Sword of Honour

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 mat 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.

He heard voices below the poop and saw the gunner’s mate, Jago, with some of his messmates. He was carrying a shirt which he had just washed out after his experience ashore, and, even in the fading light, Adam could see the livid scars of the cat across his muscular back. Unjustly flogged by Valkyrie’s previous captain, he would carry the scars to his grave like any felon. It had been John Urquhart, then Valkyrie’s first lieutenant, who had protested to the captain, and had spoken up for Jago, to no avail; it was obvious that Urquhart had been damned to oblivion because of his intervention. Until Keen had given him Reaper to command, another ship which had been torn apart by the cruelty of a sadistic captain.

He came to a decision, and beckoned to the gunner’s mate. Jago ran lightly up the quarterdeck ladder and waited. ”Sir?”

Adam saw his eyes flit over his captain’s torn breeches and crumpled shirt; he himself had not found the time to change into cleaner clothes.

He said, ”I shall not forget what you did. And I wanted to ask you something.” He could almost feel Jago’s guard come up, but continued, ”I lost my old cox’n.”

Jago nodded. ”We know, sir. They ‘anged ‘im.”

”Would you consider taking his place?”

Jago stared at him.” Your cox’n, sir?” He glanced up as one of the top men yelled something to some hands working aloft.

”I’ll be getting’ discharged after this, sir. I’ve done my share, though some might say different.” He shook his head. ”I’m a gunner’s mate. That’ll do for me, sir.” He looked at him in the same thoughtful manner. ”But you done kindly by me for asking’.”

Adam dismissed him and watched him rejoin his friends, and drag the damp shirt over his head, hiding the savage scars. No wonder he held Urquhart in such respect. He smiled. If not his captain.

Dyer murmured, The commodore, sir.”

Deighton strode across to the weather side and stared at the men working on the tiered boats.

The sea and the wind are moderate, Captain. I think we shall lie-to tonight, and rejoin the squadron tomorrow.” And, sharply, to the sailing master, ”What time would you estimate, Mr. Ritchie, all things being even?”

Ritchie regarded him with a certain wariness. ”During the dog watches we should make contact with Wildfire, sir.”

Then make it so, Mr. Ritchie.” He grinned. ”We have done what we set out to do, eh?”

Adam saw some of the others looking over with the same caution. This relaxed, almost jovial mood was something new to them.

He said, ”I do not think we should lie-to, sir.” He kept his voice low, but he saw Ritchie nod in agreement.

Deighton said, ”You disagree, Captain, is that it?”

”It is my duty to advise you, sir.”

”It is not your duty, sir, to criticize me in the presence of the ship’s company!” The joviality was gone.

”The enemy will call for reinforcements, sir. It would be their first reaction.”

”And this is mine, Captain. We shall lie-to until the morning watch is mustered. Make a note of it in the log.” He gave the fierce grin again. ”Now!”

He walked away, and a few moments later a faint glow appeared at the cabin skylight.

Adam turned, and saw Lieutenant Monteith waiting for him. ”Yes?”

The wounded man, Simpson. He died, sir.”

There was blood on his sleeve, and Adam guessed that he had stayed with the wretched Simpson until the end. He could see it as clearly as if he had been there: Monteith, and the seaman he could not recall but for his courageous silence, and the surgeon, his face as red as the blood he spilled. And he thought of Deighton’s indifference. His arrogance.

Jago was right. Leave it when you can. Walk away from it while you still have limbs, wipe it from your mind.

Perhaps he was too tired to think. No such thing as luck, good or bad. Was that really me? There was always a possibility that Deighton was right; he had been an experienced and senior captain before this appointment.

He touched Monteith’s arm and said, ”Dine with me tonight, Howard.” He saw the lieutenant’s surprise. ”We shall drink to damnation and drown our sorrows.... I fear we shall be busy men tomorrow.”

Monteith said, ”I would have liked nothing better, sir. But I have the middle watch.”

He should have known. ”Then rest while you can.” He made his way down to his cabin, as the marine sentry was relieved outside the commodore’s quarters.

John Whitmarsh was waiting for him, and the table had been carefully laid.

Adam shook his head. ”I find that I cannot eat. Some cognac, please.”

Then he sat down and dragged open his drawer. It was as well that Monteith had declined the invitation, he thought.

The cognac burned his throat, but it seemed to steady him.

