Bolitho #23 - For My Country's Freedom Alexander Kent

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Fiction

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for my country’s

“Authentic, inspiring, well-characterized and fi nally, moving.” r my co

F e

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e d

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—Sunday Times of London

“Impeccable naval detail and plenty of action.”

—Sunday Telegraph

F un

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1811: War with the United States looms on the horizon.

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d ’s

Admiral Sir Richard Bolitho leads a squadron against the powerful om

new ships of Britain’s former colony. Supported by his loyal crew, Bolitho must use all his ingenuity to defeat one of America’s great naval commanders, Nathan Beer. But will Bolitho be too late to A

rescue his nephew, Adam, who is badly wounded and held as a pris-l

oner of war?

exa

ALEXANDER KENT is the pen name of British author Douglas nd

Reeman. After serving in the Royal Navy during WWII, he turned to writing, publishing books under his own name and the Bolitho er

series under the Kent pseudonym. The popular Bolitho novels have K

been translated into nearly two dozen languages.

www.bolithomaritimeproductions.com

ISBN: 978-0-935526-84-4

5 1 6 9 5

McBooks Press

www.mcbooks.com

9 780935 526844

Alexande

n r

de Ken

K t

the Bolitho novels: 21

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for my

country’s

F reedom

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Selected Historical Fiction Published by McBooks Press BY ALEXANDER KENT

BY JULIAN STOCKWIN

BY JOHN BIGGINS

The Complete

Kydd

A Sailor of Austria

Midshipman Bolitho

Artemis

The Emperor’s Coloured Coat

Stand Into Danger

Seaflower

The Two-Headed Eagle

In Gallant Company

Mutiny

Tomorrow the World

Sloop of War

Quarterdeck

BY DOUGLAS W. JACOBSON

To Glory We Steer

Tenacious

Night of Flames

Command a King’s Ship

Command

Passage to Mutiny

The Admiral’s Daughter

BY JAMES DUFFY

With All Despatch

Sand of the Arena

BY DUDLEY POPE

Form Line of Battle!

The Fight for Rome

Ramage

Enemy in Sight!

Ramage & The Drumbeat

BY ALEXANDER FULLERTON

The Flag Captain

Ramage & The Freebooters

Storm Force to Narvik

Signal–Close Action!

Governor Ramage R.N.

Last Lift from Crete

The Inshore Squadron

Ramage’s Prize

All the Drowning Seas

A Tradition of Victory

Ramage & The Guillotine

A Share of Honour

Success to the Brave

Ramage’s Diamond

The Torch Bearers

Colours Aloft!

Ramage’s Mutiny

The Gatecrashers

Honour This Day

Ramage & The Rebels

BY C.N. PARKINSON

The Only Victor

The Ramage Touch

The Guernseyman

Beyond the Reef

Ramage’s Signal

Devil to Pay

The Darkening Sea

Ramage & The Renegades

The Fireship

For My Country’s Freedom

Ramage’s Devil

So Near So Far

Cross of St George

Ramage’s Trial

Dead Reckoning

Sword of Honour

Ramage’s Challenge

Second to None

The Life and Times of

Ramage at Trafalgar

Relentless Pursuit

Horatio Hornblower

Ramage & The Saracens

Man of War

Ramage & The Dido

BY DOUGLAS REEMAN

Heart of Oak

The Horizon

BY FREDERICK MARRYAT

BY PHILIP MCCUTCHAN

Dust on the Sea

Frank Mildmay or

Halfhyde at the Bight

Knife Edge

The Naval Officer

of Benin

Mr Midshipman Easy

Twelve Seconds to Live

Halfhyde’s Island

Newton Forster or

The White Guns

Halfhyde and the

The Merchant Service

A Prayer for the Ship

Guns of Arrest

For Valour

Halfhyde to the Narrows

BY V.A. STUART

BY DAVID DONACHIE

Halfhyde for the Queen

Victors and Lords

The Devil’s Own Luck

Halfhyde Ordered South

The Sepoy Mutiny

The Dying Trade

Halfhyde on Zanatu

Massacre at Cawnpore

The Cannons of Lucknow

A Hanging Matter

BY JAMES L. NELSON

The Heroic Garrison

An Element of Chance

The Only Life That

The Scent of Betrayal

Mattered

The Valiant Sailors

A Game of Bones

The Brave Captains

BY DEWEY LAMBDIN

Hazard’s Command

On a Making Tide

The French Admiral

Hazard of Huntress

Tested by Fate

The Gun Ketch

Hazard in Circassia

Breaking the Line

A King’s Commander

Victory at Sebastopol

BY JAN NEEDLE

Jester’s Fortune

Guns to the Far East

A Fine Boy for Killing

BY BROOS CAMPBELL

Escape from Hell

The Wicked Trade

No Quarter

The Spithead Nymph

War of Knives

For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 3

Alexander Kent

for My Country’s Freedom

the Bolitho novels: 21

McBooks Press, Inc.

www.mcbooks.com

ITHACA, NY

For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 4

Published by McBooks Press 2000

First published in the United Kingdom by William Heinemann Ltd. 1995

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher. Requests for such permissions should be addressed to McBooks Press, Inc., ID Booth Building, 520 North Meadow St., Ithaca, NY 14850.

Cover painting by Geoffrey Huband.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Kent, Alexander.

For my country’s freedom / by Alexander Kent.

p. cm. — (Richard Bolitho novels ; # 21) ISBN 0-935526-84-6 (alk. paper)

1. Bolitho, Richard (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Great Britain, History, Naval—19th century—Fiction. 3. Napoleonic Wars, 1800‒1815 —Fiction I. Title

PR6061.E63 F64 2000

823’.914—dc21 00-058625

All McBooks Press publications can be ordered by calling toll-free: 1-888-BOOKS11 (1-888-266-5711).

Please call to request a free catalog.

Visit the McBooks Press website at www.mcbooks.com.

Printed in the United States of America 9 8 7

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For Kim

With my love.

The World is ours.

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn but flying, Still streams like the thunderstorm against the wind.

Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage

LORD BYRON, 1812

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part 1: 1811

1 R egrets

LADY Catherine Somervell reined in the big mare and patted her neck with a gloved hand.

“Not long now, Tamara. We’ll soon be home.” Then she sat very still and upright in the saddle, her dark eyes looking out across the sea. It was close to noon on this first day of March 1811, and a strange misty vapour had already covered the track she had taken to visit John Allday and his new wife Unis.

She could not believe that they had all been left alone for so long, untroubled by the Admiralty in London. Two and a half months, the longest time she and Richard Bolitho had ever spent together in their own home in Cornwall.

She tossed the fur-lined hood from her head and the damp air brought more colour to her face. When she looked directly south, Rosemullion Head, which guarded the mouth of the Helford River, was also lost in mist, and it was only three miles distant. She was on the upper coastal track, much of the lower one having crumbled into the sea in the January storms.

And yet there were signs of spring. Wagtails darting along the bank of the Helford River in their quaint diving, haphazard flight; jackdaws too, like companionable clerics on the stone walls. The ragged trees that crested the nearest hill were still leafless, their stooping branches shining from a sudden fall of rain. Nevertheless there were tiny brush strokes of yellow to mark the early For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 8

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daffodils that flourished there, despite the salt spray from the Channel and the Western Approaches.

Catherine urged the mare forward again, her mind lingering on the past, clinging to the weeks of freedom they had enjoyed without restraint. After the first embrace, when Bolitho had returned from the Mauritius campaign and the destruction of Baratte’s privateers, she had worried that he might become restless because he was not involved with his ships and men, secretly troubled that the navy for which he had done and given so much was neglecting him.

But the love they had reawakened upon their reunion was stronger than ever, if such things were possible. Walking and riding together in spite of the inclement weather, visiting the families on the estate and, when it could not be avoided, attend-ing more splendid occasions at the grand house of Lewis Roxby, Richard’s brother-in-law and aptly nicknamed the King of Cornwall. The celebrations had marked Roxby’s unexpected acquisition of a knighthood. She smiled. There would be no holding him now . . .

And what of worldly events? She had watched Richard for the usual signs of uneasiness, but there had been none. She thought of the passion and the delicate touches of love they had shared.

There was nothing she did not know about her man any more.

And much had changed. Sir Paul Sillitoe’s prediction had come true just a month ago. King George III had been declared insane and separated from all power and authority, and the Prince of Wales had become Regent until the day he would be crowned King. Some people had hinted uncharitably it was because of the Prince Regent’s influence that Roxby had been knighted.

Although his new title had supposedly been bestowed in recognition of his patriotic work as a magistrate and as the founder of a local militia at the time of a feared French invasion, some claimed it was because the Regent was also the Duke of For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 9

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Cornwall, and he would be quick to perceive Roxby’s usefulness as an ally.

She looked at the sea, no longer a rival as she had once feared.

Her shoulder was still burned from the sun in the longboat after the loss of the Golden Plover on the hundred-mile reef. Could it be two years ago? She had suffered alongside the other survivors.

But she and Richard had been together, and had shared it even to the threshold of death.

There was no sun visible in the pale clouds, but the sea managed to hold its reflection, so that the undulating swell appeared to be lit from below as if by a giant lantern.

She had left Richard in the house to complete some letters for the afternoon mail coach that left from the square in Falmouth. She knew that one was for the Admiralty: there were no secrets between them now. She had even explained her own visit to Whitechapel, and the aid she had accepted from Sillitoe.

Bolitho had said quietly, “I never thought I would trust that man.”

She had held him in her arms in their bed and whispered,

“He helped me when there was no one else. But a rabbit should never turn its back on a fox.”

Of the Admiralty letter he had said only, “Someone must have read my report on the Mauritius campaign, and the need for more frigates. But I can scarce believe that a wind of change has blown through those dusty corridors!”

Another day he had been standing with her on the headland below Pendennis Castle, his eyes the same colour as the grey waters that moved endlessly, even to the horizon.

She had asked, “Would you never accept high office at the Admiralty?”

He had turned to look at her, his voice determined and compelling. “When it is time for me to quit the sea, Kate, it will be time to leave the navy, for good.” He had given his boyish smile, For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 10

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and the lines of strain had vanished. “Not that they would ask me, of all people.”

She had heard herself say quietly, “Because of me, because of us—that is the real truth.”

“It is not a price, Kate my darling, but a reward.” She thought, too, of young Adam Bolitho. His frigate Anemone was lying at Plymouth, in the dockyard after her long voyage from Mauritius by way of the Cape and Gibraltar. She had been so savaged in her final embrace with Baratte’s privateers that her pumps had been worked for every mile she was homeward bound.

Adam was coming to Falmouth today. She heard the clock chime from the church of King Charles the Martyr, where Bolithos had been christened, married and laid to rest for gener-ations. It would be good for Richard to have some time with his nephew. She doubted if he would raise the matter of Valentine Keen’s wife. Confrontation was not the way to deal with it.

She considered Allday, when she had called at the little inn at Fallowfield, the Old Hyperion. A local painter had done the inn sign— the old lady down to the last gunport, as Allday had pro-claimed proudly after his marriage, the week before Christmas.

But his fresh-faced little wife Unis, herself no stranger to the Hyperion, in which her previous husband had died, had confided that Allday was deeply troubled, and fretting that Sir Richard might leave him ashore when he accepted his next appointment.

She had spoken out of great affection for this big shambling sailor, not from jealousy that the navy would come between them.

And she had shown pride too, acceptance of the rare bond that held vice-admiral and coxswain firmly together.

Catherine had said, “I know. I must face it as you do. It is for our sakes that our men are out there, in constant risk from sea and cannon alike. For us. ” She was not sure she had convinced her.

She smiled and tasted salt on her lips. Or myself either.

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The mare quickened her pace as she reached the new road which had been laid by some of Roxby’s French prisoners-of-war.

Catherine suspected that it was due to their efforts that Roxby’s own house and gardens were always so immaculate. Like most other estates in the county, the Bolitho land was tended mostly by old men and cripples thrown on the beach by the navy they had served. Without an authorised protection any younger man would be snatched up by the ever-greedy press-gangs. Even the protection might not help on a dark night with a man-of-war tugging at her cable, and her captain not too eager to question his returning press.

She saw the roof of the old grey house showing above the last fold in the hillside. Would Adam have any news? He would certainly notice how well his uncle looked. Exercise, good food and rest . . . Her mouth twitched. And love, which had left them breathless.

She had often wondered if Adam resembled his father in any way. There was no portrait of Hugh in the house; and she guessed that Bolitho’s father had made certain of that after Hugh had disgraced himself and the family name. Not because of his gambling, the resulting debts from which had almost crippled the estate until Richard’s success as a frigate captain had brought prize-money to clear them. Hugh had even killed a fellow officer in a duel related to gambling.

All that, their father could possibly have forgiven. But to desert the navy and fight on the side of the Americans in their war of independence: that had been beyond everything. She thought of all the grave-eyed portraits that lined the walls and the landing.

They seemed to watch and assess her whenever she climbed the stairs. Surely they had not all been saints?

A stable-lad took the bridle and Catherine said, “A good rub down, eh?” She saw another horse munching busily in the stables, and a blue and gold saddle-cloth. Adam was already here.

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She tossed her head and allowed her long dark hair to fall free on her shoulders.

As she opened the double doors she saw them standing by the great log fire. They could have been brothers, black hair and the Bolitho features she saw repeated in the portraits, the faces she had studied while this house had become a home around her. Her eyes settled only briefly on the table, and the canvas envelope which bore the Admiralty’s fouled-anchor cipher. She had somehow known it would be there. It was a shock, nonetheless.

