For My Country’s Freedom

Part II: 1812
10. Deception

Captain James Tyacke stood at the top of the companion ladder and waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the early morning darkness. It was a moment he never grew tired of. Quiet because the hands had not yet been piped to begin another day, private because of the lingering shadows. Above all, private; no easy thing in a man-of-war, not even for her captain.

In a short while the sun would change everything, reaching from horizon to horizon, all privacy gone. Water was getting short; they would have to return to Antigua in a few days’ time. What would they find? Fresh orders, news from England, the war, that other world?

None of it mattered much to Tyacke. The Indomitable was his main concern. Week in, week out, he had drilled his company until it was almost impossible to tell the seasoned professionals from the landmen. Gunnery and sail drill, but with leisure still for the simple pleasures sailors enjoyed. Parted from their homes, it was all they had to keep them out of mischief. Hornpipes and wrestling in the dogwatches, and contests, mast against mast, to see which one could reef or make more sail in the least time.

Indomitable was now a ship-of-war which could give a good account of herself if so called.

But mostly she had been concerned with constant patrols, the stop-and-search procedure even of neutrals to prevent trade with

French ports, and to seek out deserters from the King’s navy. The Leeward Squadron had taken several prizes and recovered many such deserters, mostly sailing in American merchantmen, trying to reach a new life in what they believed to be a democratic paradise. Compared with the hardships they were forced to suffer under the British flag in this endless war, it probably was.

The first lieutenant was officer-of-the-watch and he could sense his presence on the opposite side of the quarterdeck. Scarlett had become used to Tyacke’s ways, his early walks on deck when most captains would have been content to leave a morning watch to their senior lieutenants.

It was still cold, the quarterdeck rail damp with moisture. When dawn came up that would all change: the vapour would rise from the sails and rigging like steam, and the tar in the deck seams would cling to shoes and bare feet alike.

Tyacke could see it clearly in his mind’s eye, as if he were a sea-eagle soaring high above the blue water with the ships like tiny models below: in a ragged, uneven line abreast, Indomitable in the centre and the two smaller frigates, one to starboard and one to larboard. Once they had exchanged the first signals their line would extend and take proper station. The masthead lookouts would be able to see one another, just, and together their span of vision would cover a range of some sixty miles. To the spies, and to the small trading vessels who would sell their information to anybody, the Leeward Squadron that patrolled as far north as the Canadian port of Halifax would have become well known. A protection or a threat: their presence could be interpreted either way. The big 42-gun frigate Valkyrie was the senior ship at Halifax, and the rest of their vessels could operate either together or independently between the two main bases.

Tyacke thought of the wild storms they had weathered in the Caribbean. Given the choice he preferred these waters rather than

endure Halifax’s bitter winters, where rigging could swell in the blocks and freeze, leaving any ship barely able to tack or shorten sail.

He considered the other captains, knowing them now as individuals. The necessity of that had been taught him by Bolitho. To assume you knew a captain’s mind simply because he was a captain could be as dangerous as any hurricane.

All the leagues they had sailed, in company or with the ocean to themselves. He imagined green fields in England. They had gone through another winter, into a new year, and now that year was half gone. It was June 1812, and if it was to be as demanding as the previous year, overhauls would have to be arranged.

English Harbour at Antigua was adequate for limited repairs, but not for an extensive campaign. And should there be a sea-fight with more destruction to hulls and rigging… He sighed. When had the navy ever had enough of anything?

He stepped back from the rail and heard the first lieutenant crossing the damp planking.

"Good morning, Mr Scarlett. Is all well?"

"Aye, sir. Wind steady at nor’-east by north. Course west by north. Estimated position some 150 miles north-east of Cape Hai-tien."

Tyacke smiled grimly. "As close to that damned country as I’d ever want to get!"

Scarlett asked, "What orders for the forenoon, sir?" He hesitated as Tyacke turned sharply towards him. "What is it, sir?"

