For My Country's Freedom (20 page)

He felt suddenly troubled. Adam Bolitho had once been very like that.

He saw the master-at-arms and the boatswain standing by the weather side and its rank of long eighteen-pounders, and the sight brought him out of his thoughts with a jolt. Punishment was to be carried out at two bells, when the watch below had finished their meal. He could smell the rum on the hot breeze, which was barely enough to fill the sails.

Punishment was usually carried out in the forenoon; it gave all hands time to get over it and wash away the memory with rum. But for some reason the captain had ordered an extra gun drill today, had even been on deck to time it himself, as if he did not trust his officers to stress the importance of teamwork.

Had they been running free with all canvas filled and driving the
Anemone
until every strand of rigging was bar taut, it would have been just another punishment. Two dozen lashes: it could have been many more for the man in question. This would not be the first time he had received a striped shirt at the gangway. He was a hard man, a lower-deck lawyer, a born troublemaker. Captain Bolitho could have awarded double that amount.

But this was different. Moving so slowly, with nothing in sight but the far-off convoy and brig, it could be like a spark in a powder keg. The nearest land was Santo Domingo, some hundred miles to the north: the perverse wind made it impossible to tack any closer. But in another two days they would reach the Mona Passage where many changes of tack would be required, keeping all hands busy for days until they broke out into the Atlantic.

Hudson turned as a shadow moved across the rail. It was the captain.

Adam Bolitho gazed at them impassively. “Nothing to do but
gossip,
Mr Vicary?” He looked at the first lieutenant. “I would have thought you could discover something not too tiring for an officer to do, if he has no stomach for his lunch?”

Hudson said, “We have not had too much time to talk of late, sir.”

He studied his captain as he walked to the compass and then glanced at the limply flapping masthead pendant.

The helmsman called huskily, “Sou'-east by south, sir, steady she goes!”

Hudson noted the dark shadows beneath the captain's eyes, the restless way he moved his hands. Like the rest of them he was casually dressed, but he wore his short fighting-sword, which was unusual. The boatswain's party was preparing to rig a grating, and Hudson saw Cunningham, the surgeon, appear in the companion-way. When he realised the captain was on deck he disappeared down the ladder without another glance.

But the captain had seen him. He said, “The surgeon has protested to me about punishment being carried out. Did you know that?”

Hudson said, “I did not, sir.”

“He states that the seaman in question, Baldwin, whose name has repeatedly appeared in the punishment book—and not only in
Anemone
's, I suspect—has some internal illness, too much rum and other more damaging potions. What do you say, Mr Hudson?”

“He is often in trouble, sir.”

Adam Bolitho said sharply, “He is scum. I'll suffer no insubordination in
my ship.
”

Hudson had always been very aware of the captain's love for this ship. Such a personal attachment seemed only another aspect of the Bolitho legend. But now he thought he knew why he was so intense about it. His beloved
Anemone
was all he had in the world.

The other lieutenant had used the opportunity to go below. It was a pity, Hudson thought; had he stayed he would have seen it for himself. Or would he?

The boatswain lumbered aft and called, “Ready, sir!”

Adam said, “Very well, Mr M'Crea, put up the prisoner and clear lower deck.”

As if to a secret signal, the Royal Marines marched up to line the quarterdeck, their bayoneted muskets and equipment gleaming as if at their barracks, their faces as scarlet as their tunics.

George Starr, the captain's coxswain, brought the old seagoing coat and hat to cover him with a cloak of authority.

“All hands! All hands! Lay aft to witness punishment!”

The seaman named Baldwin strode aft, the master-at-arms and ship's corporal on either side of him. A big man, a bully, he ruled his own mess like a tyrant.

A boatswain's mate and another seaman took his arms as soon as they had stripped him of his chequered shirt, and seized him up to the grating by his wrists and his knees. Even from the quarterdeck, it was possible to see all the old scars on the strong back.

Adam removed his hat and took out his thumbed copy of the Articles of War. He had been aware of Hudson's scrutiny, just as he had sensed Vicary's keen resentment. Given time, both would make good officers. He felt the anger stirring.
But they did not command.

He saw the surgeon taking his place and recalled his pleas on behalf of the prisoner. Cunningham was a whining hypocrite. He would not cross the road to help a child knocked down by a runaway horse.

