For My Country’s Freedom

2. More Than Loyalty

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

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

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

"We shall walk the rest of the way."

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

Bolitho stepped down and felt the edge of the wind on his face. The rolling hills beyond the River Tamar were lush green. Just a river, and yet it separated him from Cornwall, his home. It looked dark and muddy, hardly surprising after all the heavy rain.

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 He wondered if Avery had been aware of his withdrawn silences during the uncomfortable journey.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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The Golden Lion, Sir Richard?"

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

"I-I only meant…"

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

"I know. I am all aback today." He looked towards the town. "But some other place, I think."

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

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

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

There were shouts, and Bolitho realised that the marine picket

was watching him nervously. A burly figure in lieutenant’s uniform but without a hat had appeared on deck, pushing seamen and dockyard workers aside as he roared, "Man the side, you damned hawbucks! Why was I not told?"

Bolitho put one foot on the brow and raised his hat to the small quarterdeck.

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

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

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

Bolitho shook his hand. "How was London?"

Ozanne beamed, but his eyes were wary. "I was forgettin’, Sir Richard. Captain Adam was here. Anemone is lyin’ over there." He considered the question. "I didn’t take to it much. But they seemed pleased to have the despatches." He shook his big head. "Do they always rush about like chickens at th’Admiralty, Sir Richard?"

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

"I’ll call him…"

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

Familiar smells here, which even the dockyard could not

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

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

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

Tyacke reached into a cupboard and produced a bottle and two goblets.

"Took this off a smuggler, sir. Seems like good stuff."

As he turned the reflected glare from the water lit up the left side of his face. Like Avery’s it was strong, with deep crow’s-feet around the eye to mark the years at sea on so many oceans.

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

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

The brandy was strong and fiery. They clinked goblets and

Tyacke said, "A willing foe and sea room, sir! It’s all I ask!"

It was strange to be drinking the familiar toast here in the dockyard. Feet thudded across the quarterdeck only inches away, and great coils of cordage were being dragged over the planking and hoisted aloft to the rigger’s crew.

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

"They’re taking my ship-is that it, sir?"

So easily said, but it was breaking his heart. Even now he was looking around in the shadows as if to avoid the frail sunshine falling through the skylight. So many things must have happened here. So many decisions, overwhelming to some, perhaps, with only themselves against a whole ocean. But not to this man.

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

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

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

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

Tyacke poured some more brandy and waited.

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

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

Tyacke was an unmoving silhouette against the thick glass.

"But you will, sir." He leaned forward, so that his face hovered in the sunshine. "Rank has no part in this."

Bolitho said, "No, none. We have done too much together. And when you took us from the sea I was already far too deeply in your debt." He thought of her in the tossing longboat, her sailor’s garb plastered to her body while they had fought the ocean and the nearness of death together.

He heard himself say quietly, "I want you to take promotion…" He hesitated. It was slipping away. "And be my flag-captain. There is none other I want." Need, need. Tell him… The words seemed to fill the cabin. "That is what I came to ask."

Tyacke stared at him. "There is no one I would rather serve, sir. But…" He appeared to shake his head. "Aye, that one word but says it all. Without your trust in me I would have given in to self-pity. But without the freedom of this vessel-without Larne- I find it too hard a choice."

Bolitho reached for his coat. Avery would be looking for him. His involvement could do nothing but harm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I was delayed, Mr Ozanne. I hope Sir Richard is not too displeased."

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

He said bluntly, "Sir Richard left long ago. He said to tell you he would be at the port admiral’s house."

Avery tensed. Something was wrong. Badly wrong. Otherwise…

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

"He’s down there now, drinking. Worse than I ever seen him. Can’t make no sense out of him. I’m fair troubled."

Avery thought of Bolitho’s expression when he had gone to board this ship. Anxious, despairing, a different man from the one he had known at sea, or at the house in Falmouth.

"Shall I have a word?" He expected a blunt rebuff.

Instead Ozanne said roughly, "I’d be obliged, but watch your step. There might be a squall or two."

Avery nodded in acknowledgement. It was something Allday had once said to him as a warning.

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

"Who is that out there? Lay aft if you must!"

He called, "Avery, sir. Flag-lieutenant!" He saw the flickering candle and Tyacke’s disfigured face turning away as he groped for a bottle.

"Send you, did he?"

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

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

"’Fraid it’s only Geneva. I’ve seen off the cognac." He gestured vaguely. "Shift yourself. Can’t see you well enough from here."

Avery stood up, ducking to avoid the beams. The poor bastard. He doesn’t want me to see that side of his face.

