For My Country's Freedom Read online

  Allday watched the approaching barge with a critical eye. A second coxswain had been appointed as his assistant, mostly to supervise its cleaning and general maintenance. He would be a help to Allday, who was so often troubled by his old chest wound. Bolitho looked away. Allday’s expression seemed to suggest that the man in question still had a long way to go.

  “A lot of memories in this place, old friend.”

  Allday answered thoughtfully. “Indeed, sir, more than a few.”

  Bolitho said impulsively, “I know how you are feeling . . . about home. But I have to tell you, Lady Catherine is grateful that you came with me. And so am I.”

  It was like a cloud drifting away. Allday gave a great grin, so that his troubled thoughts seemed to go with it.

  “Ah, well, we just need Cap’n Adam alongside now, and we’ll be ready for anything . . .” His eyes hardened as the barge tossed oars too soon and came against the fenders with a sickening lurch. Unabashed, Protheroe, the young fourth lieutenant, leapt ashore and removed his hat with a flourish. “At your service, Sir Richard!”

  Beyond his shoulder Bolitho heard Allday growl at the second coxswain, “I don’t care, see? Even if he is a bloody officer, you take charge. Don’t treat the barge like a battering-ram!”

  Protheroe’s bright confidence had been replaced by two vivid spots of colour in his cheeks. He had heard every word, as Allday had intended.

  Bolitho settled himself in the sternsheets and waited for the barge to glide away from the jetty.

  He glanced at Protheroe and said quietly, “If it is of any consolation, I once collided with my admiral’s barge when I was a midshipman.”

  “Oh?” The relief flooded his face. “Oh!”

  After the din and turmoil of being piped on board, Bolitho took Allday to one side. “Captain Tyacke and I are being entertained to dinner in the wardroom tonight. It may be the last chance we get for a while.”

  “I knows about that, sir.”

  Bolitho hid a smile. Like many other people Allday probably thought it was absurd that the admiral and the ship’s captain had to wait for an invitation before they could enter the wardroom mess. His father had dismissed it as tradition, part of the navy’s mystique. But where did all that go when the screens were torn down, and the decks were cleared from bow to stern, and such gentility was drowned and lost in the din of war?

  “When it is done, and if you have a mind, lay aft and join me and Captain Tyacke for a wet, as you would call it.”

  Allday grinned, and thought of the captain’s new coxswain, Eli Fairbrother. The day he gets asked for a wet will be the day.

  Bolitho saw Scarlett, the first lieutenant, waiting nearby.

  “Mr Scarlett, how may I help you?”

  Scarlett almost stammered. “Tonight, Sir Richard, I . . .”

  “We have not forgotten. And I intend that we should entertain all our captains who may be present as soon as Anemone arrives. It is always good to know the men who command the ships you may have to rely on.”

  Scarlett came out of his troubled thoughts. “A sail was sighted at noon, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho recalled once more Hyperion ’s approach at snail’s pace as Catherine had described it to him so many times. Today, there was even less wind at the newcomer’s disposal.

  Scarlett glanced at the listless masthead pendant. “The army lookout station on Monk’s Hill sent word that she may be the schooner Kelpie. She is apparently due.” He sensed the question in Bolitho’s eyes. “Mail-packet, Sir Richard, from the Bermudas.” An odd expression, a sadness, Bolitho thought, crossed his face. “Before that, England.”

  Bolitho turned away. Maybe another letter from Catherine? Perhaps new directions from the Admiralty?

  Bethune might have changed his mind, or been ordered to change it. He had seen the doubts for himself. It was dangerous, as it was delicate. The Americans could be provoked into war, or they could be dissuaded from open conflict. Nothing would be achieved by sitting still and pretending a confrontation would go away of its own accord.

  “So let’s be about it then,” he said.

  Scarlett was still staring after him as he strode aft to the cabin. Lieutenant George Avery nodded to the marine sentry and waited for Ozzard to open the screen door for him.

  The great cabin was lit only by two lanterns, and right aft beyond the tall stern windows he could see some scattered shore lights, and the moon’s silver reflection on the gently breathing water.

  He saw his admiral sitting on the bench seat, his heavy gold-laced coat draped over Ozzard’s arm, his shirt open while he sipped a tall glass of hock.

  Bolitho said, “Be seated.”

  He saw Allday begin to rise for the lieutenant, but he changed his mind as Avery shook his head. To Bolitho he said, “Let it be like that time in Freetown, Sir Richard. There are no officers here tonight. Only men.”

  Bolitho smiled. Avery was more outspoken than usual; but there had been plenty of wine at the wardroom dinner, and so much food that, considering the temperature and the unmoving air between decks, it was a wonder some of them had not collapsed.

