Sword of Honour

by Alexander Kent

  Catherine understood, better than anyone, that neither the love nor the peace could ever have been his; that, without her, there would only have been grief, tearing him apart.

  He said quietly, ‘With someone’s help, I have reached an understanding.’

  Catherine had returned to Zennor for his sake, to the church where he had stood with her and with Bolitho, when Keen had taken Zenoria for his wife. Perhaps she had discovered that the little mermaid had gone back to the sea. And found peace. For both of us.

  The boy watched him leave the cabin. He did not understand any of it, but that did not matter. He had been a part of it.

  8

  One Hand for the King

  COMMODORE HENRY DEIGHTON prowled restlessly about his great cabin, reaching out to touch pieces of furniture and equipment, obviously without seeing them.

  Adam waited beneath the cabin skylight, glad that somebody had closed it. Deighton was almost beside himself, unable to control his disbelief even in front of Adam and the hovering Lieutenant Dyer, an unwilling spectator. Anyone working on deck would otherwise have heard him.

  Deighton swung round, one hand jabbing the air to emphasise each word. ‘And are you telling me, Captain, that just because of some scrap of information which Alfriston’s captain….’ He snapped his fingers and Dyer offered helpfully, ‘Borradaile, sir!’

  Deighton ignored him. ‘You are telling me that I should contact Rear-Admiral Cochrane’s ships, and the transports, and suggest that he delay the attack! Hell’s teeth, man, do you know what you’re asking me to do?’

  Adam felt his impatience changing to anger, but knew that any outburst now would be like a match in a powder magazine. He said, ‘Alfriston stopped a Portuguese trader, sir. One known to Commander Borradaile. In exchange for information, the trader ….’

  Deighton shouted, ‘Smuggler, you mean!’

  ‘Smuggler, sir. One who has proved very useful in the past.’

  He waited while Deighton peered at his chart again. ‘There is an American commodore named Barney. He has a flotilla of small vessels in the bay. It seems he is sheltering at the mouth of the Patuxent, perhaps because of information about us, or perhaps merely as a precaution.’ His voice hardened. ‘Where our ships and four thousand troops are to be conveyed and landed, the day after tomorrow.’

  Deighton snapped, ‘The admiral must be well aware of that!’

  Adam glanced at Dyer and wished he was somewhere else. When Valkyrie was next committed to action Dyer would remember today, and the men he served.

  ‘And there is this battery.’ He did not move or indicate on the chart what Borradaile had told him. Deighton had already challenged that, too. ‘Old or new, we don’t know, but the Americans have been working on it these past weeks. It is not an easy approach at any time, but with a battery sited and ready, perhaps with heated shot ….’

  Deighton sat down heavily as if the deck had given out beneath him.

  ‘I know about heated shot, Captain, and I also know that a slow-moving force of vessels entering a confined passage is no match for a shore battery.’

  Adam said to Dyer, ‘Wait for me in my cabin.’

  The lieutenant left without a word. Only then did Deighton realise he had gone.

  ‘You are leaving me no sea room, Captain. The responsibility is mine.’

  Adam thought of Dyer in his cabin. Had he guessed that he had been sent there to prevent him from describing how the new commodore had seemed snared by his own vital but damning authority?

  ‘The whole fleet will be expecting results.’ Deighton was on the move again, his hands clasped beneath his coat-tails, his head bowed under the weight of his decisions.

  Adam watched him, and found no comfort in the contempt he felt. He recalled Keen’s words. Not like us. Not like you.

  Individual faces stood out in memory. His coxswain, Starr, who had been hanged by the Americans for setting charges to destroy Anemone when otherwise she might have been saved, to serve under the Stars and Stripes. John Allday’s son, who had fallen in the battle with the USS Unity. And the young midshipman, Lovie, their only casualty when they had destroyed the American prize and her would-be rescuer. Wiped away, like chalk from a slate.

  Washington was the impossible, the unobtainable trophy. In war, what did motives matter any more? Glory or revenge, it made little difference to the men who fought and died.

  He said suddenly, ‘I have a suggestion, sir.’ It was like hearing someone else, a stranger: calm, impersonal.

