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Bolitho had listened to his own voice in the sealed cabin; he had even closed the skylight in case someone overheard. Adam was a captain, perhaps one of the best frigate captains the fleet had ever known, but in those quiet, wretched, faltering moments he had seemed that same dark-haired boy, who had walked all the way from Penzance to Falmouth with only hope and Bolitho’s name to sustain him.

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

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

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

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

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

So it must be.

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

He stirred himself as voices pealed down from aloft.

“Deck there! Zest in sight to larboard!” Like yesterday, and all the others before it. He could picture the rakish 38-gun frigate, her captain too, Paul Dampier, young, perhaps too headstrong, and very ambitious. Rather like Peter Dawes, the admiral’s son who now commanded Valkyrie out of Halifax.

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of 26 guns. James Hamilton, her captain, was old for his rank and had been attached to the Honourable East India Company until he had re-entered the navy at his own request.

And away to windward would be the little brig Marvel. Ready to run down on anything suspicious, to search coves and inlets where her larger consorts might lose their keels; to run errands, almost anything. Bolitho had often seen Tyacke watching her whenever she was close by. Still remembering. Marvel was very like his Larne.

He saw Allday at the foot of the quarterdeck ladder. He had his head on one side, and was ignoring the rush of seamen to trim the yards again, urged on no doubt by the smell of breakfast.

Bolitho asked sharply, “What is it?”

Allday looked at him impassively. “Not certain, sir.”

“Deck there! Sail in sight to th’ nor’-east!” Tyacke glanced around until he found Midshipman Blythe.

“Aloft with you, my lad, and take a glass!” There was an edge to his voice and Bolitho saw him stare at the horizon, already glassy bright and searing.

“Prepare to make more sail, Mr Scarlett!” Blythe had reached the mainmast crosstrees. “Sail to the nor’-

east, sir!” Just the slightest hesitation. “Schooner, sir!” Scarlett remarked, “Well, she’s not running away.” With Indomitable and the other two frigates hove-to, and the brig Marvel making sail to block the stranger’s escape if she proved hostile, every available glass was trained despite the heavy, regular swell.

Midshipman Cleugh, Blythe’s haughty assistant, called in his squeaky voice, “She’s Reynard, sir!” Scarlett said, “Courier. I wonder what she wants?” Nobody answered.

Allday climbed silently up the ladder and stood at Bolitho’s shoulder.

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“I’ve got a feeling, sir. Something’s wrong.” It was almost an hour before the schooner was near enough to drop a boat. Her captain, a wild-eyed lieutenant named Tully, was taken down to the cabin where Bolitho was pretending to enjoy some of Ozzard’s coffee.

“Well, Mr Tully, and what have you brought me?” He watched as Avery opened the bag and then dragged out the sealed and weighted envelope.

But the schooner’s young captain exclaimed, “It’s war, sir! The Americans are already at the Canadian frontier . . .” Bolitho took the despatches from Avery’s hand. “Where are their ships?” One letter was from Captain Dawes in Valkyrie. He had taken his ships to sea as already arranged, and would await fresh orders as they had planned, it seemed so long ago.

He repeated, “But where are their ships?” Dawes had written as a postscript, Commodore Beer’s squadron quit Sandy Hook during a storm.

He could almost hear the words. A total responsibility. But he felt nothing. It was what he had expected. Hoped, perhaps. To end it once and for all.

Tyacke, who had been waiting in silence, asked suddenly,

“What is the date of origin, sir?”

Avery replied, “Ten days ago, sir.”

Bolitho stood up, aware of the silence in the ship, despite the heavy movement. Ten days, and they had been at war without knowing it.

He swung round. “The next convoy from Jamaica?” Tyacke said, “Sailed. They’d not know either.” Bolitho stared at the chair by the stern bench. Where Adam had sat with Catherine’s letter. Where his heart had broken.

He asked, “What escort?” He saw Tyacke’s face. He, too, had known that this was coming. But how could that be?

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Bolitho interrupted him sharply. “Make a signal to Zest and Reaper, repeated Marvel. Close on flagship and remain in company. ” He looked directly at Tyacke, excluding everyone else. “We shall lay a course for the Mona Passage.” He could recall it so clearly, that much-disputed channel to the west of Puerto Rico, where he and so many faces now lost had fought battles now forgotten by most people.

It was the obvious route for any Jamaica convoy. Heavily laden merchantmen would stand no chance against ships like the U.S.S.

Unity, or men like Nathan Beer.

Unless the escort saw through the deception and turned to defend the convoy against overwhelming odds, as Seraphis had faced John Paul Jones’s Bonhomme Richard in that other war against the same enemy.

It was just possible. That convoy had been saved. Seraphis had been beaten into submission.

He looked at Tyacke but in his heart, he saw only Adam.

“All the sail she can carry, James. I think we are sorely needed.” But a voice seemed to echo back, mocking him.

Too late. Too late.

Richard Hudson, first lieutenant of the 38-gun frigate Anemone, strode aft to the quarterdeck even as eight bells chimed out from the forecastle. He touched his forehead as a mark of respect to the second lieutenant, whom he was about to relieve. Like the other officers he wore only his shirt and breeches, and was hatless, and he could feel even the lightest garment plastered to his body like a second skin.

“The afternoon watch is aft, sir.”

The words were formal and timeless, the navy’s custom from the Indian Ocean to the Arctic, if so ordered.

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the wind has backed to about north by west.” Around and below them, midshipmen and the duty watch took their stations while others filled in their time splicing and stitching, the endless tasks of maintaining a ship-of-war.

Hudson took a telescope from its rack and winced as he held it to his eye. It was as hot as a gun-barrel. For a moment or two he moved the glass across the drifting heat haze and the dark blue water until he found the shimmering pyramids of sail, the three big merchantmen which Anemone had been escorting from Port Royal, and would continue to escort until they had reached the Bermudas, where they would join a larger convoy for the Atlantic crossing.

Even the thought of England made Hudson lick his lips. Summer, yes, but it might be raining. Cool breezes, wet grass under foot. But it was not to be. He realised that the second lieutenant who had been in charge of the forenoon watch was still beside him. He wanted to talk, up here where he could not be heard. It made Hudson feel both guilty and disloyal. He was the first lieutenant, responsible only to the captain for the running and organisation of the ship and her company.

How could things have changed so much in less than a year?

When his uncle, a retired vice-admiral, had obtained him the appointment in Anemone through a friend in the Admiralty, he had been overjoyed. Like most ambitious young officers he had yearned for a frigate, and to be second-in-command to such a famous captain had been like a dream coming true.

Captain Adam Bolitho was all that a frigate commander was supposed to be: dashing and reckless, but not one to risk lives for his own ends or glory. The fact that Bolitho’s uncle, who commanded their important little squadron, was as celebrated and loved in the fleet as he was notorious in society ashore, gave the appointment an added relish. Or it had, until the day Adam Bolitho had returned to Anemone after his summons to the flag-For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 167

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ship at English Harbour. He had always been a hard worker, and had expected others to follow his example: often he carried out tasks normally done by common seamen, if only to prove to the landmen and others pressed against their will that he was not asking the impossible of them.

Now he was driving himself to and beyond the limit. Month by month they had patrolled as near to the American mainland as possible, unless other ships were in close company. They had stopped and searched ships of every flag and taken many deserters, and on several occasions had fired on neutral vessels which had showed no inclination to heave-to for inspection. A quarter of Anemone’s total company were even now in captured prizes and making either for Antigua or Bermuda.

Even that seemed to give the captain no satisfaction, Hudson thought. He shunned the company of his officers, and only came on deck when required for sailing the ship, or in times of foul weather, which had been plentiful over the past months. Then, soaked to the skin, his black hair plastered to his face, looking more like a pirate than a King’s officer, he had never budged until his ship was out of danger.

But he was curt, impatient now, an entirely different man from the one Hudson had first met in Plymouth.

Vicary, the second lieutenant, said, “I’ll be glad when this convoy is out of our hands. Slow to sail, slow even to co-operate—

sometimes I think these damned grocery captains take a delight in ignoring signals!” Hudson watched a fish leap and fall into the heaving water. He had found himself assessing even the most commonplace remarks for some secret significance.

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floggings for even minor offences. Now, returned to British ships but in the same war, their treatment would be gauged by their behaviour.

Hudson glanced at the men working on deck, some trying to remain in the shadows of the reefed topsails, or watching the marine sentry with his fixed bayonet on sweating guard over the fresh-water cask.

If only they could be free of the merchantmen and their painfully slow progress. Day in, day out, only the wind seemed to change: and there was precious little of that, too.

Hudson said, “You think that all this is a waste of time, do you, Philip?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. This is a drudge’s work. Let them fend for themselves, I say! They are quick enough to squeal and appeal to higher authority if we take a few of their prime seamen to fill the gaps, but they bleat even louder when they are in danger themselves!”

Hudson thought of a verse he had once heard somewhere. God and the Navy we adore, when danger threatens but not before! Obviously nothing had changed.

Anemone had been driven hard. A proper refit was inevitable.

He tried not to hope too much. One of the ships awaiting their arrival at Bermuda had been out here for less time than Anemone, and she was going to sail home as an additional escort. Home. He almost gritted his teeth. Then he lifted the telescope again and moved it deliberately towards the distant sails. Further downwind the brig Woodpecker stood above the thick heat haze like a pair of feathers, so white against the pitiless sky.

He said, “Why don’t you cut on down to the wardroom? It’ll be a mite cooler if nothing else.” He lowered the glass and waited.

Here it comes.

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“Distorted, you mean?” Vicary was 24, a native of Sussex, fair-haired and blue-eyed with, Hudson thought, what his mother could have called such an English face. He contained a fond smile and retorted, “You know I cannot discuss the matter.” Even that felt like disloyalty.

“I appreciate that.” Vicary plucked at his stained shirt. “I just want to know why. What happened to change him? We deserve that much, surely?”

Hudson toyed with the idea of sending him below with a direct order. Instead he said, “Something very personal, perhaps.

Not a death, or we’d have heard of it. His future is assured, provided he can stay alive, and I don’t just mean in the line of battle.” Vicary nodded, perhaps from satisfaction that their friendship was not in danger. “I did hear a few tales about a duel somewhere.

Everyone knows it goes on, despite the law.” Hudson thought of the captain’s uncle as he had been when he had come aboard to meet the officers. Adam was so like him, exactly as Bolitho must have been at the same age. The hero, the man who was followed into battle with a kind of passion, as they had once followed Nelson. And yet unlike so many high-ranking and successful officers— heroes— Hudson had felt that Sir Richard Bolitho was a man without conceit, and one who truly cared for the men he inspired. It was more than charisma, as he had heard it described. When the admiral looked at you, you as an individual person, you could feel it run through your blood.

And you knew in the same breath that you would follow him anywhere.

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

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their meal. He could smell the rum on the hot breeze, which was barely enough to fill the sails.

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

Had they been running free with all canvas filled and driving the Anemone until every strand of rigging was bar taut, it would have been just another punishment. Two dozen lashes: it could have been many more for the man in question. This would not be the first time he had received a striped shirt at the gangway.

He was a hard man, a lower-deck lawyer, a born troublemaker.

Captain Bolitho could have awarded double that amount.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hudson said, “I did not, sir.”

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

“He is often in trouble, sir.”

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

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

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

The boatswain lumbered aft and called, “Ready, sir!” Adam said, “Very well, Mr M’Crea, put up the prisoner and clear lower deck.”

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

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

“All hands! All hands! Lay aft to witness punishment!” The seaman named Baldwin strode aft, the master-at-arms and ship’s corporal on either side of him. A big man, a bully, he ruled his own mess like a tyrant.

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

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

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

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

Adam hated the use of the cat, as his uncle had always done.

But if, like the line of sweating marines, it was all that stood between disobedience and order, then so be it.

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

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

He loosened his fingers carefully, testing the moment as he felt her glove in his pocket. So many times he had taken it out and had stared at it, remembering her eyes when he had handed it to her. How they had walked together in the port admiral’s For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 173

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garden: feeling her presence like a beautiful wild flower.

What can I do? Why did you leave me?

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

He heard himself say, “Carry on, Mr M’Crea. Two dozen!” The drums rattled noisily and the boatswain’s brawny arm went back. The lash seemed to dangle there for an eternity until it came down across the prisoner’s naked back with a crack.

