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  The air was still sharp with smoke and dust, and strange lurching figures pushed past, some so near that they brushed against his outflung arm. Once again he tried to move and the pain held him in an iron fist. He heard another voice cry out and knew it was his own.

  At the same time he knew he was naked, yet could recall nothing of it, only Hudson holding him in his arms while the battle thundered all about the ship. There was a vague recollection that his coxswain Starr had not been with him.

  He screwed up his eyes and tried to clear a part of his mind. The foremast going over the side, taking rigging and spars with it, dragging the ship round like some great sea-anchor and laying open her side to those murderous broadsides.

  The ship. What of Anemone?

  His hearing was returning, or had it ever left him? Distant, patient sounds. Men working with hammers; blocks and their tackles squeaking in that other place where the sea was still blue, the air free of smoke and the smell of charred rigging.

  He raised his right hand but was almost too weak to hold it above his nakedness. Even his skin felt clammy. Already that of a corpse. Someone beyond that final door screamed. ‘Not my arm!’ Then another scream, which was suddenly cut short. For him the door to hell had closed behind him.

  There was a bandage, wet and heavy with blood. A hand reached out and grasped his wrist. Adam was helpless to protest.

  ‘Keep still!’ The voice was strained and sharp.

  Adam tried to lie flat on his back, to hold the spreading fire in his side at bay.

  ‘He’s coming now.’ Another said, ‘What the hell!’

  The dry, stifling air moved slightly and another figure came to the table. The ship’s surgeon. When he spoke Adam detected an accent. French.

  The man said, ‘I do not know your thoughts, Commodore. He is the enemy. He has taken the lives of many of your company. What does it matter?’

  As if from far away, Adam recognised the strong voice. Beer, he thought. Nathan Beer. ‘What are his chances, Philippe? I’m in no mood for lectures, not today!’

  The surgeon gave a sigh. ‘It is an iron splinter the size of your thumb. If I try to extract it, he may well die. If I do not, it is a certainty.’

  ‘I want you to save him, Philippe.’ There was no response, and he added with sudden bitterness, ‘Remember, I saved you from the Terror. Did I say, “What does it matter?”’ Almost brutally he continued, ‘Your parents and your sister, how was it again? Their heads were struck off and paraded on pikes to be jeered at and spat upon. That mob was French, was it not?’

  Somebody held a sponge soaked in water against Adam’s lips. It was no longer cold or even cool, and it tasted sour. But as he moved his lips against it he thought it was like wine.

  The commodore again. ‘Was this all he carried?’

  The surgeon replied wearily, ‘That and his sword.’

  Beer sounded surprised. ‘A woman’s glove. I wonder…’

  Adam gasped and tried to turn his head.

  ‘M-mine…’ His head fell back. It was a nightmare. He was dead. Nothing was real but that.

  Then he felt Beer’s breath against his shoulder. ‘Can you hear me, Captain Bolitho?’ He gripped Adam’s right hand. ‘You fought bravely, nobody could deny it. I thought I would beat you into a quick submission, save lives, and with luck seize your ship. But I misjudged you.’

  Adam heard his own voice again, faint and hoarse. ‘Convoy?’

  ‘You saved it.’ He tried to lighten it. ‘That time.’ But his voice remained immeasurably sad.

  Adam spoke only her name. ‘Anemone . . .’

  ‘She’s gone. Nothing could be done to save her.’ Somebody was whispering urgently from the other world, and Beer grunted as he got to his feet. ‘I am needed.’ He rested his big hand on Adam’s shoulder. ‘But I will return.’ Adam did not see the quick glance at the French surgeon. ‘Is there anyone…?’

  He tried to shake his head. ‘Zenoria… her glove… now she is dead.’

  He felt neat rum pouring into his mouth, choking him, making his mind reel still further. Through the waves of agony he heard the rasp of metal, then felt the hard hands encircle his wrists and ankles like manacles.

  The surgeon watched the leather strap being placed between Adam’s teeth, then he held up his hand, and it was removed.

  ‘Were you trying to speak, m’sieur?’

