For My Country's Freedom Page 4

  Tyacke did not seem to hear. “What a lot we are, eh? I’ve seen his coxswain—Allday, right?”

  Avery nodded, afraid to break the spell.

  “I’ve seen him often enough, when he thinks Sir Richard isn’t looking, holding his chest sometimes, hardly able to draw breath ’cause of what the Dons did to him.” His voice was louder, and Avery imagined Ozanne by the skylight, listening, hoping.

  “Then there’s his old friend, Rear-Admiral Herrick.” He spoke with unexpected bitterness. “Now he’s lost a bloody arm for his troubles!” He downed a full glass and almost choked. “Sir Richard must enjoy helping lame ducks.”

  “He’s a fine man, sir. I’ll not stand by and hear him slandered!”

  Tyacke was on his feet in a flash. He seized Avery’s lapels and dragged him across the table so that they were inches apart.

  “Of course he’s a fine man! Don’t you damned well tell me what to say or think!”

  Avery did not try to move or release himself. He could see Tyacke’s wounded face, the blue eye bright in the candlelight, isolated by pain. But almost worse, there were tears running across the melted skin.

  Tyacke was shaking him with gentle firmness. “Look at me. Look . . . at . . . me. ”

  Avery said quietly, “Tell me, sir.” At any moment Ozanne would come aft. Then it would be too late.

  Tyacke released his grip and patted his arm, then he sat down heavily again. In a flat, toneless voice he said, “He asked me to be his flag-captain.” He shook with silent laughter. “Can you imagine that, man? How could I accept?”

  “You think he asked you out of pity? He would never put his people at risk for that, even for a dear friend’s sake.” He waited, anticipating another outburst. But Tyacke was very still, except for the painful breathing and the play of shadows across his face.

  Avery remembered what had driven Allday to confide so desperately in him about Bolitho’s injured eye, and how privileged he had felt to be entrusted with the secret. To share it with another now seemed tantamount to a betrayal.

  But the cold grip around his heart would not release him. There was so much at stake. Too much.

  He said, “You spoke of our misfortunes just now . . .”

  Tyacke shook himself. “I meant no disrespect to you.”

  “None taken.” He swallowed the raw gin and said, “We are not the only ones.”

  “Damn me, I know that.”

  When Avery remained silent he leaned towards him again, and for a moment the flag-lieutenant believed he had gone too far.

  Then he said, almost inaudibly, “Not Sir Richard. Surely you don’t mean him?”

  Avery stood up very carefully. “He is losing the sight of one eye.”

  Tyacke’s hand went up to his face, as it must have done when the bandages had been finally removed. It must have seemed a miracle that he had not lost his eye.

  “He said nothing to me about it.”

  Avery wanted to stay but knew he must leave. “He’s very like you, sir. A proud man above all else. So it was not pity, you see.” He heard Ozanne breathing heavily in the passageway. “He needs you, now more than ever. Would you have him beg?”

  He could feel Ozanne’s relief as he brushed past him, afraid that Tyacke would summon him back and begin all over again. Also, he knew he was going to be sick.

  He reached the carriage and managed to gasp, “Port admiral’s house, if you please!”

  In the tiny cabin Lieutenant Ozanne was watching Tyacke, who was trying to refill his glass.

  He asked wearily, “What happened?”

  Tyacke peered at him and wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

  “Secret, Paul. If I tell you, then it’s not.” His voice was very slurred.

  The bottle rolled unheeded on to the deck, and Tyacke would have followed it but for his powerful first lieutenant.

  “I don’t know who said what, James Tyacke, but I was a mite worried about you! ”

  He gave a great sigh and snuffed out the candle.

  Then, with Tyacke’s coat over one arm, he stepped outside and heard the rain on the companion ladder.

  For a while longer Ozanne, who had been at sea since his boyhood, looked around and listened to the watch below crowding into their messes for their evening meal. There would be much discussion below deck about the proposed shore leave. Such generosity was unheard of.

  He touched the solitary gold epaulette on Tyacke’s coat and said quietly, “I think we’re losing you, James, and we’ll be the poorer for it.”

