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.
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?"