Tyacke shook his head. "Nothing." But there was something. It was like a sixth sense, which he had at first refused to accept when he had been on the anti-slavery patrols, sometimes a premonition of where his prey might be found.

He felt it now. Something would happen today. He moved restlessly across the deck, telling himself he was a fool. Like the morning when Adam Bolitho had come eagerly aboard at Antigua

in response to the flagship’s signal. Immediate. When he had left Indomitable an hour or so later he had walked like a man face to face with some terrible fate.

Bolitho had sent for him and had broken the news about Rear-Admiral Keen’s wife and her death on the Cornish cliffs. Just for a moment Tyacke had imagined that Bolitho had once felt a certain tenderness for the girl. Then he had dismissed the idea, thinking of Catherine Somervell, how she had come aboard at Falmouth, and how the sailors had loved her for it.

What then? In his heart he knew the connection that bound them was a deeper secret than he would ever share. But why should a young woman’s tragedy have the power to affect them so profoundly? It happened. Women and their children often died of fever or other causes on their way to join their husbands, in the navy, or the army with its far-flung outposts and lonely forts. Even the Caribbean possessions were described as the Islands of Death. Certainly more soldiers died of fever out here than ever fell to an enemy ball or bayonet. Death was commonplace. Perhaps it was the rumour of suicide that they could not accept.

Allday would know, he thought. But when it came to sharing secrets, Allday was like the Rock of Gibraltar.

Scarlett joined him again. "The admiral’s about early, sir."

Tyacke nodded. He wanted to shake Scarlett. A good officer and very conscientious, and as popular with the lower deck as any first lieutenant could hope to expect.

Don’t be timid with me. I told you before. My blood may be spilled before yours, and you could find yourself in command. Think of it, man. Talk to me. Share your thoughts.

He said, "He has always been the same, I believe." Had he, he wondered? Or was some premonition driving Bolitho also?

It was slightly brighter now. Topgallant masts touched with pale light, as though they floated separately above the dark mass of spars and black rigging. Bolitho’s flag rippling, as if newly

awakened like the man it represented. A boatswain’s mate and a handful of men checking the boats on their tier, inspecting hatch fastenings, putting fresh oil in the compass lamps. A ship coming to life.

The master’s mate-of-the-watch said softly, "Admiral’s comin’ up, sir."

"Thank you, Mr Brickwood." Tyacke recalled the beginning, when all these men had been unfamiliar. Knowing from his own experience and later from Bolitho’s example how important it was to remember each man’s name as well as his face. In the navy you owned little else.

The midshipman-of-the-watch, a youth named Deane, said rather loudly, "Half-past four, sir!"

Bolitho walked amongst them, his ruffled shirt very clear against the deck and the sea’s dark backdrop beyond.

"Good morning, Sir Richard."

Bolitho looked towards him. "It is, too, Captain Tyacke." He nodded to the first lieutenant. "And you, Mr Scarlett? Are your lookouts aloft?"

"Aye, sir." Hesitant again: it was impossible to know what he was thinking.

Bolitho rubbed his hands. "That is a vile smell from the galley funnel. We must endeavour to take on more supplies when we return to English Harbour. Fresh fruit, with any luck."

Tyacke hid a smile. Just for a moment Bolitho was allowing himself to be a captain again, with a captain’s concern for every man and boy aboard.

"Walk with me, James." Together they began to pace the quarterdeck. In the dim light they could have been brothers.

Bolitho asked, "What ails that man?"

Tyacke shrugged. "He’s an officer not lacking in some fine qualities, sir, but…"

"Aye, James, I have often found but to be the hurdle!"

He looked up as the first thin sunlight felt its way through the tarred rigging and out along the braced main-yard. Even the sea had gained colour, a rich blue which gave it an appearance of even greater depth than the thousand-odd fathoms claimed to lie beneath Indomitable’s keel.

Tyacke watched Bolitho’s profile, the obvious pleasure it gave him to see another dawn. In spite of all his service, he could still suppress and contain his inner worries, if only for this moment of the day.

