For My Country's Freedom

by Kent, Alexander

  “Not now.”

  “But it’ll be all-hands before you know it. You know what it’s been like.”

  “I said not now. Are you bloody deaf or something?”

  He did not see the lieutenant’s anger and resentment; all he could think of was the letter which had come with the schooner’s mail. Even the sight of his mother’s spidery writing had twisted his stomach like a sickness.

  It should have been so different. Could have been. Indomitable had lain at Plymouth undergoing alterations and re-rigging, ready for a role which had not come about in time for the Mauritius campaign. As first lieutenant he had had every hope and promise for promotion, to commander in all probability, on a temporary footing until he could be advanced to captain. Captain of this powerful vessel, a match for any of the crack American newcomers like Unity and the rest. The money that went with such a command would be further increased with the prizes he would take or share. A real chance to wipe out the mounting debts that hung over him like a spectre.

  His mother was desperate. They had threatened her that they would, if necessary, go to the lords of admiralty. But the deeds of the house which her late husband had left her would show an honest attempt at repayment.

  The very mention of cards by the unimaginative Laroche had nearly made him vomit.

  He knew that he was behaving strangely, but the sudden gusts of rage and his harsh treatment of some of the warrant officers seemed beyond his ability to contain. On or off watch, in his cot at night or pacing the quarterdeck in all weathers, he was dogged by worry and despair.

  Indomitable was not to continue as a private ship, as he and others had expected.

  When Sir Richard’s flag had broken out at the mainmast truck he had watched his hopes begin to dwindle. It was well known in the fleet that Bolitho often promoted his various flag-lieutenants to command at the end of a commission. For some it had been richly deserved; others, who could say? Scarlett was one of the most senior lieutenants in the squadron, apart from a few of the old hands who had risen from warrant rank and the like.

  It was so unfair. But it would not go away. There would be no peace.

  Another mess-man faltered by the table. “Beg pardon, sir.”

  Scarlett turned sharply. “What?”

  “I ’eard a cry from the masthead, sir.”

  “Well, so did I, damn it!” He stood up and strode out, snatching his hat as he passed. In fact, he had heard nothing.

  Captain du Cann of the Royal Marines opened one eye and looked at Laroche. “Coming in for a blow, what?”

  Laroche was still sulking. “I hate a bad loser!”

  On deck Scarlett adjusted to the hard glare thrown back from the endless, undulating swell of empty ocean. Like molten glass. The emptiness was an illusion. Their last estimated position had been only 25 miles south-east of Sandy Hook and New York.

  Lieutenant Protheroe, the officer-of-the-watch, studied him warily.

  “Lookout reports a small sail to the nor’-east, sir.”

  “Who is up there?”

  “Crane, sir.”

  Scarlett stared up through the shrouds and rigging, at the flap-ping topsails and topgallants. It was so bright that he could scarcely see the lookout, but from his name he got an immediate picture.

  A good, reliable hand, not a man to imagine what he saw. He asked shortly, “What sort of vessel?”

  “I sent up a glass, sir . . .”

  “Not what I asked.”

  Protheroe swallowed hard. He had always got on very well with the first lieutenant. Or thought he had.

  He replied, “Very small, sir. Topsail schooner, but foreign rig, he thinks Portuguese.”

  “Does he indeed.” He took a pace to the rail and stared down at the men working their watch on deck. “As soon as she sights us she’ll be off like a rabbit!”

  He saw Isaac York the sailing-master, a bundle of charts beneath one arm and his slate-grey hair ruffling in the breeze, pause with his hand above his eyes while he scanned the horizon for the as yet invisible vessel.

  York continued his way to the quarterdeck and said, “I’ll tell the Captain, Matthew.”

  Scarlett swung round, his eyes ablaze with sudden anger. “Don’t you start . . .”

  York stood fast. “It’s me, Matthew. Remember?”

  “Sorry.” He touched his rough coat. “So sorry!”

  “If you want to talk. . . ?”

  He nodded blindly. “I know. I am in hell!”

