned away from the table, walking between the ranks of chairs with his hand to his side as if he expected to feel the old torment. He did not even see the expressions, sympathy, understanding, and perhaps shame: he saw only the door, which was already being opened by a white-gloved marine. His own marines and seamen had died that day, a debt no sword of honour could ever repay.