  Adam could not focus his eyes, but he heard himself say distinctly, ‘I am sorry about your family. A terrible thing…’ His voice trailed away, and one of the surgeon’s assistants said sharply, ‘It is time.’

  But the surgeon was still staring at the enemy captain’s pale features, almost relaxed now as he fell into a faint.

  He placed the palm of his hand on Adam’s body and waited for one of his men to remove the blood-sodden dressing.

  Almost to himself he said, ‘Thank you. Perhaps there is still hope left for some of us.’

  Then, with a nod to the others around the stained table, he forced the probe into the wound, his mind so inured to the agonies he had witnessed in ships and on the field of battle that, even as he worked, he was able to consider the young officer who writhed under his hands, who had moved the formidable Commodore Beer to plead for his life. On the very doorstep of hell, he had still found the humanity to express sympathy for another’s suffering.

  When he eventually went on deck it was pitch dark, the heavens covered with tiny stars which were reflected only faintly in the dark waters, and as far as the invisible horizon.

  Work on repairs and re-rigging had ceased and seamen sprawled about the deck, too exhausted to continue. In the darkness it appeared as if corpses still lay where they had dropped, while the air was still tinged with smoke and the smells of death.

  The surgeon, Philippe Avice, was well aware that sailors could perform miracles, and without even going into harbour Unity’s men would soon have their ship ready to sail and fight again. Only an experienced eye would be able to see the extent of the English frigate’s ferocity.

  And the dead? Drifting, falling like leaves into the ocean’s deeper darkness, while the wounded waited, enduring their pain and fear, to see what another dawn might offer them.

  He found Commodore Beer sitting at his table in the great cabin. Even here, the enemy’s iron had left its mark. There was no safe place above the waterline in a ship-of-war. But Beer’s favourite portrait of his wife and daughters was back in its place, and a clean shirt lay ready for the morning.

  Beer looked up, his eyes hard in the lantern-light.

  ‘Well?’

  The surgeon shrugged. ‘He is alive. More, I cannot say.’ He took a glass of cognac from Beer’s big hand. He sipped it and pursed his lips. ‘Very good.’

  Beer smiled, his eyes vanishing into the crow’s-feet of many years at sea.

  ‘The cognac, Philippe? Or the fact that you have saved the life of an enemy?’

  Avice shrugged again. ‘It is just that I was reminded of something. Even in war, one should never forget it.’

  Beer said, after a pause, ‘His uncle would have been proud of him.’

  The surgeon raised his eyebrows. ‘You ’ave met the famous amiral who is said to risk his reputation as much as his life?’

  Beer shook his head. I’m getting too old for this game.

  He glanced at one of the cannons that shared this cabin when the drums beat the hands to quarters. It was still uncovered, the barrel and tackles heavily smoke-stained.

  ‘No, I never have. But I will, as sure as fate.’

  His head nodded with exhaustion, and the surgeon slipped away quietly through the replaced screen door.

  Beer drifted, thinking of the young frigate captain, and the unknown girl named Zenoria. Next time he wrote to his wife in Newburyport he would tell her about them… With something like a groan he pulled himself from the chair.

  But first, there were the ship’s needs to attend to. Damage to assess, his men to be encouraged. Always, the sh
ip must come first.

  Captain Adam Bolitho had been ignorant of the declaration of war between the United States and England. With nothing but instinct and youthful experience, he had fought with a tenacity that might have turned the tables, despite Unity’s superior artillery.

  He picked up the glove and held it to the light. So small a thing, perhaps a mere gesture, without significance to the woman. But her loss had made Bolitho throw away caution, and prepare to fight his ship to the end.

  In his mind’s eye Beer could still see the beautiful, bare-breasted figurehead, when Anemone had finally given up the fight.

  Because her captain had nothing left to live for.

  * * *

  12

  Witness

  * * *

  Lieutenant George Avery hesitated by the screen door and knew that the Royal Marine sentry was watching him with an unmoving stare. Above his head he could hear the muffled bark of orders, the sounds of men hurrying to their stations for the last change of tack before entering English Harbour.