Bolitho turned aside as the usual procession of figures trooped aft to speak either with the first lieutenant or the captain. When the hands had been fed, the main deck would become the marketplace, where the professional men would work with their own little crews. The sailmaker and his mates, repairing and still more repairing. Nothing could be wasted with a ship so many hundreds of miles from harbour. The carpenter, too, with his team. He was Evan Brace, said to be the oldest man in the squadron. He certainly looked it. But he could still repair, and if necessary build, a boat as well as any man.

Bolitho heard a familiar Yorkshire voice. Joseph Foxhill was the cooper, up early to obtain deck space where he could scour and clean some of his empty casks before they were refilled.

A midshipman strode beneath the quarterdeck rail, the white patches on his collar showing brightly through the withdrawing shadows, and he was reminded painfully of Adam. He tended to think of him always as a midshipman, the lively colt-like boy who had joined his ship when his mother had died. He sighed. He would never forget the look on Adam’s dark features when he had told him about Zenoria. It had been pitiful to see his stunned disbelief. Like the tragedy you try to pretend has not happened. You will awake, and it will have been a dream…

He had not resisted when Bolitho had made him sit down, and he had asked his uncle quietly to repeat what he had said.

Bolitho had listened to his own voice in the sealed cabin; he had even closed the skylight in case someone overheard. Adam was a captain, perhaps one of the best frigate captains the fleet had ever known, but in those quiet, wretched, faltering moments he had seemed that same dark-haired boy, who had walked all the way from Penzance to Falmouth with only hope and Bolitho’s name to sustain him.

He had said, "May I see Lady Catherine’s letter, Uncle?"

Bolitho had watched him, seen his eyes moving slowly over the letter line by line, perhaps sharing the intimacy, as if she too were speaking to him. Then he had said, "It was all my fault." When he had looked up from the letter Bolitho had been shocked to see the tears running down his face. "But I could not stop. I loved her so. Now she is gone."

Bolitho had said, "I was a part of it, too." Catherine’s words seemed to ring in his mind. The Mark of Satan. Was there, could there be substance in the old Cornish beliefs and superstitions?

After that they had sat mostly in silence, until at last Adam had made to leave.

"I grieve for Rear-Admiral Keen. His loss is all the more tragic because…" He had left the rest unsaid.

He had picked up his hat and straightened his uniform. When he returned to his ship they would only see him as their captain. So it must be.

But as Bolitho had watched him climb down into his boat to the trill of calls, he had seen only the midshipman.

He stirred himself as voices pealed down from aloft.

"Deck there! Zest in sight to larboard!"

Like yesterday, and all the others before it. He could picture the rakish 38-gun frigate, her captain too, Paul Dampier, young, perhaps too headstrong, and very ambitious. Rather like Peter Dawes, the admiral’s son who now commanded Valkyrie out of Halifax.

"Deck there! Reaper in sight to starboard!" A smaller frigate

of 26 guns. James Hamilton, her captain, was old for his rank and had been attached to the Honourable East India Company until he had re-entered the navy at his own request.

And away to windward would be the little brig Marvel. Ready to run down on anything suspicious, to search coves and inlets where her larger consorts might lose their keels; to run errands, almost anything. Bolitho had often seen Tyacke watching her whenever she was close by. Still remembering. Marvel was very like his Larne.

He saw Allday at the foot of the quarterdeck ladder. He had his head on one side, and was ignoring the rush of seamen to trim the yards again, urged on no doubt by the smell of breakfast.

Bolitho asked sharply, "What is it?"

Allday looked at him impassively. "Not certain, sir."

"Deck there! Sail in sight to th’ nor’-east!"

Tyacke glanced around until he found Midshipman Blythe. "Aloft with you, my lad, and take a glass!"

There was an edge to his voice and Bolitho saw him stare at the horizon, already glassy bright and searing.

"Prepare to make more sail, Mr Scarlett!"

Blythe had reached the mainmast crosstrees. "Sail to the nor’-east, sir!" Just the slightest hesitation. "Schooner, sir!"

