For My Country’s Freedom

He could faintly hear the clank, clank of pawls as the seamen threw their weight on the capstan bars. But down aft, this cabin was like a haven, a barrier between him and the ship. Unlike the little Larne where everybody had seemed to get under his feet.

Any minute now and Scarlett would come down and report that they were ready. He would be curious, no doubt, to see how the new captain would perform on his first day at sea.

Tyacke had already been on deck at the first suggestion of dawn, with Plymouth Sound glittering in a moving panorama of small angry waves.

He had found the master, Isaac York, by the compass boxes speaking with two of his mates; the latter had melted away when they had seen their captain up and about so early. They might think him nervous, unable to stay away from the scurrying seamen both on deck and aft.

'How is the wind, Mr York?'

York had peered aloft, his eyes crinkling into deep crow’s-feet. 'Steady enough, sir. East by north. It’ll be lively when we clear the land.'

Confident. A professional sailor who could still appreciate being consulted by his captain.

He had added in an almost fond tone, 'The Indom’s a fine

sailer, sir. I’ve known none better. She’ll hold close to the wind even under storm stays’ls. Not many frigates could boast as much.' He had squinted up at the small monkey-like figures working far above the deck. 'With her press of canvas she can shift herself!' A man proud of his ship, and of what he had achieved to become her master.

Tyacke dragged out his watch. Almost time. He listened to the clank of the capstan and could picture the straining seamen as they fought to haul the ship up to her anchor. Boots thumped overhead: the Royal Marines who were part of the after-guard preparing to free the mizzen sails and the big driver when so ordered. The seamen always claimed contemptuously that the marines were only given the task because the mizzen-mast was the simplest rigged, and even they could manage it.

More feet were running over the deck. Tyacke tried to identify every sound. The boats were hoisted on their tier. The ship’s launch had been landed and a new, dark green barge lashed in its place, the admiral’s own boat. He thought about the colours being hoisted that morning, the White Ensign curling in the wind. Nelson at Trafalgar had been the first admiral to fight a fleet action under that flag. In the smoke and hatred of a sea-battle it was absolutely vital that every captain should know friend from foe, and the Red Ensign or even the Blue had been too dangerous at Trafalgar, where French and Spanish flags of similar colouring could easily have confused the identity of ships, and impeded the immediate response to signals.

He knew that Scarlett was coming even before the sentry yelled out the news. He compared him to the two Royal Marine officers, Captain Cedric du Cann and his lieutenant, David Merrick. Men who would never question their orders, no matter what. Perhaps it was better to be like them. Imagination could be a risky possession.

He called, 'Enter!'

Scarlett, hat tucked underneath one arm, opened the screen door, his eyes seeking out his captain. To assess his demeanour, or plumb the depths of his uncertainty?

'The anchor is all but hove short, sir.'

'I shall come up.'

Scarlett was still watching him. 'The master has laid a course to weather Nare Head, sir.'

'I know.'

Scarlett saw him glance around the cabin. He himself had gone on deck after a late night in the wardroom, fending off speculation and gossip until the others had tired of it. Except the purser, James Viney who had repeatedly questioned him about the captain’s decision regarding his clerk. Scarlett was beginning to wonder if Viney did have something to hide. It was often said that half the inns and lodging-houses in naval ports were either owned or supplied by pursers at the country’s expense. But once on deck, Scarlett had seen the captain’s skylight still aglow. Did he never sleep or rest? Could he not?

Tyacke led the way up the companion ladder and on to the breezy quarterdeck. A slow glance took it all in. Seamen standing at braces and halliards, topmen already aloft, spread out on the yards and silhouetted against the sky like dwarfs.

Three men on the wheel; York was taking no chances. The lieutenants like little islands of blue and white at each mast, each man staring aft as Tyacke walked to the quarterdeck rail.

He listened to the capstan and heard the faint scrape of a violin, the sound of which had been inaudible in his quarters.

The signals midshipman, Blythe, was standing with his small crew of seamen, his face severe as he watched the captain.

Tyacke nodded to him. He could well imagine he would have a big head.

He glanced aft. The two marine officers with some of their men, their scarlet coats very bright in the drifting spray. York was

with his mates near the wheel, but peered up at him and touched his hat.

'Standing by, sir!'

Tyacke saw a squat figure in a plain blue coat and carrying a rattan cane walking along the larboard guns. That would be Sam Hockenhull, the boatswain, seeking the new men, all of whom were probably sick with dismay at being torn from their loved ones, to go to God knew where, and for how long. Beyond Hockenhull he could see one upraised paw of the lion figurehead. Further still, the blurred outline of Plymouth and what looked like a church tower.

He walked across the deck, feeling the stares, hating them.

'There are two collier brigs, larboard quarter, Mr York.'

The master did not smile. 'Aye, sir. I’ve marked ’em well.'

Tyacke looked at him. 'I’m told that if you ram a fully laden collier it’s like hitting the Barrier Reef.'

Then York did grin. 'I’ll not be the one to find out, sir!'

'Anchor’s coming home now, sir!'

Tyacke folded his arms. 'Get the ship under way, if you please.'

'Stand by the capstan.'

More calls twittered urgently. Spithead Nightingales, the sailors called them.

'Loose the heads’ls!'

Hockenhull the boatswain jabbed the air with his rattan. 'You-move yourself! Take that man’s name, Mr Sloper!'

'Loose tops’ls!' That was Scarlett, his powerful voice magnified by his speaking-trumpet while he wiped the drifting spray from his eyes.

'Man the braces! Mr Laroche, put more hands on the weather side as she comes clear!'

Tyacke shaded his eyes and watched the headsails flapping and banging until brought under command. Then up to the topsail yards where the tan-coloured canvas was barely under control, the

wind eagerly exploring it as if to hurl the topmen down to the deck.

Tyacke studied the great mainsail yard, its canvas still neatly lashed into place. From the quarterdeck it looked twice the length of Larne’s main-yard, where one or two slavers had danced their lives away.

'Anchor’s aweigh, sir!'

Released from the land Indomitable heeled over to the thrust of canvas and rudder, the sea almost brushing the lee gunports while she came about, sails thundering as fore and mainsails were hauled and beaten into submission. Some men lost their footing on the deck and fell gasping until dragged back to the taut braces, helped or punched as seemed necessary.

Tyacke watched the two anchored colliers slide past, as if they and not Indomitable were moving.

He heard the squeak of halliards and saw a new ensign break out from the gaff, so white against the angry clouds.

'Hold her steady! Steer south-west by south!'

He walked up the tilting deck while men dashed hither and thither on the wet planking.

'Steady she goes, sir! Full an’ bye!'