  He had been wondering what might be waiting for them here, orders, or a new appraisal of American intentions, and the prospect of fresh fruit and the chance of stretching his legs on dry land had pleased him.

  That had been before they had met with the convoy, and had received news of Anemone.

  Against orders, the little brig Woodpecker had returned under cover of darkness to the scene of the battle, but had found nothing. The brig’s commander, Nicholas Eames, had come aboard Indomitable without delay to make his report.

  Avery had known that Bolitho was tearing himself apart because of what had happened.

  Eames had said, ‘Anemone came about and went into the attack, Sir Richard. No hesitation, no nothing – you’d have been proud of him!’

  ‘I am.’ It was all he had said.

  From what the brig’s commander had been able to tell them, there had been one main adversary, with perhaps other vessels in company.

  ‘At first, Sir Richard, the gunfire was so heavy and fierce I imagined the enemy was a liner.’ He had looked at their faces, Tyacke, Scarlett and his admiral, and had added sadly, ‘But Anemone could have run rings around one of those beauties, so I knew it must be one of the new Yankee frigates.’

  No wreckage, or if there was, it had drifted fast away with the current. And then Eames had described the one small miracle. A survivor, one of the ship’s boys. More dead than alive, he had been hauled aboard Woodpecker. It was a wonder he had lived.

  Avery glanced at the sentry.

  The marine tapped the deck with his musket and called, ‘Flag-lieutenant, sir!’

  The survivor had been transferred immediately to the flagship. As Eames had said, ‘My brig doesn’t have the space for a surgeon!’

  Indomitable’s surgeon, Philip Beauclerk, had insisted that the youth be allowed to rest in order to recover from the nightmare he had endured. It was doubtful that one so young would ever completely get over it.

  ‘Enter!’

  Avery strode into the main cabin, his eyes taking in Bolitho’s breakfast tray, scarcely touched, a half-finished letter on his table, an empty glass nearby.

  ‘Captain Tyacke’s respects, Sir Richard, and we shall be entering harbour within two hours.’

  ‘I see. Is that all?’

  Then Bolitho stood up abruptly and said, ‘That was uncalled for. I apologise. Abusing you when you cannot answer back is unforgivable.’

  Avery was moved by the intensity of his words. He seemed to speak with his whole body, as if he could not bear to be still.

  Bolitho said, ‘Two hours? Very well. I must speak to this youth. Send Allday – he has a way with youngsters. I have noticed that.’ He rubbed his chin, the skin smoothly shaved. ‘I have no cause to treat him badly, either. The finest of men, a true friend.’

  Ozzard appeared with fresh coffee and said, ‘I shall tell him, Sir Richard.’

  Bolitho slumped down again and pulled at his shirt as if it was choking him.

  ‘My little crew. What am I without them?’

  He began to slip out of his coat but Avery said, ‘No, sir. With respect, I think this may be important to the lad. Your rank will not frighten him. He has had enough terror, I imagine.’

  Bolitho said, ‘You are all surprises, George. Did I choose you, or was it the other way round?’

  Avery watched his despair. Needing to help, but unable to ease the way. ‘I believe Lady Catherine decided for both of us, sir.’

  He saw Bolitho glance quickly at the unfinished letter, and knew he had not yet been able to bring himself to tell her.

  Outside the door Allday and the round-shouldered secretary Yovell stared down at the boy who had been snatched from the sea. From death. He was freshly clothed in a chequered shirt and white trousers, the smallest the purser’s store could produce.

  The boy was very slight, with frightened brown eyes and wood-splinter scars, which had been cleaned by the sick-bay.

  Allday said sternly, ‘Now, listen to me, my lad. I’ll not be saying anything twice. You feel a bit sorry for yourself just now, and that ain’t too surprising.’

  The boy watched him, as a rabbit would stare at a fox. ‘What do they want of me, sir?’

  ‘In this cabin is the finest admiral England’s ever had, though precious few says as much! He wants to ask you about what happened. You just tell him, son. As if he was your father.’

  He saw Yovell sigh as the boy began to sob.

  ‘Me father’s drowned, sir.’

  Allday glared at Yovell. ‘This is no damned good, is it?’

