For My Country’s Freedom

He studied his one-time midshipman with new eyes. Handsome, with the touch of recklessness some women admired. He was married, but perhaps he had a mistress somewhere.

The servant brought the glasses. It was cold hock, very refreshing after all the miles, all the changes of horses at inns which had all begun to look very much like one another. He wondered if the wine had come from the shop in St James’s Street where Catherine had taken him.

Bethune said, 'I have read all your letters and despatches, particularly your views on blockade and the protection of trade routes. You are correct, of course, Sir Richard.' Again the infectious smile, a lieutenant posing as a vice-admiral. 'But it will be up to you to convince their lordships.'

Bolitho thought of Tyacke, and remembered Catherine’s words when he had told her what he intended. It was still heavy on his heart. She had been right.

'There is some good news about your friend and former flag-captain, Valentine Keen.'

Bolitho hoped that Bethune had not seen his surprise. It was as though he had been reading his thoughts.

'He is to be promoted to rear-admiral, and deservedly so, as you made very clear in your original report.'

Bolitho looked away. He recalled Hamett-Parker’s hostility at the suggestion, but now that Keen was secure as a flag-officer in his own right he could only recall Adam’s despairing confession by the fire in Falmouth. Zenoria as the wife of a flag-officer? It was beyond imagination. The girl with the moonlit eyes would be swamped, destroyed even, by a world she would never be able to share or understand. It must not destroy Adam also.

Bethune took another tall glass of wine. 'I appreciate your convictions concerning the United States. By the way, your recent

adversary Captain Nathan Beer is promoted commodore, I hear.'

Bolitho remembered the moment of fear, the splinters like barbs in his face, Herrick lurching on deck, his amputated stump bleeding as he dismissed the Valkyries captain and took charge to fight the ship.

He said sharply, 'The next time we meet I shall make him an admiral!'

He saw the satisfaction in Bethune’s eyes.

Bethune said quietly, 'You think there will be war?'

'I do. If I can explain…'

Bethune smiled. 'Not to me, Sir Richard. I am convinced. The others will be more concerned with expense than expediency.'

Bolitho thought of Catherine. She would be at Chelsea, or very close to it by now. Just before he had left for Plymouth she had mentioned the surgeon in London.

'It can do no harm. Perhaps he may even be able to help.'

Bethune asked suddenly, 'Does your eye trouble you?'

He realised he had been rubbing it.

'A chill, I expect.'

Bethune said airily, 'Well, you have been in Cornwall. It is possible.'

He was a Cornishman himself. Bolitho recalled that he had made a point of mentioning it when he had taken command of Sparrow. He could not imagine him in Cornwall now.

But he was shrewd, very shrewd. It would not do to let him know about the injury

Bethune was saying, 'Your choice of flagship, the Indomitable, did surprise me a little, although I can fathom your reasons. But some of our betters may suggest otherwise, or say perhaps that you have a penchant for elderly vessels.'

Bolitho sensed the contempt he held for his 'betters.'

Bethune added, 'I shall give you my support, but I hope you knew that. I will suggest that two other elderly vessels, Victory

and Hyperion, have made milestones in history!'

A servant entered and looked at the vice-admiral nervously. 'Lieutenant Avery, Sir Richard Bolitho’s flag- lieutenant is in attendance, Sir Graham…'

Bethune smiled calmly. 'A brave man to venture amongst senior officers.' He shot Bolitho a quick glance, 'And friends.'

Bolitho got to his feet as Avery entered the big room, his cocked hat crushed beneath his arm.

Was something wrong? Had Avery found the Chelsea house empty?

Avery nodded to Bethune, but Bolitho saw the quick appraisal, the sharp curiosity. Unlike poor Jenour, this man took nothing for granted.

He said, 'Letter by fast courier, Sir Richard.' Their eyes met. 'From Plymouth.'

Bolitho took it, aware that Bethune was watching him.

It was short and to the point, in Tyacke’s sloping hand.

Mine is the honour. It is more than loyalty. I shall await your orders.

His signature was scrawled across the bottom, barely legible.

Bolitho glanced at Avery, but the flag-lieutenant’s expression remained inscrutable. Then he raised the letter to his nose, and saw that small cabin in his mind as he had left it in Plymouth only days ago.

Bethune smiled. 'Perfume, Sir Richard? Dare I ask?'

Bolitho shook his head. It was cognac. 'With your permission, Sir Graham, I would give you a sentiment.'

The glasses had been refilled, and another had appeared for Avery. Bethune remarked, 'I am all curiosity!'

Bolitho felt his eye pricking, not injury now, but for a different reason.

'To the most courageous man I have ever known.'

Avery watched him as they touched their glasses. Another secret.

Then Bolitho smiled for the first time since he had arrived. They were ready.

'So let’s be about it!'

3. THE OCEAN IS ALWAYS THERE

Lieutenant George Avery handed his hat to an Admiralty porter and hurried across the marble hall to where Bolitho was sitting in a high-backed chair.

'I apologise for my lateness, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho held out his hands to a well-banked fire and said, 'You are not late. They are still rewriting naval history in that room.' It was spoken without impatience or bitterness. Perhaps he had seen too much of it, Avery thought.

Bolitho wondered if his flag-lieutenant had kept exactly to the arranged time in order to avoid questions about Tyacke, and his inexplicable change of heart regarding the appointment.

Bolitho thought of Catherine that morning, the concern in her eyes while he finished dressing, his coffee untouched on the table.

He had shown her Tyacke’s note. She had said, 'Let him decide, Richard. I think you should wait for Avery to tell you himself. It is what you wanted… I know how much you need James Tyacke, but I do not envy him what he must do.'

They had stood side by side on the iron balcony of the Chelsea house and watched the misty first light across the Thames. London came alive long before dawn, but it was a leisurely awakening here. A man with his little cart and tubs of fresh oysters, setting up his stall for the various cooks and housekeepers to sample his wares. Hay for the stables, a loud-voiced knife-grinder, then a small troop of cavalry horses being taken on morning exercise to the park, looking strangely bare without their saddles and bright accoutrements. She had been wearing her heavy robe, but even so it had been chilly so close to the slow-moving river. He had held her and felt her shiver, but not only from the air.

It would soon be a time for parting. Days or weeks: after the freedom they had longed for and shared since Bolitho’s return to England, it would be all the harder to accept.

He heard Avery say, 'I was so glad to learn of Commodore Keen’s promotion. Well earned, from what I have heard and read of him.'