For My Country's Freedom (17 page)

Bolitho took his hand from his eye and was surprised that it gave him no pain or irritation. The air was clearer, and perhaps his freedom ashore with Catherine had helped more than he knew. He studied his ships again, each one as strong or as fragile as the man who commanded her.

So many times had Bolitho come to this small but powerful outpost in the Caribbean to stand against the American rebels, the Dutch, the Spaniards and the old enemy, France. And now the new American navy was posing a threat once again. There had still been no declaration of war, nor even a suggestion from either government that danger threatened on the horizon.

Bolitho watched a few boats weaving in and out among the moored men-of-war. Otherwise nothing stirred. In a month or so that would change with the beginning of the hurricane season. It had been that time of year when he had come here last, and found Catherine.

He thought of her letters, which had arrived only two days ago, all together in a sealed bag, having gone to Gibraltar first by accident. He smiled, hearing her voice in each written word, savouring them. Strange how, unlike letters, unpleasant and direct despatches from higher command never seemed to go astray, but found you without any apparent difficulty.

He had read through all of them twice, and he would read them again later when the ship was at rest.

Once, when he had been sitting at his table, the ship dark around him and lanterns glinting on the water like fireflies, he had heard the low murmur of a voice reading aloud close by. He understood now what it meant: his flag-lieutenant George Avery was reading a letter from home for Allday's benefit.

A small, unlikely thing perhaps, but Bolitho had been touched by it. The lieutenant, who like Tyacke never received letters from anybody; and the one who received them and could not read them. Another bond among
We Happy Few.

Catherine's letters were written with care and with love. Their contact was so important, vital to him, and she understood exactly what he needed to know. Seemingly inconsequential details of the house, the weather, her roses and the people who were part of that other life which he had had to discard, like all those other times, and all those Bolithos before him.

She told him of the cliff walks, and the gossip in the town, of Roxby's obvious pleasure in his knighthood, of her mare Tamara. But she never wrote of the war.

Except once. She had been writing of
Indomitable
's departure, how she had waited with Tamara to watch the powerful ship spreading sail and heading for the Channel.

It was such a proud sight, darling Richard. But I was the proudest of all. I did not cry, I could not, I could not allow tears to hide those precious moments. There goes my man. An admiral of England, the rock so many have depended on for so long. Only a man, you once described yourself. So typical of you, dearest of men, but not true. You lead, they follow, so it will be until the last shot in this damnable war. Last night you came to me again darling Richard. I allowed you to touch me before you left me
. . . There was more, her words bringing him a poignant elation and comfort, which made other concerns unimportant.

Was that why he had stayed away from this fine house until her letters had arrived to sustain him?
Am I still so unsure, although our love has survived even the fiercest trial?

He crossed to the nearest door and paused in the bars of dusty sunlight. Although the furniture was covered with protective sheets, and the valuable candlesticks and crystal had been removed, he could still see it as it had been. When he had stumbled, half blinded by reflected lights, and she had reached out to steady him. He had not known Catherine was here, whereas she had endured the knowledge of his arrival, and emotions and memories of their affair too powerful not to be re-awakened.

There was a gleam of scarlet from the other end of the terrace as a Royal Marine wandered past the windows. He was one of a handful who had been instructed to watch over the empty house, and to ensure that nothing went missing before the next occupant arrived from England. As Somervell had been despatched to take up residence here. A man trusted by the King, a man respected because of his lovely wife, and perhaps for little else by those who truly knew him.

Out into the impressive reception area, and beyond it the big staircase where he had found her at night, when the curtains had swirled through the rooms like torn sails in a mounting wind. She had carried a loaded pistol hidden against her thigh. He would never forget the look in her fine, dark eyes when she had recognised her intruder.

She had written that she was losing her maid Sophie, who was to marry the son of a prosperous farmer over near Fallow-field. He wondered if Allday was still troubled over his separation from Unis. Love, permanent love, was so new to him, and completely unexpected.

Bolitho walked out into the glare again, glad he had come back to this place. Perhaps it would be possible to write to her about it, in a way that would not hurt her. He smiled faintly, sensing that she would already know he had made his pilgrimage here.

He descended the worn stone steps and paused to look back at the house. The windows were shuttered. Blind. And yet curiously he felt as if the place were watching him.

Allday was sitting on a bollard by the waterfront, his hat tilted over his eyes. He stood up immediately and signalled to the long, green-painted barge idling in the shadow of a stores hulk. Bolitho wondered if the new barge crew knew how lucky they were to have him to watch over them. Other coxswains, no matter how junior, might have left them baking in the heat until they were required, but this big, shambling sailor always cared. Until somebody crossed him. Then the heavens would fall.

Allday watched the approaching barge with a critical eye. A second coxswain had been appointed as his assistant, mostly to supervise its cleaning and general maintenance. He would be a help to Allday, who was so often troubled by his old chest wound. Bolitho looked away. Allday's expression seemed to suggest that the man in question still had a long way to go.

“A lot of memories in this place, old friend.”

Allday answered thoughtfully. “Indeed, sir, more than a few.”

Bolitho said impulsively, “I know how you are feeling . . . about home. But I have to tell you, Lady Catherine is grateful that you came with me. And so am I.”

It was like a cloud drifting away. Allday gave a great grin, so that his troubled thoughts seemed to go with it.

“Ah, well, we just need Cap'n Adam alongside now, and we'll be ready for anything . . .” His eyes hardened as the barge tossed oars too soon and came against the fenders with a sickening lurch. Unabashed, Protheroe, the young fourth lieutenant, leapt ashore and removed his hat with a flourish. “At your service, Sir Richard!”

