For My Country's Freedom (27 page)

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 anybody 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 Adam'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
T
RICK FOR TRICK

M
ATTHEW
S
CARLETT
,
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?”

“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 Bolitho 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.”