She smiled and held out her arms as Adam came to greet her.

Richard would have seen her glance and her momentary dismay.

There was the true enemy.

Lieutenant George Avery stood at the window of his room and watched the bustling throngs of people and vehicles. It was market day in Dorchester: haggling over prices, country people coming in from the farms and villages to sell and buy. The taverns would be full by now.

He walked to a plain looking-glass and studied his reflection as he might examine a fledgling midshipman.

He was still surprised that he had decided to accept Sir Richard Bolitho’s invitation to remain as his flag-lieutenant. He had sworn often enough that if the offer of a command were made, no matter how small or lowly, he would snatch it. He was old for his rank; he would not see thirty again. He stared critically at the well-fitting uniform, with the twist of gold lace on the left shoulder to denote his appointment as Sir Richard Bolitho’s aide. Avery would never forget the day he had first met the famous admiral at his house in Falmouth. He had not expected Bolitho to accept him in the appointment, even though he was Sir Paul Sillitoe’s nephew, for he hardly knew his uncle and could not imagine why he had put forth his name for consideration.

He still had nightmares about the experience which had almost For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 13

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cost him his life. As second-in-command of a small schooner, Jolie, formerly a French prize, he had been content, and excited by the dashing encounters with enemy traders. But his youthful captain, also a lieutenant, had become too confident, and taken too many risks. He could almost hear himself describing him to Bolitho during that first interview. I thought him reckless, Sir Richard. They had been surprised by a French corvette, which had swept around a headland and had raked them before they could stand away. The young captain had been cut in half in the first broadside, and moments later Avery had been struck down, badly wounded. Helplessly he had seen his men hauling down the ensign, the fight gone out of them in the overwhelming ferocity of the attack.

As a prisoner-of-war Avery had endured agony and despair at the hands of the French surgeons. It was not that they had not cared or been indifferent to his suffering. Their lack of resources had been a direct result of the English blockade, an irony he often remembered.

The brief Peace of Amiens, which had served only to allow the old enemies to lick their wounds and restore their ships and defences, had led to Avery’s early discharge, an exchange with one of the French prisoners. On his return to England there had been no congratulations or rewards for his past bravery. Instead he had faced a court martial. Eventually he had been found not guilty of cowardice or of hazarding the ship. But the little Jolie had struck her colours to the enemy so, wounded or not, he was reprimanded, and would have remained a lieutenant for the rest of his service.

Until that day some eighteen months ago when Bolitho had given him the post of flag-lieutenant. It had been a new door opening for Avery, a new life, which he had learned to share with one of England’s heroes: a man whose deeds and courage had stirred the heart of a nation.

He smiled at himself in the glass and saw the younger man For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 14

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appear. For only a moment his habitual expression of wariness vanished, as did the lines around his mouth. But the streaks of grey in his dark brown hair and the stiff way he held his shoulder, as the result of his wound and its treatment, gave the lie to what he saw.

He heard someone at the front door and glanced around his room: a bare, simple place without personality. Like the house itself, the vicarage where his father, a strict but kindly man, had brought him up. Avery’s sister Ethel, who herself had married a clergyman when their father had been killed by a runaway horse in the street, still lived here with her husband.

He clipped on his sword and reached for his cocked hat, the gold lace still as bright as the day eighteen months ago when he’d gone to Joshua Miller, the tailor in Falmouth. For two genera-tions the Miller family had been making uniform clothing for the Bolitho family although few could remember how it had all begun.

Bolitho had outfitted him on his appointment as flag-lieutenant.

That too had been another kindness, characteristic of the man he had come to know so well, even if he still did not fully understand him. His charisma, which he himself did not seem to know that he possessed; the way in which those closest to him were ever protective. His little crew as he called them: his burly coxswain Allday, his round-shouldered Devonian secretary Yovell, and not least his personal servant Ozzard, a man without a past.

He put some money on the table for his sister. She would get precious little from her miserly husband. Avery had heard him leave the vicarage very early on some mission of mercy, or to murmur a few words before a local felon was dropped from the gallows. He smiled to himself. If he was really a man of God, the Lord should be warned to begin recruiting his own little crew!

The door opened and his sister stood in the passageway, watching him as though unwilling for him to leave.

She had the same dark hair as Avery and her eyes, like her For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 15

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brother’s, were tawny, like a cat’s. Apart from that, there was little resemblance. He found it hard to accept that she was only twenty-six, her body worn out by child-bearing. She had four children but had lost two others along the way. It was harder still to recall her as a girl. She had been lovely then.

She said, “The carter’s here, George. He’ll take your chest to the stage at the King’s Arms.” She stared at him as he took her and held her closely. “I know you must go, George, but it’s been so lovely to have you here. To talk, and that . . .” When she was distressed, her Dorset accent was more pronounced.

Downstairs two of the children were screaming, but she did not seem to notice. She said suddenly, “I wish I’d seen Lady Somervell, like you have.”

Avery held her more tightly. She had often asked him about Catherine, what she did, how she spoke with him, how she dressed. He stroked the drab clothing his sister had worn throughout his visit.

Once he had mentioned Catherine when Ethel’s husband had been in the room. He had snapped in his reedy voice, “A godless woman! I’ll not hear her name in my house!” Avery had retorted, “I thought this was one of God’s houses, sir.”

They had not spoken since. That was why he had quit the vicarage early, he supposed, so that they would not have to lie to one another with brotherly farewells.

All at once Avery needed to leave. “I’ll tell the carter to go now. I shall walk to the stage.” Once he would have avoided walking in the streets. Although a county town, it was usually sprinkled with sea officers. Dorchester was a popular place for naval families to buy houses, being within easy reach of Weymouth Bay, Portland and Lyme. He had seen too many such officers cross the road to avoid him when he had been recovering from his wound and awaiting a court martial.

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Being with Bolitho had changed all that. But it will never change my feelings towards them.

He embraced her again and felt her tired body against his.

Where had the young girl gone?

“I’ll send money, Ethel.” He felt her nod, too choked by tears to speak. “The war will be over soon. I’ll be on the beach then.” He thought of Bolitho’s calm acceptance of his situation, what Allday had told him about his damaged eye, what the confidence had cost him. At least I could be in no better company.

Down those so-familiar stairs, bare-boarded to avoid waste, as the vicar had put it. Avery had noticed, however, that he kept a very good cellar. Past the room where his father had begun his education. At any other time the reminiscence would have made him smile. How Yovell had immediately accepted him in their little crew because he could speak and write Latin. Strange how, indirectly, that ability had saved the life of Rear-Admiral Herrick, Bolitho’s friend.

He said, “The roads should be better now. I’ll be in Falmouth the day after tomorrow.”

She looked up at him and he thought he saw the young girl watching him through the mask.

“I’m so proud of you, George.” She wiped her face with her apron. “You’ll never know how much!”

Out on the street the carter took his money and touched his hat to the vicar’s wife.

Then they kissed. Afterwards as he walked through the market Avery recalled it with distress. She had kissed him like a woman, perhaps one who had only just remembered how it could have been.

At the corner of the street he saw the coach with its Royal Mail insignia standing by the inn. Its shafts were empty of horses but servants were already making luggage fast on the roof.

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He turned and looked back at the street where he had grown up, but she had disappeared.

Two midshipmen on some mission or other passed him, doff-ing their hats in salute. Avery did not even notice them.

The knowledge hit him like a blow. He was never going to see her again.

John Allday paused in tamping tobacco into one of his long pipes, and, without lighting it, walked to the inn door.

For a long moment he looked up at the bright new sign, swinging now in the breeze. Although he could not see the Channel from here, he could picture it without effort. The wind had backed a piece since morning, and the tide would be on the ebb.

He could see Falmouth, too, in his thoughts: ships shortening their cables, waiting to weigh and take advantage of wind and tide. Men-of-war, although not too many of them; the famous Falmouth packets; fishermen and lobster boats. He would get used to it. I must. He heard the solitary chime of the tiny parish church. His eyes softened. Where he and Unis had been wed just over two months back. He had never known such warmth, such unexpected love. He had always had an eye for “a pretty craft,” as he had put it on occasions, but Unis had surpassed them all.

The men would be leaving the fields soon; it was still dark too early to work long hours.

He heard Unis’s brother, another John, preparing tankards and moving benches, the thud of his wooden leg marking his progress around the parlour. A fine man, an ex-soldier from the old 31st Foot, the Huntingdonshires. It was good to know he had his cottage next door to the inn, and would be able to help Unis when he was back at sea.

Her ladyship had ridden all the way over to Fallowfield, and had tried to reassure him. But one of the coachmen who had been For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 18

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here for some ale and a pasty or two had told him about the letter for Sir Richard from the Admiralty, and Allday could think of nothing else.

He heard Unis’s light step come in the other door, and turned to see her watching him, a basket of freshly-gathered eggs in her arms.

“You still worrying, my dear?”

Allday re-entered the parlour and tried to laugh it off.

“It’s all new to me, y’see?”

She looked around the room, at the four-and-a-half-gallon pins of ale on their trestles. Clean cloths fresh today, new bread to tempt any hardworking farm labourer on his way home. A place that offered a welcome: it looked pleased with itself.

“New to me too, now that I’ve got my man with me.” She smiled gently. “Don’t you worry about it. You’ve got my heart, and I daresay I’ll take it badly when you go, and go you will. I shall be safe enough. Just you promise to come back to me.” She turned away towards the kitchen so that he should not see the making of a tear in her eye. “I’ll fetch you a wet, John.” Her brother straightened his back from putting more logs on the fire and looked at Allday gravely.

“Soon, you reckon?”

Allday nodded. “He’ll be off to London first. I should be with him—”

“Not this time, John. You’ve Unis now. I was lucky—I lost a leg for King an’ Country, though I didn’t think so at the time. A cannon don’t care. So make the most of what you have.” Allday picked up his unlit pipe and smiled as his new wife entered with a tankard of rum.

He said, “You knows what a man needs, my love!” She wagged her finger and chuckled. “You’re a bad lad, John Allday!”

Across the parlour her brother relaxed, and Allday was glad.

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But how could he really understand? He had only been a soldier, so why should he?

Lady Catherine Somervell paused at the turn of the stairway and pulled her gown more tightly about her body. After the warmth of the great four-poster bed and the fire in the room, the air was cold around her bare feet and ankles.

She had gone to bed earlier than usual to give Richard the opportunity to speak with his nephew alone. Later they had come upstairs together, and she thought she had heard Adam stagger when he reached the door of his room.

Throughout the evening meal he had been strained and unusually subdued. They had talked of his homeward journey, and of Anemone, docked to replace some of the copper damaged when she had been hulled by crossfire from Baratte’s privateers. Adam had looked up from his plate and for those few seconds she had seen the familiar animation, the pride in his Anemone.

“She took a beating, but by God, beneath the copper her timbers are as sound as a bell!”

He had mentioned that the brig Larne was also in Plymouth.

She had brought despatches from Good Hope, but she was to remain in Plymouth to undergo an overhaul to spars and rigging.

It was hardly surprising. Larne had been continuously at sea for nearly four years, in everything from blazing heat to screaming gales.

Watching Richard, she thought he had somehow expected it.

Another twist of fate, perhaps, that would bring James Tyacke back to England: that brave, proud man, the devil with half a face as the Arab slavers had dubbed him. How he would loathe Plymouth, the pitiless and horrified stares each time he showed his terrible scars to the busy world of that naval port.

Adam had confirmed that Tyacke had sent his first lieutenant to London with the despatches, although a captain would normally For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 20

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be expected to pay homage in person to the Admiralty.

Catherine saw a candle flickering on the small table where the stairs turned down into semi-darkness. She must have fallen asleep again after hearing them come up. When she had reached out for her man she had found his place empty.

She felt herself shiver, as though someone were watching her.

She looked up at the nearest portrait, Rear-Admiral Denziel Bolitho, perhaps more like Richard than any of the others. He was his grandfather, and the likeness was very strong: the same eyes, and hair as black as a raven. Denziel was the only other Bolitho to have reached flag rank, and now Richard had risen higher than them all, the youngest vice-admiral on the Navy List since Nelson’s death. She shivered again, but not from the cold night air. Richard had told her he would give it all away—for her, for them.

Richard had often spoken about his grandfather but had admitted he could not really remember him. He had created his impressions from what his father Captain James had told him, and of course from the portrait. With the smoke of battle in the background, Denziel was depicted at Quebec supporting Wolfe.

The painter had caught the other man, the man behind the uniform. There was humour in his eyes and mouth. Had he had a mistress, as his grandson did?

Now that her eyes had become accustomed to the gloom she could see a faint glow from the great fire, then she saw Bolitho.

He was sitting on the rug with one arm supporting himself against a chair, the chair where his father had used to sit and read to him.

As if he could not bear to look beyond the window, to be reminded that the sea was out there. Waiting, always waiting for the next Bolitho. A goblet of brandy stood by the hearth, catching the dying embers like a magnifying glass.

Bolitho opened his eyes and stared at her, and she imagined he thought he was caught in a dream.

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He made to rise but she slipped down to his side and raked the embers until there was a lively flicker again.

Bolitho dragged off his coat and threw it over her shoulders.

“Forgive me, Kate, I fell asleep! I had no idea . . .” She touched his mouth with her fingers. “It is nothing. I’m glad I woke.”

