For My Country's Freedom

by Kent, Alexander

  “That man really is a marvel!”

  “I agree, sir.” To himself Avery added, And so, as it happens, are you.

  Bolitho drank from the glass without tasting it. “We shall go on deck, George. It is a sight I never tire of.”

  Avery asked carefully, “Where you met Lady Catherine, sir?”

  Bolitho looked at him, the life, like hope, returning to his eyes. “Where I found her, when I thought I had lost her for ever.”

  Then he said over his shoulder, “I am not a fool. I know the odds as well as you do. But he was alive, right?”

  Avery followed him up to the bright sunshine. Do not hope too much. He thought suddenly of Catherine and the endearment he had once overheard. Dearest of men.

  It was all true. He had just seen him bring a twelve-year-old boy back from the dead. As a man.

  Later, with the ship anchored and surrounded by lighters and dockyard boats, Avery sat propped in his hutch-like cabin while he sorted the despatches into coherent order. The courier brig had not only brought important intelligence for the admiral, but also some mail which seemed to have gone around the world before reaching its proper destination.

  There was a tap at the door and Avery opened it with one foot without getting up. It was Allday.

  He said, “Begging your pardon, Mr Avery, but I got a letter.” He held it out, his face baffled and worried.

  “Sit down. On that chest, if you like.”

  “You don’t mind, sir? But I knows you’ve been busy, what with young Captain Adam and everything.”

  “Of course not.” He rather enjoyed it. It was as if he was getting a letter of his own. If there had been someone who cared enough to write.

  He said, “Pour yourself a drink,” and slit open the envelope. It was badly stained. Probably the vessel which had been carrying it had been damaged in the Atlantic gales, the mail transferred to another.

  He could see her now. My dear John, it seems so long since I heard . . .

  Allday waited, perched on the edge of the brass-bound chest. “What is it, sir? Is something wrong? Tell me, please!”

  Avery leaned over and poured a glass of brandy.

  He said, “Congratulations, John Allday.”

  Allday was frowning. “What’s happened?”

  Avery held out the letter and pushed the glass towards him.

  “You’ve become a father, that is what’s happened, man!”

  Allday stared blindly at her round handwriting. “A baby! She’s had a baby.”

  Avery smiled. “You stay here and enjoy your wet. I’ll lay aft to the admiral. I think this news is just what he needs.”

  “But—but . . .” Allday waved the letter after him. “Boy or girl, sir?”

  Avery thought of Lady Catherine clambering up Indomitable ’s side while the sailors had cheered.

  He replied simply, “A little girl. Your wife wants to call her Kate.”

  The door closed and then Allday did pick up the brandy.

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” He grinned at the cabin. “Well, I’ll be double-damned!”

  Bolitho looked up from his table as Tyacke entered the cabin, his hat tucked beneath his arm.

  “With your permission, I’d like to weigh before noon. Mr York insists the wind is about to veer and freshen, although for the life of me I don’t know how he can tell.”

  Bolitho said, “I think we shall have to be guided, James. I have no wish to linger here in Antigua.”

  Three days since their return, and still no word of Anemone ’s final moments, apart from the description offered by the boy John Whitmarsh. Anemone ’s company had been taken prisoner, but there had been no official confirmation. Three days, and he had thought of little else save Adam’s fate. If badly wounded, then how badly? If he had survived, would he be exchanged for an American prisoner, if any of equal rank had been taken?

  He watched Yovell’s pen scratching out the final copy of his orders to the captains of his over-stretched squadron.

  He had sent off a plea to the Admiralty for another frigate to replace Anemone. He suspected there was little chance of getting one. He could almost hear his own words when he had spoken his thoughts aloud to the assembled powers there. The end of the fixed line of battle, the coming of age of a faster, more powerful frigate.

