For My Country's Freedom (33 page)

Men peered at one another, looking for friends and mess-mates. Not a single man had fallen and Bolitho heard a ragged cheer: defiance, pride, and the overwhelming madness of a fight at sea.

“Fire!”

Allday exclaimed, “The bugger's mizzen is goin', sir!”

The
Baltimore
's steering must have been damaged or its helmsmen smashed down in that last broadside. A few guns were still firing, but the timing was gone, the ability to change tack destroyed with it.

Bolitho wiped his face with his sleeve, and saw the long orange tongues spitting through the smoke beyond the big American. Steady and merciless, gun by gun, into the drifting
Baltimore
's unprotected stern. Bolitho could imagine Adam sighting and firing each gun himself. Remembering what he had lost and could never reclaim.

Scarlett called wildly, “
Reaper
's struck, sir!” He sounded half mad with disbelief. “The bastards!”

Bolitho lowered his glass.
Reaper
had been overwhelmed. All but dismasted, her sails like blackened rags, she was falling down-wind, her ensign gone, her upper deck like a slaughterhouse. Smashed guns, men and pieces of men, her brave captain, James Hamilton, in a game made for others far younger, killed on the quarterdeck where he had fought his ship to the end. He should have remained in the H.E.I.C. This was not for him. Bolitho looked at his hand on the rail, gripping until it was bloodless.
Not for me either.

“Run out! Take aim!
Fire!
”

Bolitho coughed as more smoke swirled inboard through the open ports. Acrid, savage, blinding.

Reaper
had had no chance. A small sixth-rate of
26
guns against Beer's powerful artillery.

He wiped his eyes and saw Avery watching him, surprisingly calm. Distancing himself from the shattered ships and the floundering bodies that marked
Woodpecker
's sudden end, as he did from many other experiences.

“All reloaded, sir!” Scarlett was staring from Tyacke to his admiral.

A silence had fallen over the ship; even the wind had lulled for the moment. Drifting through smoke as dense as fog, with only the muffled sounds of musket fire and swivels, and the smells of burning timber. Like the gateway to hell itself.

Then he saw
Unity
's topgallants, her sky-scrapers, punctured here and there but strangely serene above the smoke and carnage it concealed.

“Stand by, lads!”

Bolitho watched Tyacke's sword, wondering in those few seconds why fate had decided that this vital meeting was to be.

But the sword fell from Tyacke's hand as the smoke exploded in one huge broadside. A world of screaming madness, of falling rigging and razor-edged splinters.

Men dying, or being pounded into bloody gruel even as they stood mesmerised by the enormity of the bombardment.

There were twisting, unreal shapes as the maintopmast thundered down over the side, the corpses of some marines tossed from the nets and into the sea like human flotsam.

Hands pulling him to his feet, although he could not recall having fallen. His hat was gone, and one of his proud epaulettes. There was bright blood on his breeches, but no pain, and he saw Midshipman Deane staring at him from the rail, half his young body pulped into something obscene.

Bolitho heard Avery calling, but it seemed far away, although their faces all but touched.

“Are you hit, sir?”

He gasped, “I think not.” He dragged out the old sword and saw Allday crouching near by, his cutlass already drawn while he peered half blind into the smoke.

Somebody yelled, “
Repel boarders!
Stand-to, marines, face your front!”

Bolitho wiped his face again with his sleeve. There was still order and life in the ship. Axes flashed through the trailing cordage and shattered spars alongside, and he heard the boatswain bellow, “More men on the forebraces 'ere!”

Tyacke was also on his feet, his coat badly torn by the trailing halliards which had almost clawed him over the side.

But the guns were still loaded, waiting to fire when Tyacke dropped his sword.

“Now!”
Bolitho would have fallen but for Allday's grip on his arm. The deck was slippery and the sweet smell of death was stronger even than the burned powder.

Tyacke stared at him and then waved his blade.
“Open fire!”

Unity
's shadow seemed to tower above them, sails already being brailed up as the Americans lined the gangway and prepared to board the drifting
Indomitable.

