Adam said, “I would rather stand.” There was a log fire in a fine mantelled hearth. Like the one in Falmouth. It was strange to see a fire in September.
Captain Brice said, “Please be seated. You have made your point. During your detention I understand that you have made several.”
Adam sat down and winced as the dressing dragged at his side.
“I thought we should meet. I am no stranger to war. I served in the Trenton during the War of Independence. As your famous uncle also served. He is back in these waters; so then am I.”
Adam waited. He sensed that the other man was merely the instrument. He looked away. As Anemone had been the instrument. But anything was better than staring at the wall or out of the window.
Brice continued in the same unemotional tone.
“You were courageous, and were one of the most successful frigate captains England has ever known. And yet you fought with the Unity, and you must have known you had no chance against such a powerful ship. That was not merely brave; it was reckless. Since the fight, many of your faithful and loyal company have signed their allegiance over to the United States—but I expect you saw that as a possible outcome, too.”
“I did what I saw was my duty. Your ship Unity was set upon overhauling the small but valuable convoy under my care. The choice of any captain is not always the agreeable one.”
He glanced through the window. Was that the complete truth? Could it be that Hudson had been right in deed as well as appreciation at that time? The convoy had been out of danger when he had cut down the colours. Anemone had caused enough damage to the American frigate to prevent a further chase. By fighting on against such odds, many more would have died. Was it any captain’s right to make such a brave sacrifice?
Captain Brice nodded slowly. “I thought I knew you, even though we had never met. I was supposed to put it to you that a rightful and proper command should be offered to you. I shall inform my superiors that it is out of the question.”
“I shall remain in detention, is that what you mean?” It was like feeling a cage closing around him, restricting him until he could barely breathe.
“There is no other solution.”
Adam touched his side. It would have been better to die. Even when he had fallen from the horse in his pathetic attempt to escape, they could have let him die.
Instead they wanted him as another renegade, or as a trophy of battle. He would be unable to walk unhindered in this unknown land; his own reputation had put paid to that.
“After all, your father changed sides during the Revolution, did he not? A good captain to all accounts, although I never met him. Unlike Commodore Beer.”
Adam thought of the massive Nathan Beer, who had visited him in the Unity, although he could not remember clearly how many times. It was strange to realise that Beer’s home was barely any distance away from this house, near Salem.
Brice watched him curiously. “You would never give your word under oath as a King’s officer that you would accept parole and not attempt to escape?” He paused. “I can see from your face that you would not: your eyes speak what you believe to be true. Your duty is to fight your country’s enemies by any and every means.” He gave a dry cough.
Adam watched him. A sick man, despite his authority and intelligence. Another victim.
“So then must I attend to my duty. You will be moved when you are fit enough, and be detained in a safe house. There you will remain until the war is finished. Is there anything I can do for you?”
Adam was about to offer an angry rebuff, but something in the man’s voice told him to desist. Brice did not like what he was doing, nor the mission which had been given him by others.
“I would wish to write some letters, Captain Brice.”
“You must realise they will have to be examined, censored if need be?”
Adam nodded.
“To a wife or lover perhaps?”
“There is none.” He met his gaze directly. “Not any more.”
“Very well. Tell the man Chimmo when you are ready.” He stood up and held out his hands to the fire. In his unemotional tone he explained, “Fever. The Levant, long, long ago.”
He was still by the fire when the lieutenant of the guard came to escort Adam back to his room.
The true realisation hit him like a fist. A prisoner of war. A nobody, who would soon be forgotten or conveniently overlooked.
The lieutenant said, “Not so much to say now, eh?” He stood aside for Chimmo to collect some cups and added, “You’ve had it your own way too long, so accept it.”
Adam regarded him calmly and saw him flinch. “I shall see that someone spells your name correctly for the grave, mark you that, sir!”
He saw Chimmo staring past the flushed lieutenant, his eyes moving like marbles, back and forth to the room’s solitary table.
The door slammed and Adam stood with his back pressed against it until his heartbeat had returned to normal.
A prisoner. He might as well take his own life.
Something caught his attention. The Holy Bible lay on the table, a piece of paper acting as a bookmark. It was the only book in the room and he had certainly not marked a place in it, nor had he even picked it up.
He stared round the room and out of the window to the deserted stable yard where he had lost his chance to ride away at the gallop. As Dr Derriman had asked in anger and amazement, Where the hell did you hope to reach?
Adam even thought of kneeling to peer under the bed where he had spent so much of his time.
He walked to the table and opened the much-used Bible.
There was a single sheet of paper, the handwriting scrawled with obvious haste. Adam had seen the same script many times when he had inspected Anemone ’s daily log.
For a few seconds he felt nothing but despair and disappointment. It was from Richard Hudson, the bloody traitor who had surrendered the ship. He could feel his eyes stinging, and he was about to crumple the letter into a tight ball when something held him motionless like an icy hand. Words stood out through the mist until, with an almost physical effort, he forced himself to read it slowly and carefully.
Do not believe what they say. I heard some officers speaking of you. You are to be moved to a safe place, somewhere on the coast. You will not know where it is but word will be smuggled to the admiral . . .
