Sword of Honour

by Alexander Kent

  He said, ‘Boarding party, be ready! Cox’n, as soon as we sight the brig, or whatever she is, make for the chains where we can hook on!’

  He stared around for the jolly boat, but it had already drifted clear and merged with the darkness. Monteith was left to his own devices, perhaps the first time he had carried out such a mission. If I fall, he will be on his own. He drew his hanger and said, ‘No shooting. You know what to do!’

  ‘Give way all!’

  The barge sighed into a low trough and gathered way again.

  Perhaps the bearing was wrong? He glanced up, but even the stars were elusive. Some of the oarsmen were beginning to breathe more heavily: it had been a long pull with an overloaded boat; they were tired. All they had left was hope, and trust.

  Something moved across the faint scattering of stars, like birds on passage. He gripped his hanger until the pain steadied him, and the birds hardened into shape, into the masts and yards of the anchored vessel. She loomed out of the night, so close that it seemed impossible that no one had yet sighted them.

  ‘Easy, lads!’ It was pointless to think of the other possibility: that the bulwarks were already lined with marksmen and swivels, that their carefully guarded secret was just another myth.

  The coxswain hissed, ‘Oars!’

  Adam groped along the boat, holding a man’s arm here, another’s ready hand there, until he was in the bows with the waiting boarders. Jago was one of them, and Adam guessed he had detailed the spare hands when he realised what was happening.

  He watched the rigging rising above him. ‘Now!’

  A grapnel flew over the bulwark and snared into place, and the gunner’s mate, Jago, was up and over the vessel’s side before anyone else could move. Adam found himself on a littered, unfamiliar deck, men hurrying past him, brushing him aside in their eagerness to get aboard.

  There was a single cry, and Adam saw Jago drag a limp corpse down from the forecastle where the luckless seaman had been supposedly guarding the anchor cable.

  Jago bent down and wiped his blade on the dead man’s shirt and said between his teeth, ‘Never sleep on watch! Bad for discipline!’

  Incredibly, Adam heard somebody stifle a laugh.

  He said, ‘Rouse the others.’ He walked to the vessel’s deserted wheel and glanced at the masts and furled sails. Brigantine. Small, and very useful in these waters.

  A few thumps and startled shouts, and then it was over. There were ten of them; the others, including the vessel’s master, were ashore.

  Jago said, ‘They’ll give no trouble, sir.’

  Adam smiled. There was no point in telling Jago that the swivel guns on the brigantine’s poop and foredeck were fully loaded and primed. But for the sleeping watchman, things would have been very different, and that would have left Monteith to make the biggest decision yet in his young life.

  ‘Tie them up. Tell them what to expect if they try to raise an alarm.’

  Another seaman, one of Borradaile’s, as Adam did not recognise him, said, ‘She’s the Redwing, out of Baltimore, sir. Carries stores for the army.’ He jerked his thumb towards the land. ‘To the battery. Their last visit, they tells me.’

  Adam did not ask how he obtained the information, but it was priceless. So the battery was there. And it was completed.

  There was no time to spare. He beckoned to Jago. ‘Could you work this vessel into open water? The truth, man – no heroics.’

  Jago faced him defiantly. ‘’Course I can, sir! I was servin’ in one such out of Dover when I first got pressed!’

  Adam matched his mood and gripped his arm, hard. ‘She’s yours, then. When you hear the charges blow, weigh anchor and try to rejoin the supporting squadron. I shall see you get a fair share of the prize money.’

  Jago was still staring after him as the barge crew climbed down to their boat. Then he spat over the side and grinned. ‘If you lives after today, Cap’n!’

  The barge felt lighter as they pulled steadily toward the darker wedge of the land, and Adam saw the gleam of Monteith’s white shirt as he stood in the jolly boat to wave as they surged abeam.

  A lantern shutter lifted and light blinked across the water, and in what seemed like seconds men were leaping into the shallows on either bow to control and guide the boat in the last moments before the impact of driving ashore.

  The marines were wading towards the beach, their bayoneted muskets held high, their heads turning like puppets as they fanned out to protect the other boats.