Scarlett remarked, "Well, she’s not running away."

With Indomitable and the other two frigates hove-to, and the brig Marvel making sail to block the stranger’s escape if she proved hostile, every available glass was trained despite the heavy, regular swell.

Midshipman Cleugh, Blythe’s haughty assistant, called in his squeaky voice, "She’s Reynard, sir!"

Scarlett said, "Courier. I wonder what she wants?"

Nobody answered.

Allday climbed silently up the ladder and stood at Bolitho’s shoulder.

"I’ve got a feeling, sir. Something’s wrong."

It was almost an hour before the schooner was near enough to drop a boat. Her captain, a wild-eyed lieutenant named Tully, was taken down to the cabin where Bolitho was pretending to enjoy some of Ozzard’s coffee.

"Well, Mr Tully, and what have you brought me?"

He watched as Avery opened the bag and then dragged out the sealed and weighted envelope.

But the schooner’s young captain exclaimed, "It’s war, sir! The Americans are already at the Canadian frontier…"

Bolitho took the despatches from Avery’s hand. "Where are their ships?" One letter was from Captain Dawes in Valkyrie. He had taken his ships to sea as already arranged, and would await fresh orders as they had planned, it seemed so long ago.

He repeated, "But where are their ships?"

Dawes had written as a postscript, Commodore Beer’s squadron quit Sandy Hook during a storm.

He could almost hear the words. A total responsibility. But he felt nothing. It was what he had expected. Hoped, perhaps. To end it once and for all.

Tyacke, who had been waiting in silence, asked suddenly, "What is the date of origin, sir?"

Avery replied, "Ten days ago, sir."

Bolitho stood up, aware of the silence in the ship, despite the heavy movement. Ten days, and they had been at war without knowing it.

He swung round. "The next convoy from Jamaica?"

Tyacke said, "Sailed. They’d not know either."

Bolitho stared at the chair by the stern bench. Where Adam had sat with Catherine’s letter. Where his heart had broken.

He asked, "What escort?" He saw Tyacke’s face. He, too, had known that this was coming. But how could that be?

Avery said, "Anemone, sir. If they were not expecting…"

Bolitho interrupted him sharply. "Make a signal to Zest and Reaper, repeated Marvel. Close on flagship and remain in company." He looked directly at Tyacke, excluding everyone else. "We shall lay a course for the Mona Passage." He could recall it so clearly, that much-disputed channel to the west of Puerto Rico, where he and so many faces now lost had fought battles now forgotten by most people.

It was the obvious route for any Jamaica convoy. Heavily laden merchantmen would stand no chance against ships like the U.S.S. Unity, or men like Nathan Beer.

Unless the escort saw through the deception and turned to defend the convoy against overwhelming odds, as Seraphis had faced John Paul Jones’s Bonhomme Richard in that other war against the same enemy.

It was just possible. That convoy had been saved. Seraphis had been beaten into submission.

He looked at Tyacke but in his heart, he saw only Adam.

"All the sail she can carry, James. I think we are sorely needed."

But a voice seemed to echo back, mocking him.

Too late. Too late.

Richard Hudson, first lieutenant of the 38-gun frigate Anemone, strode aft to the quarterdeck even as eight bells chimed out from the forecastle. He touched his forehead as a mark of respect to the second lieutenant, whom he was about to relieve. Like the other officers he wore only his shirt and breeches, and was hat-less, and he could feel even the lightest garment plastered to his body like a second skin.

"The afternoon watch is aft, sir."

The words were formal and timeless, the navy’s custom from the Indian Ocean to the Arctic, if so ordered.

The other young lieutenant, the same age as himself, replied with equal precision, "The course remains at south-east by south,

the wind has backed to about north by west."

Around and below them, midshipmen and the duty watch took their stations while others filled in their time splicing and stitching, the endless tasks of maintaining a ship-of-war.

