only by reputation. But every man knew what he would see when the Valkyrie altered course, and the target filled each port. Here, a man cleared his throat; another turned to wipe sweat from his eyes.
Suppose they refuse to fire on men like themselves?
Adam felt anger pound through him. They were not like them. I must not think of it!
He drew his hanger and raised it shoulder high.
Dear God, what are we doing?
“Alter course, Mr Ritchie!”
He swung round as the uneven roar of cannon fire rolled and echoed across the short, white-tipped waves.
With disbelief he saw Reaper’s guns recoiling in a broken broadside, in pairs and singly, until at last only one fired from the bow.
There were patches of leaping foam now; the taller waterspouts of the heavier guns churned up the sea’s face and faded almost as suddenly. A full broadside, fired into oblivion.
Keen said, “They would not fire on us!” He looked at those nearest him. “Because they knew we would destroy them!”
Adam said, “The bluff failed.” He saw some of the gun crews staring at each other; two seamen even reached across an eighteen-pounder to shake hands. It was no victory, but at least it was not bloody murder, either.
“Signal her to heave-to! Stand by, boarding parties!”
Adam called, “Be ready to fire. We will take nothing for granted!”
He touched his hat to Keen. “I’d like to go across myself, sir.”
Keen gazed past him as something like a great sigh came from the watching seamen and marines.
“She’s struck her colours, thank God.”
Ritchie, the old sailing-master, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Poor old girl. She’s taken all she can, I reckon!”
Adam looked at him. A toughened, unsentimental professional, but in his simple way he had said it all.
Keen said, “Take good care of St Clair and his daughter. The ordeal must have been dreadful for them.”
Adam saw the boats being swayed up and over the larboard gangway: Urquhart had taught them well. The guns would still be able to fire if necessary, without being hampered by their presence.
“I will, sir.” He stared across at the other ship, her sails flapping as she came into the wind. Another minute and it would have ended differently. As it was… He recalled the sailing master’s words, like an epitaph. For a ship, not for those who had betrayed her.
Keeping in line abreast, Valkyrie’s boats pulled steadily toward the other frigate. Tension remained high. If Reaper’s captors decided to resist, they might still be able to make sail and escape, or attempt it.
Adam looked over at the other boats. His captain of marines, Loftus, was very conspicuous in his scarlet tunic, an easy target for any marksman, nor would his own epaulettes have gone unnoticed. He found himself smiling slightly. Gulliver, the sixth lieutenant, glanced quickly at him, perhaps taking comfort in what he saw.
He said, “This will even the score, sir!”
He spoke like a veteran. He was about twenty years old.
“Reaper, ahoy! We are coming aboard! Throw down your weapons!”
Adam touched the pistol beneath his coat. This was the moment. Some hothead, a man with nothing to lose, might use it as a last chance. Boat by boat they went alongside, and he was conscious of a strange sense of loneliness with Valkyrie hidden by this pitching hull. No chances. But would Keen order his flagship to open fire with so many of his own men on board?
It was uncanny. Like a dead ship. They scrambled up and over the gangway, weapons held ready, while from the opposite end of the vessel some of the marines were already swarming onto the forecastle. They had even swung round a swivel, and had trained it on the silent figures lining the gun deck.
His men parted to let their captain through, seeing the ship through different eyes now that she had struck. The guns which had fired blindly into the open water moved restlessly, unloaded and abandoned, rammers and sponges lying where they had been dropped. Adam walked aft to the big double-wheel, where two of his men had taken control. The hostages, released and apparently unharmed, were grouped around the mizzen-mast, while along the gun deck the seamen seemed to have separated into two distinct groups, the mutineers and the American prize crew.
There were two American lieutenants waiting for him.
“Are there any more officers aboard?”
The senior of the two shook his head. “The ship is yours Captain Bolitho.”
Adam concealed his surprise. “Mr Gulliver, take your party and search the ship.” He added sharply as the lieutenant hurried away, “If anyone resists, kill him.”
So they knew who he was. He said, “What were you hoping to do, Lieutenant?”
The tall officer shrugged. “My name is Robert Neill, Captain. Reaper is a prize of war. They surrendered.”
“And you are a prisoner of war. Your men, also.” He paused. “Captain Loftus, take charge of the others. You know what to do.” To Neill he said, “You offered British seamen a chance to mutiny. In fact, you and your captain incited it.”
The man Neill sighed. “I have nothing to add.”
He watched the two officers hand their swords to a marine. “You will be well treated.” He hesitated, hating the silence, the smell of fear. “As I was.”
Then, with a nod to Loftus, he turned and walked toward the waiting hostages.
One, a silver-haired man with an alert, youthful face, stepped forward, ignoring the raised bayonet of a marine.
“My name is David St Clair.” He reached out his hand. “This is my daughter, Gilia. Your arrival was a miracle, sir. A miracle!”
Adam glanced at the young woman. She was warmly dressed for travel, her eyes steady and defiant, as if this were the ordeal rather than its relief.
He said, “I have little time, Mr St Clair. I am to transfer you to my ship, Valkyrie, before it becomes too dark.”
St Clair stared at him. “I know that name!” He held his daughter’s arm. “Valentine Keen’s ship, you recall it!” But she was observing Valkyrie’s seamen and marines, as if sensing the friction between them and their prisoners.
Adam said, “His flagship. I am his flag captain.”
St Clair said smoothly, “Of course. He is promoted now.”
Adam said, “How were you taken, sir?”
“We were on passage in the schooner Crystal, out of Halifax, bound for the St Lawrence. Admiralty business.” He seemed to become aware of Adam’s impatience and continued, “These others are her crew. The woman is the master’s wife, who was aboard with him.”
“I was told of your business here, sir. I thought it dangerous, at the time.” He glanced at the girl again. “I was proved right, it seems.”
A boatswain’s mate was waiting, trying to catch his eye.
“What is it, Laker?”
The man seemed surprised that his new captain should know his name. “The two Yankee officers, sir…”
“Send them over to the ship. Their own men, too. Lively now!”
His eyes moved to the gangway where one of the guns was still abandoned on its tackles. There was a great stain on the planking, like black tar. It must be blood. Perhaps it marked the place where they had flogged their captain without mercy.
He called, “And run up our colours!” It was a small enough gesture, amid so much shame.
One of the American lieutenants paused with his escort. “Tell me one thing, Captain. Would you have fired, hostages or not?”
Adam swung away. “Take them across.”
St Clair’s daughter said quietly, “I wondered that myself, Captain.” She was shivering now, despite her warm clothing, the shock and realization of what had happened cutting away her reserve.
St Clair put his arm around her, and said, “The guns were loaded and ready. At the last minute some of the