  Adam felt the water surge around his boots and drag at each step forward. He could almost hear Borradaile’s question. How do I feel, then, stepping once again onto a land that almost destroyed me, when even now there might be a marksman taking aim, holding his breath ….

  But fear? There was none. A light-headedness which was no stranger to him, a reckless courage that matched Jago’s defiance.

  He waved his hanger, and saw faces turn towards him. ‘Lively, lads! One hand for the King and keep one for yourselves!’

  But the King was insane … so where was the sense of it? He knew that if he laughed now, he would be done for.

  Then he thought of Bolitho, of his face when he had told him about Zenoria, and all those watching portraits which had condemned him. There had never been any choice for them, either.

  Lieutenant Monteith rolled on to his side, an arm upraised as if to withstand a sudden blow, then gasped with relief as Adam dropped down beside him.

  Adam pulled his small telescope from his coat. ‘All quiet?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Our people are in position and the marines have three pickets to guard each possible approach.’

  He heard the anxiety in Monteith’s voice. It was not unjustified. There was still enough darkness to cover them, but in less than an hour…. He closed his mind to it. The admiral’s report had claimed that the nearest artillery post was some five miles away, but without surprise they could not hope to destroy the battery in time.

  Monteith said, ‘I thought I could smell fire, sir. Like burning.’

  Adam glanced at him. ‘It must be the new oven for heating shot.’

  There was no point in deceiving the young lieutenant. If they succeeded in destroying those guns, Borradaile would be ready and waiting to pick them up. If they failed, Alfriston would be the battery’s first victim.

  Monteith said between his teeth, ‘Where the hell is that man?’

  That man was a foretopman named Brady, as nimble and sure-footed as any cat when working high above the deck in every kind of weather. But before he had agreed to join the navy rather than face deportation or worse, he had been a poacher. A man very much at home in territory like this.

  Adam said, ‘He’ll not run, Howard.’ He smiled. ‘We’d know by now if he had.’

  He felt Monteith staring at him in the darkness, surprised that he could appear so confident, or unnerved by the casual use of his first name.

  A marine said in a fierce whisper, ‘Here comes the little bugger now!’ He must have seen Adam’s epaulettes, and added, ‘Brady’s back, sir!’

  The man in question dropped beside them. ‘Five guns, sir, an’ the magazine is on the side slope.’ He was making slicing motions with his hands. ‘Two sentries, and the rest of ’em are in a hut.’

  Adam looked towards the bay, but it was still hidden in darkness. In his mind’s eye he could see the battery, hacked from the hillside with the remainder of the slope rising behind it. No fear of attack from inland; the only enemy would come by sea. Five guns. A landsman would not think it much, but with heated shot they could cause a damage and destruction no landsman could begin to imagine.

  ‘Pass the word, Brady. We will move now.’ He let his words sink in. ‘As planned!’ He gripped the little man’s shoulder. There seemed no flesh at all, only muscle and bone. No wonder he could kick and fist freezing canvas in a screaming gale with the best of them. ‘That was well done.’

  He heard the marines moving carefully on the hard, sun-drie
d ground. They were all well concealed, but in the faintest daylight their scarlet coats would stand out like beacons.

  Adam stood up. He was suddenly very thirsty, but calm enough. He searched his feelings, as if he were examining a subordinate. He had no inclination to yawn; he knew from past experience that it was a first sign of fear.

  Dark shapes hurried away to the right, men used to cutting out ships in the night, so experienced that they could take out a strange vessel as if it were their own. Like Jago and the brigantine.

  He heard Lieutenant Barlow draw his sword, and snap, ‘Marines, advance!’

  Adam said, ‘If I fall, Howard, get them back to the boats.’

  He was running now, his hanger held across his body, his heart pounding painfully, and suddenly the crudely-made wall was stretching out in front of him. Had his eyes adjusted to the darkness, or was it lighter? Nothing made sense. Only the wall. The wall ….

  The crash of musket fire was deafening, the echo of the shot rebounding like a ricochet.

