For My Country's Freedom Read online

  Bolitho saw the reckless Captain Dampier’s eager face clearly like a portrait in his mind.

  Tyacke was saying, “I did not disturb you. There is nothing we can do until we meet with the courier brig tomorrow.” He hesitated. “I am glad about Captain Bolitho, sir. I have much respect for him.”

  “What damage, James?”

  Again the hesitation. In a moment he knew why. “Very little. A spar or two shot away, but the brig was taken as a prize. Unhappily, Captain Dampier was killed outright by a stray ball. He’ll be sorely missed.”

  Bolitho paced along the side, deep in thought. Dampier was always one to take risks, to lead his men in person to board an enemy, to walk his deck when all hell was breaking loose around him. A popular captain who had never appreciated that there was always one risk too many.

  Bolitho watched the bronze shine on the deep troughs giving way to deeper shadows.

  “I shall write to his parents.” It was better not to know men so well. That well. But how could you not, when to lead you must take and hold their confidence despite the pain, the sense of betrayal when they died?

  Tyacke said, “This plan of yours, Sir Richard.”

  “You are still against it?”

  “I am, sir.” He paused as seamen scampered past to take in the slack of some loose lines.

  “Because it might fail? That I might be wrong about the enemy’s intentions?”

  Tyacke faced him stubbornly. “Because of you, sir. If the enemy is uncertain of the troop convoy’s time of arrival at Halifax, he might attempt an attack in the Caribbean, where he has more chance of success. Either way he can divide our strength, but at least we will have taken all precautions open to us. And this ruse to draw us against Captain Bolitho’s proposed prison—I am firmly convinced it would be a trap, to seize or destroy more of our vessels.” He took a deep breath. “In every case, every action will point to you.”

  “You of all people should not be so surprised, James. But I have little or no choice. The Americans will finish us piecemeal if we keep up this unrewarding hit-and-run strategy. We are here to destroy their ships, and to re-open our safe seaways for supplies, and the military for the conflict in Canada. They might still fight on the Lakes, but that will never decide a war.”

  They walked a few more paces while the other ships in company seemed to melt into the ocean itself.

  Bolitho said, “Victor or scapegoat, James? The price of admiralty.” Then, “Send for Yovell. I shall issue the squadron’s orders by morning.”

  Tyacke watched him stride to the companion-way and tried to feel the depth of the man. His energy, his infectious optimism and his black despair. What had restored him? His nephew’s incredible escape, aided by a man who had once served as his coxswain? Allday’s son. Or was it the letter still unopened in the admiral’s little box, Catherine Somervell’s words and strength from across an ocean?

  He saw Allday by the hammock nettings and asked him how he was.

  He saw the tired grin in the shadows.

  “I feel at odds with meself, Cap’n. I was flung right over when I saw who it was with Cap’n Adam. Like turning the pages. Friend or father, I’m not sure which. He’s not going back to their lot, though, an’ that’s a blessing.”

  Tyacke said, “Did he tell you what happened?”

  Allday stiffened suspiciously. But why not? Captain Tyacke was no enemy. Also, he needed to talk, if only to sort it out for himself, to make some sense of it.

  “He couldn’t get work, not the kind he quit the navy for, sir. He wanted to fish, or work on the land. Nobody had any use for him.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Even his wife gave up on him and took to another man’s bed. So when he heard about Cap’n Adam he knew what he must do. He’ll hang or worse if they catches him.”

  Tyacke said, “Go below. There was a letter from home for you, I believe.”

  Allday sighed. “It makes up for all this, sir.”

  Tyacke watched him melt into the gloom and was suddenly filled with envy.

  He stared into the darkness, seeing the last of the horizon. Then he touched the weathered quarterdeck rail. Aloud he said, “We’ll fight very soon, my girl. You and me. Never ask the bloody reason, only fight and win!”

  Adam Bolitho lay in the gently swaying cot, listening to the groan and shiver of cordage and rudder, the occasional slap of spray against the quarter windows. The cabin was in darkness but for a solitary lantern, and he knew that his uncle was elsewhere expanding upon his instructions to his captains for the courier brig.

