For My Country’s Freedom

words were falling from her lips without order or understanding. 'Zenoria was not at the house when it happened. She collapsed. Val’s father has written to him. The Admiralty has been informed.' She turned away, seeing and hearing nothing, feeling only the scalding tears which would not come. How long had all this taken? To write the letters, to mourn the child, to arrange for a special courier. She almost spat out the word. Eventually. While the family stood together in grief, and turned their backs on the girl who had come amongst them. Was it so cruel?

She heard Ferguson’s voice. So he was here too. She reached out to grip his hand, unable to see him.

Roxby asked gruffly, 'Have you heard something?'

'Yes, Sir Lewis.' But he was looking at Catherine. 'One of the stable lads thought he saw Mrs Keen in Falmouth.'

Roxby exploded. 'That’s impossible! It’s miles to Hampshire, man!'

Catherine said quietly, 'So they let her go. Allowed her to leave the house, after what had happened to her.' She thrust out the letter. 'I think you should read it.' She put her other hand on his arm. 'As a dear friend, and perhaps later as a magistrate.'

Roxby cleared his throat and peered at some figures beyond the trees who had paused to discover what had happened.

'You, Brooks! Ride like the devil to Truro and fetch Captain Tregear with his dragoons! Tell him I sent you!'

'No.' Catherine released their hands. 'I know where she is. When I rode here I knew someone was watching me. I did not know she was saying goodbye…'

Ferguson took her hand. 'Let me take you home, m’lady' He was pleading, trying to help, as Allday would have done.

Roxby called, 'Carriage! Fetch some men!'

But it was already too late. They left the carriage where Catherine had waited with Tamara to watch Indomitable clear the harbour, all those weeks ago.

Then along the winding cliff path, which had crumbled away in so many places, dangerous even for a sure- footed Cornish girl in the dark. But it had not been in the dark, and as they scrambled up the last stretch Catherine saw the familiar landmark, like some crouching thing, known locally as Trystan’s Leap.

Catherine stood motionless, her gown and hair moving slowly in the light breeze off the water. She was aware of nothing but the rise and fall of the sea’s glistening face, the longboat, so tiny from up here, backing oars like a water-beetle to avoid the hissing rocks which the receding tide would soon reveal to the sun.

They were lifting a small figure from the undertow, an oar moving this way and that to maintain control of the boat.

She heard herself say, 'I am going down. I must.'

She felt a hand seize her wrist, to guide her as she began her descent. But there was nobody beside her. Aloud she said, 'Richard, it’s you.'

When she reached the suddenly bare, shining crescent of beach her gown was torn, her hands cut and bleeding.

One of the coastguards stepped between her and the little bundle on the sand.

'No, my lady. You can’t go no further.' It was Tom, who had so often seen and spoken with her when they had met on these same cliffs. He dropped his eyes as she stared at him. '’Er face is gone. The rocks-'

'Just for a moment-I beg you!'

Another voice called, 'I’ve covered she some, Tom.'

The coastguard let her pass him then, and she walked blindly to the body. She knelt down on the hard wet sand and grasped the out-thrust hand. So cold, so very still. Even the wedding ring had been battered by the rocks.

Very gently she raised the corpse, so that the bandaged head drooped against her shoulder as if she were listening.

Then she opened the neck of the torn clothing until she could

see the beginning of the scar where the whip had laid open Zenoria’s back on the transport, from which Val had rescued her. On their walks along this coast Zenoria had referred to it as the mark of Satan.

She could hear Roxby gasping and panting down the last part of the track, then his hands firm on her shoulders as some of the others took the girl’s body from her.

'Was it her?'

'Yes. There can be no mistake.' Then she said, 'Perhaps she cried out. I might have heard, or thought it was a seabird.' Then she shook her head, rejecting it, knowing she must. 'No. She wanted to go. We who are closest to her might have helped her more. But the pain is only just beginning.'

Ferguson asked, 'What shall we do, m’lady?'

She said, 'We must do what Richard would have done, were he here. We must take her back to the sea, to Zennor, from whence she came. Perhaps her spirit will be at peace there. God knows she had little of it elsewhere.'

Afterwards, Bryan Ferguson knew it was something he would never forget. Nor want to.

Sir Richard Bolitho walked slowly across the stone-flagged terrace and felt the heat coursing up through his shoes. It was very hot, and the sun seemed to stand directly above Monk’s Hill, unwavering, and appearing to discourage even the movement of small craft in the wide expanse of English Harbour. Other houses, used mostly by senior officials and dockyard officers, stood out white and stark against the lush greenery, like this building, to which he had come seven years ago, and where he had found Catherine again. Seven years. It seemed impossible. So much had happened since that time. Friends killed: fine ships lost or battered into hulks in every corner of the world and across every ocean.

He reached the stone balustrade and touched it with his fingers. Like a heated gun-barrel. Just as it must have been when she had stood here in this very place and position to watch the painful approach of his ship, Hyperion. The old ship’s name had meant very little to her, and she had been totally unprepared for the shock when she had heard her husband mention that Hyperion had become a flagship. My flagship.

He cupped one hand over his left eye and looked at the ships anchored here. Part of his squadron sprawling untidily to their cables in the airless heat.

Beyond the larger Indomitable, the three frigates, Zest, Virtue and Chivalrous, made perfect reflections on the still water, their ensigns and pendants barely moving. The big frigate Valkyrie, now commanded by Captain Peter Dawes, lay at Halifax, with two sixth-rates in company. Together they and three brigs represented the Leeward Squadron. Only one was still missing, and she should arrive here very shortly. Adam’s Anemone, fresh from her refit and manned almost completely by strangers, would complete a lively and useful force. Adam might miss the faces lost in the last fight with Baratte, but improving the performance of the new men and the ship herself would keep him too busy to brood. He loved Anemone more than any ship: he would not rest until she responded to his hand like the true thoroughbred she was.

Bolitho took his hand from his eye and was surprised that it gave him no pain or irritation. The air was clearer, and perhaps his freedom ashore with Catherine had helped more than he knew. He studied his ships again, each one as strong or as fragile as the man who commanded her.

So many times had Bolitho come to this small but powerful outpost in the Caribbean to stand against the American rebels, the Dutch, the Spaniards and the old enemy, France. And now the new American navy was posing a threat once again. There had still been no declaration of war, nor even a suggestion from

either government that danger threatened on the horizon.

Bolitho watched a few boats weaving in and out among the moored men-of-war. Otherwise nothing stirred. In a month or so that would change with the beginning of the hurricane season. It had been that time of year when he had come here last, and found Catherine.

He thought of her letters, which had arrived only two days ago, all together in a sealed bag, having gone to Gibraltar first by accident. He smiled, hearing her voice in each written word, savouring them. Strange how, unlike letters, unpleasant and direct despatches from higher command never seemed to go astray, but found you without any apparent difficulty

He had read through all of them twice, and he would read them again later when the ship was at rest.