Sword of Honour

7

No Choice at All

Adam Bolitho stood by the entrance of Valkyrie’s great cabin and watched in silence as Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen strode to the stern windows, his hair almost brushing the deck head beams. It was impossible to know what he was thinking, but Adam sensed that he no longer regarded this as his flagship.

Valkyrie had anchored at Halifax in the early morning, and with scarcely a word Captain Henry Deighton had gone ashore to report to Keen. It had not been an easy passage, either to the Bermudas or on the return. Deighton had questioned Adam relentlessly about almost everything, from the various patrol areas to recognition signals; Adam had expected that, after their bad beginning. Deighton had hardly spoken to any of the officers, and had confined himself to this. Keen’s cabin, for his meals and to write endless reports, for whose benefit was still unclear.

Keen looked well, he thought, his fair hair almost white against his tanned features. He showed no sign of strain, and Adam suddenly realised what had changed. Here, in Valkyrie, he had become a stranger.

Keen said, ”Much has happened in your absence, Adam. I hear from Captain Deighton that you were most thorough, by the way.”

”It was somewhat different from blockade duty, I imagine, sir.”

Keen glanced at him curiously. ”You disliked him?”

”I have served better men, sir. In my opinion.”

Keen nodded. ”Honesty is what I would expect from you.

As my flag captain, and as my friend.” He moved to the windows again and watched several boats pulling past the stern. ”Hard to remember all the snow and ice.” He seemed to come to a decision, visibly, like some physical effort.

”I have to tell you now that Deighton’s promotion to commodore has been confirmed. I gave him his commission this morning when he came ashore.” He swung round, his eyes in shadow. ”I shall be leaving soon for England. As my flag captain, you are of course entitled to come with me.” He hesitated. ”Although with matters as they are in England I cannot make you the promise of a new command. It may take time.”

Adam tensed, his mind prepared, like waiting for the first shot in a battle. Or in a duel.

Keen said, ”Great matters are afoot. You will know soon enough, but I can assure you that Valkyrie will be in the thick of it. A small but experienced inshore squadron will be needed to defend some of those soldiers you have escorted of late. I should think the Bermudas might well sink under their combined weight!”

Adam said quietly, ”And Commodore Deighton, sir?”

”He will be in command of the squadron. Four frigates, including yours.”

Adam felt his jaw tighten. Mine. Keen had already decided. It was no choice at all. With Urquhart promoted and gone to command the redeemed Reaper, who of similar experience did Valkyrie have in her company? Dyer, the first lieutenant, was competent and reliable, when he was told exactly what to do. Two other lieutenants had been midshipmen only months ago. The sailing master was a fine seaman and navigator, but sometimes he could barely draw breath because of his wounds, although he would fall dead rather than admit it. And there was a drunken surgeon, George Minchin, who had been serving with Sir Richard Bolitho when Hyperion had gone down.

Keen knew him better than he realised. No captain would quit his command when his ship was on the eve of something dangerous, where skill and experience would count more than anything.

Keen said, ”Another captain could be found for Valkyrie. But Commodore Deighton is new amongst us. The burden of his responsibility will be great enough.”

No choice at all. ”You mentioned the army, sir?”

Keen plucked at something on his coat. ”An attack on American soil. It is all I can say.”

Adam said flatly, ”I shall stay, sir.”

He sensed that Keen had been prepared for any decision, but he could not conceal his relief.

”Your presence, your name alone, will make all the difference. And, of course, I shall be following your exploits as closely as I can.”

England. The admiral’s house at Plymouth, where he had walked with Zenoria. so careful to remain in sight of the other guests. The last time he had seen her.

Keen said suddenly. ”My proposal of marriage was accepted, Adam. I wish you could have been here when it was announced.”

Adam licked his lips. ”Congratulations, sir. i would say as much to Miss St. Clair, as well.”

Keen opened a drawer and closed it again. ”She is on passage to England with her father at this moment. Yes, I wish you had been here.”

Adam wondered if she had told him what he had said about Zenoria, that his absence had been planned.

He looked at Keen’s open features. She had told him nothing.

The first lieutenant had appeared in the screen doorway.

”The boat is returning, sir.” He spoke to his captain, but his eyes were on the rear-admiral.

Thank you, Mr. Dyer.”

Keen glanced around the cabin, remembering perhaps the long days at sea, the boredom of routine, and the sudden fury of danger and battle. ”There is nothing of mine here.”

