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.
He thought of Deighton, who apparently believed that such men as these had no right even to ask why they were being sent. And of his uncle, who thought it was all they did have.
He said, There is an enemy battery up yonder.' He saw a couple of men stare at the ship's side as if it were as near as that. 'It is not big, but, like a poacher and his piece, it is well-sited to wreak havoc amongst our people.'
He looked up, caught off-guard as canvas cracked out like gunfire; for an instant he thought the wind had defied Borradaile's predictions and was rising. Perhaps it was safer to be like Barlow, the marine lieutenant. Borradaile was making more sail. The word moved in his mind again. Committed.
'You will be fed now, and there will be a good measure of rum.'
He saw the grins, and thought again of his uncle, the pain in his eyes when he had said, 'Is that all they ask for what they do?'
He nodded to Monteith, and ended simply, 'Keep together, and fight bravely if you must. We shall have the sea at our backs.'
He found Borradaile waiting for him by the compass box.
'West by north, sir. Holding steady on the starboard tack.' He sounded satisfied.
Adam thought of the men he had just left, drinking their rum. If I began now I would never be able to stop.
He turned as he realised Borradaile had asked him something.
'My apologies, I am leagues away at present!'
Borradaile shrugged. 'I was thinking, sir, about going ashore.' He waited, perhaps expecting a rebuff. 'After what happened to you, being a prisoner an' the like, how d'you feel about it?'
Adam looked at his gaunt shadow. 'Not fear, my friend. Perhaps it gives me an edge.' He thought suddenly of the boy Whitmarsh, and added, 'It is my place.'
After the close confines of Alfriston's hull, the air across the black, heaving water felt fresh, even cold.
Adam stood in the stern sheets of the barge, his hand on the coxswain's shoulder to steady himself as he strained his eyes to see the boat ahead. Five boats in all, oars rising and falling like dark wings, with only an occasional pale splash to mark a blade cutting against the inshore current.
The next boat astern was packed with marines, and he could see the white belts and pouches without difficulty. Like the noise, looms creaking in the row locks the stem thrusting toward the deeper darkness of the land. Surely someone must see or hear them?
He knew from experience that his apprehension was unfounded. The sounds of the sea and the moan of a steady breeze would muffle almost everything. Each oarsman was handpicked, some from Valkyrie, and others put forward by Borradaile. In the leading boat he had stationed one of his own master's mates, a veteran like himself, who was very aware of the responsibility he had been given.
No matter what happened they must keep together. If the boats lost sight of one another, the raid would become a shambles before it had begun.
He saw another faint splash, and knew that the first boat was using a lead and line simply to ensure that they were not wandering amongst the rocks he had noted on the chart. Some were as big as islets.
He felt the coxswain lean forward to gesture to the stroke oarsman. No words; they were too experienced to need more than a hint. What were they thinking? Like most sailors, probably anxious when Alfriston's, ghostly shape had faded into the darkness. Now, each man would be wanting to get it over and done with, to return to familiar surroundings, and their friends.
The lookout in the bows called in a hoarse whisper, 'Jolly boat's comin' about, sir!'
The coxswain snapped, 'Oars!' Another seaman shuttered a lantern just once toward the following craft, and Adam saw the untidy disturbance of spray as the blades backed water to avoid running them down.
