For My Country's Freedom Page 7

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But we all have our weaknesses. Even I…’ He did not elaborate, but attacked the braised turkey with renewed vigour.

  Then he remarked, ‘Your choice of captain, Sir Richard.’ He snapped his fingers absently in the direction of a footman. ‘Tyacke, isn’t it? You could have had any captain. Any man would be prepared to kill for such a chance. And yet you chose him without hesitation. Why so?’

  ‘He is an excellent seaman and an accomplished navigator.’

  ‘But only the commander of a lowly brig?’

  The Prince stared down with astonishment as Catherine laid one hand on his sleeve.

  She said quietly, ‘But is it not also true that Nelson chose Hardy for his flag-captain when he in fact commanded a lowly brig?’

  He roared with laughter. ‘Touché, Lady Catherine! I am impressed!’

  She started with alarm as a glass fell on the table and the wine spread towards her like blood. Bolitho said, ‘Forgive me, sir.’ But he was speaking to Catherine, and she knew it.

  The light from one of the great chandeliers had dazzled him, and he had missed the wineglass even as he reached for it. No one else seemed to have noticed.

  The Prince patted her hand, beaming genially at her. ‘We will take more wine while these fellows replace the cloth.’ He did not remove his hand and added, ‘There are so many things I wish to know.’

  ‘About me, sir?’ She shook her head and felt the diamond pendant warm against her breast.

  ‘You are much spoken of, Lady Catherine. Admired too, I’ve no doubt!’

  ‘I am loved by but one, sir.’

  Bolitho glanced at the footman who had replaced his glass. ‘Thank you.’ The man almost dropped his tray, and Bolitho guessed that he was rarely acknowledged, let alone addressed.

  He looked down the table, and found Sillitoe watching him. Too far away to hear anything, but near enough to guess what the Prince was doing. What he did so often and so well.

  ‘My spies tell me that you are a good horsewoman. Perhaps when Sir Richard is away you would join me for a ride. I adore horses.’

  She smiled, the light and shadow on her high cheekbones making her appear even more lovely. ‘I shall not come, sir.’ When he leaned towards her she shook her head and laughed. ‘Not even for you!’

  The Prince appeared surprised and uncertain. ‘We shall see!’ Then he turned to Bolitho and said, ‘All real men must envy you.’ His irritation was plain as a woman several places away leaned forward and pitched her voice until it was audible.

  ‘I have wondered, Lady Catherine, and others must have asked you since that terrible shipwreck…’

  Catherine glanced at Bolitho and gave a slight shrug. This was familiar ground. His sister Felicity had put forth the very suggestion this woman was about to make.

  ‘What have you wondered, madam?’

  ‘All those men in one small boat.’ She looked around, her eyes just a little too bright. She had obviously not been warned about the Prince’s love of wine. ‘And you the only lady amongst them?’

  Catherine waited. Sophie apparently was not included in the ordeal. She was only a servant.

  She said coolly, ‘It is not an experience I would wish to repeat.’

  On the opposite side of the table, a worried-looking man with thinning hair said in a fierce whisper, ‘That is enough, Kathleen.’

  His wife, very much younger, tossed her head. ‘Things which women must do, but in front of staring eyes…’

  Bolitho said abruptly, ‘Do you never ask about the sailors who are at sea in all conditions, madam? How they live? Why they tolerate such conditions? Then I will tell you. It is out of necessity.’ He turned towards Catherine. ‘I shall never forget her courage, and I would suggest you do not, either!’

  The Prince nodded and said in a stage whisper, ‘I expect that Lady Kathleen would have welcomed the experience!’ His eyes were hard with dislike as the insinuation reached the woman in question.

  The remainder of the evening was an ordeal of endurance and discomfort. Another great course arrived, this time of guinea-fowl, oyster patties and curried lobster, with more wine to wash it down. Finally, a rhubarb tart was served with three kinds of jelly and, lastly, cheesecakes. Bolitho wanted to drag out his watch, but knew his host would see and resent it.