M’Crea was a powerful man and, although a fair one, was probably enjoying this task.

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

“Deck there!”

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

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

“Sail on the larboard quarter!” He hesitated. The heat haze was probably just as bad in that direction. “Two sail, sir!” Hudson knew that every eye but the prisoner’s was turned upon the little group of officers on the quarterdeck. But when he looked at the captain he was astonished to see Adam’s expression, his utter lack of surprise. As if a question which had troubled him had suddenly been made clear.

“What do you think, sir?”

“Well, no matter who they are, they are certainly not ours.

That we do know.” He was thinking aloud, as if there was nobody else near him. “They must have used the Windward Passage, west of Port au Prince. That way they would have the wind which is eluding us.”

Hudson nodded, but did not understand.

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

“I shall go aloft.”

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

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

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

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

“Men-o’-war, zur. No doubt o’ that!”

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

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

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

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

“Yankee,” he said shortly.

“Thought as much, zur.”

“Well done, Thomas. I’ll see you have an extra tot for this.” The man watched him, puzzled. “But we bain’t at war with they, zur?”

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

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

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

Probably both.

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

Hudson said carefully, “What are their intentions, sir?” Adam thought of the splendid sight Unity had made as she edged round to beat closer to the wind, the other vessel responding to a bright hoist of signal flags.

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

“I think they intend to attack, Dick. In fact, I am sure of it.” The use of his first name surprised Hudson almost as much as the simple acceptance of something unthinkable.

“You know this ship, sir?”

“I have been aboard her and have met her captain. An impressive man. But know her? That is another matter.” Adam stared along the deck above the mass of silent figures towards the beak-head, the perfect shoulder and gilded hair of the figurehead. Daughter of the Wind.

Almost to himself he said, “We are of one company, Dick.

Some good, some bad. But every so often we must forget our differences. We become an instrument, to be used rightly or wrongly as directed.”

“I see, sir.”

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

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Woodpecker, repeated to our fat charges. Make more sail. Disperse the convoy. ” He hesitated for only a few seconds. Suppose I am wrong? But his conviction to the contrary was more compelling.

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

He asked quietly, “Will we be able to outreach them, sir?” Adam turned and looked at him, and through him. “Today we are the instrument, Mr Vicary. We fight, that others shall survive.” Hudson glanced at the streaming flags. “Orders, sir?” Adam tried to discover his innermost feelings. But there were none. Did that mean there would be no tomorrow?

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

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

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

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

The instrument.

11 L ike father, like son

ADAM BOLITHO returned to his place by the quarterdeck rail and looked along the full length of his command. The deck had been sanded around each eighteen-pounder so that the gun crews would not slip and fall in the heat of battle. Equally, sand soaked For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 177

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up the blood if the enemy’s iron came crashing inboard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adam said, “Unity has all the sea room in the world. Like us, she depends on surprise. My guess is she will keep to wind’rd and try to cripple us at long range. Then she will attempt to board us.” Hudson said nothing. He could see the dilemma that confronted the captain. If the Americans were allowed on board there would not be enough men to fight them off—too many were away in Anemone’s recently taken prizes. However, if the captain showed his hand too soon, Unity’s massive broadside might dismast them even as she remained safely beyond accurate fire from Anemone.

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complete concentration. She had set more sail and had left her small consort astern. Commodore Beer would not be able to see the convoy as yet, nor would he know it had been ordered to dis-perse, and devil take the hindmost.

He said, “Full broadside. Double-shotted for good measure.

Go to the gun captains yourself, although most of them will not need to be told.”

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

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

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

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

He touched his breeches and felt her glove against his leg.

Could see her eyes as she had gazed into his when he had reached up to the carriage window at Plymouth.

“All guns loaded, sir!”

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

“Keep the hands out of sight. Just a few idlers gaping on the larboard gangway will suffice. A natural thing, eh? ’Tis not every day we see a true symbol of freedom!” Joseph Pineo, the old sailing-master, nudged one of his three helmsmen, but nobody else moved or spoke.

Adam dragged out his watch and flicked open the guard.

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Beyond it he saw one of the young midshipmen taking huge breaths, his eyes watering as he stared at the other ship plunging over the water.

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

He said, “With this puff of extra wind I intend to come about and engage him on the starboard side. He may anticipate it, but he cannot prevent it.” He smiled suddenly. “We shall soon see if all our drills and exercises have had any value.” He looked again at his ship, a lingering gaze full of questions, Hudson thought; memories too. Missing faces. Pride and fear, comradeship. He bit his lip. If the worst happened, some of the pressed men might try to surrender. He realised with a start that he was unarmed except for his hanger, which his father had presented to him when he had joined Anemone.

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

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

Adam said, “I see him, Dick. It is Nathan Beer right enough.

Be ready to put the best marksmen aloft. There may not be much time.” Hudson was about to hurry away when something in the captain’s voice made him turn back.

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

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

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

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

Vicary glanced at the nearest gun crew as they crouched below the gangway behind their sealed port. “Are you not afraid?” Hudson considered it, his eyes never leaving the oncoming pyramid of sails. “I’m more afraid of showing it, Philip.” Vicary held out his hand, as if they had just met in a street or country lane in England. “Then I’ll not let you down, Richard.” He stared beyond the vibrating shrouds to the empty blue sky.

“Though I fear I’ll not see another day.” Hudson returned to the quarterdeck, his friend’s words hanging in his mind like an epitaph.

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

“Those who count, sir.”

Surprisingly, Adam grinned, his teeth very white in his face.

“By God, Dick, we shall need everybody, even that oaf Baldwin, stinking of rum in the sickbay though he might be!” Hudson loosened his hanger and murmured, “Good luck, sir.” Adam licked his lips and said, “I am as dry as dust!” Then he stooped slightly to stare along the quarterdeck rail, using it like a ruler as Unity’s long jib-boom appeared around the tightly packed hammock nettings for the first time.

“Ready ho! Put the helm down!”

“Helm’s a’lee, sir!”

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

“Open the ports!”

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

“Run out!”

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

“Mainsail haul!”

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

We did it! We did it!

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

“Steady! Hold her!”

“Steady as she goes, sir! Sou’-west by west!” Adam stared until his eyes felt raw. “On the up-roll!” Without taking his eyes from Unity he could picture each gun captain looking aft, watching his raised fist, every man with his trigger-line bar-taut.

“Fire!”

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

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

“Stop your vents! Sponge out! Load! Run out!” The gun was God. Nothing else mattered, and each man in a crew had learned the hard way.

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

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

“Fire!”

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

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

“Fire!”

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

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

“Fire!”

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

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across screaming marines who were tossed aside like bloody rags.

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

Hudson, hatless, his hanger already drawn, hurried aft.

“Grapeshot, sir!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vicary looked up and stared with disbelief as the American’s upper yards and punctured sails rose above the fog of gunfire like a cliff. Hudson retched and turned away as Vicary fell, his fingers clutching what a charge of canister had found and destroyed.

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his mother’s voice. Such an English face. Now, in a split second, he had become nothing.

“Sir! The Cap’n’s hit!” It was Starr, Adam’s loyal coxswain.

“Fetch the surgeon!”

Hudson knelt beside him and gripped his hand. “Easy, sir!

He’ll soon be here!”

Adam shook his head, his teeth bared against the pain. “No—

I must stay! We must fight the ship! ” Hudson shouted to the sailing-master, “Let her fall off two points!” His brain cringed to the constant crash of shots hitting the hull. But all he could think of was the captain. He saw Starr pulling open the coat with the bright epaulettes, and swallowed as he saw the blood pumping out of Adam’s side, covering him, encircling him like something foul and evil.

Another great splintering crash, and the roar of trailing rigging, as the whole of the foremast went over the side taking sails, broken planking and screaming men with it into the sea.

Cunningham bent down and applied a dressing, which within seconds was as bloody as his butcher’s apron. He looked at Hudson, his eyes wild and afraid. “I can do nothing! They’re dying like flies down below!” He ducked as more balls ripped overhead or exploded into lethal splinters against one of the guns.

Adam lay quite still, feeling his Anemone being torn apart by the unwavering bombardment. His mind kept fading away, and he had to use all his remaining strength to bring it back. There was little pain, just a numbing deadness.

“Fight the ship, Dick!” The effort was too much. “Oh, dear God, what must I do?”

Hudson stood up, his limbs very loose, unable to believe he was unmarked amongst so much suffering and death.

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until it floated above the water like a dying bird.

Then there was cheering, deafening, it seemed, from Anemone’s bloodied and splintered decks.

Hudson stared at the blade in his hand. So much for glory.

Nobody would use it to taunt them in defeat. Blindly he flung it over the disengaged side, then knelt down again beside his captain.

Adam said vaguely, “We held them off, Dick. The convoy should be safe now in the dark.” He gripped Hudson’s hand with surprising strength. “It was . . . our duty.” Hudson felt the tears stinging his eyes. The sunshine was as bright as before. There was more movement as the great frigate came alongside, and armed seamen swarmed across the deck as Anemone’s company threw down their weapons. Hudson watched as the men he had come to know so well accepted defeat. Some were downcast and hostile; others greeted the Americans with something like gratitude.

An American lieutenant called, “Here he is!” Hudson saw the massive figure climbing up past the aban-doned wheel. Even the sailing-master had fallen. Always a quiet man, he had died just as privately.

Nathan Beer looked around at the carnage on the quarterdeck.

“You in charge?”

Hudson nodded, remembering Adam Bolitho’s description of this man. “Yes, sir.”

“Is your captain still alive?” He stood staring down at Adam’s pale features for several seconds. “Take him across, Mr Rooke!

Get our surgeon to see him right away.” To Hudson he said, “You are now a prisoner of war. There is nothing to be ashamed of. You had no chance.” He watched as Adam was carried away on a grating. “But you fought like tigers, as I would have expected.” He paused. “Like father, like son.”

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The deck gave a lurch and someone called, “Better clear the ship, sir! That was an explosion!”

The boarding party were hastily rounding up their prisoners and dragging some of the wounded to the ship alongside.

Starr, the captain’s coxswain, walked past. He touched his hat to Commodore Beer, and for only a second, looked at Hudson.

“They’ll not take his ship away from him now, sir.” The deck was tilting over. Starr must have prepared Anemone for this all on his own. Now she would never fight under an enemy flag.

And I shall never fight under mine.

As darkness covered the misty horizon, and the Unity still lay hove-to carrying out makeshift repairs, Anemone drifted clear and began to settle down stern first, the lovely figurehead holding on to her last sunset. How he had wanted it. He thought of Nathan Beer’s quiet comment, and did not understand.

Like father, like son.

He looked at his hands as they began to shake uncontrollably.

He was alive. And he was ashamed.

Every moment roused a fresh thrust of agony, pain which defied even the need to breathe, to think. Sound welled and faded, and despite his inner torment Adam Bolitho knew he was in constant danger of losing consciousness, even as his reeling mind told him he would not live if he did.

He was on board the ship which had defeated him, but it was not like that at all. Voices cried and sobbed, it seemed on every side, although somehow he knew the awful din came from elsewhere as if through a great door, muffled and full of anguish like the abyss of hell itself.

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him in an iron fist. He heard another voice cry out and knew it was his own.

At the same time he knew he was naked, yet could recall nothing of it, only Hudson holding him in his arms while the battle thundered all about the ship. There was a vague recollection that his coxswain Starr had not been with him.

He screwed up his eyes and tried to clear a part of his mind.

The foremast going over the side, taking rigging and spars with it, dragging the ship round like some great sea anchor and laying open her side to those murderous broadsides.

The ship. What of Anemone?

His hearing was returning, or had it ever left him? Distant, patient sounds. Men working with hammers; blocks and their tackles squeaking in that other place where the sea was still blue, the air free of smoke and the smell of charred rigging.

He raised his right hand but was almost too weak to hold it above his nakedness. Even his skin felt clammy. Already that of a corpse. Someone beyond that final door screamed. “Not my arm!” Then another scream, which was suddenly cut short. For him the door to hell had closed behind him.

There was a bandage, wet and heavy with blood. A hand reached out and grasped his wrist. Adam was helpless to protest.

“Keep still!” The voice was strained and sharp.

Adam tried to lie flat on his back, to hold the spreading fire in his side at bay.

“He’s coming now.” Another said, “What the hell!” The dry, stifling air moved slightly and another figure came to the table. The ship’s surgeon. When he spoke Adam detected an accent. French.

