For My Country's Freedom Read online

  ‘Thank you, Henry.’ He put some coins into the man’s fist and stared at the big brass-bound chest. They had travelled a long way together since he had recovered from his injuries. His complete world was contained in it.

  Recovered? Hardly that. It was impossible not to be reminded of it daily. He saw himself reflected in other people’s faces, and the horror and the pity he saw there had never ceased to wound him.

  All through the night he had gone over everything he had discovered about Indomitable, his head filled, as if it would burst if he could not rest. All the lieutenants had been aboard throughout the refit, even the luckless Laroche who had blundered into the inn parlour. The first confrontation. There would be many more.

  He gazed out at the moored ship. Without her original top-hamper she looked like any other large frigate at this distance. Like the Valkyrie, with her main gundeck higher than fifth- and sixth-rates so that her devastating broadside could be used to maximum effect. He watched the approaching boat critically, the oars rising and falling like wings. He thought even Allday would approve.

  He turned to speak once more, but the little cart had gone. Only the sea-chest remained. The gig swung in a tight arc, the bowman poised with his boathook to grip the mooring ring on the stairs.

  After what seemed an eternity a young lieutenant ran up the stairs and raised his hat with a flourish.

  ‘Protheroe, sir! At your service!’

  ‘Ah, yes. Fourth lieutenant.’ He saw the young officer’s eyebrows lift with surprise, and thought for a moment that his memory had betrayed him.

  ‘Why – yes, sir!’

  Tyacke turned deliberately to reveal the burned side of his face. It had the effect he expected. When he turned back, Protheroe had gone pale. But his voice was controlled as he rapped out orders, and two seamen ran to collect the heavy chest.

  Tyacke glanced at them as they hurried past with their eyes averted. Laroche had obviously told a grim story about their new captain.

  Protheroe watched the chest being carried down to the gig, no doubt terrified that they would let it fall into the water. Not long out of a midshipman’s berth, Tyacke thought.

  ‘May we proceed, Mr Protheroe?’

  The lieutenant stared around with dismay. ‘I was looking for your coxswain, sir.’

  Tyacke felt his mouth break into a smile.

  ‘I am afraid that the commander of a brig does not run to his own cox’n!’

  ‘I see, sir.’ He stood aside and waited for Tyacke to descend the weed-lined steps.

  Again the quick stares from the boat’s crew, then every eye looking instantly away as his glance passed over them. Tyacke sat down in the sternsheets and held his sword against his thigh, as he had done when he left Larne.

  ‘Let go! Bear off forrard! Out oars!’

  Tyacke turned to watch the gap of lively water widening. I am leaving. God for what?

  ‘Give way all!’

  He asked, ‘How long have you been in Indomitable?’

  ‘A year, sir. I joined her while she was still laid up in ordinary and about to complete her rebuilding.’ He faltered under Tyacke’s eyes. ‘Before that I was signals midshipman in the Crusader, thirty-two.’

  Tyacke stared across the stroke oarsman’s broad shoulder at the masts and yards rising up to greet him, as if they were lifting from the seabed. Now he could see the difference. One hundred and eighty feet overall, and of some fourteen hundred tons, her broad beam betrayed that she had been built originally for the line of battle. Her sail plan had changed little, he thought. With a wind over the quarter she would run like a deer if properly handled.

  He saw the pale sunlight gleaming on several telescopes and knew the men were stampeding to their stations.

  What would his first lieutenant be like? Perhaps he had expected promotion, even command of the powerful ship once her overhaul was completed. Indomitable’s last captain had left her months ago, leaving his senior lieutenant in charge until their lordships had decided what to do with her. They had not. He gripped his sword even tighter. Sir Richard Bolitho had made that decision. He could imagine the words. So be it.

  ‘Bring her to larboard, Mr Protheroe!’ There was an edge to his voice, although he had not realised it.

  As he watched the long tapering jib-boom reaching out towards them like a lance, he saw the figurehead where it crouched beneath the beakhead. Crouched was right. It was in the form of a lion about to attack with both paws slashing at the air. A fine piece of work, Tyacke thought, but it was not the original figurehead, which would have been far too big for the rebuilt hull. Except for the bright red mouth and gleaming eyes, it shone with expensive gold paint, perhaps a gift from the builders who had converted her.