Catherine watched his profile, his emotions clear in spite of the shadows. So many times they had sat here like this, talking, listening, needing one another. He was never impatient with her, even when they had discussed her purchase of the collier brig, Maria José. Another man, another sailor might have thought it rash. He had merely said, “We shall have to see when the season begins. It is a bold venture but, even if we fail, the vessel will increase in value.” Always we. Even when they were parted, they were always together.

He said suddenly, “Adam told me.”

She waited, feeling his pain as her own, but she said nothing.

Bolitho continued, “He is in hell because of it, and because of what he believes it may do to me.”

“Will it?”

He held her more tightly around the shoulders. “Who am I to rebuke him? I took you from another, as I took Cheney.” He looked at her, startled at hearing the name again from his own mouth. “He wanted to leave immediately. In his condition he would have killed himself on those damned roads.”

“I came to you willingly. I loved you, I always did. If I have one regret, it is the waste of years before you found me.” He looked into the fire. “It happened after Golden Plover was reported lost. Zenoria was here and, like you, she awakened in the night. Adam was a boy again, crying his heart out because he thought you and I were dead. Val was thought missing as well.” He shook his head. “What a lot that damnable vessel has to answer for!”

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“We were together, dearest of men . . .”

“I know. I think of it often.”

She asked, “Did he tell you everything?” Bolitho nodded slowly. “They were lovers, perhaps even in love. But when the news broke that we had been rescued by Larne the deed was already done. I do not know how Zenoria feels about it—she has a good husband and a child now. It was an act of need, not madness or deceit.” He looked at her squarely and touched her hair with great care. “But Adam is in love with her.

It is a secret he must keep, and so must she.”

“I am so glad he told you. You of all people mean so much to him.”

“There is a letter.”

She tensed as he continued. “In despair he wrote to her. Last year sometime. That will be the test. We must wait and hope.” Catherine picked up the goblet. It was quite hot from the fire.

She felt him watching her as she swallowed some cognac. “When will you know, Richard, about London?” He sounded almost relieved to change the subject. “Their lordships seem very considerate about it.” Catherine drank more cognac and felt it burning on her lips.

There was more to come.

She asked, “Sir James Hamett-Parker has gone, I believe?” He nodded. “Oblivion. There is another in his place. Admiral Sir Graham Bethune. He should do well.” She turned to face him. “You have often said that the navy is like a family. But you have not mentioned him before.”

“It was a long time ago. I lost account of him. A good deal younger than Hamett-Parker, which will be a change for the better.”

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command, in Sparrow, as a matter of fact.” He seemed to consider her question. “Yes, he is younger. About four years, I would think.” He looked at her steadily and she guessed if it were light enough he would have the same expression as Adam when he spoke of his Anemone, the defiance and the pride. “I was only twenty-two when I took command. That was in Antigua as well.”

“It does not seem right that he should be able to give you orders.”

He smiled. “My tiger again! The navy works in strange ways.

Luck, patronage, fate determine seniority, not always ability.

Remember that Our Nel was ten years younger than Collingwood at Trafalgar, but they were still good friends.” He took her hands and they stood up together.

Bolitho said, “To bed now, or my girl will curse me in the morning!”

She glanced down at the rug. Where it must have happened.

It was easy to imagine Adam’s feelings when he had been in this room.

She answered quietly, “Not a girl any more, darling Richard.

I am a woman now, with all a woman’s passions. Hates too, when necessary.”

They walked arm-in-arm to the stairs. The solitary candle had gone out and the grey-eyed rear-admiral was in darkness.

They paused on the stairs and listened to the house, the creaks and tiny sounds which gave it life.

Bolitho said, “They will offer me a new appointment, another flagship. I shall meet you in London. First I shall need to go to Plymouth.”

She watched him. It never failed to surprise her that he could think of so many things at once.

“I would not wish to involve you, Kate, or let anybody think he was being manipulated.”

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“You are going to see James Tyacke.”

“Yes. I cannot bear to be parted from you. Every hour is precious now.”

Tyacke came to her mind as vividly as if he were in the room with them. He would be an attractive man but for the side of his face, which looked as if it had been clawed off by some terrible beast. She remembered when they had sighted Larne bearing down on them after the suffering and death they had witnessed; and the offer of a yellow gown, which Tyacke had kept hidden in his sea-chest, to cover her sunburned body. The gown bought for the girl who had rejected him after his injury. He was worth a better woman than she could ever have been.

Bolitho said simply, “I want him to be my flag-captain.” She said, “He will never accept. I am not even certain that he should.”

Bolitho guided her to the last stairs. Then he said, “That is the cruelty of it, Kate. I need him. I cannot manage without him.” Later as they lay in the big four-poster, she considered what he had said.

And what he had not said. About his impaired vision and what might happen if the other eye was injured. He must have a captain he could trust. No wonder Richard wanted to meet Tyacke alone. He must never think that Richard was using her presence to persuade him into accepting the promotion and all it stood for.

And what it would demand of him.

She pressed her body against his and murmured, “Whatever you do, dearest of men, I shall be waiting.” The next sound she heard was a cock crowing, and she had not been dreaming.

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2 M ore than loyalty

THE SMALL unmarked carriage, its windows and doors streaked with mud from the rutted roads, paused only briefly at the gates to Plymouth dockyard in order to allow the passengers to be iden-tified. As the wheels clanged over the cobbles Bolitho guessed that the youthful Royal Marine lieutenant in charge of the guard was probably staring after them, his mouth likely still open.

His arrival at Plymouth was a private one. He tried to smile, if only for his flag-lieutenant’s benefit, but the effort was too much. It would not be private for much longer. The Royal Marine was no doubt already on his way to the port admiral’s house. Sir Richard Bolitho is here, sir!

Bolitho clung to the window-strap and peered across the clut-tered dockyard, unaware of Avery’s curious stare. Of all the naval ports in England, Plymouth was most familiar to him. Here he had been parted from Catherine and had left for the Mauritius campaign. Avery had been with him then, their first commission together. Avery had kept his distance, had felt his way, too hurt by what had happened to him after the court martial to trust even his own judgement. How he has changed. Perhaps they both had.

“We shall walk the rest of the way.”

Avery rapped on the roof and the horses stamped to a halt.

Bolitho stepped down and felt the edge of the wind on his face. The rolling hills beyond the River Tamar were lush green.

Just a river, and yet it separated him from Cornwall, his home. It looked dark and muddy, hardly surprising after all the heavy rain.

“She’s over yonder.” He wondered if Avery had been aware of his withdrawn silences during the uncomfortable journey. He might even resent it now that he had returned to be his aide, having probably killed all chance of promotion for himself, let alone a command.

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Bolitho looked at him now, at the strong, intelligent profile, and said, “In truth, I am bad company. So much began and ended here.”

Avery nodded. He had been thinking of that other visit when he had seen Bolitho take leave of his lovely Catherine over at the Golden Lion. And of his own emotions when the big frigate Valkyrie had broken out Bolitho’s flag at the foremast truck. It had been like being reborn, taken back again by the navy which had been ready to reject him.

Bolitho fell in step beside him and together they walked along the wall, their boat-cloaks hiding their uniforms and rank from any zealous onlookers aboard the many ships undergoing repair.

Avery recalled very clearly how they had stopped at another dock in this same yard, and Bolitho had told him about his old 74, Hyperion, when she had lain here, little more than a shattered hulk after surviving the greatest battle of her career up to that time. But Hyperion had lived again, had become a legend, and was still remembered in ballads around the taverns, songs about her last fight, when she had gone down with Bolitho’s flag still flying. It was likely flying yet in the depths where she lay, her people only shadows now, where they had fallen. But they lived still in the minds of men like Sir Richard Bolitho and his faithful coxswain John Allday. They had been there. They would never forget.

Bolitho halted and looked down at the brig Larne of fourteen guns. How small she seemed, too small for the great oceans; but when Tyacke had gone against all reason and experience and had persisted in looking for their tiny longboat after Golden Plover had gone down, Larne had burst out of the spray like a giant.

Bolitho saw a marine picket on the jetty. To ensure that nobody deserted, even men who had been away from home for many months or years. It was an insult. James Tyacke was one captain who would never have to mark run against a seaman’s name.

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Bolitho said, “You know what to do.” He spoke more sharply than he intended, but Avery barely noticed.

Avery could feel the written instructions, which Bolitho had dictated to his secretary Yovell. Even that was like a secret, as if Bolitho were not prepared to make up his mind. Perhaps he was unsure, then.

Avery glanced at him. Not unsure of himself? After all that he had done, that would be impossible.

Bolitho was saying, “Make arrangements for an early start tomorrow. We will stay overnight.”

“The Golden Lion, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho’s eyes were searching, the reflected colour of Plymouth Sound, and he imagined that he had offended him.

“I—I only meant . . .”

Surprisingly Bolitho smiled, and seized his arm through his damp cloak.

“I know. I am all aback today.” He looked towards the town.

“But some other place, I think.”

He pictured Catherine suddenly. How they had held one another before he had left for Plymouth. She would be on her way to London by now, to Chelsea. She had shared her London with him. Like all she had given him, all they would have to relin-quish when he sailed again.

He had rarely felt like this before. Every day had been like a bright dawn, and even though each had known they must soon be separated it was hard even to contemplate.

He saw Avery walking away, back to the waiting carriage. His uneven shoulder, the stiff manner in which he held it, moved him deeply. What are these men, Kate? If only all England could see her sons. And above the fresh breeze which rattled Larne’s halliards and incompleted rigging he heard her voice in his mind. Don’t leave me!

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was watching him nervously. A burly figure in lieutenant’s uniform but without a hat had appeared on deck, pushing seamen and dockyard workers aside as he roared, “Man the side, you damned hawbucks! Why was I not told?” Bolitho put one foot on the brow and raised his hat to the small quarterdeck.

“It is good to see you again, Mr Ozanne! And in fine voice, too!” Then he tossed a fold of the cloak over one shoulder to reveal an epaulette with its bright pair of silver stars.

The dockyard workers gaped with amazement, but some of the seamen gave a lively cheer. Like a meeting of old friends.

Ozanne was a Channel Islander who had originally been a merchant sailor. An excellent officer despite his earthy manner, he was old for his rank, and five years or more older than his captain.

Bolitho shook his hand. “How was London?” Ozanne beamed, but his eyes were wary. “I was forgettin’, Sir Richard. Captain Adam was here. Anemone is lyin’ over there.” He considered the question. “I didn’t take to it much. But they seemed pleased to have the despatches.” He shook his big head.

“Do they always rush about like chickens at th’Admiralty, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho smiled. The family. “It’s quite usual, I understand!” He became serious. “Is the captain aboard?”

“I’ll call him . . .”

“No, Mr Ozanne. I know my way.” He thought, James Tyacke will know I am here. He glanced along the slender hull with its black gun-barrels, their buff-painted carriages at rest beneath canvas to protect them from the indignities of a refit. Larne. Tyacke’s ship. At my command. He clambered down the companion ladder, ducking his head beneath the beams as he walked towards the stern cabin.

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quench. Paint and tar, hemp and close humanity. Not just another overworked brig. Tyacke had overcome his terrible disfigurement to weld her into what she was, and what she had achieved. The devil with half a face.

Would he do it all over again? Could he even consider asking him?

Tyacke was standing framed against the sloping stern windows, his shoulders bowed between the deckhead beams in the small cabin, which nevertheless stretched the whole breadth of the stern. His face was in shadow. He said, “Welcome aboard, sir.” He reached for his coat with the single epaulette on its left shoulder, but Bolitho said, “No, I am here uninvited.” He dropped his boat-cloak and then hung his heavy dress coat over a chair.

“Let us be just two men for a while.” Tyacke reached into a cupboard and produced a bottle and two goblets.

“Took this off a smuggler, sir. Seems like good stuff.” As he turned the reflected glare from the water lit up the left side of his face. Like Avery’s it was strong, with deep crow’s-feet around the eye to mark the years at sea on so many oceans.

The other side of his face had been so burned that it was barely human. Only the eye had survived there, blue like Herrick’s. Even his unruly hair had not escaped. Once it had been almost as dark as Bolitho’s but now it was smudged with grey, whilst directly above the burns the hair had turned pure white, like the lock covering Bolitho’s own scar, which he hated so much.

It had happened aboard the Majestic at the Battle of the Nile, as it was now called. Tyacke had been on the lower gun-deck when that burning hell had exploded around him. He had never discovered what had caused the explosion, as all the gun crews of his division had been killed. Even brave Westcott, Majestic’s captain, had died on that terrible day.

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Tyacke said, “A willing foe and sea room, sir! It’s all I ask!” It was strange to be drinking the familiar toast here in the dockyard. Feet thudded across the quarterdeck only inches away, and great coils of cordage were being dragged over the planking and hoisted aloft to the rigger’s crew.

Tyacke regarded him steadily. Then he made up his mind, with a determination that was like something physical.

“They’re taking my ship—is that it, sir?” So easily said, but it was breaking his heart. Even now he was looking around in the shadows as if to avoid the frail sunshine falling through the skylight. So many things must have happened here. So many decisions, overwhelming to some, perhaps, with only themselves against a whole ocean. But not to this man.

Bolitho said, “I am instructed that Larne will return to the African squadron and the anti-slavery patrol . . . eventually. I have been assured that there are no intentions to remove any of your company for service in other hulls. I can obtain it in writing from the port admiral, if you wish.”

