For My Country's Freedom Page 9

  He realised that Scarlett was still there, his hands playing with his cocked hat.

  “Is there something else, Mr Scarlett?”

  “Well, sir . . .” Scarlett hesitated. “As we are to be of one company, war or no, may I ask something?”

  “If it is reasonable.”

  “Sir Richard Bolitho. What is he like, sir? Truly like?”

  For a moment he thought he had tested the captain’s confidences too far. Tyacke’s emotions were mixed, as if one were fighting the other. He strode across the spacious cabin and back again, his hair almost brushing the deckhead.

  “We spoke of Lord Nelson, a leader of courage and inspiration. One I would have liked to meet. But serve under him—I think not.”

  He knew Scarlett was staring at him, earnestly waiting. “Sir Richard Bolitho, now . . .” He hesitated and thought of the brandy and wine Lady Catherine had sent aboard for him. He felt suddenly angry with himself for discussing their special relationship. But I did invite his confidence. He said quietly, “Let me say this, Mr Scarlett. I would serve no other man. For that is what he is. A man.” He touched his face but did not notice it. “He gave me back my pride. And my hope.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Scarlett reached the screen door. Afterwards he guessed that the captain had not even heard him.

  James Tyacke looked around the large cabin before examining his face in the mirror that hung above his sea-chest. For a second or two he touched the mirror, scratched here and there, dented around the frame. He often wondered how it had survived over the years. Or me, either.

  The ship had quietened somewhat after all the bustle and preparations to get under way. Calls twittered and voices still shouted occasional orders, but for the most part they were ready.

  Tyacke walked to the stern windows and rubbed the misty glass with his sleeve.

  It was blustery, the windows full of cruising white horses, the nearest land only a wedge of green.

  He could faintly hear the clank, clank of pawls as the seamen threw their weight on the capstan bars. But down aft, this cabin was like a haven, a barrier between him and the ship. Unlike the little Larne where everybody had seemed to get under his feet.

  Any minute now and Scarlett would come down and report that they were ready. He would be curious, no doubt, to see how the new captain would perform on his first day at sea.

  Tyacke had already been on deck at the first suggestion of dawn, with Plymouth Sound glittering in a moving panorama of small angry waves.

  He had found the master, Isaac York, by the compass boxes speaking with two of his mates; the latter had melted away when they had seen their captain up and about so early. They might think him nervous, unable to stay away from the scurrying seamen both on deck and aft.

  “How is the wind, Mr York?”

  York had peered aloft, his eyes crinkling into deep crow’s-feet. “Steady enough, sir. East by north. It’ll be lively when we clear the land.”

  Confident. A professional sailor who could still appreciate being consulted by his captain.

  He had added in an almost fond tone, “The Indom’s a fine sailer, sir. I’ve known none better. She’ll hold close to the wind even under storm stays’ls. Not many frigates could boast as much.” He had squinted up at the small monkey-like figures working far above the deck. “With her press of canvas she can shift herself!” A man proud of his ship, and of what he had achieved to become her master.

  Tyacke dragged out his watch. Almost time. He listened to the clank of the capstan and could picture the straining seamen as they fought to haul the ship up to her anchor. Boots thumped overhead: the Royal Marines who were part of the after-guard preparing to free the mizzen sails and the big driver when so ordered. The seamen always claimed contemptuously that the marines were only given the task because the mizzen-mast was the simplest rigged, and even they could manage it.

  More feet were running over the deck. Tyacke tried to identify every sound. The boats were hoisted on their tier. The ship’s launch had been landed and a new, dark green barge lashed in its place, the admiral’s own boat. He thought about the colours being hoisted that morning, the White Ensign curling in the wind. Nelson at Trafalgar had been the first admiral to fight a fleet action under that flag. In the smoke and hatred of a sea-battle it was absolutely vital that every captain should know friend from foe, and the Red Ensign or even the Blue had been too dangerous at Trafalgar, where French and Spanish flags of similar colouring could easily have confused the identity of ships, and impeded the immediate response to signals.