From the corner of his eye he saw the boatswain drag the infamous cat-o'-nine-tails from its red baize bag.

Adam hated the use of the cat, as his uncle had always done. But if, like the line of sweating marines, it was all that stood between disobedience and order, then so be it.

He put his hand in his pocket and bunched his knuckles until the pain helped to steady him.

He could feel his coxswain Starr watching him. Worried and anxious, as he had been over the months. A good man. Not another Allday: but there was no such creature.

He loosened his fingers carefully, testing the moment as he felt her glove in his pocket. So many times he had taken it out and had stared at it, remembering her eyes when he had handed it to her. How they had walked together in the port admiral's garden: feeling her presence like a beautiful wild flower.

What can I do? Why did you leave me?

He realised with a start that he had begun to read the relevant Article, his voice level and calm.
Calm? I am destroying myself.

He heard himself say, “Carry on, Mr M'Crea. Two dozen!”

The drums rattled noisily and the boatswain's brawny arm went back. The lash seemed to dangle there for an eternity until it came down across the prisoner's naked back with a crack. M'Crea was a powerful man and, although a fair one, was probably enjoying this task.

He saw the red lines break into bloody droplets. But he felt no revulsion, and that alone frightened him.

“Deck there!”

It was as if the call had turned them all to stone. The lash dangling from the boatswain's out-thrust fist, the drumsticks suddenly still in the heavy air. The prisoner himself, face pressed against the grating, his chest heaving as he dragged in breath like a drowning man.

Hudson raised his speaking-trumpet. “What is it, man?”

“Sail on the larboard quarter!” He hesitated. The heat haze was probably just as bad in that direction. “
Two
sail, sir!”

Hudson knew that every eye but the prisoner's was turned upon the little group of officers on the quarterdeck. But when he looked at the captain he was astonished to see Adam's expression, his utter lack of surprise. As if a question which had troubled him had suddenly been made clear.

“What do you think, sir?”

“Well, no matter who they are, they are certainly not ours. That we do know.” He was thinking aloud, as if there was nobody else near him. “They must have used the Windward Passage, west of Port au Prince. That way they would have the wind which is eluding us.”

Hudson nodded, but did not understand.

Adam looked at the towering mainmast spars, the quivering canvas.

“I shall go aloft.”

The man at the grating tried to twist his head. “What about me, you bastard?”

Adam handed his hat and coat to Starr and snapped, “Be
patient,
man. And Mr M'Crea, another dozen for his damned impertinence!”

He reached the crosstrees, surprised that he was not even breathless. He acknowledged the lookout, one of the best in the squadron, a man who looked twice his real age.

“Well, Thomas, what do you make of them?”

“Men-o'-war, zur. No doubt o' that!”

Adam unslung his telescope, aware of the great trembling mast and yards, the bang and slap of canvas, the very power of the ship beneath him. He had to wait a few seconds more. Even the lookout's familiar Cornish accent caught him unawares like a trap.

Then he levelled the telescope, as he had done so many times in his
Anemone.

The smaller of the two vessels could have been anything in the haze. Sloop or brig, it was impossible to determine. But about the other one there was no such doubt.

It could have been yesterday: the U.S.S.
Unity
's great cabin, and his conversation with her captain, Nathan Beer, who had known his father during the American Revolution.

“Yankee,” he said shortly.

“Thought as much, zur.”

“Well done, Thomas. I'll see you have an extra tot for this.”

The man watched him, puzzled. “But we bain't at war with
they,
zur?”

Adam, smiling, made his way down like a practised topman.

He met Hudson and the others and saw all the questions in their eyes, although nobody spoke.

He said crisply, “One of them's the big Yankee frigate
Unity,
44
guns that I know of for sure, maybe more now.” He glanced at the nearest guns.
Unity
carried twenty-four-pounders. He remembered the American mentioning them. Pride or threat? Probably both.

He glanced at the sky. Two hours before they were up to
Anemone.
Seven hours more before the convoy could escape in the darkness.

Hudson said carefully, “What are their intentions, sir?”

Adam thought of the splendid sight
Unity
had made as she edged round to beat closer to the wind, the other vessel responding to a bright hoist of signal flags.

