For My Country's Freedom Page 11

  He spoke without emotion, and yet Scarlett sensed that his new captain felt a certain sympathy for those who were so tempted.

  “Boat approaching, sir!”

  That was Lieutenant John Daubeny, officer-of-the-watch.

  Tyacke called to a midshipman, his mind groping for his name.

  “Over here, lad.” He took a telescope from the rack and rested it on the youth’s shoulder. It came to him: his name was Essex, the one appointed to take over the duties of purser’s clerk.

  The boat and contents swam into focus.

  He quickly recognised the round shoulders of Yovell, Sir Richard’s faithful servant. The boat also contained chests and packing-cases, and the beautifully carved wine-cooler which Catherine had given to Bolitho to replace her original gift, now lying on the seabed with Hyperion.

  Scarlett was saying as though almost to himself, “It will be strange, not being a private ship any more.”

  Tyacke closed the glass with a snap. “Thank you, Mr Essex. You are exactly the right height.”

  The youth was nervous but pleased. Tyacke saw him drop his eyes rather than look at him.

  He said heavily, “Strange for me also, Mr Scarlett.”

  He watched the boat come alongside, Hockenhull, the squat boatswain, leaping down with some of his men to unload it.

  Tyacke glanced up to the top of the mainmast. An admiral’s flag. How do I feel? But it would not come to him. Neither pride nor uncertainty. It was something already decided, like a storm at sea, or a first broadside. Only fate would determine the outcome.

  “Sir! Sir! The barge is bearing off!”

  Tyacke gazed along the upper deck. All the confusion had gone now. This was a ship-of-war.

  “Not so loud, Mr Essex,” he said. “You’ll awaken the sheep.”

  Some of the seamen nearby grinned. Tyacke turned aside. It was another small beginning.

  “Clear lower deck, Mr Scarlett. Man the side, if you please.”

  Boatswain’s mates and sideboys in ill-fitting white gloves assembled, followed by the tramp of boots as the guard of honour fell in by the entry port, their lieutenant, David Merrick, looking like an actor in an unfamiliar role. Then the officers, warrant officers, and Captain du Cann standing in his perfectly tailored scarlet coat with several marines and a squad of young fifers and drummers.

  Tyacke saw a midshipman below the massive mainmast with its surrounding girdle of boarding-pikes. The flag was expertly folded over the youth’s shoulder, done by more experienced fingers than his own, Tyacke thought. He lifted a glass again and sensed Midshipman Essex’s eagerness to assist him. But he would share none of it this time.

  She was dressed in deep green as he had somehow known she would be, with a broad straw hat tied under her chin with a matching ribbon. Beside her, Bolitho sat with his sword between his legs, one hand lying close to but not touching hers.

  The flag-lieutenant was with them, and at the tiller he saw Allday’s powerful figure, Tyacke’s own coxswain beside him.

  “Stand by with the boatswain’s chair!”

  One small fifer moistened his lips, and a drummer boy gripped his sticks exactly as he had been taught at the barracks.

  The sideboys had gone down the side, ready to assist the lady passenger into the chair. There would be many eyes watching her today. The rumours, the gossip, the slander and the indisputable courage after the loss of the Golden Plover.

  Tyacke heard the distant bellow, “Oars— up! ” Allday seemed very calm, as always. Like twin lines of bones the dripping oars rose, and steadied even as the bowman hooked on to the main-chains.

  The tackle squeaked, and two seamen swung the chair above the gangway.

  “Belay that!” Tyacke knew Scarlett was watching him, his face full of questions, but he no longer cared.

  She was looking up at him, her hair breaking from beneath her hat while she rested one hand on Sir Richard’s shoulder. She was laughing, then she took off her shoes and handed them to Avery before reaching out for the guide-ropes and staring straight up at the gilded entry port. Allday was looking anxious, Avery too, but she waited for the right moment before stepping out on to the thick, wooden stairs which curved into the ship’s tumble-home, spaced apart for a seaman but hardly for a lady.