Tyacke said thickly, "You limped. Of course, I’d forgotten. You were wounded, weren’t you? And then there was the court martial." He repeated, "Not your fault."

"Anything I can do, sir?"

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

Avery nodded, afraid to break the spell.

"I’ve seen him often enough, when he thinks Sir Richard isn’t looking, holding his chest sometimes, hardly able to draw breath ’cause of what the Dons did to him." His voice was louder, and Avery imagined Ozanne by the skylight, listening, hoping.

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

"He’s a fine man, sir. I’ll not stand by and hear him slandered!"

Tyacke was on his feet in a flash. He seized Avery’s lapels and dragged him across the table so that they were inches apart.

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

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

Tyacke was shaking him with gentle firmness. "Look at me. Look… at… me."

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

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

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

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

But the cold grip around his heart would not release him. There was so much at stake. Too much.

He said, "You spoke of our misfortunes just now…"

Tyacke shook himself. "I meant no disrespect to you."

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

"Damn me, I know that."

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

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

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

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

"He said nothing to me about it."

Avery wanted to stay but knew he must leave. "He’s very like you, sir. A proud man above all else. So it was not pity you see." He heard Ozanne breathing heavily in the passageway. "He needs you, now more than ever. Would you have him beg?"

He could feel Ozanne’s relief as he brushed past him, afraid that Tyacke would summon him back and begin all over again. Also, he knew he was going to be sick.

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

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

He asked wearily, "What happened?"

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

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

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

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

He gave a great sigh and snuffed out the candle.

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

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

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

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

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

"My God, Sir Richard, you make my heart sing to see you so well and rested! I have to admit to a certain nervousness at the prospect of meeting you for the first time since my appointment. Those far-off days when you were my captain and I was a bumbling midshipman are hard to shake off!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just the merest flicker. Nothing more.

Bethune nodded. "I would greatly like to meet her."

Bolitho thought of Godschale sitting at the same table, complaining of the weight of his responsibilities and probably

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

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

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

Bethune said, "I have read all your letters and despatches, particularly your views on blockade and the protection of trade routes. You are correct, of course, Sir Richard." Again the infectious smile, a lieutenant posing as a vice-admiral. "But it will be up to you to convince their lordships."

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

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

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

"He is to be promoted to rear-admiral, and deservedly so, as you made very clear in your original report."

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

Bethune took another tall glass of wine. "I appreciate your convictions concerning the United States. By the way, your recent

adversary Captain Nathan Beer is promoted commodore, I hear."

Bolitho remembered the moment of fear, the splinters like barbs in his face, Herrick lurching on deck, his amputated stump bleeding as he dismissed the Valkyries captain and took charge to fight the ship.

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

He saw the satisfaction in Bethune’s eyes.

Bethune said quietly, "You think there will be war?"

"I do. If I can explain…"

Bethune smiled. "Not to me, Sir Richard. I am convinced. The others will be more concerned with expense than expediency."

Bolitho thought of Catherine. She would be at Chelsea, or very close to it by now. Just before he had left for Plymouth she had mentioned the surgeon in London.

"It can do no harm. Perhaps he may even be able to help."

Bethune asked suddenly, "Does your eye trouble you?"

He realised he had been rubbing it.

"A chill, I expect."

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

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

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

Bethune was saying, "Your choice of flagship, the Indomitable, did surprise me a little, although I can fathom your reasons. But some of our betters may suggest otherwise, or say perhaps that you have a penchant for elderly vessels."

Bolitho sensed the contempt he held for his "betters."

Bethune added, "I shall give you my support, but I hope you knew that. I will suggest that two other elderly vessels, Victory

and Hyperion, have made milestones in history!"

A servant entered and looked at the vice-admiral nervously. "Lieutenant Avery, Sir Richard Bolitho’s flag-lieutenant is in attendance, Sir Graham…"

Bethune smiled calmly. "A brave man to venture amongst senior officers." He shot Bolitho a quick glance, "And friends."

Bolitho got to his feet as Avery entered the big room, his cocked hat crushed beneath his arm.

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

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

He said, "Letter by fast courier, Sir Richard." Their eyes met. "From Plymouth."

Bolitho took it, aware that Bethune was watching him.

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

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

His signature was scrawled across the bottom, barely legible.

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

Bethune smiled. "Perfume, Sir Richard? Dare I ask?"

Bolitho shook his head. It was cognac. "With your permission, Sir Graham, I would give you a sentiment."

The glasses had been refilled, and another had appeared for Avery. Bethune remarked, "I am all curiosity!"

Bolitho felt his eye pricking, not injury now, but for a different reason.

"To the most courageous man I have ever known."

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

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

"So let’s be about it!"