Deighton was opening a long envelope and drawing out some papers. Adam could see the seals of Admiralty, and others too, which seemed to lend added importance to this meeting.
Deighton said, ‘What I tell you is in the strictest confidence.’ He frowned as Borradaile dragged his heels across the deck. ‘A combined naval and military operation is planned, to take place while the weather is favourable, and to gain the maximum advantage. Admiral Cochrane will be in overall command, but the operation will be divided into separate sections.’ He reached up and touched his ginger hair as if he were thinking of something else. Then he said deliberately, ‘An attack on Washington, gentlemen.’
He had their full attention now, and Adam could see the amusement in his eyes. Pleased with his timing, with its effect.
These were experienced officers, and Adam knew that each man was regarding the challenge in a different light. Borradaile was used to prowling in American coastal waters, picking up intelligence where he could, and then making off if any enemy patrol vessel came upon him. Morgan Price was more concerned with the presence and size of American frigates; he had crossed swords with several of them already, and, like Lloyd of Chivalrous, he was never averse to prize money when it came his way.
Adam realised that Deighton’s eyes, now quite steady, were on him.
‘Captain Bolitho, what is your opinion of this honourable undertaking? You are experienced as anyone, I should have thought.’
Adam stared out at the blue-grey water beyond the stern windows. How do I feel? Truly feel, setting aside my dislike of this man?
He answered, ‘The timing will have to be perfect, sir. Every care must be taken to avoid the leakage of information to the enemy. They would not be slow to rally against such an attack.’
‘Of course, Captain.’ Deighton played with the corners of his papers. ‘You have no reason to love the Americans. You have had too close a contact for that.’
‘I lost my ship to them, sir, and I was a prisoner of war.’
Deighton’s eyes gleamed. ‘Ah, but you escaped. I recall reading the full account.’
This was the man he could understand. ‘The account of my court martial, sir?’
Price grinned wildly, and Lloyd took an interest in his cuff. Deighton nodded, unmoved.
‘How did you find your captors – the enemy?’
‘They fight for what they believe. They are like us in many ways.’ He thought of his uncle. ‘It is like fighting people of your own blood.’
‘I shall have to take your word for that, Captain.’ He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. Then he continued, ‘And what are our chances of success, would you say?’
Adam saw Urquhart watching him, hating this casual interrogation in the presence of the others.
He answered, ‘It can be done, sir. Others have said as much. But without ships and the necessary military strength, it has not been possible.’ He paused. ‘Now we have both. It would be a gesture, rather than a victory. Some might describe it as revenge for the American attack on York.’
Deighton raised a hand. ‘And what do you say?’
Adam heard someone laugh, one of his men. One of those he had almost left behind, abandoned.
‘I say I do not care, sir. Tomorrow we may be at peace.’ He glanced around at the others, sensing that he had their understanding. ‘But while we are still at war we must strike them as hard as we can. So that it will be remembered, and, with it, the many who have died for it. Too many.’
Deighton laid his hands flat on the table. ‘Then we are agreed.’
His servant entered the cabin as if to a signal, with a tray of glasses.
The commodore stood up, and the others followed suit.
‘I give you a sentiment, gentlemen. To the squadron.’ His eyes rested on Adam again. ‘And to victory!’
One glass each, and the servant had departed as silently as he had entered.
Deighton smiled. ‘Your orders will arrive tomorrow. In the afternoon we shall weigh and take station as I direct.’ The smile was fading. ‘That is all, gentlemen.’
Adam was on the quarterdeck to see each captain into his gig. The last to leave was Borradaile, as he had known it would be.
Adam said quietly, ‘Well, my friend? What are your feelings?’
Borradaile looked at him and made some attempt to adjust his ill-fitting uniform before going down to his waiting boat.
‘I was thinking just now, sir, while I watched and listened.’ His deep, hollow eyes were hidden in shadow, ageless, a man of the sea. ‘So like your uncle, I was thinking. So very like that fine, caring sailor.’ He almost smiled. ‘But all eyes open for storms. I was thinking that too, sir.’
He shambled to the entry port, outwardly oblivious to the calls and ceremonial of his departure.
Adam found himself more moved by the simplicity and honesty of Borradaile’s remarks than he had thought possible. Perhaps after Deighton’s hints and suggestive asides, it had been what he most needed. He stared across the anchorage. Four frigates and a brig. At least they would be doing something again, instead of playing watchdog to helpless transports.
He saw the marines falling out and hurrying below to their messes, their barracks, as they insisted on calling them. Washington, then. But he could find no excitement in the prospect. Was that, too, gone for ever?
Whatever the outcome, the blame would lie with the man in command. The margin would be a narrow one: success or utter disaster. Then he thought of his uncle. That fine, caring sailor. It had made him seem closer. He smiled. And that was what he had needed.
Adam Bolitho stood loosely by the quarterdeck rail and stared along the full extent of his command, beyond the taut rigging and the jib sails to the empty sea ahead. It was angled now, and quite steady, as if Valkyrie were riding a sloping bank of dark blue, eye-searing water.