  ‘Carry on, Mr Protheroe.’ He was suddenly eager to begin, his stomach in knots as the gig veered towards the main chains and the entry port, where he had already seen the scarlet of the marines. My marines.

  He thought of Adam Bolitho’s frigate, Anemone. Lying alongside this ship, she would be overwhelmed.

  His experienced eye took in everything, from the buff and black hull that shone like glass above the cruising white horses, to the new rigging, shrouds and stays freshly blacked-down and every sail neatly furled, probably by the petty officers themselves for this important occasion.

  For all of us, a voice seemed to say.

  He would find himself a personal coxswain. Another Allday, if there was such a man. He would be more than useful at times like these.

  The gig had hooked on, the oars tossed, the seamen staring directly astern. Anywhere but at their new captain.

  Tyacke rose to his feet, very aware of the lively gig’s movement, waiting for the exact moment to climb up to the entry port.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Protheroe. I am obliged.’

  Then he seized the handropes and stepped quickly on to the tumblehome before the sea could drag him down.

  Like the walk from Larne to the waiting carriage, the minutes seemed endless. As his head rose above the port, the sudden explosion of noise was deafening. The bayoneted muskets of the Royal Marines snapped in salute in time with their officer’s sword, and the calls of boatswain’s mates, followed by the rattle of drums, rose and then fell silent.

  Tyacke removed his hat in salute to the extended quarterdeck with its neatly-packed hammock nettings. He noticed that the wheel and compass boxes were unsheltered. Builders and designers, then as now, saw only the efficiency of their work, not men being shot down by enemy sharpshooters with nothing but the stowed hammocks to protect them.

  A square-faced lieutenant stepped from the ranks of blue and white, warrant officers and midshipmen, two so young that Tyacke wondered how anyone could have allowed them to leave home.

  ‘I am Scarlett, the senior here.’ He hesitated and added, ‘Welcome to Indomitable, sir.’

  A serious-looking face. Reliable… perhaps.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Scarlett.’ He followed the first lieutenant along the rank, all standing in order of seniority. Even Protheroe had managed to slip into the line during the brief ceremony at the entry port.

  Four lieutenants, including the unfortunate Laroche. Their eyes met and Tyacke asked coldly, ‘How many men did you press, Mr Laroche?’

  He stammered, ‘Three, sir.’ He hung his head, expecting the mainmast to fall on him.

  ‘We shall find many more. I daresay all Plymouth knew you were abroad last night.’ He moved on, leaving the third lieutenant looking dazed.

  Scarlett was saying, ‘This is Isaac York, sir, our sailing master.’

  A capable, interesting face: you would know him as a deep-water sailor even if he were disguised as a priest.

  Tyacke asked, ‘How long have you been sailing master, Mr York?’

  He was younger than most masters he had known, the characters of almost every vessel.

  York grinned. ‘A year, sir. Afore that I was master’s mate aboard this ship for four years.’

  Tyacke nodded, satis
fied. A man who knew how she would handle under all conditions. The face appeared about thirty, except that his neatly cut hair was slate-grey.

  They turned to the quarterdeck rail. The midshipmen could wait.

  Tyacke felt in his coat for his commission. As so ordered, he would read himself in.

  ‘Have all hands lay aft, Mr Scarlett –’ He stopped, and saw the first lieutenant’s instant uncertainty. ‘That man, by the boat tier…’

  Scarlett relaxed only slightly. ‘That’s Troughton. He serves as cook. Is something wrong, sir?’

  ‘Have him come aft.’

  A midshipman scuttled away to fetch him and most of the men already on deck turned to watch as the one-legged sailor in the long white apron clumped on to the quarterdeck.

  ‘If you do not approve, sir?’ Scarlett sounded apprehensive.

  Tyacke stared at the limping figure. He had sensed somebody’s eyes upon him even as he had come aboard. Now, of all times . . . There was utter silence as he strode over to the cook and, reaching him, put his hands on the thin shoulders.

  ‘Dear God. I was told you were dead, Troughton.’

  The man studied him feature by feature and, lastly, the scars. Then he glanced down at his wooden leg and said quietly, ‘They tried to do for both of us that day, sir. I’m so glad you’ve come to the old Indom. Welcome aboard!’

