For My Country's Freedom

by Kent, Alexander

  “Is this all you have to do with yourself?”

  It was Scarlett, swaying back and forth on his heels as the Indomitable thrust through every roller with disdain.

  Avery answered calmly, “I am busy enough. I do not wish to argue, nor do I wish to be insulted.”

  He might as well have stayed silent. “Oh no, not for you, eh! No hard struggle to gain advancement like the rest of us! Privilege, who-you-know, that is your navy, sir, but it is not mine!”

  “Hold your noise, damn you! The watchkeepers will hear!”

  “And that would never do, would it? Because he is a Bolitho he gets a new command, instantly, and I bloody well suggest it will be your turn next!”

  “I’ll hear no more.” He turned to go but Scarlett’s fingers gripped his forearm like claws.

  Avery said very quietly, “Remove your hand, Mister Scarlett, or . . .”

  “Or what?”

  “Do not try to provoke me, sir. You can have all the commands on the ocean for all I care. But I tell you this—” he saw Scarlett flinch under his tawny stare, “I do not believe you’re fit to command anything!”

  A midshipman called, “Captain’s coming, sir!” But he dropped his eyes as Scarlett glared past him.

  “Hold your noise, Mr Essex, or I’ll have you mastheaded, all night if need be!”

  He turned back to Avery. When he pondered over it later in his hutch, Avery thought it was like seeing an entirely different person. Scarlett merely said, “You mustn’t be so hasty, man! So quick to burn a fuse, eh?” He even smiled. Like a stranger, and yet they had shared the same mess since Plymouth.

  In two days or so they would fight, or so York the sailing-master had surmised. Suppose Tyacke should fall? He thought of the momentary wildness in Scarlett’s eyes. Something was pulling the man apart. Drink, women, or money? It was usually one of the three. But a madman on the quarterdeck of a King’s ship . . . who would carry the blame?

  He imagined Bolitho below his feet in the cabin, reading his letters or the leather-bound Shakespeare sonnets which she had given him. The man they all depended on, and yet he was still called to depend upon them. Us.

  Lieutenant Laroche had the afternoon watch, and was regarding Scarlett very warily as he strode away from the captain.

  “Ah, Jeremy, you have the watch. We shall exercise the weather battery this afternoon. But later, in the dogs maybe, do you fancy a game? Good, good—can’t bear people who sulk. Bad losers usually!”

  Avery saw Laroche staring after him, a look of utter astonishment on his piggy face.

  Avery walked to the companion-way. So that was it.

  Yovell laid another paper on the table and waited for Bolitho to sign it.

  Bolitho said, “That will have to do. I expect you have done more than enough quill-pushing as well, on my behalf.”

  Yovell was peering at him over the top of his gold spectacles. “You should eat something, Sir Richard. It is not good to fast in the face of danger.”

  Bolitho looked up from the table, the ship noises and stresses intruding as his mind cleared. The thrumming of taut stays and shrouds; the creak of the steering-gear beneath the counter; the thousand and one unknown murmurs of a ship at sea. York had been right about the weather: the wind was still strong and gusty, but held steady from the south-west. He tried to see it in his mind’s eye: the endless land-mass to the north-west, Cape Cod, then eventually on to Halifax, Nova Scotia.

  Yovell had sensed his tension. It was hardly surprising; they had been together a long time.

  “It may come to nothing.” Bolitho turned his head to listen as his ear caught the brief sound of a fiddle. The watch below were resting, their last meal of the day cleared away. Did they feel the closeness of danger? Or did nobody care what they thought and felt?

  The door opened and Avery stepped into the cabin. “Sir Richard?”

  “I thought you might take a glass with me.”

  Avery glanced at Yovell, who shook his head.

  “You should eat, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho contained his anger. “What about you, George? Have you eaten?”

  Avery sat down and watched as Ozzard padded past to fetch the cognac. Bolitho was restless, ill at ease. He replied, “When I was a prisoner of war I found I could eat everything and anything, sir. A habit that came in very useful.”

  Bolitho watched him fondly. Of course, that was why Avery had understood so completely his anguish over Adam. The misery of detention, after the freedom of the sea.

  He held up the glass. “To us, and whenever we are called to prove ourselves.”

  He knew Yovell was about to leave, but was lingering by the screen door; just as he knew that anything said here would remain here.