He picked up a pen and began to write. Dear Catherine.... When Whitmarsh entered the cabin again he removed the pen from Adam’s out- thrust hand, and looked at the empty sheet of notepaper. Dear Catherine. The captain had even done that for him, taught him to read. Like so many things. Almost shyly, he reached out and touched the bright epaulette on the shoulder; Adam, deeply asleep, did not wake.

The captain was back. It was all that mattered. Tomorrow could wait.

When the hands were piped on deck with the morning watch, their captain was already in his customary place on the weather side of the quarterdeck.

Adam watched the familiar preparations, hammocks being stowed in the nettings, petty officers checking their lists and waiting to report to their lieutenants. He had had only a few hours’ sleep, but a great deal of coffee and a change into clean clothing had made all the difference. He touched his chin. And a shave. He thought of Bolitho, and the restorative power of the customary shave from his faithful Allday. Impossible to think of them being separated. But it would come .... Old Mister Allday. Young Whitmarsh had better not let him hear himself so described, he thought. Whitmarsh was very quiet these days, almost withdrawn, as he went about his duties. Another separation; but it would be for the best. His aunt would be more than willing to take care of the boy while he attended a local school. You could learn a lot in a man-of-war, but if Whitmarsh was to be sponsored as a midshipman he would need preparing for the other ‘young gentlemen’ he would eventually meet. As I did. It had been his Aunt Nancy then, another stranger who had become one of his own family, who had taught him to feel at ease in a world he had never known. But that was what was troubling Whitmarsh. Leaving the ship. Leaving me.

He turned as Ritchie called, ”West by north, sir. Starboard tack. Wind’s backed a piece overnight.” He did not need to be able to see the masthead pendant. He knew. He could feel it.

Dyer was here, too. ”Ready, sir!”

”Very well. Hands aloft, set tops’ is and fore course He saw one eyebrow rise very slightly. ”We shall save the t’gallants, Mr. Dyer, until we can see where we are going!” It brought a few grins from the helmsmen and the master’s mate of the watch. All old hands, they knew what the captain meant. There was no sense in showing all your top canvas at first light, until you knew who else was about. He laid his hands on the quarterdeck rail, still ice-cold from the night. It would be a different story in a few hours’ time.

He loved to hear a ship coming alive again; he had hardly ever given the order to lie-to, unlike some captains. Like Deighton.... A ship should be moving. He recalled an old sailor’s advice to him once. An equal strain on all parts, hull and spars, and she’ll not let you down.

Valkyrie leaned over to the thrust of wind, spray glinting above the beak head as the darkness loosened its grip.

He thought about Deighton. Perhaps they were both at fault. It was not the first time he had served with a man he could scarcely tolerate. It was all too common. The cramped confines of a crowded hull made few allowances for personal dislikes.

They would receive new orders, either to continue their patrols and the stop- and-search tactics which had been so successful, or they might be returning to Halifax. All of the inshore squadron would need to be restocked with fresh water and, if possible, fruit. He turned it over in his mind. And if I should be offered another command? Because of Deighton, or because he needed a new beginning?

”West by north, sir. Steady as she goes!”

Dyer crossed the deck. ”Dismiss the watch below, sir?”

Adam saw a tendril of smoke from the galley funnel, earlier than usual, but sailors could eat at any time.

”Very well.” He looked for the sun. ”D’you have some good eyes aloft?”

Dyer nodded, relieved. ”I picked them myself, sir.” He hesitated, sensing the barrier which still separated them. ”Are we likely to meet with an enemy, sir?”

Adam smiled. ”Well, we know where most of our friends are, Mr. Dyer!” Even the nearest ones would be further away by now because of the commodore’s insistence on lying-to.

And it was getting lighter. He could see the pale outlines of the brigantine’s sails against the heaving water, and thought of Borradaile’s uncanny knack of obtaining information from any vessel he sighted .... He heard a splash, and knew it was Deighton’s strange servant flinging some water over the side. Perhaps he had been shaving his master.

He took a few paces across the deck, and back again. It was no use; he would have to make allowances, be ready to bend more easily, even if he never understood Deighton’s sudden fits of anger and his inability to conceal it.

The figures around him were assuming identity and purpose: men flaking down lines, another splicing a damaged halliard. Two midshipmen, their white patches very clear now, were making notes on their slates, a master’s mate watching with a critical eye.