  Very solemnly they shook hands. So she even had a special nickname, Tyacke thought. It was like a triumph: someone had survived on that hideous day. A young seaman working with a handspike to retrain one of his guns. He should have been killed; Tyacke had imagined him being thrown outboard with all the other corpses. But he himself had been deafened and blinded, and had heard only screams. His own.

  As the ship’s company swarmed aft and he took out his commission and unrolled it, Tyacke saw men whispering to each other, those who had seen the incident trying to describe it to their friends. The scarred captain and a one-legged cook.

  Grouped behind him, most of the officers were too young to understand, but York the master and the first lieutenant knew well enough what it meant.

  And when Tyacke began to read himself in they both leaned closer to hear, as if this tall straight-backed man gave the formality both significance and a new impact.

  It was addressed to James Tyacke Esquire, appointing him to the Indomitable on this day in April 1811. Not far from the place where Drake was alleged to have kept the fleet and the Dons waiting while he finished his game of bowls.

  Willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the charge and command of captain in her accordingly; strictly charging and commanding all the officers and company of the said Indomitable . . . At that point Tyacke looked across the mass of upturned faces. The old Indom. But the one-legged cook was not in sight. Perhaps he had imagined it, and Troughton had been only a lingering spectre who had come back to give him the strength he had needed.

  Eventually it was all over, ending with the customary warning. Threat, as he perceived it. Hereof nor you nor any of you may fail as will answer the contrary at your peril.

  He rolled up the commission and said, ‘God Save the King!’

  There was neither sound nor cheering, and the silence at any other time would have been oppressive.

  He replaced his hat and gazed aloft where Sir Richard Bolitho’s flag would soon be hoisted to the mainmast truck for the first time.

  ‘You may dismiss the hands, Mr Scarlett. I will see all officers in my quarters in one hour, if you please.’

  The figures crowded below the quarterdeck rail were still thinking only of their own future, and not of the ship. Not yet.

  And yet despite the silence he could feel only a sense of elation, an emotion which was rare to him.

  This was not his beloved Larne. It was a new beginning, for him and for the ship.

  Lieutenant Matthew Scarlett strode aft, glancing this way and that to ensure that the ship was tidy, the hammock nettings empty, all spare cordage coiled or flaked down until the new day. The air that touched his face when he passed an open gun-port was cold, and the ship’s motion was unsteady for so powerful a hull.

  He had overheard the sailing master lecturing some of the ‘young gentlemen’ during the dog watches. ‘When the gulls fly low over the rocks at night, it’ll be bad next day, no matter what some clever Jacks tell you!’ Scarlett had seen the two newest midshipmen glance doubtfully at one another. But the gulls had flown abeam even as the darkness of evening had started to close in around the anchored ship. Isaac York was rarely mistaken.

  Past the unattended double-wheel and further aft into the shadows, where a Royal Marine sentry stood in the light of a spiralling lantern. The Indomitable had been converted to contain two large cabins aft, one for her captain, and the other for use by the senior officer of a flotilla or squadron.

  But for Tyacke’s arrival and the vessel’s selection as Sir Richard Bolitho’s flagship, one of the cabins might have been his. He acknowledged the watchful sentry and reached for the screen door.

  The sentry tapped the deck with his musket and bawled, ‘First Lieutenant, sir!’

  ‘Enter!’

  Scarlett closed the door behind him, his eyes taking in several things at once.

  Tyacke’s supper stood on a tray untouched; the coffee he had requested must be ice-cold. The table was completely covered with books, canvas folios and pages of the captain’s own notes.

  Scarlett thought of the officers all packed into this cabin shortly after the captain had read himself in. Could that have been only this morning? Tyacke must have been going through the ship’s affairs ever since.

  ‘You have not eaten, sir. May I send for something?’

  Tyacke looked at him for the first time. ‘You were at Trafalgar, I believe?’

  Scarlett nodded, taken aback by the directness.

  ‘Aye, sir. I was in Lord Nelson’s weather column, the Spartiate, seventy-four. Captain Sir Francis Laforey.’

  ‘Did you ever meet Nelson?’