Tyacke was staring at his big sea-chest. Bolitho wondered if the gown was still hidden there, the one he had offered to Catherine after their rescue, to cover her nakedness from the staring sailors.

“I’d like that, sir. I’ve had no cause to trust a port admiral.” He looked up, momentarily confused. “That was a stupid thing to say. I beg your pardon, sir!”

“I was once a frigate captain.” How strange that it should still hurt, after all these years. Once a frigate captain. “I can recall only too well the constant poaching of good men, and their replacement with gallows-bait.”

Tyacke poured some more brandy and waited.

Bolitho said, “I have no right to ask you, but . . .” He broke off as something heavy fell on to the deck above, followed instantly by Ozanne’s furious outburst, and laughter for good measure.

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Laughter in a King’s ship was too often a rare sound. How can I ask him?

Tyacke was an unmoving silhouette against the thick glass.

“But you will, sir.” He leaned forward, so that his face hovered in the sunshine. “Rank has no part in this.” Bolitho said, “No, none. We have done too much together.

And when you took us from the sea I was already far too deeply in your debt.” He thought of her in the tossing longboat, her sailor’s garb plastered to her body while they had fought the ocean and the nearness of death together.

He heard himself say quietly, “I want you to take promotion . . .” He hesitated. It was slipping away. “And be my flag-captain. There is none other I want.” Need, need. Tell him . . . The words seemed to fill the cabin. “That is what I came to ask.” Tyacke stared at him. “There is no one I would rather serve, sir. But . . .” He appeared to shake his head. “Aye, that one word but says it all. Without your trust in me I would have given in to self-pity. But without the freedom of this vessel—without Larne—

I find it too hard a choice.”

Bolitho reached for his coat. Avery would be looking for him.

His involvement could do nothing but harm.

He stood up and held out his hand. “I must see the port admiral.” He looked at him steadily, knowing he would never forget this moment. “You are my friend, Lady Catherine’s too, and so shall it remain. I will request that your ship’s company be allowed ashore watch-by-watch.”

He felt the hard firmness of their handshake, was aware of the emotion in Tyacke’s voice. Then it was over.

Lieutenant George Avery climbed from the carriage and felt the fine drizzle falling past the coach-lamps and into his face.

“Wait here—I’ll only be a moment. Then you can take us to the Boar’s Head.”

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It had taken longer than he had expected, or else it had got dark earlier than usual. He tugged his hat more tightly down on his forehead and turned up the collar of his boat-cloak. His stomach was making its emptiness felt, and he realised that he had not eaten since a hasty breakfast at some inn along the way.

The water of the Hamoaze beyond the dockyard was alive with riding-lights, like fireflies above their reflections. Small craft made dark shadows around them, officers coming and going, the watchful guard-boat, the unending life of a busy harbour.

Here along the wall other lanterns shone by brows and entry ports, where any novice, the unwary or a man who had taken too much to drink could easily trip over a ringbolt or some dockyard material and pitch over the edge.

He saw the brig’s two bare masts, higher than before on an incoming tide. Figures by an entry port, a lieutenant’s white-lapelled coat: probably the side party assembled to see the vice-admiral ashore.

What had they been discussing, he wondered. Old times perhaps, the rescue after the shipwreck of which Allday had told him. Poor Allday; he would be beside himself with worry over this journey. Not being in his proper place, as he would put it.

Avery recognised the thickset officer as Paul Ozanne, Larne’s second-in-command.

“I was delayed, Mr Ozanne. I hope Sir Richard is not too dis-pleased.”

Ozanne took his arm and guided him aft. He glanced at the cabin skylight, in darkness except for a solitary candle.

He said bluntly, “Sir Richard left long ago. He said to tell you he would be at the port admiral’s house.” Avery tensed. Something was wrong. Badly wrong. Otherwise . . .

“What has happened?” Ozanne would know. Better than anyone, he would understand his captain and companion, and his friend, too.

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“He’s down there now, drinking. Worse than I ever seen him.

Can’t make no sense out of him. I’m fair troubled.” Avery thought of Bolitho’s expression when he had gone to board this ship. Anxious, despairing, a different man from the one he had known at sea, or at the house in Falmouth.

“Shall I have a word?” He expected a blunt rebuff.

Instead Ozanne said roughly, “I’d be obliged, but watch your step. There might be a squall or two.” Avery nodded in acknowledgement. It was something Allday had once said to him as a warning.

It was so dark between decks that he almost fell. Larne was small and cramped after a frigate, especially after the old Cano-pus in which he had been serving when Sillitoe had written to him about the possibility of an appointment to flag-lieutenant.

“Who is that out there? Lay aft if you must!” He called, “Avery, sir. Flag-lieutenant!” He saw the flickering candle and Tyacke’s disfigured face turning away as he groped for a bottle.

“Send you, did he?”

He sounded angry, even dangerous. Avery replied, “I thought Sir Richard was aboard, sir.”

“Well, you can see that he’s bloody well not, so you can leave!” Just as suddenly, his voice changed. “Not your fault. It’s nobody’s damned fault. It’s this bloody war, what it’s done to us.” He was muttering to himself as he opened the bottle and slopped something into another glass. Some of it splashed unheeded on to the table. Avery could smell it, and thought of his empty stomach.

“’Fraid it’s only Geneva. I’ve seen off the cognac.” He gestured vaguely. “Shift yourself. Can’t see you well enough from here.” Avery stood up, ducking to avoid the beams. The poor bastard.

He doesn’t want me to see that side of his face.

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“Anything I can do, sir?”

Tyacke did not seem to hear. “What a lot we are, eh? I’ve seen his coxswain—Allday, right?”

Avery nodded, afraid to break the spell.

“I’ve seen him often enough, when he thinks Sir Richard isn’t looking, holding his chest sometimes, hardly able to draw breath

’cause of what the Dons did to him.” His voice was louder, and Avery imagined Ozanne by the skylight, listening, hoping.

“Then there’s his old friend, Rear-Admiral Herrick.” He spoke with unexpected bitterness. “Now he’s lost a bloody arm for his troubles!” He downed a full glass and almost choked. “Sir Richard must enjoy helping lame ducks.”

“He’s a fine man, sir. I’ll not stand by and hear him slandered!” Tyacke was on his feet in a flash. He seized Avery’s lapels and dragged him across the table so that they were inches apart.

“Of course he’s a fine man! Don’t you damned well tell me what to say or think!”

Avery did not try to move or release himself. He could see Tyacke’s wounded face, the blue eye bright in the candlelight, isolated by pain. But almost worse, there were tears running across the melted skin.

Tyacke was shaking him with gentle firmness. “Look at me.

Look . . . at . . . me. ” Avery said quietly, “Tell me, sir.” At any moment Ozanne would come aft. Then it would be too late.

Tyacke released his grip and patted his arm, then he sat down heavily again. In a flat, toneless voice he said, “He asked me to be his flag-captain.” He shook with silent laughter. “Can you imagine that, man? How could I accept?”

“You think he asked you out of pity? He would never put his people at risk for that, even for a dear friend’s sake.” He waited, anticipating another outburst. But Tyacke was very still, except for the painful breathing and the play of shadows across his face.

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Avery remembered what had driven Allday to confide so desperately in him about Bolitho’s injured eye, and how privileged he had felt to be entrusted with the secret. To share it with another now seemed tantamount to a betrayal.

But the cold grip around his heart would not release him.

There was so much at stake. Too much.

He said, “You spoke of our misfortunes just now . . .” Tyacke shook himself. “I meant no disrespect to you.”

“None taken.” He swallowed the raw gin and said, “We are not the only ones.”

“Damn me, I know that.”

When Avery remained silent he leaned towards him again, and for a moment the flag-lieutenant believed he had gone too far.

Then he said, almost inaudibly, “Not Sir Richard. Surely you don’t mean him?”

Avery stood up very carefully. “He is losing the sight of one eye.”

Tyacke’s hand went up to his face, as it must have done when the bandages had been finally removed. It must have seemed a miracle that he had not lost his eye.

“He said nothing to me about it.”

Avery wanted to stay but knew he must leave. “He’s very like you, sir. A proud man above all else. So it was not pity, you see.” He heard Ozanne breathing heavily in the passageway. “He needs you, now more than ever. Would you have him beg?” He could feel Ozanne’s relief as he brushed past him, afraid that Tyacke would summon him back and begin all over again.

Also, he knew he was going to be sick.

He reached the carriage and managed to gasp, “Port admiral’s house, if you please!”

In the tiny cabin Lieutenant Ozanne was watching Tyacke, who was trying to refill his glass.

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He asked wearily, “What happened?”

Tyacke peered at him and wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

“Secret, Paul. If I tell you, then it’s not.” His voice was very slurred.

The bottle rolled unheeded on to the deck, and Tyacke would have followed it but for his powerful first lieutenant.

“I don’t know who said what, James Tyacke, but I was a mite worried about you! ”

He gave a great sigh and snuffed out the candle.

Then, with Tyacke’s coat over one arm, he stepped outside and heard the rain on the companion ladder.

For a while longer Ozanne, who had been at sea since his boy-hood, looked around and listened to the watch below crowding into their messes for their evening meal. There would be much discussion below deck about the proposed shore leave. Such gen-erosity was unheard of.

He touched the solitary gold epaulette on Tyacke’s coat and said quietly, “I think we’re losing you, James, and we’ll be the poorer for it.”

Afterwards he knew he had been speaking to—and for—the whole ship.

Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune strode across the thick car-pet, his face alight with a warm smile as he seized Bolitho’s hand.

“My God, Sir Richard, you make my heart sing to see you so well and rested! I have to admit to a certain nervousness at the prospect of meeting you for the first time since my appointment.

Those far-off days when you were my captain and I was a bum-bling midshipman are hard to shake off!” The handshake, like the smile, was genuine, Bolitho thought.

Bethune was not quite what he had expected, and it was true that they had not met since his first command, the sloop-of-war Sparrow in ’82. A lifetime ago.

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The round-faced midshipman with the dark freckles was no more. Instead here was a flag-officer who must be in his forties, but who looked years younger. Bright-eyed, lean and confident, a far cry from many senior officers who had languished in the halls of Admiralty. He had the same infectious smile, but there was an air of confidence and authority about him which Bolitho guessed would be a great attraction to ladies of the Court, or at the many receptions he would have to attend in his new capacity.

Bolitho felt a touch of envy and cursed himself for his own vanity. He had followed Bethune’s progress to fame in the Gazette from time to time. The turning point had come when he had been in command of a small 26-gun sixth-rate. Sailing alone, he had fallen in with two big Spanish frigates, either of which should have been able to force him to submit. Instead, after a spirited engagement, Bethune had run one enemy ashore and captured the other with hardly a man lost.

Bethune said, “If it suits I will call a full meeting on the day after next. I think it would be foolish to delay further.” He waved Bolitho to a chair. “But I wanted to see you first. To prepare myself. There are many changes here—of necessity. But I am sure you are well aware of that.”

A servant entered with some wine and glasses. He, too, was a different one from Godschale’s or Hamett-Parker’s.

Bethune toyed with his buttons. “How is her ladyship? Well, I trust?”

Bolitho relaxed slightly. A test, perhaps, like a ranging shot to decide on the next move.

“Lady Catherine is in good health, thank you. I will be joining her shortly in Chelsea.”

Just the merest flicker. Nothing more.

Bethune nodded. “I would greatly like to meet her.” Bolitho thought of Godschale sitting at the same table, complaining of the weight of his responsibilities and probably For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 38

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planning his next liaison with the young wife of some subordinate at the same time. His appetites had done for him in the end.

He studied his one-time midshipman with new eyes. Handsome, with the touch of recklessness some women admired. He was married, but perhaps he had a mistress somewhere.

The servant brought the glasses. It was cold hock, very refreshing after all the miles, all the changes of horses at inns which had all begun to look very much like one another. He wondered if the wine had come from the shop in St James’s Street where Catherine had taken him.

Bethune said, “I have read all your letters and despatches, particularly your views on blockade and the protection of trade routes.

You are correct, of course, Sir Richard.” Again the infectious smile, a lieutenant posing as a vice-admiral. “But it will be up to you to convince their lordships.”

Bolitho thought of Tyacke, and remembered Catherine’s words when he had told her what he intended. It was still heavy on his heart. She had been right.

“There is some good news about your friend and former flag-captain, Valentine Keen.”

Bolitho hoped that Bethune had not seen his surprise. It was as though he had been reading his thoughts.

“He is to be promoted to rear-admiral, and deservedly so, as you made very clear in your original report.” Bolitho looked away. He recalled Hamett-Parker’s hostility at the suggestion, but now that Keen was secure as a flag-officer in his own right he could only recall Adam’s despairing confession by the fire in Falmouth. Zenoria as the wife of a flag-officer? It was beyond imagination. The girl with the moonlit eyes would be swamped, destroyed even, by a world she would never be able to share or understand. It must not destroy Adam also.

Bethune took another tall glass of wine. “I appreciate your convictions concerning the United States. By the way, your recent For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 39

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adversary Captain Nathan Beer is promoted commodore, I hear.” Bolitho remembered the moment of fear, the splinters like barbs in his face, Herrick lurching on deck, his amputated stump bleeding as he dismissed the Valkyrie’s captain and took charge to fight the ship.

He said sharply, “The next time we meet I shall make him an admiral!”

He saw the satisfaction in Bethune’s eyes.

Bethune said quietly, “You think there will be war?”

“I do. If I can explain . . .”