  “I think it will be sooner rather than later.” The door closed silently. Yovell would take his Bible to his little office, where he slept and preserved his privacy. A difficult thing to achieve in a ship in the company of 270 other souls, from admiral to powder-monkey.

  He thought again of his scattered squadron. Suppose he was mistaken, and Beer had decided to act without sentiment and head straight for the convoy? On the other hand far, far astern, the gate to the Caribbean lay wide open and unguarded. Which might tempt him the most? He sipped the cognac and tried not to think of Catherine alone in the old grey house.

  Avery said quietly, “I think that Commodore Beer is much like his opponent, Sir Richard.”

  “Me? How can that be? I have never met him!”

  Avery warmed to his theme. “It’s you he wants. I believe he held Unity back because he sincerely believed that you intended a rescue attempt. I also believe that Zest was chased by another big frigate. The Baltimore was mentioned, I believe.”

  He realised with a start that Bolitho was on his feet, moving cat-like about the swaying cabin as he had seen him do so often.

  Bolitho said, “Then we shall fight.” He looked at Avery, searching his face as if to discover someone else. “You see, George, this will not be like other sea-fights. We have been fighting the French and their allies on and off for twenty years and even before that, out here in these same waters. The English sailor’s cheerful contempt for foreigners, the Frogs, the Dons and the Meinheers, has sustained him when all else seemed overwhelmingly against him. This is different, as it was after the American Revolution. It is one thing to stand in the line of battle, fighting it out until the enemy’s flag comes down. When I was out here at that time, I was young, full of ideals of what I thought the navy should be. I soon learned at close quarters just how different such a conflict can be.” He touched his arm, and Avery knew he had done so without noticing it.

  “How so, Sir Richard?”

  Bolitho turned on him, his eyes cold, clear grey like the sea at Pendennis.

  “Sword in hand, cutting and thrusting all about you, breath gone, your heart filling your mouth, and then you hear them . . .”

  Avery waited, a chill on his back, holding him silent.

  “The voices, George, they are what you remember. Voices from the Shires, the West Country and the Dales, fishermen and ploughmen, farm-workers and weavers. You hear your own voices on every side. When we meet the Americans this time it will be the same. They will be fighting for the freedom they wrested from us once before, the freedom of their new country, and they will regard us as the aggressors yet again!”

  Avery said, “Our people will not let you down, sir. I have watched them, heard them. They speak of home, but they seek no other land.” He thought of Allday’s letter from that tiny inn at Fallowfield, the contentment and the love which even distance could not break. Men like Allday would not change.

  Bolitho clapped his hand on his shoulder. “We shall have another drink. Then you can tell me what is troubling you.”

  “It is nothing, sir. Nothing at all.”

  Bolitho smiled. “Methinks he doth protest too much!” He sat down again. “Scarlett, the first lieutenant, is it not?” Before he could answer, Bolith
o said, “I have watched you too, you know. Ever since the day my Catherine took you to her heart, when you thought I would send you packing. You are loyal, but sensitive, as you showed just now when you mentioned your time as a prisoner-of-war. The unfair court martial that followed your release has also given you sympathy for others in that position, some of whom deserve nothing but harsh treatment if the people have been placed in jeopardy because of their misjudgement.” He was on his feet again, head turned as a spectre of foam clawed up the quarter windows as if to seize the whole ship. “If a captain stands his ship into unnecessary danger he can expect to face a court martial or worse.” He tried to smile. “And myself? I would probably end up being shot dead on the quarterdeck by Captain du Cann’s Royal Marines, like poor Admiral Byng. Half a century ago, perhaps, but still the same navy.” He handed Avery a goblet. “His vice is gambling, is it not?”

  Avery stared at the goblet, overwhelmed by the force of these revelations and his glimpse of Bolitho’s true emotion. He dared not think of it as uncertainty.

  Bolitho said quietly, “You forget, George. Like you I have good cause to remember some of my so-called friends, who were quick to remind me of my brother’s gambling debts and the price he eventually paid for his folly.”

  “I am sorry, sir.”

  “I expect Captain Tyacke suspects it; if so, I could feel pity for Scarlett. But he is one of the few experienced lieutenants on board. He has felt the enemy’s breath in his face, blade-to-blade, him or me: the only code of battle.”

  Avery got to his feet. “Thank you, Sir Richard. For sharing your thoughts and for finding time for my own problems. I promise . . .” Then he shook his head and gave a rueful smile. “I am sorry. I must not say that. When I first presented myself to you and Lady Catherine at Falmouth you warned me then. You said, ‘Promise nothing! It is wiser in the long run.’”

