For My Country's Freedom Page 12

  He thought of his three lieutenants. All had seen action before, but only one had ever served in a frigate. To Adam the navy was divided down the middle. There were frigates, and then there were all the rest.

  The warrant officers were experienced, prime seamen of quality. Again, he suspected his uncle had some hand in their acquisition. But he did not know any of them, as he had his other company. Perhaps it was better that way. He thought of friends he had seen fall in that last sea-fight, of the midshipman for whom he had had such hopes of early promotion. The youth had died in his arms, his eyes staring up at him until they became fixed and unmoving.

  Yes, it was better not to become too close. He had seen his uncle’s grief too many times when those dear friends he called his Happy Few had been killed, one by one.

  Catherine would be alone now, waiting and wondering, not daring to hope that it might be over quickly, that his uncle might come home safely once again.

  He would put into Falmouth and pay his respects to her before taking Anemone to join the new squadron in Antigua.

  He had no doubt at all that there would be war. He had never forgotten the American captain, Nathan Beer, now a commodore of his own squadron. An impressive man, a dangerous adversary.

  He saw the port admiral’s house with its tower and fine gilded weathervane. His would be a quick visit for the sake of courtesy only, although it might be difficult to escape the admiral, who was known for his bounteous hospitality to the young captains who passed through the dockyard.

  A carriage was just arriving at the house, and two others were waiting nearby.

  Adam frowned, trying to think of some excuse that would allow him to leave.

  The carriage rolled to a halt, the horses stamping noisily on the stones as a Royal Marine ran to open the door and lower the step. Something fell on the ground, and Adam picked it up.

  “Excuse me, ma’am. You dropped this.”

  He stared past her at the severe-looking man who was regarding him as he would an intruder.

  Zenoria looked straight into his eyes, only a pulse in her throat betraying her outward composure.

  “Why, Captain Bolitho. This is a surprise.”

  Adam waited for the rebuff, fearing she would turn away. He offered his hand, but she rested hers on the marine’s white glove instead. “Did you know I would be here?”

  He said, “I did not, I swear it.”

  She frowned slightly, as though warning him. “This is Mr Petrie, from London.” She turned to the sharp-faced man. “May I introduce Captain Adam Bolitho, of His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Anemone. ”

  The man attempted to smile. It obviously did not come easily to him.

  Zenoria added, “He is a lawyer, Captain, and he is under instruction to complete the purchase of a suitable house for us here in Plymouth.”

  Her poise and her self-confidence impressed and surprised him, but when she turned from the others he recognised the pain in her eyes. The girl with the moonlit eyes, Bolitho had called her. He controlled his own emotion with an effort.

  A harassed-looking lieutenant hurried down the steps. I see you have introduced one another . . .” He shook his head. “I am all aback today, ma’am. I should have remembered your husband is a great friend of Sir Richard Bolitho.” He turned to Adam. “I was going to send word to your ship, Captain, inviting you to sup with the admiral. But there was no time—you see, sir.”

  “I understand. I was once a flag-lieutenant myself.”

  Relieved, the lieutenant led the way up the steps but hesitated when he realised that Adam had not followed.

  Adam said, “I am not certain. I mean no offence to your admiral after what he has done for my ship . . .” He looked at her again. No contempt, no resentment. But there was something. “I have no desire to intrude.”

  She said quickly, “For my part, there is no intrusion. Do come, Captain Bolitho. I hope to see Lady Catherine while I am in the West Country . . .” She hesitated, “Again.”

  Then they were in the large reception room, with its vast paintings of sea-battles and memorabilia in glass cases; a great house where admirals had lived for many years, which had never become a home. The port admiral, a small, energetic man with an old-fashioned queue, bounced to greet them. There were several other officers present, and a solitary scarlet-coated marine. Women too, with the uncomplaining faces of service wives.

  The admiral took Zenoria’s arm and Adam heard him say, “I hear you’re buying Boscawen House, m’dear? A fine old place— the views are breathtaking. Hunting’s good around there too.”