  But the shot had come from behind; he had felt it fan past his head. One of the marines must have caught his foot on something, probably some of the building material scattered about on the slope. He raised his hanger and shouted, ‘At ’em, lads!’ There was no such thing as luck now, good or bad. ‘Go for the guns!’

  A marine was first on to the wall, but plummeted to the ground as someone fired up at him at what must be pointblank range. Another shot came from the other side of the clearing, but more seamen were already running across, cutlasses and boarding axes hacking at the sentry before he could reload or plead for his life.

  A marine was on his knees, staring at blood on his tunic. The knowledge steadied Adam more than anything. He, too, could see the blood, and when he tore his eyes from the figures around the hut he realised that he could also see water, very still, and the colour of pewter. The bay.

  He saw a marine level his bayonet and stand astride a fallen figure by one of the guns.

  Adam flicked the bayonet with his hanger and said, ‘Enough! Join your squad!’

  But the marine could only stare from him to his victim.

  ‘But he done for my mate Jack, sir!’ The bayonet wavered, as the marine gauged the distance.

  Adam repeated, ‘Enough!’ He could not remember the man’s name. ‘You can’t bring him back!’

  Sergeant Whittle roared, ‘Over ’ere, that man!’

  The marine obeyed, hesitating only to look once more at his dead friend. Discipline was restored.

  The man on the ground had been wounded, but he seemed to be attempting to grin, in spite of the pain.

  ‘That was thoughtful of you, Captain!’

  Adam looked at him. An officer, very likely the only one here. Yet. He called, ‘Take this one, Sergeant!’ To the injured officer, he said, ‘You and your people are prisoners. Do not resist. I think my men are beyond the mood of reason.’ Another bayonet darted between them as the American slid a hand into his coat. But the effort was too much, and the hand fell back again.

  Adam knelt and reached into the coat, and drew out nothing more dangerous than a small portrait in a silver frame. He thought of Keen and the girl, Gilia.

  Monteith was shouting, ‘Break this door open! You, Colter, fetch the fuses.’ And Lieutenant Barlow’s voice restoring order and purpose, guarding their flank.

  He replaced the portrait in the wounded man’s coat, and said, ‘A very pretty girl. Your wife?’

  So much to be done. Fuses to be laid, wounded to be moved, the five guns to be spiked. But it all seemed unreal, beyond himself.

  He called, ‘Attend this officer, Corporal.’ He realised it was Forster, the marine who had volunteered. ‘Well done.’

  The American gasped, ‘Not yet. Maybe never….’ He grimaced as pain probed through him again.

  Adam stood. ‘Flesh wound. You’ll be well enough.’ The corporal leaned down with his bandages, no doubt wondering why he bothered.

  The American held up his hand as Adam turned to leave him.

  ‘Your name, sir. I would like to tell her ….’

  Adam sheathed his hanger; there was blood on the blade, but he remembered nothing about it.

  ‘Bolitho.’

  Monteith was back again. ‘I’m moving the wounded now, sir.’ He glanced at Forster with his bandage. ‘Theirs and ours. We lost five killed, seven wounded.’

  Adam shook his arm. ‘Get them to the boats.’ He raised his voice. ‘This officer will give his word that they will not interfere.’

  Monteith listened, and wondered. He had expected to be killed, even though he had not dared to contemplate it; he had expected to fail this youthful, remote captain. But now he was shaking his arm, smiling at him. Will I ever be so confident?

  It took an hour, and still no one raised an alarm. It seemed as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

  Adam said, ‘Go with the others, Howard. Alfriston will be there to collect the boats directly.’ He pulled out the watch and opened the guard with its finely engraved mermaid. He imagined he could feel warmth on his cheek although he knew that the morning was still grey.

  Monteith hesitated. ‘Are you certain, sir?’

  Adam walked to the parapet. The guns had been spiked, and when the magazine exploded there would be nothing left. When he glanced around, Monteith had gone. Only the dead lay where they had fallen.

  At this moment more of the enemy might be marching or riding with all despatch to this place. He walked to the open trapdoor, which led down to a crude powder magazine.

  He looked around at the sprawled corpses. A small price to pay for what they had done; that would be in the eventual report.