  To Protheroe he added, “Get aloft, eh? Tell me what you make of her.” To York he said, “Maybe later I’ll be able . . .” But Isaac York had gone below.

  York was tall, and had to stoop as he made his way aft towards the marine sentry outside the admiral’s quarters.

  What had happened to Scarlett, he wondered. A good first lieutenant, one spoken of for promotion. That was then.

  The sentry tapped on the deck with his musket. “Master, sir!”

  Ozzard opened the door and squinted around it, York thought, rather like a suspicious housewife examining a pedlar.

  It took a minute for York to accustom his eyes to the comparative gloom of the great cabin, then he made out the comfortable shape of the admiral’s secretary, his small round glasses perched on his moist forehead while he awaited the next instruction. Avery, the flag-lieutenant, was standing beside the desk, his body swaying easily to the ship’s heavy progress, some papers in his brown hands. And their captain, moving restlessly by a gunport, the reflected sunshine lighting his hideous scars one way, losing them in shadow the next. York remembered how his midshipmen had been terrified of Tyacke when he had first come aboard. Few would even catch his eye. Now, in some strange way, all that had changed. The fear remained, but it was greatly tempered with respect, and perhaps a recognition of his courage.

  And of course, Sir Richard Bolitho. Shirt loosened, his legs thrust out while he sat framed against the glistening panorama astern.

  York smiled. The midshipmen were not the only ones in awe of admiral and captain.

  “Be seated, Mr York. I’ll give you the barest details of a despatch I received from Halifax in the schooner Reynard. ” Bolitho forced a smile. “Little news of the war, I am afraid, although the Duke of Wellington continues to advance and press upon Napoleon’s coat-tails.”

  York was as shrewd as he was experienced. There was tension here. Anxiety in their various stances; no roles for the actors, he thought.

  Bolitho watched him, fighting the despair, the sense of helplessness. He continued, “Word has come from some unknown source that my nephew is recovered from his wound but is to be held captive, isolated like some felon.” He calmed his sudden anger with an effort. “No chance of exchange, nor a just release because of his wound . . .” He looked directly at the sailing-master. “I need your advice, Mr York.”

  Tyacke said hotly, “It’s a trap, sir! That would finish us right enough!”

  York waited. It must be bad, for the captain to speak so forcefully to his admiral.

  Bolitho showed no sign of irritation. “Delaware Bay, that is where he is imprisoned. A place named Avon Beach.”

  They all watched while York unrolled one of his charts and flattened it on the table.

  “Ah, here it is, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho glanced away to the small lacquered box on his desk. A letter from Catherine. How he longed to read it, to share his hopes and fears across the leagues of ocean which held them apart.

  York nodded. “A good choice, if you’ll pardon my saying so, Sir Richard. Too shallow for anything but small vessels at that point. Plenty of deep water in the bay, of course. Fine anchorage.”

  Bolitho watched York’s mind working while the others waited in silence. He turned his eyes back to the small box. Each word in every letter meant so much. There had been a letter for Allday, too. He would be waiting somewhere, ready to spring out on the flag-lieutenant so he could listen to her voice in Avery’s words.

  It touched Bo
litho deeply that Allday had forced himself to say so little about his new daughter, even though he was bursting with it.

  Because of me, and of Kate. He looked at his hands. And because of Adam.

  York raised his head. “A landing party, Sir Richard?” His tone hardened. “Or a rescue attempt, is that what you’re proposing?”

  Bolitho said quietly, “Would they really expect me to risk ships and men because of my heart?” He was feeling the locket through his damp shirt, trying to summon her voice. But there was nothing.

  Tyacke asked abruptly, “What was the commotion on deck, Mr York?”

  “A small sail to the nor’-east, sir. The first lieutenant is given to ignore it.”

  Bolitho looked at him. “This place, Avon Beach—do you know it?”

  “Of it, sir. Loyalists were imprisoned there. Now I believe it is derelict.”

  They watched him, seeing him creating the prison in his mind. “It will break his heart.”

  Tyacke said, “It has happened to many good men, Sir Richard.”

  “I know. It is not honour I seek, nor even yet revenge . . .”