Adam had to pull his nerves under control. The admiral. Hudson was talking of Sir Richard Bolitho.
If I say more, others will suffer.
Adam stared at the last two words. Forgive me.
If I say more . . . Adam held the letter to a candle and watched it burn in the empty grate. He did not need to go any further. If his uncle knew where he was and could trust the source he might mount a rescue attempt, no matter how stretched his squadron had become.
He had always treated him like a son. Trusted him. Loved him. Had even held his tongue about his secret, Zenoria.
They wanted to take Richard Bolitho dead or alive. His name alone was the one danger they feared at sea.
He walked to the window and watched the breeze stirring dead leaves around the overgrown, sun-scorched grass.
He thought of the new American frigates, some of which might be right here in the bay.
He rested his forehead against the dusty glass. Aloud he said brokenly, “Oh God . . . I’m to be the bait . . .”
When Arthur Chimmo came with Adam’s midday meal he could barely prevent his hands from shaking.
With one eye on the door he whispered, “You wouldn’t tell ’em what I done, would you, sir? You ’eard what ’appened to your cox’n!”
“Easy, man. I have burned the note. But I must know what is happening.”
Adam could hear the officer’s boots tapping outside the door. A different lieutenant for the afternoon, one who was usually disinterested, probably glad to have an easy duty away from the war and its risks.
“All I can say is, it were a sailor who brought the message. If anybo
dy finds out . . .” He did not need to finish it.
A sailor. Theirs or ours, he wondered.
It was true that the men involved, including the quivering Chimmo, were risking their lives even by discussing it.
Chimmo had made up his mind, and said very heavily, “It will be while you’re here, Cap’n.” He nodded to emphasise each word. “While you’re here.”
Adam’s mind was working at a feverish pace. No wonder the grave-faced Captain Brice had obviously disapproved. One of the old salt-horse sea officers. He almost smiled, but the sudden excitement was too much for it. As my father would have been, had he lived. As my uncle is now. A man who could still maintain standards and old loyalties despite the endless war and the carnage it brought everywhere in the world.
“I’ll see you don’t regret this . . .”
Chimmo put down a plate of steaming beef with difficulty and shook his head wildly. “No, sir, nary a word! I’m ’appy in this country, ’appy as any man with one pin. I’d not want to go back. Beggin’ on the streets o’ Bristol. What would my old mates think of me, eh?”
Adam touched his fat arm. “Go your way. I’ve said and heard nothing.” He looked at his food, his appetite gone. “I wonder who this man is?”
Chimmo had his fingers on the door. “He knows you, Cap’n.”
Through the door Adam heard the lieutenant complaining, “Pity you don’t pay as much attention to the officers here, Arthur!” Then he laughed. “Another four hours and I’m off watch!”
Not surprisingly, Chimmo said nothing.
That afternoon the doctor came to make his usual examination. He told Adam he was well satisfied with the wound’s progress, but he seemed vaguely troubled.
Eventually Derriman said, “You’ll be told soon enough, so I might as well share the news. You’re to leave here tomorrow. You are strong enough to travel, but I hope somebody has made certain that the regular inspections continue, for a while anyway.”
Adam watched him as he put away his bag of instruments.
“Where to?”
The doctor shrugged. “I’m not trusted to be told, apparently!”
Adam was satisfied that the doctor knew nothing. He was an open sort of man, unused as yet to the demands war would make upon him.
So it was soon. He tried to hold on to the fading glimmer of hope. Or never.
But he said, “Thank you for all you’ve done, Doctor Derriman. I could easily have gone over the side.”
Derriman smiled. “It was the French surgeon in Unity you should thank. A man I’d like to meet, that’s for sure.”
They shook hands and Adam said, “I shall miss our talks.”
Derriman studied him and said, “So shall I.” Then he was gone.
Chimmo brought some cheap wine, which he had got from the officers’ mess.
He moved awkwardly around the room, touching things, peering out of the window.
With a great effort he said, “Goin’ to blow cold tonight, Cap’n. Best keep your clothes close by—too early for fires, the major says. It’s all right for him with his fine ’ouse an’ mistress to keep ’im warm o’ nights!”
Adam stared at him. It was tonight. “ Thank you, Arthur.”
Chimmo watched him worriedly. “I just ’opes . . .” The door closed.
Adam examined his feelings. Like preparing for battle. The terrible calm while any captain considers the odds on success or failure. Death.
Hope, my friend? It is all we can ever have in the end.
He lay on the bed and sipped the wine, watching the square of daylight above the stable roof opposite the room.
The duty lieutenant opened and locked the door without a word, his feet retreating down the stairs where he could be heard talking with one of his guards.
The light faded, and the breeze hissed amongst the leaves; a light rain pattered against the glass. He had sometimes thought of escaping from the window, but without help he could get nowhere.
Suppose somebody asked for payment? He had nothing; even his watch had gone, probably while he had lain in Unity’s sick-bay.
He sat up on the bed and began to pull on his shoes.
He touched his pocket and felt her memory stab his heart like a barb. All he had was her glove.
“Oh, Zenoria, my dearest love, I love thee so. I will never forget . . .”