Beyond his shoulder Bolitho heard Allday growl at the second coxswain, “I don't care, see? Even if he is a bloody officer,
you
take charge. Don't treat the barge like a battering-ram!”

Protheroe's bright confidence had been replaced by two vivid spots of colour in his cheeks. He had heard every word, as Allday had intended.

Bolitho settled himself in the sternsheets and waited for the barge to glide away from the jetty.

He glanced at Protheroe and said quietly, “If it is of any consolation, I once collided with my admiral's barge when I was a midshipman.”

“Oh?” The relief flooded his face.
“Oh!”

After the din and turmoil of being piped on board, Bolitho took Allday to one side. “Captain Tyacke and I are being entertained to dinner in the wardroom tonight. It may be the last chance we get for a while.”

“I knows about that, sir.”

Bolitho hid a smile. Like many other people Allday probably thought it was absurd that the admiral and the ship's captain had to wait for an invitation before they could enter the wardroom mess. His father had dismissed it as tradition, part of the navy's mystique. But where did all that go when the screens were torn down, and the decks were cleared from bow to stern, and such gentility was drowned and lost in the din of war?

“When it is done, and if you have a mind, lay aft and join me and Captain Tyacke for a wet, as you would call it.”

Allday grinned, and thought of the captain's new coxswain, Eli Fairbrother.
The day he gets asked for a wet will be the day.

Bolitho saw Scarlett, the first lieutenant, waiting nearby.

“Mr Scarlett, how may I help you?”

Scarlett almost stammered. “Tonight, Sir Richard, I . . .”

“We have not forgotten. And I intend that we should entertain all our captains who may be present as soon as
Anemone
arrives. It is always good to know the men who command the ships you may have to rely on.”

Scarlett came out of his troubled thoughts. “A sail was sighted at noon, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho recalled once more
Hyperion
's approach at snail's pace as Catherine had described it to him so many times. Today, there was even less wind at the newcomer's disposal.

Scarlett glanced at the listless masthead pendant. “The army lookout station on Monk's Hill sent word that she may be the schooner
Kelpie.
She is apparently due.” He sensed the question in Bolitho's eyes. “Mail-packet, Sir Richard, from the Bermudas.” An odd expression, a sadness, Bolitho thought, crossed his face. “Before that, England.”

Bolitho turned away. Maybe another letter from Catherine? Perhaps new directions from the Admiralty?

Bethune might have changed his mind, or been ordered to change it. He had seen the doubts for himself. It was dangerous, as it was delicate. The Americans could be provoked into war, or they could be dissuaded from open conflict. Nothing would be achieved by sitting still and pretending a confrontation would go away of its own accord.

“So let's be about it then,” he said.

Scarlett was still staring after him as he strode aft to the cabin. Lieutenant George Avery nodded to the marine sentry and waited for Ozzard to open the screen door for him.

The great cabin was lit only by two lanterns, and right aft beyond the tall stern windows he could see some scattered shore lights, and the moon's silver reflection on the gently breathing water.

He saw his admiral sitting on the bench seat, his heavy gold-laced coat draped over Ozzard's arm, his shirt open while he sipped a tall glass of hock.

Bolitho said, “Be seated.”

He saw Allday begin to rise for the lieutenant, but he changed his mind as Avery shook his head. To Bolitho he said, “Let it be like that time in Freetown, Sir Richard. There are no officers here tonight. Only men.”

Bolitho smiled. Avery was more outspoken than usual; but there had been plenty of wine at the wardroom dinner, and so much food that, considering the temperature and the unmoving air between decks, it was a wonder some of them had not collapsed.

After the first awkward formalities between the mostly young officers and their admiral, as well as their formidable captain, things had settled down. Unlike meat from the cask, rock-hard when the cooks got their hands on it, there was a pleasant surprise on offer, an unlimited supply of fresh roast pork. The captain of the dockyard had his own pigs on the island, and had presented the meat from his own larder.

Apart from the four lieutenants and the two Royal Marine officers, the wardroom consisted of the ship's specialists. Isaac York, the sailing-master, seemed to have an endless fund of stories about strange ports he had visited since going to sea at the age of eight. It was Bolitho's first real meeting with the ship's surgeon, Philip Beauclerk, young for his trade, with the palest eyes Bolitho had ever seen. Almost transparent, like sea-polished glass. An educated, quiet-spoken man, a far cry from the rough and ready surgeons, the butchers as they were called; men like George Minchin who had once served in
Hyperion,
and had been on board when the old ship had given up the fight. Wild-eyed, crude, and often half-drunk with rum, he had nevertheless saved many lives that day. And he had not quit the ship until the last of the wounded, or those who were not beyond hope, had been taken off.

Minchin would be in Halifax now, serving in the big frigate
Valkyrie,
where Bolitho had last met him.

Bolitho had caught Beauclerk watching him several times throughout the meal, the general drinking and the seemingly endless procession of toasts. It was impossible that he could know anything about his eye. Or was it? There was no more private society than the medical profession. But Beauclerk had spoken with great intelligence and interest about what might lie ahead, and was probably trying to guess what his own part might be. It was very hard to picture him like Minchin in that raging, bloody hell on the orlop deck, the wings-and-limbs tubs filled to over-flowing with the gory remnants of those who had been cut down in battle.

Three midshipmen had been invited too, and one of them, Midshipman David Cleugh, had been required to call the Loyal Toast. This he did in a piping, quavery voice. He had then been sternly ordered to drink a full goblet of brandy by the captain of marines. For, by coincidence, it was the midshipman's twelfth birthday.