  Tyacke held his breath until he saw her head and Sir Richard’s cocked hat appear above the top stair.

  “Royal Marines, present arms! ” The flash of bayonets and the usual cloud of pipeclay rising from the slings, the shrill of boatswain’s calls, ear-splitting at close quarters.

  Bolitho raised his hat to the quarterdeck, his eyes resting only briefly on the White Ensign curling from its staff, then he turned to face forward. Then he said, “A moment, if you please!”

  In the silence he held out his hand to support her, so that Avery could kneel and replace Catherine’s shoes. He saw the smudge of tar on her foot and a bad snare in her stocking.

  As she straightened up their eyes met, and Tyacke saw what passed between them. The love. But above all, the triumph.

  Then the fifes and drums broke into Heart of Oak. Only then did Bolitho look up at the mainmast as the flag was run smartly to the truck, where it broke immediately to the wind.

  Somehow he knew that Catherine was near to tears. With all society against them, they had achieved this, and they were together.

  He stared at the flag until his eyes watered, or was that his own emotion?

  His flag. The cross of St George.

  There was cheering too, but not because of the flag or the honour of the occasion. It was because of her. The sailor’s woman who had come amongst them to show that she at least cared, for them and for her man.

  The din subsided and Catherine curtsied to Tyacke before saying, “You look very well, James Tyacke.” Then as he reached out to take her hand, she lifted her face and kissed him on the cheek. “You are so welcome here.” Then she looked over the rail at the silent, watching sailors and marines. “They will not let you down.”

  She could have been speaking to either of them, Tyacke thought. Or to the ship, Indomitable.

  7 LIKE A TROUBLED SEA

  RICHARD BOLITHO sat on the long leather bench seat at the foot of the tall stern windows and watched the sea heaving and breaking astern. The ship was no longer quivering to the squeak and rumble of gun trucks, and he guessed that Lieutenant Scarlett had decided to discontinue yet another drill and await better weather while the crews recovered their strength. Sail and gun drill: Tyacke had exercised all hands within a day of leaving Falmouth. He had seen Tyacke glancing at him, as though to know his opinion, whenever he had taken a walk on the quarterdeck, but Bolitho had left him to his own devices. It was difficult enough for him as it was, without interfering or making suggestions.

  He felt the timbers bite into his shoulder as the ship plunged into another long trough, every stay and spar creaking to the pressure. It was late afternoon and the watch would be changing soon. He glanced at the unfinished letter on his table, and imagined her face when she opened it, whenever that might be. Unless they met with a friendly homebound vessel, the letter was likely to be put ashore in Antigua.

  He massaged his forehead and pictured her as she had gone down the side in Falmouth, that time in a boatswain’s chair as he had insisted. They had cheered her again when she had been assisted into his barge, with Allday and Avery to see her safely ashore.

  Only she had known the pain their parting had given him. Equally, she had realised that by coming aboard into his world, no matter how briefly, she had made such a difference for all the men who were sailing into the unknown. Six days out from Falmouth, and a thousand miles already logged. This night they would pass the Azores and cross the 40th parallel of latitude, south-by-south-west, and further still.

  He stared at the sea again, shark-blue with long ranks of yellow-toothed breakers. Indomitable was taking it well, and smashed over every obstacle with a kind of arrogance he had rarely seen before. Many of the n
ew hands, raw to the navy and its brutal indifference, had either been seasick or knocked senseless when the pitching deck caught them unawares and flung them against unyielding guns or stanchions. But they would learn; they had no choice. Bolitho had noticed that Tyacke was always on deck whenever drills were being carried out, or some violent change of tack sent the topmen swarming aloft, leaving the landmen and marines to man the braces and trim the great yards while the wind roared around them.

  He had heard Scarlett call after a particularly hard exercise at the larboard battery, “Better that time, sir!”

  And Tyacke’s blunt reply. “ Not good enough, Mr Scarlett! It took twelve minutes to clear for action. I want it done in eight!”

  Six days. How different from those times when he had been so eager to get to grips with the enemy, any enemy that their lordships dictated.