The man said, “I do not know your thoughts, Commodore.

He is the enemy. He has taken the lives of many of your company. What does it matter?”

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he thought. Nathan Beer. “What are his chances, Philippe? I’m in no mood for lectures, not today!”

The surgeon gave a sigh. “It is an iron splinter the size of your thumb. If I try to extract it, he may well die. If I do not, it is a certainty.”

“I want you to save him, Philippe.” There was no response, and he added with sudden bitterness, “Remember, I saved you from the Terror. Did I say, ‘What does it matter?’” Almost brutally he continued, “Your parents and your sister, how was it again?

Their heads were struck off and paraded on pikes to be jeered at and spat upon. That mob was French, was it not?” Somebody held a sponge soaked in water against Adam’s lips.

It was no longer cold or even cool, and it tasted sour. But as he moved his lips against it he thought it was like wine.

The commodore again. “Was this all he carried?” The surgeon replied wearily, “That and his sword.” Beer sounded surprised. “A woman’s glove. I wonder . . .” Adam gasped and tried to turn his head.

“M-mine . . .” His head fell back. It was a nightmare. He was dead. Nothing was real but that.

Then he felt Beer’s breath against his shoulder. “Can you hear me, Captain Bolitho?” He gripped Adam’s right hand. “You fought bravely, nobody could deny it. I thought I would beat you into a quick submission, save lives, and with luck seize your ship. But I misjudged you.”

Adam heard his own voice again, faint and hoarse. “Convoy?”

“You saved it.” He tried to lighten it. “That time.” But his voice remained immeasurably sad.

Adam spoke only her name. “Anemone . . .”

“She’s gone. Nothing could be done to save her.” Somebody was whispering urgently from the other world, and Beer grunted as he got to his feet. “I am needed.” He rested his big hand on Adam’s shoulder. “But I will return.” Adam did not see the quick For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 189

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glance at the French surgeon. “Is there anyone . . . ?” He tried to shake his head. “Zenoria . . . her glove . . . now she is dead.”

He felt neat rum pouring into his mouth, choking him, making his mind reel still further. Through the waves of agony he heard the rasp of metal, then felt the hard hands encircle his wrists and ankles like manacles.

The surgeon watched the leather strap being placed between Adam’s teeth, then he held up his hand, and it was removed.

“Were you trying to speak, m’sieur?”

Adam could not focus his eyes, but he heard himself say dis-tinctly, “I am sorry about your family. A terrible thing . . .” His voice trailed away, and one of the surgeon’s assistants said sharply,

“It is time. ”

But the surgeon was still staring at the enemy captain’s pale features, almost relaxed now as he fell into a faint.

He placed the palm of his hand on Adam’s body and waited for one of his men to remove the blood-sodden dressing.

Almost to himself he said, “Thank you. Perhaps there is still hope left for some of us.”

Then, with a nod to the others around the stained table, he forced the probe into the wound, his mind so inured to the agonies he had witnessed in ships and on the field of battle that, even as he worked, he was able to consider the young officer who writhed under his hands, who had moved the formidable Commodore Beer to plead for his life. On the very doorstep of hell, he had still found the humanity to express sympathy for another’s suffering.

When he eventually went on deck it was pitch dark, the heavens covered with tiny stars which were reflected only faintly in the dark waters, and as far as the invisible horizon.

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while the air was still tinged with smoke and the smells of death.

The surgeon, Philippe Avice, was well aware that sailors could perform miracles, and without even going into harbour Unity’s men would soon have their ship ready to sail and fight again.

Only an experienced eye would be able to see the extent of the English frigate’s ferocity.

And the dead? Drifting, falling like leaves into the ocean’s deeper darkness, while the wounded waited, enduring their pain and fear, to see what another dawn might offer them.

He found Commodore Beer sitting at his table in the great cabin. Even here, the enemy’s iron had left its mark. There was no safe place above the waterline in a ship-of-war. But Beer’s favourite portrait of his wife and daughters was back in its place, and a clean shirt lay ready for the morning.

Beer looked up, his eyes hard in the lantern-light.

“Well?”

The surgeon shrugged. “He is alive. More, I cannot say.” He took a glass of cognac from Beer’s big hand. He sipped it and pursed his lips. “Very good.”

Beer smiled, his eyes vanishing into the crow’s-feet of many years at sea.

“The cognac, Philippe? Or the fact that you have saved the life of an enemy?”

Avice shrugged again. “It is just that I was reminded of something. Even in war, one should never forget it.” Beer said, after a pause, “His uncle would have been proud of him.”

The surgeon raised his eyebrows. “You ’ave met the famous amiral who is said to risk his reputation as much as his life?” Beer shook his head. I’m getting too old for this game.

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the barrel and tackles heavily smoke-stained.

“No, I never have. But I will, as sure as fate.” His head nodded with exhaustion, and the surgeon slipped away quietly through the replaced screen door.

Beer drifted, thinking of the young frigate captain, and the unknown girl named Zenoria. Next time he wrote to his wife in Newburyport he would tell her about them . . . With something like a groan he pulled himself from the chair.

But first, there were the ship’s needs to attend to. Damage to assess, his men to be encouraged. Always, the ship must come first.

Captain Adam Bolitho had been ignorant of the declaration of war between the United States and England. With nothing but instinct and youthful experience, he had fought with a tenacity that might have turned the tables, despite Unity’s superior artillery.

He picked up the glove and held it to the light. So small a thing, perhaps a mere gesture, without significance to the woman.

But her loss had made Bolitho throw away caution, and prepare to fight his ship to the end.

In his mind’s eye Beer could still see the beautiful, bare-breasted figurehead, when Anemone had finally given up the fight.

Because her captain had nothing left to live for.

12 W itness

LIEUTENANT George Avery hesitated by the screen door and knew that the Royal Marine sentry was watching him with an unmoving stare. Above his head he could hear the muffled bark of orders, the sounds of men hurrying to their stations for the last change of tack before entering English Harbour.

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orders, or a new appraisal of American intentions, and the prospect of fresh fruit and the chance of stretching his legs on dry land had pleased him.

That had been before they had met with the convoy, and had received news of Anemone.

Against orders, the little brig Woodpecker had returned under cover of darkness to the scene of the battle, but had found nothing. The brig’s commander, Nicholas Eames, had come aboard Indomitable without delay to make his report.

Avery had known that Bolitho was tearing himself apart because of what had happened.

Eames had said, “Anemone came about and went into the attack, Sir Richard. No hesitation, no nothing—you’d have been proud of him!”

“I am.” It was all he had said.

From what the brig’s commander had been able to tell them, there had been one main adversary, with perhaps other vessels in company.

“At first, Sir Richard, the gunfire was so heavy and fierce I imagined the enemy was a liner.” He had looked at their faces, Tyacke, Scarlett and his admiral, and had added sadly, “But Anemone could have run rings around one of those beauties, so I knew it must be one of the new Yankee frigates.” No wreckage, or if there was, it had drifted fast away with the current. And then Eames had described the one small miracle. A survivor, one of the ship’s boys. More dead than alive, he had been hauled aboard Woodpecker. It was a wonder he had lived.

Avery glanced at the sentry.

The marine tapped the deck with his musket and called, “Flag-lieutenant, sir! ”

The survivor had been transferred immediately to the flagship. As Eames had said, “My brig doesn’t have the space for a surgeon!”

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Indomitable’s surgeon, Philip Beauclerk, had insisted that the youth be allowed to rest in order to recover from the nightmare he had endured. It was doubtful that one so young would ever completely get over it.

“Enter!”

Avery strode into the main cabin, his eyes taking in Bolitho’s breakfast tray, scarcely touched, a half-finished letter on his table, an empty glass nearby.

“Captain Tyacke’s respects, Sir Richard, and we shall be entering harbour within two hours.”

“I see. Is that all? ”

Then Bolitho stood up abruptly and said, “That was uncalled for. I apologise. Abusing you when you cannot answer back is unforgivable.”

Avery was moved by the intensity of his words. He seemed to speak with his whole body, as if he could not bear to be still.

Bolitho said, “Two hours? Very well. I must speak to this youth. Send Allday—he has a way with youngsters. I have noticed that.” He rubbed his chin, the skin smoothly shaved. “I have no cause to treat him badly, either. The finest of men, a true friend.” Ozzard appeared with fresh coffee and said, “I shall tell him, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho slumped down again and pulled at his shirt as if it was choking him.

“My little crew. What am I without them?” He began to slip out of his coat but Avery said, “No, sir. With respect, I think this may be important to the lad. Your rank will not frighten him. He has had enough terror, I imagine.” Bolitho said, “You are all surprises, George. Did I choose you, or was it the other way round?”

Avery watched his despair. Needing to help, but unable to ease the way. “I believe Lady Catherine decided for both of us, sir.” He saw Bolitho glance quickly at the unfinished letter, and For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 194

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knew he had not yet been able to bring himself to tell her.

Outside the door Allday and the round-shouldered secretary Yovell stared down at the boy who had been snatched from the sea. From death. He was freshly clothed in a chequered shirt and white trousers, the smallest the purser’s store could produce.

The boy was very slight, with frightened brown eyes and wood-splinter scars, which had been cleaned by the sickbay.

Allday said sternly, “Now, listen to me, my lad. I’ll not be saying anything twice. You feel a bit sorry for yourself just now, and that ain’t too surprising.”

The boy watched him, as a rabbit would stare at a fox. “What do they want of me, sir?”

“In this cabin is the finest admiral England’s ever had, though precious few says as much! He wants to ask you about what happened. You just tell him, son. As if he was your father.” He saw Yovell sigh as the boy began to sob.

“Me father’s drowned, sir.”

Allday glared at Yovell. “This is no damned good, is it?” Yovell put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Come with me.” He sounded quite severe, which was almost unknown with him.

“Answer the questions,” Allday said. “Tell it just as it was. It’s important to him, see?”

Ozzard, watching from the door, studied the small figure without expression. To Yovell he said, “You should have been a school teacher!”

Yovell smiled benignly. “I was. That, and other pursuits.” Avery waited for the others to leave and murmured to Allday,

“That was well done.” To the boy he said gently, “Sit here.” Bolitho made himself remain very still as the boy sat on a chair directly opposite his table. He looked terrified, barely able to drag his eyes from the gold epaulettes, and obviously overwhelmed by the vastness of an admiral’s quarters when compared with a frigate’s crowded messdeck.

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“What is your name?”

“Whitmarsh, sir.” He hesitated. “John Whitmarsh.”

“And how old are you, John?”

The boy gaped at him, but his hands had stopped shaking, and his dark eyes were like saucers at being addressed by the admiral.

“Twelve, I think, sir.” He screwed up his face in an effort to concentrate. “I bin in Anemone for eighteen months.” Bolitho glanced at the piece of paper Yovell had copied out for him.

“And you lost your father?”

“Aye, sir.” He lifted his chin as if with pride at his memory.

“He were a fisherman and got drowned off the Goodwins.” Now he had started he could not stop. “My uncle took me to Plymouth and volunteered me for Anemone, they was recruiting, see.” He hesitated nervously. “Sir.”

Avery recognised the pain in Bolitho’s grey eyes. The boy must have been only about ten when his uncle put him in a King’s ship, if uncle he was. It was too common a story these days. Women left to fend for themselves, their men killed in battle or too badly wounded to return home. Or drowned, like this lad’s father. This boy had proved an obstacle to someone, and had therefore been removed.

Bolitho said, “Tell me about the battle. Where were you, what were you doing? Try to remember.”

Again he screwed up his eyes. “We sighted the enemy when the watches changed. I heard old Mr Daniel the gunner say she were a big Yankee. There was another too, a little one, but the masthead couldn’t make her out ’cause of the sea mist. Me an’ my friend Billy was at the foremast, sir. The ship was that short of hands that even we was needed at the braces.” Bolitho asked quietly, “How old was your friend?”

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“I see.” It was clear to him now, as the Woodpecker’s commander had described. Adam had believed he must hold off the enemy until it was dark enough for the merchantmen to escape, knowing that, by then, it would be too late for Anemone. He said, “So your ship came about to engage?” He saw the boy nod, his eyes clouding with memories. “Did you see your captain while all this was happening?”