  She replied, “Rear-Admiral Keen’s father suggested Mr Petrie should deal with the matter.” She glanced at the solemn Petrie. “He knows more than I about such things.”

  The admiral nodded, his eyes running over her like an invisible hand. “Quite so, m’dear. A man of the City, he would know. Not something to trouble your pretty head about.”

  She looked across the room until she found Adam, and her gaze seemed to say, Help me.

  It was suddenly obvious to him. Like the house in Hampshire and the stifling kindness of Keen’s family, nobody had even asked her for her opinion.

  The admiral was saying to the room at large, “I’ll be hauling down my flag next year—a quieter appointment for me at the Admiralty.” He gave his short barking laugh. “I think Boscawen House would make the perfect residence for my successor, what?”

  The others laughed and raised their glasses.

  Adam saw her looking nervously around, imagining how it might be when Valentine Keen came home again. His father had made no secret of his resentment that Keen should prefer the hazardous life of the navy to power and success in the City. Any more than he would want his grandson to follow Keen into the world of sea and ships.

  Adam was surprised he had not heard some mention of this appointment. He glanced at her slight figure again. Like a little girl amongst all these people who knew and wanted no other life. Lost. Completely lost.

  Suppose somebody knew or even suspected the truth? He strode to the admiral’s side, caution gone like the wind from a shot-riddled sail.

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but may I show Rear-Admiral Keen’s wife the beautiful garden you have here?”

  “So long as you behave yourself, m’lad! I know about young frigate captains!” His barking laugh followed them to the French windows that opened on to a wide terrace, which was decorated with large urns of plants.

  As soon as it was possible to speak, Adam said, “I am so sorry about this, Zenoria—I really did not know you were here.” She said nothing, and he continued more urgently, “My ship sails in three days. You have nothing to fear from me. I wronged you . . . I will never forget. I would never have harmed you, because . . .”

  Her eyes were misty. He dared not think there might be kindness in them for him. “Because?” One word, so gently said.

  “I have no right.”

  She put her hand on his sleeve. “We should walk, but remain in view of the house. I know from Lady Catherine’s experience how cruel are those who know nothing but envy.”

  They walked slowly by the wall, her gown touching the salt-roughened grass, his sword slapping against his thigh.

  Then she asked abruptly, “Can you see me with all these clever, worldly people?” She turned to look up at him. “In truth, Adam, can you?”

  He placed his hand over hers and they walked on. “You will captivate them, as you do me.” He waited, expecting her to react angrily, reject him as she had in Hampshire, the last time he had seen her.

  But she said, “When Val returns he will rightly expect me to be proud of his achievements, and I want to be equal to his expectations. I am proud of him, and I have never forgotten what I owe him.”

  He said, holding her hand against his arm, “And what about you, little mermaid, are you owed nothing? What if others care?”

  She glanced up at him. “I know you care. Of course I know. I remember . . .”

&nb
sp; “What do you remember?” She was faltering, pulling away.

  “When I found you in tears, Adam, grieving for Sir Richard. And then . . .”

  “I loved you, Zenoria. I shall always love you. I want no other.”

  She stared at him, her eyes frightened. “ Stop! You must not say such things!”

  They halted at the end of the wall and looked at one another for a long moment. An old gardener carrying a rake passed them; they neither saw nor heard him.

  Adam said quietly, “I am not proud of what I am, Zenoria. But if I could take you from your husband, a man I like and greatly admire, then I would do it.” He saw her agitation but did not release his grip. “I would not hesitate.”

  “Please, somebody is coming!”

  It was the flag-lieutenant. “The admiral desires you to join the others for refreshments. Afterwards, there will be a recital.” His eyes moved between them but were without curiosity.

  Adam offered his arm and they walked slowly back towards the house.

  “Shall I leave, Zenoria?”

  She shook her head, her profile suddenly very determined. “No. Talk to me about your ship—anything, d’you understand? But do not reveal your heart again like that.”