Bethune smiled. “Not to me, Sir Richard. I am convinced. The others will be more concerned with expense than expediency.” Bolitho thought of Catherine. She would be at Chelsea, or very close to it by now. Just before he had left for Plymouth she had mentioned the surgeon in London.

“It can do no harm. Perhaps he may even be able to help.” Bethune asked suddenly, “Does your eye trouble you?” He realised he had been rubbing it.

“A chill, I expect.”

Bethune said airily, “Well, you have been in Cornwall. It is possible.”

He was a Cornishman himself. Bolitho recalled that he had made a point of mentioning it when he had taken command of Sparrow. He could not imagine him in Cornwall now.

But he was shrewd, very shrewd. It would not do to let him know about the injury.

Bethune was saying, “Your choice of flagship, the Indomitable, did surprise me a little, although I can fathom your reasons. But some of our betters may suggest otherwise, or say perhaps that you have a penchant for elderly vessels.” Bolitho sensed the contempt he held for his “betters.” Bethune added, “I shall give you my support, but I hope you knew that. I will suggest that two other elderly vessels, Victory For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 40

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and Hyperion, have made milestones in history!” A servant entered and looked at the vice-admiral nervously.

“Lieutenant Avery, Sir Richard Bolitho’s flag-lieutenant is in attendance, Sir Graham . . .”

Bethune smiled calmly. “A brave man to venture amongst senior officers.” He shot Bolitho a quick glance, “And friends.” Bolitho got to his feet as Avery entered the big room, his cocked hat crushed beneath his arm.

Was something wrong? Had Avery found the Chelsea house empty?

Avery nodded to Bethune, but Bolitho saw the quick appraisal, the sharp curiosity. Unlike poor Jenour, this man took nothing for granted.

He said, “Letter by fast courier, Sir Richard.” Their eyes met.

“From Plymouth.”

Bolitho took it, aware that Bethune was watching him.

It was short and to the point, in Tyacke’s sloping hand.

Mine is the honour. It is more than loyalty. I shall await your orders.

His signature was scrawled across the bottom, barely legible.

Bolitho glanced at Avery, but the flag-lieutenant’s expression remained inscrutable. Then he raised the letter to his nose, and saw that small cabin in his mind as he had left it in Plymouth only days ago.

Bethune smiled. “Perfume, Sir Richard? Dare I ask?” Bolitho shook his head. It was cognac. “With your permission, Sir Graham, I would give you a sentiment.” The glasses had been refilled, and another had appeared for Avery. Bethune remarked, “I am all curiosity!” Bolitho felt his eye pricking, not injury now, but for a different reason.

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Avery watched him as they touched their glasses. Another secret.

Then Bolitho smiled for the first time since he had arrived.

They were ready.

“So let’s be about it!”

3 the ocean is A lways there

LIEUTENANT George Avery handed his hat to an Admiralty porter and hurried across the marble hall to where Bolitho was sitting in a high-backed chair.

“I apologise for my lateness, Sir Richard.” Bolitho held out his hands to a well-banked fire and said, “You are not late. They are still rewriting naval history in that room.” It was spoken without impatience or bitterness. Perhaps he had seen too much of it, Avery thought.

Bolitho wondered if his flag-lieutenant had kept exactly to the arranged time in order to avoid questions about Tyacke, and his inexplicable change of heart regarding the appointment.

Bolitho thought of Catherine that morning, the concern in her eyes while he finished dressing, his coffee untouched on the table.

He had shown her Tyacke’s note. She had said, “Let him decide, Richard. I think you should wait for Avery to tell you himself. It is what you wanted . . . I know how much you need James Tyacke, but I do not envy him what he must do.” They had stood side by side on the iron balcony of the Chelsea house and watched the misty first light across the Thames. London came alive long before dawn, but it was a leisurely awakening here. A man with his little cart and tubs of fresh oysters, setting up his stall for the various cooks and housekeepers to sample his For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 42

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wares. Hay for the stables, a loud-voiced knife-grinder, then a small troop of cavalry horses being taken on morning exercise to the park, looking strangely bare without their saddles and bright accoutrements. She had been wearing her heavy robe, but even so it had been chilly so close to the slow-moving river. He had held her and felt her shiver, but not only from the air.

It would soon be a time for parting. Days or weeks: after the freedom they had longed for and shared since Bolitho’s return to England, it would be all the harder to accept.

He heard Avery say, “I was so glad to learn of Commodore Keen’s promotion. Well earned, from what I have heard and read of him.”

Bolitho looked up at him sharply, but it was only an innocent comment. He wondered what Zenoria would be thinking about it, Adam too. Thank God he would be sailing soon despite his shortage of men and officers.

Of one company. How many times had he heard it thus described. He recalled the big frigate Valkyrie, aboard which he had been rendered completely helpless by tiny splinters in his uninjured eye. Command of her had gone to Adam’s contempo-rary Captain Peter Dawes, the son of an admiral, whose frigate Laertes had been so badly battered by Baratte’s crossfire that it was unlikely she would ever fight again.

Many people would be surprised that such a prestigious command had not been given to Adam. No doubt some of them in the room beyond were also thinking as much. But Dawes had proved his worth; he would give Valkyrie fair and proper leader-ship, unlike the brutal punishments which had been a regular occurrence under Captain Trevenen, who had vanished overboard without trace. Murder, an accident, or had he committed suicide to save himself from a charge of cowardice when Herrick had seized command?

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leave his beloved Anemone, even though there would hardly be a familiar face left now in her whole company.

He heard Avery breathe in as footsteps clicked across the marble floor like distant slate-hammers.

A white-faced clerk said, “If you would please come this way, Sir Richard.” He glanced nervously at Avery. “I have been told nothing about . . .”

“Then you will have no objection if my flag-lieutenant remains with me.”

Avery almost felt sorry for the clerk. Almost.

The big room was full of distinguished people, senior officers, the Lords of Admiralty, and civilians who looked more like lawyers at the Old Bailey than the planners of strategy.

Bolitho sat down and heard Avery move into a chair at his elbow. There was no sunlight through the great windows, nor were there any glittering chandeliers to dazzle his injured eye.

One or two of the officers nodded to him, pleased to see him safe and apparently in excellent health. Others would welcome him for different reasons. It was common enough for a clash of personalities to cause an uproar in this powerful place. Clerks, a secretary or two and somebody’s flag-lieutenant hovered beside a pillar, attempting to remain unnoticed.

Avery whispered, “My uncle is here, Sir Richard . . .” At that moment Sir Graham Bethune rose to his feet and rested one palm on his table. Even that looked elegant, but Bolitho wondered if he was as confident as he appeared.

“Sir Richard Bolitho is no stranger to most of you, and his name is known to many more . . .” He gave a gentle smile. “Not least to Napoleon!” There was laughter and Bethune’s eyes responded as he glanced at Bolitho.

A heavily-built admiral, whom Bolitho recognised as the Controller, said bluntly, “We are here to discuss future tactics, if—and for my own part it is a very doubtful if — the Americans show For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 44

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intentions of war against our King.” He glared furiously at two post-captains who were whispering together, enjoying the fact that there was no longer a King to govern them. “The United States would be insane to declare war on such a powerful navy!” The word insane brought more gleeful whispers from the two captains.

Bethune said smoothly, “Sir Paul Sillitoe is come amongst us to explain more clearly what we are about.” Sillitoe stood up lightly, his hooded eyes scanning the gathering like a man who has something better to do.

“The situation is simple enough. Between Napoleon’s land blockade and his very real threats against those of his neighbours who might dare to allow our ships to enter their ports for the purposes of trade, and our own sea blockade, we have divided the peoples of Europe into friends and foes.” Bolitho watched him, thinking of him with Catherine when he had escorted her to Whitechapel. A man who could be an enemy, but one who was obviously so secure in his position as adviser to the Prince Regent that he spoke almost with disdain.

“It has also divided the United States into opposing parties.

The War Party—let us call it—is in favour of Napoleon; the other party wants only peace. The War Party hate us and covet Canada, and also wish to continue to make money from the conflict. The United States government insists that British deserters should be safe under the American flag, and is doing all it can to weaken our fleet by encouraging many, many seamen to take advantage of their offer, dollars for shillings, a bribe they can well afford.” His eyes flashed. “ Yes?”

All heads turned towards a small, dark-clad clerk at the end table. “With respect, Sir Paul, I cannot keep up with you!” Sillitoe almost smiled. “Something I have thought characteristic of this edifice on many occasions!” For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 45

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There was laughter and hand-clapping. In a lull Bethune leaned over and whispered, “Convince them.” Bolitho stood up as the noise died away. He felt out of place here, the scene of so many disappointments. After he had been so ill with fever in the Great South Sea, war had broken out, and he could recall himself pleading for another ship, a frigate, three of which he had already commanded by that time. And the admiral’s cold response. Were a frigate captain, Bolitho. Where plots had been made against him to force him back to Belinda’s side, and where he had broken with Herrick in that very corridor outside.

He heard himself speaking, his voice carrying without effort.

“We need more frigates. It is always the way, but this time the need is all the more urgent. I am certain that the Americans will force a war. Napoleon cannot hold out much longer unless he receives their support to stretch our resources still further. Likewise, the Americans will have left it too late if they drag their feet.” The Controller held up a quill pen. “I must protest, Sir Richard. Nobody would dispute your gallantry and many successes at sea, but planning is the key to victory, not necessarily the broadside!”

A voice called, “Hear—hear!”

Encouraged, the Controller said, “We have many fine ships of the line on the stocks or completing every week of the year.” He paused and raised his eyebrows. “Frigates before the line of battle, is that what you advocate? For if so . . .” Bolitho answered quietly, “The Americans laid down 74s but quickly saw the folly of it. All were converted to big frigates, and carry 44 guns, but are said to be pierced for ten additional heavy guns.” There was not a sound now. He continued, “We crossed swords last year with one of their largest, the U.S.S. Unity. I can vouch for her fire power,” his voice was suddenly hard and bitter,

“as can many of our brave fellows!”

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Bolitho knew it was Sillitoe, conducting the scene like a puppet-master.

He said, flatly, “It is finished. The day of the leviathans sailing slowly to a costly and terrible embrace is over. We’ll not see another Trafalgar, I am certain of it.” He looked around at their intent faces. To some the truth of what he had said would seem like blasphemy. To those who had faced close-action it was something no one dared to admit.

Bolitho said, “Think of it. The ship’s company of one first-rate could crew four fast and powerful frigates. Ships which can move from area to area with haste and without waiting for some far-off flagship to guess what is happening. I have been offered a command which reaches from Halifax and the 49th parallel south to the Leeward Islands and Jamaica. In any week of any year there are ships, convoys with rich cargoes, making their way back to this country. Without ready protection and the ability to hit back in their defence, we will stand no chance.” Bethune asked, “Is that why you want Indomitable for your flagship?”

Bolitho looked at him and forgot all the others. “Yes. She was cut down from a third-rate to carry the very artillery I would need. She is and always has been a fast sailer.” Bethune smiled but his eyes were on the others.

“She was re-built and re-rated because of the operations at Mauritius, gentlemen. Unfortunately Sir Richard dished up the French before we could send Indomitable out there!” There was a wave of cheering and stamping.

When he looked at Bethune again, Bolitho saw the triumph in his eyes. So long ago when they had boarded the enemy from his little Sparrow, he had seen that same expression. All or nothing.

The Controller held up one plump hand. “Are they your only reasons, Sir Richard?”

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the family crest worn away by time and many hands. Where his father had spoken of his hopes and his fears for his youngest son, when he had first gone to sea. “For my country’s freedom.” He glanced at Avery and saw what might have been emotion. “And my freedom from then on.”

Bethune smiled with relief. A near thing. He might have been unseated at the Admiralty when he had scarcely begun. And Bolitho? He would probably have refused any other appointment.

He said, “I will give you everything I can, Sir Richard.” Bolitho looked at him keenly, and afterwards Bethune thought he had been pierced through by those clear grey eyes.

“I have everything, Graham. And I want it to last. ” Bethune stared after him. He called me by name. As he had sometimes done in Sparrow.

Avery went to look for his hat and almost ran into his uncle, who was speaking with a tall and very dignified soldier. He did not introduce his nephew, but remarked noncommittally, “It went well, I thought?”

Avery watched him. Sillitoe was not interested in his opinion.

Eventually Sillitoe touched his arm, nothing more, but it was a kinder gesture than he had ever been offered before.

“I have to tell you, George.” The cold eyes searched his face.

“Your sister died in Dorchester. It wasn’t unexpected, but still . . .” He sighed. “I shall deal with it. I have never felt that her husband is in the right calling.” He walked away to where his tall companion was waiting impatiently by the steps.

Bolitho joined him. “Is something wrong?” But all Avery said was, “It was that day. The last time I saw her.” He seemed to shake himself and said, “I’ll be glad to get back to sea, sir.” He was staring at the groups of people breaking up and heading for club or coffee-house, but all he saw was his sister Ethel in her drab clothing. Now she would never meet Lady Catherine.

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He walked to the big doors and added, “It will be cleaner.” Lieutenant Paul Ozanne, the burly, red-faced Channel Islander, held open the cabin door and looked aft to where Tyacke was sitting at his table, exactly as he had left him. How many times had he opened this door, at sea or at anchor, to report the sighting of a suspected slaver, or perhaps an enemy sail? Tyacke always seemed to know anyway, even before the masthead lookout.