Perhaps they might meet with another courier vessel. But there would be no letters, unless Catherine had written again. He wondered where his uncle was, at sea, or performing some tedious duty ashore. How they would be missing one another. How they belonged.. .. And Keen, soon to be married. He thought of her letter, her visit to Zennor, the mermaid’s church. Only she would have cared enough to write of it to him.

The sort of woman who could fascinate and thrill any real man. She was never truly absent from his thoughts; once he had even dreamed about her, when she had come to him not as a friend but as a lover. He had been ashamed and disgusted with himself because of it; it had seemed a betrayal of them both. But, in the wildness of the dream, she had not rejected him.

He heard somebody mutter, ”Another early bird.”

It was Deighton, wearing a boat cloak, with his hat tugged down over his eyes. He grunted as the officers touched their hats to him.

He saw Adam and remarked, ”That coffee like damned bilge water.”

Adam said, ”I’ll have some of mine brought to you, sir. It comes from London.”

”From a lady, no doubt.” But there was no bite to his tone. ”I’d take it as a favour.” He glanced around. ”You’re not under all plain sail yet.” Again, it was not a complaint. Perhaps he was making an effort.

Adam said, ”A precaution. You know, sir, first sunlight on their skyscrapers.”

Deighton said suddenly, ”Rear-Admiral Keen, you’ve known him for a long while?”

”Yes, sir. We’ve served together from time to time.”

”Lost his wife, I understand.”

Adam waited, tensed, for the next question.

But instead Deighton said, ”Getting married again, I hear. Shapely little piece, to all accounts.”

”When he’s promoted, she will be an asset to him.” It was as far as he would go.

Deighton said abruptly, ”Promoted, of course! Vice-Admiral. No stopping him now. But for the damnable blockade duty, I would have been in that fortunate position. As it is, after this

Adam said, ”It’s a question on everyone’s mind.” He thought suddenly of Jago. I’ve done my share. Perhaps he was the lucky one after all.

Deighton turned to face him. ”You’re young. Good reputation, successful, many would say. It will be different for you.”

It was the closest they had been, probably would ever be, and Adam was oddly moved by it.

Deighton said, ”When we rejoin the squadron I might discover more about this campaign

”Deck there!” The masthead lookout’s voice seemed unnaturally loud. ”Sail to the nor’east!”

Adam was already pulling off his coat, and tossed it to one of the midshipmen.

”I’ll take a glass and go up myself. I might know better then.”

Deighton restrained him. ”An enemy?”

He knew how it would appear to the lookout. Whatever it was, it was coming out of the sun. They would not sight Valkyrie in the lingering darkness just yet. It was little enough.

He replied, ”Unlikely to be one of ours, sir.”

Deighton peered over the side. They’ll not snatch our prize, damn them!”

Adam hurried to the shrouds, faces turning on every side to watch him. How could he destroy the frail confidence which Deighton was trying to build between them?

He gripped the ratlines and began to climb.

How could he explain to Deighton? It’s not the prize. It’s us they’re coming for!

Adam’s heels hit the deck as he completed his descent from the cross trees by way of a backstay. It was hardly dignified for a captain, but it saved time, and he was a little surprised that he could still do it; the palms of his hands felt raw from the slide, and his clean shirt was stained with tar.

”I’d like to have a look at the chart, sir.”

Deighton’s face was filled with questions, but he was experienced enough not to voice them in front of the listening watch keepers

It was dark in the small chart room, but he held the image as sharply in his mind as he had seen it minutes ago. The lookout had pointed unwaveringly. ”Frigate, sir. Starboard quarter!”

In the first, uncertain light he had seen the other ship for himself, a perfect pyramid of pale canvas, running before the wind with each sail hard and full. Through the telescope he had been able to see part of her hull. The lookout had good eyes indeed, but what he had not seen was a second ship, a sliver, perhaps of equal size, hull up on the shining horizon.

Deighton asked impatiently, ”What was it?”

Adam did not look up from the chart. ”One, maybe two frigates, sir. Yankees, carrying all the sail they can muster.” He tapped the chart with the dividers. ”Probably out of New York, or even Philadelphia. They hadn’t sighted us just now, but it won’t be long.”

Deighton stared at the chart. ”What do you think?”

”Two choices, sir. Run, and hope to meet up with the squadron or the admiral’s ships.” He wished he could see Deighton’s face more clearly in the shadows. Only his hand was visible, drumming on the edge of the chart table.

Deighton said, ”And the other choice?”

Adam dropped the dividers on the chart. ”Stand and fight. There’ll be no surprises this time.”

