She watched him. It never failed to surprise her that he could think of so many things at once.
“I would not wish to involve you, Kate, or let anybody think he was being manipulated.”
“You are going to see James Tyacke.”
“Yes. I cannot bear to be parted from you. Every hour is precious now.”
Tyacke came to her mind as vividly as if he were in the room with them. He would be an attractive man but for the side of his face, which looked as if it had been clawed off by some terrible beast. She remembered when they had sighted Larne bearing down on them after the suffering and death they had witnessed; and the offer of a yellow gown, which Tyacke had kept hidden in his sea-chest, to cover her sunburned body. The gown bought for the girl who had rejected him after his injury. He was worth a better woman than she could ever have been.
Bolitho said simply, “I want him to be my flag-captain.”
She said, “He will never accept. I am not even certain that he should.”
Bolitho guided her to the last stairs. Then he said, “That is the cruelty of it, Kate. I need him. I cannot manage without him.”
Later as they lay in the big four-poster, she considered what he had said.
And what he had not said. About his impaired vision and what might happen if the other eye was injured. He must have a captain he could trust. No wonder Richard wanted to meet Tyacke alone. He must never think that Richard was using her presence to persuade him into accepting the promotion and all it stood for. And what it would demand of him.
She pressed her body against his and murmured, “Whatever you do, dearest of men, I shall be waiting.”
The next sound she heard was a cock crowing, and she had not been dreaming.
2 MORE THAN LOYALTY
THE SMALL unmarked carriage, its windows and doors streaked with mud from the rutted roads, paused only briefly at the gates to Plymouth dockyard in order to allow the passengers to be identified. As the wheels clanged over the cobbles Bolitho guessed that the youthful Royal Marine lieutenant in charge of the guard was probably staring after them, his mouth likely still open.
His arrival at Plymouth was a private one. He tried to smile, if only for his flag-lieutenant’s benefit, but the effort was too much. It would not be private for much longer. The Royal Marine was no doubt already on his way to the port admiral’s house. Sir Richard Bolitho is here, sir!
Bolitho clung to the window-strap and peered across the cluttered dockyard, unaware of Avery’s curious stare. Of all the naval ports in England, Plymouth was most familiar to him. Here he had been parted from Catherine and had left for the Mauritius campaign. Avery had been with him then, their first commission together. Avery had kept his distance, had felt his way, too hurt by what had happened to him after the court martial to trust even his own judgement. How he has changed. Perhaps they both had.
“We shall walk the rest of the way.”
Avery rapped on the roof and the horses stamped to a halt.
Bolitho stepped down and felt the edge of the wind on his face. The rolling hills beyond the River Tamar were lush green. Just a river, and yet it separated him from Cornwall, his home. It looked dark and muddy, hardly surprising after all the heavy rain.
“She’s over yonder.” He wondered if Avery had been aware of his withdrawn silences during the uncomfortable journey. He might even resent it now that he had returned to be his aide, having probably killed all chance of promotion for himself, let alone a command.
Bolitho looked at him now, at the strong, intelligent profile, and said, “In truth, I am bad company. So much began and ended here.”
Avery nodded. He had been thinking of that other visit when he had seen Bolitho take leave of his lovely Catherine over at the Golden Lion. And of his own emotions when the big frigate Valkyrie had broken out Bolitho’s flag at the foremast truck. It had been like being reborn, taken back again by the navy which had been ready to reject him.
Bolitho fell in step beside him and together they walked along the wall, their boat-cloaks hiding their uniforms and rank from any zealous onlookers aboard the many ships undergoing repair.
Avery recalled very clearly how they had stopped at another dock in this same yard, and Bolitho had told him about his old 74 , Hyperion, when she had lain here, little more than a shattered hulk after surviving the greatest battle of her career up to that time. But Hyperion had lived again, had become a legend, and was still remembered in ballads around the taverns, songs about her last fight, when she had gone down with Bolitho’s flag still flying. It was likely flying yet in the depths where she lay, her people only shadows now, where they had fallen. But they lived still in the minds of men like Sir Richard Bolitho and his faithful coxswain John Allday. They had been there. They would never forget.
