For My Country's Freedom by Alexander Kent Page A

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.”
    â€œI think I knew.”
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œI 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 threatening 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