For My Country’s Freedom

'God bless you, lads.'

They cheered, the din filling the cramped place until Tyacke said, 'Carry on, Mr Blythe!'

Through the Royal Marines’ messes, the barracks as they insisted on calling them. Neatly piled drums and pipeclayed belts, stands of Brown Bess muskets and their bayonets, scarlet coats and delighted grins, even a handshake or two from the NCOs.

Tyacke felt the sea air on his face and was thankful it was over. He knew who had taught him the importance and pain of such close intimacy with men you could promote, flog or hang, even in the jaws of death.

A familiar figure lounged against one of the black twenty-four-pounders. Troughton, the one-legged cook who had shared his own horror at the Nile.

'You got ’em, Cap’n! The Old Indom’s in the palm of your hand, that she is!'

He was called away and Tyacke was glad. The young, fresh-faced seaman who had been blasted down when the world had exploded around them probably knew better than any, and would see through his disguise if only from memory.

He turned instead to Midshipman Blythe, who was watching him with a mixture of awe and fear.

'Men, Mr Blythe. Ordinary, everyday men-you’d never notice any one of them in a street or working in the fields in England, right?'

Blythe nodded but remained silent.

Tyacke continued relentlessly, 'But they are your answer. They are the strength of a ship. So let them not die to no good purpose.'

He watched the midshipman’s shadow melt into the darkness. He might have learned something from it, until the next time.

He thought of the man whose flag flew at the masthead and smiled, embarrassed because of what he had just done.

He touched the tarred rigging and murmured to himself, 'So let’s be about it, then!'

17. And for What?

Richard Bolitho peered into the small looking-glass and felt the smoothness of his skin after Allday’s careful, unhurried shave. The ship was in total darkness, and with so much low cloud the first light would be late in coming. And yet the ship felt alive. Men moving about, the smell of breakfast still hanging greasily on the damp air.

Suppose I am wrong? He was surprised to see the face in the glass smile back at him. So many times, different ships, other seas and oceans. He knew that he was not wrong. It was not merely the calculations on York’s charts, the estimated time of arrival of the convoy at Halifax; it went deeper, so much so. Like the minds of men dedicated to survival but condemned to danger, even death. So many times.

Allday knew it too, but had said very little on this chill morning on the great Western Ocean.

Bolitho had touched only briefly on the matter of his son, Bankart.

Allday had hesitated, the keen razor poised in the air. 'I want to feel him as my son, Sir Richard. But something stands between us. We’re strangers, as we were when I first met him.'

Bolitho touched the locket beneath his shirt. A clean, frilled shirt, one of Ozzard’s best. Why was it necessary to do this? All-day had told him that his son had confided that the largest American men-of-war had the pick of the navy’s sharpshooters, former backwoodsmen who lived or died by the success of their marksmanship. It was madness, surely, to present an admiral’s hat and epaulettes as a ready target, or even a captain’s. He had said as much to Tyacke, whose answer had been uncompromising and blunt, like the man.

'I’m proud of this ship, Sir Richard. She’s mine, and I know her better than I ever believed possible. And I want our people to see me-know I’m with them, even at the worst of times.' He had given one of his attractive smiles. 'I seem to have learned that, too, from somebody not so far away!'

Bolitho rubbed his eye and winced. But if I have miscalculated, then Beer will have joined his other ships to attack the convoy. Even Valkyrie and her smaller consorts could not withstand such an onslaught.

Ozzard came out of the shadows carrying the heavy dress coat.

Bolitho said, 'If we are called to battle, you will go below.'

'Thank you, Sir Richard.' He hesitated. 'I’ll be ready when you need me.'

Bolitho smiled. Poor Ozzard. He always took refuge below the waterline whenever battle was joined, as he had in the old Hyperion when she had begun to founder. Allday had even hinted that it had been his intention to remain there and go down with the old ship, as so many had done that day. How Hyperion Cleared the Way: the ballad was still ever-popular in sailors’ taverns and ale-houses.

Too many ghosts, he thought, ships and men, men and ships. Too many lost, too many lives…

There was a tap at the door and Tyacke made his way aft, his single epaulette glinting in the spiralling lantern- light.

'The wind’s backed a piece, Sir Richard, more like sou’-west by south. Steady enough, though.' He glanced at the deckhead as if he could see the yards and reefed sails. 'She’ll fly when we give her the chance!'

Bolitho tried to clear his mind. 'When we are able, James, signal the frigates to close on us. Woodpecker will remain well up to wind’rd.' A lone witness if things went badly wrong.

Tyacke said, 'I was wondering if we should signal Zest to change stations with Reaper, sir. A captain with a new ship, a ship with a new captain.' He shrugged. 'I’d suggest that Reaper would be better placed closer to the enemy.'

So even Tyacke was coming round. He said, 'That is what I intend, James. If I am right…'

Tyacke exclaimed, 'You mean that Commodore Beer has anticipated this move, and has outsailed us during the night?'

Bolitho felt the locket again, warm against his skin. 'Wouldn’t you? Take the wind-gage if you had the chance? And if we run, we will eventually be caught on a lee shore, yes?'

Tyacke said shortly, 'Sometimes you have me in irons,

Sir Richard. But run? Never, while I draw breath!'

He listened to the feet overhead. Recognising every sound, knowing the qualities and the reliability of each man there.

'That was a fine thing you did, James. ‘The strength of a ship.’ It is a pity such moments never reach the pages of the Gazette.'

'Well, I’m damned if I know how you know, but it gave him something more important than himself to think about.'

Allday entered quietly. 'Horizon’s losing its cloak, Sir Richard.' He glanced at the sword-rack. 'Can’t see nothing yet.'

Tyacke smiled and left the cabin, saying over his shoulder, 'That son of yours might still change his mind and sign on with us, Allday!'

Allday watched the door close. 'It’s no joke, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho touched his arm. 'I know.' It was no time to be thinking of such things. A man could die in a moment of distraction.

He said, 'How do you feel, old friend?'

Allday seemed surprised by the question, then a lazy grin spread over his face and he said, 'We’ve seen it all afore, Sir Richard.' He shrugged. 'Today or never…'

Bolitho nodded. There was a smell of rum in the cabin and again he was moved by Allday’s unbreakable faith and loyalty.

'Have another wet, old friend.' He glanced around the spacious cabin. A place to think, to remember and to hide. In his bones, like Allday, he knew it was almost time.

He went out through the screen door and saw a squad of marines having their weapons checked by Sergeant Chaddock. They did not look up or see him as he passed, so intent were they on their inspection.