Tyacke's voice seemed to rouse a memory, a discipline which had all but gone. With the hulls barely yards apart the roar of
Indomitable
's twenty-four-pounders sounded like the climax to a nightmare.

It seemed to give individual strength where before there had been only the raw fury of war. Wild-eyed, the
Indomitable
's remaining men and the marines from the nettings charged, yelling and cheering, blades clashing and stabbing as they swarmed on to the enemy's deck. Musket and pistol-shots brought down a few of them, and one hot blast of canister cut down Captain du Cann and some of his marines before the frenzied mob overwhelmed the swivel, and hacked the solitary gunner to bloodied rags.

Suddenly there were more cheers, English voices this time, and for one dazed instant Bolitho imagined relief had arrived from the convoy.

But it was
Zest,
grappling the big
Unity
from the opposite side. Adam and his new company were already swarming across the gap.

Allday parried a cutlass to one side and hacked down the man with such a powerful blow that the blade almost severed his neck. But it was too much for him. The pain seared through his chest, and he could barely see which way he was facing.

Avery was trying to help, and Allday wanted to thank him, to do what he had always done, to stay close to Bolitho.

He tried to shout but it was only a croak. He saw it all as if it were a series of pictures. Scarlett yelling and slashing his way over the blood-red deck, his hanger like molten silver in the misty sunshine. Then the point of a pike, motionless between two struggling seamen: like a snake, Allday thought. Then it stabbed the lieutenant with the speed of light. Scarlett dropped his sword and clung to the pike even as it was dragged from his stomach, his scream silenced as he pitched down beneath the stamping, hacking figures.

He saw Sir Richard fighting a tall American lieutenant, their blades ringing and scraping as each sought the other's weakness. Avery saw it too, and dragged a pistol from beneath his coat.

Tyacke shouted, “The flag! Cut it down!” He turned and saw another officer running at him with his sword. Almost contemptuously, he waited for the man to falter at his terrible scars and momentarily lose his nerve before he ran him through, as he would have done a slaver.

There was one great deafening cheer which seemed unending, ear-splitting. Men hugging one another, others peering round, cut and dazed, not knowing whether they had won or lost, barely knowing friend from foe.

Then silence, the sounds of battle and suffering held at bay like another enemy.

Bolitho went to Allday's assistance and, with Avery, got him to his feet.

Avery said simply, “He was trying to protect you, sir.”

But Allday was crawling on his knees, his hands and legs soaked with blood, his eyes suddenly desperate and pleading.

“
John!
It's me, John! Don't leave us now!”

Bolitho watched, unable to speak as Allday knelt, and with great gentleness gathered his son's body into his arms.

Bolitho said, “Here, let me, old friend.” But the eyes that met his were blank, like a total stranger's.

He said only, “Not now, Sir Richard. I just needs a few minutes with him.” He brushed the hair from his son's face, so still now, caught at the moment of impact.

Bolitho felt a hand on his shoulder, and saw that it was Tyacke's.

“What?”
The enemy had surrendered, but it made no sense. Only Allday's terrible hurt was real.

Tyacke glanced at Allday, on this crowded and fought-over deck, so alone with his grief.

He said abruptly, “I'm sorry, Sir Richard.” He waited for Bolitho's attention to return to him. “Commodore Beer is asking for you.” He looked up at the sky, clearing now to lay bare their wounds and damage. If he was surprised to be alive, he did not reveal it. He said, “He's dying.” Then he picked up a fallen boarding-axe and drove it with furious bitterness into the quarterdeck ladder.
“And for what?”

Commodore Nathan Beer was propped against the broken compass-box when Bolitho found him, his surgeon and a bandaged lieutenant trying to make him comfortable.

Beer looked up at him. “I thought we'd meet eventually.” He tried to offer his hand but as if it was too heavy, it fell back into his lap.

Bolitho stooped down and took the hand. “It had to end in victory. For one of us.” He glanced at the surgeon. “I must thank you for saving my nephew's life, doctor. Even in war it is necessary to love another.”

