For My Country’s Freedom

Then, when they had filed out, he stood by the door. 'I’ll never forget what you done for me, James. Never fret, I’ll take good care of her. You’ll be that proud when you see her again.'

Tyacke gripped his hand. 'I know that, old friend.' What Bolitho called his coxswain. He wanted to say aloud, I’m afraid. Maybe I can’t do it. But all he said was, 'She can still outsail the best of them!'

Then, followed by Ozanne, he climbed the companion ladder, and hesitated by the coaming.

My men. No, not any more.

They were clinging to the shrouds and ratlines, framed against a clear bright sky. There were no dockyard workers to be seen. This was Larne’s moment and they would share it with nobody.

The carriage with the big sea-chest on its roof waited amongst the dockyard litter. Tyacke measured the distance with his eye. It was probably the longest journey he would ever take.

He shook hands with the officers and the men of the side party. A murmur here and there, firm, rough hands, questioning glances; he had to press his sword against his thigh with all his strength to contain himself.

Lastly Paul Ozanne, Commander Ozanne. Only their eyes spoke: no words would come.

Tyacke raised his hat and climbed on to the brow. The calls twittered and then someone yelled, 'Huzza for the Captain, lads! Huzza!'

People hurried to the sides of other vessels nearby as the wild cheering echoed and re-echoed against the old stone walls. For such a small ship’s company, the din was enough to drown every other sound. Straight-backed, his sword at his side, Tyacke walked steadily towards the carriage, the cheers washing around him like breakers on the reefs.

He climbed into the carriage and the driver flicked his whip.

He did not look back. He dared not.

Catherine was waiting at the foot of the stairs when Young Matthew drove Bolitho back from the Admiralty after yet another meeting. She watched him anxiously, looking for a sign, some hint that he was over-taxing himself.

He took her in his arms, his mouth touching her hair, her neck.

'It’s settled, Kate. I am to command the new squadron.' He searched her face as she had studied his. 'We can soon return to Falmouth. It will be a while yet before my ships are ready.' He smiled. 'And Young Matthew complains that London is too noisy and dirty for his tastes.'

She linked her arm through his and turned him towards their room at the rear of the house with its tiny walled garden.

'How is George Avery?'

'Relieved, I think.'

'I have written to him about his sister. I did not even know he had a family. He said not when I first met him.'

'I know. There is another story there, I believe. By ‘family’ I think he may have meant somebody like you.'

He saw the brandy on the table and wondered if Tyacke had left Larne yet. He could remember his own farewells only too vividly.

'For me, Richard, will you visit the surgeon before we leave Chelsea?'

He kissed her lightly. 'For you, anything.'

She watched him pour some brandy. He was looking better than she had expected, his face showing once again the benefit of their being together for over two months, but last night she had been unable to comfort him, and sleep had been denied to both of them.

She said, 'Perhaps there will be no war across the Atlantic?'

'Perhaps.'

She saw his fingers playing with her locket beneath his shirt. He had worn it deliberately for this latest visit to the Admiralty His protection, he had called it.

'How was Sir Graham Bethune today?' She had felt his hurt and jealousy at the beginning, but Bethune had stood by her man against the pack. Sillitoe too, although she was doubtful if his motives were so easily defined.

'He was fair and helpful. He has given me most of what I requested. Maybe I will have the rest when the extent of my orders is realised.'

He did not mention that he would be sailing first to English Harbour in Antigua. The Leeward Squadron, as Bethune had dubbed it, would establish itself there. But he could not tell her. Not yet. There would be pain enough in parting, and Antigua held so many memories. Where he had found her again, and rediscovered the love which had changed his life. His eye fell on a sealed envelope with a coat of arms adorning it.

'When did this arrive?'

'I thought I would leave it until later. A footman delivered it after you had gone this morning.'

Bolitho picked it up and stared at it. 'Will they never give up? Can they not understand that we belong to each other? Are they so hypocritical that they really expect me to go to Belinda?' He ripped it open with a knife. 'I shall see them in damnation first!'

She watched his change of expression. At a loss, astonished as if he were a small boy again.

'It is from the Prince Regent, Kate. An invitation to dine…'

She said, 'Then you must go, Richard. Your position demands that you…'

He leaned over her and pulled down the back of her gown and kissed her bare shoulder.

He said quietly, 'We are invited, Kate.' He held out the heavily embossed card and she read aloud, 'Admiral Sir Richard Bolitho, KB, and Catherine, Lady Somervell.' She exclaimed, 'It must be a mistake. Carlton House indeed… They have even given you the wrong rank.'

He said, almost shyly, 'I forgot to tell you, darling Kate. I have been promoted.'

In the kitchen Sophie, her maid, and the cook both stared at the wall as Catherine shouted, 'You forgot!' She flung her arms around him. 'Bless you, darling-no wonder they all love you! You forgot!' Her fine dark eyes flashed. 'But all my clothes are in Falmouth. There is no time for…' She gripped his hand with both of hers. 'Except for the green silk. You remember.'

He smiled at her. 'Antigua. Oh yes, I remember.'

She could not look at him. 'Take me upstairs. I have to remind you. How it is. How it will always be. Together.'

In the kitchen they heard Catherine’s familiar laughter. Then there was silence.

The cook glanced at the hob and shook one of the pots.

'They’ll be supping late, in my opinion.' She looked at Sophie. 'Disgraceful, annit?' Then she smiled. 'Bless ’em!'

4. Royal Command

For most of the journey from Chelsea, along the Thames and towards Parliament, Bolitho and Catherine spoke little, each reflecting on the immediate future.

Sillitoe had sent a brief note by hand to Chelsea, intimating that the invitation to Carlton House was not a mere matter of vanity or curiosity Bolitho guessed that he had been told to ensure that they both attended.

This was also the day when Bolitho had visited a consulting physician recommended by the great man himself, Sir Piers Blachford of the College of Surgeons. Catherine had stayed in the carriage, unwilling to wait at Chelsea until the examination was finished.

It had been very thorough, and Bolitho’s eye still smarted from the probing and the stinging ointment.

When he had returned to the carriage she had known, despite his smile and his cheery wave to Young Matthew, that it had been in vain.

Even now as she gripped his hand beneath her cloak she could sense his distress, wondering perhaps if he could ever come to terms with it. It seemed that nothing could be done unless some new technique were developed. The doctor had spoken of damage to the retina and had warned that further probing could destroy the