He noticed that Tyacke’s brass-bound sea-chest had gone, and despite what he had been told privately, it saddened him.

Tyacke had explained that when he left the ship Ozanne was to be promoted to commander and given Larne in his place.

Ozanne could still not believe the swiftness of events, or what it would mean to him.

Tyacke had said, “You deserve it, I’d have no other. You ought to have been promoted long ago—I know no better seaman or navigator.” His tone had hardened. “But there are those in authority, and my guess is that there always will be, who consider a man not fit for high rank if he has soiled his hands with honest work!” The news had gone through the little brig like a flame. Ozanne had seen it on their faces. Surprise, but certainly relief too. Larne was too intimate, and her people had been together longer than most, for some new broom to come amongst them.

Tyacke looked up from the bare table, his face in shadow.

Ozanne said, “They’re waiting, sir.”

Tyacke nodded heavily. “Your commission is here . . .”

“Will you wait, sir?” He already knew the answer.

“No. I wish you well, I daresay we shall meet again. It is the way of things.” He became impatient. “Have them come in.” Larne’s officers filed into the cabin and found places to sit. On chairs and on the stern bench seat: when the door was wedged shut the cabin was packed tight. Larne was well blessed with both officers and master’s mates. She had taken many prizes, slavers For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 49

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and smugglers alike, and had always carried extra experienced men to sail their captures to the nearest friendly harbour.

There was plenty of cognac, and Ozanne recalled the day when Sir Richard Bolitho had come aboard, and later his flag-lieutenant. He had rarely seen his commander the worse for drink.

Now he knew why it had happened, or one of the reasons, anyway.

Tyacke said, “Help yourselves.” They had no choice in such a crowded cabin. He watched them without expression. Flemyng and Robyns the lieutenants, Manley Pitcair the sailing-master and Andrew Livett the young surgeon, who accepted his miserly pay so that he could study tropical medicines and fevers. He had had plenty of experience on the slave coasts. The master’s mates, bronzed and reliable. But no midshipmen. That would all change like everything else when he joined Indomitable, Bolitho’s proposed flagship. She lay some two hundred yards distant but Tyacke, typically, had not gone to see her. He would begin after he had read himself in, and not before.

Everything would be different. Indomitable would carry a Royal Marine contingent like all men-of-war from sixth-rates upwards.

Tyacke had not served alongside the Royals since the Majestic.

He touched his scarred face and thought of Bolitho’s eye, the way he had seen him rub it when he had been thinking of something else. I should have guessed. He looked round the cabin, so small and low-beamed, but after his first and only other command, the schooner Miranda, it had seemed like a palace. He had first met Bolitho in Miranda, when he had accepted all the discomfort and shared quarters without complaint. When she had been destroyed by a French frigate he had given him Larne without hesitation.

The bond, broken only by distance and the demands of duty, had strengthened from then on. He thought of Avery’s visit, his anger and despair. I should have guessed.

He cleared his throat and every face looked aft.

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“Today I shall leave this command to Mr Ozanne. It is hard to describe my feelings.” He twisted round in his chair and glanced through the thick stern windows. So many times. The thump of the rudder-post, the frothing sea rolling away from beneath the counter. So many times. God, I shall miss you, girl!

But he said, “I have requested that Robert Gallaway be promoted to acting-lieutenant until it can be confirmed.” He saw the master’s mate staring round with surprise and pleasure while his friends thumped him on the back. He would leave Ozanne to select a replacement for Gallaway. It would probably be his first duty. A pleasant way to begin a commission. The others were not even troubled by meeting his gaze. That, too, would be different in another ship. What had he expected? That he would be per-mitted to keep sailing the deep-water trade routes like a phantom?

Now he would be out in the open for all to see.

He took a swallow from his goblet. He would stay at an inn Pitcair had told him about. Small, no questions asked. He smiled sadly. When he received his next allotment of prize-money he could buy land of his own.

He said, “We have done a great deal together, and we are all the better for it. The ocean is always there waiting for us, with a mood to suit every watch and occasion. But the ship . . .” Just once he reached out and touched the curved timbers. “There is never one like the last.” He heard a boatswain’s call, unusually muted in the packed cabin. “All hands! All hands muster on deck!” Even the thudding of bare feet was subdued.

A seaman tapped the door and thrust his head inside. One of the older hands who had been allowed ashore because of Bolitho’s request to the port admiral.

“Beg pardon, zur! But the carriage be alongside!” Tyacke nodded. “Very well, Houston. I’ll come up.” The seaman hesitated, unsure amidst all of his lieutenants and warrant officers.

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“What is it?”

The man named Houston dragged a bright gold dollar on a chain from his pocket.

“For a lady, zur—took it from that brigantine! Good luck, Cap’n!” Then he fled.

Tyacke stood up slowly, glad that he must bow his head between the beams and hide his face.

Thank God he was not being pulled ashore in the gig, which was what Ozanne would have arranged had they been at anchor instead of alongside the wall. Pulled ashore by his own officers.

Ozanne was that kind of man.

He was saying now to the others, “Wait on deck, please, gentlemen.”

Then, when they had filed out, he stood by the door. “I’ll never forget what you done for me, James. Never fret, I’ll take good care of her. You’ll be that proud when you see her again.” Tyacke gripped his hand. “I know that, old friend.” What Bolitho called his coxswain. He wanted to say aloud, I’m afraid.

Maybe I can’t do it. But all he said was, “She can still outsail the best of them!”

Then, followed by Ozanne, he climbed the companion ladder, and hesitated by the coaming.

My men. No, not any more.

They were clinging to the shrouds and ratlines, framed against a clear bright sky. There were no dockyard workers to be seen.

This was Larne’s moment and they would share it with nobody.

The carriage with the big sea-chest on its roof waited amongst the dockyard litter. Tyacke measured the distance with his eye. It was probably the longest journey he would ever take.

He shook hands with the officers and the men of the side party. A murmur here and there, firm, rough hands, questioning glances; he had to press his sword against his thigh with all his strength to contain himself.

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Lastly Paul Ozanne, Commander Ozanne. Only their eyes spoke: no words would come.

Tyacke raised his hat and climbed on to the brow. The calls twittered and then someone yelled, “Huzza for the Captain, lads!

Huzza! ”

People hurried to the sides of other vessels nearby as the wild cheering echoed and re-echoed against the old stone walls. For such a small ship’s company, the din was enough to drown every other sound. Straight-backed, his sword at his side, Tyacke walked steadily towards the carriage, the cheers washing around him like breakers on the reefs.

He climbed into the carriage and the driver flicked his whip.

He did not look back. He dared not.

Catherine was waiting at the foot of the stairs when Young Matthew drove Bolitho back from the Admiralty after yet another meeting. She watched him anxiously, looking for a sign, some hint that he was over-taxing himself.

He took her in his arms, his mouth touching her hair, her neck.

“It’s settled, Kate. I am to command the new squadron.” He searched her face as she had studied his. “We can soon return to Falmouth. It will be a while yet before my ships are ready.” He smiled. “And Young Matthew complains that London is too noisy and dirty for his tastes.”

She linked her arm through his and turned him towards their room at the rear of the house with its tiny walled garden.

“How is George Avery?”

“Relieved, I think.”

“I have written to him about his sister. I did not even know he had a family. He said not when I first met him.”

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He saw the brandy on the table and wondered if Tyacke had left Larne yet. He could remember his own farewells only too vividly.

“For me, Richard, will you visit the surgeon before we leave Chelsea?”

He kissed her lightly. “For you, anything.” She watched him pour some brandy. He was looking better than she had expected, his face showing once again the benefit of their being together for over two months, but last night she had been unable to comfort him, and sleep had been denied to both of them.

She said, “Perhaps there will be no war across the Atlantic?”

“Perhaps.”

She saw his fingers playing with her locket beneath his shirt.

He had worn it deliberately for this latest visit to the Admiralty.

His protection, he had called it.

“How was Sir Graham Bethune today?” She had felt his hurt and jealousy at the beginning, but Bethune had stood by her man against the pack. Sillitoe too, although she was doubtful if his motives were so easily defined.

“He was fair and helpful. He has given me most of what I requested. Maybe I will have the rest when the extent of my orders is realised.”

He did not mention that he would be sailing first to English Harbour in Antigua. The Leeward Squadron, as Bethune had dubbed it, would establish itself there. But he could not tell her.

Not yet. There would be pain enough in parting, and Antigua held so many memories. Where he had found her again, and rediscovered the love which had changed his life. His eye fell on a sealed envelope with a coat of arms adorning it.

“When did this arrive?”

“I thought I would leave it until later. A footman delivered it after you had gone this morning.”

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Bolitho picked it up and stared at it. “Will they never give up?

Can they not understand that we belong to each other? Are they so hypocritical that they really expect me to go to Belinda?” He ripped it open with a knife. “I shall see them in damnation first!” She watched his change of expression. At a loss, astonished as if he were a small boy again.

“It is from the Prince Regent, Kate. An invitation to dine . . .” She said, “Then you must go, Richard. Your position demands that you . . .”

He leaned over her and pulled down the back of her gown and kissed her bare shoulder.

He said quietly, “We are invited, Kate.” He held out the heavily embossed card and she read aloud, “Admiral Sir Richard Bolitho, KB, and Catherine, Lady Somervell.” She exclaimed, “It must be a mistake. Carlton House indeed . . . They have even given you the wrong rank.”

He said, almost shyly, “I forgot to tell you, darling Kate. I have been promoted.”

In the kitchen Sophie, her maid, and the cook both stared at the wall as Catherine shouted, “ You forgot!” She flung her arms around him. “Bless you, darling—no wonder they all love you!

You forgot! ” Her fine dark eyes flashed. “But all my clothes are in Falmouth. There is no time for . . .” She gripped his hand with both of hers. “Except for the green silk. You remember.” He smiled at her. “Antigua. Oh yes, I remember.” She could not look at him. “Take me upstairs. I have to remind you. How it is. How it will always be. Together.” In the kitchen they heard Catherine’s familiar laughter. Then there was silence.

The cook glanced at the hob and shook one of the pots.

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4 R oyal command

FOR MOST of the journey from Chelsea, along the Thames and towards Parliament, Bolitho and Catherine spoke little, each reflecting on the immediate future.

Sillitoe had sent a brief note by hand to Chelsea, intimating that the invitation to Carlton House was not a mere matter of vanity or curiosity. Bolitho guessed that he had been told to ensure that they both attended.

This was also the day when Bolitho had visited a consulting physician recommended by the great man himself, Sir Piers Blachford of the College of Surgeons. Catherine had stayed in the carriage, unwilling to wait at Chelsea until the examination was finished.

It had been very thorough, and Bolitho’s eye still smarted from the probing and the stinging ointment.

When he had returned to the carriage she had known, despite his smile and his cheery wave to Young Matthew, that it had been in vain.

Even now as she gripped his hand beneath her cloak she could sense his distress, wondering perhaps if he could ever come to terms with it. It seemed that nothing could be done unless some new technique were developed. The doctor had spoken of damage to the retina and had warned that further probing could destroy the eye altogether.

He had used the terminology of his profession in an almost matter-of-fact fashion, the language of his world. It had probably meant very little to Richard except for the verdict. His eye would only get worse, but it might be a considerable time before the disability became obvious to anybody else.

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when she had descended the stairs in her green silk gown, and he had watched her all the way. So many memories: their hands touching briefly when Bolitho had all but fallen on the step in that house above English Harbour.

Her hair was piled on her head, brailed up, as Allday had once described it, to reveal the gold filigree earrings Bolitho had given her, the ones she had managed to hide in her stained clothing when her husband and Belinda Bolitho had connived to have her wrongly imprisoned for debt, with deportation an almost certain outcome.

Around her neck she wore his latest present, which he had commissioned for her as a surprise when he had returned home from the sea. It was a diamond pendant fashioned in the shape of an open fan, like the one he had brought her from Madeira.

She had watched his eyes, had felt them like warmth from the sun. The pendant rested provocatively in the shadow between her breasts. He had said quietly, “You will be the most beautiful lady tonight.” It had touched her deeply. A lady in title only, but to Richard she knew it meant far more.

A few people pointed at the crest on the carriage door, but here in the heart of London fame was commonplace and too often ephemeral.

Bolitho seemed to read her thoughts. “I will be glad to go home, Kate.” Their hands embraced beneath the cloak, like lovers themselves. “I do not know why we are here.” He turned and looked her full in the face. “But I shall enjoy showing you off. I always do. Is that so childish?”

She stroked his hand. “I would have you no other way, and I am proud to be at your side.” Even if Sillitoe was wrong, and the invitation had come only out of curiosity, the love of scandal by those who had no cause to fear it, she would show only dignity.

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Carlton House were ablaze with lights, as smartly liveried linkmen and boys ran to open doors and lower carriage steps. Above the bustle of horses and staring spectators they heard the sound of music, violins and a harpsichord. Bolitho felt her hand on his arm and heard her whisper, “Like Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. I shall take you there again.”

He nodded. He was pleased she still remembered that night when she had shown him a part of her London.

Bewigged footmen whisked away their cloaks and Bolitho’s cocked hat. He watched them being carried into an ante-room and marked it carefully in case a hasty retreat should become necessary. Aware of his uncertainty, she smiled at him, her eyes flashing in the glitter of a thousand candles.

Most men in his position would be revelling in it, she thought.

Here was a real hero, loved, feared, respected and envied. But she knew him so well. Could sense his wariness, his determination to protect her from any who might try to harm her.