The commodore's hand was heavy in his, the life running out of it like sand from a glass.

Then he opened his eyes and said in a strong voice, “Your nephew—I remember now. There was a lady's glove.”

Bolitho glanced at the French surgeon. “Cannot anything be done for him?”

The surgeon shook his head, and afterwards Bolitho recalled seeing tears in his eyes.

He gazed into Beer's lined face. A man with an ocean of experience. He thought of Tyacke's bitterness and anger.
And for what?

“Someone he cared for very much . . .” But Beer's expression, interested and eager, had become still and unmoving.

Allday was helping him to his feet. “Set bravely, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho saw Lieutenant Daubeny walk past, the Stars and Stripes draped over one shoulder.

He touched Allday's arm, and then realised that Adam was watching them across the fallen.

“Yes, old friend. It gets harder.” He pointed at Daubeny. “Here, lay the flag over the commodore. I'll not part him from it now!”

He climbed slowly across the fallen spars, and on to
Indomitable
's scarred deck.

Then he turned and grasped Allday's arm. “Aye,
set bravely.
” He looked at the watching faces. What did they really think? Pride, or was it conceit: the need to win, no matter what?

He touched the locket beneath his stained shirt, which had been clean only hours ago.

Aloud he said quietly, “I'll never leave you, until life itself is denied me.”

Despite all this carnage, or perhaps because of it, he knew she would hear him.

E
PILOGUE

L
ADY
Catherine Somervell stared at her reflection in the looking-glass and brushed her long dark hair, her eyes critical, as if searching for a fault.
Brush—brush—brush,
automatic and without feeling. It was just another morning, a bitter one too if the frost around the bedroom windows was any gauge.

Just another day. Perhaps a letter would come. In her heart she knew it would not.

In two days' time it would be December; after that did not bear thinking of.
Another year.
Separated from the only man she loved, could ever love.

It had been a hard winter so far. She would ride around the estate and then go to Nancy. Lewis, the King of Cornwall, was ill. He had suffered a stroke, the possibility of which his doctor had warned him often enough in the past.

Catherine had sat with him, reading to him, feeling the frustration and the impatience of the man who, more than most, had lived life to the full. He had muttered, “No more hunting, no more riding—where's the point of going on?”

She had said, “There is Nancy to think of, Lewis.
Try,
for her sake.”

She crossed the room now to the tall cheval mirror, the one decorated with carved thistles, a gift from Captain James Bolitho to his Scottish bride. In spite of the cold air which even an early fire in the grate could not dispel, Catherine opened her gown and let it fall over her arms. Again the searching stare, like despair, like fear. She cupped her fine breasts in her hands and pressed them together as he had done so often.

Will he still love me like that? Will he believe me beautiful?

But when, when, when?

The news from North America had been vague and sparse. Reports had criticised the inability of the smaller English frigates to maintain their usual superiority over the new American vessels, which were more powerful and skilfully handled, but that war was a long way from England. The news-sheets were more preoccupied with Wellington's continued success against the French, and the prospect of an overwhelming victory within months.

Catherine dressed herself slowly and with care. It was strange not to have Sophie helping her, starting each day with her uncaring chatter. She would have to find another maid. Perhaps in London, someone in whom she might see herself again.

She opened a drawer and saw Richard's gift lying there. She took it out and carried it to the window. The freezing air took her breath away but she ignored it and opened the velvet box. His last present to her, the fan set with diamonds. When it hung between her breasts she felt both proud and defiant. Together they had defied society, but had won the heart of a nation.

She kissed the pendant and fought against the tears.
I must hold on. It is just another day.
In their simple way the people on the estate, some of them crippled sailors from Richard's own ships, seemed to turn to her, trusting her to look after them with so many of the menfolk at sea or forming squares on Wellington's fields of battle.

She glanced down at the yard. Two horses being groomed, a carter delivering cider for the estate workers, not that there was much to do in this bitter weather.

And beyond, the naked trees, ragged spectres on the headland. Beyond them, the sea would soon show itself as something solid, like water penned in a great dam.