“Oh yes, sir. He was always about. I went aft with a message an’ I heard him tell the first lieutenant to keep the marines hidden and not to rig the nets in case the Yankee guessed what we was doin’.” Then he smiled; it was the nicest thing which had happened. He said, “Our captain was scared o’ nuthin’! ”

“Go on.”

The boy opened and closed his tar-stained fingers. “Then the firin’ started, sir. We got the first shots off, but the big Yankee found the range and we was hit again an’ again! Spars an’ riggin’

was fallin’ all around, and men was dyin’, callin’ out—there was blood in th’ scuppers like I’ve never seen!” Voices called overhead and bare feet thudded across the planking. Indomitable was changing tack, making for the harbour. But to this boy, it was like the battle being refought.

“The foremast was shot away, an’ the whole of the forecastle was covered in riggin’ and sails fallin’ on us like somethin’ terrible!” He turned and looked at Avery for the first time. “We couldn’t move, sir. Men was fightin’ to get out, others went over the side, caught like they was in a net. I was held fast. I tried, I tried . . .”

Bolitho held up his hand as Avery began to move forward.

“Did you see the captain?”

“When he fell, sir.” He repeated in a small voice, broken by sobs, “When he fell.”

Bolitho waited, his muscles bunched like fists. Adam had fallen. And only this boy had survived to describe it.

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He stared at him blindly as he continued, “Then the other ship was hard alongside, sir, the enemy was tramplin’ aboard. But our flag had been cut down. We was finished.”

“You are doing very well.” Bolitho glanced despairingly at the flag-lieutenant. “Did anyone help the captain?” The boy nodded. “They carried him to the other ship.” He nodded again. “I seen ’em.” He looked at Bolitho, remembering where he was, what he was doing. “Then there was an explosion.

We started to sink.”

Bolitho stood up and walked to the stern windows. An explosion, after the colours had been cut down. Somebody unknown, acting as Adam would have done rather than surrender his beloved Anemone.

“I can’t remember much after that, sir. I called out, but nobody came. There was dead men all around, and even wounded who never reached the upper deck. I held on to Billy, an’ together we floated off with some spars when the ship went under.” Then the tears came and did not stop. He managed to gasp,

“But Billy didn’t answer me. He just drifted away. I think he’d been dead all the time!”

Bolitho said abruptly, “Take him down to the sickbay and see that he gets a good meal before we anchor.” Then he changed his mind, and found himself crossing the cabin to the chair, pulling out one of the handkerchiefs Catherine had bought for him. He gave it to the boy.

Avery watched. It was like being under a spell, and he could not speak or interrupt.

Bolitho said, so softly that the boy had to stop his tears to listen, “Your captain is my nephew. He is very dear to me, as you were to your father. It does not bring back friends, but if it is any help, what you have told me has given me hope. Do you understand?”

He nodded, his streaming eyes never leaving Bolitho’s face.

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Allday padded in silently and shook his head. When the boy looked up at him he said, “Well, let me tell you, matey, no admiral ever spoke to me like that, an’ that’s no error!” He seized him by the top of his shirt and added, “We’ll go an’ take a look at the pantry, eh?”

As the door closed, and Ozzard re-entered with two glasses on a tray, Bolitho sat down on the bench seat as if the deck had been cut from under him.

“That man really is a marvel!”

“I agree, sir.” To himself Avery added, And so, as it happens, are you.

Bolitho drank from the glass without tasting it. “We shall go on deck, George. It is a sight I never tire of.” Avery asked carefully, “Where you met Lady Catherine, sir?” Bolitho looked at him, the life, like hope, returning to his eyes.

“Where I found her, when I thought I had lost her for ever.” Then he said over his shoulder, “I am not a fool. I know the odds as well as you do. But he was alive, right?” Avery followed him up to the bright sunshine. Do not hope too much. He thought suddenly of Catherine and the endearment he had once overheard. Dearest of men.

It was all true. He had just seen him bring a twelve-year-old boy back from the dead. As a man.

Later, with the ship anchored and surrounded by lighters and dockyard boats, Avery sat propped in his hutch-like cabin while he sorted the despatches into coherent order. The courier brig had not only brought important intelligence for the admiral, but also some mail which seemed to have gone around the world before reaching its proper destination.

There was a tap at the door and Avery opened it with one foot without getting up. It was Allday.

He said, “Begging your pardon, Mr Avery, but I got a letter.” He held it out, his face baffled and worried.

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“Sit down. On that chest, if you like.”

“You don’t mind, sir? But I knows you’ve been busy, what with young Captain Adam and everything.”

“Of course not.” He rather enjoyed it. It was as if he was getting a letter of his own. If there had been someone who cared enough to write.

He said, “Pour yourself a drink,” and slit open the envelope.

It was badly stained. Probably the vessel which had been carrying it had been damaged in the Atlantic gales, the mail transferred to another.

He could see her now. My dear John, it seems so long since I heard . . .

Allday waited, perched on the edge of the brass-bound chest.

“What is it, sir? Is something wrong? Tell me, please!” Avery leaned over and poured a glass of brandy.

He said, “Congratulations, John Allday.” Allday was frowning. “What’s happened?” Avery held out the letter and pushed the glass towards him.

“You’ve become a father, that is what’s happened, man!” Allday stared blindly at her round handwriting. “A baby! She’s had a baby. ”

Avery smiled. “You stay here and enjoy your wet. I’ll lay aft to the admiral. I think this news is just what he needs.”

“But—but . . .” Allday waved the letter after him. “Boy or girl, sir?”

Avery thought of Lady Catherine clambering up Indomitable’s side while the sailors had cheered.

He replied simply, “A little girl. Your wife wants to call her Kate.”

The door closed and then Allday did pick up the brandy.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” He grinned at the cabin. “Well, I’ll be double-damned!”

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Bolitho looked up from his table as Tyacke entered the cabin, his hat tucked beneath his arm.

“With your permission, I’d like to weigh before noon. Mr York insists the wind is about to veer and freshen, although for the life of me I don’t know how he can tell.”

Bolitho said, “I think we shall have to be guided, James. I have no wish to linger here in Antigua.”

Three days since their return, and still no word of Anemone’s final moments, apart from the description offered by the boy John Whitmarsh. Anemone’s company had been taken prisoner, but there had been no official confirmation. Three days, and he had thought of little else save Adam’s fate. If badly wounded, then how badly? If he had survived, would he be exchanged for an American prisoner, if any of equal rank had been taken?

He watched Yovell’s pen scratching out the final copy of his orders to the captains of his over-stretched squadron.

He had sent off a plea to the Admiralty for another frigate to replace Anemone. He suspected there was little chance of getting one. He could almost hear his own words when he had spoken his thoughts aloud to the assembled powers there. The end of the fixed line of battle, the coming of age of a faster, more powerful frigate.

Commodore Nathan Beer—and in his heart Bolitho had never doubted it was Unity which had been after the Jamaica convoy—

had more than proved that. How many more did the Americans have, or intend to build? Apart from Valkyrie and Indomitable, he had nothing that could stand against them. Determination and skilled seamanship had always been expected to succeed against odds, but the Americans’ massive firepower and impressive gunnery had already scattered several local convoys. It had put the Leeward Squadron on the defensive. No war could be won while their strength was divided by fruitless searches and hazy intelligence.

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The Americans were obviously intent on attacking Canada, just as the British were determined to increase their military strength by every means available. The Admiralty had sent lists of possible routes and times of arrival of military convoys, all of which would eventually make their landfalls at Halifax. The Americans would know as much of these movements as the British: such activity was impossible to conceal.

It was also known that the Americans were mustering smaller men-of-war for use on the Great Lakes. To find them would be like looking for a needle in the proverbial haystack. Bolitho had used Zest and Reaper to strengthen Dawes’ flotilla out of Halifax.

Apart from the local patrols, mostly brigs and commandeered schooners, that left only Indomitable and the 26-gun frigate Attacker to liaise with the convoy escorts from Jamaica. These convoys had already been reduced to two a month because of the very real threat from the Americans, who had nothing to protect, and to whom every ship was a possible target and prize.

In a moment of frustration and anger Bolitho had exclaimed to Tyacke, “Our Nel was right, James! The best form of defence is attack. So let us find their lair and go for them, and to hell with the risk!”

Tyacke could see the logic of it. If they had to divide their small squadron after each enemy sortie, they would soon be too weak to offer any protection at all.

A week before the attack on Anemone they had stopped and questioned a Brazilian trader. Her master had reported sighting a force of American men-of-war, two large frigates and two other smaller vessels, steering south, possibly from Philadelphia. Fearing for his own safety the Brazilian had gone about to retrace his course to the Bermudas.

Two large frigates: could one of them have been the Unity?

And if so, where were the others?

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Tyacke regarded him impassively. “Suppose—I mean, just suppose . . .” His fingers played with the tarnished buttons of his faded seagoing coat.

Bolitho said sharply, “You have more experience of lonely command than any man I know. Speak out—this is the time.” Tyacke walked to the stern windows and watched a cutter being warped around the stern, ready to be hoisted aboard. In harbour it was usual to lower all boats, otherwise their seams opened in the relentless heat. At sea, it was sensible to keep them partly filled with water for the same reason.

“Everyone knows about us, sir, more especially about you.

With Captain Bolitho taken prisoner, and many of his people, wouldn’t it seem obvious to the enemy that you would take some action? Direct action?”

Bolitho shrugged. “It is what I would like.” Tyacke rubbed his chin. “And they will expect it. With Indomitable gone, what chance would our ships stand?” Bolitho stared at him. “You mean that this ship will be marked down as the next victim?” He saw it suddenly, his mind clearing.

“That is good sense!” He stood up and leaned over the chart.

Yovell continued to write without a pause, except to dip his nib.

“The Bermudas, a likely area for the Americans to gather. No English men-of-war there, they rely on their garrison and the reef.”

Tyacke glanced at the chart curiously. “Why none of our ships, sir?”

“There is no water there. None. Apart from the seasonal rain-fall they have to conserve it as best they can.” Tyacke gave a reluctant smile. “That I didn’t know, sir.” It was as close to admiration as he could come.

“Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps I am presuming too much, to base our strategy on the word of a sailing-master who sells fruit for a living!”

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He tapped Yovell’s plump shoulder. “I want to send fresh instructions to Captain Dawes in Valkyrie. They can go in the schooner Reynard when she leaves.” Tyacke saw the animation and eagerness returning to his tanned features. “We shall muster a convoy, and the world shall know about it, and Indomitable shall sail to meet it.”

“It is not for me to say, but . . .”

“But? That word again? And it is for you to say what you think. You are my flag-captain, and we must share our views.” Tyacke watched him warily. “Views, yes, and I am proud of that trust. But the responsibility lies with you.”

“Don’t stop, James. Responsibility is something I am used to.” Tyacke said, “Then speak my mind I will, sir.” He stabbed the chart with his finger. “Here, Halifax.” His finger moved down the coastline. “Boston, New York, and right here, Philadelphia. If I was the Yankee commander this is exactly the area I would choose, with Philadelphia to run to for repairs or protection if things went wrong.” He raised his eyes to Bolitho. “But suppose, in a manner of speaking, Captain Dawes in his big frigate decided not to act on your instructions without question? If a convoy of soldiers was the real target, and he left it without an escort for the final approach, he might feel that his head was the one on the block, not yours.”

“He is a resourceful captain, James, but you know that.” Tyacke responded bluntly, “He is also ambitious, and the son of an admiral. The two together are dangerous bedfellows.”

“That was outspoken.” He smiled to soften it. “I like that. But Dawes is acting second-in-command. I have to rely on him.” He paused. “I have no choice, nor do I have justification to believe otherwise.”

Tyacke looked round sharply as the sentry announced the arrival of the first lieutenant.

“Yes, Mr Scarlett? Cannot it wait?”

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Scarlett answered hesitantly, “The last fresh water is inboard, sir.” He glanced at Bolitho. “I am sorry for the intrusion, Sir Richard.”

As the door closed Tyacke snapped, “I apologise, Sir Richard.

I shall have a gentle word with that one!” He calmed himself. “Then I shall see that your despatches are put aboard the schooner.”

Indomitable swung lightly to her cable. Perhaps York’s prediction was already making itself felt. A shaft of strong sunlight probed through the quarter windows and Tyacke saw Bolitho flinch from it and turn away.

“Can I help, sir?”