  Bolitho said, “Send Allday to me.”

  “A ‘wet,’ sir?”

  They grinned like conspirators. The door closed and Bolitho returned to the salt-caked windows.

  My little crew. It needed to be stronger than ever now.

  Captain James Tyacke walked to the quarterdeck rail and took several deep breaths. Beyond Indomitable ’s powerful shadow he could see the boiling ridges on every long roller, feel the jubilant chorus of wind through canvas and rigging, a ship responding to chart and rudder. Figures took shape around him as his eyes became used to the unbroken darkness. John Daubeny, the second lieutenant and officer of the first watch, hovered nearby, unsure whether to speak or remain silent.

  “Well, Mr Daubeny? I am not a mind-reader!”

  “Wind remains steady, sir, sou’-westerly, still moderate.”

  Tyacke glanced up at the pale squares of canvas, spread like huge wings but barely visible through the spindrift and drifting spray.

  The reduced sail plan would suffice until daylight while they sought out their two consorts. And then what? He still thought it unlikely that the enemy would have been expecting Bolitho to fall bait to the tale of Captain Adam’s place of captivity. Commodore Beer was an old dog, with more experience than most, and a hard head to protect him against foolhardy schemes.

  Daubeny ventured carefully, “Do you think we shall fight, sir?”

  Tyacke smiled grimly. “As I said, I am no mind-reader. But we shall stand prepared and ready, what say you?”

  He guessed that the lieutenant was squinting his eyes as he always did when asked a direct question.

  “I think we are prepared, sir.” He hesitated. “Thanks to you.”

  Tyacke frowned. But it was not idle flattery, which he might have expected from Lieutenant Laroche.

  He replied, “I had a lot to learn too. This is a vast change from commanding a brig, with nobody to crowd you and no admiral’s flag to fill you with terror!”

  The lieutenant laughed. He could never imagine his formidable captain being frightened. Except perhaps when he had found himself on the orlop deck after the Nile, and had seen his own face.

  He said, “I wrote my last letter to my father, sir, and told him of our pride at being Sir Richard’s flagship . . .” He flinched as Tyacke seized his arm.

  Tyacke said harshly, “Never speak of a last letter to anybody, do you hear me? For it may well be your last, if you dwell on it too much!”

  Daubeny swallowed hard. “Then I shall pray, sir.”

  “Aye, do that, although I have more faith in a good surgeon than a prayer book!”

  He turned sharply. “Who is that?” He saw the senior midshipman, Blythe, climbing up from the boat tier where he had been inspecting the lashings.

  “Sir?”

  “I was going to tell you, Mr Blythe . . .” He hesitated, wondering why he disliked the signals midshipman in spite of the outstanding reports of him from other officers. A confidence as big as his head. Well, never mind. He said, “I have put you in my despatches, to confirm that I am making you acting-lieutenant until your examination.”

  Blythe stared at his shadow. “Thank you very much, sir! That will help considerably!” Even he could hide neither his pleasure nor his surprise. Tyacke rarely spoke with his “young gentlemen,” content to leave it to officers who really knew them.

  “I have a question, Mr Blythe.”

  The figures standing around them were suddenly quite still, and trying not to appear as if they were eagerly listening. Deane, the other midshipman of the first watch, was paying particular attention in case he was asked the same question when his time came. Navigation or seamanship, gun-drill or boat-work. It would be well to be prepared.

  Blythe was standing very upright. Tyacke could almost hear his brain working.

  He asked, “What is the strength of a ship, Mr Blythe? Can you tell me that?”

  Blythe was at a loss for words. “The keel and main timbers, sir?”

  Tyacke said curtly, “I’m taking this midshipman with me, Mr Daubeny. I trust you can manage?”

  They walked along the weather gangway, dark shapes jumping aside as they passed. Tyacke climbed down the forward ladder, pausing to study the empty hammock nettings. If Sir Richard was right, there would be blood on the packed nettings very soon.

  He examined his feelings. Fear, doubts of his own ability, resignation? No. It was more of an awareness, the tasks of responsibility. Fate might already have decided.

  He said, “Do you go down to the messdecks, Mr Blythe?”

  The youth stared at him. “Sometimes for drills, sir. The bosun’s mates can deal with the other matters.”

  “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.
r />   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.