For My Country's Freedom (18 page)

The quietest man in the wardroom had been James Viney, the purser. He had been unable to drag his eyes from the captain, who sat directly opposite him. Like a mesmerised rabbit, Bolitho had thought. Tyacke had not come aft for a last drink, and had made his excuses as the messmen had started to clear away the table so that cards and dice could be produced. Out of politeness nobody would move until the senior guests had departed.

Tyacke, his torn face in shadow, had said only, “I want to go through a book or two before I turn in.”

Bolitho recalled the purser's nervousness. The books might have a lot to do with that.

Bolitho had thrust out his hand, and had seen the sudden surprise in those clear blue eyes that reminded him so much of Thomas Herrick. “Thank you, James.”

“For what, sir?” His handshake had been firm, nevertheless.

Bolitho had answered quietly, “You know for what. As I know what this evening cost you. But believe me, you will not regret it. Nor will I.”

Ozzard brought another glass of hock and placed a goblet of rum almost within Allday's reach: his quiet, stubborn way of showing he was not
his
servant.

They sat in silence, listening to the ship's private noises and the dragging step of a watchkeeper overhead.

Avery said suddenly, “The leaves will soon fall in England.” Then he shook his head and winced. “God, how I shall pay for all that wine in the morning!”

Bolitho touched the locket inside his shirt and saw Avery glance as it flashed in the lantern light. Perhaps they all saw him in different ways. Few would imagine he could be as he was when he and Catherine were together.

Scarlett had also asked Yovell as a guest, but he had declined, and had spent the evening in the tiny cabin that also served him as an office and writing-space.

Allday had assured him that Yovell was quite happy to be alone. He had said with some amusement, “He reads his Bible every night. There's still quite a lot of it to take in!”

Through the open skylight and stern windows they heard the creak of oars. It was so still that every sound seemed to carry.

Then the hail,
“Boat ahoy!”

Avery looked surprised. “Who is abroad at this hour?” He stood up. “I'll go and see, sir.” He smiled suddenly, and appeared young and relaxed, as he must have been once. “There may not be another officer sober enough to deal with it!”

The oars were louder, nearer. Then came the reply.
“Officer-ofthe-Guard!”

Bolitho massaged his eyes. He was tired, but rare moments with friends like these could not be ignored.

He thought of Scarlett, anxious and unsure of himself during the meal. Was it so important to him? He was a good officer, and watching him going about his duties Bolitho might have believed that he was completely confident, with perhaps only his next promotion uppermost in his mind. He had noticed, however, that neither he nor Avery had spoken to one another.

Avery returned, carrying a waterproof envelope.

“Would you believe, sir, the mail-schooner
Kelpie
entered harbour in pitch darkness after all. The guard-boat stood by just in case.” He held out the envelope. “
Kelpie
met with
Anemone.
She's waiting until first light before she comes in.”

Bolitho said, “Very wise, with the harbour full of ships, and Adam with a raw company.”

He saw Allday watching him questioningly.

Bolitho said, “It's from Lady Catherine.”

A cold hand seemed to touch him and he could not shake it off. He recognised her handwriting instantly, and had seen an Admiralty wax seal on the envelope.
A priority.
For private correspondence?

Avery stood up. “Then I shall leave you, sir.”

“No!” He was surprised by the sharpness of his own voice.
What is the matter with me?
“Ozzard, recharge the glasses, if you please.” Even Ozzard was motionless, watching, listening.

“If you will excuse me.” Bolitho slit open the envelope and unfolded her letter.

He was suddenly quite alone, with only the letter, her words rising to meet him.

My darling Richard,

I would give anything not to write this letter, to send you news which will grieve you as it has me.

I have to tell you that Val's little boy is dead. It was an accident, and he suffocated in his cot before anyone could help him.

Bolitho looked away, feeling the sting in his eye and yet unable to hide it.

He heard Allday ask thickly, “What is it, sir?”

But Bolitho shook his head and read on.

The others saw him fold the letter and then raise it to his lips. Then he became aware of his companions. He felt as though he had been absent from them for a long time.

Ozzard held out a glass of brandy and bobbed nervously. “Just a sip, sir.”

“Thank you.” He could barely taste it. As a child before entering the navy he had often walked with his mother along that path. To Trystan's Leap. It had been frightening even in daylight, full of legend and superstition. He felt the cold hand on his heart again, and in his mind's eye he saw her falling, so slowly, her long hair like weed as she came to the surface, her slender body broken on those terrible rocks. He asked, although it did not seem like his own voice, “They sighted
Anemone,
you say?”

Avery responded crisply, “Aye, sir. Standing about five miles to the sou'-west.”

