For My Country’s Freedom

Bolitho guessed that he was rarely acknowledged, let alone addressed.

He looked down the table, and found Sillitoe watching him.

Too far away to hear anything, but near enough to guess what the Prince was doing. What he did so often and so well.

'My spies tell me that you are a good horsewoman. Perhaps when Sir Richard is away you would join me for a ride. I adore horses.'

She smiled, the light and shadow on her high cheekbones making her appear even more lovely. 'I shall not come, sir.' When he leaned towards her she shook her head and laughed. 'Not even for you!'

The Prince appeared surprised and uncertain. 'We shall see!' Then he turned to Bolitho and said, 'All real men must envy you.' His irritation was plain as a woman several places away leaned forward and pitched her voice until it was audible.

'I have wondered, Lady Catherine, and others must have asked you since that terrible shipwreck…'

Catherine glanced at Bolitho and gave a slight shrug. This was familiar ground. His sister Felicity had put forth the very suggestion this woman was about to make.

'What have you wondered, madam?'

'All those men in one small boat.' She looked around, her eyes just a little too bright. She had obviously not been warned about the Prince’s love of wine. 'And you the only lady amongst them?'

Catherine waited. Sophie apparently was not included in the ordeal. She was only a servant.

She said coolly, 'It is not an experience I would wish to repeat.'

On the opposite side of the table, a worried-looking man with thinning hair said in a fierce whisper, 'That is enough, Kathleen.'

His wife, very much younger, tossed her head. 'Things which women must do, but in front of staring eyes…'

Bolitho said abruptly, 'Do you never ask about the sailors who are at sea in all conditions, madam? How they live? Why they tolerate such conditions? Then I will tell you. It is out of

necessity.' He turned towards Catherine. 'I shall never forget her courage, and I would suggest you do not, either!'

The Prince nodded and said in a stage whisper, 'I expect that Lady Kathleen would have welcomed the experience!' His eyes were hard with dislike as the insinuation reached the woman in question.

The remainder of the evening was an ordeal of endurance and discomfort. Another great course arrived, this time of guinea-fowl, oyster patties and curried lobster, with more wine to wash it down. Finally, a rhubarb tart was served with three kinds of jelly and, lastly, cheesecakes. Bolitho wanted to drag out his watch, but knew his host would see and resent it.

He looked across at Catherine and she blew out her cheeks at him. 'I shall not eat again for another month!'

Eventually it was over. After the ladies had withdrawn there was port and cognac for the gentlemen-the latter, assured the Prince, not contraband. Bolitho guessed that most of the guests were beyond caring. The Prince detained them until the last, as Bolitho had known he would. He watched a servant bringing his hat and cloak, but before he could take them the Prince said in his thick voice, 'Admiral Bolitho, may good fortune go with you.' Then he took Catherine’s hand and kissed it lingeringly He looked into her dark eyes. 'I never envied a man before, Lady Catherine, not even to be King.' Then he kissed her hand again and held her bare arm with his strong fingers. 'Sir Richard is that man.'

Finally they were in the carriage, the iron-shod wheels rattling over the cobbles and into the darkened streets.

He felt her nestle against him. 'I am sorry about Antigua.'

'I think I knew.'

'You were wonderful, Kate. I had to bite my tongue at times.'

She rubbed her head against his shoulder. 'I know. I almost told that Kathleen woman a thing or two!' She laughed bitterly.

'Are you tired, Richard?' She touched his arm. 'Too tired?'

He slipped his hand beneath her cloak and caressed her breast.

'I will wake you when we see the Thames, Kate. Then we shall see who is tired!'

Young Matthew heard her laugh. All those carriages and famous people, but when the others heard whose coachman he was they had treated him like a hero. Wait until they reached Falmouth again, he thought. He might even stretch the story for Ferguson and Allday’s benefit and say that the Prince of Wales had spoken to him!

The Thames showed itself in the moonlight like blue steel and Bolitho moved slightly in his seat.

He heard her whisper, 'No, I am not asleep. Do not take your hand away. I shall be ready.'

The Crossed Keys Inn was small but commodious, and perched beside the road that ran north from Plymouth to Tavistock. It was rarely used by the coaching trade, which was hardly surprising. James Tyacke on his walks after dark had discovered that in places the track was hardly wide enough for a farm wagon, let alone a coach-and- four.

This evening he sat in a corner of the parlour and wondered how the inn paid for itself. It was run by a homely little woman named Meg, a widow like so many inn and alehouse proprietors in the West Country. Few folk from the nearby village of St Budeaux seemed to come here, and during the day most of the customers were farm workers who-thank God, he thought- kept to themselves.

He sat in the shadow of the big chimney-breast and watched the flickering flames in the hearth. It was April and the trees were in bud, the fields alive with birds. But it was still cold at night.

Soon he would eat, one of Meg’s rabbit pies most likely. Then another walk maybe. He glanced around the parlour, the

furniture scrubbed and clean, the walls decorated with hunting scenes and some old brasses. It was his last night here. He stared at the new uniform coat that lay on a bench seat opposite his own. The cost of gold lace had risen since his last purchase, he thought. Just as well he had received a large payment of prize-money. Memories came, sudden and vivid: Larne’s gunner dropping a ball across the bows of some stinking slaver, terrified black faces, naked women chained together in their filth like animals. The slavers themselves, Portuguese and Arab, men prepared to bribe and barter. When they were brought to him they knew it was pointless. There were no more bargains to be made, only the rope at the end of the passage to Freetown or the Cape.

The thrill of the chase, with every spar threatening to splinter itself under a full press of canvas.

Ozanne had her now. Tyacke could think of no better man.

He stared again at his coat, a bright new epaulette on the right shoulder. It seemed somehow out of place, he thought. But he was a captain now, no matter how junior. He wondered if Avery had told Sir Richard how he had betrayed his secret in order to persuade him.

Suppose Avery had kept silent. Would I have changed my mind? Or would I still be in the dockyard in Larne?

Two men came in and moved to a table on the far side of the room. Meg seemed to know them and brought tankards of ale without being asked. On her way back to the kitchen she paused to poke the fire. If she had been shocked by Tyacke’s face she had not shown it. Perhaps she had seen worse in her time.

'So we’m losin’ yew tomorrer, Mr Tyacke.'

'Yes,' he said, turning slightly away from her.

'I’ve told Henry to fetch ’is cart bright ’n’ early for yew.'

Tomorrow. Weeks of uncertainty. Now it was almost time.

Tyacke had not been back in England for years. On his way here from the dockyard he had watched the passing scenery like

a stranger in some foreign country. Through the city itself, shop after shop. Hairdressers and hatters, painters and distillers, and more inns and lodging-houses than he could imagine. Plenty of sea officers, and sailors who he assumed had the protection and were free to come and go as they pleased. He recalled the disbelief amongst Larne’s company when Bolitho had granted permission for his men to go ashore. Only one