How will he see me when he first comes through those doors?
She offered a wistful smile.
More likely he will be worried about how I shall receive him.
He dreaded getting older; even his wounded eye was like a cruel taunt, a sign of the years between them. She sighed and left the room. The dark portraits were all here, watching her pass; the Bolitho faces. She paused on the staircase.

And what of Adam? Would he ever recover?

She saw Bryan Ferguson, the steward, about to leave the house: he had probably been discussing the day's arrangements with his wife Grace, the housekeeper. A man so full of energy and enthusiasm, despite his single arm. He grinned at her and touched his forehead. “You caught me out, my lady! I was not expecting you this early.”

“
Is
it early?”

Ferguson watched her. So beautiful even with her rough riding-cloak over her arm. Sad too. The other face that few people ever saw.

She said, “I'm ready if you are, Bryan. I have no feeling for breakfast.”

He said, “Don't you let my Grace hear that, my lady—she'll take it badly!”

They walked out into the grey light and turned towards the office where Ferguson kept his estate accounts and records.

She saw his eyes fall to the breast of her gown and the glittering pendant she had hung there almost without realising it.

She said, “I know you think me foolish to wear it. I might lose it somewhere. It's only . . .” She turned suddenly, her face terribly pale. “What was
that?
”

Ferguson wished his wife was here. She would know what to do.

He listened as a hollow bang echoed across the headland, and imagined that he felt the ground shake.

He stared as Young Matthew came hurrying from the stable yard. “Did you hear?” He saw Lady Catherine and touched his hat. “Beg pardon, m'lady, I didn't know you was here too!”

Another bang. The echo going on and on until lost inland.

She asked, “A ship in distress?” Her mouth was quite dry and her heart was throbbing with an almost physical pain.

Ferguson took her arm. “Best you come inside where it's warm.” He shook his head. “That's no ship, my lady, that's the St Mawes battery.” He tried to control his racing thoughts, hearing nothing but the regular boom of cannon fire.

Young Matthew looked around as other figures emerged into the crisp morning. There was a sudden silence, and she heard herself ask, “What does it mean, Bryan? Please tell me.”

Grace Ferguson had arrived at last, her plump arms outstretched as Ferguson said hoarsely, “Seventeen shots, my lady, an admiral's salute. That's what
that
is!”

They all stared at one another with disbelief until Young Matthew exclaimed, “Well, the port admiral from Plymouth wouldn't warrant that!” He grinned hugely. “He's come
home,
m'lady! He's
here!
”

Grace Ferguson said, “You're not riding down there in your state, m'lady!”

Her husband said, “Matthew, the carriage . . .”

Catherine walked slowly down to the low wall where her roses would bloom again in the spring.

Coming home. It was not possible. But it was.

I must not let him see me like this.
She could feel the tears on her cheeks and lips, like salt from the sea.

She said, “Let us go down, Bryan. I want to watch him come in.”

The horses were stamping and shaking their harness as they were backed into the shafts of the handsome light carriage with the Bolitho crest on the door.

I am here, dearest of men. No more will you come home to an empty house.

The tiny village of Fallowfield on the Helford River was quiet and still, protected from the freezing south-westerly by the hillside and the trees, although the wind had sent even the hardiest fisherman scurrying for harbour.

The little inn with its proud sign, the Old Hyperion, was as always like a haven, used mostly by farm-workers and passing merchants.

In the open doorway, Unis Allday's one-legged brother John stood unmoving in the cold. Years of marching and fighting with his regiment had hardened him against it, and he was more interested in how many customers they would fetch in this day than in the weather.

He had heard Allday's child, Kate, chuckling from the kitchen. A happy little soul, at the moment anyway.

Unis came into the parlour and regarded him thoughtfully. “I'll fetch you some ale. Tapped it this morning. Just to your taste.” She wiped her scrubbed hands with a towel. “Quiet, ain't it? Hope we gets more folk in here later on.”

A horse clattered along the narrow road. John saw the glint of buttons, the familiar hat pulled down against the breeze off the sea. One of the Coastguard.

