For My Country's Freedom (5 page)

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
Valkyrie
's captain and took charge to fight the ship.

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

He saw the satisfaction in Bethune's eyes.

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

“I do. If I can explain . . .”

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

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

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

Bethune asked suddenly, “Does your eye trouble you?”

He realised he had been rubbing it.

“A chill, I expect.”

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

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

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

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

Bolitho sensed the contempt he held for his “betters.”

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

3 THE OCEAN IS
A
LWAYS THERE

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

“I apologise for my lateness, Sir Richard.”

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

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

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

He had shown her Tyacke's note. She had said, “Let him decide, Richard. I think you should wait for Avery to tell you himself. It is what you wanted . . . I know how much you need James Tyacke, but I do not envy him what he must do.”

They had stood side by side on the iron balcony of the Chelsea house and watched the misty first light across the Thames. London came alive long before dawn, but it was a leisurely awakening here. A man with his little cart and tubs of fresh oysters, setting up his stall for the various cooks and housekeepers to sample his wares. Hay for the stables, a loud-voiced knife-grinder, then a small troop of cavalry horses being taken on morning exercise to the park, looking strangely bare without their saddles and bright accoutrements. She had been wearing her heavy robe, but even so it had been chilly so close to the slow-moving river. He had held her and felt her shiver, but not only from the air.

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

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

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

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

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

He considered it, and knew that Adam would not wish to leave his beloved
Anemone,
even though there would hardly be a familiar face left now in her whole company.

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

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

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

Avery almost felt sorry for the clerk. Almost.

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

Bolitho sat down and heard Avery move into a chair at his elbow. There was no sunlight through the great windows, nor were there any glittering chandeliers to dazzle his injured eye. One or two of the officers nodded to him, pleased to see him safe and apparently in excellent health. Others would welcome him for different reasons. It was common enough for a clash of personalities to cause an uproar in this powerful place. Clerks, a secretary or two and somebody's flag-lieutenant hovered beside a pillar, attempting to remain unnoticed.

Avery whispered, “My uncle is here, Sir Richard . . .”

At that moment Sir Graham Bethune rose to his feet and rested one palm on his table. Even that looked elegant, but Bolitho wondered if he was as confident as he appeared.

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

A heavily-built admiral, whom Bolitho recognised as the Controller, said bluntly, “We are here to discuss future tactics, if—and for my own part it is a very doubtful
if —
the Americans show intentions of war against our King.” He glared furiously at two post-captains who were whispering together, enjoying the fact that there was no longer a King to govern them. “The United States would be insane to declare war on such a powerful navy!”

The word
insane
brought more gleeful whispers from the two captains.

Bethune said smoothly, “Sir Paul Sillitoe is come amongst us to explain more clearly what we are about.”

Sillitoe stood up lightly, his hooded eyes scanning the gathering like a man who has something better to do.

“The situation is simple enough. Between Napoleon's land blockade and his very real threats against those of his neighbours who might dare to allow our ships to enter their ports for the purposes of trade, and our own sea blockade, we have divided the peoples of Europe into friends and foes.”

Bolitho watched him, thinking of him with Catherine when he had escorted her to Whitechapel. A man who could be an enemy, but one who was obviously so secure in his position as adviser to the Prince Regent that he spoke almost with disdain.

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

All heads turned towards a small, dark-clad clerk at the end table. “With respect, Sir Paul, I cannot keep up with you!”

Sillitoe almost smiled. “Something I have thought characteristic of this edifice on many occasions!”

There was laughter and hand-clapping. In a lull Bethune leaned over and whispered,
“Convince them.”

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

He heard himself speaking, his voice carrying without effort.

“We need more frigates. It is always the way, but this time the need is all the more urgent. I am certain that the Americans will force a war. Napoleon cannot hold out much longer unless he receives their support to stretch our resources still further. Likewise, the Americans will have left it too late if they drag their feet.”

The Controller held up a quill pen. “I must protest, Sir Richard. Nobody would dispute your gallantry and many successes at sea, but
planning
is the key to victory, not necessarily the broadside!”

A voice called, “Hear—hear!”

Encouraged, the Controller said, “We have many fine ships of the line on the stocks or completing every week of the year.” He paused and raised his eyebrows. “Frigates
before
the line of battle, is
that
what you advocate? For if so . . .”

Bolitho answered quietly, “The Americans laid down
74
s but quickly saw the folly of it. All were converted to big frigates, and carry
44
guns, but are said to be pierced for ten additional heavy guns.” There was not a sound now. He continued, “We crossed swords last year with one of their largest, the U.S.S.
Unity.
I can vouch for her fire power,” his voice was suddenly hard and bitter, “as can many of our brave fellows!”

A voice called, “What
about
the line-of-battle, Sir Richard?”

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

He said, flatly, “It is finished. The day of the leviathans sailing slowly to a costly and terrible embrace is over. We'll not see another Trafalgar, I am certain of it.”

He looked around at their intent faces. To some the truth of what he had said would seem like blasphemy. To those who had faced close-action it was something no one dared to admit.

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

Bethune asked, “Is that why you want
Indomitable
for your flagship?”

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

Bethune smiled but his eyes were on the others.

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

There was a wave of cheering and stamping.

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

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

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

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

He said, “I will give you everything I can, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho looked at him keenly, and afterwards Bethune thought he had been pierced through by those clear grey eyes.

“I have everything, Graham.
And I want it to last.
”

Bethune stared after him.
He called me by name.
As he had sometimes done in
Sparrow.

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

Avery watched him. Sillitoe was not interested in his opinion. Eventually Sillitoe touched his arm, nothing more, but it was a kinder gesture than he had ever been offered before.

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

Bolitho joined him. “Is something wrong?”

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