Hudson took a telescope from its rack and winced as he held it to his eye. It was as hot as a gun-barrel. For a moment or two he moved the glass across the drifting heat haze and the dark blue water until he found the shimmering pyramids of sail, the three big merchantmen which Anemone had been escorting from Port Royal, and would continue to escort until they had reached the Bermudas, where they would join a larger convoy for the Atlantic crossing.

Even the thought of England made Hudson lick his lips. Summer, yes, but it might be raining. Cool breezes, wet grass under foot. But it was not to be. He realised that the second lieutenant who had been in charge of the forenoon watch was still beside him. He wanted to talk, up here where he could not be heard. It made Hudson feel both guilty and disloyal. He was the first lieutenant, responsible only to the captain for the running and organisation of the ship and her company.

How could things have changed so much in less than a year? When his uncle, a retired vice-admiral, had obtained him the appointment in Anemone through a friend in the Admiralty he had been overjoyed. Like most ambitious young officers he had yearned for a frigate, and to be second-in-command to such a famous captain had been like a dream coming true.

Captain Adam Bolitho was all that a frigate commander was supposed to be: dashing and reckless, but not one to risk lives for his own ends or glory. The fact that Bolitho’s uncle, who commanded their important little squadron, was as celebrated and loved in the fleet as he was notorious in society ashore, gave the appointment an added relish. Or it had, until the day Adam Bolitho had returned to Anemone after his summons to the flag-

ship at English Harbour. He had always been a hard worker, and had expected others to follow his example: often he carried out tasks normally done by common seamen, if only to prove to the landmen and others pressed against their will that he was not asking the impossible of them.

Now he was driving himself to and beyond the limit. Month by month they had patrolled as near to the American mainland as possible, unless other ships were in close company. They had stopped and searched ships of every flag and taken many deserters, and on several occasions had fired on neutral vessels which had showed no inclination to heave-to for inspection. A quarter of Anemones total company were even now in captured prizes and making either for Antigua or Bermuda.

Even that seemed to give the captain no satisfaction, Hudson thought. He shunned the company of his officers, and only came on deck when required for sailing the ship, or in times of foul weather, which had been plentiful over the past months. Then, soaked to the skin, his black hair plastered to his face, looking more like a pirate than a King’s officer, he had never budged until his ship was out of danger.

But he was curt, impatient now, an entirely different man from the one Hudson had first met in Plymouth.

Vicary the second lieutenant, said, "I’ll be glad when this convoy is out of our hands. Slow to sail, slow even to co-operate- sometimes I think these damned grocery captains take a delight in ignoring signals!" Hudson watched a fish leap and fall into the heaving water. He had found himself assessing even the most commonplace remarks for some secret significance.

Captain Bolitho was never brutal with punishment; otherwise, sailing with only the elderly brig Woodpecker in company he might well have expected serious trouble. Hudson had questioned some of the retaken deserters himself, and many had pleaded that they had run only because of unfair and in some cases horrific

floggings for even minor offences. Now, returned to British ships but in the same war, their treatment would be gauged by their behaviour.

Hudson glanced at the men working on deck, some trying to remain in the shadows of the reefed topsails, or watching the marine sentry with his fixed bayonet on sweating guard over the fresh-water cask.

If only they could be free of the merchantmen and their painfully slow progress. Day in, day out, only the wind seemed to change: and there was precious little of that, too.

Hudson said, "You think that all this is a waste of time, do you, Philip?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. This is a drudge’s work. Let them fend for themselves, I say! They are quick enough to squeal and appeal to higher authority if we take a few of their prime seamen to fill the gaps, but they bleat even louder when they are in danger themselves!"

Hudson thought of a verse he had once heard somewhere. God and the Navy we adore, when danger threatens but not before! Obviously nothing had changed.

Anemone had been driven hard. A proper refit was inevitable. He tried not to hope too much. One of the ships awaiting their arrival at Bermuda had been out here for less time than Anemone, and she was going to sail home as an additional escort. Home. He almost gritted his teeth. Then he lifted the telescope again and moved it deliberately towards the distant sails. Further downwind the brig Woodpecker stood above the thick heat haze like a pair of feathers, so white against the pitiless sky.