Bolitho sat down and pulled out a handkerchief, reminding Tyacke poignantly of the one he had given to the boy. Tyacke turned the chair for him, so that he faced away from the glare.

Bolitho said quietly, “You know, don’t you? Have known ever since you took command as my flag-captain.” Tyacke met his gaze, equally unflinching. “Don’t blame Avery, sir. He thought he was doing the right thing.”

“For me?”

“And the ship.” He turned aside, as if suddenly conscious of his terrible scars. “If you will excuse me, sir, I have much to do.” Bolitho followed him and stopped him by the screen door.

“Do you regret it? Tell me the truth.”

“Well, I didn’t do it out of pity, sir.” Surprisingly, he grinned.

“Regret it? I’ll speak my mind when we run that damned Yankee to earth!” He was still smiling as he shut the door behind him.

Bolitho touched his eye and waited for the pain, but there was none. He sat again, deeply moved by Tyacke’s words, the very strength of his concern. A truly remarkable man.

That night while Indomitable thrust her heavy bows into open sea, Bolitho awoke with that same dream still fixed in his mind.

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Carrick Roads and Pendennis Castle, the ships as clear and familiar as ever. Each one taking in her cable. Where bound? Who manned these phantom ships? There was an additional vessel this time, with the gilded figurehead he knew so well. Daughter of the Wind. And when she swung to her cable, he saw that it was Zenoria. Even then, as he fought his way out of the dream, he heard her last scream.

“All right, Sir Richard?” It was Allday, his powerful frame leaning over with the ship.

Bolitho held on to the cot as his feet touched the deck.

“Tell me something, old friend. Do you think he is still alive?” Allday padded after him to the stern windows. The moon was making a ragged silver path on the lively crests. So that was what troubled him, he thought, as much or more than ever. All this time, with officials and officers coming and going with their offers or demands—mostly the latter, no doubt—planning what he should do, placing his ships where they would make the most difference, he had been fretting about Captain Adam. His nephew, but more of a son, a friend, than anyone else really knew.

Then he walked to the sword-rack, and waited for the moonlight to touch the old blade he had proudly buckled or clipped into place before so many fights, so many deeds, which he had shared.

“When we’re gone, Sir Richard . . .” He knew Bolitho was watching him in the eerie light, “An’ we can’t live for ever, nor have I a mind to . . . this old blade will be his. Must be.” He heard him say quietly, his voice suddenly calm again, “Aye, old friend. The last of the Bolithos.” Allday watched him climb into his cot. He seemed to fall asleep instantly.

Allday smiled. The squall was over; the storm still to come.

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13 L oneliness

LADY Catherine Somervell rose from the tall leather-backed chair and walked to the window. Down in the street in front of the Admiralty main building, it was raining quite heavily.

She toyed with one of the thick gold ropes that held the curtains, and watched people hurrying for shelter. Heavy, cleansing rain, thinning the traffic, causing steam to rise from the dirty cobbles, refreshing the avenues of trees so richly green on this late summer’s day.

She turned and glanced at the empty fireplace, the old paintings of sea-battles. Richard’s world. She shook her head, rejecting the antiquated ships. No, more his father’s navy. She had learned much merely by listening, by being with him, just as he had shared her London, and, she hoped, learned to enjoy it in a manner he had not found possible before.

She studied herself in a gilded tall looking-glass, imagining nervous sea officers here, examining their reflections before being summoned to meet whichever admiral would decide their fate.

A plain green gown, the hem and sleeves of which were spot-ted with rain even as she had alighted from the carriage. She wore a wide-brimmed hat with a matching green ribbon. She had dressed with care, as she always did, not from vanity or conceit, but out of defiance, and because of Richard. Sixteen months now, and the ache was as cruel as ever.

The room was much as she had expected it would be. Unwelcoming, aloof from the rest of the building, a place of decisions, where men’s lives could be changed with the stroke of a pen.

She could imagine him here, as a very young captain, perhaps.

Or afterwards, as a flag-officer, when their affair had become common knowledge. The whole world knew about them now.

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her position in his life, or by her rank. If anything happened to Richard, it was ironic that Belinda would be the first to be told.

Officially.

Over the months she had kept busy, helping Ferguson, or independently with her own projects. But each day was an eternity, her rides on Tamara her only escape. She had not been near the cliff path and Trystan’s Leap since the day of Zenoria’s death.

An old servant stood now between the tall double doors.

Catherine had not noticed him, nor heard the doors open.

“Sir Graham Bethune will see you now, my lady.” He bowed slightly as she passed him. She could almost hear him creak.

Sir Graham Bethune strode to meet her. She had resented the fact that he had once been one of Richard’s midshipmen in his first command: even though he had explained the complexities governing seniority, it still seemed deeply unfair. Only one rank lower than Richard, and yet he was a lord of admiralty, a power who could help or dismiss as he chose.

But Bethune was not what she had expected. He was slim, energetic, and was wearing a genuine smile to greet her; suddenly and rather unwillingly, she understood why Richard had liked him.

“My dear Lady Somervell, this is indeed an honour. When I heard you were in Chelsea and I received your little note, I could scarce believe my good fortune!”

Catherine sat in the proffered chair and regarded him calmly.

He was charming, but he was quite unable to hide his curiosity, and the interest of a man in a beautiful woman.

She said, “We were deeply concerned at Falmouth to learn of Anemone’s loss. I thought that if I came in person you might give me more news—if there is any, Sir Graham?”

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received more news, first by telegraph from Portsmouth yesterday, and then confirmed by courier.” He turned and rested his buttocks on the table. “It is much as I expected. After the sink-ing, the American frigate Unity took what prisoners could be saved from Anemone, and because of her own damage was forced to cancel any further attempts on our convoy. It was a brave act on Captain Bolitho’s part. It will not go unrewarded.” She put her hand on her breast and saw his glance follow it and linger there for a few seconds.

She said, “Then he is alive?”

A servant entered with a tray. He did not look at either of them.

Bethune watched the servant opening the bottle with the deft-ness of one who was called to perform the task often.

“I was told that you enjoy champagne, my lady. I think we have something to celebrate. Don’t you agree?” She waited. Bethune was probably imagining other reasons for her concern.

He said, “He was badly wounded, but our informants have told us that, thanks to the American commodore, he was well cared for.” He hesitated for the first time. “We are still uncertain as to the extent of his injury.”

Catherine took the tall glass and felt its coolness through her glove. Word for word, Richard’s letter was engraved on her memory: Adam’s arrival at English Harbour, and his anguish at the news of Zenoria’s death.

It was like some playlet, in which they all had lines to speak.

Richard and his dead brother; Adam and Zenoria; and yet to come, Valentine Keen.

Bethune held his glass to the window. “We have not been told officially what the Americans intend. Captain Bolitho, in the normal course of events, would be exchanged with one of our prisoners. However, as a frigate captain of some stature, with For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 209

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many prizes and successes to his credit, they might decide to keep him, if only in a mood of self-congratulation.”

“Or perhaps to goad his uncle into some reckless action?”

“Has he written to that effect, my lady?”

“You know him, do you not? You should not need to ask me.” He smiled and refilled her glass. “True.” Then he said, “I hope you will do me the honour of allowing me to escort you to a reception.” He hurried on, as if he already knew that she would refuse. “Sir Paul Sillitoe, whom I believe you know, wishes to celebrate his new title. He goes to the House of Lords shortly. He will be a powerful adversary there, by God.” Is a powerful adversary, she thought. “I cannot be certain, Sir Graham.” She smiled faintly. “Would not your reputation be a trifle smudged by me?”

He looked away, and for only an instant she saw the freckled midshipman.

It was quickly past. “I would relish your company, Lady Somervell.”

She said, “The rain is finished, and here comes the sun. I wor-ship it, despite what it once tried to do to us.” He nodded gravely. “The Golden Plover, yes, I understand.

May I enquire as to your plans for the remainder of the day?” She faced him, unmoved by the hint in his tone.

“I shall interview a new personal maid, Sir Graham. But first, I must go to St James’s.”

“The palace, my lady?”

She held out her gloved hand and felt him lingering over it.

Then she laughed. “No, the wine shop, of course!” Long after a servant had accompanied her downstairs, Bethune stood staring after her.

His secretary entered and placed some papers on the desk.

He said, “There is bad news, Sir Graham.” He waited patiently for his lord and master to notice him.

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Bethune asked, “Did you see her, man?” He seemed to realise what his secretary had said. “What news?”

“Not confirmed, Sir Graham, but we have received a despatch concerning our frigate Guerrière of 38 guns, which was overwhelmed and captured by the U.S.S. Constitution after a fight lasting only two hours.”

Bethune stood up again and walked to his window. “You are a melancholy fellow, Saunders. You make it sound both trivial and disgraceful in the same breath. Only two hours, you say? I have endured just such a trivial amount of time!” He swung away from the window. “Believe me, it is like hell. ”

“As you say, Sir Graham.”

He dismissed the unctuous insincerity, recalling instead Bolitho’s voice in this very building, and the disbelief, even amusement in the room when the role of the fixed line of battle had been criticised. They might think differently now. A frigate was already reported missing in the Caribbean. With Anemone destroyed and now Guerrière beaten and captured so easily, some might remember Bolitho’s words.

He looked out of the window again, but her carriage had gone.

Then he smiled, picked up Catherine’s half-empty glass and put his lips where hers had been.

Aloud he said, “We shall see!”

By the time Catherine reached Chelsea the sky had cleared, and the houses along the Thames embankment were basking in brilliant sunshine once more. Young Matthew lowered the step and offered his hand to assist her, his eyes everywhere like a watchful terrier.

“I’ll put the wine in the house once I’ve taken care of the horses, m’lady.”

She stopped by the steps and looked at him. “You hate London, don’t you, Matthew?”

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He grinned sheepishly. “Not used to it, m’lady—that’s all, I suppose.”

She smiled. “Only until next week. Then we shall go home to Falmouth.”

Matthew watched her open the front door and sighed. She was doing too much, taking too much on herself. Just like him.

Catherine pushed open the door and stopped dead in the entrance hall. There was a gold-laced hat on the hall table. Like Richard’s.

The new girl, Lucy, came bustling from beneath the stairs, wiping her mouth with her hand, flustered by her mistress’s unexpected return.

“Sorry, m’lady—I should have been here, ready like.” Catherine barely heard her. “Who is here?” It could not be.

He would have let her know somehow. If only . . .

Lucy glanced at the hat, unaware of its significance. “He said you wouldn’t mind, m’lady. He said he would leave his card if you didn’t come, otherwise he’d wait in the garden.” She asked, “Who?”

Lucy was a decent girl; she had been recommended by Nancy.

But another Sophie she was not. Good in the house and as a personal maid, but slow and sometimes maddening in her inability to think for herself.

Catherine brushed past her and walked blindly down the passage to the garden door.

Valentine Keen was standing by the wall in profile to her, only his hand moving as he stroked the neighbour’s cat. Unfamiliar in his rear-admiral’s uniform, his fair hair bleached almost white from the African sun.

Only when he heard her footstep on the terrace did he turn, and she saw the change in him: deep shadows beneath his eyes, the harsh lines around his mouth which even a smile failed to erase.

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She said, “Dear Val, I’m so glad you waited. I had no idea.” She clasped him in her arms. “How long have you been back?” He held her tightly, with affection or desperation; it could have been either.

“A few days ago. I came to Portsmouth. I was told you were in London. I thought, I must see her.” The words seemed to jerk out of him, but she did not interrupt. Who could have told him she was in London?

Arm in arm, they walked around the small garden with the sounds of London beyond the wall.

She said, “You should be careful of that cat. He uses his claws when you play with him.”

Keen looked at her searchingly. “Your letter was such a help to me. I wish it had not fallen on your shoulders.” He swallowed hard. “She was buried in Zennor. How so? You must not mind my asking. I still cannot accept it.” She said gently, “There was no proof of suicide, Val. It may have been an accident. The church could not begrudge her a grave in her own parish churchyard.”

“I see.”

Catherine thought of the reluctant curate. The bishop had been signalling his disapproval because it was rumoured that the girl had taken her own life.

“The magistrate was very definite. Her death resulted from misadventure. It is small comfort, I know, but she rests in peace.” Roxby had been the magistrate, otherwise . . .

“And you were there. I should have known you would be.” She waited, knowing what was coming next.

He asked, “Were some of my family at Zennor when she was buried?”