  It was heavy and close between decks with all hatches and shutters sealed as though against some unseen enemy witness. He was sweating, and the ache in his side felt as if the wound had been re-opened.

  It was still hard to accept that he was in Indomitable, that he would not be awakened by the one-legged man from Bristol, or the surly lieutenant of the guard.

  They would be hunting for him. A needle in a haystack. He prayed that those who had aided his escape would remain safe and unknown.

  He listened to the footsteps on deck and pictured the duty watch, the lieutenant and his midshipmen and master’s mate, the helmsmen watching the dimly glowing compass card, their bare feet braced against the tug of the great rudder. Sounds and sensations so familiar and personal that he was even more aware of his sense of bereavement, of not belonging. He heard the scrape of boots and quick murmurs beyond the screen as the marine sentry was relieved. His world, and yet denied to him since Anemone ’s loss.

  A door opened, and he thought he heard Ozzard’s sharp voice. Another lantern threw more light around the sleeping-compartment and he saw a small figure with unruly hair and bare feet, treading carefully down the slope of the deck with a tray gripped in his hands like something precious.

  Adam forced himself on to his elbow and opened the shutter of his lantern. “I know you, boy, you’re John Whitmarsh. They told me what happened to you.”

  The boy stared at him, almost afraid, shocked perhaps to see his captain lying like any wounded seaman.

  “Aye, sir. ’Tis me. Mr Ozzard said for me to come to you. I’ve brought some wine. He said it belonged to some lady, though I didn’t understand what he meant, sir.”

  Adam reached out and took his arm. There was nothing of him. “Volunteered” by some relative who found his upkeep and care too inconvenient.

  “You survived when so many fell, John Whitmarsh.” He tried to smile. “Or surrendered!”

  “I tried, sir.” He did not explain. “Be you goin’ to be all right, sir?”

  Adam nodded. “When I get a ship. I’ll be brave enough then.”

  He realised that the boy was staring at him, his eyes filling his face. The realisation came starkly to him. The boy had nothing. Even his best friend had been lost.

  He asked, “Will you come as my servant, John, when I get another ship? Will you do that?”

  The boy nodded and began to sob quietly. “I’d be that proud, sir!”

  “Can you read?”

  “No, sir. But I could learn!”

  Adam smiled. “I shall teach you. Who knows, you may wear the King’s coat one day; then I shall be proud of you, eh?”

  “I dunno what to say, sir!”

  Adam sipped the wine. Lady Catherine’s. Ozzard would understand. This poor, twelve-year-old youth probably imagined that he was offering him some kind of lifeline. He would never believe that it was the other way round.

  The excitement, the emotion, and now the wine were making him drowsy again.

  He said, “On days when we are sad, young John, we can restore ourselves by remembering our old ship, and our lost friends.” His eyes hardened in the flickering lights. “Our enemies, too, if it pleases you.”

  The boy watched until he was asleep and then curled up near by. Without fear, without need. He was somebody.

  16 THE STRENGTH OF A SHIP

  BOLITHO walked up to the stern windows of the great cabin and watched the spray soaking the th
ick glass, hardening like ice rime in the south-westerly wind.

  Captain James Tyacke watched him, noting each mood while half his mind clung to the sounds of wind and rigging. His responsibility to his ship.

  “You still think I am wrong, James?”

  “I’m more worried by the weather, sir. York claims it will remain the same for a few days yet, but I’m not so sure. If the Halifax-bound convoy is caught by wind and heavy seas it could be scattered, and that means they would be without whatever escorts their lordships have seen fit to provide.” He did not hide the contempt in his voice. “All those men, and horses and guns too. It would be slaughter.”

  Bolitho walked to the chart on his table. It was noon, but gloomy enough for sunset.

  He tried to picture his extended line of ships, with Captain Dawes’ big Valkyrie in command, spread along the 45th parallel while the rest of their patrol areas were left undefended. Beer’s Unity was at Boston, and the Baltimore, another of the new American frigates, had been in Delaware Bay. Waiting for any rescue attempt? It seemed unlikely, although Zest ’s first lieutenant had reported sighting such a vessel when they had crossed swords with the smart little brig. Every captain would act as he thought fit if challenged, without hope of assistance and support.