  He knew that Scarlett was coming even before the sentry yelled out the news. He compared him to the two Royal Marine officers, Captain Cedric du Cann and his lieutenant, David Merrick. Men who would never question their orders, no matter what. Perhaps it was better to be like them. Imagination could be a risky possession.

  He called, “Enter!”

  Scarlett, hat tucked underneath one arm, opened the screen door, his eyes seeking out his captain. To assess his demeanour, or plumb the depths of his uncertainty?

  “The anchor is all but hove short, sir.”

  “I shall come up.”

  Scarlett was still watching him. “The master has laid a course to weather Nare Head, sir.”

  “I know.”

  Scarlett saw him glance around the cabin. He himself had gone on deck after a late night in the wardroom, fending off speculation and gossip until the others had tired of it. Except the purser, James Viney, who had repeatedly questioned him about the captain’s decision regarding his clerk. Scarlett was beginning to wonder if Viney did have something to hide. It was often said that half the inns and lodging-houses in naval ports were either owned or supplied by pursers at the country’s expense. But once on deck, Scarlett had seen the captain’s skylight still aglow. Did he never sleep or rest? Could he not?

  Tyacke led the way up the companion ladder and on to the breezy quarterdeck. A slow glance took it all in. Seamen standing at braces and halliards, topmen already aloft, spread out on the yards and silhouetted against the sky like dwarfs.

  Three men on the wheel; York was taking no chances. The lieutenants like little islands of blue and white at each mast, each man staring aft as Tyacke walked to the quarterdeck rail.

  He listened to the capstan and heard the faint scrape of a violin, the sound of which had been inaudible in his quarters.

  The signals midshipman, Blythe, was standing with his small crew of seamen, his face severe as he watched the captain.

  Tyacke nodded to him. He could well imagine he would have a big head.

  He glanced aft. The two marine officers with some of their men, their scarlet coats very bright in the drifting spray. York was with his mates near the wheel, but peered up at him and touched his hat.

  “Standing by, sir!”

  Tyacke saw a squat figure in a plain blue coat and carrying a rattan cane walking along the larboard guns. That would be Sam Hockenhull, the boatswain, seeking the new men, all of whom were probably sick with dismay at being torn from their loved ones, to go to God knew where, and for how long. Beyond Hockenhull he could see one upraised paw of the lion figurehead. Further still, the blurred outline of Plymouth and what looked like a church tower.

  He walked across the deck, feeling the stares, hating them.

  “There are two collier brigs, larboard quarter, Mr York.”

  The master did not smile. “Aye, sir. I’ve marked ’em well.”

  Tyacke looked at him. “I’m told that if you ram a fully laden collier it’s like hitting the Barrier Reef.”

  Then York did grin. “I’ll not be the one to find out, sir!”

  “Anchor’s coming home now, sir!”

  Tyacke folded his arms. “Get the ship under way, if you please.”

  “Stand by the capstan.”

  More calls twittered urgently. Spithead Nightingales, the sailors called them.

  “Loose the heads’ls!”

  Hockenhull the boats
wain jabbed the air with his rattan. “You—move yourself! Take that man’s name, Mr Sloper!”

  “Loose tops’ls!” That was Scarlett, his powerful voice magnified by his speaking-trumpet while he wiped the drifting spray from his eyes.

  “Man the braces! Mr Laroche, put more hands on the weather side as she comes clear!”

  Tyacke shaded his eyes and watched the headsails flapping and banging until brought under command. Then up to the topsail yards where the tan-coloured canvas was barely under control, the wind eagerly exploring it as if to hurl the topmen down to the deck.

  Tyacke studied the great mainsail yard, its canvas still neatly lashed into place. From the quarterdeck it looked twice the length of Larne ’s main-yard, where one or two slavers had danced their lives away.

  “Anchor’s aweigh, sir!”