“There were flowers. Do not feel bitter about it. There was grief enough, I expect.”

He did not reply. He was going over it again and again. Try-For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 213

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ing to understand the reasons, trying to assemble the truth, even if he could never accept it.

He said, “I loved her so. Even she never knew how much.”

“I think she did, Val.”

“I must go there and see the grave. As soon as I have dealt with things here.” He looked at her, his face drawn, as though grief had made him ill. “Will you come with me, Catherine? To that church where we were married?”

“Of course. There is no stone yet. That is for you to decide.” She held his arm, not daring to look at him. “Of course I will come.”

After a time he said, “You went to the Admiralty. Was there any news of Adam?”

“He is alive and a prisoner of war; it was all they knew. We can only hope.”

She told him what Bethune had said and Keen murmured, “I expect they know more than they care to make public.” Then he turned and looked at her. “There is to be a reception for Sir Paul Sillitoe. I was told of it today.”

She forced a smile. “I know. I was invited to attend.” She thought of Bethune’s eyes when he had mentioned it. Perhaps she had imagined what she saw there, but she had never known a man she could trust completely. Except one.

Keen said, “Then let us go together, Catherine. Nobody could say anything about it, and under the circumstances . . .” He did not continue.

As if someone else had answered, she heard herself say, “My dear, I would be honoured.” Richard would understand; and he would know that he might need friends like Sillitoe where their power carried real weight.

Keen said suddenly, “How is Richard?”

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The light had dimmed. “More rain, I think. We had better go inside.”

The housekeeper was waiting ominously by the stairs, and Lucy could be heard sobbing somewhere.

The housekeeper glanced incuriously at Catherine’s hand on the rear-admiral’s sleeve. She said, “Just broke two more cups, m’lady! God, that girl will put me in the poorhouse!” She softened slightly. “I’ll fetch some tea.” They sat by the window and watched the leaves shiver to the first heavy drops of rain. The cat had disappeared.

Catherine said, “There was talk of your removal to a house in Plymouth?”

He shrugged. “No longer. The flag-officer there is expected to have a wife by his side.” With sudden bitterness he added, “It will be another sea appointment for me. It cannot be soon enough for my liking!”

“Have you seen your father yet?”

He shook his head. “When I leave you, I shall go. I am sure he will be ‘working late in the City!’” She wanted to hold him, like a child, or like Richard, ease his grief, heal his despair. There was no one else.

He said, “I should have known, don’t you see? I had so many plans for her, the boy too. I never once asked her what she wanted.

She was like you, Catherine, a living, precious creature. She might have been lost in my world. She never told me. I never asked her.” The housekeeper came in with the tea and departed without a glance or a word.

Keen was saying, “If I had only been with her!” He looked at her sharply. “She did take her own life, is that not true? Please, I must know the truth.”

“She was not herself, Val.”

He stared down at his hands. “I knew it. I should have seen the dangers all along.”

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She asked quietly, “Do you remember Cheney, the girl Richard married and lost?”

He hesitated. “Yes. I remember her.”

“Even though we are denied marriage and the acceptance of society—even though marriage may have scarred us—even though such things are impossible, we found one another again, Richard and I. Might not good fortune take your hand too, Val, and give you happiness once more?”

He got to his feet and released her hand.

“I must leave now, Catherine. I feel better for speaking with you . . . stronger, in some way.” He did not look at her. “If there was ever such a good fortune, and things I have seen of late make me doubt it, then I could hope for no more admirable a woman than one like you.”

She walked with him to the door, knowing very well what he had really meant. He was not just attractive and amusing company, in other circumstances; it went much deeper. It would not be difficult to love a man like him.

“I shall ask Matthew to take you.”

He picked up his hat and looked at it, ruefully, she thought.

He said, “Thank you, but my carriage is waiting in the mews.” She smiled. “You did not wish to set the tongues awagging by leaving it at my door?”

On the steps he took her hand and kissed it gently. Few passers-by took any notice of them; nor could they or he, she thought, ever guess at her true emotions.

As he turned the corner Catherine stared across the river, remembering those other times. The Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens; laughter through the trees and the dancing lanterns; kisses in the shadows.

She touched her throat. Dearest of men, come back to me. Soon, soon.

The tray of tea still lay untouched on the table.

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Sir Paul Sillitoe held out his arms so that Guthrie, his valet, could help him into his fine silk coat. As he did so, he glanced at his reflection in the windows. Guthrie brushed his shoulders and nodded with approval. “Very nice, Sir Paul.” Sillitoe listened to the sound of music from the wide terrace where the reception would be held. The whole place seemed to be full of flowers; his housekeeper had not spared the purse for this occasion. It was all sheer extravagance. He smiled at his reflection. But he felt elated, light-headed even, an alien sensation for one so habitually controlled.

He could hear carriages already clattering into his large driveway: friends, enemies, people with favours to ask once he had consolidated his position in the Lords.

Power, not popularity, was the key to most challenges, he thought.

He watched the opposite bank of the Thames, the great curve of Chiswick Reach still holding the late sunshine. There would be torches on the terrace, champagne and endless dishes for the guests to sample. More expense. This time he could not take it seriously.

Why had she decided to come? To congratulate him? It was unlikely. For a favour, then, or on some personal mission or intrigue, like the secret she had shared with him even before Bolitho knew it, when she had asked for his help on the death of her hated father in that stinking slum in Whitechapel. Quaker’s Passage, that was the name. How could she ever have lived there as a child?

But she was coming. And with Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen, another friend of Bolitho’s. Or was he? With his young wife dead—and Sillitoe’s agents had insisted that she had taken her own life—might he not look to the lovely Catherine for comfort?

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Sillitoe thought. And if he persisted, his next appointment might well take him back to Africa and beyond.

He patted his stomach. Flat and hard. Unlike so many men he knew, he took care to use his energy in play as well as work.

He enjoyed riding and walking; for the latter he usually had his secretary Marlow trotting beside him while he outlined the letters and despatches for the day. It saved time.

Swordsmanship was another of his interests, and he was rarely beaten in mock duels at the academy where he exercised.

And if the need commanded him, he would go to a particular house where he was known to the proprietor and her girls, and where his peccadilloes would be respected.

When he received his title he would have achieved everything he had planned, and would still retain his influence over the Prince Regent when he was eventually crowned King.

A complete life, then? He thought of Catherine Somervell again. Perhaps it still could be.

His valet saw him frown and asked, “Is something amiss, Sir Paul?”

“I shall go down, Guthrie. It would be churlish not to be present from the beginning.”

As his guests were announced Sillitoe smiled, and said much the same to each one. Not precisely a welcome, but an acknowledgement that they came out of respect. Or fear. The thought gave him immense satisfaction.

His eyes moved restlessly to the great arched entrance, then to the bewigged footmen sweating in their heavy coats as they bustled with trays of glasses, while others stood at the long tables of food, bowing over their charges like priests at an altar loaded with offerings.

Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune and his frail-looking wife.

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to accept the invitation, pleading a previous engagement. Sillitoe had seen to that.

The footman tapped his staff on the marble floor.

“The Viscountess Somervell!” A pause. “And Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen!”

The noise of conversation faded away like surf dying on a beach as Sillitoe took her hand, and kissed it.

“It was so gracious of you to come, Lady Catherine.” She smiled. “How could I not?”

Sillitoe offered his hand to Keen. “It is good to have you back at home, sir. Tragic news, of course. My sincere condolences.” To Catherine he said, “I will see you again very shortly.” His eyes lingered on the diamond fan at her breast. “You do me too much honour.”

Catherine and her escort walked out on to the terrace as the conversation buzzed into life once more.

Keen said, “I am never certain of that man.”

“You are not the first, Val.” She took a goblet from a tray. “Or the last. It is as well to be wary of him.” She had not expected to be participating in any social activities during what had been intended as a brief visit to London, and had brought only one suitable evening gown, a particular favourite of Richard’s. It was of kingfisher-blue satin, so that her piled hair seemed to reflect in it as if she stood above moving water.

But it was cut very low, and she knew that the sunburns she had suffered in the shipwreck were still visible after nearly four years. So long, she thought, how could the time have passed so quickly? She would not allow herself to dwell on the precious hours and days she had spent with Richard since then, because they could never be relived, could never be had back again.

The torches were lit, and the lights and the river reminded her sharply of the pleasure gardens where she had taken him.

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To her surprise she recognised Valentine Keen’s father, who had been ushered in without any announcement and presented to Sillitoe. She heard Sillitoe say silkily, “I am so grateful you changed your arrangements.” Neither of them smiled.

Sillitoe glanced up at an overly ornate clock and left his place by the doors.

Then he saw them and came to join them, taking a glass as he passed a footman.

“I have done my part as host, Lady Catherine. Now let me bask in the light which you seem to create wherever you go.” He barely glanced at Keen. “Your father is here, sir. He craves a word.

I think it may be useful if you oblige him.” Keen made his excuses and left to look for his father. He had said nothing of his relationship with the rest of his family, but he appeared angry at the interruption.

“Was that true, Sir Paul?”

He looked directly at her. “Of course. But I do see a rift between father and son, which is a pity. Over the girl from Zennor, no doubt.”

“No doubt.” She refused to be drawn.

“Why, Sir Paul!” It was Vice-Admiral Bethune, with his wife.

“May we both offer our congratulations?” But his eyes moved too often to Catherine.

Bethune’s wife said, “A pity Sir Richard cannot be so rewarded for all that he has done for England.” Sillitoe was, for once, caught off guard.

“I am not certain what . . .”

She said rudely, “A peerage such as yours, Sir Paul. After all, Lord Nelson was so honoured!”

Bethune said angrily, “You have no right! ” Catherine took another glass of champagne and found a few seconds to thank the footman. She was inwardly burning with anger, but her voice was quite calm.

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“If Sir Richard and I were parted, madam, he would still not return to his wife, but then I am certain you know that already.” Bethune almost dragged his wife away, and Catherine heard him muttering, “Do you desire to ruin me?” Sillitoe said, “I should have prevented it. I know something of that woman’s spite.”

Catherine smiled but her heart was still beating furiously. No wonder Bethune had eyes for other women. He surely deserved better.

Sillitoe said abruptly, “Let me show you something of the house.” She said, “Very well, but not for too long. It would be dis-courteous to my escort.”

He smiled. “You seem to have a habit of provoking sea officers, my dear.”

They walked along a colonnade and up a staircase, which was bare of any paintings except one, of a man in dark clothing, a sword with an outdated basket hilt at his hip. Despite the neat Spanish-style beard and the clothing, it could have been her companion.

He was watching her profile, the smooth curve of her breasts, her breathing shown only by the diamond pendant.

“My father.”

She looked at it more closely. It was strange that she knew nothing about this man but his present power, and his confident use of that power. It was as though a door or a locked chest had been opened for the first time.

“What was he like?”

“I barely knew him. My mother was in poor health and he insisted we were in the West Indies as little as possible. I yearned to be with him. Instead I was sent to school, where constant bullying taught me that it was sometimes necessary to hit back.” She turned her head to change the light on the portrait. Even the same hooded, compelling stare.

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The West Indies. He had mentioned his estates in Jamaica and elsewhere. He was obviously very wealthy, but still lacked satisfaction.

She said, “Was he a man of business, or a courtier like his son?” He took her arm and guided her to a wide balcony, which overlooked the terrace with its flickering torches and the river beyond.

He gave a harsh laugh. “He was a slaver. A Black Ivory captain. The best!”

She heard her gown hissing against the balustrade, the din of voices from the terrace. It looked so far away.

“You are not disagreeable to that, Lady Catherine?”

“They were different days.” She thought suddenly of Tyacke, coming to their rescue in his brig Larne. “There will always be slaves, no matter what people promise and pretend.” He nodded. “A wise head as well as a beautiful one.” They reached the end of the balcony and she said, “I think we must go back.”

“Certainly.” He seemed to be grappling with something. “I must say, Lady Catherine, that you are quite lovely. I can take care of you—you would want for nothing. There would be no more scandal, no harm done to you by simpering fools like Bethune’s wife. Believe me, I would see to that!” She stared at him. “Can you see me as your mistress, what it would do to the one and only man I love?” He gripped her arms. “As a wife, Lady Catherine. That is what I am asking you. As a wife. ” She released herself gently and slipped her arm through his.

