For My Country’s Freedom

He stared aft, as if he could see the captain discussing the latest despatches with the admiral. He swallowed half the tepid wine without even tasting it. Avery the flag-lieutenant would be there too. Of course.

Could he speak privately with the captain? After what he had told him when he had taken command at Plymouth, might he be prepared to listen?

The two Royal Marine officers were dozing in their chairs, while Jeremy Laroche, the third lieutenant, sat at the end of the table, idly shuffling and re-shuffling a pack of cards.

Scarlett ignored him. How long would this go on? The Yankees might never break out in strength; even Anemone’s loss had

been sheer mischance. Had it been dark, nothing might have happened at all.

Laroche called in his affected drawl, 'I say, Matthew, if I can rouse the two soldiers here, would you care to make a foursome?' He ruffled the cards and added, 'Chance to even the score, what?'

'Not now.'

'But it’ll be all-hands before you know it. You know what it’s been like.'

'I said not now. Are you bloody deaf or something?'

He did not see the lieutenant’s anger and resentment; all he could think of was the letter which had come with the schooner’s mail. Even the sight of his mother’s spidery writing had twisted his stomach like a sickness.

It should have been so different. Could have been. Indomitable had lain at Plymouth undergoing alterations and re-rigging, ready for a role which had not come about in time for the Mauritius campaign. As first lieutenant he had had every hope and promise for promotion, to commander in all probability on a temporary footing until he could be advanced to captain. Captain of this powerful vessel, a match for any of the crack American newcomers like Unity and the rest. The money that went with such a command would be further increased with the prizes he would take or share. A real chance to wipe out the mounting debts that hung over him like a spectre.

His mother was desperate. They had threatened her that they would, if necessary, go to the lords of admiralty But the deeds of the house which her late husband had left her would show an honest attempt at repayment.

The very mention of cards by the unimaginative Laroche had nearly made him vomit.

He knew that he was behaving strangely, but the sudden gusts of rage and his harsh treatment of some of the warrant officers seemed beyond his ability to contain. On or off watch, in his cot

at night or pacing the quarterdeck in all weathers, he was dogged by worry and despair.

Indomitable was not to continue as a private ship, as he and others had expected.

When Sir Richard’s flag had broken out at the mainmast truck he had watched his hopes begin to dwindle. It was well known in the fleet that Bolitho often promoted his various flag-lieutenants to command at the end of a commission. For some it had been richly deserved; others, who could say? Scarlett was one of the most senior lieutenants in the squadron, apart from a few of the old hands who had risen from warrant rank and the like.

It was so unfair. But it would not go away. There would be no peace.

Another mess-man faltered by the table. 'Beg pardon, sir.'

Scarlett turned sharply. 'What?'

'I ’eard a cry from the masthead, sir.'

'Well, so did I, damn it!' He stood up and strode out, snatching his hat as he passed. In fact, he had heard nothing.

Captain du Cann of the Royal Marines opened one eye and looked at Laroche. 'Coming in for a blow, what?'

Laroche was still sulking. 'I hate a bad loser!'

On deck Scarlett adjusted to the hard glare thrown back from the endless, undulating swell of empty ocean. Like molten glass. The emptiness was an illusion. Their last estimated position had been only 25 miles south-east of Sandy Hook and New York.

Lieutenant Protheroe, the officer-of-the-watch, studied him warily.

'Lookout reports a small sail to the nor’-east, sir.'

'Who is up there?'

'Crane, sir.'

Scarlett stared up through the shrouds and rigging, at the flapping topsails and topgallants. It was so bright that he could

scarcely see the lookout, but from his name he got an immediate picture.

A good, reliable hand, not a man to imagine what he saw. He asked shortly, 'What sort of vessel?'

'I sent up a glass, sir…'

'Not what I asked.'

Protheroe swallowed hard. He had always got on very well with the first lieutenant. Or thought he had.

He replied, 'Very small, sir. Topsail schooner, but foreign rig, he thinks Portuguese.'

'Does he indeed.' He took a pace to the rail and stared down at the men working their watch on deck. 'As soon as she sights us she’ll be off like a rabbit!'

He saw Isaac York the sailing-master, a bundle of charts beneath one arm and his slate-grey hair ruffling in the breeze, pause with his hand above his eyes while he scanned the horizon for the as yet invisible vessel.

York continued his way to the quarterdeck and said, 'I’ll tell the Captain, Matthew.'

Scarlett swung round, his eyes ablaze with sudden anger. 'Don’t you start…'

York stood fast. 'It’s me, Matthew. Remember?'

'Sorry.' He touched his rough coat. 'So sorry!'

'If you want to talk…?'

He nodded blindly. 'I know. I am in hell!'

To Protheroe he added, 'Get aloft, eh? Tell me what you make of her.' To York he said, 'Maybe later I’ll be able…' But Isaac York had gone below.

York was tall, and had to stoop as he made his way aft towards the marine sentry outside the admiral’s quarters.

What had happened to Scarlett, he wondered. A good first lieutenant, one spoken of for promotion. That was then.

The sentry tapped on the deck with his musket. 'Master, sir!'

Ozzard opened the door and squinted around it, York thought, rather like a suspicious housewife examining a pedlar.

It took a minute for York to accustom his eyes to the comparative gloom of the great cabin, then he made out the comfortable shape of the admiral’s secretary, his small round glasses perched on his moist forehead while he awaited the next instruction. Avery, the flag-lieutenant, was standing beside the desk, his body swaying easily to the ship’s heavy progress, some papers in his brown hands. And their captain, moving restlessly by a gunport, the reflected sunshine lighting his hideous scars one way, losing them in shadow the next. York remembered how his midshipmen had been terrified of Tyacke when he had first come aboard. Few would even catch his eye. Now, in some strange way, all that had changed. The fear remained, but it was greatly tempered with respect, and perhaps a recognition of his courage.

And of course, Sir Richard Bolitho. Shirt loosened, his legs thrust out while he sat framed against the glistening panorama astern.

York smiled. The midshipmen were not the only ones in awe of admiral and captain.

'Be seated, Mr York. I’ll give you the barest details of a despatch I received from Halifax in the schooner Reynard.' Bolitho forced a smile. 'Little news of the war, I am afraid, although the Duke of Wellington continues to advance and press upon Napoleon’s coat-tails.'

York was as shrewd as he was experienced. There was tension here. Anxiety in their various stances; no roles for the actors, he thought.

Bolitho watched him, fighting the despair, the sense of helplessness. He continued, 'Word has come from some