For My Country's Freedom (10 page)

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
Spartiate,
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 all their lives.”

“I see.”

Scarlett watched Tyacke's sun-browned hands leafing through another book. “Did
you
ever meet him, sir?”

Tyacke stared up from the table, his eyes very blue in the swaying lanterns.

“Like you, I only saw him in the far distance.” He was touching his scarred face, his eyes suddenly hard. “At the Nile.”

Scarlett waited. So that was where it had happened.

Tyacke said abruptly, “I understand that the purser's clerk has been doing the work of ship's clerk as well as his own?”

“Yes, sir. We have been very short-handed, so I thought . . .” Tyacke closed the book. “Pursers and their clerks are necessary, Mr Scarlett. But it is sometimes a risk to give them too much leeway in ship's affairs.” He pushed the book aside and opened another where he had used a quill as a marker. “Detail one of the reliable midshipmen for the task until we are fully manned.”

“I shall ask the purser if . . .”

Tyacke regarded him. “No,
tell
Mr Viney what you intend.” He paused. “I have also been going through the punishment book.”

Scarlett tensed, with growing resentment at the manner in which the new captain was treating him.

“Sir?”

“This man, Fullerton. Three dozen lashes for stealing some trifle or other from a messmate. Rather harsh, surely?”

“It was my decision, sir. It was harsh, but the laws of the lower deck are harder than the Articles of War. His messmates would have put him over the side.” He waited for a challenge, but surprisingly Tyacke smiled.

“I'd have offered him four dozen!” He glanced around and Scarlett studied the burned half of his face.
He looks at me as the captain, but inwardly he must bleed at every curious stare.

Tyacke said, “I will not tolerate unfair or brutal punishment. But I will have discipline in my ship and I will always support my officers, unless . . .” He did not finish it.

He pushed some papers along the black and white chequered deck-covering and revealed a bottle of brandy.

“Fetch two glasses.” His voice pursued the first lieutenant as he pulled open a cupboard.

Scarlett saw all the other carefully-stowed bottles. He had watched it being swayed up on a tackle just the previous day.

He said cautiously, “Fine brandy, sir.”

“From a lady.” Who but Lady Catherine would have taken the trouble? Would even have cared?

They drank in silence, the ship groaning around them, a wet breeze rattling the halliards overhead.

Tyacke said, “We will sail with the tide at noon. We will gain sea room and set course for Falmouth, where Sir Richard Bolitho will hoist his flag. I have no doubt that Lady Catherine Somervell will come aboard with him.” He felt rather than saw Scarlett's surprise. “So make certain the hands are well turned out, and that a bosun's chair is ready for her.”

Scarlett ventured, “From what I've heard of the lady, sir . . .” He saw Tyacke tense, as if about to reprimand him. He continued, “She could climb aboard unaided.” He saw Tyacke nod, his eyes distant, for that moment only another man entirely.

“She could indeed.” He gestured towards the bottle. “Another thing. As of tomorrow, this ship will wear the White Ensign and masthead pendant accordingly.” He took the goblet and stared at it. “I know that Sir Richard is now an Admiral of the Red, and to my knowledge he has always sailed under that colour. But their lordships have decreed that if we are to fight, it will be under the White Ensign.”

Scarlett looked away. “As we did at Trafalgar, sir.”

“Yes.”

“About a coxswain, sir?”

“D'you have anyone in mind?”

“There's a gun captain named Fairbrother. A good hand. But if he doesn't suit I'll find another.”

“I'll see him after breakfast.”

Rain pattered across the tall stern windows. “It's going to blow tomorrow, sir.”

“All the better. I went through your watch and quarter bills.” Immediately he sensed Scarlett's anxiety. One who resented criticism, or had been unfairly used in the past. “You've done a good job. Not too many bumpkins in one watch, or too many seasoned hands in another. But once standing down-Channel I want all hands turned-to for sail and gun drill. They will be our strength, as always.” He stood up and walked aft to the windows, now streaked with salt spray.

“We carry eight midshipmen. Keep them changing around— get them to work more closely with the master's mates. It is not enough to tip your hat like some half-pay admiral, or have perfect manners at the mess table. As far as the people are concerned they
are
King's officers, God help us, so they will perform accordingly. Who is in charge of signals, by the way?”

“Mr Midshipman Blythe, sir.” Scarlett was amazed at the way the captain's mind could jump so swiftly from one subject to the next. “He will be due for examination for lieutenant shortly.”

“Is he any good?” He saw the lieutenant start at the bluntness of his question and added more gently, “You do no wrong, Mr Scarlett. Your loyalty is to me and the ship in that order, and not to the members of your wardroom.”

Scarlett smiled. “He attends well to his duties, sir. I must say that his head sometimes gets larger as the examination draws closer!”

“Well said. One other thing. When Sir Richard's flag breaks at the mainmast truck, remember, I am still
your
captain. Always feel free to speak with me. It is better than keeping it all sealed up like some fireship about to explode.” He watched the effect of his words on Scarlett's open, honest features. “You can carry on now. I feel certain that the wardroom is all agog for your news.” But he said it without malice.

He realised that Scarlett was still there, his hands playing with his cocked hat.

“Is there something else, Mr Scarlett?”

“Well, sir . . .” Scarlett hesitated. “As we are to be of one company, war or no, may I ask something?”

“If it is reasonable.”

“Sir Richard Bolitho. What is he like, sir? Truly like?”

For a moment he thought he had tested the captain's confidences too far. Tyacke's emotions were mixed, as if one were fighting the other. He strode across the spacious cabin and back again, his hair almost brushing the deckhead.

“We spoke of Lord Nelson, a leader of courage and inspiration. One I would have liked to meet. But serve under him—I think not.”

He knew Scarlett was staring at him, earnestly waiting. “Sir Richard Bolitho, now . . .” He hesitated and thought of the brandy and wine Lady Catherine had sent aboard for him. He felt suddenly angry with himself for discussing their special relationship.
But I did invite his confidence.
He said quietly, “Let me say this, Mr Scarlett. I would serve no other man. For that is what he is. A man.” He touched his face but did not notice it. “He gave me back my pride. And my hope.”

“Thank you, sir.” Scarlett reached the screen door. Afterwards he guessed that the captain had not even heard him.

James Tyacke looked around the large cabin before examining his face in the mirror that hung above his sea-chest. For a second or two he touched the mirror, scratched here and there, dented around the frame. He often wondered how it had survived over the years.
Or me, either.

The ship had quietened somewhat after all the bustle and preparations to get under way. Calls twittered and voices still shouted occasional orders, but for the most part they were ready.

Tyacke walked to the stern windows and rubbed the misty glass with his sleeve.

It was blustery, the windows full of cruising white horses, the nearest land only a wedge of green.

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.