  Commodore Nathan Beer—and in his heart Bolitho had never doubted it was Unity which had been after the Jamaica convoy— had more than proved that. How many more did the Americans have, or intend to build? Apart from Valkyrie and Indomitable, he had nothing that could stand against them. Determination and skilled seamanship had always been expected to succeed against odds, but the Americans’ massive firepower and impressive gunnery had already scattered several local convoys. It had put the Leeward Squadron on the defensive. No war could be won while their strength was divided by fruitless searches and hazy intelligence.

  The Americans were obviously intent on attacking Canada, just as the British were determined to increase their military strength by every means available. The Admiralty had sent lists of possible routes and times of arrival of military convoys, all of which would eventually make their landfalls at Halifax. The Americans would know as much of these movements as the British: such activity was impossible to conceal.

  It was also known that the Americans were mustering smaller men-of-war for use on the Great Lakes. To find them would be like looking for a needle in the proverbial haystack. Bolitho had used Zest and Reaper to strengthen Dawes’ flotilla out of Halifax. Apart from the local patrols, mostly brigs and commandeered schooners, that left only Indomitable and the 26 -gun frigate Attacker to liaise with the convoy escorts from Jamaica. These convoys had already been reduced to two a month because of the very real threat from the Americans, who had nothing to protect, and to whom every ship was a possible target and prize.

  In a moment of frustration and anger Bolitho had exclaimed to Tyacke, “Our Nel was right, James! The best form of defence is attack. So let us find their lair and go for them, and to hell with the risk!”

  Tyacke could see the logic of it. If they had to divide their small squadron after each enemy sortie, they would soon be too weak to offer any protection at all.

  A week before the attack on Anemone they had stopped and questioned a Brazilian trader. Her master had reported sighting a force of American men-of-war, two large frigates and two other smaller vessels, steering south, possibly from Philadelphia. Fearing for his own safety the Brazilian had gone about to retrace his course to the Bermudas.

  Two large frigates: could one of them have been the Unity? And if so, where were the others?

  Bolitho said, “I am poor company today, James.”

  Tyacke regarded him impassively. “Suppose—I mean, just suppose . . .” His fingers played with the tarnished buttons of his faded seagoing coat.

  Bolitho said sharply, “You have more experience of lonely command than any man I know. Speak out—this is the time.”

  Tyacke walked to the stern windows and watched a cutter being warped around the stern, ready to be hoisted aboard. In harbour it was usual to lower all boats, otherwise their seams opened in the relentless heat. At sea, it was sensible to keep them partly filled with water for the same reason.

  “Everyone knows about us, sir, more especially about you. With Captain Bolitho taken prisoner, and many of his people, wouldn’t it seem obvious to the enemy that you would take some action? Direct action?”

  Bolitho shrugged. “It is what I would like.”

  Tyacke rubbed his chin. “And they will expect it. With Indomitable gone, what chance would our ships stand?”

  Bolitho stared at him. “You mean that this ship will be marked down as the next victim?” He saw it suddenly, his mind clearing. “That is good sense!” He stood up and leaned over the chart. Yovell continued to write without a pause, except to dip his nib.

  “The Bermudas, a likely area for the Americans to gather. No English men-of-war there, they rely on their garri
son and the reef.”

  Tyacke glanced at the chart curiously. “Why none of our ships, sir?”

  “There is no water there. None. Apart from the seasonal rainfall they have to conserve it as best they can.”

  Tyacke gave a reluctant smile. “ That I didn’t know, sir.” It was as close to admiration as he could come.

  “Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps I am presuming too much, to base our strategy on the word of a sailing-master who sells fruit for a living!”

  He tapped Yovell’s plump shoulder. “I want to send fresh instructions to Captain Dawes in Valkyrie. They can go in the schooner Reynard when she leaves.”

  Tyacke saw the animation and eagerness returning to his tanned features. “We shall muster a convoy, and the world shall know about it, and Indomitable shall sail to meet it.”

  “It is not for me to say, but . . .”

  “But? That word again? And it is for you to say what you think. You are my flag-captain, and we must share our views.”

  Tyacke watched him warily. “Views, yes, and I am proud of that trust. But the responsibility lies with you.”

  “Don’t stop, James. Responsibility is something I am used to.”