  He said, “I still have your glove.” Something to say, to control his need of her.

  “Keep it for me.” Her voice was husky. “Think of me sometimes, will you?”

  “Always. I love you, Zenoria.” They re-entered the house in silence.

  The admiral raised his eyebrows. “God swamp you, Captain Bolitho, I thought you had spirited her away!”

  She curtsied as if to conceal the colour in her cheeks.

  “Only little mermaids can do that, sir!”

  Their eyes met across the table. Nothing could ever be the same again.

  8 DREAMS

  THE FIGURES standing around the quarterdeck and grouped by the big double-wheel were still only shadows, revealed, but without personality against the pale planking.

  John Allday waited by the hammock nettings, and glanced at the lightening sky. It would be dawn very soon: the few stars beyond the topgallant yards were fainter than when he had last looked. Then, by daylight, they would know if the captain and sailing-master had judged it correctly.

  The whole ship’s company had been standing-to since the early hours. Peering around in the darkness, trying to remember who was where. Seeking out friends, perhaps, or maybe looking out for a boatswain’s mate, ready to use his starter on anyone who was slow to move when the orders came.

  James Tyacke was pacing from one side of the broad quarter-deck to the other. Suppose daylight found Indomitable with the ocean to herself? It would be a bad beginning for him as captain, Allday thought.

  He felt the wind against his neck and shivered. It had shifted, as York had predicted. The ship was as close-hauled as she would bear, the canvas cracking overhead, losing the wind until the vigilant helmsmen brought her back under command again.

  Allday heard someone speaking hoarsely to Eli Fairbrother, the gun captain selected to be the captain’s coxswain. He moved into the deeper shadows by the nettings. He was in no mood to chat with the man. He might prove to be a good hand, given time, but at the moment he was so overwhelmed by his unexpected promotion that he would not stop talking about it.

  Allday glanced up again into the darkness. He could see some of the shrouds and ratlines now, and far above, a flapping white movement, like a seabird trapped in the rigging. The admiral’s flag at the mainmast truck.

  All the years, the pain and the danger. Friends and enemies wiped away, lost like smoke in the wind. To serve with Bolitho had been all he had ever wanted, needed. They had both taken a few bad knocks over their years together, and Allday had shared the best and the worst of it. His oak, Bolitho called him, and the name meant much to Allday. It gave him a sense of belonging that few Jacks were lucky enough to enjoy.

  Now they were off again. He rubbed his chest where the Spanish blade had nearly killed him. Always the pain. Sir Richard with his wounded eye; he needed his oak more than ever now.

  He sighed. But now there was Unis. Ever since Indomitable had put out from Falmouth he had thought of her. In so short a while Unis had become precious, so dear to him. Once he might have laughed at anybody else who had claimed such an attachment. Not any more. Even Ozzard, who was quick to find fault with most women, had held his peace.

  It had been a difficult parting. Ferguson had come over to Fallowfield with his little trap to collect him. They had agreed it would be better so, instead of saying goodbye in Falmouth. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her like all those other women who sometimes stood for hours, days even, to stare at some manof-war in the hope of catching a glimpse of their loved ones.

  He had held her very gently. With her he was always gentle, protective, careful not to offend, and she had pressed her face into his blue coat.

  “I’ll not break, John. Harder, hold me harder—then kiss me and go.” Then she had looked up at his face, as if to hold every detail. “ I love ’ee, John Allday. You’ve brought peace and purpose to my life.”

  Allday had said awkwardly, “I’ve not much to offer, my lass. But I’ll be back, you see if I’m not!”

  “I’ll not forgive you if you stay away!” Then there had been tears on her cheeks and she had dashed them away, angry with herself. “Now be off with you!” Then she had hesitated, as if uncertain what to do.

  “What is it, lass?”

  She had answered, “I put a few things in your bag. I don’t want you depending on ship’s victuals.”

  Then she stood on tip-toe and kissed him hard on the mouth. “I’ll pray for you, John.”