  Afterwards he knew he had been speaking to—and for—the whole ship.

  Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune strode across the thick carpet, his face alight with a warm smile as he seized Bolitho’s hand.

  “My God, Sir Richard, you make my heart sing to see you so well and rested! I have to admit to a certain nervousness at the prospect of meeting you for the first time since my appointment. Those far-off days when you were my captain and I was a bumbling midshipman are hard to shake off!”

  The handshake, like the smile, was genuine, Bolitho thought. Bethune was not quite what he had expected, and it was true that they had not met since his first command, the sloop-of-war Sparrow in ’ 82. A lifetime ago.

  The round-faced midshipman with the dark freckles was no more. Instead here was a flag-officer who must be in his forties, but who looked years younger. Bright-eyed, lean and confident, a far cry from many senior officers who had languished in the halls of Admiralty. He had the same infectious smile, but there was an air of confidence and authority about him which Bolitho guessed would be a great attraction to ladies of the Court, or at the many receptions he would have to attend in his new capacity.

  Bolitho felt a touch of envy and cursed himself for his own vanity. He had followed Bethune’s progress to fame in the Gazette from time to time. The turning point had come when he had been in command of a small 26 -gun sixth-rate. Sailing alone, he had fallen in with two big Spanish frigates, either of which should have been able to force him to submit. Instead, after a spirited engagement, Bethune had run one enemy ashore and captured the other with hardly a man lost.

  Bethune said, “If it suits I will call a full meeting on the day after next. I think it would be foolish to delay further.” He waved Bolitho to a chair. “But I wanted to see you first. To prepare myself. There are many changes here—of necessity. But I am sure you are well aware of that.”

  A servant entered with some wine and glasses. He, too, was a different one from Godschale’s or Hamett-Parker’s.

  Bethune toyed with his buttons. “How is her ladyship? Well, I trust?”

  Bolitho relaxed slightly. A test, perhaps, like a ranging shot to decide on the next move.

  “Lady Catherine is in good health, thank you. I will be joining her shortly in Chelsea.”

  Just the merest flicker. Nothing more.

  Bethune nodded. “I would greatly like to meet her.”

  Bolitho thought of Godschale sitting at the same table, complaining of the weight of his responsibilities and probably planning his next liaison with the young wife of some subordinate at the same time. His appetites had done for him in the end.

  He studied his one-time midshipman with new eyes. Handsome, with the touch of recklessness some women admired. He was married, but perhaps he had a mistress somewhere.

  The servant brought the glasses. It was cold hock, very refreshing after all the miles, all the changes of horses at inns which had all begun to look very much like one another. He wondered if the wine had come from the shop in St James’s Street where Catherine had taken him.

  Bethune said, “I have read all your letters and despatches, particularly your views on blockade and the protection of trade routes. You are correct, of course, Sir Richard.” Again the infectious smile, a lieutenant posing as a vice-admiral. “But it will be up to you to convince their lordships.”

  Bolitho thought of Tyacke, and remembered Catherine’s words when he had told her what he int
ended. It was still heavy on his heart. She had been right.

  “There is some good news about your friend and former flag-captain, Valentine Keen.”

  Bolitho hoped that Bethune had not seen his surprise. It was as though he had been reading his thoughts.

  “He is to be promoted to rear-admiral, and deservedly so, as you made very clear in your original report.”

  Bolitho looked away. He recalled Hamett-Parker’s hostility at the suggestion, but now that Keen was secure as a flag-officer in his own right he could only recall Adam’s despairing confession by the fire in Falmouth. Zenoria as the wife of a flag-officer? It was beyond imagination. The girl with the moonlit eyes would be swamped, destroyed even, by a world she would never be able to share or understand. It must not destroy Adam also.

  Bethune took another tall glass of wine. “I appreciate your convictions concerning the United States. By the way, your recent adversary Captain Nathan Beer is promoted commodore, I hear.”

  Bolitho remembered the moment of fear, the splinters like barbs in his face, Herrick lurching on deck, his amputated stump bleeding as he dismissed the Valkyrie ’s captain and took charge to fight the ship.