Bolitho halted and looked down at the brig Larne of fourteen guns. How small she seemed, too small for the great oceans; but when Tyacke had gone against all reason and experience and had persisted in looking for their tiny longboat after Golden Plover had gone down, Larne had burst out of the spray like a giant.
Bolitho saw a marine picket on the jetty. To ensure that nobody deserted, even men who had been away from home for many months or years. It was an insult. James Tyacke was one captain who would never have to mark run against a seaman’s name.
Bolitho said, “You know what to do.” He spoke more sharply than he intended, but Avery barely noticed.
Avery could feel the written instructions, which Bolitho had dictated to his secretary Yovell. Even that was like a secret, as if Bolitho were not prepared to make up his mind. Perhaps he was unsure, then.
Avery glanced at him. Not unsure of himself? After all that he had done, that would be impossible.
Bolitho was saying, “Make arrangements for an early start tomorrow. We will stay overnight.”
“The Golden Lion, Sir Richard?”
Bolitho’s eyes were searching, the reflected colour of Plymouth Sound, and he imagined that he had offended him.
“I—I only meant . . .”
Surprisingly Bolitho smiled, and seized his arm through his damp cloak.
“I know. I am all aback today.” He looked towards the town. “But some other place, I think.”
He pictured Catherine suddenly. How they had held one another before he had left for Plymouth. She would be on her way to London by now, to Chelsea. She had shared her London with him. Like all she had given him, all they would have to relinquish when he sailed again.
He had rarely felt like this before. Every day had been like a bright dawn, and even though each had known they must soon be separated it was hard even to contemplate.
He saw Avery walking away, back to the waiting carriage. His uneven shoulder, the stiff manner in which he held it, moved him deeply. What are these men, Kate? If only all England could see her sons. And above the fresh breeze which rattled Larne ’s halliards and incompleted rigging he heard her voice in his mind. Don’t leave me!
There were shouts, and Bolitho realised that the marine picket was watching him nervously. A burly figure in lieutenant’s uniform but without a hat had appeared on deck, pushing seamen and dockyard workers aside as he roared, “Man the side, you damned hawbucks! Why was I not told?”
Bolitho put one foot on the brow and raised his hat to the small quarterdeck.
“It is good to see you again, Mr Ozanne! And in fine voice, too!” Then he tossed a fold of the cloak over one shoulder to reveal an epaulette with its bright pair of silver stars.
The dockyard workers gaped with amazement, but some of the seamen gave a lively cheer. Like a meeting of old friends.
Ozanne was a Channel Islander who had originally been a merchant sailor. An excellent officer despite his earthy manner, he was old for his rank, and five years or more older than his captain.
Bolitho shook his hand. “How was London?”
Ozanne beamed, but his eyes were wary. “I was forgettin’, Sir Richard. Captain Adam was here. Anemone i
s lyin’ over there.” He considered the question. “I didn’t take to it much. But they seemed pleased to have the despatches.” He shook his big head. “Do they always rush about like chickens at th’Admiralty, Sir Richard?”
Bolitho smiled. The family. “It’s quite usual, I understand!” He became serious. “Is the captain aboard?”
“I’ll call him . . .”
“No, Mr Ozanne. I know my way.” He thought, James Tyacke will know I am here. He glanced along the slender hull with its black gun-barrels, their buff-painted carriages at rest beneath canvas to protect them from the indignities of a refit. Larne. Tyacke’s ship. At my command. He clambered down the companion ladder, ducking his head beneath the beams as he walked towards the stern cabin.
Familiar smells here, which even the dockyard could not quench. Paint and tar, hemp and close humanity. Not just another overworked brig. Tyacke had overcome his terrible disfigurement to weld her into what she was, and what she had achieved. The devil with half a face.
Would he do it all over again? Could he even consider asking him?