Men were moving about the decks again; the initial excitement was past.

But not for long; there were no secrets in any ship.

”Two frigates? We’d be outgunned.”

The sailing master said that it would take until the dog watches to meet up with our ships. Twelve hours at best, sir.”

The hand moved again, agitated, as if separate from its owner. That Ritchie doesn’t know everything, dammit!”

”He’s the best sailor in the ship, sir.”

He waited, feeling no pity for the man who had insisted on letting Alfriston go without informing the other frigates of his intentions. To extend their patrol area and so lose signalling contact was nothing but folly. All he felt now was a sick despair.

He said, ”We have an empty ocean. By setting every sail, we might avoid a stern chase and any serious damage to masts and rigging. We would lose the prize, but we did what we came to do.”

Deighton glared at him ”You did, that’s what signifies to you!” He moved to the door, where the glare of sunlight seemed to catch him unawares.

He said thickly, ”I’ve never run from an enemy. Nor shall I now. What would they say of me?” He laughed, a bitter sound. ”Some would find pleasure in it, I daresay!”

Adam looked past him, at the familiar figures near the big double-wheel, the two midshipmen with their slates. Men, and boys like these, to be sacrificed because of one officer’s vanity.

He heard himself ask, Then you’ll fight, sir?” Like somebody else. A stranger’s voice.

Deighton gripped his arm and as quickly released it, as if he had just realised what he was doing.

”You will fight this ship. Captain Bolitho. That is an order! I am going aft. I shall not be long.” He looked up at the deck head as a muffled thud made the air shiver.

One shot. To attract the most distant vessel. Valkyrie had been sighted, perhaps even recognised; she was well known enough in these waters.

Deighton had gone. To do what, he wondered. To pray?

He walked out and on to the quarterdeck again, taking his coat from the midshipman who held it with barely a glance. He stared up at the masthead pendant curling and hardening in the wind; real, everyday things. All the rest had been a dream, an illusion.

He beckoned to the first lieutenant, and said, ”Two Yankees to the nor’east.” He knew others were turning to listen. ”We will continue on the same tack for the present, but you may loose the t’gallants, if only to show them we are all awake this day. Then send the remainder of the hands to breakfast.” He looked at Ritchie. ”Put it in the log. The commodore wishes it to be known. We shall fight.”

He found that Monteith was beside him. ”What is it, Howard? It is too late for regrets.”

Monteith shook his head. ”May I ask, sir? But for the order, would you have run for it?”

Do they know me so little? ”No, by Christ, I would not! Not for any man!”

Monteith nodded, and touched his hat. ”I never doubted it, sir.”

Adam saw Whitmarsh’s small figure below the poop, carrying his short fighting sword, and what appeared to be his best hat; the other must have been lost somewhere between here and Chesapeake Bay. He shaded his eyes to look up at the freshly-set topgallant sails. Again, he saw the enemy ships as he had watched them through the powerful telescope. Three hours, four at the most, and then this deck would be in torment.

He raised his arm so that Whitmarsh could clip on his scabbard, then took the hat and examined it. Make me strong today .... Valkyrie’s previous captain had been a tyrant and a coward. How would he be judged?

He laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and saw the gunner’s mate, Jago, pause to watch them.

”It will be warm work today, John Whitmarsh. Take station below when we engage.”

The boy gazed up at him. ”I’ll be close by, zur. If you needs me.”

It was little enough, but Adam clapped the hat with its gleaming gold lace on his unruly hair and exclaimed, Then so be it!” He looked over at the helmsmen and felt the grin spread across his dry mouth.

”Let us make this a day to remember!”

Adam closed his watch with a snap and said to the first lieutenant, ”That was well done, Mr. Dyer. A minute off your record for clearing for action!”

After the strident rattle of drums and the seemingly uncontrolled stampede of running men, the silence seemed unreal; even the ticking of his watch was audible.

Now all was still, the crews around their guns, most of them stripped to the waist, outwardly relaxed now while they waited for the next order. Valkyrie was cleared for action, screens torn down, chests and cabin furniture stowed below. But the boats still lay on their tier, and no nets had been spread overhead to protect the hands from falling wreckage.

He walked aft, where the marines waited on either side, muskets resting against the packed hammock nettings, their only protection if it came to close action.