There was no need for such a manoeuvre. Her captain could remain on his present course untroubled by either the convoy or her escort. Instead, he was taking the wind-gage, and would hold it until he was ready.

“I think they intend to attack, Dick. In fact, I am sure of it.”

The use of his first name surprised Hudson almost as much as the simple acceptance of something unthinkable.

“You
know
this ship, sir?”

“I have been aboard her and have met her captain. An impressive man. But
know
her? That is another matter.”

Adam stared along the deck above the mass of silent figures towards the beak-head, the perfect shoulder and gilded hair of the figurehead.
Daughter of the Wind.

Almost to himself he said, “We are of one company, Dick. Some good, some bad. But every so often we must forget our differences. We become an instrument, to be used rightly or wrongly as directed.”

“I see, sir.”

He touched Hudson's arm, as he had seen his uncle do on many occasions.

“I want you to make a signal to Commander Eames of the
Woodpecker,
repeated to our fat charges.
Make more sail. Disperse the convoy.
” He hesitated for only a few seconds.
Suppose I am wrong?
But his conviction to the contrary was more compelling. “Then make
Enemy in sight to the north-west.
”

He heard men calling out as the midshipman in charge of signals and his crew ran to the halliards, while Hudson repeated the instructions behind them. He saw Lieutenant Vicary staring at him, his face suddenly pale under the tanned skin.

He asked quietly, “Will we be able to outreach them, sir?”

Adam turned and looked at him, and through him. “Today we are the instrument, Mr Vicary. We fight, that others shall survive.”

Hudson glanced at the streaming flags. “Orders, sir?”

Adam tried to discover his innermost feelings. But there were none. Did that mean there would be no tomorrow?

“Orders? Carry on with the punishment.” He smiled and was suddenly very young. “Then you may beat to quarters. The rest you know.”

He turned away as the drums began to roll again and the frozen images came to life.

A voice called out as the lash cracked down, “
Woodpecker
's acknowledged, sir!”

Adam watched the punishment without emotion. They were committed.
I committed them.

The instrument.

11
L
IKE FATHER, LIKE SON

A
DAM
B
OLITHO
returned to his place by the quarterdeck rail and looked along the full length of his command. The deck had been sanded around each eighteen-pounder so that the gun crews would not slip and fall in the heat of battle. Equally, sand soaked up the blood if the enemy's iron came crashing inboard.

Lieutenant Hudson strode aft and touched his hat. “Ship cleared for action, sir.” His face was full of questions.

Adam said, “Well done, Mr Hudson. Nine minutes. They are improving.”

He stared up at the clear sky and felt his heart quicken as the masthead pendant licked out in the breeze. This time it did not fall back limply to the mast. The wind was getting up. Very slightly, but if it held . . . He shut the ifs and buts from his mind.

Instead he said, “You are probably asking why I did not order the nets to be spread.” How open and vulnerable it looked without them. The nets were usually prepared as the ship was cleared for action, mainly to protect the gun crews from falling wreckage but also to be joined to the loosely-slung boarding nets, to trap enemy attackers until they could be driven off with pikes and musket fire. Any sign of either would warn the Americans that they were ready to fight.

Likewise, he had told Hudson to keep the marines out of the fighting-tops where their bright uniforms would shout the same readiness for action.

Hudson listened to his brief explanation, not knowing whether to find hope in it or to disbelieve it.

Adam said, “
Unity
has all the sea room in the world. Like us, she depends on surprise. My guess is she will keep to wind'rd and try to cripple us at long range. Then she will attempt to board us.”

Hudson said nothing. He could see the dilemma that confronted the captain. If the Americans were allowed on board there would not be enough men to fight them off—too many were away in
Anemone
's recently taken prizes. However, if the captain showed his hand too soon,
Unity
's massive broadside might dis-mast them even as she remained safely beyond accurate fire from
Anemone.

Adam raised his telescope and studied the other ship with complete concentration. She had set more sail and had left her small consort astern. Commodore Beer would not be able to see the convoy as yet, nor would he know it had been ordered to disperse, and
devil take the hindmost.

He said, “Full broadside. Double-shotted for good measure. Go to the gun captains yourself, although most of them will not need to be told.”