He touched his hat, smiled at the two figures in the doorway and called, “Did you hear the excitement over yonder at Falmouth? Won't do your trade no good though—there's a King's ship in Carrick Roads so the press are bound to be abroad tonight!” He cantered away, unmoved by the misfortunes of others.

Unis ran out after him, in her apron, something she would never normally do.

“What
ship,
Ned?”

He twisted round in the saddle. “Frigate! The
Zest!
”

The one-legged ex-soldier put his arm round her shoulders and guided her back into the parlour.

“I know what you were thinking, Unis love, but . . .”

She pulled herself away and stood motionless in the centre of the room, her fingers clasped as if she were in prayer.

“John, remember that letter we had?
Zest?
She be one of Sir Richard's ships!”

She stared around. “Must change the bed. John, you fetch some of the new bread, tell Annie to keep an eye on young Kate!”

He protested, but to no avail.

She stared past him. “Through
that door,
my man is going to come this day! As God is my witness, I just knows it!” There were tears too, but she was more excited than anxious.

They had two customers, carpenters working on the little church where Unis and John Allday had been wed.

It would be dark early. He watched his sister worriedly.
Follow the drum, wear the King's coat,
they said. But nobody ever told you about this part of it.

Unis walked into the parlour, her eyes very bright.

“He's coming, John. Like I said. Like he promised.”

Then he heard it for the first time, faint but familiar above the soft moan of wind around the eaves. The steady clip-clop of Bryan Ferguson's pony and trap.

She said quietly, “Don't go, John. You're part of it.”

There were muffled voices and she whispered, “Dear God, let it be him!”

The door opened slowly, perhaps even nervously.

And then she was in his powerful grip, her face nuzzling his fine blue jacket with the Bolitho buttons on it. “Oh, dear John, it's been so long! I've missed you so!”

Her brother, watching, offered, “No need to look surprised, John. We just heard that the
Zest
was in port!”

Allday stared around, barely able to believe he was here.

“Yes. We was aboard her. Young Captain Adam's in command.” He held her gently as if she might break. “I've thought so often of this minute.” He thought, too, of the big grey house where he had left Sir Richard with his lady. He must have written to her about his son. That had been almost the worst part.

She had looked at him very calmly and had said, “He has not really gone, you know. Think of that sometimes.”

And now he was here. He stiffened as the girl Unis had hired to help her came in, with a baby in her arms. He knew by instinct that it was his daughter, although it could have been anyone's. He would not tell Unis about his lost son. Not yet. This was their moment alone.

He took the child carefully. “She's a mite small.”

Unis said softly, “The doctor says it's unlikely I'll carry another, John. I know a son might have pleased you better.”

He pressed the child against his body and tried not to relive the scene on that dreadful September morning. Friends and enemies alike, helping and consoling each other when the fighting had stopped and the flag had come down through the smoke.

He replied quietly, “She's
our Kate.
She'll do me fine.” He hesitated. “A son can break your heart.”

Unis glanced at her brother but he shook his head. It would keep.

She asked, “Have you brought somebody with you, John Allday? Left him outside in the cold? What will people think?”

The door opened and Lieutenant George Avery ducked under the low beams.

“A room for a few days, Mrs Allday? I'd be obliged.” He looked around, remembering when they had left here. “I thought it fairer to leave Sir Richard to enjoy his homecoming.” He was smiling, but she noticed that it did not reach his tawny eyes.

It was a strange feeling. Because of the letters he had written for her man, she seemed to know him well.

Avery was saying, “Long walks, good food, a chance to think before the next time . . .”

Satisfied, Allday said, “So you're staying with the
little crew
after all?”

Avery said, “Was there ever any choice?” He looked around the parlour again, slowly allowing himself to accept the peace and welcome of the place. The child, almost lost in Allday's arms. He would never forget that morning either. Allday carrying his dead son so tenderly across the littered, bloodied deck where so many had fallen; Allday quite alone for those last moments before he lowered his son into the sea alongside and watched him drift away.