Bolitho stood up and crossed to the two swords, which hung on their rack.
Adam,
he thought,
Adam, Adam
. . .

How could he tell him? And what of Val, so proud of his first son, who was one day to wear the King's uniform?

He touched the old family sword. What did fate intend?

He said, “I want no talk of this.” He turned, and looked at each of them in turn. The stooping little figure by the pantry hatch; Avery, on his feet again, his eyes wary, uncertain. Lastly he looked at Allday.

“I have to tell you that Rear-Admiral Keen's child is dead.” He tried not to think of Catherine on the beach with the dead girl's body in her arms. “Shortly afterwards . . .”

There was no point in telling these honest men that the family had said and done nothing at all until Keen's father had been located in London. “The girl we saw wed Val at Zennor killed herself.” He saw Allday's fists open and close as he added, “At Trystan's Leap.”

Avery said, “Rear-Admiral Keen will be desolate, sir.”

Bolitho turned to him, calm now, knowing what must be done. “Do something for me. Go now and ensure that there is a note in the signals log for the morning watch. As soon as
Anemone
is within signals range I want
Captain repair on board
hoisted. Then hoist
Immediate
when she is anchored.”

Allday offered roughly, “I could clear away the barge and collect him, sir.”

Bolitho stared at him. “No, old friend. This is a private matter for as long as we may keep it so.” To Avery he said, “Please do it. I will see you tomorrow.” He paused. “Thank you.”

Allday made to follow but Bolitho said, “Wait.”

Allday sat down heavily. They were alone, and they could hear Ozzard tidying up in his pantry.

“You knew . . . their feeling for one another.”

Allday sighed. “I seen 'em together.”

“There was no intrigue, if that's what you mean?”

Allday watched him carefully. Knowing this man so well, but with no words to help him now that he needed it.

He said, “Not in the way we means, sir. But love's new to me, and I've heard tell that it can be a blessing, then again it can be a curse.”

“And you knew all this.”

“
Felt
it, more like.”

“No one must suspect. Captain . . . Adam means so much to me.”

“I knows it, sir. It must have been another world to that poor lass.” He shrugged. “They looked so
right
together, I thought.”

Bolitho walked past him, but paused with his hand on his massive shoulder.

“A curse, you said?” He thought of Catherine's words, a cry from the heart.
The Mark of Satan.

He said quietly, “Then let them have peace now.”

He was still sitting at the open stern windows when the first pale sunlight spread across English Harbour.

In Cornwall, the passage of time would have blurred the memories of most people, while in some isolated villages there would be those still pondering on the old beliefs, curses and morals, and the torment for those who defied them.

But this morning there was still a pretence of peace. Above his head on the quarterdeck he knew Avery had not slept either, and was watching even as Adam's
Anemone
glided slowly to her anchorage. For him it would still be a puzzle, a mystery he was not privileged to share, but he must sense that the answer lay in the flags barely moving in the breeze.

Captain repair on board. Immediate.

PART II: 1812

10
D
ECEPTION

C
APTAIN
James Tyacke stood at the top of the companion ladder and waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the early morning darkness. It was a moment he never grew tired of. Quiet because the hands had not yet been piped to begin another day, private because of the lingering shadows. Above all, private; no easy thing in a man-of-war, not even for her captain.

In a short while the sun would change everything, reaching from horizon to horizon, all privacy gone. Water was getting short; they would have to return to Antigua in a few days' time. What would they find? Fresh orders, news from England, the war, that other world?

None of it mattered much to Tyacke. The
Indomitable
was his main concern. Week in, week out, he had drilled his company until it was almost impossible to tell the seasoned professionals from the landmen. Gunnery and sail drill, but with leisure still for the simple pleasures sailors enjoyed. Parted from their homes, it was all they had to keep them out of mischief. Hornpipes and wrestling in the dogwatches, and contests, mast against mast, to see which one could reef or make more sail in the least time.

Indomitable
was now a ship-of-war which could give a good account of herself if so called.

But mostly she had been concerned with constant patrols, the stop-and-search procedure even of neutrals to prevent trade with French ports, and to seek out deserters from the King's navy. The Leeward Squadron had taken several prizes and recovered many such deserters, mostly sailing in American merchantmen, trying to reach a new life in what they believed to be a democratic paradise. Compared with the hardships they were forced to suffer under the British flag in this endless war, it probably was.

The first lieutenant was officer-of-the-watch and he could sense his presence on the opposite side of the quarterdeck. Scar-lett had become used to Tyacke's ways, his early walks on deck when most captains would have been content to leave a morning watch to their senior lieutenants.