He found Deighton, alone but for his servant, right aft by the taffrail. Both the enemy ships were clearly visible now. and with a soldier’s wind directly under their coat-tails were almost bows-on. The smaller of the two ships was overhauling her larger consort, with even her studding sails set to achieve her maximum speed. Twenty-eight guns. Certainly no more.

He said, This is what I intend, sir.” He was surprised that he could sound so formal, as if it were just another daily drill. ”The leading ship intends to close the range as quickly as possible.”

Deighton did not take his eyes off the other frigates.

”Huh, you can blow him out of the water!”

Adam recalled his own early days in a frigate, the ruses and tricks he had seen some captains attempt, not always successfully.

”Like a hound after a stag, sir. He intends to try and slow us down, cripple us if possible, so they can close in for a kill.” He glanced forward again; it seemed so bare without the nets spread above the gundeck.

The lieutenants would explain, and the older hands might see the sense of it. They must seem to be running away from a superior force of ships; if they dropped the boats astern and were seen to spread the nets, their intent to fight would be obvious.

He added, ”They will hold the wind-gage, but I shall use it to our advantage.”

There was a sharp bang, and seconds later he saw a ball skip across the blue water like a dolphin. The pursuing captain had used his bow-chaser to test the range; it was always a difficult shot, but it only required one good hit.

He went forward and waited for Dyer to meet him. ”I shall luff presently.” He saw Ritchie listening, taking it all in. ”Then we shall sail as close to the wind as we can. It should give us some advantage and extra elevation.” He watched his words going home. ”Double-shot ted chain- shot, too, if we have any. No full broadside.” He paused, holding Dyer’s eyes. ”Gun by gun. Do it yourself. I want that terrier dismasted before we are!”

He snatched a glass from the rack and climbed into the shrouds to search for the second vessel. He found her and settled her in the spray-dappled lens. One of their large frigates. Like Beer’s Unity

He strode aft again, feeling the eyes upon him, knowing their thoughts.

”Sergeant Whittle. Choose your marksmen, then clear the poop. Your scarlet coats make a good aiming point!” Some of them even laughed, as if it was a huge joke.

Whittle, an impressive figure with iron-grey hair beneath his leather hat, bawled an order, and his men moved to their usual stations.

Deighton said, ”I don’t see the wisdom of that, Captain. Those ships are out for a kill, you said as much yourself!”

Perhaps he felt safer with the armed marines around him. Adam almost smiled. What was safe today?

He flinched, although he had been expecting it, as a long orange tongue shot from the other frigate’s bow, and the bang followed like an echo.

It was well aimed, but the range was still too great. Maybe a nine-pounder; he imagined he could see the brief blur as the ball reached its maximum elevation. He saw the splash, and felt the hull jerk violently as the shot found its mark below the waterline. He glanced sharply at the wheel; Ritchie had three helmsmen on it now, but she showed no sign of running free or being out of command. With the steering gone, there would be no hope at all.

He raised his hand. ”Alter course three points! Steer nor’west!”

Men were already hauling on the braces as the helm went over. The effect was immediate, the wind tilting Valkyrie like a toy as she came round further and further, as close to the wind as she would hold.

A whistle shrilled. ”Open the ports! Run out!”

Squealing like pigs, the guns were hauled up to their ports, extra men running from the opposite side to add their weight to the tackles. At this angle, it was like dragging each gun up a steep slope.

Sails cracked and thundered overhead. Ritchie called, ”Course nor’west, sir!”

Dyer was already at the starboard gangway, oblivious to the demented sails and the men slipping and falling on the spray-drenched deck. He had drawn his sword, and was standing motionless, staring at the enemy frigate as she loomed into view, as if she and not Valkyrie had made the violent change of tack.

”Fire!” Dyer ran from the side as the gun roared out and hurled itself inboard on its tackles, the crew already working with their sponges and worm to clear the barrel of any smouldering remnants which might ignite the next charge as it was rammed home. Adam had seen it happen, men driven beyond reason by the fury of battle who had neglected to sponge out a gun, and had been blown to bloody fragments when it had exploded.

There was a chorus of wild cheering which Adam could not have prevented even if he had wished to. It must have been one of the last guns to fire; they would never know.

Almost with disbelief, he saw the other frigate’s foremast begin to move, in a silence which made it all the more terrible.

Slowly at first, and then like a giant tree, the entire foremast with spars, torn canvas and trailing rigging reeled forward and over the side.

He shouted, ”Stand by on the quarterdeck!” When he looked again, the mast was dragging in the sea alongside the enemy ship, snaring her, dragging her round like a great sea-anchor. From a thing of beauty and purpose to a drifting shambles; but that would not last.

