For My Country's Freedom (9 page)

“I'll fetch your supper soon, zur.”

They both knew they would not meet again.

He sipped his brandy. Good stuff. Maybe smugglers came this way . . . His thoughts returned to his new command. How different she would be. Designed originally as a small third-rate of
64
guns, she had been cut down to her present size by the removal of most of her upper deck and corresponding armament. But her forty
24
-pounders remained, with an additional four
18
-pounders for bow- and stern-chasers. Tyacke had studied every detail of the ship, and her history since she had been built at the famous William Hartland yard at Rochester on the Medway.

He considered Bolitho's comments, the ship's possible use if war broke out with the United States. All the big new American frigates carried twenty-four-pounders and for sheer firepower were far superior to English frigates like
Anemone.

More to the point, perhaps, his new command had a far greater cruising range. Her original company of over six hundred had now been reduced to
270,
which included
55
Royal Marines.

She was still undermanned, but then every ship was, which was in or near a naval port.

All those unknown faces. How long would it be before he came to know them, their value, their individual qualities? As a captain he could ask what he pleased of his officers. Respect, as he had seen with Bolitho, had to be earned.

He thought again of the ship herself. Thirty-four years old, built of fine Kentish oak when there had been such trees for the asking. In newer ships some of the timbers were barely seasoned, and their frames were cut by carpenters, not shaped over the years for extra strength. Some were built of teak on oak frames, like John Company's ships, which were mostly laid down in Bombay. Teak was like iron, but hated by the sailors who had to work and fight in them. Unlike oak splinters, teak could poison a man, kill him far more slowly and painfully than canister shot.

Tyacke swallowed more brandy. His new command had first tasted salt water while he had been in his mother's arms.

His face softened into a smile.
We must have grown up together.
She had even been at the Nile. He tried not to touch his scarred cheek. Other battles too. The Chesapeake and the Saintes, Copenhagen, and then because she was too small for the line of battle she had shared all the miseries of blockade and convoy duty.

There must be a lot of experienced post-captains asking why Sir Richard should hoist his flag above an old converted third-rate when he could have had anything he wanted. A full admiral now. He wondered what Catherine Somervell thought about it. He could see her as if she were beside him, first in the dirty and soaking sailor's clothing, and then in the yellow gown he had carried with him since the girl of his choice had rejected him. It was strange, but he could even think of that without the pain, as if it had happened to somebody else.

He tried to remember if he had all he needed, and his thoughts returned to Bolitho's mistress. But the term offended him.
His lady.
She would make certain that Bolitho was well provided for when
he
left home.

He thought he could smell cooking and realised how hungry he was. It made good sense to eat well tonight. He would be too tense and anxious later on. He smiled again as he recalled that Bolitho had told him he was always nervous when he took over a new command.
But remember, they are far more worried about their new captain!

And what about John Allday—“his oak,” as he called him— would he be so eager this time to quit the land?

One of the men at the other table put down his tankard and stared at the door. His companion almost ran through the adjoining room where some farmhands were drinking rough cider. Then Tyacke heard it. The tramp of feet, the occasional clink of metal.

Meg bustled in, her hands full of knives and forks.

“The press, sir. They'm not usually this far from 'ome.” She smiled at him. “Never fear. I'll see they don't disturb yew.”

He sat back in the deep shadows. Being in charge of a press-gang was a thankless task. As a junior lieutenant he had done it only once. Whimpering men and blaspheming women. Curiously enough, although most of the shore parties who performed that duty were themselves pressed men, they were usually the most ruthless.

There were muffled shouts from the rear of the inn and Tyacke guessed that the man who had rushed from the room had been taken. His companion came back, shaking despite the folded protection he had been fortunate enough to carry.

The door crashed open and a young lieutenant strode into the parlour.

He snapped, “Stand up and be examined!” Then he seemed to realise that the man in question had already been inspected and swung towards the shadowy figure by the chimney-breast.

“And you! Did you hear me? In the King's name!”

Tyacke did not move but thrust out his foot and pushed the bench seat into the candlelight.