“I am sorry, Sir Paul. I thought . . .”

“I can imagine.” He pressed her arm against his side. “Let me hope?”

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forget. But do not hurt me or Richard if I decline.”

“Ah, your escort is approaching!”

She turned, but Sillitoe seemed quite composed. It was as though she had imagined all of it.

When he had withdrawn, Keen asked suspiciously, “What happened? I was concerned for you.”

She saw heads turning, mouths whispering behind fans on this humid summer’s night. She thought of Sillitoe’s words, his cool pride for his father.

“He showed me some of the house. And you?”

“My father had some wild plan for me to leave the navy. He has just signed a deed of contract with the East India Company.

Expansion, progress, you know the kind of language he uses.” Catherine watched him with sudden concern. He had been drinking rather heavily and had lost some of the confidence she had seen in Chelsea.

Keen said, “He doesn’t understand. The navy is my life. My only life, now. The war will not last for ever, but until it ends I shall stand in the line of battle as I have been entrusted to do!” His voice was louder than he had intended. She said gently,

“You speak very much like Richard.”

He rubbed his eyes as if they were hurting him. “Richard, oh Richard! How I do envy you!”

Sillitoe appeared as if by magic. “You are leaving, Lady Catherine?” His glance flickered to Keen. “Are you quite safe?” She offered her hand and watched him kiss it. Like an onlooker.

“Safe, Sir Paul?” She touched the diamond pendant on her breast. “I am always that!”

She knew he was still watching them as Matthew brought the carriage smartly around the drive to the steps.

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to Richard about it. No secrets. There never would be between them.

Keen leaned against her and she guessed he was falling asleep.

The ride from Portsmouth, London and then his father trying to force his plans on him again. Did he have no remorse, no sense of shame that Zenoria had been allowed to throw herself away while in the care of the family?

She watched the trees flitting past in the moonlight and wondered where Indomitable lay, what Richard was doing.

She felt Keen’s face on her shoulder. Drowsy but not asleep.

She could smell something stronger than champagne; his father’s idea, no doubt.

She pressed her head back against the cushions and tried to hold her breath as she felt his lips on her skin, gentle and yet more insistent as he murmured, “Oh, Catherine!” He pressed his lips on the curve of her breast and kissed her again, his breath hot, desperate.

Catherine clenched her fists and stared into the shadows. His fingers were on her gown, she could feel it moving, her breast rising out of it, to his mouth.

Then his hand fell across her legs, and with great care she moved him back on to his seat.

She rapped on the roof and when Matthew answered she called, “We shall take the admiral to his father’s house.”

“You all right, m’lady?”

She smiled but her heart made it a lie, and readjusted the gown.

“I am always safe, Matthew.”

She waited for her breathing to steady. It had been a near thing. The thought shocked and disturbed her.

Was that what loss and loneliness could do?

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square she watched a footman hurrying down the steps to meet the carriage. Was he always there, night and day, just in case someone arrived?

The idea made her want to laugh. She touched Keen’s shoulder and waited for him to recover himself. She knew that if she allowed it, there were more likely to be tears, which she would be unable to stop.

Keen said, “Shall you come in and meet my father?”

“No. It is late.” She could sense Matthew listening and added,

“I leave for Falmouth shortly.”

He took her arm and peered at her in the darkness. “I wronged you, dear Catherine! I was beside myself.” She put her finger on his lips. “I am not a piece of stone, Val.” He shook his head. “You’ll never trust me again. I must have been a fool.”

She said, “I will take you to Zennor. So I must trust you.” He kissed her on the mouth and she could feel herself tens-ing, until just as gently he moved away.

Matthew flicked the reins and watched the house slide away into darkness. What would they say in Falmouth if they could see him driving to all these fine houses and places they’d never even heard of?

He thought of the young officer he had just delivered, and relaxed slightly before pushing a heavy cudgel back under his cushion.

Admiral or not, if he had laid a finger on her ladyship he’d not have woken up for a week!

Then, whistling softly between his teeth, he turned the horses’

heads once more towards the river.

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14 change of A llegiance

ON THE morning of September 3rd, 1812, the shadows began to recede, and for the first time in the three months since he had been cut down on Anemone’s quarterdeck, Captain Adam Bolitho realised he would live.

The weeks and months had been as vague and as terrifying as a hundred nightmares. People who were only phantoms or perhaps only figments of his imagination seemed to come and go; sharp stabs of agony when he had to bite his lip to prevent himself from crying out; fingers and probes in the depth of his wound like fire, which even drugs could not placate.

In his reeling mind he had tried to keep some sort of record, from the moment he had been carried aboard the big enemy frigate to the ship’s eventual arrival at the Delaware River and his journey by coach to Philadelphia.

Apart from Unity’s French doctor he had recalled no visitor but for the massive shadow of Commodore Nathan Beer.

And one other. Just before he had been lowered down by tackle into a cutter alongside, he had found his first lieutenant, Richard Hudson, waiting to say goodbye before he was landed with the other prisoners.

“I wish you well, sir. May God speed your recovery . . .” he had faltered and had then murmured “. . . and your release.” It had been like listening to two strangers, Adam thought. As if he had already died of his wound but was still clinging to the world, unable to accept his nonexistence.

He had heard himself, his voice harsh as he gritted his teeth to hold the pain under control, “I—ordered—you—to—fight—the ship!”

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Adam had felt his strength returning, and his voice was surprisingly steady. “My ship! Anemone was never yours! You struck the colours; you surrendered the ship!” An orderly had murmured something and an armed seaman had touched Hudson’s arm to lead him away.

Adam had fallen back on the stretcher, drained by the outburst, his chest heaving from all the blood he had lost, and the total despair which had replaced it.

Hudson had called, “If we ever meet again . . .” It had been as far as he had got. Adam had stared unblink-ing at the sky.

“As God is my witness, I’ll kill you if we do, damn your eyes!” With his strength almost gone, he was still able to realise that the Americans were careful to offer him the best possible treatment. He had overheard a couple of army surgeons discussing his plight when he had rested for two weeks at a military hospital.

“He’s got courage, I’ll say that for him. Not many could survive in his condition. He must have powerful friends in Heaven.” Another coach and on to Boston, where he had been taken immediately to a quiet house on the outskirts, guarded by soldiers, but to all appearances a private residence.

Twice a day, a doctor named Derriman visited him to inspect the wound and change the dressings. At first he had said almost nothing, but now after all these weeks a kind of restrained respect, one for the other, had come about. A personal servant had also appeared to break the monotony and emptiness of Adam’s life, a Bristol man who had been taken prisoner in that other war, and who had decided to remain in American service on a full seaman’s pay and allowances.

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excited. “I’ve got to shave you nice an’ early, Cap’n. Somebody important’s comin’ to see you!”

Adam waited while Chimmo took his arm and gently swayed him upright on the edge of the bed.

Then slowly and carefully he took the weight on his feet, his muscles bunched against the pain.

It was still there, but when he considered how it had been, the improvement was like a miracle.

Chimmo stood away and watched him while he seated himself in the big chair by the room’s only window. Stables hid the road—and everything else for that matter. He had tried to picture it in his mind: Boston Bay, Cape Cod. It might as well be the moon.

Chimmo produced his old-style bowl and razor. He had obviously been chosen because he was as English as Adam, but had been ordered not to discuss matters concerning the outside world.

The doctor had told him of a battle between an American frigate, Constitution, and the British Guerrière: the latter had suffered the same fate as Anemone, except that she had been captured and was probably already flying the American flag. At least Anemone had been saved from that disgrace. Without knowing how, he was certain that his coxswain Starr had seen to that.

Another piece of news had been the assassination of the British prime minister, Spencer Perceval, in the lobby of the House of Commons. Chimmo had been quite outraged by it, as if his heart still lay firmly in England.

To Adam it had meant very little. Nothing did any more, without his ship, and with only the memory of Zenoria. They would know about Anemone by now in England, and in his black-est moments of despair he imagined them all: Catherine, calming the servants at Falmouth, if only to hide her own concern for him; his uncle; John Allday; the formidable Tyacke. He wrestled For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 228

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with another constant thought: Valentine Keen. What might he do? How much did he suspect, if anything?

“There we are, Cap’n.” Chimmo beamed and balanced himself on his wooden stump. “You looks fair an’ brave again!” He glanced without interest at his reflection. A clean shirt and pressed neckcloth, and a plain blue coat unmarked by rank or other decoration. The face of a man who had come through hell.

He knew that he would have died but for the special care he had been given.

It might have ended suddenly weeks ago, when somebody’s carelessness had almost cost him his life.

He had been standing by the window, moving his arm back and forth to prevent additional stiffness to his right side and the wound itself. It had been evening, and he had known that the sentries were changing, just as he had known it was their custom to linger near the cook’s door for a cup of something. He had often thought that he knew their routine as well as they did themselves.

But he had seen a horse near the stables. Fully equipped and saddled; there was even a sword hanging in its scabbard. It had been absurdly easy. Down some narrow stairs and above what had smelled like a food store. The horse had stared at him with little interest. It had been like a blurred dream. He recalled the tremendous strength he had needed to pull himself up and on to the unfamiliar saddle.

The rest was like mist. Voices yelling, boots hammering across the cobbles while he had slithered helplessly to the ground in an ever-widening pool of blood from his re-opened wound.

Dr Derriman had exclaimed angrily, “You’re a damned fool!

They have orders to fire on those stupid enough to try and escape!

You would have saved them the trouble! Where the hell did you hope to reach, in God’s name?”

He had answered quietly, “The sea, doctor. Just the sea.” Then he had fainted.

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The door opened and a lieutenant snapped, “Is he ready, Chimmo?”

Adam said, “I am ready!”

The lieutenant regarded him coldly. “I am glad I do not serve in your navy, sir! ”

Adam nodded to Chimmo and retorted, “I doubt we would have you, sir! ”

He picked up the stick he had been given and followed the lieutenant along the corridor. He glanced briefly at the small door where his attempted escape had ended within minutes. But suppose . . . ?

Chimmo opened a door and said loudly, “Cap’n Adam Bolitho, sir!”

It was a bare but strangely beautiful room, with tall windows that looked out on to gardens which must once have been equally appealing. They were now uncared-for and overgrown, the previous owners replaced by the military.

A pale-faced man in dark clothing sat at a desk, fingers pressed together, his eyes deepset and unmoving.

He said, “I am Captain Joseph Brice. Be seated.” Adam said, “I would rather stand.” There was a log fire in a fine mantelled hearth. Like the one in Falmouth. It was strange to see a fire in September.

Captain Brice said, “Please be seated. You have made your point.

During your detention I understand that you have made several.” Adam sat down and winced as the dressing dragged at his side.

“I thought we should meet. I am no stranger to war. I served in the Trenton during the War of Independence. As your famous uncle also served. He is back in these waters; so then am I.” Adam waited. He sensed that the other man was merely the instrument. He looked away. As Anemone had been the instrument. But anything was better than staring at the wall or out of the window.

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Brice continued in the same unemotional tone.

“You were courageous, and were one of the most successful frigate captains England has ever known. And yet you fought with the Unity, and you must have known you had no chance against such a powerful ship. That was not merely brave; it was reckless. Since the fight, many of your faithful and loyal company have signed their allegiance over to the United States—but I expect you saw that as a possible outcome, too.”

“I did what I saw was my duty. Your ship Unity was set upon overhauling the small but valuable convoy under my care. The choice of any captain is not always the agreeable one.” He glanced through the window. Was that the complete truth?

Could it be that Hudson had been right in deed as well as appreciation at that time? The convoy had been out of danger when he had cut down the colours. Anemone had caused enough damage to the American frigate to prevent a further chase. By fighting on against such odds, many more would have died. Was it any captain’s right to make such a brave sacrifice?

Captain Brice nodded slowly. “I thought I knew you, even though we had never met. I was supposed to put it to you that a rightful and proper command should be offered to you. I shall inform my superiors that it is out of the question.”

“I shall remain in detention, is that what you mean?” It was like feeling a cage closing around him, restricting him until he could barely breathe.

“There is no other solution.”

Adam touched his side. It would have been better to die. Even when he had fallen from the horse in his pathetic attempt to escape, they could have let him die.

Instead they wanted him as another renegade, or as a trophy of battle. He would be unable to walk unhindered in this unknown land; his own reputation had put paid to that.

