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.
9. Too Late for Regrets
Adam Bolitho watched the last of the boats being hoisted inboard, and then lowered on to their tier where the boatswain's party was ready to make them secure. Even the barge had survived, and had been towed with the others by Borradaile's Alfriston.
Lieutenant Dyer had scarcely been able to hide his excitement and pleasure. Perhaps, like the commodore, he had expected the mission to fail, and that they would all be killed or taken by the enemy.
He gripped the quarterdeck rail and suddenly realised how drained and tired he was.
Soon it would be dark. But the last sunlight was still clinging to the horizon, and touching the horns of the figurehead's helmet as if unwilling to depart.
He thought of the moment when the battery's magazine had exploded, great rocks and pieces of stonework crashing through the trees, some splashing down dangerously close to the boats as they pulled towards Alfriston, and was reminded of Deighton's satisfaction with the mission, tempered only by an angry disbelief that Adam should have gone personally with the landing party.
Adam had said, "When you order men ashore to carry out a task which might normally be executed by the military, you cannot simply abandon them to it. On deck, ship against ship, that's a different matter. But in unknown and hostile territory
Deighton had interrupted, "And I suppose you could not bring yourself to abandon the chance of further glory for yourself?"
Eventually he had contained his sarcasm. "I shall send a full report to the admiral, and then to their lordships. A battery destroyed, the way opened for the attacking squadron, and a useful prize to boot… the brigantine should fetch a good price. I hope you explained to mat Borradaile fellow about the arrangements for sharing prize money?"
"I believe he is well aware of them, sir."
Of the casualties, he had told Deighton that one of the wounded was unlikely to survive an amputation, A brave man, he had not complained once during the painful transfers from boat to brig, and then to Valkyrie. But when he knew he was being carried down to the surgeon, he had pleaded and sobbed like a child.
Deighton had said, "Can't be helped." He might have been talking about a breakage in the galley.
Adam watched the brig Alfriston leaning to the freshening breeze as she changed tack and headed away to the south-west. Despatches for the admiral. He tried to control his bitterness. To ensure that Deighton's own part in the attack did not pass unnoticed…… He himself had thought Alfriston should remain in company, at least until they had made contact with their own frigates again.
Deighton had scoffed at his suggestion. "Where's your zest for battle now, Captain? My orders are to cover the squadron's flanks. That I shall do."
Adam turned as one of the surgeon's loblolly boys appeared on deck, and then walked to the lee side and pitched a bloody bundle outboard. A man's leg. He thought of the dead left behind at the battery, blasted to pieces when the charges had exploded. Surely better than what he had just seen.
He ran his fingers through his hair, feeling the salt and the sand, remembering the wounded American officer with the miniature of his girl…… Without thinking, he touched the scar in his side where the Unity's surgeon had probed for splinters. Perhaps the American would tell her one day.
He heard voices below the poop and saw the gunner's mate, Jago, with some of his messmates. He was carrying a shirt which he had just washed out after his experience ashore, and, even in the fading light, Adam could see the livid scars of the cat across his muscular back. Unjustly flogged by Valkyrie's previous captain, he would carry the scars to his grave like any felon. It had been John Urquhart, then Valkyrie's first lieutenant, who had protested to the captain, and had spoken up for Jago, to no avail; it was obvious that Urquhart had been damned to oblivion because of his intervention. Until Keen had given him Reaper to command, another ship which had been torn apart by the cruelty of a sadistic captain.
He came to a decision, and beckoned to the gunner's mate. Jago ran lightly up the quarterdeck ladder and waited. "Sir?"
Adam saw his eyes flit over his captain's torn breeches and crumpled shirt; he himself had not found the time to change into cleaner clothes.
He said, "I shall not forget what you did. And I wanted to ask you something." He could almost feel Jago's guard come up, but continued, "I lost my old cox'n."
Jago nodded. "We know, sir. They 'anged 'im."