  Bolitho touched his eye. He had to be right. The convoy of soldiers, now said to be doubled in size, was a prize no commander could ignore.

  But if I am wrong . . .

  The door opened and Adam entered the cabin. Three days since Allday’s son had guided him to safety, and what a difference, except in his eyes. There was tension there, and strain around his mouth which Bolitho had not seen before Anemone ’s loss.

  There was eagerness too, in marked contrast. Almost the midshipman again, or was it only wishful thinking?

  “Well, Adam, you look the part at least!”

  Adam glanced down at his various items of uniform clothing, which had been donated by Indomitable ’s officers and midshipmen.

  Tyacke asked, “Did the first lieutenant have something to offer?”

  Bolitho glanced at him. The sharpness in the question was very evident.

  Adam said easily, “I expect he forgot. All first lieutenants have much to do on the eve of great matters!” He tried to grin, but it did not relieve the intensity in his eyes.

  Bolitho asked, “You are so certain of that?”

  Impulsively he put his hands on Adam’s shoulders. “I have your commission for you. You will assume command of Zest immediately, in case the weather goes against us. But no risks, Adam—you are far from well as yet. Hold the people together and try to keep Anemone a kind memory, one that will not incite you to avenge her beyond what you know to be any chance of victory. You are my best frigate captain, so take heed.”

  He squeezed his shoulders, and thought of the letter he had sent away in the schooner Reynard.

  My dearest Kate, I am loath to send him to Zest after what he went through. But he is the best I have, and he needs the command, as I once did.

  Tyacke glanced at the salt stains on the leaning windows. He was eager to get it over with. In his heart he knew they all were. Like the last goodbyes; never the proper words when they were most needed.

  He said, “Captain Dampier was a good leader, if a trifle reckless for my taste. But because he is dead he will suddenly become a martyr when anyone speaks of him.” He smiled briefly, as if touched by some memory. “His company may close ranks, regard you as an intruder, yes?”

  Adam nodded, very conscious of the power of this tall figure with the ruined face. “I understand you.”

  “Oh yes, they will curse their new captain and damn his eyes to the full, swear to God he can never hold a slow-match to their old one! But you are the captain. Allow nobody to forget it.” He held out his hand. “And you’re taking the boy Whitmarsh with you?” He knew one of the reasons was because the boy had been the last one alive to leave Anemone.

  But all Adam said was, “He deserves it.”

  A midshipman, his jacket black with spray, peered in at them.

  “First lieutenant’s respects, sir! Boat’s ready alongside!” He fled.

  Bolitho said, “There is one thing more.” He walked to the bulkhead and took down the old family sword. “Take this. It will be yours by right one day.”

  Adam refused it gently, putting it back into his hands. “We’ll not speak of that, Uncle. I shall find another when the need arises.”

  They walked out into the passageway between the lines of officers’ cabins, hutches which could be ripped down in minutes when the hands dashed to quarters and the drums stopped every man’s heartbeat. Figures moved out like shadows: Allday with a handclasp, Yovell, even Ozzard, who rarely showed any emotion at all. And John Bankart, Allday’s illegitimate son, unknown for so many years.

  Perhaps Adam was thinking of his own upbringing, fatherless as he had then believed, his mother selling herself to feed and educate him.

  Bolitho watched as Adam shook Bankart’s hand. Never a youth, but now a man of thirty or so.

  He heard Adam say, “Leave the sea, John. It is not for you and never was. I’ll never forget what you did for me, nor will your father.” He smiled with genuine warmth. “Give him time. He is all aback because of you!”

  The calls trilled and he was down the side, nimbly, and sure-footed despite his wound.

  Bolitho shaded his eyes to stare over at Zest, showing her copper as she pitched violently in a quarter sea.

  Her company were in for a surprise. It would do them good. He watched Adam turn just once to wave from the sternsheets, his borrowed hat pressed between his knees. It would do Adam good as well.