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did he not? A good captain to all accounts, although I never met him. Unlike Commodore Beer.”

Adam thought of the massive Nathan Beer, who had visited him in the Unity, although he could not remember clearly how many times. It was strange to realise that Beer’s home was barely any distance away from this house, near Salem.

Brice watched him curiously. “You would never give your word under oath as a King’s officer that you would accept parole and not attempt to escape?” He paused. “I can see from your face that you would not: your eyes speak what you believe to be true. Your duty is to fight your country’s enemies by any and every means.” He gave a dry cough.

Adam watched him. A sick man, despite his authority and intelligence. Another victim.

“So then must I attend to my duty. You will be moved when you are fit enough, and be detained in a safe house. There you will remain until the war is finished. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Adam was about to offer an angry rebuff, but something in the man’s voice told him to desist. Brice did not like what he was doing, nor the mission which had been given him by others.

“I would wish to write some letters, Captain Brice.”

“You must realise they will have to be examined, censored if need be?”

Adam nodded.

“To a wife or lover perhaps?”

“There is none.” He met his gaze directly. “Not any more.”

“Very well. Tell the man Chimmo when you are ready.” He stood up and held out his hands to the fire. In his unemotional tone he explained, “Fever. The Levant, long, long ago.” He was still by the fire when the lieutenant of the guard came to escort Adam back to his room.

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nobody, who would soon be forgotten or conveniently overlooked.

The lieutenant said, “Not so much to say now, eh?” He stood aside for Chimmo to collect some cups and added, “You’ve had it your own way too long, so accept it.” Adam regarded him calmly and saw him flinch. “I shall see that someone spells your name correctly for the grave, mark you that, sir!”

He saw Chimmo staring past the flushed lieutenant, his eyes moving like marbles, back and forth to the room’s solitary table.

The door slammed and Adam stood with his back pressed against it until his heartbeat had returned to normal.

A prisoner. He might as well take his own life.

Something caught his attention. The Holy Bible lay on the table, a piece of paper acting as a bookmark. It was the only book in the room and he had certainly not marked a place in it, nor had he even picked it up.

He stared round the room and out of the window to the deserted stable yard where he had lost his chance to ride away at the gallop. As Dr Derriman had asked in anger and amazement, Where the hell did you hope to reach?

Adam even thought of kneeling to peer under the bed where he had spent so much of his time.

He walked to the table and opened the much-used Bible.

There was a single sheet of paper, the handwriting scrawled with obvious haste. Adam had seen the same script many times when he had inspected Anemone’s daily log.

For a few seconds he felt nothing but despair and disappointment. It was from Richard Hudson, the bloody traitor who had surrendered the ship. He could feel his eyes stinging, and he was about to crumple the letter into a tight ball when something held him motionless like an icy hand. Words stood out through the mist until, with an almost physical effort, he forced himself to read it slowly and carefully.

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Do not believe what they say. I heard some officers speaking of you.

You are to be moved to a safe place, somewhere on the coast. You will not know where it is but word will be smuggled to the admiral . . .

Adam had to pull his nerves under control. The admiral. Hudson was talking of Sir Richard Bolitho.

If I say more, others will suffer.

Adam stared at the last two words. Forgive me.

If I say more . . . Adam held the letter to a candle and watched it burn in the empty grate. He did not need to go any further. If his uncle knew where he was and could trust the source he might mount a rescue attempt, no matter how stretched his squadron had become.

He had always treated him like a son. Trusted him. Loved him. Had even held his tongue about his secret, Zenoria.

They wanted to take Richard Bolitho dead or alive. His name alone was the one danger they feared at sea.

He walked to the window and watched the breeze stirring dead leaves around the overgrown, sun-scorched grass.

He thought of the new American frigates, some of which might be right here in the bay.

He rested his forehead against the dusty glass. Aloud he said brokenly, “Oh God . . . I’m to be the bait . . .” When Arthur Chimmo came with Adam’s midday meal he could barely prevent his hands from shaking.

With one eye on the door he whispered, “You wouldn’t tell

’em what I done, would you, sir? You ’eard what ’appened to your cox’n!”

“Easy, man. I have burned the note. But I must know what is happening.”

Adam could hear the officer’s boots tapping outside the door.

A different lieutenant for the afternoon, one who was usually dis-interested, probably glad to have an easy duty away from the war and its risks.

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“All I can say is, it were a sailor who brought the message. If anybody finds out . . .” He did not need to finish it.

A sailor. Theirs or ours, he wondered.

It was true that the men involved, including the quivering Chimmo, were risking their lives even by discussing it.

Chimmo had made up his mind, and said very heavily, “It will be while you’re here, Cap’n.” He nodded to emphasise each word.

“While you’re here.”

Adam’s mind was working at a feverish pace. No wonder the grave-faced Captain Brice had obviously disapproved. One of the old salt-horse sea officers. He almost smiled, but the sudden excitement was too much for it. As my father would have been, had he lived. As my uncle is now. A man who could still maintain standards and old loyalties despite the endless war and the carnage it brought everywhere in the world.

“I’ll see you don’t regret this . . .” Chimmo put down a plate of steaming beef with difficulty and shook his head wildly. “No, sir, nary a word! I’m ’appy in this country, ’appy as any man with one pin. I’d not want to go back.

Beggin’ on the streets o’ Bristol. What would my old mates think of me, eh?”

Adam touched his fat arm. “Go your way. I’ve said and heard nothing.” He looked at his food, his appetite gone. “I wonder who this man is?”

Chimmo had his fingers on the door. “He knows you, Cap’n.” Through the door Adam heard the lieutenant complaining,

“Pity you don’t pay as much attention to the officers here, Arthur!” Then he laughed. “Another four hours and I’m off watch!” Not surprisingly, Chimmo said nothing.

That afternoon the doctor came to make his usual examination. He told Adam he was well satisfied with the wound’s progress, but he seemed vaguely troubled.

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might as well share the news. You’re to leave here tomorrow. You are strong enough to travel, but I hope somebody has made certain that the regular inspections continue, for a while anyway.” Adam watched him as he put away his bag of instruments.

“Where to?”

The doctor shrugged. “I’m not trusted to be told, apparently!” Adam was satisfied that the doctor knew nothing. He was an open sort of man, unused as yet to the demands war would make upon him.

So it was soon. He tried to hold on to the fading glimmer of hope. Or never.

But he said, “Thank you for all you’ve done, Doctor Derriman. I could easily have gone over the side.” Derriman smiled. “It was the French surgeon in Unity you should thank. A man I’d like to meet, that’s for sure.” They shook hands and Adam said, “I shall miss our talks.” Derriman studied him and said, “So shall I.” Then he was gone.

Chimmo brought some cheap wine, which he had got from the officers’ mess.

He moved awkwardly around the room, touching things, peering out of the window.

With a great effort he said, “Goin’ to blow cold tonight, Cap’n.

Best keep your clothes close by—too early for fires, the major says. It’s all right for him with his fine ’ouse an’ mistress to keep

’im warm o’ nights!”

Adam stared at him. It was tonight. “Thank you, Arthur.” Chimmo watched him worriedly. “I just ’opes . . .” The door closed.

Adam examined his feelings. Like preparing for battle. The terrible calm while any captain considers the odds on success or failure. Death.

Hope, my friend? It is all we can ever have in the end.

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He lay on the bed and sipped the wine, watching the square of daylight above the stable roof opposite the room.

The duty lieutenant opened and locked the door without a word, his feet retreating down the stairs where he could be heard talking with one of his guards.

The light faded, and the breeze hissed amongst the leaves; a light rain pattered against the glass. He had sometimes thought of escaping from the window, but without help he could get nowhere.

Suppose somebody asked for payment? He had nothing; even his watch had gone, probably while he had lain in Unity’s sickbay.

He sat up on the bed and began to pull on his shoes.

He touched his pocket and felt her memory stab his heart like a barb. All he had was her glove.

“Oh, Zenoria, my dearest love, I love thee so. I will never forget . . .”

He stared at the window, barely able to breathe as something tapped softly and then more insistently against it.

Adam slipped the catch and pushed it open. He tensed, expecting the crash of a musket or an outcry in the yard below.

There was a rope dangling from somewhere above the window. He leaned out and peered down where it had vanished into the early darkness.

“Can you climb? Are you able?”

The man was a black shadow, but Adam could tell from the edge in his voice that he was very aware of danger or sudden death.

He whispered, “I’ll manage!”

He swung from the sill, and almost cried out as his wound awakened to torment him.

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for the man’s strong grip. When he looked, the rope had disappeared.

“I’ve got a cart outside. Keep with me.” He thrust a pistol into Adam’s hand. “If we fail, you’ll be on your own, see?” Adam blundered through a gate, the one he had seen from his window, and out on to the road. He could feel the sweat running down his body, soaking his shirt like a rag, the weakness of the months and days trying to slow him down.

He felt the rain on his lips, and tasted salt in the air.

The sea. Just get me to the sea.

A second man waited by a small horse-drawn cart. He was equally faceless and dark, impatient to go.

He snapped, “All quiet, John. No alarm!” Adam pictured the empty room. With luck he might not even be missed until early morning when the soldiers beat up the camp nearby.

He felt his hands shaking badly. He was free. No matter what happened now or what became of him, he was free.

He allowed the man to help him into the back of the cart. A battered hat was jammed on his head and he gasped as a liberal measure of rum was poured over him.

His guide chuckled. “If we’re stopped, you are too drunk to talk.” His voice hardened. “But have the piece ready!”

“Ready, Tom?”

He turned as Adam asked, “But why? The risks—what might happen to you—”

He stifled a laugh. “Why, Captain Bolitho, sir! Don’t you recognise your old cox’n, John Bankart? What else could I do?” The cart began to move and Adam lay back on a pile of sacks and bales of straw, believing he was losing his mind.

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coxswain. It had broken Allday’s heart when he had left for America. Adam could remember what he had said about it. An Englishman you was born, and an Englishman you’ll die. And here they were, somewhere outside Boston, and heading down towards the sea.

He clutched the glove in his pocket.

I’m coming, Zenoria! I promised I would.

He had lost all idea of time, and had to hold on to a wall when they helped him out of the cart.

The man called Tom said, “What d’you think?” Then Bankart said, “In a bad way. Been through the thresher an’ no mistake.”

“Suppose the boat’s shoved off? Got scared or somethin’—it’s one hell of a risk!”

Bankart sounded quite calm. “I’ll stay with him. I owe him that much.”

Adam barely heard him. Just the muffled scrape of oars, fierce whispers, before he was dragged down into a small boat.

The other man called hoarsely, “Good luck, John, you mad bugger!”

Allday’s son moved the battered hat to shield Adam’s face from the rain, which was already heavier.

The men at the oars when they spoke to one another used a language he did not recognise. Not Spanish. Probably Portuguese.

He managed to ask, “Are you really staying with me?” Bankart grinned, but had it been daylight his sadness would have been very evident.

“Certainly, sir.” He straightened his back. “As my dad would say, ‘An’ that’s no error!’”

Adam pulled the hat away and opened his mouth to the rain.

Free.

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15 T rick for trick

MATTHEW SCARLETT, Indomitable’s first lieutenant, ducked his head as he stepped into the wardroom and tossed his hat to one of the mess-boys. Despite the cool northerly wind which had filled the sails well enough for the whole forenoon watch, the air between decks was dank and humid, the Atlantic’s warning of what was to come.

Before dusk they would rendezvous with two of the squadron’s other frigates, Zest and Reaper, and ride it out for the night.

He sat down and thought savagely, For all the bloody good it will do. The only vessel they had sighted on this bright September day had been the busy schooner Reynard, pausing only briefly to exchange despatches before hurrying on to the next point of command.

The mess-boy placed a goblet of red wine before him and waited for instructions.

Scarlett barely heard him and snapped, “Salt pork again? I’ll begin to look like a pig very soon!” He stared aft, as if he could see the captain discussing the latest despatches with the admiral. He swallowed half the tepid wine without even tasting it. Avery the flag-lieutenant would be there too. Of course.

Could he speak privately with the captain? After what he had told him when he had taken command at Plymouth, might he be prepared to listen?

The two Royal Marine officers were dozing in their chairs, while Jeremy Laroche, the third lieutenant, sat at the end of the table, idly shuffling and re-shuffling a pack of cards.

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been sheer mischance. Had it been dark, nothing might have happened at all.