For My Country’s Freedom

'I expect Captain Tyacke suspects it; if so, I could feel pity for Scarlett. But he is one of the few experienced lieutenants on board. He has felt the enemy’s breath in his face, blade-to-blade, him or me: the only code of battle.'

Avery got to his feet. 'Thank you, Sir Richard. For sharing your thoughts and for finding time for my own problems. I promise…' Then he shook his head and gave a rueful smile. 'I am sorry. I must not say that. When I first presented myself to you and Lady Catherine at Falmouth you warned me then. You said, ‘Promise nothing! It is wiser in the long run.’'

Bolitho said, 'Send Allday to me.'

'A ‘wet,’ sir?'

They grinned like conspirators. The door closed and Bolitho returned to the salt-caked windows.

My little crew. It needed to be stronger than ever now.

Captain James Tyacke walked to the quarterdeck rail and took several deep breaths. Beyond Indomitable’s powerful shadow he could see the boiling ridges on every long roller, feel the jubilant chorus of wind through canvas and rigging, a ship responding to chart and rudder. Figures took shape around him as his eyes became used to the unbroken darkness. John Daubeny the second lieutenant and officer of the first watch, hovered nearby, unsure whether to speak or remain silent.

'Well, Mr Daubeny? I am not a mind-reader!'

'Wind remains steady, sir, sou’-westerly still moderate.'

Tyacke glanced up at the pale squares of canvas, spread like huge wings but barely visible through the spindrift and drifting spray.

The reduced sail plan would suffice until daylight while they sought out their two consorts. And then what? He still thought it unlikely that the enemy would have been expecting Bolitho to fall bait to the tale of Captain Adam’s place of captivity. Commodore Beer was an old dog, with more experience than most, and a hard head to protect him against foolhardy schemes.

Daubeny ventured carefully, 'Do you think we shall fight, sir?'

Tyacke smiled grimly. 'As I said, I am no mind-reader. But we shall stand prepared and ready, what say you?'

He guessed that the lieutenant was squinting his eyes as he always did when asked a direct question.

'I think we are prepared, sir.' He hesitated. 'Thanks to you.'

Tyacke frowned. But it was not idle flattery, which he might have expected from Lieutenant Laroche.

He replied, 'I had a lot to learn too. This is a vast change from commanding a brig, with nobody to crowd you and no admiral’s flag to fill you with terror!'

The lieutenant laughed. He could never imagine his formidable captain being frightened. Except perhaps when he had found himself on the orlop deck after the Nile, and had seen his own face.

He said, 'I wrote my last letter to my father, sir, and told him of our pride at being Sir Richard’s flagship…' He flinched as Tyacke seized his arm.

Tyacke said harshly, 'Never speak of a last letter to anybody, do you hear me? For it may well be your last, if you dwell on it too much!'

Daubeny swallowed hard. 'Then I shall pray, sir.'

'Aye, do that, although I have more faith in a good surgeon than a prayer book!'

He turned sharply. 'Who is that?' He saw the senior midshipman, Blythe, climbing up from the boat tier where he had been inspecting the lashings.

'Sir?'

'I was going to tell you, Mr Blythe…' He hesitated, wondering why he disliked the signals midshipman in spite of the outstanding reports of him from other officers. A confidence as big as his head. Well, never mind. He said, 'I have put you in my despatches, to confirm that I am making you acting-lieutenant until your examination.'

Blythe stared at his shadow. 'Thank you very much, sir! That will help considerably!' Even he could hide neither his pleasure nor his surprise. Tyacke rarely spoke with his 'young gentlemen,' content to leave it to officers who really knew them.

'I have a question, Mr Blythe.'

The figures standing around them were suddenly quite still, and trying not to appear as if they were eagerly listening. Deane, the other midshipman of the first watch, was paying particular attention in case he was asked the same question when his time came. Navigation or seamanship, gun-drill or boat-work It would be well to be prepared.

Blythe was standing very upright. Tyacke could almost hear his brain working.

He asked, 'What is the strength of a ship, Mr Blythe? Can you tell me that?'

Blythe was at a loss for words. 'The keel and main timbers, sir?'

Tyacke said curtly, 'I’m taking this midshipman with me, Mr Daubeny I trust you can manage?'

They walked along the weather gangway, dark shapes jumping aside as they passed. Tyacke climbed down the forward ladder, pausing to study the empty hammock nettings. If Sir Richard was right, there would be blood on the packed nettings very soon.

He examined his feelings. Fear, doubts of his own ability,

resignation? No. It was more of an awareness, the tasks of responsibility. Fate might already have decided.

He said, 'Do you go down to the messdecks, Mr Blythe?'

The youth stared at him. 'Sometimes for drills, sir. The bosun’s mates can deal with the other matters.'

'Can they indeed? Well, follow me.'

Down another wide ladder, which would be replaced by a less vulnerable rope one if they were called to action. When Indomitable had been a two-decker before her conversion, many of the messes had been crammed between the guns on either side. Now they had more space, at least.

There was sudden silence as Tyacke’s white breeches appeared on the ladder, and an old seaman bellowed, 'Attention for the Cap’n!' His eyes were popping as if he could scarcely believe it.

Tyacke tucked his hat beneath his arm and snapped to the midshipman, 'Remove your hat, man! You are not called to duty here. And this is their home, always remember that!'

Blythe watched almost humbly as Tyacke waved the seamen to reseat themselves on the long benches beside the scrubbed deal tables. The smell of cooking still filled the long messdeck, and Tyacke paused to examine a fine model of a fifth-rate which was being completed, critically watched by the man’s messmates.

One said cheekily, '’Tis the only ship Jake ’ere’ll ever command, sir!'

Tyacke listened to them laugh, felt their unexpected comradeship, their simple pleasure at what would otherwise be regarded as an intrusion.

He picked out the various faces, knowing the parts of ship where they worked, saw the ditty-boxes in which they kept their small treasures, a few portraits, perhaps, needles and thread, whalebone and canvas for repairs to their seagoing clothing.

He said to Blythe, 'Remember. This is home. All they have is here.'

'We goin’ to trounce them Frenchies, sir?' The man fell silent as Tyacke’s eyes found him. Frenchies. Many of these same men had no idea of where they were, or where bound. Weather, food, security. There were very different values on the messdecks. The smells of packed humanity, bilge and tar, hemp and paint.

He answered, 'We fight the King’s enemies, lads. But mostly we keep just the one hand for His Majesty, and the other for ourselves.' He looked around at their intent faces. 'For each other.'

Some stared at the hideous scars, others watched only his eyes. There was laughter, some at the other mess- tables craning to hear or ask what he had said.

A voice called, 'Would you care for a tot, sir?'

'Aye, I’ll have one.' It was as if somebody else had spoken as he added, 'Must keep a clear head for tomorrow.'

They watched in utter silence as he drained a tumbler of neat rum. He nodded, catching his breath. 'Nelson’s blood, lads!' Then he straightened as much as was possible, no less impressive a figure stooped between the low deckhead beams.