  He looked across at Catherine and she blew out her cheeks at him. ‘I shall not eat again for another month!’

  Eventually it was over. After the ladies had withdrawn there was port and cognac for the gentlemen – the latter, assured the Prince, not contraband. Bolitho guessed that most of the guests were beyond caring. The Prince detained them until the last, as Bolitho had known he would. He watched a servant bringing his hat and cloak, but before he could take them the Prince said in his thick voice, ‘Admiral Bolitho, may good fortune go with you.’ Then he took Catherine’s hand and kissed it lingeringly. He looked into her dark eyes. ‘I never envied a man before, Lady Catherine, not even to be King.’ Then he kissed her hand again and held her bare arm with his strong fingers. ‘Sir Richard is that man.’

  Finally they were in the carriage, the iron-shod wheels rattling over the cobbles and into the darkened streets.

  He felt her nestle against him. ‘I am sorry about Antigua.’

  ‘I think I knew.’

  ‘You were wonderful, Kate. I had to bite my tongue at times.’

  She rubbed her head against his shoulder. ‘I know. I almost told that Kathleen woman a thing or two!’ She laughed bitterly. ‘Are you tired, Richard?’ She touched his arm. ‘Too tired?’

  He slipped his hand beneath her cloak and caressed her breast.

  ‘I will wake you when we see the Thames, Kate. Then we shall see who is tired!’

  Young Matthew heard her laugh. All those carriages and famous people, but when the others heard whose coachman he was they had treated him like a hero. Wait until they reached Falmouth again, he thought. He might even stretch the story for Ferguson and Allday’s benefit and say that the Prince of Wales had spoken to him!

  The Thames showed itself in the moonlight like blue steel and Bolitho moved slightly in his seat.

  He heard her whisper, ‘No, I am not asleep. Do not take your hand away. I shall be ready.’

  The Crossed Keys Inn was small but commodious, and perched beside the road that ran north from Plymouth to Tavistock. It was rarely used by the coaching trade, which was hardly surprising. James Tyacke on his walks after dark had discovered that in places the track was hardly wide enough for a farm wagon, let alone a coach-and-four.

  This evening he sat in a corner of the parlour and wondered how the inn paid for itself. It was run by a homely little woman named Meg, a widow like so many inn and alehouse proprietors in the West Country. Few folk from the nearby village of St Budeaux seemed to come here, and during the day most of the customers were farm workers who – thank God, he thought – kept to themselves.

  He sat in the shadow of the big chimney-breast and watched the flickering flames in the hearth. It was April and the trees were in bud, the fields alive with birds. But it was still cold at night.

  Soon he would eat, one of Meg’s rabbit pies most likely. Then another walk maybe. He glanced around the parlour, the furniture scrubbed and clean, the walls decorated with hunting scenes and some old brasses. It was his last night here. He stared at the new uniform coat that lay on a bench seat opposite his own. The cost of gold lace had risen since his last purchase, he thought. Just as well he had received a large payment of prize money. Memories came, sudden and vivid: Larne’s gunner dropping a ball across the bows of some stinking slaver, terrified black faces, naked women chained together in their filth like animals. The slavers themselves, Portuguese and Arab, men prepared to bribe and barter. When they were brought to him they knew it was pointless. There were no more bargains to be made, only the rope at the end of the passage to Freetown or the Cape.

  The thrill of the chase, with every spar threa
tening to splinter itself under a full press of canvas.

  Ozanne had her now. Tyacke could think of no better man.

  He stared again at his coat, a bright new epaulette on the right shoulder. It seemed somehow out of place, he thought. But he was a captain now, no matter how junior. He wondered if Avery had told Sir Richard how he had betrayed his secret in order to persuade him.

  Suppose Avery had kept silent. Would I have changed my mind? Or would I still be in the dockyard in Larne?

  Two men came in and moved to a table on the far side of the room. Meg seemed to know them and brought tankards of ale without being asked. On her way back to the kitchen she paused to poke the fire. If she had been shocked by Tyacke’s face she had not shown it. Perhaps she had seen worse in her time.

