For My Country’s Freedom

Hudson noted the dark shadows beneath the captain’s eyes, the restless way he moved his hands. Like the rest of them he was casually dressed, but he wore his short fighting-sword, which was unusual. The boatswain’s party was preparing to rig a grating, and Hudson saw Cunningham, the surgeon, appear in the companion-way. When he realised the captain was on deck he disappeared down the ladder without another glance.

But the captain had seen him. He said, 'The surgeon has protested to me about punishment being carried out. Did you know that?'

Hudson said, 'I did not, sir.'

'He states that the seaman in question, Baldwin, whose name has repeatedly appeared in the punishment book-and not only in Anemones, I suspect-has some internal illness, too much rum and other more damaging potions. What do you say, Mr Hudson?'

'He is often in trouble, sir.'

Adam Bolitho said sharply, 'He is scum. I’ll suffer no insubordination in my ship.'

Hudson had always been very aware of the captain’s love for this ship. Such a personal attachment seemed only another aspect of the Bolitho legend. But now he thought he knew why he was so intense about it. His beloved Anemone was all he had in the world.

The other lieutenant had used the opportunity to go below. It was a pity Hudson thought; had he stayed he would have seen it for himself. Or would he?

The boatswain lumbered aft and called, 'Ready, sir!'

Adam said, 'Very well, Mr M’Crea, put up the prisoner and clear lower deck.'

As if to a secret signal, the Royal Marines marched up to line the quarterdeck, their bayoneted muskets and equipment gleaming as if at their barracks, their faces as scarlet as their tunics.

George Starr, the captain’s coxswain, brought the old seagoing coat and hat to cover him with a cloak of authority.

'All hands! All hands! Lay aft to witness punishment!'

The seaman named Baldwin strode aft, the master-at-arms and ship’s corporal on either side of him. A big man, a bully, he ruled his own mess like a tyrant.

A boatswain’s mate and another seaman took his arms as soon as they had stripped him of his chequered shirt, and seized him up to the grating by his wrists and his knees. Even from the quarterdeck, it was possible to see all the old scars on the strong back.

Adam removed his hat and took out his thumbed copy of the Articles of War. He had been aware of Hudson’s scrutiny, just as he had sensed Vicary’s keen resentment. Given time, both would make good officers. He felt the anger stirring. But they did not command.

He saw the surgeon taking his place and recalled his pleas on behalf of the prisoner. Cunningham was a whining hypocrite. He would not cross the road to help a child knocked down by a runaway horse.

From the corner of his eye he saw the boatswain drag the infamous cat-o’-nine-tails from its red baize bag.

Adam hated the use of the cat, as his uncle had always done. But if, like the line of sweating marines, it was all that stood between disobedience and order, then so be it.

He put his hand in his pocket and bunched his knuckles until the pain helped to steady him.

He could feel his coxswain Starr watching him. Worried and anxious, as he had been over the months. A good man. Not another Allday: but there was no such creature.

He loosened his fingers carefully, testing the moment as he felt her glove in his pocket. So many times he had taken it out and had stared at it, remembering her eyes when he had handed it to her. How they had walked together in the port admiral’s

garden: feeling her presence like a beautiful wild flower.

What can I do'? Why did you leave me?

He realised with a start that he had begun to read the relevant Article, his voice level and calm. Calm? I am destroying myself.

He heard himself say, 'Carry on, Mr M’Crea. Two dozen!'

The drums rattled noisily and the boatswain’s brawny arm went back. The lash seemed to dangle there for an eternity until it came down across the prisoner’s naked back with a crack. M’Crea was a powerful man and, although a fair one, was probably enjoying this task.

He saw the red lines break into bloody droplets. But he felt no revulsion, and that alone frightened him.

'Deck there!'

It was as if the call had turned them all to stone. The lash dangling from the boatswain’s out-thrust fist, the drumsticks suddenly still in the heavy air. The prisoner himself, face pressed against the grating, his chest heaving as he dragged in breath like a drowning man.

Hudson raised his speaking-trumpet. 'What is it, man?'

'Sail on the larboard quarter!' He hesitated. The heat haze was probably just as bad in that direction. 'Two sail, sir!'

Hudson knew that every eye but the prisoner’s was turned upon the little group of officers on the quarterdeck. But when he looked at the captain he was astonished to see Adam’s expression, his utter lack of surprise. As if a question which had troubled him had suddenly been made clear.

'What do you think, sir?'

'Well, no matter who they are, they are certainly not ours. That we do know.' He was thinking aloud, as if there was nobody else near him. 'They must have used the Windward Passage, west of Port au Prince. That way they would have the wind which is eluding us.'

Hudson nodded, but did not understand.

Adam looked at the towering mainmast spars, the quivering canvas.

'I shall go aloft.'

The man at the grating tried to twist his head. 'What about me, you bastard?'

Adam handed his hat and coat to Starr and snapped, 'Be patient, man. And Mr M’Crea, another dozen for his damned impertinence!'

He reached the crosstrees, surprised that he was not even breathless. He acknowledged the lookout, one of the best in the squadron, a man who looked twice his real age.

'Well, Thomas, what do you make of them?'

'Men-o’-war, zur. No doubt o’ that!'

Adam unslung his telescope, aware of the great trembling mast and yards, the bang and slap of canvas, the very power of the ship beneath him. He had to wait a few seconds more. Even the lookout’s familiar Cornish accent caught him unawares like a trap.

Then he levelled the telescope, as he had done so many times in his Anemone.

The smaller of the two vessels could have been anything in the haze. Sloop or brig, it was impossible to determine. But about the other one there was no such doubt.

It could have been yesterday: the U.S.S. Unity ’s great cabin, and his conversation with her captain, Nathan Beer, who had known his father during the American Revolution.

'Yankee,' he said shortly.

'Thought as much, zur.'

'Well done, Thomas. I’ll see you have an extra tot for this.'

The man watched him, puzzled. 'But we bain’t at war with they, zur?'

Adam, smiling, made his way down like a practised topman.

He met Hudson and the others and saw all the questions in their eyes, although nobody spoke.

He said crisply, 'One of them’s the big Yankee frigate Unity, 44 guns that I know of for sure, maybe more now.' He glanced at the nearest guns. Unity carried twenty-four- pounders. He remembered the American mentioning them. Pride or threat? Probably both.

He glanced at the sky. Two hours before they were up to Anemone. Seven hours more before the convoy could escape in the darkness.

Hudson said carefully, 'What are their intentions, sir?'

Adam thought of the splendid sight Unity had made as she edged round to beat