He glanced at Lieutenant Vicary by the foremast. Like the third lieutenant, George Jeffreys, he had barely seen any real action at close quarters. He thought of
Unity
's guns. They would soon know all about it.

He felt Starr beside him and spread his arms to receive the coat with its gold epaulettes. He had been so proud when he had been posted, just as he had known how pleased Bolitho would be.

It had been fate.
Golden Plover
running herself on the African reef, and all hope given up for his uncle and Catherine. He swallowed hard. Valentine Keen had been reported lost in that wreck as well.

How it haunted him, the night it had happened. Zenoria had come to him to share their grief, and out of that shared grief they had discovered a love they had hidden from one another and from the rest of the world.

He touched his breeches and felt her glove against his leg. Could see her eyes as she had gazed into his when he had reached up to the carriage window at Plymouth.

“All guns loaded, sir!”

He thrust the memories away: they could not help him now.

“Keep the hands out of sight. Just a few idlers gaping on the larboard gangway will suffice. A natural thing, eh? 'Tis not every day we see a true symbol of freedom!”

Joseph Pineo, the old sailing-master, nudged one of his three helmsmen, but nobody else moved or spoke.

Adam dragged out his watch and flicked open the guard. Beyond it he saw one of the young midshipmen taking huge breaths, his eyes watering as he stared at the other ship plunging over the water.

Suppose I am mistaken?
That there had been no declaration of war even though he and many others had expected it? Two ships passing, and nothing more?

He said, “With this puff of extra wind I intend to come about and engage him on the starboard side. He may anticipate it, but he cannot prevent it.” He smiled suddenly. “We shall soon see if all our drills and exercises have had any value.”

He looked again at his ship, a lingering gaze full of questions, Hudson thought; memories too. Missing faces. Pride and fear, comradeship. He bit his lip. If the worst happened, some of the pressed men might try to surrender. He realised with a start that he was unarmed except for his hanger, which his father had presented to him when he had joined
Anemone.

“This will serve you well, my boy, as will your fine young captain!” What would his father think now?

He saw the captain raise his glass to study the other ship, to gauge her approach, the moment of embrace.

Adam said, “I see him, Dick. It is Nathan Beer right enough. Be ready to put the best marksmen aloft. There may not be much time.” Hudson was about to hurry away when something in the captain's voice made him turn back.

“If I fall, fight the ship with everything you have.” He looked up at the White Ensign streaming from the peak. “We've done so much . . . together.”

As he walked around the upper deck Hudson was struck not by the tension, but by the air of resignation.
Anemone
was fast. If she could break off contact she might easily lose the Yankee when dusk came. Where was the point in fighting and dying for a handful of poxy merchantmen? Hudson was young, but he had heard that sentiment expressed often enough.

He paused by Vicary, who said quietly, “She's big.”

“Aye. But Captain Bolitho is just as experienced as this Commodore Beer I keep hearing about.” He clapped him on the arm and felt him jump.

Vicary glanced at the nearest gun crew as they crouched below the gangway behind their sealed port. “Are you not afraid?”

Hudson considered it, his eyes never leaving the oncoming pyramid of sails. “I'm more afraid of
showing
it, Philip.”

Vicary held out his hand, as if they had just met in a street or country lane in England. “Then I'll not let you down, Richard.” He stared beyond the vibrating shrouds to the empty blue sky. “Though I fear I'll not see another day.”

Hudson returned to the quarterdeck, his friend's words hanging in his mind like an epitaph.

Adam said to him, “Pass the word. Just as we discussed it. We will come about and lay her on the starboard tack. Do they all understand?”

“Those who count, sir.”

Surprisingly, Adam grinned, his teeth very white in his face. “By God, Dick, we shall need everybody, even that oaf Baldwin, stinking of rum in the sickbay though he might be!”

Hudson loosened his hanger and murmured, “Good luck, sir.”

Adam licked his lips and said, “I am as dry as dust!” Then he stooped slightly to stare along the quarterdeck rail, using it like a ruler as
Unity
's long jib-boom appeared around the tightly packed hammock nettings for the first time.

“Ready ho! Put the helm down!”

“Helm's a'lee, sir!”

Even as the ship tilted to the thrust of wind and rudder Adam found time to see one of the marines, kneeling beside the hammocks with his long Brown Bess propped beside him, turn to stare at his captain.

