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."