  He thought suddenly of the moment when Indomitable had weathered the headland to find open water in the Channel. Catherine had said nothing of her plans, but he had known she was watching him. He had snatched a telescope from the rack and steadied it carefully while the ship had leaned over stiffly in the offshore wind.

  Below the point, where the cliffs dropped to the rocks and the tiny beaches were then covered by the tide. She had been there, her hair blowing unheeded in the wind, one hand holding Tamara’s bridle while she levelled a small glass on the slow-moving ship. She would have seen Indomitable come to life, sails being freed from every yard and sheeted home so that they bulged like steel breastplates. She would have seen it all, would have watched the spray leaping beneath the snarling lion while Indomitable carried her man away, beyond touch, each denied to the other. In her own way she had given an example to Tyacke’s watching sailors. Showing that she knew how they felt, and that she shared the same pain of separation.

  Then the land had crept out, and Bolitho had handed the telescope to a staring midshipman.

  He had seen the boy’s awe and had said quietly, “Aye, Mr Arlington, mark it well. The other price of war.”

  The midshipman had not understood. But it must have made a good tale in the gunroom. How the admiral had confided in him.

  Ozzard tapped at the door and entered silently. “May I lay for supper at seven bells, sir?”

  “Thank you. Yes.” Crossing the first bridge. He would dine with both Tyacke and Avery tonight.

  He glanced around the cabin. At least here were familiar furnishings, the mahogany sideboard and dining table, tugging occasionally at their lashings whenever the tiller head gave a particularly violent jerk. Kate’s fine wine-cooler; and beyond in the smaller sleeping compartment he could just see the two new dressing-chests and mirror Catherine had insisted on buying for him.

  Ozzard stood in his usual stooped position, his hands held mole-like in his apron. He seemed ill at ease, but these days that was nothing new. As he had with Allday, Bolitho had offered him his freedom to stay behind in safety at the house in Falmouth. But Ozzard had always refused, apparently determined to remain as his trusted servant for as long as he was needed. Not that he liked the sea; he was openly terrified whenever they had been called to battle. It was as if he served not out of duty or straightforward loyalty, but as some kind of penance.

  He heard the sentry shout, “Captain, sir! ”

  Tyacke entered, his lean body angled to the extreme slope of the deck.

  “I hope I am not disturbing you, sir?”

  Bolitho waved him to a chair. “Of course not. Is something wrong?”

  Tyacke glanced around the cabin as if he were seeing it for the first time. “I can’t say for certain, sir.”

  Bolitho gave him time to assemble his thoughts. “You have been on deck for most of the day, James. Will you take a glass with me?”

  Tyacke seemed about to refuse, then reconsidered and nodded. Perhaps the casual use of his Christian name had taken him by surprise.

  “At noon, sir, when our young gentlemen were shooting the sun, one of them, Craigie, was skylarking. The master sent him aloft to mend his manners.”

  He took a glass of cognac from Ozzard and examined it thoughtfully. Bolitho watched him. Mastheading was a common enough punishment, used to curb a midshipman’s high spirits. He had endured it himself. For him it had been worse than for most, as he had always hated heights. The way Indomitable was leaning over on the starboard tack would be enough to teach anyone a lesson, but it was hardly something to concern the captain enough to bring him aft.

  Tyacke looked at him and gave a slight smile. “I know, sir. We all went through it.” The smile vanished. “Mr Craigie is not the brightest of stars, but he is blessed with good eyesight.” He did not see, or seem to see, the flicker of emotion on Bolitho’s face. “There is a sail to the nor’-east, sir. When he told the officer-of-the-watch a glass was sent aloft. It was a sail right enough.” He lifted his goblet. “And the ship is still there. Maybe a trivial matter, but I thought you should know.”

  Bolitho rubbed his chin. “And on the same tack?”

  “Never changes, sir.”

  “What d’you think, James?”

  Tyacke seemed surprised that he should be asked. “Whoever it is might take us for a liner with our rig.” He stroked the arm of his chair. “By God, he’d get a surprise if this lady turned on him!”