  ‘So we’m losin’ yew tomorrer, Mr Tyacke.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, turning slightly away from her.

  ‘I’ve told Henry to fetch ’is cart bright ’n’ early for yew.’

  Tomorrow. Weeks of uncertainty. Now it was almost time.

  Tyacke had not been back in England for years. On his way here from the dockyard he had watched the passing scenery like a stranger in some foreign country. Through the city itself, shop after shop. Hairdressers and hatters, painters and distillers, and more inns and lodging-houses than he could imagine. Plenty of sea-officers, and sailors who he assumed had the protection and were free to come and go as they pleased. He recalled the disbelief amongst Larne’s company when Bolitho had granted permission for his men to go ashore. Only one had failed to return. Drunk, he had fallen into a dock and drowned.

  He had seen plenty of women, too. Some prettily dressed and decorative, the wives of army and naval officers, perhaps. Others, like Meg of the Crossed Keys, trying to do men’s work, to replace those who might never come home.

  He said, ‘I’ve been very comfortable here. Maybe I’ll see you again some day.’

  She turned to look at him, and although he watched carefully for it, there was no abhorrence in her eyes when they rested on his face.

  ‘I’ll fetch your supper soon, zur.’

  They both knew they would not meet again.

  He sipped his brandy. Good stuff. Maybe smugglers came this way… His thoughts returned to his new command. How different she would be. Designed originally as a small third-rate of sixty-four guns, she had been cut down to her present size by the removal of most of her upper deck and corresponding armament. But her forty twenty-four pounders remained, with an additional four eighteen-pounders for bow and stern-chasers. Tyacke had studied every detail of the ship, and her history since she had been built at the famous William Hartland yard at Rochester on the Medway.

  He considered Bolitho’s comments, the ship’s possible use if war broke out with the United States. All the big new American frigates carried twenty-four pounders and for sheer firepower were far superior to English frigates like Anemone.

  More to the point, perhaps, his new command had a far greater cruising range. Her original company of over six hundred had now been reduced to two hundred and seventy, which included fifty-five Royal Marines.

  She was still undermanned, but then every ship was, which was in or near a naval port.

  All those unknown faces. How long would it be before he came to know them, their value, their individual qualities? As a captain he could ask what he pleased of his officers. Respect, as he had seen with Bolitho, had to be earned.

  He thought again of the ship herself. Thirty-four years old, built of fine Kentish oak when there had been such trees for the asking. In newer ships some of the timbers were barely seasoned, and their frames were cut by carpenters, not shaped over the years for extra strength. Some were built of teak on oak frames, like John Company’s ships, which were mostly laid down in Bombay. Teak was like iron, but hated by the sailors who had to work and fight in them. Unlike oak splinters, teak could poison a man, kill him far more slowly and painfully than canister shot.

  Tyacke swallowed more brandy. His new command had first tasted salt water while he had been in his mother’s arms.

  His face softened into a smile. We must have grown up together. She had even been at the Nile. He tried not to touch his scarred cheek. Other battles too. The Chesapeake and the Saintes, Copenhagen, and then because she was too small for the line of battle she had shared all the miseries of blockade and convoy duty.

  There must be a lot of experienced post-captains asking why Sir Richard should hoist his flag above an old converted third-rate when he could have had anything he wanted. A full admiral now. He wondered what Catherine Somervell thought about it. He could see her as if she were beside him, first in the dirty and soaking sailor’s clothing, and then in the yellow gown he had carried with him since the girl of his choice had rejected him. It was strange, but he could even think of that without the pain, as if it had happened to somebody else.

  He tried to remember if he had all he needed, and his thoughts returned to Bolitho’s mistress. But the term offended him. His lady. She would make certain that Bolitho was well provided for when he left home.

  He thought he could smell cooking and realised how hungry he was. It made good sense to eat well tonight. He would be too tense and anxious later on. He smiled again as he recalled that Bolitho had told him he was always nervous when he took over a new command. But remember, they are far more worried about their new captain!