The confusion amongst the flapping sails was even more violent when Valkyrie swung round still further, almost aback as she laboured through the eye of the wind.

Adam dragged himself to the compass. ”South-east by east, Mr. Ritchie.” He saw Dyer staring at him and shouted, ”Larboard battery! Broadside.”

”Fire!” The range was about half a mile, but with a full, double-shot ted broadside, they could easily have been alongside.

As the wind drove the swirling smoke away like fog, Adam raised his telescope and studied the enemy’s shattered stern; the fallen mast had dragged her around to expose her full length. Only her mainmast remained standing; topmasts, spars and booms covered her decks; torn canvas and coils of severed cordage completed the picture of devastation.

Deliberately, he made himself turn, testing his emotions as he saw the second frigate, leaning over on a converging tack, her guns already run out like black teeth.

He walked to the quarterdeck rail and saw the men stand back from their guns, one gun captain lifting a fresh ball in readiness for the next shot, and the one after that. Until it was over.

He said, They must not board us! We’re done for if they overrun the ship!”

He drew the fine, curved hanger and held it over his head.

”On the up roll lads! Make each shot tell!”

Somebody cheered, and a petty officer silenced him with a threat.

The gun captains stood behind their breeches now, each with his trigger-line pulled taut, their crews crouched and ready with handspikes to change the elevation or training.

”Fire!”

The deck reeled beneath his feet, and Adam realised that the enemy had fired at the same moment. There was smoke everywhere, and he heard men screaming as splinters as large as goose quills tore amongst them. He wiped his face with his wrist and saw the enemy’s sails, pockmarked with holes, but each yard properly braced, still holding her on the same tack.

The smoke was gone and he saw the upended guns now, the patterns of bright blood where men had fallen, or been crushed beneath the heated barrels.

Deighton was suddenly beside him, and seemed to be shouting, although his voice was muffled, faint.

”Disengage, Captain! That is an order, do you hearT

Adam stared past him at the oncoming ship; she seemed to fill the sea, and there were men in her shrouds, waiting to board, ready to mark down the most valuable targets. As if in a dream, he noticed that Deighton had removed his bright epaulettes. Marines were clambering up the ratlines, some with two muskets slung over their shoulders. Sergeant

Whittle’s best marksmen.... He tried to think, to clear his mind.

”I will not strike our colours, sir! You gave me an order to fight.” He knew Dyer was waiting for the order. ”Fight I will!”

Deighton winced as more iron crashed into the lower hull. ”I’ll see you in hell for this!”

Adam pushed past him. ”We shall meet there, sir]’

He reached up to his shoulder, thinking somebody had tried to take his attention. His epaulette was gone, the cloth shredded into rag where a musket ball had torn it away.

”Fire!”

Men were coughing and retching as the smoke billowed inboard through the open gun ports; the enemy’s sails seemed to be towering right alongside, and yet the guns still fired, and were reloaded. The dead lay where they had fallen; there were not enough spare hands either to throw them outboard, or to carry the whimpering wounded below.

Adam saw the other ship’s tapering jib boom and then her bowsprit passing over the larboard bow like a giant’s lance. There were shots everywhere, a rain of iron hammering the deck, ripping into the torn hammocks where several marines had already fallen.

So they would not collide. The American was carrying too much canvas.

Wildly he swung round, and shouted, ”Carronade!” Then, ”Let her fall off, Mr. Ritchie!”

A master’s mate ran to throw his weight on to the wheel. Ritchie was propped against the compass box, his eyes fixed and staring as if still watching his ship’s performance, even in death.

Adam waved his sword, and someone on the splintered forecastle jerked the lanyard. The carronade, the smasher as it was known, recoiled on its slide, and where seamen had been massing, ready for a chance to board, there was only a blackened heap of remains, men and fragments of men, and one officer standing, apparently untouched, his sword dangling by his side, perhaps too shocked to move.

Dyer had rallied the gun crews and had brought more men from the disengaged side. Valkyrie shivered to another broadside, their own or the enemy’s Adam did not know.

Somebody was yelling at him. ”The commodore’s bin hit, sir! They’ve took ‘im below!”