  He saw Deighton turn to stare at him, as though he were offering him a lifeline. ‘Destroy the battery before the attack begins.’ He watched the surprise change to disbelief, then to something like disappointment.

  ‘No time. And besides, what chance have we?’

  ‘Boat action, sir.’ It was like a rising madness, and although he knew he should guard against it, he felt himself being carried by it.

  Deighton nodded, very slowly. ‘And you would lead this venture, I presume? Another laurel for the family garland? For your uncle?’

  Adam said, ‘That is unworthy, sir.’

  Surprisingly, Deighton laughed. ‘Well, let us assume if it were at all possible, and lead it you would – by God, where would you begin?’

  He considered it, unnerved that it should seem so straightforward, something already written in orders. You are commanded to proceed. Like the great paintings of famous sea fights; there was never any pain or blood.

  ‘I would transfer to Alfriston immediately.’ He saw the caution in Deighton’s eyes. ‘Which would leave you with the full company of frigates.’ He saw Deighton nod, although he thought he had not known that he had done so. ‘I would require forty marines, and a hand-picked party of seamen.’

  Deighton swallowed. ‘Thirty marines.’

  Adam felt his fingers tingling. Part of the madness.

  He asked quietly, ‘You agree, sir?’

  Deighton stared around the cabin, as if he had suddenly become a stranger there.

  ‘I shall put your suggestion in writing.’

  Their eyes met. ‘And I shall sign it, sir.’ That way, there could be no recriminations. ‘Willingly.’ He picked up his hat. ‘I will attend to the transfer, and signal Alfriston to lie downwind in readiness.’

  He left the cabin, breathing deeply. The sun had shifted, but the normal day-to-day work was going on as before. As if nothing had happened. As if he had not committed himself, and others, to disaster. Suppose he was wrong? Should he have remained silent, and so forced Deighton to make a decision?

  A scarlet-coated marine stepped out smartly.

  Adam looked at him: a round, sunburned face, familiar, but at a distance, observing some rule of his own making.

  He said, ‘Corporal Forster?’

  The corporal glanced around, suddenly unsure of himself. Some other marines were watching from the starboard gangway.

  ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, sir. It’s not for me to say, but I was wonderin’ ….’

  Adam said, ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Well, sir, before you asks my officer, I’d like to put me name down for the raid.’

  Adam looked away. It was only a vague idea, and yet they all knew about it.

  And I almost left them.

  The corporal added nervously, ‘I’m a fine shot, sir.’

  Adam touched his sleeve and did not see the other marines nudge one another.

  ‘That you are, Forster. Give your name to the first lieutenant.’ He tried to summon a smile, some kind of reassurance. ‘I’ll see you a sergeant yet!’

  He strode on, his mind busy with details, then paused to glance round as signal flags dashed up to the yard.

  There was no time to write a letter to Catherine. Perhaps Deighton had deliberately kept hers from him.

  He felt the breeze across his face and saw the sailing master watching him, as if reading his thoughts.

  And if I fall, there will be no letter. Only peace.

  Alfriston
’s chart room was small, even by a brig’s standards; she had begun her life in the merchant service, and space was at a premium aboard her.

  It had been a red, angry sunset, the horizon fading eventually to a hard line. But the wind was steady, and Borradaile had insisted that the weather would not ‘go sour’, as he had put it. Adam could feel the man close by him now, his patched elbows on the chart, a large magnifying glass gripped in one bony hand.

  The brig seemed to be moving beneath him, an illusion, but she felt heavier in the water with her extra seamen and thirty of Valkyrie’s marines packed between decks. Even at the last minute, before he had been pulled across to Alfriston, he had expected the commodore to change his mind, to rely on the written details of the admiral’s plan, and to do nothing beyond his orders.

  In the fading light he had seen faces watching him from Valkyrie; a few had even called out to wish him well. It had moved him more than he had expected. The first lieutenant had been almost severe.

  ‘If you think it’s too much of a risk, sir, fall back. We shall get you out of there, somehow.’

