For My Country's Freedom

by Kent, Alexander

  Until that day some eighteen months ago when Bolitho had given him the post of flag-lieutenant. It had been a new door opening for Avery, a new life, which he had learned to share with one of England’s heroes: a man whose deeds and courage had stirred the heart of a nation.

  He smiled at himself in the glass and saw the younger man appear. For only a moment his habitual expression of wariness vanished, as did the lines around his mouth. But the streaks of grey in his dark brown hair and the stiff way he held his shoulder, as the result of his wound and its treatment, gave the lie to what he saw.

  He heard someone at the front door and glanced around his room: a bare, simple place without personality. Like the house itself, the vicarage where his father, a strict but kindly man, had brought him up. Avery’s sister Ethel, who herself had married a clergyman when their father had been killed by a runaway horse in the street, still lived here with her husband.

  He clipped on his sword and reached for his cocked hat, the gold lace still as bright as the day eighteen months ago when he’d gone to Joshua Miller, the tailor in Falmouth. For two generations the Miller family had been making uniform clothing for the Bolitho family although few could remember how it had all begun. Bolitho had outfitted him on his appointment as flag-lieutenant. That too had been another kindness, characteristic of the man he had come to know so well, even if he still did not fully understand him. His charisma, which he himself did not seem to know that he possessed; the way in which those closest to him were ever protective. His little crew as he called them: his burly coxswain Allday, his round-shouldered Devonian secretary Yovell, and not least his personal servant Ozzard, a man without a past.

  He put some money on the table for his sister. She would get precious little from her miserly husband. Avery had heard him leave the vicarage very early on some mission of mercy, or to murmur a few words before a local felon was dropped from the gallows. He smiled to himself. If he was really a man of God, the Lord should be warned to begin recruiting his own little crew!

  The door opened and his sister stood in the passageway, watching him as though unwilling for him to leave.

  She had the same dark hair as Avery and her eyes, like her brother’s, were tawny, like a cat’s. Apart from that, there was little resemblance. He found it hard to accept that she was only twenty-six, her body worn out by child-bearing. She had four children but had lost two others along the way. It was harder still to recall her as a girl. She had been lovely then.

  She said, “The carter’s here, George. He’ll take your chest to the stage at the King’s Arms.” She stared at him as he took her and held her closely. “I know you must go, George, but it’s been so lovely to have you here. To talk, and that . . .” When she was distressed, her Dorset accent was more pronounced.

  Downstairs two of the children were screaming, but she did not seem to notice. She said suddenly, “I wish I’d seen Lady Somervell, like you have.”

  Avery held her more tightly. She had often asked him about Catherine, what she did, how she spoke with him, how she dressed. He stroked the drab clothing his sister had worn throughout his visit.

  Once he had mentioned Catherine when Ethel’s husband had been in the room. He had snapped in his reedy voice, “A godless woman! I’ll not hear her name in my house!”

  Avery had retorted, “I thought this was one of God’s houses, sir.”

  They had not spoken since. That was why he had quit the vicarage early, he supposed, so that they would not have to lie to one another with brotherly farewells.

  All at once Avery needed to leave. “I’ll tell the carter to go now. I shall walk to the stage.” Once he would have avoided walking in the streets. Although a county town, it was usually sprinkled with sea officers. Dorchester was a popular place for naval families to buy houses, being within easy reach of Weymouth Bay, Portland and Lyme. He had seen too many such officers cross the road to avoid him when he had been recovering from his wound and awaiting a court martial.

  Being with Bolitho had changed all that. But it will never change my feelings towards them.

  He embraced her again and felt her tired body against his. Where had the young girl gone?

  “I’ll send money, Ethel.” He felt her nod, too choked by tears to speak. “The war will be over soon. I’ll be on the beach then.” He thought of Bolitho’s calm acceptance of his situation, what Allday had told him about his damaged eye, what the confidence had cost him. At least I could be in no better company.

  Down those so-familiar stairs, bare-boarded to avoid waste, as the vicar had put it. Avery had noticed, however, that he kept a very good cellar. Past the room where his father had begun his education. At any other time the reminiscence would have made him smile. How Yovell had immediately accepted him in their little crew because he could speak and write Latin. Strange how, indirectly, that ability had saved the life of Rear-Admiral Herrick, Bolitho’s friend.

  He said, “The roads should be better now. I’ll be in Falmouth the day after tomorrow.”

  She looked up at him and he thought he saw the young girl watching him through the mask.

  “I’m so proud of you, George.” She wiped her face with her apron. “You’ll never know how much!”

  Out on the street the carter took his money and touched his hat to the vicar’s wife.

  Then they kissed. Afterwards as he walked through the market Avery recalled it with distress. She had kissed him like a woman, perhaps one who had only just remembered how it could have been.

  At the corner of the street he saw the coach with its Royal Mail insignia standing by the inn. Its shafts were empty of horses but servants were already making luggage fast on the roof.

  He turned and looked back at the street where he had grown up, but she had disappeared.

  Two midshipmen on some mission or other passed him, doffing their hats in salute. Avery did not even notice them.