Below the larboard gangway the ritual of punishment was drawing to a close; it was something which Adam had learned to accept without flinching. Three weeks had passed since the newly formed squadron had left Halifax, and to the masthead lookouts the other frigates would still be in sight, ready to run down and investigate any suspicious vessel, or to respond to the commodore’s signals.
Three weeks of drills and yet more drills, the messdecks humid in the unwavering heat, and tempers fraying. It was not unusual in any ship of Valkyrie’s size.
He glanced down as the boatswain’s mate paused and ran his fingers through the lash, to separate each of its nine tails, then the drum rolled again and the lash came down with a crack across the naked back.
Bidmead, the master-at-arms, chanted, ‘Thirty-six, sir!’
There was something like a sigh from the ship’s company, who had been piped aft to witness punishment. The victim’s back was a mass of torn and bleeding flesh. But as his wrists were cut free from the upended grating he stepped clear and stood unaided, only his heaving chest revealing the pain he had suffered.
It had been a severe punishment, but Spurway was one of the ship’s hard men, a troublemaker who had been flogged many times, and had boasted, and proved, that he could take it without a whimper.
Adam hated the ritual for many reasons. In a ship like this one, there were always accidents, falls, cuts and bruises as men, some inexperienced, were driven to work aloft in pitch darkness when the pipe came to shorten or make sail. For trained hands like Spurway to be excused work because of a flogging was nothing but waste. Nor would it deter others like him. But discipline was vital, and Spurway had struck a petty officer who had sworn at him for malingering.
At his back, he could sense the line of marines across the poop, a captain’s final authority if all else failed.
He saw Minchin, the surgeon, peering up at him, his face as red as raw meat.
‘Take him below. And don’t be too soft with him.’
Minchin squinted into the sun, and grinned. ‘He would have been better off in the army, sir. They’d have hanged him!’ He strolled away, a man is
olated from all the others.
Dyer touched his hat. ‘Permission to fall out the hands, sir?’
‘Yes.’ Adam stared past the lieutenant’s shoulder at the small courier schooner which had met with them soon after dawn to pass across a satchel of despatches for the commodore.
He watched the schooner’s sails turning slowly end on in the haze, like pink shells. Free, he thought, her commanding officer able to move at will as he sought out his next rendezvous.
He looked at the gangway. The grating was gone, and two seamen were swilling away the remaining blood.
He said, ‘Have a word with Mr Midshipman Fynmore. He hopes to sit for lieutenant soon. He should have prevented the trouble with Spurway.’
Dyer said, ‘He’s very young, sir.’
Adam faced him. ‘He was there. He was in charge. Tell him!’
He turned as his servant John Whitmarsh hurried from the poop.
‘What is it?’ Although, in truth, he was glad of the interruption. He had been over sharp with the first lieutenant. But he, too, should have known.
Whitmarsh said, ‘The commodore sends his compliments, zur. Would you join him aft.’
Adam smiled. ‘Directly.’ Perhaps the schooner had brought final orders for the proposed attack. So much time seemed to have passed since Deighton had announced it in his cabin that it had lost all sense of urgency.
He walked into the poop’s cool shadow and saw two seamen glance at him, and as quickly look away. No one in the ship liked the man who had been punished, but a flogging was a flogging, and they would never take sides against one of their own.
He paused before entering the great cabin.
Rather like us, he thought.
Deighton was at his table, leaning on his hands while he studied an opened chart and a file of carefully written instructions.
‘Ah, good – here you are.’ He had raised his head, but remained in silhouette against the glistening panorama of the sea. ‘Punishment carried out, eh? Just what the brutes deserve. No one respects a gentle hand, no matter how well intended.’ He gestured to a chair and added, ‘I thought you were against flogging, on principle.’
Adam sat down. ‘I am, sir. But until some other means of punishment is suggested by their lordships or the King’s regulations, I shall flog any man who tries to undermine the discipline in this or any other ship.’
‘I am glad to know it, sir.’ Deighton tapped the chart. ‘It is all here in the admiral’s despatches. The attack will take place in two weeks’ time. I would like you to read the instructions as soon as possible. I have every faith in the strategy proposed, of course, but you might wish to challenge something.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Strange to hear someone other than his uncle or Keen referred to as ‘the admiral’. It was like wearing a blindfold, not knowing the mind behind it, except by reputation. Bolitho had always known the importance, and also the folly, of such an undertaking unless it was certain of success.
‘It will be a twin-pronged attack, by way of the River Potomac, and supported by another along the River Patuxent.’ He opened and closed his fist, like a crab. ‘Major-General Robert Ross will be in command of the land operations.’ He glanced at him quickly. ‘Do you know him?’
Adam said, ‘He has the name of a man of action, sir.’ A major-general. So it was that important.
Deighton nodded. ‘Good, good. Our squadron will be placed and in position on the first day, and our main task will be to prevent any interference from the enemy while our soldiers are landed.’ He waited while Adam stood and walked to the table. The charts were current, and fully corrected, something that could never be taken for granted, particularly with the Americans’ insistence upon altering the names of so many towns and landmarks. He could feel Deighton watching him, perhaps searching for doubts.