  After the first awkward formalities between the mostly young officers and their admiral, as well as their formidable captain, things had settled down. Unlike meat from the cask, rock-hard when the cooks got their hands on it, there was a pleasant surprise on offer, an unlimited supply of fresh roast pork. The captain of the dockyard had his own pigs on the island, and had presented the meat from his own larder.

  Apart from the four lieutenants and the two Royal Marine officers, the wardroom consisted of the ship’s specialists. Isaac York, the sailing-master, seemed to have an endless fund of stories about strange ports he had visited since going to sea at the age of eight. It was Bolitho’s first real meeting with the ship’s surgeon, Philip Beauclerk, young for his trade, with the palest eyes Bolitho had ever seen. Almost transparent, like sea-polished glass. An educated, quiet-spoken man, a far cry from the rough and ready surgeons, the butchers as they were called; men like George Minchin who had once served in Hyperion, and had been on board when the old ship had given up the fight. Wild-eyed, crude, and often half-drunk with rum, he had nevertheless saved many lives that day. And he had not quit the ship until the last of the wounded, or those who were not beyond hope, had been taken off.

  Minchin would be in Halifax now, serving in the big frigate Valkyrie, where Bolitho had last met him.

  Bolitho had caught Beauclerk watching him several times throughout the meal, the general drinking and the seemingly endless procession of toasts. It was impossible that he could know anything about his eye. Or was it? There was no more private society than the medical profession. But Beauclerk had spoken with great intelligence and interest about what might lie ahead, and was probably trying to guess what his own part might be. It was very hard to picture him like Minchin in that raging, bloody hell on the orlop deck, the wings-and-limbs tubs filled to over-flowing with the gory remnants of those who had been cut down in battle.

  Three midshipmen had been invited too, and one of them, Midshipman David Cleugh, had been required to call the Loyal Toast. This he did in a piping, quavery voice. He had then been sternly ordered to drink a full goblet of brandy by the captain of marines. For, by coincidence, it was the midshipman’s twelfth birthday.

  The quietest man in the wardroom had been James Viney, the purser. He had been unable to drag his eyes from the captain, who sat directly opposite him. Like a mesmerised rabbit, Bolitho had thought. Tyacke had not come aft for a last drink, and had made his excuses as the messmen had started to clear away the table so that cards and dice could be produced. Out of politeness nobody would move until the senior guests had departed.

  Tyacke, his torn face in shadow, had said only, “I want to go through a book or two before I turn in.”

  Bolitho recalled the purser’s nervousness. The books might have a lot to do with that.

  Bolitho had thrust out his hand, and had seen the sud
den surprise in those clear blue eyes that reminded him so much of Thomas Herrick. “Thank you, James.”

  “For what, sir?” His handshake had been firm, nevertheless.

  Bolitho had answered quietly, “You know for what. As I know what this evening cost you. But believe me, you will not regret it. Nor will I.”

  Ozzard brought another glass of hock and placed a goblet of rum almost within Allday’s reach: his quiet, stubborn way of showing he was not his servant.

  They sat in silence, listening to the ship’s private noises and the dragging step of a watchkeeper overhead.

  Avery said suddenly, “The leaves will soon fall in England.” Then he shook his head and winced. “God, how I shall pay for all that wine in the morning!”

  Bolitho touched the locket inside his shirt and saw Avery glance as it flashed in the lantern light. Perhaps they all saw him in different ways. Few would imagine he could be as he was when he and Catherine were together.

  Scarlett had also asked Yovell as a guest, but he had declined, and had spent the evening in the tiny cabin that also served him as an office and writing-space.

  Allday had assured him that Yovell was quite happy to be alone. He had said with some amusement, “He reads his Bible every night. There’s still quite a lot of it to take in!”

  Through the open skylight and stern windows they heard the creak of oars. It was so still that every sound seemed to carry.

  Then the hail, “Boat ahoy!”

  Avery looked surprised. “Who is abroad at this hour?” He stood up. “I’ll go and see, sir.” He smiled suddenly, and appeared young and relaxed, as he must have been once. “There may not be another officer sober enough to deal with it!”

  The oars were louder, nearer. Then came the reply. “Officer-ofthe-Guard!”

  Bolitho massaged his eyes. He was tired, but rare moments with friends like these could not be ignored.

  He thought of Scarlett, anxious and unsure of himself during the meal. Was it so important to him? He was a good officer, and watching him going about his duties Bolitho might have believed that he was completely confident, with perhaps only his next promotion uppermost in his mind. He had noticed, however, that neither he nor Avery had spoken to one another.

  Avery returned, carrying a waterproof envelope.

  “Would you believe, sir, the mail-schooner Kelpie entered harbour in pitch darkness after all. The guard-boat stood by just in case.” He held out the envelope. “ Kelpie met with Anemone. She’s waiting until first light before she comes in.”

  Bolitho said, “Very wise, with the harbour full of ships, and Adam with a raw company.”

