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.