  It was like hearing somebody else. The voice of pride. How Tyacke had spoken of his Larne.

  “Could we catch him, d’you think?”

  Bolitho watched Tyacke’s expression. Calculating, seeking conclusions. Strange that they had already given the unknown vessel a character of its own.

  “I’ll need three days more, sir. Then, if the weather holds, we should be picking up the north-east trades. That’ll give us power to come about and catch him.” He paused, almost hesitantly. “I know this is faster than any brig, sir, but I’ve done it with Larne when some crafty slaver tried to spy out our intentions.”

  Bolitho realised that it was the first time Tyacke had mentioned his last command since Indomitable had broken out his flag at the main. “What do you think of the people, James? Are they coming together as one company?”

  Instead of answering, Tyacke stood up. “With your permission, sir?” Then he opened the big skylight, his hair ruffling in the sudden breeze. “They’re standing easy. I’ve worked them hard, day in day out since I took command in Plymouth. They may loathe me, fear me, I know not which, nor must I allow myself to care. Good men and scum side by side, gallows-bait and mothers’ boys.” His mouth softened as he said, “Now, sir, you listen to them.”

  Bolitho joined him beneath the skylight and peered up at the straining mizzen topsail far above them.

  They were singing. Men off-watch and idlers, resting on deck after a long hard day. It was one of Dibdin’s songs, sometimes used by shantymen when a ship was being hauled up to her anchor in readiness to weigh.

  “This life is like a troubled sea—

  Wear helm or weather all a’lee,

  Wear helm or weather all a’lee,

  The ship will neither stay nor wear,

  But drive of every rock in fear,

  Of every rock in fear.”

  It was as though Catherine were here, as she had been in the longboat when she had urged Allday to sing to raise their spirits when all had seemed lost.

  Tyacke was still watching him, his eyes very blue and steady. He said, “Your lady understood, sir.” He closed the skylight and gave the lusty voices back to the sounds of sea and wind. “They will not let you down.”

  Bolitho touched the locket, which she had fastened around his neck before they had parted.

  I shall take it from you when you come to me as my lover again . . .

  He made up his mind. “So be it then, James. When the trades are good to us, we’ll go and snare that cunning fox and discover what he is about.”

  Tyacke picked up his hat. “I’ll see you at supper, sir. And thank you.”

  “For what?”

  Tyacke shrugged. “
Just—thank you, sir.” Then he was gone.

  Ozzard entered the cabin and glanced around without curiosity as Bolitho returned to the skylight and opened it.

  They will not let you down.

  “Nor I you.” But the singing had stopped.

  Captain Adam Bolitho strode through the dockyard, his hat tugged down on his forehead against the lively breeze from the Sound. He glanced past hurrying seamen and dockyard workers to the wall where Larne had been moored to complete her overhaul, and beyond to the glittering sea itself, now reflecting the afternoon sunlight like a million flashing mirrors.

  From this place Indomitable had weighed anchor for Falmouth. In his heart he knew he had wanted to go aboard before she had made sail, to wish Tyacke good fortune, but convention had held him back. Although Tyacke was older than he, he was still very junior in rank.

  He was also aware that Tyacke might have misconstrued his visit, or considered it patronising. It was better to leave him to find his own way, and make his own mistakes without critical eyes or well-meaning advice. Adam admired Tyacke greatly. Next to his uncle he had encountered no greater strength of character, nor higher courage in any man.

  He half smiled. Bolitho must have had a quiet word with the port admiral on his behalf. Anemone had been desperately shorthanded; after her battle with the privateers, death and mutilation had taken a heavy toll. But when she quit Plymouth this time, her company would be almost complete again. Bolitho must have asked for more men. Scum they might be; many would otherwise have been hanged or deported, but firm discipline and fair treatment would soon change that. The hard men who would never break, Adam would take on himself to train. They often proved to be the best sailors, especially those who had never known anything but poverty and oppression. He tightened his jaw. But if they did not respond to training and example he would change them in other ways.