He said, ‘It will depend on the weather. Transferring the troops from transports to boats will take time; it always does.’ He paused, expecting Deighton to interrupt. He traced the coastline with his finger. ‘There are too many ships. It will take too long to prepare.’
‘Are you saying it cannot be done?’
Adam bent closer to the chart; in his mind he could already see it. Soldiers tumbling into boats, many of whom had never taken part in an amphibious landing. It only needed a few small, determined vessels to work amongst them, and even with overwhelming support from the navy, any invasion would end before it began.
He straightened his back and looked at the sea. The wind was powerful but steady, with the ship still on the same tack, but he knew from experience and from what the old hands had said that it could change within the hour. Too many ships had driven aground off Chesapeake Bay to take the approaches lightly.
‘It will be done, sir, if so ordered. I should like to discuss it with Mr Ritchie.’
Deighton stared at him. ‘Ritchie? Who is he?’
‘The sailing master, sir. He has great experience of these waters, and I value his judgement.’
‘Oh, very well, I suppose that….’ He turned away. ‘It is not an issue open for discussion.’
Adam waited. What did it matter? Another battle, probably planned in a comfortable room somewhere, by minds already dulled by years of war, overreached by new methods, driven by fresh ambitions which were rarely taken into account.
But it does matter. It always had, and it always must. When the drums rattled and beat to quarters and men ran to their stations, some would look aft, to see their captain, to attempt to discover in his face some hope, some hint of their chances. They never questioned what they were ordered to do. Of course it matters.
He said quietly, ‘When we next rendezvous with Alfriston, I think we should speak with Commander Borradaile.’
Deighton squared his shoulders. ‘If you think it useful. Coastal experience, that sort of thing?’
‘We must seize and hold an advantage, sir, no matter how small.’ He could see an argument forming on Deighton’s face. ‘As I said before, sir, the enemy are too much like us. They will fight with all they have. As we would, if the French were to sail up the Thames and attack London.’
Deighton studied him, seeking something more. But he said only, ‘Signal the squadron to close on Valkyrie. I will pass each captain his final instructions. After that….’ He did not continue. Instead, he changed tack. ‘I know that Rear-Admiral Keen had great faith in you. Doubtless, he had his reasons. I shall expect the same confidence and competence from you myself. Is that understood?’
‘It is understood, sir.’
‘Perhaps you would care to take a glass with me, Captain?’
Adam sat again. This new Deighton, the caution, the wariness, was not easy to accept.
‘Thank you, sir.’
But Deighton would never allow a breach in the wall of formality, unlike Keen. The day that Deighton calls me by my first name, I shall shake his hand.
The strange servant entered noiselessly and prepared some goblets.
Deighton said abruptly, ‘Of course, Captain, you’re not married, are you?’
‘No, sir.’ Always a reminder, a barb.
‘Not all a bed of roses, y’know.’ Deighton took a glass and held it to the reflected glare. He turned to the table again, and opened a drawer. ‘With all these details to examine and decide upon, it slipped my mind. There was a letter in the despatch bag for you.’ He forced a smile. ‘From a lady, I’ll swear to it.’
Adam took it and glanced at the seal and the written instructions. It must have been passed from ship to ship before it came to the courier schooner.
Adam saw her without effort, the dark eyes and high cheekbones, and the confidence which she gave to others. To me.
He said, ‘Catherine, Lady Somervell, sir.’ He watched him, for some surprise or innuendo, that he should know her so well, well enough to receive a letter from her.
‘A lady of magic, they tell me.’ He raised one ginger eyebrow. ‘Perhaps she will bring us luck in this great venture.’
John Whitmarsh was in his cabin, and made to leave when he entered. He was polishing his captain’s sword, the short, curved fighting blade which Adam had selected with such care after his other had been lost in Anemone.
‘No, stay. You’ll not disturb me.’ He sat down beneath the skylight and slit open the letter.
My dear Adam…. It was dated in May, three months, a lifetime ago. How much worse it would be for her.
He could even imagine her writing it, perhaps in the library, which looked over the garden she had made her own. So many memories, countless pictures, the last being the one he carried like a penance, Catherine on the beach with Zenoria’s broken body in her arms.
By the bulkhead the boy John Whitmarsh watched his captain’s face, while his cloth moved up and down the keen-edged blade without a pause.
So remember, dear Adam, that you are not alone. Last week I visited Zennor again, no better place to rest. I tell you this, Adam, she is at peace now. I could feel it. The last thing she would have wanted would have been for you to lose yourself in grief. You have your life to live, and so much to offer and to discover. Do not throw it away for any cause or reason. You will find your love again. As I have.
The boy’s hand stilled on the hanger as Adam unlocked his cabinet, and took out the small velvet-covered book.
Very gently, he opened it, and looked at the pressed remains of the wild rose he had picked for Zenoria. A book which Keen had casually given him, without understanding what it had meant. He held it to his cheek for several seconds, remembering, and yet very aware of the woman who had written to him, that she cared enough for him to reach out to him and give him this comfort.
The boy asked carefully, ‘Is it bad, zur?’
Adam looked at him. ‘No, not bad, young John.’ He folded the letter, and heard her voice again. She is at peace now.
Sword of Honour Page 12