For My Country’s Freedom

'So let’s be about it then,' he said.

Scarlett was still staring after him as he strode aft to the cabin.

Lieutenant George Avery nodded to the marine sentry and waited for Ozzard to open the screen door for him.

The great cabin was lit only by two lanterns, and right aft beyond the tall stern windows he could see some scattered shore lights, and the moon’s silver reflection on the gently breathing water.

He saw his admiral sitting on the bench seat, his heavy gold-laced coat draped over Ozzard’s arm, his shirt open while he sipped a tall glass of hock.

Bolitho said, 'Be seated.'

He saw Allday begin to rise for the lieutenant, but he changed his mind as Avery shook his head. To Bolitho he said, 'Let it be like that time in Freetown, Sir Richard. There are no officers here tonight. Only men.'

Bolitho smiled. Avery was more outspoken than usual; but there had been plenty of wine at the wardroom dinner, and so much food that, considering the temperature and the unmov-ing air between decks, it was a wonder some of them had not collapsed.

After the first awkward formalities between the mostly young officers and their admiral, as well as their formidable captain, things had settled down. Unlike meat from the cask, rock-hard when the cooks got their hands on it, there was a pleasant surprise on offer, an unlimited supply of fresh roast pork. The captain of the dockyard had his own pigs on the island, and had presented the meat from his own larder.

Apart from the four lieutenants and the two Royal Marine officers, the wardroom consisted of the ship’s specialists. Isaac York, the sailing-master, seemed to have an endless fund of stories about strange ports he had visited since going to sea at the age of eight. It was Bolitho’s first real meeting with the ship’s surgeon, Philip Beauclerk, young for his trade, with the palest eyes Bolitho had ever seen. Almost transparent, like sea-polished glass. An

educated, quiet-spoken man, a far cry from the rough and ready surgeons, the butchers as they were called; men like George Minchin who had once served in Hyperion, and had been on board when the old ship had given up the fight. Wild-eyed, crude, and often half-drunk with rum, he had nevertheless saved many lives that day. And he had not quit the ship until the last of the wounded, or those who were not beyond hope, had been taken off.

Minchin would be in Halifax now, serving in the big frigate Valkyrie, where Bolitho had last met him.

Bolitho had caught Beauclerk watching him several times throughout the meal, the general drinking and the seemingly endless procession of toasts. It was impossible that he could know anything about his eye. Or was it? There was no more private society than the medical profession. But Beauclerk had spoken with great intelligence and interest about what might lie ahead, and was probably trying to guess what his own part might be. It was very hard to picture him like Minchin in that raging, bloody hell on the orlop deck, the wings-and-limbs tubs filled to overflowing with the gory remnants of those who had been cut down in battle.

Three midshipmen had been invited too, and one of them, Midshipman David Cleugh, had been required to call the Loyal Toast. This he did in a piping, quavery voice. He had then been sternly ordered to drink a full goblet of brandy by the captain of marines. For, by coincidence, it was the midshipman’s twelfth birthday.

The quietest man in the wardroom had been James Viney the purser. He had been unable to drag his eyes from the captain, who sat directly opposite him. Like a mesmerised rabbit, Bolitho had thought. Tyacke had not come aft for a last drink, and had made his excuses as the messmen had started to clear away the table so that cards and dice could be produced. Out of politeness nobody would move until the senior guests had departed.

Tyacke, his torn face in shadow, had said only, 'I want to go through a book or two before I turn in.'

Bolitho recalled the purser’s nervousness. The books might have a lot to do with that.

Bolitho had thrust out his hand, and had seen the sudden surprise in those clear blue eyes that reminded him so much of Thomas Herrick 'Thank you, James.'

'For what, sir?' His handshake had been firm, nevertheless.

Bolitho had answered quietly, 'You know for what. As I know what this evening cost you. But believe me, you will not regret it. Nor will I.'

Ozzard brought another glass of hock and placed a goblet of rum almost within Allday’s reach: his quiet, stubborn way of showing he was not his servant.

They sat in silence, listening to the ship’s private noises and the dragging step of a watchkeeper overhead.

Avery said suddenly, 'The leaves will soon fall in England.' Then he shook his head and winced. 'God, how I shall pay for all that wine in the morning!'

Bolitho touched the locket inside his shirt and saw Avery glance as it flashed in the lantern light. Perhaps they all saw him in different ways. Few would imagine he could be as he was when he and Catherine were together.

Scarlett had also asked Yovell as a guest, but he had declined, and had spent the evening in the tiny cabin that also served him as an office and writing-space.

Allday had assured him that Yovell was quite happy to be alone. He had said with some amusement, 'He reads his Bible every night. There’s still quite a lot of it to take in!'

Through the open skylight and stern windows they heard the creak of oars. It was so still that every sound seemed to carry.

Then the hail, 'Boat ahoy!'

Avery looked surprised. 'Who is abroad at this hour?' He

stood up. 'I’ll go and see, sir.' He smiled suddenly, and appeared young and relaxed, as he must have been once. 'There may not be another officer sober enough to deal with it!'

The oars were louder, nearer. Then came the reply. 'Officer-of-the-Guard!'

Bolitho massaged his eyes. He was tired, but rare moments with friends like these could not be ignored.

He thought of Scarlett, anxious and unsure of himself during the meal. Was it so important to him? He was a good officer, and watching him going about his duties Bolitho might have believed that he was completely confident, with perhaps only his next promotion uppermost in his mind. He had noticed, however, that neither he nor Avery had spoken to one another.

Avery returned, carrying a waterproof envelope.

'Would you believe, sir, the mail-schooner Kelpie entered harbour in pitch darkness after all. The guard-boat stood by just in case.' He held out the envelope. 'Kelpie met with Anemone. She’s waiting until first light before she comes in.'

Bolitho said, 'Very wise, with the harbour full of ships, and Adam with a raw company.'

He saw Allday watching him questioningly

Bolitho said, 'It’s from Lady Catherine.'

A cold hand seemed to touch him and he could not shake it off. He recognised her handwriting instantly, and had seen an Admiralty wax seal on the envelope. A priority. For private correspondence?

Avery stood up. 'Then I shall leave you, sir.'

'No!' He was surprised by the sharpness of his own voice. What is the matter with me? 'Ozzard, recharge the glasses, if you please.' Even Ozzard was motionless, watching, listening.

'If you will excuse me.' Bolitho slit open the envelope and unfolded her letter.

He was suddenly quite alone, with only the letter, her words rising to meet him.

My darling Richard,

I would give anything not to write this letter, to send you news which will grieve you as it has me.

I have to tell you that Val’s little boy is dead. It was an accident, and he suffocated in his cot before anyone could help him.

Bolitho looked away, feeling the sting in his eye and yet unable to hide it.

He heard Allday ask thickly 'What is it, sir?'

But Bolitho shook his head and read on.