  Tyacke frowned as the sentry called, “First lieutenant, sir!”

  “Tell him to wait!” To Bolitho he added, “I had better go to him.” His expression softened. But for the scars he would have been handsome, Bolitho thought, gentle.

  “I meant no offence, Sir Richard. I have too much respect for you, and much more that I’d say naught of in company. I do know your feelings. As your flag-captain . . .” He shrugged. “You taught me, remember?”

  York said uncertainly, “If you need me, Sir Richard?”

  “Thank you, Mr York. We will talk further.” York gathered up his charts and departed.

  Bolitho sat with his back against the windows, feeling the warmth through the thick glass, the lift and roll of all of her 1,400 tons. Men, weapons, and perhaps the will to win. What chance had all these against love?

  He looked at his flag-lieutenant. His tawny eyes were very clear from the sea’s reflections.

  “Well, George? Nothing to say? Your leader taken all aback, and you remain silent?”

  “I see someone who is helpless because he cares so much for others. The ships and men who must rely upon him. People he knows, good and bad—they are in his hands.”

  Bolitho said nothing, and Avery added, “A general will say, ‘Order the 87th to advance.’ And if they are not enough or are hacked down, he will send in another regiment. He sees no faces, hears no pitiful cries which will never be answered, only flags, pins on a map.”

  There was a long silence, and Bolitho could hear Avery’s breathing above the other sounds.

  “I know.”

  When he looked up Avery was shocked to see tears in his eyes.

  “I had no right, sir.”

  “You of all people had every right.”

  They heard Tyacke’s voice raised in anger. “You are dismissed, man! Go to your barracks until told otherwise!”

  Tyacke’s anger seemed to pursue the luckless sentry. “We are all fighting on the same bloody side, I hope!”

  Then Scarlett’s voice, hoarse and angry. “ Zest has been sighted, sir!”

  “What is the matter with you, man? It is near enough to rendezvous. Is that all you had to tell me?”

  Avery asked, “Shall I go and quieten things, sir?”

  He stared as Bolitho held up one hand. “Not yet!”

  Tyacke asked sharply, “What about the lookout and the sighting to the nor’-east?”

  “I have set more sail, sir. She will lose us at dusk, so I thought . . .”

  Tyacke sounded very calm suddenly, the sharpness of his temper gone like a passing squall. “Heave-to. Signal Zest to close on Flag.”

  When he re-entered the great cabin he looked quite impassive.

  “I apologise for my rough tongue, Sir Richard. I’ve long since lost the pretty manners of liners!”

  Allday entered silently, his eyes questioning the absence of a sentry by the screen door. “Are you going up, Sir Richard?”

  Indomitable rolled heavily as the hands ran to the braces and sheets to shorten sail and bring her up to the wind. On deck there were startled faces everywhere, peering at the sea, empty still but for small slivers of sail which appeared to be circling Indomitable like sharks while she continued to head upwind.

  Bolitho lurched against a stay as the deck tilted over, his shoe sliding on the wet planking.

  He saw Tyacke watching, then turning away again as Allday caught his arm.

  He took a telescope from Lieutenant Protheroe. Very carefully he raised it to his right eye, hardly daring to breathe as the brightly painted schooner lurched into the lens.

  “Have the side manned, Mr Scarlett!” He tried again, afraid that his voice might betray him. “There is a captain coming aboard, and we shall offer him all honours on this September day!”

  He could feel Allday’s grasp on his arm, his anxiety.

  “What is it, Sir Richard?”

  Bolitho looked across the broad quarterdeck where Tyacke was watching his ship respond to canvas and rudder, his coat soaked with flying spray.

  Tyacke had guessed. He had known.

  Then he handed the telescope to Allday and said quietly, “See, old friend? There is one other coming aboard today.”

  Philip Beauclerk, the surgeon, wiped his strong bony hands with a wet cloth, and said, “Whoever had cause to attend Captain Bolitho after he was wounded must have been an excellent doctor. I should like to congratulate him, enemy or not.”