  Aloud he said, ‘But not small to you.’

  He felt the skin on his neck tingle, an instinct he never took for granted; his pistol was in his hand and cocked before he realised it.

  But it was Jago, the tough gunner’s mate.

  ‘I ordered you to stay with the prize!’ There was an edge to his voice which warned him how close it had been.

  Jago said evenly, ‘The others said you was standing fast until the fuses was lit, sir.’ There was no humility, and no resentment either.

  ‘And you took it upon yourself to come looking?’

  Jago almost grinned. ‘No more’n what you did when you come looking for Mr Urquhart and me after we blowed up the Yankee frigate!’ He peered around, and examined the dead without concern or conscience. ‘Worth it, sir?’

  Adam raised his arm; it felt like lead. ‘Tomorrow, our soldiers will land. After that, it’s only fifty miles to Washington.’

  He took a slow match and held it out to Jago.

  ‘Here. Perform the honours.’ He gazed once more at the dead. ‘For us all.’ And, half to himself, ‘And for you, Uncle.’

  But Jago heard, and, hardened though he was, he was impressed; and for him that was something.

  Then he lit the fuses.

  9

  Too Late for Regrets

  ADAM BOLITHO WATCHED the last of the boats being hoisted inboard, and then lowered on to their tier where the boatswain’s party was ready to make them secure. Even the barge had survived, and had been towed with the others by Borradaile’s Alfriston.

  Lieutenant Dyer had scarcely been able to hide his excitement and pleasure. Perhaps, like the commodore, he had expected the mission to fail, and that they would all be killed or taken by the enemy.

  He gripped the quarterdeck rail and suddenly realised how drained and tired he was.

  Soon it would be dark. But the last sunlight was still clinging to the horizon, and touching the horns of the figurehead’s helmet as if unwilling to depart.

  He thought of the moment when the battery’s magazine had exploded, great rocks and pieces of stonework crashing through the trees, some splashing down dangerously close to the boats as they pulled towards Alfriston, and was reminded of Deighton’s satisfaction with the mission, tempered only by an angry disbelief that Adam should
have gone personally with the landing party.

  Adam had said, ‘When you order men ashore to carry out a task which might normally be executed by the military, you cannot simply abandon them to it. On deck, ship against ship, that’s a different matter. But in unknown and hostile territory ….’

  Deighton had interrupted, ‘And I suppose you could not bring yourself to abandon the chance of further glory for yourself?’

  Eventually he had contained his sarcasm. ‘I shall send a full report to the admiral, and then to their lordships. A battery destroyed, the way opened for the attacking squadron, and a useful prize to boot … the brigantine should fetch a good price. I hope you explained to that Borradaile fellow about the arrangements for sharing prize money?’

  ‘I believe he is well aware of them, sir.’

  Of the casualties, he had told Deighton that one of the wounded was unlikely to survive an amputation. A brave man, he had not complained once during the painful transfers from boat to brig, and then to Valkyrie. But when he knew he was being carried down to the surgeon, he had pleaded and sobbed like a child.

  Deighton had said, ‘Can’t be helped.’ He might have been talking about a breakage in the galley.

  Adam watched the brig Alfriston leaning to the freshening breeze as she changed tack and headed away to the south-west. Despatches for the admiral. He tried to control his bitterness. To ensure that Deighton’s own part in the attack did not pass unnoticed…. He himself had thought Alfriston should remain in company, at least until they had made contact with their own frigates again.

  Deighton had scoffed at his suggestion. ‘Where’s your zest for battle now, Captain? My orders are to cover the squadron’s flanks. That I shall do.’

  Adam turned as one of the surgeon’s loblolly boys appeared on deck, and then walked to the lee side and pitched a bloody bundle outboard. A man’s leg. He thought of the dead left behind at the battery, blasted to pieces when the charges had exploded. Surely better than what he had just seen.

  He ran his fingers through his hair, feeling the salt and the sand, remembering the wounded American officer with the miniature of his girl…. Without thinking, he touched the scar in his side where the Unity’s surgeon had probed for splinters. Perhaps the American would tell her one day.