For My Country’s Freedom

They shook hands and Adam said, 'I shall miss our talks.'

Derriman studied him and said, 'So shall I.' Then he was gone.

Chimmo brought some cheap wine, which he had got from the officers’ mess.

He moved awkwardly around the room, touching things, peering out of the window.

With a great effort he said, 'Goin’ to blow cold tonight, Cap’n. Best keep your clothes close by-too early for fires, the major says. It’s all right for him with his fine ’ouse an’ mistress to keep ’im warm o’ nights!'

Adam stared at him. It was tonight. 'Thank you, Arthur.'

Chimmo watched him worriedly. 'I just ’opes…' The door closed.

Adam examined his feelings. Like preparing for battle. The terrible calm while any captain considers the odds on success or failure. Death.

Hope, my friend? It is all we can ever have in the end.

He lay on the bed and sipped the wine, watching the square of daylight above the stable roof opposite the room.

The duty lieutenant opened and locked the door without a word, his feet retreating down the stairs where he could be heard talking with one of his guards.

The light faded, and the breeze hissed amongst the leaves; a light rain pattered against the glass. He had sometimes thought of escaping from the window, but without help he could get nowhere.

Suppose somebody asked for payment? He had nothing; even his watch had gone, probably while he had lain in Unity’s sickbay.

He sat up on the bed and began to pull on his shoes.

He touched his pocket and felt her memory stab his heart like a barb. All he had was her glove.

'Oh, Zenoria, my dearest love, I love thee so. I will never forget…'

He stared at the window, barely able to breathe as something tapped softly and then more insistently against it.

Adam slipped the catch and pushed it open. He tensed, expecting the crash of a musket or an outcry in the yard below.

There was a rope dangling from somewhere above the window. He leaned out and peered down where it had vanished into the early darkness.

'Can you climb? Are you able?'

The man was a black shadow, but Adam could tell from the edge in his voice that he was very aware of danger or sudden death.

He whispered, 'I’ll manage!'

He swung from the sill, and almost cried out as his wound awakened to torment him.

His guide hissed, 'Faster! We’ve no time left!'

His feet reached the cobbles and he would have stumbled but

for the man’s strong grip. When he looked, the rope had disappeared.

'I’ve got a cart outside. Keep with me.' He thrust a pistol into Adam’s hand. 'If we fail, you’ll be on your own, see?'

Adam blundered through a gate, the one he had seen from his window, and out on to the road. He could feel the sweat running down his body, soaking his shirt like a rag, the weakness of the months and days trying to slow him down.

He felt the rain on his lips, and tasted salt in the air.

The sea. Just get me to the sea.

A second man waited by a small horse-drawn cart. He was equally faceless and dark, impatient to go.

He snapped, 'All quiet, John. No alarm!'

Adam pictured the empty room. With luck he might not even be missed until early morning when the soldiers beat up the camp nearby.

He felt his hands shaking badly. He was free. No matter what happened now or what became of him, he was free.

He allowed the man to help him into the back of the cart. A battered hat was jammed on his head and he gasped as a liberal measure of rum was poured over him.

His guide chuckled. 'If we’re stopped, you are too drunk to talk.' His voice hardened. 'But have the piece ready!'

'Ready, Tom?'

He turned as Adam asked, 'But why? The risks-what might happen to you-'

He stifled a laugh. 'Why, Captain Bolitho, sir! Don’t you recognise your old cox’n, John Bankart? What else could I do?'

The cart began to move and Adam lay back on a pile of sacks and bales of straw, believing he was losing his mind.

He no longer knew what to say or think, what to believe or to doubt. A cart on an open road, men risking their necks for his sake. And John Allday’s only son, who had once served as his

coxswain. It had broken Allday’s heart when he had left for America. Adam could remember what he had said about it. An Englishman you was born, and an Englishman you’ll die. And here they were, somewhere outside Boston, and heading down towards the sea.

He clutched the glove in his pocket.

I’m coming, Zenoria! I promised I would.

He had lost all idea of time, and had to hold on to a wall when they helped him out of the cart.

The man called Tom said, 'What d’you think?'

Then Bankart said, 'In a bad way. Been through the thresher an’ no mistake.'

'Suppose the boat’s shoved off? Got scared or somethin’-it’s one hell of a risk!'

Bankart sounded quite calm. 'I’ll stay with him. I owe him that much.'

Adam barely heard him. Just the muffled scrape of oars, fierce whispers, before he was dragged down into a small boat.

The other man called hoarsely, 'Good luck, John, you mad bugger!'

Allday’s son moved the battered hat to shield Adam’s face from the rain, which was already heavier.

The men at the oars when they spoke to one another used a language he did not recognise. Not Spanish. Probably Portuguese.

He managed to ask, 'Are you really staying with me?'

Bankart grinned, but had it been daylight his sadness would have been very evident.

'Certainly, sir.' He straightened his back. 'As my dad would say, An’ that’s no error!’'

Adam pulled the hat away and opened his mouth to the rain.

Free.

15. Trick for Trick

Matthew Scarlett, Indomitable ’s first lieutenant, ducked his head as he stepped into the wardroom and tossed his hat to one of the mess-boys. Despite the cool northerly wind which had filled the sails well enough for the whole forenoon watch, the air between decks was dank and humid, the Atlantic’s warning of what was to come.

Before dusk they would rendezvous with two of the squadron’s other frigates, Zest and Reaper, and ride it out for the night.

He sat down and thought savagely, For all the bloody good it will do. The only vessel they had sighted on this bright September day had been the busy schooner Reynard, pausing only briefly to exchange despatches before hurrying on to the next point of command.

The mess-boy placed a goblet of red wine before him and waited for instructions.

Scarlett barely heard him and snapped, 'Salt pork again? I’ll begin to look like a pig very soon!'