  He said sharply, “The next time we meet I shall make him an admiral!”

  He saw the satisfaction in Bethune’s eyes.

  Bethune said quietly, “You think there will be war?”

  “I do. If I can explain . . .”

  Bethune smiled. “Not to me, Sir Richard. I am convinced. The others will be more concerned with expense than expediency.”

  Bolitho thought of Catherine. She would be at Chelsea, or very close to it by now. Just before he had left for Plymouth she had mentioned the surgeon in London.

  “It can do no harm. Perhaps he may even be able to help.”

  Bethune asked suddenly, “Does your eye trouble you?”

  He realised he had been rubbing it.

  “A chill, I expect.”

  Bethune said airily, “Well, you have been in Cornwall. It is possible.”

  He was a Cornishman himself. Bolitho recalled that he had made a point of mentioning it when he had taken command of Sparrow. He could not imagine him in Cornwall now.

  But he was shrewd, very shrewd. It would not do to let him know about the injury.

  Bethune was saying, “Your choice of flagship, the Indomitable, did surprise me a little, although I can fathom your reasons. But some of our betters may suggest otherwise, or say perhaps that you have a penchant for elderly vessels.”

  Bolitho sensed the contempt he held for his “betters.”

  Bethune added, “I shall give you my support, but I hope you knew that. I will suggest that two other elderly vessels, Victory and Hyperion, have made milestones in history!”

  A servant entered and looked at the vice-admiral nervously. “Lieutenant Avery, Sir Richard Bolitho’s flag-lieutenant is in attendance, Sir Graham . . .”

  Bethune smiled calmly. “A brave man to venture amongst senior officers.” He shot Bolitho a quick glance, “And friends.”

  Bolitho got to his feet as Avery entered the big room, his cocked hat crushed beneath his arm.

  Was something wrong? Had Avery found the Chelsea house empty?

  Avery nodded to Bethune, but Bolitho saw the quick appraisal, the sharp curiosity. Unlike poor Jenour, this man took nothing for granted.

  He said, “Letter by fast courier, Sir Richard.” Their eyes met. “From Plymouth.”

  Bolitho took it, aware that Bethune was watching him.

  It was short and to the point, in Tyacke’s sloping hand.

  Mine is the honour. It is more than loyalty. I shall await your orders.

  His signature was scrawled across the bottom, barely legible.

  Bolitho glanced at Avery, but the flag-lieutenant’s expression remained inscrutable. Then he raised the letter to his nose, and saw that small cabin in his mind as he had left it in Plymouth only days ago.

  Bethune smiled. “Perfume, Sir Richard? Dare I ask?”

  Bolitho shook his head. It was cognac. “With your permission, Sir Graham, I would give you a sentiment.”

  The glasses had been refilled, and another had appeared for Avery. Bethune remarked, “I am all curiosity!”

  Bolitho felt his eye pricking, not injury now, but for a different reason.

  “To the most courageous man I have ever known.”

  Avery watched him as they touched their glasses. Another secret.

  Then Bolitho smiled for the first time since he had arrived. They were ready.

  “So let’s be about it!”

  3 THE OCEAN IS ALWAYS THERE

  LIEUTENANT George Avery handed his hat to an Admiralty porter and hurried across the marble hall to where Bolitho was sitting in a high-backed chair.

  “I apologise for my lateness, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho held out his hands to a well-banked fire and said, “You are not late. They are still rewriting naval history in that room.” It was spoken without impatience or bitterness. Perhaps he had seen too much of it, Avery thought.

  Bolitho wondered if his flag-lieutenant had kept exactly to the arranged time in order to avoid questions about Tyacke, and his inexplicable change of heart regarding the appointment.

  Bolitho thought of Catherine that morning, the concern in her eyes while he finished dressing, his coffee untouched on the table.

  He had shown her Tyacke’s note. She had said, “Let him decide, Richard. I think you should wait for Avery to tell you himself. It is what you wanted . . . I know how much you need James Tyacke, but I do not envy him what he must do.”