He said, "Why don’t you cut on down to the wardroom? It’ll be a mite cooler if nothing else." He lowered the glass and waited. Here it comes.

Vicary said, "We’ve always got on well. I can’t talk to anyone else. You know how things get twisted."

"Distorted, you mean?" Vicary was 24, a native of Sussex, fair-haired and blue-eyed with, Hudson thought, what his mother could have called such an English face. He contained a fond smile and retorted, "You know I cannot discuss the matter." Even that felt like disloyalty.

"I appreciate that." Vicary plucked at his stained shirt. "I just want to know why. What happened to change him? We deserve that much, surely?"

Hudson toyed with the idea of sending him below with a direct order. Instead he said, "Something very personal, perhaps. Not a death, or we’d have heard of it. His future is assured, provided he can stay alive, and I don’t just mean in the line of battle."

Vicary nodded, perhaps from satisfaction that their friendship was not in danger. "I did hear a few tales about a duel somewhere. Everyone knows it goes on, despite the law."

Hudson thought of the captain’s uncle as he had been when he had come aboard to meet the officers. Adam was so like him, exactly as Bolitho must have been at the same age. The hero, the man who was followed into battle with a kind of passion, as they had once followed Nelson. And yet unlike so many high-ranking and successful officers-heroes-Hudson had felt that Sir Richard Bolitho was a man without conceit, and one who truly cared for the men he inspired. It was more than charisma, as he had heard it described. When the admiral looked at you, you as an individual person, you could feel it run through your blood. And you knew in the same breath that you would follow him anywhere.

He felt suddenly troubled. Adam Bolitho had once been very like that.

He saw the master-at-arms and the boatswain standing by the weather side and its rank of long eighteen-pounders, and the sight brought him out of his thoughts with a jolt. Punishment was to be carried out at two bells, when the watch below had finished

their meal. He could smell the rum on the hot breeze, which was barely enough to fill the sails.

Punishment was usually carried out in the forenoon; it gave all hands time to get over it and wash away the memory with rum. But for some reason the captain had ordered an extra gun drill today, had even been on deck to time it himself, as if he did not trust his officers to stress the importance of teamwork.

Had they been running free with all canvas filled and driving the Anemone until every strand of rigging was bar taut, it would have been just another punishment. Two dozen lashes: it could have been many more for the man in question. This would not be the first time he had received a striped shirt at the gangway. He was a hard man, a lower-deck lawyer, a born troublemaker. Captain Bolitho could have awarded double that amount.

But this was different. Moving so slowly, with nothing in sight but the far-off convoy and brig, it could be like a spark in a powder keg. The nearest land was Santo Domingo, some hundred miles to the north: the perverse wind made it impossible to tack any closer. But in another two days they would reach the Mona Passage where many changes of tack would be required, keeping all hands busy for days until they broke out into the Atlantic.

Hudson turned as a shadow moved across the rail. It was the captain.

Adam Bolitho gazed at them impassively. "Nothing to do but gossip, Mr Vicary?" He looked at the first lieutenant. "I would have thought you could discover something not too tiring for an officer to do, if he has no stomach for his lunch?"

Hudson said, "We have not had too much time to talk of late, sir."

He studied his captain as he walked to the compass and then glanced at the limply flapping masthead pendant.

The helmsman called huskily, "Sou’-east by south, sir, steady she goes!"

Hudson noted the dark shadows beneath the captain’s eyes, the restless way he moved his hands. Like the rest of them he was casually dressed, but he wore his short fighting-sword, which was unusual. The boatswain’s party was preparing to rig a grating, and Hudson saw Cunningham, the surgeon, appear in the companion-way. When he realised the captain was on deck he disappeared down the ladder without another glance.

But the captain had seen him. He said, "The surgeon has protested to me about punishment being carried out. Did you know that?"

Hudson said, "I did not, sir."