  Released from the land Indomitable heeled over to the thrust of canvas and rudder, the sea almost brushing the lee gunports while she came about, sails thundering as fore and mainsails were hauled and beaten into submission. Some men lost their footing on the deck and fell gasping until dragged back to the taut braces, helped or punched as seemed necessary.

  Tyacke watched the two anchored colliers slide past, as if they and not Indomitable were moving.

  He heard the squeak of halliards and saw a new ensign break out from the gaff, so white against the angry clouds.

  “Hold her steady! Steer south-west by south!”

  He walked up the tilting deck while men dashed hither and thither on the wet planking.

  “Steady she goes, sir! Full an’ bye!”

  Tyacke called, “Once we clear the Point we will set the driver, Mr Scarlett!” He had to shout above the violent din of rigging and canvas, the crack of halliards and shrouds as every inch of cordage took and held the strain.

  Scarlett touched his hat. “Aye, aye, sir!” He wiped his face and grinned. “Someone wishes us well.”

  Tyacke crossed to the nettings and stared across the choppy water. It was Larne. Out at an anchorage now; perhaps leaving this very day. But it was not that. Every yard was manned, with more seamen clinging to the ratlines to wave and cheer. Even Indomitable ’s own chorus could not drown the wild cheering.

  Scarlett glanced round curiously as Tyacke removed his hat, and then waved it slowly back and forth above his head.

  The uninjured side of Tyacke’s face was turned towards him, and he felt something like pity as he realised what he was seeing.

  It was a last farewell.

  6 CROSS OF ST GEORGE

  BOLITHO put his arm around her shoulders and said, “This is far enough, Kate. The path is barely safe even in such clear moonlight.”

  They stood side by side on the rough track from Pendennis Point and looked out across the sea. It shone like melting silver, so brightly that the stars seemed faint and insignificant by comparison.

  They had walked and ridden every day since their return from London, savouring every moment, sharing every hour, not speaking of the future.

  The hillsides were covered now with bluebells and brilliant, contrasting yellow gorse.

  How much longer? Three days perhaps. At the most.

  As if reading his thoughts, she said quietly, “Tomorrow your Indomitable will come.”

  “Aye. I hope James Tyacke is settling down to the change.”

  She turned lightly and he felt her looking at him, her hair shining as she pulled out the combs and let it fall across her shoulders.

  “Will we settle down, darling Richard?” She shook her head, angry with herself. “Forgive me. It is not easy for either of us. But I shall miss you so.” She paused, unable to speak of what was uppermost in both their minds. “There may be farewells, but we will never be parted!”

  Tiny lights blinked on the water, like fallen stars, lost in the great full moon.

  Bolitho said, “Fishermen at their pots.” He tried to smile. “Or revenue officers after another kind of catch.”

  “You know what we promised one another?” She had been wearing a shawl but it had slipped down her arms, to leave her shoulders bare in the moonlight.

  “Not to waste a minute, Kate. But that was then. This is now. I never want to be parted from you again. Once this matter is settled . . .”

  She touched his mouth with her fingers, so cool in the night air. “I am so proud of you, and you cannot even understand why. You are the only man who can do it. You have the experience and the success, and you will give heart to all those under your command. Have their lordships given you all that you wanted?”

  He caressed her shoulders, their smoothness and their strength exciting him as always.

  “All that they have is more likely. Apart from Indomitable and Valkyrie I shall have six other frigates, as soon as Anemone has completed her refit at Plymouth. And there are three brigs as well. Not a fleet, but a flying squadron to be reckoned with.” Thank God Larne was ordered back to the anti-slavery patrols. It would have been torture for Tyacke to see her in company day after day.

  His thoughts turned to George Avery. He was not staying at the house but had gone over to the inn at Fallowfield, where Allday would be fretting about everything as sailing time drew relentlessly closer. It might help Allday to have somebody with him to whom he could talk about the ship and the destination, just as it might help the flag-lieutenant to accept that his sister was dead. That he could have done nothing to save her.