“Open the ports!”

As one, the gunport-lids were hoisted on both sides of the ship, the gun crews already ready at the tackle falls, staring aft for the order.

“Run out!”

Like squealing pigs each carriage was hauled smartly to the side, the black muzzles pointing at empty sea and sky while
Anemone
continued to bear round across the wind.

“Mainsail haul!”

Adam strode across the tilting deck as the waiting marines swarmed up the shrouds and ratlines to the fighting-tops on each mast.

We did it! We did it!

Instead of being on
Anemone
's quarter, the big frigate was sliding past the bowsprit, her sails in confusion as she prepared to follow suit. She was running up two additional ensigns. Beer had not been completely unprepared.

“Steady! Hold her!”

“Steady as she goes, sir! Sou'-west by west!”

Adam stared until his eyes felt raw.
“On the up-roll!”

Without taking his eyes from
Unity
he could picture each gun captain looking aft, watching his raised fist, every man with his trigger-line bar-taut.

“Fire!”

The ship shook as if she had run aground, as the guns hurled themselves inboard on their tackles and smoke funnelled through each of the starboard ports.

All tension was gone in an instant. Whooping like madmen, the gun crews threw themselves into the drill over which they had cursed and sweated for months.

“Stop your vents! Sponge out! Load! Run out!”

The gun was God. Nothing else mattered, and each man in a crew had learned the hard way.

Arms reached up through the drifting smoke.
“Ready!”

But Adam was watching the other ship. The range was about a mile and a half, too far for certain accuracy. But he had seen
Unity
's sails jerking or carrying away as the broadside had hissed over the water and raked her like a deathly wind.

Adam raised his fist. It was working. Three shots every two minutes.

“Fire!”

Wreckage splashed around
Unity
's bows as she continued to come around. Smaller weapons were firing from her forecastle and Adam glanced at the main course as a black-rimmed hole smacked through the canvas.

Now
Unity
was lying across the starboard quarter and continuing to turn, gathering speed as her topmen fought to set the royals on her for extra speed. Not that she needed it.

“Fire!”

Adam grasped the rail as gun by gun the American began to retaliate. With so many pressed men in the English ships, Beer had probably been surprised by
Anemone
's agility and confidence.

He winced as he felt the iron smashing into the hull or through the rigging overhead. The boatswain and his crew were running this way and that, marlin spikes and spare cordage already being put to good use.
Unity
still held the advantage. If
Anemone
stood away downwind to obtain more distance, Beer would send a full broadside through her stern. If their positions remained the same it was only a matter of time, gun for gun.

“Fire!”

Anemone
's one advantage was that, by being downwind, her guns could be elevated to the maximum. Every ball was finding a target; and there were wild cheers as the American's forecastle was blasted into splinters, and one of her bow-chasers was hurled aside on to its crew.

The deck shuddered violently as the quarterdeck nettings were cut to pieces, and scorched and slashed hammocks were flung across screaming marines who were tossed aside like bloody rags.

Adam pulled a seaman to his feet.
“Get to it, lad!”
But the man stared at him emptily as if his mind had completely cracked.

Hudson, hatless, his hanger already drawn, hurried aft. “Grapeshot, sir!”

“Aye.” Adam wiped his mouth, although it was so dry he could barely swallow. “He's a confident one not to use his heavier metal at this range!”

The ship lurched again and he saw two guns upended, tendrils of blood running across the deck where the crews had been cut down.

“Stand-to!”
The third lieutenant clapped his hands to his chest and fell kicking to the deck. Vicary jumped forward to take his place.
“Fire as you bear!”

The eighteen-pounders recoiled down the side. Each gun captain seemed able to ignore the chaos and death, men pulped by incoming shots while they crouched at the guns on the disengaged side.

Adam did not even blink as two marines fell from the main-top to join the crawling, pleading wounded and those who were already beyond aid.

Hudson yelled, “
Get those guns working,
Mr Vicary! Lively now!”

The lieutenant turned and peered aft through the thickening smoke, like a drowning man reaching for a line.

“Load! Run out!”
He staggered as shots hammered into the lower hull, and more rigging fell on to the gangways to add to the destruction and chaos.