Alexander Kent - For My Country’s Freedom

Then silence, the sounds of battle and suffering held at bay like another enemy.

Bolitho went to Allday’s assistance and, with Avery, got him to his feet.

Avery said simply, "He was trying to protect you, sir."

But Allday was crawling on his knees, his hands and legs soaked with blood, his eyes suddenly desperate and pleading.

"John! It’s me, John! Don’t leave us now!"

Bolitho watched, unable to speak as Allday knelt, and with great gentleness gathered his son’s body into his arms.

Bolitho said, "Here, let me, old friend." But the eyes that met his were blank, like a total stranger’s.

He said only, "Not now, Sir Richard. I just needs a few minutes with him." He brushed the hair from his son’s face, so still now, caught at the moment of impact.

Bolitho felt a hand on his shoulder, and saw that it was Tyacke’s.

"What?" The enemy had surrendered, but it made no sense. Only Allday’s terrible hurt was real.

Tyacke glanced at Allday, on this crowded and fought-over deck, so alone with his grief.

He said abruptly, "I’m sorry, Sir Richard." He waited for Bolitho’s attention to return to him. "Commodore Beer is asking for you." He looked up at the sky, clearing now to lay bare their wounds and damage. If he was surprised to be alive, he did not reveal it. He said, "He’s dying." Then he picked up a fallen boarding-axe and drove it with furious bitterness into the quarterdeck ladder. "And for what?"

Commodore Nathan Beer was propped against the broken compass-box when Bolitho found him, his surgeon and a bandaged lieutenant trying to make him comfortable.

Beer looked up at him. "I thought we’d meet eventually." He tried to offer his hand but as if it was too heavy, it fell back into his lap.

Bolitho stooped down and took the hand. "It had to end in victory. For one of us." He glanced at the surgeon. "I must thank you for saving my nephew’s life, doctor. Even in war it is necessary to love another."

The commodore’s hand was heavy in his, the life running out of it like sand from a glass.

Then he opened his eyes and said in a strong voice, "Your nephew-I remember now. There was a lady’s glove."

Bolitho glanced at the French surgeon. "Cannot anything be done for him?"

The surgeon shook his head, and afterwards Bolitho recalled seeing tears in his eyes.

He gazed into Beer’s lined face. A man with an ocean of experience. He thought of Tyacke’s bitterness and anger. And for what?

"Someone he cared for very much…" But Beer’s expression, interested and eager, had become still and unmoving.

Allday was helping him to his feet. "Set bravely, Sir Richard?"

Bolitho saw Lieutenant Daubeny walk past, the Stars and Stripes draped over one shoulder.

He touched Allday’s arm, and then realised that Adam was watching them across the fallen.

"Yes, old friend. It gets harder." He pointed at Daubeny. "Here, lay the flag over the commodore. I’ll not part him from it now!"

He climbed slowly across the fallen spars, and on to Indomitable ’s scarred deck.

Then he turned and grasped Allday’s arm. "Aye, set bravely. " He looked at the watching faces. What did they really think? Pride, or was it conceit: the need to win, no matter what?

He touched the locket beneath his stained shirt, which had been clean only hours ago.

Aloud he said quietly, "I’ll never leave you, until life itself is denied me."

Despite all this carnage, or perhaps because of it, he knew she would hear him.

Lady Catherine Somervell stared at her reflection in the looking-glass and brushed her long dark hair, her eyes critical, as if searching for a fault. Brush-brush-brush, automatic and without feeling. It was just another morning, a bitter one too if the frost around the bedroom windows was any gauge.

Just another day. Perhaps a letter would come. In her heart she knew it would not.

In two days’ time it would be December; after that did not bear thinking of. Another year. Separated from the only man she loved, could ever love.

It had been a hard winter so far. She would ride around the estate and then go to Nancy. Lewis, the King of Cornwall, was

ill. He had suffered a stroke, the possibility of which his doctor had warned him often enough in the past.

Catherine had sat with him, reading to him, feeling the frustration and the impatience of the man who, more than most, had lived life to the full. He had muttered, "No more hunting, no more riding-where’s the point of going on?"

She had said, "There is Nancy to think of, Lewis. Try, for her sake."

She crossed the room now to the tall cheval mirror, the one decorated with carved thistles, a gift from Captain James Bolitho to his Scottish bride. In spite of the cold air which even an early fire in the grate could not dispel, Catherine opened her gown and let it fall over her arms. Again the searching stare, like despair, like fear. She cupped her fine breasts in her hands and pressed them together as he had done so often.

Will he still love me like that? Will he believe me beautiful?

But when, when, when?

The news from North America had been vague and sparse. Reports had criticised the inability of the smaller English frigates to maintain their usual superiority over the new American vessels, which were more powerful and skilfully handled, but that war was a long way from England. The news-sheets were more preoccupied with Wellington’s continued success against the French, and the prospect of an overwhelming victory within months.

Catherine dressed herself slowly and with care. It was strange not to have Sophie helping her, starting each day with her uncaring chatter. She would have to find another maid. Perhaps in London, someone in whom she might see herself again.

She opened a drawer and saw Richard’s gift lying there. She took it out and carried it to the window. The freezing air took her breath away but she ignored it and opened the velvet box. His last present to her, the fan set with diamonds. When it hung

between her breasts she felt both proud and defiant. Together they had defied society, but had won the heart of a nation.

She kissed the pendant and fought against the tears. I must hold on. It is just another day. In their simple way the people on the estate, some of them crippled sailors from Richard’s own ships, seemed to turn to her, trusting her to look after them with so many of the menfolk at sea or forming squares on Wellington’s fields of battle.

She glanced down at the yard. Two horses being groomed, a carter delivering cider for the estate workers, not that there was much to do in this bitter weather.

And beyond, the naked trees, ragged spectres on the headland. Beyond them, the sea would soon show itself as something solid, like water penned in a great dam.

How will he see me when he first comes through those doors'? She offered a wistful smile. More likely he will be worried about how I shall receive him. He dreaded getting older; even his wounded eye was like a cruel taunt, a sign of the years between them. She sighed and left the room. The dark portraits were all here, watching her pass; the Bolitho faces. She paused on the staircase.

And what of Adam? Would he ever recover?

She saw Bryan Ferguson, the steward, about to leave the house: he had probably been discussing the day’s arrangements with his wife Grace, the housekeeper. A man so full of energy and enthusiasm, despite his single arm. He grinned at her and touched his forehead. "You caught me out, my lady! I was not expecting you this early."

"Is it early?"

Ferguson watched her. So beautiful even with her rough riding-cloak over her arm. Sad too. The other face that few people ever saw.