  And what about John Allday – ‘his oak’, as he called him – would he be so eager this time to quit the land?

  One of the men at the other table put down his tankard and stared at the door. His companion almost ran through the adjoining room where some farmhands were drinking rough cider. Then Tyacke heard it. The tramp of feet, the occasional clink of metal.

  Meg bustled in, her hands full of knives and forks.

  ‘The press, sir. They’m not usually this far from ’ome.’ She smiled at him. ‘Never fear. I’ll see they don’t disturb yew.’

  He sat back in the deep shadows. Being in charge of a press-gang was a thankless task. As a junior lieutenant he had done it only once. Whimpering men and blaspheming women. Curiously enough, although most of the shore parties who performed that duty were themselves pressed men, they were usually the most ruthless.

  There were muffled shouts from the rear of the inn and Tyacke guessed that the man who had rushed from the room had been taken. His companion came back, shaking despite the folded protection he had been fortunate enough to carry.

  The door crashed open and a young lieutenant strode into the parlour.

  He snapped, ‘Stand up and be examined!’ Then he seemed to realise that the man in question had already been inspected and swung towards the shadowy figure by the chimney-breast.

  ‘And you! Did you hear me? In the King’s name!’

  Tyacke did not move but thrust out his foot and pushed the bench seat into the candlelight.

  The lieutenant gaped at the gleaming gold lace and stammered, ‘I did not know, sir! Few officers come this way.’

  Tyacke said quietly, ‘Which is why I came. Not to be shouted at by some arrogant puppy hiding in the King’s coat!’ He stood up. Meg, two armed seamen in the doorway and the man who had been examined all froze as if it were some kind of mime.

  Tyacke turned very slowly. ‘What is your name, lieutenant?’

  But the young officer was unable to speak; he was staring at Tyacke’s terrible wound as if mesmerised.

  Then he muttered in a small voice, ‘Laroche, s-sir.’

  ‘May I ask what ship?’

  ‘Indomitable, sir.’

  ‘Then we shall meet tomorrow, Mister Laroche. I am Captain James Tyacke.’

  Suddenly he had the parlour to himself.

  Meg hurried in again, a steaming pot wrapped in a cloth.

  ‘I be that sorry, zur.’

  Tyacke reached out and touched her arm. ‘It was nothing. We all have to begin somewhere.’

  Tomorrow it would be all over the ship. He c
onsidered it. Indomitable. My ship.

  Again he thought about Bolitho and the memory steadied him.

  They will be far more worried about you.

  Meg left him to his supper but paused in the door to watch him, wondering how it had happened, how such a fine-looking man could ever learn to accept it.

  She quietly closed the door, and thought of him long after he had gone.

  * * *

  5

  Indomitable

  * * *

  Henry the carter tugged slightly at the reins as the wheels clattered over the first of the dockyard cobbles.

  He said, ‘She’s out at anchor, zur.’ He glanced at his passenger’s strong profile, unable to understand why anybody would willingly go to sea, captain or not.

  Tyacke stared across the gleaming water and was surprised that he was so calm. No, that was not it. He felt no emotion whatsoever.

  He glanced towards the wall and was relieved to see that Larne had moved her berth, doubtless to complete her re-rigging. He wondered if they knew he was here, if someone was watching him with a telescope at this very second.

  He said, ‘There are stairs at the end.’

  ‘Roight, zur. I’ll make sure there be a boat waitin’ for ’ee.’

  Oh, there will be, he thought. Even if the boat’s crew had been up since before dawn. Tyacke had done it himself often enough. Waiting for the new lord and master, imagining what he would be like: the man who would rule everybody’s life from senior lieutenant to ship’s boy; who could promote, disrate, flog and, if necessary, hang anyone who did not abide by his orders.

  He shivered slightly but disdained to put on his boat-cloak. It was a fair morning and the sea was a mass of dancing white horses, but it was not the cool air that caused him to tremble. It was this moment, which he had dreaded, of this particular day.

  He saw a flurry of splashes and knew it was a boat casting off from a mooring buoy. His arrival had been noted.