  Allday had grasped the side of the trap. He knew she could not see him, even though she was smiling and waving. Her eyes were blinded by tears.

  He had found himself beside Ferguson and the trap had moved away. Once he had looked back. Unis had been staring at the road, while the Old Hyperion inn sign swung relentlessly above her head.

  He thought she had been going to tell him something. When Lieutenant Avery read her next letter to him, maybe she would explain what it was.

  All Ferguson had said was, “You’re a lucky man, John.”

  Allday heard voices nearby. The admiral was coming up.

  He heard the new coxswain, Fairbrother, exclaim, “An’ not only that, but the cap’n calls me by my first name!”

  Allday sighed again. Lucky? When I could be with Unis? He stared into the dark water alongside. But for once he could find no comfort in the familiarity of his world.

  Bolitho was wearing his old seagoing coat without the proud epaulettes, and was hatless.

  He saw Allday by the side and asked, “How goes it today, old friend?”

  Allday glanced towards Tyacke’s coxswain. “He calls me by my first name.” He can put that in his pipe and smoke it! He answered, “Well enough, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho found Tyacke by the quarterdeck rail with the first lieutenant. Allday could hide nothing from him. They had been together too long for that. He was missing Unis, the first real love he had ever known. As I miss you, Kate.

  Tyacke remarked, “We’ll soon know, sir.” He turned to the first lieutenant. “Check each mast, Mr Scarlett. The lieutenants must be certain of every man in their divisions when we come about, even if it takes a mite longer. I don’t want the ship in irons, nor do I want to see anyone lost overboard.”

  Scarlett had already done it, but knew better than to argue or explain. As he moved forward along the weather gangway he glanced aloft. The flag and masthead pendant were much lighter. He thought of Tyacke and the admiral beside him: so different, and yet not so different. He saw Avery with a telescope tucked under one arm. In the wardroom several of the others had tried to pry information out of him concerning the admiral and what he was really like. He had seen Avery’s strange tawny eyes flash like a tiger’s, watched him deflect each question like an experienced duellist.r />
  Faces took on shape and identity, and then the first pale sunshine ran down the upper spars, and revealed to many that the wind had indeed shifted.

  Tyacke cupped his hands. “Ready ho!”

  Figures scampered to braces and halliards, while each lieutenant and midshipman checked his men, very aware of the two figures silhouetted against the paling sky by the quarterdeck rail.

  “Put the helm down!”

  Bolitho could feel the quarterdeck rail quivering under his hand as the straining seamen let go the headsail sheets, so that the sails could lose the wind and yet not prevent the ship’s head from swinging.

  “Off tacks and sheets!” Scarlett’s voice boomed through his speaking-trumpet even as the shadowy bows began to stagger into the eye of the wind.

  “Mains’l haul! Haul, lads! Put your bloody backs into it!”

  Hockenhull, the squat boatswain, sounded fierce but was grinning as the ship around and above him fought to answer the demands of sail and rudder.

  “Mains’l haul!”

  Bolitho watched the hands hauling at the braces to swing the great yards around, the sails in wild confusion until, with something like a roar, they refilled and the ship heeled right over, canvas taut and bulging, lines being turned expertly on to belaying pins, while the landmen tried to keep out of everybody’s way. Bolitho shaded his eyes and stared up again. Big though she was, and with a partly-trained company, Tyacke had brought the ship about to lay her on the opposite tack.

  The helmsman yelled, “Steady she goes, sir! West by north! By an’ large!”

  Even he sounded excited, and when Bolitho looked at York, the master, he was grinning hugely like a midshipman with a fresh apple pie.

  “Deck, there!”

  The masthead lookout, the man who saw everything before anyone else. Bolitho saw Tyacke’s brown hand tighten on the rail. If there was anything to see.

  “Sail, fine on the lee bow, sir!”

  Tyacke turned to the signals midshipman. “Aloft with you, Mr Blythe, and take a glass with you!”