They were ushered into a great room with a painted ceiling of water nymphs and fantastical sea-horses. The orchestra was here, although Catherine suspected there was a second playing elsewhere in this extravagant building. It appeared to have been newly decorated, and perhaps was a reflection of the Prince Regent’s tastes or personality. Described behind his back as a gambler, drinker and debauchee, and to his face by his father as

“king of the damned,” his blatant affair with Mrs Fitzherbert and countless mistresses who had followed her clearly demonstrated the contempt in which he held both his father and society.

There were several women present. Some were plain and seemingly ill at ease, with nothing to say, their husbands on the other hand loud-mouthed and sweating badly as the room became more crowded. There were other women less overawed by their surroundings, some vivacious, and wearing gowns cut so low it was a marvel they stayed in position. It was almost a relief to see Sir For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 58

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Paul Sillitoe, who was pointing them out to a footman while he himself came to greet them.

“Congratulations, Sir Richard! You are turning many heads this evening!” But his eyes were on Catherine as he raised her hand to his lips. “Each time we see you, Lady Catherine, it is like a first meeting. You look enchanting.” She smiled. “You are all flattery, sir.” Sillitoe became business-like. “It is a small gathering by Prinny’s standards. The main banquet room is partitioned off. We must accept it as an intimate affair. The Prince Regent’s dislike for the prime minister has worsened, I am given to believe. He will not be missed.”

Bolitho took a tall, beautifully shaped goblet from a tray and saw the footman’s eyes dart between them. Did Sillitoe obtain all his intelligence from men like this? The extent of his knowledge was uncanny, the power that that knowledge would represent almost dangerous.

Sillitoe was saying, “About forty of us, I understand.” Bolitho glanced at Catherine. Sillitoe would know exactly how many, and the worth and perhaps the secrets of each and every one of them.

He had returned his attention to Catherine now, his hooded eyes giving nothing away. “There will be many wines at table . . .”

She touched the diamond fan at her breast. “I take heed of your warning, Sir Paul. Our host gains entertainment and amusement from his guests if they imbibe too freely, is that it?” Sillitoe bowed. “You are perceptive as always, Lady Catherine.

I knew I had no need to mention it.”

Bolitho saw faces turning away when he caught them staring.

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army establishments often enough. Was that what they thought now, watching Catherine, seeing her defiance of convention as a threat to their own manhood, or a challenge to it?

He thought of her in those last days in the sun-blistered longboat, keeping his hopes alive when to everyone else rescue had seemed impossible, and the prospect of death their only escape.

Even now, as she turned to glance around the room, the faint scars of sunburn on her bare shoulders were still visible after all the months since Golden Plover had smashed on to the reef. Suddenly he wanted to take her in his arms, to keep holding her until the terrible pictures in his mind were no more.

Instead, he asked, “When I am away . . .” He saw her stiffen, and knew Sillitoe was trying not to listen. “I would wish for nothing dearer than a portrait of you.”

She tilted her chin and he saw a pulse beating in her throat.

“I would be happy to oblige you, Richard.” She reached out and gripped his hand. It was as if the room were completely empty.

“Your thoughts are always of me, never for yourself . . .” She turned away as the doors were flung open and an equerry called importantly, “Pray be upstanding for His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, Regent of all England!” Bolitho studied him intently as he entered the colourful gathering. For one so heavy he walked with a light step; he even seemed to glide, and Bolitho was reminded suddenly of a ship of the line, losing the wind even as she floated smoothly to her anchorage.

He was not quite certain what he had expected: something perhaps between Gillray’s cruel cartoons and the paintings he had seen at the Admiralty. He was about six years younger than Bolitho but his excesses had worn badly. A devotee of fashion, he was elegantly dressed, his hair swept forward in the very latest style, while his lips remained pursed in a little amused smile.

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while their partners bowed, flushed with pleasure if they were noticed.

But the Prince, “Prinny” as Sillitoe had outrageously called him, looked straight at Bolitho and then, more deliberately, at Catherine. “So you are my new admiral.” He bowed his head to Catherine who had subsided into a curtsy. “Please rise, Lady Catherine.” His eyes rested on the glittering pendant and what lay beneath. “This is an honour. You will sit with me.” He offered his hand to Bolitho. “You have a good tailor, sir. Do I know him?” Bolitho kept his face impassive. A courier to Falmouth and a letter of instructions to the tailor there, old Joshua Miller, who had worked on the new uniform without pause. The others would be ready when he hoisted his flag above Indomitable.

He replied, “He works in Falmouth, Your Royal Highness.” The Prince smiled. “Then indeed I shall not know him.” His eyes moved to the diamond fan again. “It must bore you, my lady, living in the country when Sir Richard is away, hmm?”

“I keep too busy to become bored, sir.” He gently patted her wrist. “One so beautiful should never be busy!”

They led the way into the adjoining room. Bolitho had heard that when it had been fully extended for a more lavish banquet recently, the table had been over two hundred feet long, with an artificial stream running from a silver fountain at its head.

They were not to be disappointed at this more humble gathering, it appeared. A veritable army of footmen and servants lined the walls, and music drifted gently through the far doors.

Bolitho took his place without enthusiasm. He had recognised the expression in the Prince Regent’s eyes, the lewd confidence of one used to getting his own way. As a footman pulled out a chair for Catherine she glanced over the table at him, her eyes very level and compelling. Remember me, they For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 61

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seemed to say, reassuring him. The woman in the boat. The one who loves you and no other.

The Prince sat back in a tall chair at the head of the table. It was more like a throne, Bolitho thought, with an ornately carved back featuring the plumes of his own coat of arms and the royal crown and cipher, G.R. It seemed that he already imagined himself as King.

Catherine sat on his right hand, Bolitho on his left. As far as the Prince of Wales was concerned, his other guests could think what they chose.

He raised one hand and instantly, like a well-trained platoon of Royal Marines demonstrating a complicated drill, the footmen and servants moved into action.

As was customary, Bolitho had expected Grace to be spoken; in fact he had seen a severe-looking bishop at the opposite end of the table in the act of getting to his feet. The Prince gave no sign that he had seen him, but Bolitho guessed that, like Sillitoe, His Royal Highness missed very little. Soon the table was groaning with the weight of huge platters, some of gold, some of silver.

The number of staff in the kitchens must be equally large, Bolitho thought. Spring soup, then slices of salmon and caper sauce were served with fried fillet of sole. Each dish would have satisfied even the hungriest midshipman, but when he glanced along the table Bolitho saw little hesitation as silver flashed in the candlelight, and hands moved and plunged as if his fellow guests had not eaten for days.

The Prince remarked as more glasses were filled, “This is a lighter wine, Lady Catherine, not much to my taste. I prefer something with a little more body. ” She met his gaze and said, “From Madeira, I believe.” She had not reacted to the emphasis he had placed on the last word; in fact, it was even rather amusing. He was no different from other For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 62

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men after all. She looked across at Bolitho and raised her glass.

“To our new admiral, sir!”

A few sitting close by followed suit, but most were more concerned with emptying their plates in anticipation of the next offering.

The Prince said, “Indeed, yes. I was impressed with your choice of words at the Admiralty, Sir Richard, although your choice of a flagship surprised me until I perceived the logic of it. The vital need for speed and gunnery to act as one . . . there are still many who will not believe it. Merchants and so forth, who can see only an increase in trade and thicker linings to their purses if we slacken our pressure on the enemy. This war must be pursued. I insist on it!” He gave Catherine a wry smile. “Forgive this talk, Lady Catherine. Doubtless you have heard enough on the subject.”

“Where Sir Richard is concerned, I am always ready to learn more, sir.”

He wagged one finger at her. “His will be an enormous responsibility.”

She replied calmly, “Cannot that be said of every captain who sails alone, and with only his own skills and courage to sustain him?”

He nodded, surprised perhaps by her directness. “Ah yes, but an admiral’s responsibility is total! ” Bolitho leaned back as white-gloved hands darted around him and plates vanished as if by magic. It gave him time to consider the Prince’s remarks. He had heard that he was eager to increase pressure on the French, finish it once and for all. No wonder the prime minister was absent; Spencer Perceval leaned towards appeasement, if only to avoid war with the United States.

But the Regent’s powers were severely limited for another twelve months, and no drastic actions might be commenced that could have far-reaching effects to which, after this period, the King might object if recovered from his madness.

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He looked up and found Catherine watching him, thinking no doubt of the dangers inherent in this new appointment. They needed an admiral who would act without hesitation, who would not drag his feet and wait for conflicting instructions from London. That was the official position. They both knew the reality.

He had often told her about the loneliness of command when sailing out of company without higher authority. If you were successful, others would take the credit. If you failed, the blame was yours alone.

He raised his glass to her.

The Prince was running his eyes over the next course, a highly decorative array of roast rack of lamb, larded capon and braised turkey, ham, tongue and several kinds of vegetables. And, of course, more wine. He said, “I should have seated you at the other end of the table, Sir Richard. You and this lady are akin to conspirators!”

But he laughed, and Bolitho noted that several guests were nodding and laughing too, although they could not possibly have heard a word. It was just as well that the soldiers and sailors in the field or on the ocean who often paid for their service with their lives could not see those who took them so much for granted.

“I am told that you will sail first to Antigua?” He gestured to a footman, who served him a second portion of capon. It gave Bolitho time to look at her, and recognise the shadow of pain at the Prince’s abrupt disclosure. I should have told her when I knew.

He answered, “I shall assemble my squadron there, and I hope to gain some local knowledge as well.” The Prince dabbed his chin and said casually, “I knew your late husband, Lady Catherine. An eager man at the tables.” He gazed at her. “Reckless, to a point of danger.”

“I know.”

“But we all have our weaknesses. Even I . . .” He did not elaborate, but attacked the braised turkey with renewed vigour.

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Then he remarked, “Your choice of captain, Sir Richard.” He snapped his fingers absently in the direction of a footman.

“Tyacke, isn’t it? You could have had any captain. Any man would be prepared to kill for such a chance. And yet you chose him without hesitation. Why so?”

“He is an excellent seaman and an accomplished navigator.”

“But only the commander of a lowly brig?” The Prince stared down with astonishment as Catherine laid one hand on his sleeve.

She said quietly, “But is it not also true that Nelson chose Hardy for his flag-captain when he in fact commanded a lowly brig?”

He roared with laughter. “Touché, Lady Catherine! I am impressed!”

She started with alarm as a glass fell on the table and the wine spread towards her like blood. Bolitho said, “Forgive me, sir.” But he was speaking to Catherine, and she knew it.

The light from one of the great chandeliers had dazzled him, and he had missed the wineglass even as he reached for it. No one else seemed to have noticed.

The Prince patted her hand, beaming genially at her. “We will take more wine while these fellows replace the cloth.” He did not remove his hand and added, “There are so many things I wish to know.”

“About me, sir?” She shook her head and felt the diamond pendant warm against her breast.

“You are much spoken of, Lady Catherine. Admired too, I’ve no doubt!”

“I am loved by but one, sir.”

Bolitho glanced at the footman who had replaced his glass.

“Thank you.” The man almost dropped his tray, and Bolitho guessed that he was rarely acknowledged, let alone addressed.

He looked down the table, and found Sillitoe watching him.

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Too far away to hear anything, but near enough to guess what the Prince was doing. What he did so often and so well.

“My spies tell me that you are a good horsewoman. Perhaps when Sir Richard is away you would join me for a ride. I adore horses.”

She smiled, the light and shadow on her high cheekbones making her appear even more lovely. “I shall not come, sir.” When he leaned towards her she shook her head and laughed. “Not even for you!”

The Prince appeared surprised and uncertain. “We shall see!” Then he turned to Bolitho and said, “All real men must envy you.” His irritation was plain as a woman several places away leaned forward and pitched her voice until it was audible.

“I have wondered, Lady Catherine, and others must have asked you since that terrible shipwreck . . .” Catherine glanced at Bolitho and gave a slight shrug. This was familiar ground. His sister Felicity had put forth the very suggestion this woman was about to make.

“What have you wondered, madam?”

“All those men in one small boat.” She looked around, her eyes just a little too bright. She had obviously not been warned about the Prince’s love of wine. “And you the only lady amongst them?”

Catherine waited. Sophie apparently was not included in the ordeal. She was only a servant.

She said coolly, “It is not an experience I would wish to repeat.” On the opposite side of the table, a worried-looking man with thinning hair said in a fierce whisper, “That is enough, Kathleen.” His wife, very much younger, tossed her head. “Things which women must do, but in front of staring eyes . . .” Bolitho said abruptly, “Do you never ask about the sailors who are at sea in all conditions, madam? How they live? Why they tolerate such conditions? Then I will tell you. It is out of For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 66

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necessity.” He turned towards Catherine. “I shall never forget her courage, and I would suggest you do not, either!” The Prince nodded and said in a stage whisper, “I expect that Lady Kathleen would have welcomed the experience!” His eyes were hard with dislike as the insinuation reached the woman in question.

The remainder of the evening was an ordeal of endurance and discomfort. Another great course arrived, this time of guinea-fowl, oyster patties and curried lobster, with more wine to wash it down. Finally, a rhubarb tart was served with three kinds of jelly and, lastly, cheesecakes. Bolitho wanted to drag out his watch, but knew his host would see and resent it.