  ‘No, sir. We saw him often enough aboard the flagship. Few of us ever met him. After he fell, many of our people wept, as if they had known him all their lives.’

  ‘I see.’

  Scarlett watched Tyacke’s sun-browned hands leafing through another book. ‘Did you ever meet him, sir?’

  Tyacke stared up from the table, his eyes very blue in the swaying lanterns.

  ‘Like you, I only saw him in the far distance.’ He was touching his scarred face, his eyes suddenly hard. ‘At the Nile.’

  Scarlett waited. So that was where it had happened.

  Tyacke said abruptly, ‘I understand that the purser’s clerk has been doing the work of ship’s clerk as well as his own?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We have been very short-handed, so I thought…’

  Tyacke closed the book. ‘Pursers and their clerks are necessary, Mr Scarlett. But it is sometimes a risk to give them too much leeway in ship’s affairs.’ He pushed the book aside and opened another where he had used a quill as a marker. ‘Detail one of the reliable midshipmen for the task until we are fully manned.’

  ‘I shall ask the purser if…’

  Tyacke regarded him. ‘No, tell Mr Viney what you intend.’ He paused. ‘I have also been going through the punishment book.’

  Scarlett tensed, with growing resentment at the manner in which the new captain was treating him.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘This man, Fullerton. Three dozen lashes for stealing some trifle or other from a messmate. Rather harsh, surely?’

  ‘It was my decision, sir. It was harsh, but the laws of the lower deck are harder than the Articles of War. His messmates would have put him over the side.’ He waited for a challenge, but surprisingly Tyacke smiled.

  ‘I’d have offered him four dozen!’ He glanced around and Scarlett studied the burned half of his face. He looks at me as the captain, but inwardly he must bleed at every curious stare.

  Tyacke said, ‘I wi
ll not tolerate unfair or brutal punishment. But I will have discipline in my ship and I will always support my officers, unless…’ He did not finish it.

  He pushed some papers along the black and white chequered deck-covering and revealed a bottle of brandy.

  ‘Fetch two glasses.’ His voice pursued the first lieutenant as he pulled open a cupboard.

  Scarlett saw all the other carefully-stowed bottles. He had watched it being swayed up on a tackle just the previous day.

  He said cautiously, ‘Fine brandy, sir.’

  ‘From a lady.’ Who but Lady Catherine would have taken the trouble? Would even have cared?

  They drank in silence, the ship groaning around them, a wet breeze rattling the halliards overhead.

  Tyacke said, ‘We will sail with the tide at noon. We will gain sea-room and set course for Falmouth, where Sir Richard Bolitho will hoist his flag. I have no doubt that Lady Catherine Somervell will come aboard with him.’ He felt rather than saw Scarlett’s surprise. ‘So make certain the hands are well turned out, and that a bosun’s chair is ready for her.’

  Scarlett ventured, ‘From what I have heard of the lady, sir…’ He saw Tyacke tense, as if about to reprimand him. He continued, ‘She could climb aboard unaided.’ He saw Tyacke nod, his eyes distant, for that moment only another man entirely.

  ‘She could indeed.’ He gestured towards the bottle. ‘Another thing. As of tomorrow, this ship will wear the White Ensign and masthead pendant accordingly.’ He took the goblet and stared at it. ‘I know that Sir Richard is now an Admiral of the Red, and to my knowledge he has always sailed under that colour. But their lordships have decreed that if we are to fight, it will be under the White Ensign.’

  Scarlett looked away. ‘As we did at Trafalgar, sir.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘About a coxswain, sir?’

  ‘D’you have anyone in mind?’

  ‘There’s a gun captain named Fairbrother. A good hand. But if he doesn’t suit I’ll find another.’

  ‘I’ll see him after breakfast.’

  Rain pattered across the tall stern windows. ‘It’s going to blow tomorrow, sir.’

  ‘All the better. I went through your watch and quarter bills.’ Immediately he sensed Scarlett’s anxiety. One who resented criticism, or had been unfairly used in the past. ‘You’ve done a good job. Not too many bumpkins in one watch, or too many seasoned hands in another. But once standing down-Channel I want all hands turned-to for sail and gun drill. They will be our strength, as always.’ He stood up and walked aft to the windows, now streaked with salt spray.