"He states that the seaman in question, Baldwin, whose name has repeatedly appeared in the punishment book-and not only in Anemones, I suspect-has some internal illness, too much rum and other more damaging potions. What do you say, Mr Hudson?"

"He is often in trouble, sir."

Adam Bolitho said sharply, "He is scum. I’ll suffer no insubordination in my ship."

Hudson had always been very aware of the captain’s love for this ship. Such a personal attachment seemed only another aspect of the Bolitho legend. But now he thought he knew why he was so intense about it. His beloved Anemone was all he had in the world.

The other lieutenant had used the opportunity to go below. It was a pity Hudson thought; had he stayed he would have seen it for himself. Or would he?

The boatswain lumbered aft and called, "Ready, sir!"

Adam said, "Very well, Mr M’Crea, put up the prisoner and clear lower deck."

As if to a secret signal, the Royal Marines marched up to line the quarterdeck, their bayoneted muskets and equipment gleaming as if at their barracks, their faces as scarlet as their tunics.

George Starr, the captain’s coxswain, brought the old seagoing coat and hat to cover him with a cloak of authority.

"All hands! All hands! Lay aft to witness punishment!"

The seaman named Baldwin strode aft, the master-at-arms and ship’s corporal on either side of him. A big man, a bully, he ruled his own mess like a tyrant.

A boatswain’s mate and another seaman took his arms as soon as they had stripped him of his chequered shirt, and seized him up to the grating by his wrists and his knees. Even from the quarterdeck, it was possible to see all the old scars on the strong back.

Adam removed his hat and took out his thumbed copy of the Articles of War. He had been aware of Hudson’s scrutiny, just as he had sensed Vicary’s keen resentment. Given time, both would make good officers. He felt the anger stirring. But they did not command.

He saw the surgeon taking his place and recalled his pleas on behalf of the prisoner. Cunningham was a whining hypocrite. He would not cross the road to help a child knocked down by a runaway horse.

From the corner of his eye he saw the boatswain drag the infamous cat-o’-nine-tails from its red baize bag.

Adam hated the use of the cat, as his uncle had always done. But if, like the line of sweating marines, it was all that stood between disobedience and order, then so be it.

He put his hand in his pocket and bunched his knuckles until the pain helped to steady him.

He could feel his coxswain Starr watching him. Worried and anxious, as he had been over the months. A good man. Not another Allday: but there was no such creature.

He loosened his fingers carefully, testing the moment as he felt her glove in his pocket. So many times he had taken it out and had stared at it, remembering her eyes when he had handed it to her. How they had walked together in the port admiral’s

garden: feeling her presence like a beautiful wild flower.

What can I do"? Why did you leave me?

He realised with a start that he had begun to read the relevant Article, his voice level and calm. Calm? I am destroying myself.

He heard himself say, "Carry on, Mr M’Crea. Two dozen!"

The drums rattled noisily and the boatswain’s brawny arm went back. The lash seemed to dangle there for an eternity until it came down across the prisoner’s naked back with a crack. M’Crea was a powerful man and, although a fair one, was probably enjoying this task.

He saw the red lines break into bloody droplets. But he felt no revulsion, and that alone frightened him.

"Deck there!"

It was as if the call had turned them all to stone. The lash dangling from the boatswain’s out-thrust fist, the drumsticks suddenly still in the heavy air. The prisoner himself, face pressed against the grating, his chest heaving as he dragged in breath like a drowning man.

Hudson raised his speaking-trumpet. "What is it, man?"

"Sail on the larboard quarter!" He hesitated. The heat haze was probably just as bad in that direction. "Two sail, sir!"

Hudson knew that every eye but the prisoner’s was turned upon the little group of officers on the quarterdeck. But when he looked at the captain he was astonished to see Adam’s expression, his utter lack of surprise. As if a question which had troubled him had suddenly been made clear.

"What do you think, sir?"

"Well, no matter who they are, they are certainly not ours. That we do know." He was thinking aloud, as if there was nobody else near him. "They must have used the Windward Passage, west of Port au Prince. That way they would have the wind which is eluding us."

