The Patriot's Fate Read Online Free PDF

A man is bound to it and beaten with the cat-o-nine tails while all the town are rounded up to watch. They carry on until someone cracks; if he don’t peach on his mates, it’s likely someone else will to spare him the pain.”
     
    “Do they always talk?” Crowley asked.
     
    Doherty gave a brief snort. “We’re here, ain’t we?”
     
    Crowley’s eyes fell as the other man continued.  
     
    “Baker, fisherman, farmer, mercer; there’s few who haven’t allied themselves to the cause. I’m tellin’ you, the country’s ripe for rebellion. If there be help from the Continent, so much the better; if not, we can do it on our own.”
     
    “And leave yourself open for the French to walk in anyway?” Crowley asked.
     
    “That’s as maybe, but we don’t see them as the enemy. They were the ones who showed us the way: there is much they can teach us about running our own country.”
     
    “And those of others they have invaded.” Crowley grunted. Doherty went to reply, but Doyle was still coughing heavily, so the two moved out of the room and in to a warm, bright kitchen that had been barely lit the night before. The bearded man from the previous evening was there. He had been introduced as Jack Douglas, and now stood before a metal range. A pan of bacon was started to make itself known as the smell and hiss of breakfast filled the morning air.
     
    “Sit you at the table, Michael,” Douglas said without turning. “There’s no tea, but you’ll find fresh milk in the jug and a slice if you wish.”
     
    Crowley sat at the worn wooden bench and cut the heel from a loaf that lay on the table. Doherty joined him, along with Doyle, his red hair spectacularly awry and still coughing intermittently. MacArthur returned from a trip outside and settled himself also, muttering a brief grace as he helped himself to milk. The bread was quite hard, but would be welcome for all that, and when Douglas topped it with a chunk of hot, dripping bacon, it made the best breakfast Crowley had eaten for a long while. Walsh came in just as they had finished and Doyle was collecting the plates.
     
    “I’ve checked with yer man; all should be ready in a few days,” he said, taking off his coat and folding it. “Last thing they are awaiting is the powder, and that is expected the day after tomorrow.” He placed the coat down carefully and took a seat at the table. “So then I went down to Collins at the quay, an’ nothing has changed from last night. He’s ready whenever; we should be fair for Thursday.”
     
    “Do we go at night?” MacArthur asked.
     
    “And risk being arrested as smugglers?” Walsh laughed. “I think not.” Douglas passed him a plate of bacon and he dipped some of the bread in the fat as he spoke. “No, dawn, first thing, along with the fishermen. We’ll probably follow them out as far as we can, then make a start for France.”
     
    “Where is it you are heading?” Crowley asked, then instantly regretted the question. Suddenly the eyes of every man in the room were on him, and he felt himself lean back slightly under their combined glare. “I mean, it is nothing to me…”
     
    “No, we can tell Michael,” Doyle said slowly. “He may not be with us, but there’ll never be a man less likely to turn.”
     
    “Brest,” Walsh said softly.
     
    “It must be nigh on two hundred miles to Brest,” Crowley murmured, when he had digested the information. “Long way for a fisherman. And there’ll be a weight of Navy ships blockading when you arrives.”
     
    “We’re none of us afraid of a little discomfort,” Douglas told him. Crowley could accept that of his friends, who were seamen through and through, but wondered quite how Walsh would take to being chucked about in a small boat for a day or more. He was about to enquire further, but the younger man was there before him.
     
    “First, there is something you might find interesting. I have been making enquires about your ship. She’s