  Tyacke said, “Then speak my mind I will, sir.” He stabbed the chart with his finger. “Here, Halifax.” His finger moved down the coastline. “Boston, New York, and right here, Philadelphia. If I was the Yankee commander this is exactly the area I would choose, with Philadelphia to run to for repairs or protection if things went wrong.” He raised his eyes to Bolitho. “But suppose, in a manner of speaking, Captain Dawes in his big frigate decided not to act on your instructions without question? If a convoy of soldiers was the real target, and he left it without an escort for the final approach, he might feel that his head was the one on the block, not yours.”

  “He is a resourceful captain, James, but you know that.”

  Tyacke responded bluntly, “He is also ambitious, and the son of an admiral. The two together are dangerous bedfellows.”

  “That was outspoken.” He smiled to soften it. “I like that. But Dawes is acting second-in-command. I have to rely on him.” He paused. “I have no choice, nor do I have justification to believe otherwise.”

  Tyacke looked round sharply as the sentry announced the arrival of the first lieutenant.

  “Yes, Mr Scarlett? Cannot it wait?”

  Scarlett answered hesitantly, “The last fresh water is inboard, sir.” He glanced at Bolitho. “I am sorry for the intrusion, Sir Richard.”

  As the door closed Tyacke snapped, “ I apologise, Sir Richard. I shall have a gentle word with that one!”

  He calmed himself. “Then I shall see that your despatches are put aboard the schooner.”

  Indomitable swung lightly to her cable. Perhaps York’s prediction was already making itself felt. A shaft of strong sunlight probed through the quarter windows and Tyacke saw Bolitho flinch from it and turn away.

  “Can I help, sir?”

  Bolitho sat down and pulled out a handkerchief, reminding Tyacke poignantly of the one he had given to the boy. Tyacke turned the chair for him, so that he faced away from the glare.

  Bolitho said quietly, “You know, don’t you? Have known ever since you took command as my flag-captain.”

  Tyacke met his gaze, equally unflinching. “Don’t blame Avery, sir. He thought he was doing the right thing.”

  “For me?”

  “And the ship.” He turned aside, as if suddenly conscious of his terrible scars. “If you will excuse me, sir, I have much to do.”

  Bolitho followed him and stopped him by the screen door.

  “Do you regret it? Tell me the truth.”

  “Well, I didn’t do it out of pity, sir.” Surprisingly, he grinned. “Regret it? I’ll speak my mind when we run that damned Yankee to earth!” He was still smiling as he shut the door behind him.

  Bolitho touched his eye and waited for the pain, but there was none. He sat again, deeply moved by Tyacke’s words, the very strength of his concern. A truly remarkable man.

  That night while Indomitable thrust her heavy bows into open sea, Bolitho awoke with that same dream still fixed in his mind. Carrick Roads and Pendennis Castle, the ships as clear and familiar as ever. Each one taking in her cable. Where bound? Who manned these phantom ships? There was an additional vessel this time, with the gilded figurehead he knew so well. Daughter of the Wind. And when she swung to her cable, he saw that it was Zenoria. Even then, as he fought his way out of the dream, he heard her last scream.

  “All right, Sir Richard?” It was Allday, his powerful frame leaning over with the ship.

  Bolitho held on to the cot as his feet touched the deck.

  “Tell me something, old friend. Do you think he is still alive?”

  Allday padded after him to the stern windows. The moon was making a ragged silver path on the lively crests. So that was what troubled him, he thought, as much or more than ever. All this time, with officials and officers coming and going with their offers or demands—mostly the latter, no doubt—planning what he should do, placing his ships where they would make the most difference, he had been fretting about Captain Adam. His nephew, but more of a son, a friend, than anyone else really knew.

  Then he walked to the sword-rack, and waited for the moonlight to touch the old blade he had proudly buckled or clipped into place before so many fights, so many deeds, which he had shared.

  “When we’re gone, Sir Richard . . .” He knew Bolitho was watching him in the eerie light, “An’ we can’t live for ever, nor have I a mind to . . . this old blade will be his. Must be.”

