Sword of Honour

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.

Alfristoris 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 mess deck 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 stern sheets 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 row locks 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!

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 foretop man 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-dried 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.