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.