  And Minchin, observing silently from the poop. Perhaps calculating how many would end up on his table, or in the ‘wings and limbs’ tub on the orlop deck.

  The worst part had been the very moment of departure, glancing around his cabin so as not to leave anything vital behind. John Whitmarsh had watched him kick off his shoes and tug on the hessian boots he often wore when called to action.

  ‘I want to come too, zur! It’s my place!’ He had even been wearing the dirk Adam had given him for a birthday present. It seemed likely that it was the only gift he had ever received.

  Adam had heard the bark of orders, the feet on the deck and the creak of tackles, the more measured tramp of marines preparing to climb into the boats. He was well aware that it might be the last time he would stand in that cabin, in that ship, or anywhere, and yet the boy’s despair had made all the rest seem insignificant.

  ‘Not this time, John Whitmarsh. When you wear the King’s coat and have someone like old Mister Allday at your side, you’ll see the sense of it.’ It had been no use.

  ‘When we lost Anemone, zur, we helped each other!’

  Adam had laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘That we did, and we still can.’

  At the door he had looked back. ‘Remember all our friends who were not so lucky. Stay with the ship.’

  He sighed, and felt Borradaile turn to watch him.

  He said, ‘Tell me your thoughts, my friend.’

  Borradaile frowned. ‘I shall land you an’ your party here, sir.’ He poked the chart. ‘My guess is that the admiral will make an early start, to get his ships into position and to land his soldiers up here.’ His bony finger jabbed the chart again, by the river called Patuxent. ‘A place named Benedict, the most suitable ground for the military.’ He spoke of them almost with contempt, as was often the way with sailors.

  Adam said, ‘The flotilla of small vessels sheltering there, they will have to be boarded and taken first.’

  Borradaile grunted; it might have meant anything, and Adam could sense his impatience. Good or bad, time was against them. He could even smell the man, tar, tobacco, salt and rum.

  His was a small, tight command, where there would be no secrets, their strength the dependence of one upon the other, and an utter trust in one another. He smiled in the lamplight. Like my first command. The fourteen-gun Firefly. At the age of twenty-three. How proud his uncle had been of him. He often wondered what the old veterans like Borradaile thought of the boy-captains with all their dash and arrogance. Like me.

  Borradaile said, ‘The army will have a fight on their hands, an’ that’s no mistake.’ He chuckled. ‘But then, no sense, no feeling!’

  Adam stood away from the table and winced as he struck his head against a beam.

  ‘I’ll tell the others.’ Their eyes met. ‘If we fail, it will not be laid at your door.’

  Borradaile led the way to the main messdeck where the landing party had been stowed away like so much additional cargo. In the half-light the white facings and crossbelts of the marines stood out sharply, each man gripping his weapons and various items of equipment. Their officer was Lieutenant Barlow, a competent but unimaginative man who never questioned an order and expected his men to behave in the same way. Deighton had refused to allow the captain of marines to join the landing party, and that officer would be fuming about it, no matter what their chances were.

  He saw Valkyrie’s third lieutenant, Howard Monteith, sitting apart from the rest. He had risen from a junior lieutenant to third by way of death or promotion, and he was young, but he had the eye for detail of a much more senior officer: Adam had seen him checking his men and their weapons, have a few words with each one and getting the right responses.

  There was Jago too, a gunner’s mate who had been with Urquhart when they had blown up the American prize and her would-be rescuer, and a tough, reliable seaman.

  Adam waited until they had all coughed and shuffled into expectant silence.

  He said, ‘We are a small part of much greater affairs, but one which could make the difference between success and defeat. Be mindful of that.’ They would be wondering why their captain was taking charge and not some other officer. The experienced men would see it as a sign of the mission’s importance; the sceptics would say that it must be without risk if the captain was sharing it with them.

  He thought of Deighton, who apparently believed that such men as these had no right even to ask why they were being sent. And of his uncle, who thought it was all they did have.

  He said, ‘There is an enemy battery up yonder.’ He saw a couple of men stare at the ship’s side as if it were as near as that. ‘It is not big, but, like a poacher and his piece, it is well-sited to wreak havoc amongst our people.’