  Yovell put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Come with me.’ He sounded quite severe, which was almost unknown with him.

  ‘Answer the questions,’ Allday said. ‘Tell it just as it was. It’s important to him, see?’

  Ozzard, watching from the door, studied the small figure without expression. To Yovell he said, ‘You should have been a school teacher!’

  Yovell smiled benignly. ‘I was. That, and other pursuits.’

  Avery waited for the others to leave and murmured to Allday, ‘That was well done.’ To the boy he said gently, ‘Sit here.’

  Bolitho made himself remain very still as the boy sat on a chair directly opposite his table. He looked terrified, barely able to drag his eyes from the gold epaulettes, and obviously overwhelmed by the vastness of an admiral’s quarters when compared with a frigate’s crowded messdeck.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Whitmarsh, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘John Whitmarsh.’

  ‘And how old are you, John?’

  The boy gaped at him, but his hands had stopped shaking, and his dark eyes were like saucers at being addressed by the admiral.

  ‘Twelve, I think, sir.’ He screwed up his face in an effort to concentrate. ‘I bin in Anemone for eighteen months.’

  Bolitho glanced at the piece of paper Yovell had copied out for him.

  ‘And you lost your father?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ He lifted his chin as if with pride at his memory. ‘He were a fisherman and got drowned off the Goodwins.’ Now he had started he could not stop. ‘My uncle took me to Plymouth and volunteered me for Anemone, they was recruiting, see.’ He hesitated nervously. ‘Sir.’

  Avery recognised the pain in Bolitho’s grey eyes. The boy must have been only about ten when his uncle put him in a King’s ship, if uncle he was. It was too common a story these days. Women left to fend for themselves, their men killed in battle or too badly wounded to return home. Or drowned, like this lad’s father. This boy had proved an obstacle to someone, and had therefore been removed.

  Bolitho said, ‘Tell me about the battle. Where were you, what were you doing? Try to remember.’

  Again he screwed up his eyes. ‘We sighted the enemy when the watches changed. I heard old Mr Daniel the gunner say she were a big Yankee. There was another too, a little one, but the masthead couldn’t make her out ’cause of the sea mist. Me an’ my friend
Billy was at the foremast, sir. The ship was that short of hands that even we was needed at the braces.’

  Bolitho asked quietly, ‘How old was your friend?’

  ‘Same as me. We come aboard together.’

  ‘I see.’ It was clear to him now, as the Woodpecker’s commander had described. Adam had believed he must hold off the enemy until it was dark enough for the merchantmen to escape, knowing that, by then, it would be too late for Anemone. He said, ‘So your ship came about to engage?’ He saw the boy nod, his eyes clouding with memories. ‘Did you see your captain while all this was happening?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. He was always about. I went aft with a message an’ I heard him tell the first lieutenant to keep the marines hidden and not to rig the nets in case the Yankee guessed what we was doin’.’ Then he smiled; it was the nicest thing which had happened. He said, ‘Our captain was scared o’ nuthin’!’

  ‘Go on.’

  The boy opened and closed his tar-stained fingers. ‘Then the firin’ started, sir. We got the first shots off, but the big Yankee found the range and we was hit again an’ again! Spars an’ riggin’ was fallin’ all around, and men was dyin’, callin’ out – there was blood in th’scuppers like I’ve never seen!’

  Voices called overhead and bare feet thudded across the planking. Indomitable was changing tack, making for the harbour. But to this boy, it was like the battle being refought.

  ‘The foremast was shot away, an’ the whole of the forecastle was covered in riggin’ and sails fallin’ on us like somethin’ terrible!’ He turned and looked at Avery for the first time. ‘We couldn’t move, sir. Men was fightin’ to get out, others went over the side, caught like they was in a net. I was held fast. I tried, I tried…’

  Bolitho held up his hand as Avery began to move forward. ‘Did you see the captain?’

  ‘When he fell, sir.’ He repeated in a small voice, broken by sobs, ‘When he fell.’

  Bolitho waited, his muscles bunched like fists. Adam had fallen. And only this boy had survived to describe it.