For My Country's Freedom (31 page)

“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.

“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
W
HAT?

R
ICHARD
B
OLITHO
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? Allday 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.

It made him feel invisible. Like one of the many ghosts this old ship must have in plenty.

He stooped to peer through an open gunport, the twenty-four-pounder like ice under his fingers.
Not for much longer.

Very dark, with only a few pale crests breaking away from the lower hull. Just a slight brush-stroke. The eastern horizon.

Oh dear Kate, think of me, of us!

Spray touched his skin, like an awakening, and he thought he heard her voice above the sounds of sea and ship.

Don't leave me!

He rested his forehead on the weapon's black breech and whispered,
“Never!”

Captain James Tyacke paused outside Isaac York's chartroom and glanced in at the sailing-master, who was crowded against his table with his three mates.

York smiled, his sharp eye taking in the dress coat and gleaming epaulette.

“You're about early this day, sir.”

Tyacke glanced over a master's mate's shoulder at the open log, and the date on the first page in York's strong handwriting.
September
12
th
1812
,
with the time and date of today's estimated position at the head of the column. Their eyes met. York had no doubts, either.

Tyacke nodded at the master's mates. “Watch well today, gentlemen. You will learn something of your enemy.”

Then he left the small space and walked towards the open deck. Silver, shark-blue, and lingering banks of shadow. Sea and sky. He could feel Scarlett walking closely behind him, could sense his uneasiness. But not fear, that was something at least.

He turned abruptly and said, “What is wrong, man? I told you when we met, I command Sir Richard's flagship, but I am still
your captain.
Speak out. I nurse the notion that we will be too busy presently!”

Scarlett licked his lips, his eyes so listless that he seemed disinterested, in spite of what the day might bring.

Tyacke was growing impatient. “In truth I can't help you if you remain dumb, sir. What is it, a woman? Have you fathered a child?”

Scarlett shook his head. “I wish it were that simple, sir.”

“Money, then?” He saw the bolt strike home. “Cards?”

Scarlett nodded. “I am in debt, sir, serious debt!”

Tyacke regarded him without pity. “Then you are a fool. But we shall speak later. I may be able to help you.” His tone hardened. “Give of your best today. I am relying on it.
Indomitable
will make this
her day!
”

He strode aft and stared up at the reefed topgallants and courses, the admiral's flag and masthead pendant whipping out in the wind with the racing grey clouds beyond them.

He could hear the scrape of grindstones as Duff, the gunner, put his men to work sharpening cutlasses and boarding-axes. It could not have been very different before Crécy and Agincourt, he thought. He saw acting-lieutenant Blythe in earnest conversation with Protheroe, the fourth lieutenant. He still wore his midshipman's white patches, but in a King's ship the word would have travelled like wildfire.
Blythe's one of them now!
Tyacke smiled grimly. Or soon would be, if he was prepared to listen for a change.

Allday passed him by, resting a cutlass on his hand to find the right balance. Some of the hands spoke to him but he did not seem to hear.

At the foot of the quarterdeck ladder Allday gripped the handrail while
Indomitable
buried her stem in a long Atlantic roller, hurling spray heavily over the figurehead, the prancing lion with bared claws.

“What are
you
doing here?”

His son, a cutlass thrust through his belt, looked at him and shrugged. “The boatswain put me with the after-guard.”

Allday tried to make a joke of it. “Old Sam probably knew you were useless as a topman! Not so many ropes to play with down aft!” He was troubled, all the same. The quarterdeck in any ship was a target for marksmen and swivels; it always had been. The chain of command began and ended here. Many of the Royal Marines served in the after-guard too, their boots and equipment making them useless for work aloft.

Allday folded his arms. “We may be fighting some of your lot afore long, my lad, so be warned.”

Bankart regarded him sadly. “I wanted to live in peace, that was all. Cap'n Adam was the first to understand. Why can't you? There always has to be a
flag
, or one
side
or t'other. I hoped to find peace in America.”

Allday said gruffly, “When we gets home, my son, just remember what it's cost some of us. My wife Unis has already had one man killed aboard the old
Hyperion,
and her brother John lost a leg in the line with the
31st
Huntingdonshires. You'll find plenty of good men who've been maimed in Falmouth where Sir Richard's found work for them.”

“And what of you—” He hesitated. “Father?”

“I've more'n any man could hope for. Unis, and now my little Kate. They'll both be waiting for me. Now there's you. John,” his eyes crinkled. “Three Johns all told, eh?”

Bankart smiled, strangely proud of this big man who, for once, was at a loss for words.

They both gazed up at the ragged clouds as the masthead lookout called, “
Reaper
in sight to the sou'-east, sir!”

The frigate must be right in the spreading cloak of silver. The first sighting of the day.

Allday saw Tyacke with Daubeny, the officer-of-the-watch, conferring together, looking along the upper deck and gangways as more light spilled over the sea's edge like water over a dam.

He heard Daubeny call, “Aloft with you, Mr Blisset, and take a glass, you idiot!”

The bright-eyed midshipman swarmed up the ratlines like a monkey and Allday murmured, “Cheeky little bugger, that one! Asked me what the navy was like
in my day!
”

They both fell silent as Blisset's piping voice floated down from the crosstrees.

“Deck there! From
Woodpecker
repeated
Reaper, Sail in sight to the sou'-west!
”

Tyacke called, “My respects to the admiral, Mr Scarlett, and . . .”

“I heard, Captain Tyacke.” Bolitho waited for the deck to level off and then walked unhurriedly to the quarterdeck rail, where he and Tyacke formally touched hats to one another.

Allday watched. It always unnerved him, even though he knew Sir Richard would never suspect it from his “oak.”

He turned to speak with his son, but Bankart was already being urged aft by the squat boatswain, Sam Hockenhull.

Allday felt the soreness in his chest come alive like a warning. It never left him completely, nor did it allow him to forget the day he had been cut down by Spanish steel, and Bolitho had been on the point of surrendering to save him.