  He heard him say quietly, his voice suddenly calm again, “Aye, old friend. The last of the Bolithos.”

  Allday watched him climb into his cot. He seemed to fall asleep instantly.

  Allday smiled. The squall was over; the storm still to come.

  13 LONELINESS

  LADY Catherine Somervell rose from the tall leather-backed chair and walked to the window. Down in the street in front of the Admiralty main building, it was raining quite heavily.

  She toyed with one of the thick gold ropes that held the curtains, and watched people hurrying for shelter. Heavy, cleansing rain, thinning the traffic, causing steam to rise from the dirty cobbles, refreshing the avenues of trees so richly green on this late summer’s day.

  She turned and glanced at the empty fireplace, the old paintings of sea-battles. Richard’s world. She shook her head, rejecting the antiquated ships. No, more his father’s navy. She had learned much merely by listening, by being with him, just as he had shared her London, and, she hoped, learned to enjoy it in a manner he had not found possible before.

  She studied herself in a gilded tall looking-glass, imagining nervous sea officers here, examining their reflections before being summoned to meet whichever admiral would decide their fate.

  A plain green gown, the hem and sleeves of which were spotted with rain even as she had alighted from the carriage. She wore a wide-brimmed hat with a matching green ribbon. She had dressed with care, as she always did, not from vanity or conceit, but out of defiance, and because of Richard. Sixteen months now, and the ache was as cruel as ever.

  The room was much as she had expected it would be. Unwelcoming, aloof from the rest of the building, a place of decisions, where men’s lives could be changed with the stroke of a pen.

  She could imagine him here, as a very young captain, perhaps. Or afterwards, as a flag-officer, when their affair had become common knowledge. The whole world knew about them now. She half smiled, but the Admiralty would not be impressed by her position in his life, or by her rank. If anything happened to Richard, it was ironic that Belinda would be the first to be told. Officially.

  Over the months she had kept busy, helping Ferguson, or independently with her own projects. But each day was an eternity, her rides on Tamara her only escape. She had not been near the cliff path and Trystan’s Leap since the day of Zenoria’s death.

 
An old servant stood now between the tall double doors. Catherine had not noticed him, nor heard the doors open.

  “Sir Graham Bethune will see you now, my lady.”

  He bowed slightly as she passed him. She could almost hear him creak.

  Sir Graham Bethune strode to meet her. She had resented the fact that he had once been one of Richard’s midshipmen in his first command: even though he had explained the complexities governing seniority, it still seemed deeply unfair. Only one rank lower than Richard, and yet he was a lord of admiralty, a power who could help or dismiss as he chose.

  But Bethune was not what she had expected. He was slim, energetic, and was wearing a genuine smile to greet her; suddenly and rather unwillingly, she understood why Richard had liked him.

  “My dear Lady Somervell, this is indeed an honour. When I heard you were in Chelsea and I received your little note, I could scarce believe my good fortune!”

  Catherine sat in the proffered chair and regarded him calmly. He was charming, but he was quite unable to hide his curiosity, and the interest of a man in a beautiful woman.

  She said, “We were deeply concerned at Falmouth to learn of Anemone ’s loss. I thought that if I came in person you might give me more news—if there is any, Sir Graham?”

  “We will take refreshment in a moment, Lady Somervell.” He walked to his desk and rang a small bell. “Yes, we have indeed received more news, first by telegraph from Portsmouth yesterday, and then confirmed by courier.” He turned and rested his buttocks on the table. “It is much as I expected. After the sinking, the American frigate Unity took what prisoners could be saved from Anemone, and because of her own damage was forced to cancel any further attempts on our convoy. It was a brave act on Captain Bolitho’s part. It will not go unrewarded.” She put her hand on her breast and saw his glance follow it and linger there for a few seconds.

  She said, “Then he is alive?”

  A servant entered with a tray. He did not look at either of them.

  Bethune watched the servant opening the bottle with the deftness of one who was called to perform the task often.