  The knowledge hit him like a blow. He was never going to see her again.

  John Allday paused in tamping tobacco into one of his long pipes, and, without lighting it, walked to the inn door.

  For a long moment he looked up at the bright new sign, swinging now in the breeze. Although he could not see the Channel from here, he could picture it without effort. The wind had backed a piece since morning, and the tide would be on the ebb. He could see Falmouth, too, in his thoughts: ships shortening their cables, waiting to weigh and take advantage of wind and tide. Men-of-war, although not too many of them; the famous Falmouth packets; fishermen and lobster boats. He would get used to it. I must. He heard the solitary chime of the tiny parish church. His eyes softened. Where he and Unis had been wed just over two months back. He had never known such warmth, such unexpected love. He had always had an eye for “a pretty craft,” as he had put it on occasions, but Unis had surpassed them all.

  The men would be leaving the fields soon; it was still dark too early to work long hours.

  He heard Unis’s brother, another John, preparing tankards and moving benches, the thud of his wooden leg marking his progress around the parlour. A fine man, an ex-soldier from the old 31st Foot, the Huntingdonshires. It was good to know he had his cottage next door to the inn, and would be able to help Unis when he was back at sea.

  Her ladyship had ridden all the way over to Fallowfield, and had tried to reassure him. But one of the coachmen who had been here for some ale and a pasty or two had told him about the letter for Sir Richard from the Admiralty, and Allday could think of nothing else.

  He heard Unis’s light step come in the other door, and turned to see her watching him, a basket of freshly-gathered eggs in her arms.

  “You still worrying, my dear?”

  Allday re-entered the parlour and tried to laugh it off.

  “It’s all new to me, y’see?”

  She looked around the room, at the four-and-a-half-gallon pins of ale on their trestles. Clean cloths fresh today, new bread to tempt any hardworking farm labourer on his way home. A place
that offered a welcome: it looked pleased with itself.

  “New to me too, now that I’ve got my man with me.” She smiled gently. “Don’t you worry about it. You’ve got my heart, and I daresay I’ll take it badly when you go, and go you will. I shall be safe enough. Just you promise to come back to me.” She turned away towards the kitchen so that he should not see the making of a tear in her eye. “I’ll fetch you a wet, John.”

  Her brother straightened his back from putting more logs on the fire and looked at Allday gravely.

  “Soon, you reckon?”

  Allday nodded. “He’ll be off to London first. I should be with him—”

  “Not this time, John. You’ve Unis now. I was lucky—I lost a leg for King an’ Country, though I didn’t think so at the time. A cannon don’t care. So make the most of what you have.”

  Allday picked up his unlit pipe and smiled as his new wife entered with a tankard of rum.

  He said, “You knows what a man needs, my love!”

  She wagged her finger and chuckled. “You’re a bad lad, John Allday!”

  Across the parlour her brother relaxed, and Allday was glad.

  But how could he really understand? He had only been a soldier, so why should he?

  Lady Catherine Somervell paused at the turn of the stairway and pulled her gown more tightly about her body. After the warmth of the great four-poster bed and the fire in the room, the air was cold around her bare feet and ankles.

  She had gone to bed earlier than usual to give Richard the opportunity to speak with his nephew alone. Later they had come upstairs together, and she thought she had heard Adam stagger when he reached the door of his room.

  Throughout the evening meal he had been strained and unusually subdued. They had talked of his homeward journey, and of Anemone, docked to replace some of the copper damaged when she had been hulled by crossfire from Baratte’s privateers. Adam had looked up from his plate and for those few seconds she had seen the familiar animation, the pride in his Anemone.

  “She took a beating, but by God, beneath the copper her timbers are as sound as a bell!”

  He had mentioned that the brig Larne was also in Plymouth. She had brought despatches from Good Hope, but she was to remain in Plymouth to undergo an overhaul to spars and rigging. It was hardly surprising. Larne had been continuously at sea for nearly four years, in everything from blazing heat to screaming gales.

  Watching Richard, she thought he had somehow expected it. Another twist of fate, perhaps, that would bring James Tyacke back to England: that brave, proud man, the devil with half a face as the Arab slavers had dubbed him. How he would loathe Plymouth, the pitiless and horrified stares each time he showed his terrible scars to the busy world of that naval port.

  Adam had confirmed that Tyacke had sent his first lieutenant to London with the despatches, although a captain would normally be expected to pay homage in person to the Admiralty.

  Catherine saw a candle flickering on the small table where the stairs turned down into semi-darkness. She must have fallen asleep again after hearing them come up. When she had reached out for her man she had found his place empty.

  She felt herself shiver, as though someone were watching her. She looked up at the nearest portrait, Rear-Admiral Denziel Bolitho, perhaps more like Richard than any of the others. He was his grandfather, and the likeness was very strong: the same eyes, and hair as black as a raven. Denziel was the only other Bolitho to have reached flag rank, and now Richard had risen higher than them all, the youngest vice-admiral on the Navy List since Nelson’s death. She shivered again, but not from the cold night air. Richard had told her he would give it all away—for her, for them.