  She said suddenly, “Richard, are you troubled about your daughter?”

  Bolitho caught his shoe on some loose stones and felt her arm instantly supporting him. “There are no secrets from you, Kate.” He hesitated. “She will be nine years old in two months’ time. But I do not know her, nor she me. Her mother has made her into a doll, not like a real child at all.”

  It was always there. Guilt, a sense of responsibility. It was nothing of which she could be jealous.

  He said, as though reading her thoughts, “I love only you.”

  Catherine faced him. “I shall always remember what you gave up because of me.” She shook her head as he began to protest. “No, hear me, Richard. Because of our love you have been abused and taken for granted, when all England should honour the bravest and the gentlest of her commanders.” She relented. “The man who forgot to tell his lover he had been made an admiral!”

  “I shall never be allowed to forget that!” He turned her towards the deeper shadows of the hillside. “They will have a search party out looking for us. We had best get back to the house.”

  She put her arm around his waist. “Home.” One word. It was enough.

  The austere stone buildings did not soften against the perfect sky. There was a light in the adjoining cottage. Ferguson, Bolitho’s steward, was still awake, doing his books or planning something to please his old friend Allday before he left.

  An old dog slumbered in the yard. It was quite deaf, and was no longer much use as a guard dog. But like the crippled and injured men who worked on the estate, the harvest of the war at sea, it belonged here.

  Strange not to see leaping flames in the great fireplace. Summer was almost here. Catherine tightened her grip on his arm. But they would not share it together. She glanced at the rug by the empty grate.

  Where two young people, believing they had lost everything dear to them, had found one another and had loved, and might still be damned for it.

  She had sensed Richard’s unease when he had mentioned Adam’s Anemone, which was still lying at Plymouth. It was a heavy secret to carry.

  She glanced over her shoulder and saw the sea beyond the windows shining in the moonlight. The enemy. She could feel the portraits watching from the stairwell. They had all left here, never to return. She thought of the painting Richard wanted done of her, and she had wondered briefly if he would also like one of his brother Hugh, but this was not the time to ask him. Her man was sailing to confront the Americans, and she sensed that in the present hostile atmosphere neither country would back down. There was too m
uch at stake. He would not wish to be reminded of his brother’s treachery. Had Hugh known of Adam’s existence, perhaps things might have been different. But fate, having determined the course of lives, could not be unwritten.

  Together they walked to the broad opened windows and listened to the silence. Once they heard an owl, and Bolitho remarked, “The mice will have to take care tonight.”

  Tomorrow the ship would come. He would be inextricably involved in its affairs, and haunted by the inevitability of their parting.

  She said, “Dear Bryan has left some wine for us!”

  He took her in his arms and felt the tension in her body. “He knows.”

  “Knows what?”

  “That I want you, dearest Kate. Need you.”

  She let him kiss her, on the mouth, the throat, and then on her bare shoulder, watching his hands in the strange light moving over her gown until she could wait no longer.

  Then she stood quite naked like a silver statue, her fine breasts uplifted, her arms stretched out to hold him away.

  “Undress, Richard.” Then she lay in the moon’s path before drawing him down beside her. When he reached for her she exclaimed, “They call me a whore, dearest of men . . .”

  “I will kill anyone who . . .”

  She knelt beside him, tracing each scar on his body, even the deep wound in his forehead.

  She kissed him, not with tenderness, but with a fierce abandon he had rarely experienced. Again he tried to embrace her, but she denied him. “I am here to torment you, Richard. You are mine, completely, for this night!”

  Bolitho felt her fingers touch and then grip him, and all the while she was kissing him, her tongue exploring his body as he had so often explored hers.

  She broke away and he felt her breasts move over his skin, prolonging every sensation.

  Then all at once she was above him, her legs straddling him while she gazed into his face. “I have teased you enough. I shall give you your reward.” He moved to possess her, but she pretended to resist, her nakedness framed against the moonlight, until with a cry she felt him enter her.