Free Cross of St George by Alexander Kent Page B

her.” He could barely see them. “For me.”
    Matthew grinned. “None better, sir!” But there was no smile in his eyes.
    Ferguson was down on the road. He said, “God speed, Sir Richard.”
    Bolitho stood quite still; afterwards, he thought it had been as if their spirits had joined.
    Then he turned on his heel and walked through the gates.
    She watched, her eyes smarting, afraid to miss the moment when he would look back. He had been right: they were waiting. Uniforms blue and scarlet; formal, austere voices. Respect for her man, an admiral of England.
    But he did turn, then very slowly raised his hat and bowed to her. When she looked again, he was gone.
    She waited for Ferguson to climb into the carriage, and said, “Tell Matthew to drive back along the same road.”
    Ferguson replied, “The ship’ll stand well out before she changes tack, m’lady. We’ll not be able to see anything.”
    She sat back in the seat. “I shall see him.” She looked at the passing cottages. “And he will know it.”

4 C APTAINS
    A S EIGHT BELLS chimed out from the forecastle belfry, Captain James Tyacke climbed through the companion and onto the broad quarterdeck. The air, like everything else, was wet, clinging, and cold, and the ship seemed hemmed in by an unmoving curtain of fog. He gripped his hands tightly behind his back and listened to the staccato beat of hammers, and the occasional squeak of blocks as some item of rigging was hauled aloft to the upper yards. When he looked up, it was uncanny: the topmasts and top-gallant spars were completely cut off by the fog, as if the frigate Indomitable had been dismasted in some phantom engagement.
    He shivered, hating the climate, too used perhaps to the African sun and the south’s clear blue horizons.
    He stopped by the empty hammock nettings and peered down at the water alongside. Lighters were moored there, and other boats were pulling this way and that like water-beetles, vanishing and reappearing suddenly in the mist.
    This was Halifax, Nova Scotia. A busy and vital seaport, and a pleasant-looking town, from the little he had seen of it. He touched the nettings, like cold metal on this dismal day. But not for long, he told himself. Very soon this work would be completed, which, considering the winter’s bitter weather and the needs of all the other men-of-war sheltering here, was a record of which to be proud. Six months had passed since they had entered harbour after the savage battle with the two American frigates. The largest prize, Unity, had already left for England, and would be receiving all the attention she required. She had been so badly mauled that he doubted she would have survived the long Atlantic crossing if her pumps had not been kept going throughout every watch.
    He gritted his teeth to prevent them from chattering. Some captains would have donned a thick boat-cloak to keep out the cold. James Tyacke did not entertain the idea. Indomitable ’s company had to work as best they could in their usual clothing, and he did not believe that he should take advantage of his rank. It was not some facile act to impress the men. It was merely Tyacke’s way.
    Like the empty nettings. Ordinarily, when the hands were piped to show a leg and make ready for another working day in harbour, the hammocks were neatly stowed there, and kept in the nettings during the day: when the ship was called to battle they offered the only protection from flying splinters for the helmsmen and officers on the quarterdeck. But life was hard enough in a King’s ship, Tyacke thought, and here, when the only heating throughout Indomitable ’s impressive one hundred and eighty feet was the galley stove, wet hammocks at the end of the day would have made things even more uncomfortable.
    Figures loomed and faded in the mist, officers waiting to ask him questions, others wanting final instructions before they were pulled