The lieutenant gaped at the gleaming gold lace and stammered, “I did not know, sir! Few officers come this way.”

Tyacke said quietly, “Which is why I came. Not to be shouted at by some arrogant puppy hiding in the King's coat!” He stood up. Meg, two armed seamen in the doorway and the man who had been examined all froze as if it were some kind of mime.

Tyacke turned very slowly. “What is your name, lieutenant?”

But the young officer was unable to speak; he was staring at Tyacke's terrible wound as if mesmerised.

Then he muttered in a small voice, “Laroche, s-sir.”

“May I ask what ship?”

“
Indomitable,
sir.”

“Then we shall meet tomorrow,
Mister
Laroche. I am Captain James Tyacke.”

Suddenly he had the parlour to himself.

Meg hurried in again, a steaming pot wrapped in a cloth.

“I be that sorry, zur.”

Tyacke reached out and touched her arm. “It was nothing. We all have to begin somewhere.”

Tomorrow it would be all over the ship. He considered it.
Indomitable. My
ship.

Again he thought about Bolitho and the memory steadied him.

They will be far more worried about you.

Meg left him to his supper but paused in the door to watch him, wondering how it had happened, how such a fine-looking man could ever learn to accept it.

She quietly closed the door, and thought of him long after he had gone.

5 “
I
NDOMITABLE”

H
ENRY
the carter tugged slightly at the reins as the wheels clattered over the first of the dockyard cobbles.

He said, “She's out at anchor, zur.” He glanced at his passenger's strong profile, unable to understand why anybody would willingly go to sea, captain or not.

Tyacke stared across the gleaming water and was surprised that he was so calm. No, that was not it. He felt no emotion whatsoever.

He glanced towards the wall and was relieved to see that
Larne
had moved her berth, doubtless to complete her re-rigging. He wondered if they knew he was here, if someone was watching him with a telescope at this very second.

He said, “There are stairs at the end.”

“Roight, zur. I'll make sure there be a boat waitin' for 'ee.”

Oh, there will be,
he thought. Even if the boat's crew had been up since before dawn. Tyacke had done it himself often enough. Waiting for the new lord and master, imagining what he would be like: the man who would rule everybody's life from senior lieutenant to ship's boy; who could promote, disrate, flog and, if necessary, hang anyone who did not abide by his orders.

He shivered slightly but disdained to put on his boat-cloak. It was a fair morning and the sea was a mass of dancing white horses, but it was not the cool air that caused him to tremble. It was this moment, which he had dreaded, of this particular day.

He saw a flurry of splashes and knew it was a boat casting off from a mooring buoy. His arrival had been noted.

“Thank you, Henry.” He put some coins into the man's fist and stared at the big brass-bound chest. They had travelled a long way together since he had recovered from his injuries. His complete world was contained in it.

Recovered? Hardly that. It was impossible not to be reminded of it daily. He saw himself reflected in other people's faces, and the horror and the pity he saw there had never ceased to wound him.

All through the night he had gone over everything he had discovered about
Indomitable,
his head filled, as if it would burst if he could not rest. All the lieutenants had been aboard throughout the refit, even the luckless Laroche who had blundered into the inn parlour. The first confrontation. There would be many more.

He gazed out at the moored ship. Without her original top-hamper she looked like any other large frigate at this distance. Like the
Valkyrie,
with her main gun deck higher than fifth- and sixth-rates so that her devastating broadside could be used to maximum effect. He watched the approaching boat critically, the oars rising and falling like wings. He thought even Allday would approve.

He turned to speak once more, but the little cart had gone. Only the sea-chest remained. The gig swung in a tight arc, the bowman poised with his boat-hook to grip the mooring ring on the stairs.

After what seemed an eternity a young lieutenant ran up the stairs and raised his hat with a flourish.

“Protheroe, sir! At your service!”

“Ah, yes. Fourth lieutenant.” He saw the young officer's eyebrows lift with surprise, and thought for a moment that his memory had betrayed him.

“Why—yes, sir!”