He stared at the window, barely able to breathe as something tapped softly and then more insistently against it.
Adam slipped the catch and pushed it open. He tensed, expecting the crash of a musket or an outcry in the yard below.
There was a rope dangling from somewhere above the window. He leaned out and peered down where it had vanished into the early darkness.
“Can you climb? Are you able?”
The man was a black shadow, but Adam could tell from the edge in his voice that he was very aware of danger or sudden death.
He whispered, “I’ll manage!”
He swung from the sill, and almost cried out as his wound awakened to torment him.
His guide hissed, “Faster! We’ve no time left!”
His feet reached the cobbles and he would have stumbled but for the man’s strong grip. When he looked, the rope had disappeared.
“I’ve got a cart outside. Keep with me.” He thrust a pistol into Adam’s hand. “If we fail, you’ll be on your own, see?”
Adam blundered through a gate, the one he had seen from his window, and out on to the road. He could feel the sweat running down his body, soaking his shirt like a rag, the weakness of the months and days trying to slow him down.
He felt the rain on his lips, and tasted salt in the air.
The sea. Just get me to the sea.
A second man waited by a small horse-drawn cart. He was equally faceless and dark, impatient to go.
He snapped, “All quiet, John. No alarm!”
Adam pictured the empty room. With luck he might not even be missed until early morning when the soldiers beat up the camp nearby.
He felt his hands shaking badly. He was free. No matter what happened now or what became of him, he was free.
He allowed the man to help him into the back of the cart. A battered hat was jammed on his head and he gasped as a liberal measure of rum was poured over him.
His guide chuckled. “If we’re stopped, you are too drunk to talk.” His voice hardened. “But have the piece ready!”
“Ready, Tom?”
He turned as Adam asked, “But why? The risks—what might happen to you—”
He stifled a laugh. “Why, Captain Bolitho, sir! Don’t you recognise your old cox’n, John Bankart? What else could I do?”
The cart began to move and Adam lay back on a pile of sacks and bales of straw, believing he was losing his mind.
He no longer knew what to say or think, what to believe or to doubt. A cart on an open road, men risking their necks for his sake. And John Allday’s only son, who had once served as his coxswain. It had broken Allday’s heart when he had left for America. Adam could remember what he had said about it. An Englishman you was born, and an Englishman you’ll die. And here they were, somewhere outside Boston, and heading down towards the sea.
He clutched the glove in his pocket.
I’m coming, Zenoria! I promised I would.
He had lost all idea of time, and had to hold on to a wall when they helped him out of the cart.
The man called Tom said, “What d’you think?”
Then Bankart said, “In a bad way. Been through the thresher an’ no mistake.”
“Suppose the boat’s shoved off? Got scared or somethin’—it’s one hell of a risk!”
Bankart sounded quite calm. “I’ll stay with him. I owe him that much.”
Adam barely heard him. Just the muffled scrape of oars, fierce whispers, before he was dragged down into a small boat.
The other man called hoarsely, “Good luck, John, you mad bugger!”
Allday’s son moved the battered hat to shield A
dam’s face from the rain, which was already heavier.
The men at the oars when they spoke to one another used a language he did not recognise. Not Spanish. Probably Portuguese.
He managed to ask, “Are you really staying with me?”
Bankart grinned, but had it been daylight his sadness would have been very evident.
“Certainly, sir.” He straightened his back. “As my dad would say, ‘An’ that’s no error!’”
Adam pulled the hat away and opened his mouth to the rain.
Free.
15 TRICK FOR TRICK
MATTHEW SCARLETT, Indomitable’s first lieutenant, ducked his head as he stepped into the wardroom and tossed his hat to one of the mess-boys. Despite the cool northerly wind which had filled the sails well enough for the whole forenoon watch, the air between decks was dank and humid, the Atlantic’s warning of what was to come.
Before dusk they would rendezvous with two of the squadron’s other frigates, Zest and Reaper, and ride it out for the night.
He sat down and thought savagely, For all the bloody good it will do. The only vessel they had sighted on this bright September day had been the busy schooner Reynard, pausing only briefly to exchange despatches before hurrying on to the next point of command.
The mess-boy placed a goblet of red wine before him and waited for instructions.
Scarlett barely heard him and snapped, “Salt pork again? I’ll begin to look like a pig very soon!”
He stared aft, as if he could see the captain discussing the latest despatches with the admiral. He swallowed half the tepid wine without even tasting it. Avery the flag-lieutenant would be there too. Of course.
Could he speak privately with the captain? After what he had told him when he had taken command at Plymouth, might he be prepared to listen?
The two Royal Marine officers were dozing in their chairs, while Jeremy Laroche, the third lieutenant, sat at the end of the table, idly shuffling and re-shuffling a pack of cards.
Scarlett ignored him. How long would this go on? The Yankees might never break out in strength; even Anemone ’s loss had been sheer mischance. Had it been dark, nothing might have happened at all.
Laroche called in his affected drawl, “I say, Matthew, if I can rouse the two soldiers here, would you care to make a foursome?” He ruffled the cards and added, “Chance to even the score, what?”
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