  Tyacke had already put the event from his immediate thoughts. “I shall exercise the guns when the hands have eaten, Sir Richard. This is no time for slackness.”

  Bolitho left him and went aft to his cabin. There he took out his unfinished letter and wondered when they would meet with the Reynard again, or some other courier who would take it on board.

  He sat with the pages spread out on the table and laid her last letter beside them. She had written of the changing colours of Cornwall, of Falmouth. The coming of autumn, and the mists over Pendennis Point.

  Each night I lie and await thee, dearest of men. I speak your name, and like that terrible day when they found Zenoria, I feel your hand on mine. Safe, safe, and oh so precious to me. I wrote to you before about Val Keen. He was grieved by his loss. Bolitho had imagined that he had felt her hesitate as she had written it. But he will get over it, I am certain, and he shall find another.

  There are those who have no such escape . . .

  He looked up, annoyed at the interruption, but it was Allday.

  Allday said, “I thought I’d stop them disturbing you, Sir Richard. Reaper has just sighted a sail to the east’rd. A brig.”

  “One of ours then, old friend.” His eyes moved to the letter. No, he would finish it afterwards. Why should that word hold such threat?

  Allday said gruffly, “It’s strange to have your own kin aboard. Better he were a stranger—I’d not feel so ill at ease!” His eyes crinkled. “Still, he was fair tickled when he heard about the baby.”

  Bolitho smiled. Kate. He hoped it had not saddened his own Kate.

  Two hours later, Indomitable was near enough to the newcomer to identify her as the brig Weazel of fourteen guns.

  She had been ordered to patrol as close as was prudent to the southern approaches of Nantucket Sound. As laid down in his original instructions, her commander, a red-faced Devonian named John Mates, had left the sector to find either his admiral in person or one of the chain of vessels that made up this very mixed squadron.

  Tyacke brought the news to Bolitho in his cabin.

  “From Weazel, sir. The U.S.S. Unity has put to sea. She slipped out three nights ago.” He spread his strong hands. “Gone, just like that.” He saw Bolitho’s mind working busily on the information, or the lack of it. He added, “I’ve repea
ted the signal to Reaper . . .” his blue eyes did not even blink, “. . . and Zest. ”

  Bolitho leaned over his chart again. Not yet. Not yet. Two days more. How could they know, be certain of anything? This was not warfare as it was expected to be fought. But then, those who made the rules of battle had too often never seen one. This was personal, cold-bloodedly personal. Either Beer must be destroyed, or he must kill me. Nothing else would make the vital difference.

  Tyacke said quite suddenly, “I shall give you all I have, sir.”

  Bolitho said, looking up at him, “Then we shall succeed.”

  He glanced at the unfinished letter again. Dearest Kate. Our love is greater even than duty. Once he might have challenged such a sentiment, but that was in the past.

  Tyacke had gone. He was like the strength of Indomitable herself, her great keel, her shining batteries of guns: strong enough to control landmen and seasoned sailors like the ship’s rigging itself. He smiled. As an old hand who had once trained him had explained every mile of cordage.

  “Equal strain on all parts, my young gennleman! That’s the strength of it!” It certainly described Tyacke better than he knew himself.

  On the weather side of the quarterdeck George Avery gripped a stay and watched the majesty of the ocean stretching away on either beam. It was hard to accept, until somebody like York showed you the chart and the pages of calculations, tides, depths and currents, that there was any danger. Land of any kind was beyond the sight of even the most keen-eyed lookout. Only the misty topsails of their two consorts, like linked hands, were visible on the horizons.

  He thought of the letters he had read and written for Allday. Vignettes of rural England, small personal comments which he could not fathom, but he could see the true pleasure they gave in the coxswain’s eyes. Bolitho had mentioned Rear-Admiral Keen again when he had received a letter from Lady Catherine. He gave it all a great deal of consideration, intrigued also by the glove, obviously cherished, which was all of his personal possessions that Adam Bolitho had been able to save in his captivity. What was honour when it came to love, no matter how secret the love?