Tyacke was standing framed against the sloping stern windows, his shoulders bowed between the deckhead beams in the small cabin, which nevertheless stretched the whole breadth of the stern. His face was in shadow. He said, “Welcome aboard, sir.” He reached for his coat with the single epaulette on its left shoulder, but Bolitho said, “No, I am here uninvited.” He dropped his boat-cloak and then hung his heavy dress coat over a chair. “Let us be just two men for a while.”
Tyacke reached into a cupboard and produced a bottle and two goblets.
“Took this off a smuggler, sir. Seems like good stuff.”
As he turned the reflected glare from the water lit up the left side of his face. Like Avery’s it was strong, with deep crow’s-feet around the eye to mark the years at sea on so many oceans.
The other side of his face had been so burned that it was barely human. Only the eye had survived there, blue like Her-rick’s. Even his unruly hair had not escaped. Once it had been almost as dark as Bolitho’s but now it was smudged with grey, whilst directly above the burns the hair had turned pure white, like the lock covering Bolitho’s own scar, which he hated so much.
It had happened aboard the Majestic at the Battle of the Nile, as it was now called. Tyacke had been on the lower gun-deck when that burning hell had exploded around him. He had never discovered what had caused the explosion, as all the gun crews of his division had been killed. Even brave Westcott, Majestic ’s captain, had died on that terrible day.
The brandy was strong and fiery. They clinked goblets and Tyacke said, “A willing foe and sea room, sir! It’s all I ask!”
It was strange to be drinking the familiar toast here in the dockyard. Feet thudded across the quarterdeck only inches away, and great coils of cordage were being dragged over the planking and hoisted aloft to the rigger’s crew.
Tyacke regarded him steadily. Then he made up his mind, with a determination that was like something physical.
“They’re taking my ship—is that it, sir?”
So easily said, but it was breaking his heart. Even now he was looking around in the shadows as if to avoid the frail sunshine falling through the skylight. So many things must have happened here. So many decisions, overwhelming to some, perhaps, with only themselves against a whole ocean. But not to this man.
Bolitho said, “I am instructed that Larne will return to the African squadron and the anti-slavery patrol . . . eventually. I have been assured that there are no intentions to remove any of your company for service in other hulls. I can obtain it in writing from the port admiral, if you wish.”
Tyacke was staring at his big sea-chest. Bolitho wondered if the gown was still hidden there, the one he had offered to Catherine after their rescue, to cover her nakedness from the staring sailors.
“I’d like that, sir. I’ve had no cause to trust a port admiral.” He looked up, momentarily confused. “That was a stupid thing to say. I beg your pardon, sir!”
“I was once a frigate captain.” How strange that it should still hurt, after all these years. Once a frigate captain. “I can recall only too well the constant poaching of good men, and their replacement with gallows-bait.”
Tyacke poured some more brandy and waited.
Bolitho said, “I have no right to ask you, but . . .” He broke off as something heavy fell on to the deck above, followed instantly by Ozanne’s furious outburst, and laughter for good measure. Laughter in a King’s ship was too often a rare sound. How can I ask him?
Tyacke was an unmoving silhouette against the thick glass.
“But you will, sir.” He leaned forward, so that his face hovered in the sunshine. “Rank has no part in this.”
Bolitho said, “No, none. We have done too much together. And when you took us from the sea I was already far too deeply in your debt.” He thought of her in the tossing longboat, her sailor’s garb plastered to her body while they had fought the ocean and the nearness of death together.
He heard himself say quietly, “I want you to take promotion . . .” He hesitated. It was slipping away. “And be my flag-captain. There is none other I want.” Need, need. Tell him . . .The words seemed to fill the cabin. “That is what I came to ask.”
Tyacke stared at him. “There is no one I would rather serve, sir. But . . .” He appeared to shake his head. “Aye, that one word but says it all. Without your trust in me I would have given in to self-pity. But without the freedom of this vessel—without Larne— I find it too hard a choice.”
Bolitho reached for his coat. Avery would be looking for him. His involvement could do nothing but harm.
