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.'
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
