For My Country’s Freedom

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.

Lieutenant 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, satisfied. 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 gunport 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 dogwatches. '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 Sparti-ate, 74. 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