For My Country’s Freedom

Twice a day, a doctor named Derriman visited him to inspect the wound and change the dressings. At first he had said almost nothing, but now after all these weeks a kind of restrained respect, one for the other, had come about. A personal servant had also appeared to break the monotony and emptiness of Adam’s life, a Bristol man who had been taken prisoner in that other war, and who had decided to remain in American service on a full seaman’s pay and allowances.

His name was Arthur Chimmo and he walked with a heavy limp, having had his foot crushed when a nine- pounder had been overturned on top of him. On this particular day he was unusually

excited. 'I’ve got to shave you nice an’ early, Cap’n. Somebody important’s comin’ to see you!'

Adam waited while Chimmo took his arm and gently swayed him upright on the edge of the bed.

Then slowly and carefully he took the weight on his feet, his muscles bunched against the pain.

It was still there, but when he considered how it had been, the improvement was like a miracle.

Chimmo stood away and watched him while he seated himself in the big chair by the room’s only window. Stables hid the road-and everything else for that matter. He had tried to picture it in his mind: Boston Bay, Cape Cod. It might as well be the moon.

Chimmo produced his old-style bowl and razor. He had obviously been chosen because he was as English as Adam, but had been ordered not to discuss matters concerning the outside world. The doctor had told him of a battle between an American frigate, Constitution, and the British Guerriиre: the latter had suffered the same fate as Anemone, except that she had been captured and was probably already flying the American flag. At least Anemone had been saved from that disgrace. Without knowing how, he was certain that his coxswain Starr had seen to that.

Another piece of news had been the assassination of the British prime minister, Spencer Perceval, in the lobby of the House of Commons. Chimmo had been quite outraged by it, as if his heart still lay firmly in England.

To Adam it had meant very little. Nothing did any more, without his ship, and with only the memory of Zenoria. They would know about Anemone by now in England, and in his blackest moments of despair he imagined them all: Catherine, calming the servants at Falmouth, if only to hide her own concern for him; his uncle; John Allday; the formidable Tyacke. He wrestled

with another constant thought: Valentine Keen. What might he do? How much did he suspect, if anything?

'There we are, Cap’n.' Chimmo beamed and balanced himself on his wooden stump. 'You looks fair an’ brave again!'

He glanced without interest at his reflection. A clean shirt and pressed neckcloth, and a plain blue coat unmarked by rank or other decoration. The face of a man who had come through hell. He knew that he would have died but for the special care he had been given.

It might have ended suddenly weeks ago, when somebody’s carelessness had almost cost him his life.

He had been standing by the window, moving his arm back and forth to prevent additional stiffness to his right side and the wound itself. It had been evening, and he had known that the sentries were changing, just as he had known it was their custom to linger near the cook’s door for a cup of something. He had often thought that he knew their routine as well as they did themselves.

But he had seen a horse near the stables. Fully equipped and saddled; there was even a sword hanging in its scabbard. It had been absurdly easy. Down some narrow stairs and above what had smelled like a food store. The horse had stared at him with little interest. It had been like a blurred dream. He recalled the tremendous strength he had needed to pull himself up and on to the unfamiliar saddle.

The rest was like mist. Voices yelling, boots hammering across the cobbles while he had slithered helplessly to the ground in an ever-widening pool of blood from his re-opened wound.

Dr Derriman had exclaimed angrily, 'You’re a damned fool! They have orders to fire on those stupid enough to try and escape! You would have saved them the trouble! Where the hell did you hope to reach, in God’s name?'

He had answered quietly, 'The sea, doctor. Just the sea.' Then he had fainted.

The door opened and a lieutenant snapped, 'Is he ready, Chimmo?'

Adam said, 'I am ready!'

The lieutenant regarded him coldly. 'I am glad I do not serve in your navy, sir!'

Adam nodded to Chimmo and retorted, 'I doubt we would have you, sir!'

He picked up the stick he had been given and followed the lieutenant along the corridor. He glanced briefly at the small door where his attempted escape had ended within minutes. But suppose…?

Chimmo opened a door and said loudly, 'Cap’n Adam Bolitho, sir!'

It was a bare but strangely beautiful room, with tall windows that looked out on to gardens which must once have been equally appealing. They were now uncared-for and overgrown, the previous owners replaced by the military.

A pale-faced man in dark clothing sat at a desk, fingers pressed together, his eyes deepset and unmoving.

He said, 'I am Captain Joseph Brice. Be seated.'

Adam said, 'I would rather stand.' There was a log fire in a fine mantelled hearth. Like the one in Falmouth. It was strange to see a fire in September.

Captain Brice said, 'Please be seated. You have made your point. During your detention I understand that you have made several.'

Adam sat down and winced as the dressing dragged at his side.

'I thought we should meet. I am no stranger to war. I served in the Trenton during the War of Independence. As your famous uncle also served. He is back in these waters; so then am I.'

Adam waited. He sensed that the other man was merely the instrument. He looked away. As Anemone had been the instrument. But anything was better than staring at the wall or out of the window.

Brice continued in the same unemotional tone.

'You were courageous, and were one of the most successful frigate captains England has ever known. And yet you fought with the Unity, and you must have known you had no chance against such a powerful ship. That was not merely brave; it was reckless. Since the fight, many of your faithful and loyal company have signed their allegiance over to the United States-but I expect you saw that as a possible outcome, too.'

'I did what I saw was my duty Your ship Unity was set upon overhauling the small but valuable convoy under my care. The choice of any captain is not always the agreeable one.'

He glanced through the window. Was that the complete truth? Could it be that Hudson had been right in deed as well as appreciation at that time? The convoy had been out of danger when he had cut down the colours. Anemone had caused enough damage to the American frigate to prevent a further chase. By fighting on against such odds, many more would have died. Was it any captain’s right to make such a brave sacrifice?

Captain Brice nodded slowly. 'I thought I knew you, even though we had never met. I was supposed to put it to you that a rightful and proper command should be offered to you. I shall inform my superiors that it is out of the question.'

'I shall remain in detention, is that what you mean?' It was like feeling a cage closing around him, restricting him until he could barely breathe.

'There is no other solution.'

Adam touched his side. It would have been better to die. Even when he had fallen from the horse in his pathetic attempt to escape, they could have let him die.

Instead they wanted him as another renegade, or as a trophy of battle. He would be unable to walk unhindered in this unknown land; his own reputation had put paid to that.

'After all, your father changed sides during the Revolution,

did he not? A good captain to all accounts, although I never met him. Unlike Commodore Beer.'

Adam thought of the massive Nathan Beer, who had visited him in the Unity, although he could not remember clearly how many times. It was strange to realise that Beer’s home was barely any distance away from this house, near Salem.

Brice watched him curiously. 'You would never give your word under oath as a King’s officer that you would accept parole and not attempt to escape?' He paused. 'I can see from your face that you would not: your eyes speak what you believe to be true. Your duty is to fight your country’s enemies by any and every means.' He gave a