  Bolitho sat beside the cot which had been rigged in his own quarters and grasped Adam’s hand. He could scarcely believe it, and yet somehow, like Tyacke, he had known. The one and only chance, and it had been theirs to seize.

  Adam opened his eyes and studied him, slowly, feature by feature, perhaps to reassure himself that it was not merely another dream, another lost hope.

  “Well, Uncle, you cannot rid yourself of me so easily.” He seemed to realise that his hand was clasped firmly, and whispered, “It was Allday’s son. He took a terrible risk.”

  “So did you, Adam.”

  He smiled, gripping harder as the pain returned. “I would have been caged, Uncle. He would have been hanged, like poor George Starr. I shall never forget what he did.”

  Beauclerk said, “He is still very weak, Sir Richard. His recent exploits have done little to speed his recovery.”

  Adam shook his head. “Why is it, Uncle, when you are ill, that those who care for you seem to think you are deaf and slightly stupid? They discuss you as if you are only one step from Heaven!”

  Bolitho touched his bare shoulder. Even that felt stronger, less feverish.

  “You are better already, Adam.”

  He tried to force the despatches which Reynard had delivered to the back of his mind. The troop convoy had been doubled and would arrive at Halifax within the next two weeks. He had mentioned it to Tyacke while Beauclerk had been examining Adam, and had seen the arguments in Tyacke’s eyes.

  The Americans had leaked the information about Adam’s place of captivity to encourage a rescue attempt, to split the Leeward Squadron when it was most needed. The convoy’s size and importance had dwarfed even that.

  Would men like Beer really believe that he would make such a reckless and personal foray in the face of such local and forceful opposition? By now they would know of Adam’s escape. But it would be impossible for anyone to expect him to have reached Indomitable. One favourable card, then.

  Bolitho watched Adam’s eyes begin to droop, felt the grip of his hand slacken.

  “If there is anything I can do for you . . .” He saw Adam trying to speak and guessed that the surgeon had given him some drug to ease the shock and strain of his escape. “I never thought you were lost. But I cared very much.”

  Adam pulled the crumpled glove from his breeches. “Keep this for me, Uncle. It is all I have of hers.”

  Avery had entered q
uietly but stood motionless and in silence. The glove, the rumour of suicide, and the young captain’s despair told most of the story, and he was deeply moved by what he had seen and heard.

  Then Adam said softly, “A ship, Uncle. Please find me a ship.”

  Bolitho gazed at him, the words unlocking another old memory. When he had returned from the Great South Sea half dead from fever, and on his recovery had pleaded for a ship, any ship.

  “You should be sent home, Adam. You are not yet recovered. What must I do to make you . . .”

  Beauclerk took Adam’s hand and put it beneath the sheet. “He hears nothing, Sir Richard. It is better this way.” His pale eyes were assessing Bolitho curiously. “He is very strong.”

  Bolitho stood up, unwilling to return to the squadron’s affairs.

  “Call me instantly, if . . .”

  Beauclerk gave a small smile. “When, Sir Richard. When.”

  Bolitho saw Avery, and said, “A miracle.”

  To Beauclerk he added, “I meant to tell you, the results of your work in this ship are excellent. I shall see that it goes on your report.”

  “As you have seen in my papers, Sir Richard, my service will be terminated at the end of this commission. But there are no regrets either way. I have learned firsthand of the desperate need for improved surgical techniques in the King’s ships, and I will do my utmost to make my opinions survive beyond the furnace!”

  Bolitho smiled. “I wish you luck. I am grateful for what you have done in Indomitable.”

  Beauclerk picked up his bag but lingered to rest a hand on Adam’s brow. Then he said quietly, “In Sir Piers Blachford, I had the finest of tutors.”

  Bolitho touched his eye. So he had known all the time, but had said nothing. Loyalty seemed to come in all guises, and he was suddenly glad that Beauclerk had shared the secret.

  On deck the sky and the sea were like bronze, the breeze barely strong enough to lift the sails into motion.

  Tyacke strode to meet him and wasted no time. “We made signal contact with Zest, Sir Richard. She had a skirmish this morning and suffered small damage when she surprised an enemy brig, well inshore at the time.”