For My Country’s Freedom

Lieutenant George Avery hesitated by the screen door and knew that the Royal Marine sentry was watching him with an unmov-ing stare. Above his head he could hear the muffled bark of orders, the sounds of men hurrying to their stations for the last change of tack before entering English Harbour.

He had been wondering what might be waiting for them here,

orders, or a new appraisal of American intentions, and the prospect of fresh fruit and the chance of stretching his legs on dry land had pleased him.

That had been before they had met with the convoy, and had received news of Anemone.

Against orders, the little brig Woodpecker had returned under cover of darkness to the scene of the battle, but had found nothing. The brig’s commander, Nicholas Eames, had come aboard Indomitable without delay to make his report.

Avery had known that Bolitho was tearing himself apart because of what had happened.

Eames had said, 'Anemone came about and went into the attack, Sir Richard. No hesitation, no nothing-you’d have been proud of him!'

'I am.' It was all he had said.

From what the brig’s commander had been able to tell them, there had been one main adversary, with perhaps other vessels in company.

'At first, Sir Richard, the gunfire was so heavy and fierce I imagined the enemy was a liner.' He had looked at their faces, Tyacke, Scarlett and his admiral, and had added sadly, 'But Anemone could have run rings around one of those beauties, so I knew it must be one of the new Yankee frigates.'

No wreckage, or if there was, it had drifted fast away with the current. And then Eames had described the one small miracle. A survivor, one of the ship’s boys. More dead than alive, he had been hauled aboard Woodpecker. It was a wonder he had lived.

Avery glanced at the sentry.

The marine tapped the deck with his musket and called, 'Flag-lieutenant, sir!'

The survivor had been transferred immediately to the flagship. As Eames had said, 'My brig doesn’t have the space for a surgeon!'

Indomitable’s surgeon, Philip Beauclerk, had insisted that the youth be allowed to rest in order to recover from the nightmare he had endured. It was doubtful that one so young would ever completely get over it.

'Enter!'

Avery strode into the main cabin, his eyes taking in Bolitho’s breakfast tray, scarcely touched, a half-finished letter on his table, an empty glass nearby.

'Captain Tyacke’s respects, Sir Richard, and we shall be entering harbour within two hours.'

'I see. Is that all?'

Then Bolitho stood up abruptly and said, 'That was uncalled for. I apologise. Abusing you when you cannot answer back is unforgivable.'

Avery was moved by the intensity of his words. He seemed to speak with his whole body, as if he could not bear to be still.

Bolitho said, 'Two hours? Very well. I must speak to this youth. Send Allday-he has a way with youngsters. I have noticed that.' He rubbed his chin, the skin smoothly shaved. 'I have no cause to treat him badly, either. The finest of men, a true friend.'

Ozzard appeared with fresh coffee and said, 'I shall tell him, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho slumped down again and pulled at his shirt as if it was choking him.

'My little crew. What am I without them?'

He began to slip out of his coat but Avery said, 'No, sir. With respect, I think this may be important to the lad. Your rank will not frighten him. He has had enough terror, I imagine.'

Bolitho said, 'You are all surprises, George. Did I choose you, or was it the other way round?'

Avery watched his despair. Needing to help, but unable to ease the way. 'I believe Lady Catherine decided for both of us, sir.'

He saw Bolitho glance quickly at the unfinished letter, and

knew he had not yet been able to bring himself to tell her.

Outside the door Allday and the round-shouldered secretary Yovell stared down at the boy who had been snatched from the sea. From death. He was freshly clothed in a chequered shirt and white trousers, the smallest the purser’s store could produce.

The boy was very slight, with frightened brown eyes and wood-splinter scars, which had been cleaned by the sickbay.

Allday said sternly, 'Now, listen to me, my lad. I’ll not be saying anything twice. You feel a bit sorry for yourself just now, and that ain’t too surprising.'

The boy watched him, as a rabbit would stare at a fox. 'What do they want of me, sir?'

'In this cabin is the finest admiral England’s ever had, though precious few says as much! He wants to ask you about what happened. You just tell him, son. As if he was your father.'

He saw Yovell sigh as the boy began to sob.

'Me father’s drowned, sir.'

Allday glared at Yovell. 'This is no damned good, is it?'

Yovell put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. 'Come with me.' He sounded quite severe, which was almost unknown with him.

'Answer the questions,' Allday said. 'Tell it just as it was. It’s important to him, see?'

Ozzard, watching from the door, studied the small figure without expression. To Yovell he said, 'You should have been a school teacher!'

Yovell smiled benignly. 'I was. That, and other pursuits.'

Avery waited for the others to leave and murmured to Allday, 'That was well done.' To the boy he said gently, 'Sit here.'

Bolitho made himself remain very still as the boy sat on a chair directly opposite his table. He looked terrified, barely able to drag his eyes from the gold epaulettes, and obviously overwhelmed by the vastness of an admiral’s quarters when compared with a frigate’s crowded messdeck.

'What is your name?'

'Whitmarsh, sir.' He hesitated. 'John Whitmarsh.'

'And how old are you, John?'

The boy gaped at him, but his hands had stopped shaking, and his dark eyes were like saucers at being addressed by the admiral.

'Twelve, I think, sir.' He screwed up his face in an effort to concentrate. 'I bin in Anemone for eighteen months.'

Bolitho glanced at the piece of paper Yovell had copied out for him.

'And you lost your father?'

'Aye, sir.' He lifted his chin as if with pride at his memory. 'He were a fisherman and got drowned off the Goodwins.' Now he had started he could not stop. 'My uncle took me to Plymouth and volunteered me for Anemone, they was recruiting, see.' He hesitated nervously. 'Sir.'

Avery recognised the pain in Bolitho’s grey eyes. The boy must have been only about ten when his uncle put him in a King’s ship, if uncle he was. It was too common a story these days. Women left to fend for themselves, their men killed in battle or too badly wounded to return home. Or drowned, like this lad’s father. This boy had proved an obstacle to someone, and had therefore been removed.

Bolitho said, 'Tell me about the battle. Where were you, what were you doing? Try to remember.'

Again he screwed up his eyes. 'We sighted the enemy when the watches changed. I heard old Mr Daniel the gunner say she were a big Yankee. There was another too, a little one, but the masthead couldn’t make her out ’cause of the sea mist. Me an’ my friend Billy was at the foremast, sir. The ship was that short of hands that even we was needed at the braces.'

Bolitho asked quietly, 'How old was your friend?'

'Same as me. We come aboard together.'