  They had stood side by side on the iron balcony of the Chelsea house and watched the misty first light across the Thames. London came alive long before dawn, but it was a leisurely awakening here. A man with his little cart and tubs of fresh oysters, setting up his stall for the various cooks and housekeepers to sample his wares. Hay for the stables, a loud-voiced knife-grinder, then a small troop of cavalry horses being taken on morning exercise to the park, looking strangely bare without their saddles and bright accoutrements. She had been wearing her heavy robe, but even so it had been chilly so close to the slow-moving river. He had held her and felt her shiver, but not only from the air.

  It would soon be a time for parting. Days or weeks: after the freedom they had longed for and shared since Bolitho’s return to England, it would be all the harder to accept.

  He heard Avery say, “I was so glad to learn of Commodore Keen’s promotion. Well earned, from what I have heard and read of him.”

  Bolitho looked up at him sharply, but it was only an innocent comment. He wondered what Zenoria would be thinking about it, Adam too. Thank God he would be sailing soon despite his shortage of men and officers.

  Of one company. How many times had he heard it thus described. He recalled the big frigate Valkyrie, aboard which he had been rendered completely helpless by tiny splinters in his uninjured eye. Command of her had gone to Adam’s contemporary Captain Peter Dawes, the son of an admiral, whose frigate Laertes had been so badly battered by Baratte’s crossfire that it was unlikely she would ever fight again.

  Many people would be surprised that such a prestigious command had not been given to Adam. No doubt some of them in the room beyond were also thinking as much. But Dawes had proved his worth; he would give Valkyrie fair and proper leadership, unlike the brutal punishments which had been a regular occurrence under Captain Trevenen, who had vanished overboard without trace. Murder, an accident, or had he committed suicide to save himself from a charge of cowardice when Herrick had seized command?

  He considered it, and knew that Adam would not wish to leave his beloved Anemone, even though there would hardly be a familiar face left now in her whole company.

  He heard Avery breathe in as footsteps clicked across the marble floor like distant slate-hammers.

  A white-faced clerk said, “If you would please come this way, Sir Richard.” He glanced nervously at Avery. “I
have been told nothing about . . .”

  “Then you will have no objection if my flag-lieutenant remains with me.”

  Avery almost felt sorry for the clerk. Almost.

  The big room was full of distinguished people, senior officers, the Lords of Admiralty, and civilians who looked more like lawyers at the Old Bailey than the planners of strategy.

  Bolitho sat down and heard Avery move into a chair at his elbow. There was no sunlight through the great windows, nor were there any glittering chandeliers to dazzle his injured eye. One or two of the officers nodded to him, pleased to see him safe and apparently in excellent health. Others would welcome him for different reasons. It was common enough for a clash of personalities to cause an uproar in this powerful place. Clerks, a secretary or two and somebody’s flag-lieutenant hovered beside a pillar, attempting to remain unnoticed.

  Avery whispered, “My uncle is here, Sir Richard . . .”

  At that moment Sir Graham Bethune rose to his feet and rested one palm on his table. Even that looked elegant, but Bolitho wondered if he was as confident as he appeared.

  “Sir Richard Bolitho is no stranger to most of you, and his name is known to many more . . .” He gave a gentle smile. “Not least to Napoleon!” There was laughter and Bethune’s eyes responded as he glanced at Bolitho.

  A heavily-built admiral, whom Bolitho recognised as the Controller, said bluntly, “We are here to discuss future tactics, if—and for my own part it is a very doubtful if — the Americans show intentions of war against our King.” He glared furiously at two post-captains who were whispering together, enjoying the fact that there was no longer a King to govern them. “The United States would be insane to declare war on such a powerful navy!”

  The word insane brought more gleeful whispers from the two captains.

  Bethune said smoothly, “Sir Paul Sillitoe is come amongst us to explain more clearly what we are about.”

  Sillitoe stood up lightly, his hooded eyes scanning the gathering like a man who has something better to do.

  “The situation is simple enough. Between Napoleon’s land blockade and his very real threats against those of his neighbours who might dare to allow our ships to enter their ports for the purposes of trade, and our own sea blockade, we have divided the peoples of Europe into friends and foes.”