As the lieutenant’s footsteps faded away. Keen said, ”Have the ship fully provisioned, Adam.” He hesitated. ”Be patient with him. He is an experienced officer, but he is not like us.” He tried to smile, but it evaded him. ”Not like you.”

They went out into the sunshine, and Keen turned once more to look at the watching seamen and marines.

He said simply, ”I shall miss you.”

Adam removed his hat, and the Royal Marine guard slapped their muskets and bayonets into a salute.

Who did he mean? Me? The ship? The assembled hands would mean little to him; some he would already have forgotten.

Perhaps he was bidding farewell to this life, and exchanging it for higher authority, promotion too, where Adam would be the intruder.

Dyer dismissed the side party and joined him to watch Keen’s boat pulling away.

”May I ask something, sir?”

Adam turned to him, surprised, even slightly shocked by the first lieutenant’s nervousness.

Have I been so unapproachable? Did I forget the first responsibility of command? The most coveted gift, his uncle had called it.

He reached out and touched Dyer’s arm. ”I am remaining with Valkyrie. Is that what you were about to ask?”

Dyer could not hide his relief, and a genuine pleasure. His was not a face which could conceal anything.

”I shall pass the word, sir!”

Adam looked towards the land, but Keen’s boat had disappeared. Then he gazed up at the gently swaying masthead, where Deighton’s broad pendant would soon appear. Not like YOU.

He turned sharply as a chorus of cheers broke from the forecastle, although every one was careful not to catch his eye.

Despite everything, he was glad of his decision. As if the ship had spoken for herself.

”All present, sir.” Adam waited for the other captains to be seated, and glanced around the cabin, searching for some sign or hint of its new occupant, a portrait of someone, some memento from a past ship or port of call. There was nothing. The cabin looked exactly as it had when Keen had stood here, moments before leaving it for the last time. That had been three days ago. and in the meantime, while the other vessels of the new inshore squadron had anchored nearby, Commodore Henry Deighton had spent much of his time either ashore or here in his cabin, going through the ship’s books and navigational logs, and had made no attempt to meet his captains in advance of this first gathering.

Adam knew them all, Morgan Price, the wild-eyed Welshman who commanded the frigate Wildfire, and Isaac Lloyd, captain of Chivalrous, the second largest frigate in the group, who had held two commands in the West Indies and was burned as dark as any islander.

He saw Urquhart meet his eyes. His ship, Reaper, had been a challenge, but Keen had agreed that he was the obvious choice. There were others who had watched Reaper’s return to the fleet with both doubt and mistrust. A ship which had been cursed by mutiny could be seen as a threat, a dire warning to any captain who abused his authority in the name of discipline.

And there was Jacob Borradaile, commander of the fourteen-gun brig Alfriston. His ship had been there when Reaper’s mutiny had broken out, and her despairing company had turned on their captain and flogged him to death. Borradaile was probably the most unlikely figure present today, like some gaunt caricature, with sprouting, badly cut hair and deep, hollow eyes. He was no one’s idea of the commander of a King’s ship, but those who knew him swore by his skills and impressive knowledge of those he was fighting. James Tyacke had once described him as ‘a good hand. Came up the hard way’. From Tyacke there could be no higher praise.

Commodore Deighton sat behind his table, shoulders very stiff, fingers interlocked, his restless eyes moving quickly from face to face. Adam introduced them one by one, and in response there was a quick smile, almost a grimace.

To Urquhart he said, ”And what of Reaper? Learned their lesson, have they?”

Urquhart replied calmly, ”I think others have, because of her, sir.”

Commodore Deighton frowned, and turned to Isaac Lloyd. ”Your ship has performed very well, I believe. I shall be looking to you.” His gaze settled on the hollow-eyed Borradaile. ”Alfriston. I shall need you to maintain contact with the main squadron. It will be a demanding assignment.”

Borradaile watched him without expression. ”We’ll be ready, sir.”

Adam saw Morgan Price glancing round. Perhaps he was expecting a glass of wine, a small thing, but usual enough at such a gathering as this. There was no wine; not even Deighton’s strange-looking servant, Jack Norway, was present. A rumour, probably originating in the wardroom, had suggested that Norway had been rescued from the gallows, which might explain why he held his head at such an acute angle, and seemed barely able to speak.

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 enemyT

”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 mess decks 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 isolated 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 Jady of magic, they tell me.” He raised one ginger eyebrow. ”Perhaps she will bring us luck in this great venture.”

Adam left the cabin, the taste of the wine clinging to his tongue. He did not know one vintage from another, but he did not think Keen or his elegant flag lieutenant would rate it very highly.

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.

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.