He looked across at Catherine and she blew out her cheeks at him. “I shall not eat again for another month!” Eventually it was over. After the ladies had withdrawn there was port and cognac for the gentlemen—the latter, assured the Prince, not contraband. Bolitho guessed that most of the guests were beyond caring. The Prince detained them until the last, as Bolitho had known he would. He watched a servant bringing his hat and cloak, but before he could take them the Prince said in his thick voice, “Admiral Bolitho, may good fortune go with you.” Then he took Catherine’s hand and kissed it lingeringly. He looked into her dark eyes. “I never envied a man before, Lady Catherine, not even to be King.” Then he kissed her hand again and held her bare arm with his strong fingers. “Sir Richard is that man.”

Finally they were in the carriage, the iron-shod wheels rattling over the cobbles and into the darkened streets.

He felt her nestle against him. “I am sorry about Antigua.”

“I think I knew.”

“You were wonderful, Kate. I had to bite my tongue at times.” She rubbed her head against his shoulder. “I know. I almost told that Kathleen woman a thing or two!” She laughed bitterly.

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“Are you tired, Richard?” She touched his arm. “Too tired?” He slipped his hand beneath her cloak and caressed her breast.

“I will wake you when we see the Thames, Kate. Then we shall see who is tired!”

Young Matthew heard her laugh. All those carriages and famous people, but when the others heard whose coachman he was they had treated him like a hero. Wait until they reached Falmouth again, he thought. He might even stretch the story for Ferguson and Allday’s benefit and say that the Prince of Wales had spoken to him!

The Thames showed itself in the moonlight like blue steel and Bolitho moved slightly in his seat.

He heard her whisper, “No, I am not asleep. Do not take your hand away. I shall be ready.”

The Crossed Keys Inn was small but commodious, and perched beside the road that ran north from Plymouth to Tavistock. It was rarely used by the coaching trade, which was hardly surprising. James Tyacke on his walks after dark had discovered that in places the track was hardly wide enough for a farm wagon, let alone a coach-and-four.

This evening he sat in a corner of the parlour and wondered how the inn paid for itself. It was run by a homely little woman named Meg, a widow like so many inn and alehouse proprietors in the West Country. Few folk from the nearby village of St Budeaux seemed to come here, and during the day most of the customers were farm workers who—thank God, he thought—

kept to themselves.

He sat in the shadow of the big chimney-breast and watched the flickering flames in the hearth. It was April and the trees were in bud, the fields alive with birds. But it was still cold at night.

Soon he would eat, one of Meg’s rabbit pies most likely.

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furniture scrubbed and clean, the walls decorated with hunting scenes and some old brasses. It was his last night here. He stared at the new uniform coat that lay on a bench seat opposite his own. The cost of gold lace had risen since his last purchase, he thought. Just as well he had received a large payment of prize-money. Memories came, sudden and vivid: Larne’s gunner dropping a ball across the bows of some stinking slaver, terrified black faces, naked women chained together in their filth like ani-mals. The slavers themselves, Portuguese and Arab, men prepared to bribe and barter. When they were brought to him they knew it was pointless. There were no more bargains to be made, only the rope at the end of the passage to Freetown or the Cape.

The thrill of the chase, with every spar threatening to splinter itself under a full press of canvas.

Ozanne had her now. Tyacke could think of no better man.

He stared again at his coat, a bright new epaulette on the right shoulder. It seemed somehow out of place, he thought. But he was a captain now, no matter how junior. He wondered if Avery had told Sir Richard how he had betrayed his secret in order to persuade him.

Suppose Avery had kept silent. Would I have changed my mind?

Or would I still be in the dockyard in Larne?

Two men came in and moved to a table on the far side of the room. Meg seemed to know them and brought tankards of ale without being asked. On her way back to the kitchen she paused to poke the fire. If she had been shocked by Tyacke’s face she had not shown it. Perhaps she had seen worse in her time.

“So we’m losin’ yew tomorrer, Mr Tyacke.”

“Yes,” he said, turning slightly away from her.

“I’ve told Henry to fetch ’is cart bright ’n’ early for yew.” Tomorrow. Weeks of uncertainty. Now it was almost time.

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a stranger in some foreign country. Through the city itself, shop after shop. Hairdressers and hatters, painters and distillers, and more inns and lodging-houses than he could imagine. Plenty of sea officers, and sailors who he assumed had the protection and were free to come and go as they pleased. He recalled the disbelief amongst Larne’s company when Bolitho had granted permission for his men to go ashore. Only one had failed to return. Drunk, he had fallen into a dock and drowned.

He had seen plenty of women, too. Some prettily dressed and decorative, the wives of army and naval officers, perhaps. Others, like Meg of the Crossed Keys, trying to do men’s work, to replace those who might never come home.

He said, “I’ve been very comfortable here. Maybe I’ll see you again some day.”

She turned to look at him, and although he watched carefully for it, there was no abhorrence in her eyes when they rested on his face.

“I’ll fetch your supper soon, zur.”

They both knew they would not meet again.

He sipped his brandy. Good stuff. Maybe smugglers came this way . . . His thoughts returned to his new command. How different she would be. Designed originally as a small third-rate of 64 guns, she had been cut down to her present size by the removal of most of her upper deck and corresponding armament. But her forty 24-pounders remained, with an additional four 18-pounders for bow- and stern-chasers. Tyacke had studied every detail of the ship, and her history since she had been built at the famous William Hartland yard at Rochester on the Medway.

He considered Bolitho’s comments, the ship’s possible use if war broke out with the United States. All the big new American frigates carried twenty-four-pounders and for sheer firepower were far superior to English frigates like Anemone.

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cruising range. Her original company of over six hundred had now been reduced to 270, which included 55 Royal Marines.

She was still undermanned, but then every ship was, which was in or near a naval port.

All those unknown faces. How long would it be before he came to know them, their value, their individual qualities? As a captain he could ask what he pleased of his officers. Respect, as he had seen with Bolitho, had to be earned.

He thought again of the ship herself. Thirty-four years old, built of fine Kentish oak when there had been such trees for the asking. In newer ships some of the timbers were barely seasoned, and their frames were cut by carpenters, not shaped over the years for extra strength. Some were built of teak on oak frames, like John Company’s ships, which were mostly laid down in Bombay.

Teak was like iron, but hated by the sailors who had to work and fight in them. Unlike oak splinters, teak could poison a man, kill him far more slowly and painfully than canister shot.

Tyacke swallowed more brandy. His new command had first tasted salt water while he had been in his mother’s arms.

His face softened into a smile. We must have grown up together.

She had even been at the Nile. He tried not to touch his scarred cheek. Other battles too. The Chesapeake and the Saintes, Copenhagen, and then because she was too small for the line of battle she had shared all the miseries of blockade and convoy duty.

There must be a lot of experienced post-captains asking why Sir Richard should hoist his flag above an old converted third-rate when he could have had anything he wanted. A full admiral now. He wondered what Catherine Somervell thought about it.

He could see her as if she were beside him, first in the dirty and soaking sailor’s clothing, and then in the yellow gown he had carried with him since the girl of his choice had rejected him. It was strange, but he could even think of that without the pain, as if it had happened to somebody else.

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He tried to remember if he had all he needed, and his thoughts returned to Bolitho’s mistress. But the term offended him. His lady. She would make certain that Bolitho was well provided for when he left home.

He thought he could smell cooking and realised how hungry he was. It made good sense to eat well tonight. He would be too tense and anxious later on. He smiled again as he recalled that Bolitho had told him he was always nervous when he took over a new command. But remember, they are far more worried about their new captain!

And what about John Allday—“his oak,” as he called him—

would he be so eager this time to quit the land?

One of the men at the other table put down his tankard and stared at the door. His companion almost ran through the adjoining room where some farmhands were drinking rough cider. Then Tyacke heard it. The tramp of feet, the occasional clink of metal.

Meg bustled in, her hands full of knives and forks.

“The press, sir. They’m not usually this far from ’ome.” She smiled at him. “Never fear. I’ll see they don’t disturb yew.” He sat back in the deep shadows. Being in charge of a press-gang was a thankless task. As a junior lieutenant he had done it only once. Whimpering men and blaspheming women. Curiously enough, although most of the shore parties who performed that duty were themselves pressed men, they were usually the most ruthless.

There were muffled shouts from the rear of the inn and Tyacke guessed that the man who had rushed from the room had been taken. His companion came back, shaking despite the folded protection he had been fortunate enough to carry.

The door crashed open and a young lieutenant strode into the parlour.

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and swung towards the shadowy figure by the chimney-breast.

“And you! Did you hear me? In the King’s name!” Tyacke did not move but thrust out his foot and pushed the bench seat into the candlelight.

The lieutenant gaped at the gleaming gold lace and stammered, “I did not know, sir! Few officers come this way.” Tyacke said quietly, “Which is why I came. Not to be shouted at by some arrogant puppy hiding in the King’s coat!” He stood up. Meg, two armed seamen in the doorway and the man who had been examined all froze as if it were some kind of mime.

Tyacke turned very slowly. “What is your name, lieutenant?” But the young officer was unable to speak; he was staring at Tyacke’s terrible wound as if mesmerised.

Then he muttered in a small voice, “Laroche, s-sir.”

“May I ask what ship?”

“Indomitable, sir.”

“Then we shall meet tomorrow, Mister Laroche. I am Captain James Tyacke.”

Suddenly he had the parlour to himself.

Meg hurried in again, a steaming pot wrapped in a cloth.

“I be that sorry, zur.”

Tyacke reached out and touched her arm. “It was nothing. We all have to begin somewhere.”

Tomorrow it would be all over the ship. He considered it.

Indomitable. My ship.

Again he thought about Bolitho and the memory steadied him.

They will be far more worried about you.

Meg left him to his supper but paused in the door to watch him, wondering how it had happened, how such a fine-looking man could ever learn to accept it.

She quietly closed the door, and thought of him long after he had gone.

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5 “I ndomitable”

HENRY the carter tugged slightly at the reins as the wheels clattered over the first of the dockyard cobbles.

He said, “She’s out at anchor, zur.” He glanced at his passenger’s strong profile, unable to understand why anybody would willingly go to sea, captain or not.

Tyacke stared across the gleaming water and was surprised that he was so calm. No, that was not it. He felt no emotion whatsoever.

He glanced towards the wall and was relieved to see that Larne had moved her berth, doubtless to complete her re-rigging. He wondered if they knew he was here, if someone was watching him with a telescope at this very second.

He said, “There are stairs at the end.”

“Roight, zur. I’ll make sure there be a boat waitin’ for ’ee.” Oh, there will be, he thought. Even if the boat’s crew had been up since before dawn. Tyacke had done it himself often enough.

Waiting for the new lord and master, imagining what he would be like: the man who would rule everybody’s life from senior lieutenant to ship’s boy; who could promote, disrate, flog and, if necessary, hang anyone who did not abide by his orders.

He shivered slightly but disdained to put on his boat-cloak.

It was a fair morning and the sea was a mass of dancing white horses, but it was not the cool air that caused him to tremble. It was this moment, which he had dreaded, of this particular day.

He saw a flurry of splashes and knew it was a boat casting off from a mooring buoy. His arrival had been noted.

“Thank you, Henry.” He put some coins into the man’s fist and stared at the big brass-bound chest. They had travelled a long way together since he had recovered from his injuries. His complete world was contained in it.

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Recovered? Hardly that. It was impossible not to be reminded of it daily. He saw himself reflected in other people’s faces, and the horror and the pity he saw there had never ceased to wound him.

All through the night he had gone over everything he had discovered about Indomitable, his head filled, as if it would burst if he could not rest. All the lieutenants had been aboard throughout the refit, even the luckless Laroche who had blundered into the inn parlour. The first confrontation. There would be many more.

He gazed out at the moored ship. Without her original top-hamper she looked like any other large frigate at this distance.

Like the Valkyrie, with her main gun deck higher than fifth- and sixth-rates so that her devastating broadside could be used to maximum effect. He watched the approaching boat critically, the oars rising and falling like wings. He thought even Allday would approve.

He turned to speak once more, but the little cart had gone.

Only the sea-chest remained. The gig swung in a tight arc, the bowman poised with his boat-hook to grip the mooring ring on the stairs.

After what seemed an eternity a young lieutenant ran up the stairs and raised his hat with a flourish.

“Protheroe, sir! At your service!”

“Ah, yes. Fourth lieutenant.” He saw the young officer’s eyebrows lift with surprise, and thought for a moment that his memory had betrayed him.

“Why—yes, sir!”

Tyacke turned deliberately to reveal the burned side of his face. It had the effect he expected. When he turned back, Protheroe had gone pale. But his voice was controlled as he rapped out orders, and two seamen ran to collect the heavy chest.

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averted. Laroche had obviously told a grim story about their new captain.

Protheroe watched the chest being carried down to the gig, no doubt terrified that they would let it fall into the water. Not long out of a midshipman’s berth, Tyacke thought.

“May we proceed, Mr Protheroe?”

The lieutenant stared around with dismay. “I was looking for your coxswain, sir.”

Tyacke felt his mouth break into a smile.

“I am afraid that the commander of a brig does not run to his own cox’n!”

“I see, sir.” He stood aside and waited for Tyacke to descend the weed-lined steps.

Again the quick stares from the boat’s crew, then every eye looking instantly away as his glance passed over them. Tyacke sat down in the sternsheets and held his sword against his thigh, as he had done when he left Larne.

“Let go! Bear off forrard! Out oars! ” Tyacke turned to watch the gap of lively water widening. I am leaving. God for what?

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