  Richard had often spoken about his grandfather but had admitted he could not really remember him. He had created his impressions from what his father Captain James had told him, and of course from the portrait. With the smoke of battle in the background, Denziel was depicted at Quebec supporting Wolfe. The painter had caught the other man, the man behind the uniform. There was humour in his eyes and mouth. Had he had a mistress, as his grandson did?

  Now that her eyes had become accustomed to the gloom she could see a faint glow from the great fire, then she saw Bolitho. He was sitting on the rug with one arm supporting himself against a chair, the chair where his father had used to sit and read to him. As if he could not bear to look beyond the window, to be reminded that the sea was out there. Waiting, always waiting for the next Bolitho. A goblet of brandy stood by the hearth, catching the dying embers like a magnifying glass.

  Bolitho opened his eyes and stared at her, and she imagined he thought he was caught in a dream.

  He made to rise but she slipped down to his side and raked the embers until there was a lively flicker again.

  Bolitho dragged off his coat and threw it over her shoulders. “Forgive me, Kate, I fell asleep! I had no idea . . .”

  She touched his mouth with her fingers. “It is nothing. I’m glad I woke.”

  Catherine watched his profile, his emotions clear in spite of the shadows. So many times they had sat here like this, talking, listening, needing one another. He was never impatient with her, even when they had discussed her purchase of the collier brig, Maria José. Another man, another sailor might have thought it rash. He had merely said, “We shall have to see when the season begins. It is a bold venture but, even if we fail, the vessel will increase in value.” Always we. Even when they were parted, they were always together.

  He said suddenly, “Adam told me.”

  She waited, feeling his pain as her own, but she said nothing.

  Bolitho continued, “He is in hell because of it, and because of what he believes it may do to me.”

  “Will it?”

  He held her more tightly around the shoulders. “Who am I to rebuke him? I took you from another, as I took Cheney.” He looked at her, startled at hearing the name again from his own mouth. “He wanted to leave immediately. In his condition he would have killed himself on those damned roads.”

  “I came to you willingly. I loved you, I always did. If I have one regret, it is the waste of years before you found me.”

  He looked into the fire. “It happened after Golden Plover was reported lost. Zenoria was here and, like you, she awakened in the night. Adam was a boy again, crying his heart out because he thought you and I were dead. Val was thought missing as well.” He shook his head. “What a lot that damnable vessel has to answer for!”

  “We were together, dearest of men . . .”

  “I know. I think of it often.”

  She asked, “Did he tell you everything?”

  Bolitho nodded slowly. “They were lovers, perhaps even in love. But when the news broke that we had been rescued by Larne the deed was already done. I do not know how Zenoria feels about it—she has a good husband and a child now. It was an act of need, not madness or deceit.” He looked at her squarely and touched her hair with great care. “But Adam is in love with her. It is a secret he must keep, and so must she.”

  “I am so glad he told you. You of all people mean so much to him.”

  “There is a letter.”

  She tensed as he continued. “In despair he wrote to her. Last year sometime. That will be the test. We must wait and hope.”

  Catherine picked up the goblet. It was quite hot from the fire. She felt him watching her as she swallowed some cognac. “When will you know, Richard, about London?”

  He sounded almost relieved to change the subject. “Their lordships seem very considerate about it.”

  Catherine drank more cognac and felt it burning on her lips. There was more to come.

  She asked, “Sir James Hamett-Parker has gone, I believe?”

  He nodded. “Oblivion. There is another in his place. Admiral Sir Graham Bethune. He should do well.”

  She turned to face him. “You have often said that the navy is like a family. But you have not mentioned him before.”

  “It was a long time ago. I
lost account of him. A good deal younger than Hamett-Parker, which will be a change for the better.”

  She asked softly, “Younger than you, Richard?”

  Bolitho replied, “He was a midshipman when I got my first command, in Sparrow, as a matter of fact.” He seemed to consider her question. “Yes, he is younger. About four years, I would think.” He looked at her steadily and she guessed if it were light enough he would have the same expression as Adam when he spoke of his Anemone, the defiance and the pride. “I was only twenty-two when I took command. That was in Antigua as well.”

  “It does not seem right that he should be able to give you orders.”

  He smiled. “My tiger again! The navy works in strange ways. Luck, patronage, fate determine seniority, not always ability. Remember that Our Nel was ten years younger than Collingwood at Trafalgar, but they were still good friends.”

  He took her hands and they stood up together.

  Bolitho said, “To bed now, or my girl will curse me in the morning!”

  She glanced down at the rug. Where it must have happened. It was easy to imagine Adam’s feelings when he had been in this room.

  She answered quietly, “Not a girl any more, darling Richard. I am a woman now, with all a woman’s passions. Hates too, when necessary.”

  They walked arm-in-arm to the stairs. The solitary candle had gone out and the grey-eyed rear-admiral was in darkness.

  They paused on the stairs and listened to the house, the creaks and tiny sounds which gave it life.

  Bolitho said, “They will offer me a new appointment, another flagship. I shall meet you in London. First I shall need to go to Plymouth.”