It was still cold, the quarterdeck rail damp with moisture. When dawn came up that would all change: the vapour would rise from the sails and rigging like steam, and the tar in the deck seams would cling to shoes and bare feet alike.

Tyacke could see it clearly in his mind's eye, as if he were a sea-eagle soaring high above the blue water with the ships like tiny models below: in a ragged, uneven line abreast,
Indomitable
in the centre and the two smaller frigates, one to starboard and one to larboard. Once they had exchanged the first signals their line would extend and take proper station. The masthead lookouts would be able to see one another, just, and together their span of vision would cover a range of some sixty miles. To the spies, and to the small trading vessels who would sell their information to anybody, the Leeward Squadron that patrolled as far north as the Canadian port of Halifax would have become well known. A protection or a threat: their presence could be interpreted either way. The big
42
-gun frigate
Valkyrie
was the senior ship at Halifax, and the rest of their vessels could operate either together or independently between the two main bases.

Tyacke thought of the wild storms they had weathered in the Caribbean. Given the choice he preferred these waters rather than endure Halifax's bitter winters, where rigging could swell in the blocks and freeze, leaving any ship barely able to tack or shorten sail.

He considered the other captains, knowing them now as individuals. The necessity of that had been taught him by Bolitho. To assume you knew a captain's mind simply because he
was
a captain could be as dangerous as any hurricane.

All the leagues they had sailed, in company or with the ocean to themselves. He imagined green fields in England. They had gone through another winter, into a new year, and now that year was half gone. It was June
1812
, and if it was to be as demanding as the previous year, overhauls would have to be arranged.

English Harbour at Antigua was adequate for limited repairs, but not for an extensive campaign. And should there be a seafight with more destruction to hulls and rigging . . . He sighed. When had the navy ever had enough of anything?

He stepped back from the rail and heard the first lieutenant crossing the damp planking.

“Good morning, Mr Scarlett. Is all well?”

“Aye, sir. Wind steady at nor'-east by north. Course west by north. Estimated position some
150
miles north-east of Cape Haitien.”

Tyacke smiled grimly. “As close to that damned country as I'd ever want to get!”

Scarlett asked, “What orders for the forenoon, sir?” He hesitated as Tyacke turned sharply towards him. “What is it, sir?”

Tyacke shook his head. “Nothing.” But there
was
something. It was like a sixth sense, which he had at first refused to accept when he had been on the anti-slavery patrols, sometimes a premonition of where his prey might be found.

He felt it now. Something would happen today. He moved restlessly across the deck, telling himself he was a fool. Like the morning when Adam Bolitho had come eagerly aboard at Antigua in response to the flagship's signal.
Immediate.
When he had left
Indomitable
an hour or so later he had walked like a man face to face with some terrible fate.

Bolitho had sent for him and had broken the news about Rear-Admiral Keen's wife and her death on the Cornish cliffs. Just for a moment Tyacke had imagined that Bolitho had once felt a certain tenderness for the girl. Then he had dismissed the idea, thinking of Catherine Somervell, how she had come aboard at Falmouth, and how the sailors had loved her for it.

What then? In his heart he knew the connection that bound them was a deeper secret than he would ever share. But why should a young woman's tragedy have the power to affect them so profoundly? It happened. Women and their children often died of fever or other causes on their way to join their husbands, in the navy, or the army with its far-flung outposts and lonely forts. Even the Caribbean possessions were described as the Islands of Death. Certainly more soldiers died of fever out here than ever fell to an enemy ball or bayonet. Death was commonplace. Perhaps it was the rumour of suicide that they could not accept.

Allday would know, he thought. But when it came to sharing secrets, Allday was like the Rock of Gibraltar.

Scarlett joined him again. “The admiral's about early, sir.”

Tyacke nodded. He wanted to shake Scarlett. A good officer and very conscientious, and as popular with the lower deck as any first lieutenant could hope to expect.

Don't be timid with me. I told you before. My blood may be spilled before yours, and you could find yourself in command. Think of it, man. Talk to me. Share your thoughts.

He said, “He has always been the same, I believe.” Had he, he wondered? Or was some premonition driving Bolitho also?

It was slightly brighter now. Topgallant masts touched with pale light, as though they floated separately above the dark mass of spars and black rigging. Bolitho's flag rippling, as if newly awakened like the man it represented. A boatswain's mate and a handful of men checking the boats on their tier, inspecting hatch fastenings, putting fresh oil in the compass lamps. A ship coming to life.

The master's mate-of-the-watch said softly, “Admiral's comin' up, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr Brickwood.” Tyacke recalled the beginning, when all these men had been unfamiliar. Knowing from his own experience and later from Bolitho's example how important it was to remember each man's name as well as his face. In the navy you owned little else.