  He looked up, caught off-guard as canvas cracked out like gunfire; for an instant he thought the wind had defied Borradaile’s predictions and was rising. Perhaps it was safer to be like Barlow, the marine lieutenant. Borradaile was making more sail. The word moved in his mind again. Committed.

  ‘You will be fed now, and there will be a good measure of rum.’

  He saw the grins, and thought again of his uncle, the pain in his eyes when he had said, ‘Is that all they ask for what they do?’

  He nodded to Monteith, and ended simply, ‘Keep together, and fight bravely if you must. We shall have the sea at our backs.’

  He found Borradaile waiting for him by the compass box.

  ‘West by north, sir. Holding steady on the starboard tack.’ He sounded satisfied.

  Adam thought of the men he had just left, drinking their rum. If I began now I would never be able to stop.

  He turned as he realised Borradaile had asked him something.

  ‘My apologies, I am leagues away at present!’

  Borradaile shrugged. ‘I was thinking, sir, about going ashore.’ He waited, perhaps expecting a rebuff. ‘After what happened to you, being a prisoner an’ the like, how d’you feel about it?’

  Adam looked at his gaunt shadow. ‘Not fear, my friend. Perhaps it gives me an edge.’ He thought suddenly of the boy Whitmarsh, and added, ‘It is my place.’

  After the close confines of Alfriston’s hull, the air across the black, heaving water felt fresh, even cold.

  Adam stood in the sternsheets of the barge, his hand on the coxswain’s shoulder to steady himself as he strained his eyes to see the boat ahead. Five boats in all, oars rising and falling like dark wings, with only an occasional pale splash to mark a blade cutting against the inshore current.

  The next boat astern was packed with marines, and he could see the white belts and pouches without difficulty. Like the noise, looms creaking in the rowlocks, the stem thrusting toward the deeper darkness of the land. Surely someone must see or hear them?

  He knew from experience that his apprehension was unfounded. The sounds of the sea and the moan of a steady breeze would muffle almost
everything. Each oarsman was handpicked, some from Valkyrie, and others put forward by Borradaile. In the leading boat he had stationed one of his own master’s mates, a veteran like himself, who was very aware of the responsibility he had been given.

  No matter what happened they must keep together. If the boats lost sight of one another, the raid would become a shambles before it had begun.

  He saw another faint splash, and knew that the first boat was using a lead and line simply to ensure that they were not wandering amongst the rocks he had noted on the chart. Some were as big as islets.

  He felt the coxswain lean forward to gesture to the stroke oarsman. No words; they were too experienced to need more than a hint. What were they thinking? Like most sailors, probably anxious when Alfriston’s ghostly shape had faded into the darkness. Now, each man would be wanting to get it over and done with, to return to familiar surroundings, and their friends.

  The lookout in the bows called in a hoarse whisper, ‘Jolly boat’s comin’ about, sir!’

  The coxswain snapped, ‘Oars!’ Another seaman shuttered a lantern just once toward the following craft, and Adam saw the untidy disturbance of spray as the blades backed water to avoid running them down.

  The jolly boat circled round until it dipped and lifted in the shallows, and Lieutenant Monteith called out as loudly as he dared, ‘Ship at anchor, sir! Off the point! Brig or brigantine!’

  Always the unexpected to raise the stakes, but Monteith sounded calm enough.

  He could feel the coxswain’s shoulder under his fingers, hard and tense. Waiting. They were all waiting.

  Adam replied, ‘Take over the others, Mr Monteith.’ He glanced at the pale faces of the oarsmen, watching and listening. How many times had he seen Keen brought to the ship in this barge, or pulled ashore to meet his lady? He thrust it from his mind. His new wife.

  The jolly boat was too small, and by the time support could be organised even the sleepiest watch might have been roused. The unknown vessel had to be taken without delay. Any sort of alarm might bring troops, even a man-of-war hurrying to head them off.

  He thought of Deighton. Another laurel for the family garland, for your uncle? He felt a grin breaking the fierce tension in his jaw. He could damned well think what he liked!