He stood up and held out his hand. “I must see the port admiral.” He looked at him steadily, knowing he would never forget this moment. “You are my friend, Lady Catherine’s too, and so shall it remain. I will request that your ship’s company be allowed ashore watch-by-watch.”
He felt the hard firmness of their handshake, was aware of the emotion in Tyacke’s voice. Then it was over.
Lieutenant George Avery climbed from the carriage and felt the fine drizzle falling past the coach-lamps and into his face.
“Wait here—I’ll only be a moment. Then you can take us to the Boar’s Head.”
It had taken longer than he had expected, or else it had got dark earlier than usual. He tugged his hat more tightly down on his forehead and turned up the collar of his boat-cloak. His stomach was making its emptiness felt, and he realised that he had not eaten since a hasty breakfast at some inn along the way.
The water of the Hamoaze beyond the dockyard was alive with riding-lights, like fireflies above their reflections. Small craft made dark shadows around them, officers coming and going, the watchful guard-boat, the unending life of a busy harbour.
Here along the wall other lanterns shone by brows and entry ports, where any novice, the unwary or a man who had taken too much to drink could easily trip over a ringbolt or some dockyard material and pitch over the edge.
He saw the brig’s two bare masts, higher than before on an incoming tide. Figures by an entry port, a lieutenant’s white-lapelled coat: probably the side party assembled to see the vice-admiral ashore.
What had they been discussing, he wondered. Old times perhaps, the rescue after the shipwreck of which Allday had told him. Poor Allday; he would be beside himself with worry over this journey. Not being in his proper place, as he would put it.
Avery recognised the thickset officer as Paul Ozanne, Larne ’s second-in-command.
“I was delayed, Mr Ozanne. I hope Sir Richard is not too displeased.”
Ozanne took his arm and guided him aft. He glanced at the cabin skylight, in darkness except for a solitary candle.
He said bluntly, “Sir Richard left long ago. He said to tell you he would be at the port admiral’s house.”
Avery tensed. Something was wrong. Badly wrong. Otherwise . . .
“What has happened?” Ozanne would kn
ow. Better than anyone, he would understand his captain and companion, and his friend, too.
“He’s down there now, drinking. Worse than I ever seen him. Can’t make no sense out of him. I’m fair troubled.”
Avery thought of Bolitho’s expression when he had gone to board this ship. Anxious, despairing, a different man from the one he had known at sea, or at the house in Falmouth.
“Shall I have a word?” He expected a blunt rebuff.
Instead Ozanne said roughly, “I’d be obliged, but watch your step. There might be a squall or two.”
Avery nodded in acknowledgement. It was something Allday had once said to him as a warning.
It was so dark between decks that he almost fell. Larne was small and cramped after a frigate, especially after the old Canopus in which he had been serving when Sillitoe had written to him about the possibility of an appointment to flag-lieutenant.
“Who is that out there? Lay aft if you must!”
He called, “Avery, sir. Flag-lieutenant!” He saw the flickering candle and Tyacke’s disfigured face turning away as he groped for a bottle.
“Send you, did he?”
He sounded angry, even dangerous. Avery replied, “I thought Sir Richard was aboard, sir.”
“Well, you can see that he’s bloody well not, so you can leave!” Just as suddenly, his voice changed. “Not your fault. It’s nobody’s damned fault. It’s this bloody war, what it’s done to us.” He was muttering to himself as he opened the bottle and slopped something into another glass. Some of it splashed unheeded on to the table. Avery could smell it, and thought of his empty stomach.
“’Fraid it’s only Geneva. I’ve seen off the cognac.” He gestured vaguely. “Shift yourself. Can’t see you well enough from here.”
Avery stood up, ducking to avoid the beams. The poor bastard. He doesn’t want me to see that side of his face.
Tyacke said thickly, “You limped. Of course, I’d forgotten. You were wounded, weren’t you? And then there was the court martial.” He repeated, “Not your fault.”
“Anything I can do, sir?”
For My Country's Freedom Page 3