  He saw Allday watching him questioningly.

  Bolitho said, “It’s from Lady Catherine.”

  A cold hand seemed to touch him and he could not shake it off. He recognised her handwriting instantly, and had seen an Admiralty wax seal on the envelope. A priority. For private correspondence?

  Avery stood up. “Then I shall leave you, sir.”

  “No!” He was surprised by the sharpness of his own voice. What is the matter with me? “Ozzard, recharge the glasses, if you please.” Even Ozzard was motionless, watching, listening.

  “If you will excuse me.” Bolitho slit open the envelope and unfolded her letter.

  He was suddenly quite alone, with only the letter, her words rising to meet him.

  My darling Richard,

  I would give anything not to write this letter, to send you news which will grieve you as it has me.

  I have to tell you that Val’s little boy is dead. It was an accident, and he suffocated in his cot before anyone could help him.

  Bolitho looked away, feeling the sting in his eye and yet unable to hide it.

  He heard Allday ask thickly, “What is it, sir?”

  But Bolitho shook his head and read on.

  The others saw him fold the letter and then raise it to his lips. Then he became aware of his companions. He felt as though he had been absent from them for a long time.

  Ozzard held out a glass of brandy and bobbed nervously. “Just a sip, sir.”

  “Thank you.” He could barely taste it. As a child before entering the navy he had often walked with his mother along that path. To Trystan’s Leap. It had been frightening even in daylight, full of legend and superstition. He felt the cold hand on his heart again, and in his mind’s eye he saw her falling, so slowly, her long hair like weed as she came to the surface, her slender body broken on those terrible rocks. He asked, although it did not seem like his own voice, “They sighted Anemone, you say?”

  Avery responded crisply, “Aye, sir. Standing about five miles to the sou’-west.”

  Bolitho stood up and crossed to the two swords, which hung on their rack. Adam, he thought, Adam, Adam . . .

  How could he tell him? And what of Val, so proud of his first son, who was one day to wear the King’s uniform?

  He touched the old family sword. What did fate intend?

  He said, “I want no talk of this.” He turned, and looked at each of them in turn. The stooping little figure by the pantry hatch; Avery, on his feet again, his eyes wary, uncertain. Lastly he looked at Allday.

  “I have to tell you that Rear-Admiral Keen’s child is dead.” He tried not to think of Catherine on the beach with the dead girl’s body in her arms. “Shortly afterwards . . .”

  There was no point in telling these honest men that the family had said and done nothing at all until Keen’s father had been located in London. “The girl we saw wed Val at Zennor killed herself.” He saw Allday’s fists open and close as he added, “At Trystan’s Leap.”

  Avery said, “Rear-Admiral Keen will be desolate, sir.”

  Bolitho turned to him, calm now, knowing what must be done. “Do something for me. Go now and ensure that there is a note in the signals log for the morning watch. As soon as Anemone is within signals range I want Captain repair on board hoisted. Then hoist Immediate when she is anchored.”

  Allday offered roughly, “I could clear away the barge and collect him, sir.”

  Bolitho stared at him. “No, old friend. This is a private matter for as long as we may keep it so.” To Avery he said, “Please do it. I will see you tomorrow.” He paused. “Thank you.”

  Allday made to follow but Bolitho said, “Wait.”

  Allday sat down heavily. They were alone, and they could hear Ozzard tidying up in his pantry.

  “You knew . . . their feeling for one another.”

  Allday sighed. “I seen ’em together.”

  “There was no intrigue, if that’s what you mean?”

  Allday watched him carefully. Knowing this man so well, but with no words to help him now that he needed it.

  He said, “Not in the way we means, sir. But love’s new to me, and I’ve heard tell that it can be a blessing, then again it can be a curse.”

  “And you knew all this.”

  “Felt it, more like.”

  “No one must suspect. Captain . . . Adam means so much to me.”

  “I knows it, sir. It must have been another world to that poor lass.” He shrugged. “They looked so right together, I thought.”

  Bolitho walked past him, but paused with his hand on his massive shoulder.

  “A curse, you said?” He thought of Catherine’s words, a cry from the heart. The Mark of Satan.

  He said quietly, “Then let them have peace now.”

  He was still sitting at the open stern windows when the first pale sunlight spread across English Harbour.

  In Cornwall, the passage of time would have blurred the memories of most people, while in some isolated villages there would be those still pondering on the old beliefs, curses and morals, and the torment for those who defied them.

  But this morning there was still a pretence of peace. Above his head on the quarterdeck he knew Avery had not slept either, and was watching even as Adam’s Anemone glided slowly to her anchorage. For him it would still be a puzzle, a mystery he was not pr
ivileged to share, but he must sense that the answer lay in the flags barely moving in the breeze.

  Captain repair on board. Immediate.

  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. Scar-lett 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.