Hudson nodded, but did not understand.

Adam looked at the towering mainmast spars, the quivering canvas.

"I shall go aloft."

The man at the grating tried to twist his head. "What about me, you bastard?"

Adam handed his hat and coat to Starr and snapped, "Be patient, man. And Mr M’Crea, another dozen for his damned impertinence!"

He reached the crosstrees, surprised that he was not even breathless. He acknowledged the lookout, one of the best in the squadron, a man who looked twice his real age.

"Well, Thomas, what do you make of them?"

"Men-o’-war, zur. No doubt o’ that!"

Adam unslung his telescope, aware of the great trembling mast and yards, the bang and slap of canvas, the very power of the ship beneath him. He had to wait a few seconds more. Even the lookout’s familiar Cornish accent caught him unawares like a trap.

Then he levelled the telescope, as he had done so many times in his Anemone.

The smaller of the two vessels could have been anything in the haze. Sloop or brig, it was impossible to determine. But about the other one there was no such doubt.

It could have been yesterday: the U.S.S. Unity ’s great cabin, and his conversation with her captain, Nathan Beer, who had known his father during the American Revolution.

"Yankee," he said shortly.

"Thought as much, zur."

"Well done, Thomas. I’ll see you have an extra tot for this."

The man watched him, puzzled. "But we bain’t at war with they, zur?"

Adam, smiling, made his way down like a practised topman.

He met Hudson and the others and saw all the questions in their eyes, although nobody spoke.

He said crisply, "One of them’s the big Yankee frigate Unity, 44 guns that I know of for sure, maybe more now." He glanced at the nearest guns. Unity carried twenty-four-pounders. He remembered the American mentioning them. Pride or threat? Probably both.

He glanced at the sky. Two hours before they were up to Anemone. Seven hours more before the convoy could escape in the darkness.

Hudson said carefully, "What are their intentions, sir?"

Adam thought of the splendid sight Unity had made as she edged round to beat closer to the wind, the other vessel responding to a bright hoist of signal flags.

There was no need for such a manoeuvre. Her captain could remain on his present course untroubled by either the convoy or her escort. Instead, he was taking the wind-gage, and would hold it until he was ready.

"I think they intend to attack, Dick. In fact, I am sure of it."

The use of his first name surprised Hudson almost as much as the simple acceptance of something unthinkable.

"You know this ship, sir?"

"I have been aboard her and have met her captain. An impressive man. But know her? That is another matter."

Adam stared along the deck above the mass of silent figures towards the beak-head, the perfect shoulder and gilded hair of the figurehead. Daughter of the Wind.

Almost to himself he said, "We are of one company, Dick. Some good, some bad. But every so often we must forget our differences. We become an instrument, to be used rightly or wrongly as directed."

"I see, sir."

He touched Hudson’s arm, as he had seen his uncle do on many occasions.

"I want you to make a signal to Commander Eames of the

Woodpecker, repeated to our fat charges. Make more sail. Disperse the convoy" He hesitated for only a few seconds. Suppose I am wrong? But his conviction to the contrary was more compelling. "Then make Enemy in sight to the north-west"

He heard men calling out as the midshipman in charge of signals and his crew ran to the halliards, while Hudson repeated the instructions behind them. He saw Lieutenant Vicary staring at him, his face suddenly pale under the tanned skin.

He asked quietly, "Will we be able to outreach them, sir?"

Adam turned and looked at him, and through him. "Today we are the instrument, Mr Vicary. We fight, that others shall survive."

Hudson glanced at the streaming flags. "Orders, sir?"

Adam tried to discover his innermost feelings. But there were none. Did that mean there would be no tomorrow?

"Orders? Carry on with the punishment." He smiled and was suddenly very young. "Then you may beat to quarters. The rest you know."

He turned away as the drums began to roll again and the frozen images came to life.

A voice called out as the lash cracked down, "Woodpeckers acknowledged, sir!"

Adam watched the punishment without emotion. They were committed. I committed them.

The instrument.