The midshipman-of-the-watch, a youth named Deane, said rather loudly, “Half-past four, sir!”

Bolitho walked amongst them, his ruffled shirt very clear against the deck and the sea's dark backdrop beyond.

“Good morning, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho looked towards him. “It is, too, Captain Tyacke.” He nodded to the first lieutenant. “And you, Mr Scarlett? Are your lookouts aloft?”

“Aye, sir.” Hesitant again: it was impossible to know what he was thinking.

Bolitho rubbed his hands. “That is a vile smell from the galley funnel. We must endeavour to take on more supplies when we return to English Harbour. Fresh fruit, with any luck.”

Tyacke hid a smile. Just for a moment Bolitho was allowing himself to be a captain again, with a captain's concern for every man and boy aboard.

“Walk with me, James.” Together they began to pace the quarterdeck. In the dim light they could have been brothers.

Bolitho asked, “What ails that man?”

Tyacke shrugged. “He's an officer not lacking in some fine qualities, sir, but . . .”

“Aye, James, I have often found
but
to be the hurdle!”

He looked up as the first thin sunlight felt its way through the tarred rigging and out along the braced main-yard. Even the sea had gained colour, a rich blue which gave it an appearance of even greater depth than the thousand-odd fathoms claimed to lie beneath
Indomitable
's keel.

Tyacke watched Bolitho's profile, the obvious pleasure it gave him to see another dawn. In spite of all his service, he could still suppress and contain his inner worries, if only for this moment of the day.

Bolitho turned aside as the usual procession of figures trooped aft to speak either with the first lieutenant or the captain. When the hands had been fed, the main deck would become the marketplace, where the professional men would work with their own little crews. The sailmaker and his mates, repairing and still more repairing. Nothing could be wasted with a ship so many hundreds of miles from harbour. The carpenter, too, with his team. He was Evan Brace, said to be the oldest man in the squadron. He certainly looked it. But he could still repair, and if necessary build, a boat as well as any man.

Bolitho heard a familiar Yorkshire voice. Joseph Foxhill was the cooper, up early to obtain deck space where he could scour and clean some of his empty casks before they were refilled.

A midshipman strode beneath the quarterdeck rail, the white patches on his collar showing brightly through the withdrawing shadows, and he was reminded painfully of Adam. He tended to think of him always as a midshipman, the lively colt-like boy who had joined his ship when his mother had died. He sighed. He would never forget the look on Adam's dark features when he had told him about Zenoria. It had been pitiful to see his stunned disbelief. Like the tragedy you try to pretend has not happened. You will awake, and it will have been a dream . . .

He had not resisted when Bolitho had made him sit down, and he had asked his uncle quietly to repeat what he had said. Bolitho had listened to his own voice in the sealed cabin; he had even closed the skylight in case someone overheard. Adam was a captain, perhaps one of the best frigate captains the fleet had ever known, but in those quiet, wretched, faltering moments he had seemed that same dark-haired boy, who had walked all the way from Penzance to Falmouth with only hope and Bolitho's name to sustain him.

He had said, “May I see Lady Catherine's letter, Uncle?”

Bolitho had watched him, seen his eyes moving slowly over the letter line by line, perhaps sharing the intimacy, as if she too were speaking to him. Then he had said, “It was all my fault.” When he had looked up from the letter Bolitho had been shocked to see the tears running down his face. “But I could not stop. I loved her so. Now she is gone.”

Bolitho had said, “I was a part of it, too.” Catherine's words seemed to ring in his mind.
The Mark of Satan.
Was there,
could
there be substance in the old Cornish beliefs and superstitions?

After that they had sat mostly in silence, until at last Adam had made to leave.

“I grieve for Rear-Admiral Keen. His loss is all the more tragic because . . .” He had left the rest unsaid.

He had picked up his hat and straightened his uniform. When he returned to his ship they would only see him as their captain. So it must be.

But as Bolitho had watched him climb down into his boat to the trill of calls, he had seen only the midshipman.

He stirred himself as voices pealed down from aloft.

“Deck there!
Zest
in sight to larboard!”

Like yesterday, and all the others before it. He could picture the rakish
38
-gun frigate, her captain too, Paul Dampier, young, perhaps too headstrong, and very ambitious. Rather like Peter Dawes, the admiral's son who now commanded
Valkyrie
out of Halifax.

“Deck there!
Reaper
in sight to starboard!” A smaller frigate of
26
guns. James Hamilton, her captain, was old for his rank and had been attached to the Honourable East India Company until he had re-entered the navy at his own request.