The other frigate, her hull pockmarked with holes and with great, livid scars in her timbers, was being carried past by the press of canvas. Shots still ripped across the broadening arrowhead of water between them, but the shooting was less controlled. He saw two men fall from the shrouds as the Royal Marines in the fighting tops kept up their fire. In his heart, he knew that the engagement was over, but his reason could not accept it. One enemy crippled, and unlikely to reach safety once the other ships in the squadron came upon her. And the other he could see her name now, in bright gold lettering across her counter, Defender was unwilling to continue.

He rubbed his ear; there was cheering too, which seemed very faint, although he knew it was here, in his own ship. The guns’ roar had rendered him almost deaf. He saw men peering at him and grinning, teeth white in their smoke- blackened faces.

Dyer was here, shaking his arm. The lookout has sighted Reaper, sir! The enemy must have seen her, that’s why they’re standing away!” He looked stunned, unable to accept that he was alive when so many had fallen.

Reaper, of all ships. So right that it should be John Urquhart, coming to the aid of his old ship, where he had been treated so badly.

”Shorten sail, Mr. Dyer.” He wanted to smile, to give them something they could cling to when the final bloody bill was reckoned. ”Report damage and casualties.” He tried again. ”You did well. Very well.” He turned away, and did not see Dyer’s expression. Pride; gratitude; affection.

He said, ”I must see the commodore. Take charge here.” He saw the man called Jago, a bare cutlass wedged through his belt.

”A victory, sir.” It seemed to have drained him. ”Or as good as.”

Adam shaded his eyes to watch the enemy frigate. Defender. They might still meet again. Her flag was flying as proudly as before. Defiant

He seemed to recall what Jago had said, and stared around.

”My servant! Whitmarsh! Where is he?”

Jago said, ”He’s below, sir. I took ‘im me self you bein’ busy at the time.”

Adam faced him. Tell me.” It was almost as if he had known. But how could he?

Jago answered, ”Splinter. Didn’t feel nothin’.”

”And you took him below?” He looked away, at the sea. So clean, he thought. So clean.. .. ”That was bravely done. I’ll not forget.”

The orlop deck was crowded with wounded men, some fearful of what might happen, others lying quietly, beyond pain.

Minchin, his familiar apron covered with blood, peered at him as a man was dragged from his table and carried into the shadows.

He said thickly, The commodore’s dead, sir.” He gestured to a covered shape by one massive timber and Adam saw the strange servant on his knees beside the corpse, rocking back and forth, moaning like a sick animal.

Minchin wiped some blood from his knife with a rag, and cut himself a slice of apple with it. ”Quite mad, that one!”

He chewed steadily as Adam turned down a blanket and looked at the dead boy’s face. There was not a mark on him; he might have been asleep. Minchin knew that the iron splinter had hit him in the spine, and must have killed him outright. He had seen many terrible things in his butcher’s work, men torn apart in the name of duty, who had believed even in extremity that a miracle could save them. At least the captain’s servant had been spared that. But there was nothing he could say; there never was. And there were others waiting. He could barely taste the apple because of the rum, which helped him at times like these, but down here in this hellish, lightless place, it reminded him of somewhere. Someone .... He gave a great sigh. Where was the point? And the captain had done what he could. For all of us.

It would not help him, or anyone else, to know that Commodore Deighton had been killed by a single musket ball, but not one fired by an American weapon. It had entered the body from high up, at a steep angle. He peered at a wounded marine who was drinking some rum. It could rest.

He gestured with his knife. ”Next!”

Adam looked at the boy’s face. How he must have relived Anemone’s death each time the drums had beaten to quarters.

We help each other. He covered his face again with the blanket. It was all that John Whitmarsh had ever wanted.

He climbed once more up to the smoky sunlight, and almost broke when he saw his lieutenants and warrant officers waiting to make their reports, and to ask for his instructions.

One figure blocked his way. It was Jago.

”Yes?” He could scarcely speak.

”I was thinkin’, sir. That offer of yours, cox’n, weren’t it?”

Adam faced him, but barely saw him. ”You’ll take it?”

Like the other time he had seized a lifeline.

Jago nodded, and held out his hand. ”I’d want to shake on it, sir.”

They shook hands in silence, men pausing in their work and perhaps forgetting their fear, merely to watch. To share it.

That evening, as predicted by Ritchie, they met with the remainder of the squadron and headed for the Bermudas, for orders. In Valkyrie’s wake, the stitched canvas bundles drifted down and down into eternal darkness. One of them was the commodore.

And one was a boy who wore a fine dirk strapped to his side, for the last farewell.