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 He wondered if Avery had been aware of his withdrawn silences during the uncomfortable journey.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.'