Tyacke turned deliberately to reveal the burned side of his face. It had the effect he expected. When he turned back, Protheroe had gone pale. But his voice was controlled as he rapped out orders, and two seamen ran to collect the heavy chest.

Tyacke glanced at them as they hurried past with their eyes averted. Laroche had obviously told a grim story about their new captain.

Protheroe watched the chest being carried down to the gig, no doubt terrified that they would let it fall into the water. Not long out of a midshipman's berth, Tyacke thought.

“May we proceed, Mr Protheroe?”

The lieutenant stared around with dismay. “I was looking for your coxswain, sir.”

Tyacke felt his mouth break into a smile.

“I am afraid that the commander of a brig does not run to his own cox'n!”

“I see, sir.” He stood aside and waited for Tyacke to descend the weed-lined steps.

Again the quick stares from the boat's crew, then every eye looking instantly away as his glance passed over them. Tyacke sat down in the sternsheets and held his sword against his thigh, as he had done when he left
Larne.

“Let go! Bear off forrard!
Out oars!
”

Tyacke turned to watch the gap of lively water widening.
I am leaving. God for what?

“Give way all!”

He asked, “How long have you been in
Indomitable?
”

“A year, sir. I joined her while she was still laid up in ordinary and about to complete her rebuilding.” He faltered under Tyacke's eyes. “Before that I was signals midshipman in the
Crusader,
32
.”

Tyacke stared across the stroke oarsman's broad shoulder at the masts and yards rising up to greet him, as if they were lifting from the seabed. Now he could see the difference. One hundred and eighty feet overall, and of some fourteen hundred tons, her broad beam betrayed that she had been built originally for the line of battle. Her sail plan had changed little, he thought. With a wind over the quarter she would run like a deer if properly handled.

He saw the pale sunlight gleaming on several telescopes and knew the men were stampeding to their stations.

What would his first lieutenant be like? Perhaps he had expected promotion, even command of the powerful ship once her overhaul was completed.
Indomitable
's last captain had left her months ago, leaving his senior lieutenant in charge until their lordships had decided what to do with her. They had not. He gripped his sword even tighter. Sir Richard Bolitho had made that decision. He could imagine the words.
So be it.

“Bring her to larboard, Mr Protheroe!” There was an edge to his voice, although he had not realised it.

As he watched the long tapering jib-boom reaching out towards them like a lance, he saw the figurehead where it crouched beneath the beak-head.
Crouched
was right. It was in the form of a lion about to attack with both paws slashing at the air. A fine piece of work, Tyacke thought, but it was not the original figurehead, which would have been far too big for the rebuilt hull. Except for the bright red mouth and gleaming eyes, it shone with expensive gold paint, perhaps a gift from the builders who had converted her.

“Carry on, Mr Protheroe.” He was suddenly eager to begin, his stomach in knots as the gig veered towards the main-chains and the entry port, where he had already seen the scarlet of the marines.
My marines.

He thought of Adam Bolitho's frigate,
Anemone.
Lying alongside this ship, she would be overwhelmed.

His experienced eye took in everything, from the buff and black hull that shone like glass above the cruising white horses, to the new rigging, shrouds and stays freshly blacked-down and every sail neatly furled, probably by the petty officers themselves for this important occasion.

For all of us,
a voice seemed to say.

He would find himself a personal coxswain. Another Allday, if there was such a man. He would be more than useful at times like these.

The gig had hooked on, the oars tossed, the seamen staring directly astern. Anywhere but at their new captain.

Tyacke rose to his feet, very aware of the lively gig's movement, waiting for the exact moment to climb up to the entry port.

“Thank you, Mr Protheroe. I am obliged.”

Then he seized the handropes and stepped quickly on to the tumblehome before the sea could drag him down.

Like the walk from
Larne
to the waiting carriage, the minutes seemed endless. As his head rose above the port, the sudden explosion of noise was deafening. The bayoneted muskets of the Royal Marines snapped in salute in time with their officer's sword, and the calls of boatswain's mates, followed by the rattle of drums, rose and then fell silent.

Tyacke removed his hat in salute to the extended quarterdeck with its neatly-packed hammock nettings. He noticed that the wheel and compass boxes were unsheltered. Builders and designers, then as now, saw only the efficiency of their work, not men being shot down by enemy sharpshooters with nothing but the stowed hammocks to protect them.

A square-faced lieutenant stepped from the ranks of blue and white, warrant officers and midshipmen, two so young that Tyacke wondered how anyone could have allowed them to leave home.

“I am Scarlett, the senior here.” He hesitated and added, “Welcome to
Indomitable,
sir.”

A serious-looking face. Reliable . . . perhaps.

“Thank you, Mr Scarlett.” He followed the first lieutenant along the rank, all standing in order of seniority. Even Protheroe had managed to slip into the line during the brief ceremony at the entry port.

Four lieutenants, including the unfortunate Laroche. Their eyes met and Tyacke asked coldly, “How many men did you press, Mr Laroche?”

He stammered, “Three, sir.” He hung his head, expecting the mainmast to fall on him.

“We shall find many more. I daresay all Plymouth knew you were abroad last night.” He moved on, leaving the third lieutenant looking dazed.

Lieutenant Scarlett was saying, “This is Isaac York, sir, our sailing-master.”

A capable, interesting face: you would know him as a deep-water sailor even if he were disguised as a priest.

Tyacke asked, “How long have you been sailing-master, Mr York?”

He was younger than most masters he had known, the
characters
of almost every vessel.

York grinned. “A year, sir. Afore that I was master's mate aboard this ship for four years.”

Tyacke nodded, satisfied. A man who knew how she would handle under all conditions. The face appeared about thirty, except that his neatly cut hair was slate-grey.

They turned to the quarterdeck rail. The midshipmen could wait.

Tyacke felt in his coat for his commission. As so ordered, he would read himself in.

“Have all hands lay aft, Mr Scarlett—” He stopped, and saw the first lieutenant's instant uncertainty. “That man, by the boat tier . . .”

Scarlett relaxed only slightly. “That's Troughton. He serves as cook. Is something wrong, sir?”

“Have him come aft.”

A midshipman scuttled away to fetch him and most of the men already on deck turned to watch as the one-legged sailor in the long white apron clumped on to the quarterdeck.

“If you do not approve, sir?” Scarlett sounded apprehensive.

Tyacke stared at the limping figure. He had sensed somebody's eyes upon him even as he had come aboard.
Now, of all times
. . . There was utter silence as he strode over to the cook and, reaching him, put his hands on the thin shoulders.

“Dear God. I was told you were dead, Troughton.”

The man studied him feature by feature and, lastly, the scars. Then he glanced down at his wooden leg and said quietly, “They tried to do for both of us that day, sir. I'm so glad you've come to the old
Indom.
Welcome aboard!”

Very solemnly they shook hands. So she even had a special nickname, Tyacke thought. It was like a triumph: someone had survived on that hideous day. A young seaman working with a handspike to retrain one of his guns. He should have been killed; Tyacke had imagined him being thrown outboard with all the other corpses. But he himself had been deafened and blinded, and had heard only screams. His own.

As the ship's company swarmed aft and he took out his commission and unrolled it, Tyacke saw men whispering to each other, those who had seen the incident trying to describe it to their friends. The scarred captain and a one-legged cook.

Grouped behind him, most of the officers were too young to understand, but York the master and the first lieutenant knew well enough what it meant.

And when Tyacke began to read himself in they both leaned closer to hear, as if this tall straight-backed man gave the formality both significance and a new impact.

It was addressed to James Tyacke Esquire, appointing him to the
Indomitable
on this day in April
1811
. Not far from the place where Drake was alleged to have kept the fleet and the Dons waiting while he finished his game of bowls.

Willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the charge and command of captain in her accordingly; strictly charging and commanding all the officers and company of the said
Indomitable
. . .
At that point Tyacke looked across the mass of upturned faces.
The old Indom.
But the one-legged cook was not in sight. Perhaps he had imagined it, and Troughton had been only a lingering spectre who had come back to give him the strength he had needed.