For My Country's Freedom

by Kent, Alexander

  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 WHAT?

  RICHARD BOLITHO 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 abrupt
ly 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.

  Always the pain.

  Tyacke looked for another midshipman. “Acknowledge the signal, Mr Arlington.” He turned to Bolitho and waited for the inevitable. Bolitho glanced across the motionless figures, and those who peered up at the lookout’s lofty perch as if they expected it to prove a mistake.

  He saw Allday looking at him. Remembering, or trying to forget? He smiled, and saw Allday raise one big hand like a private salute.

  “When you are ready, Captain Tyacke.”

  Tyacke turned on his heel, his mutilated face stark in the first pale rays of silver light.

  “Beat to quarters and clear for action, if you please, Mr Scar-lett!”

  Avery was here too, with the new senior midshipman Carleton, the replacement for Blythe who had taken the first vital step on his ladder of promotion.

  Avery said, “Make to Reaper, repeated Woodpecker. Close on Flag.”

  He glanced at Bolitho and saw him smile briefly to the captain. Like a last handshake. He thought of his sister in her shabby clothes, the way she had embraced him on that final day.

  The drummers and fifers scrambled into line, dragging their pipeclayed belts into place, their sticks crossed beneath their noses as they watched their sergeant.

  “Now!”

  The drums rolled and rattled, drowning even the scamper of bare feet as the men ran to obey, to clear the ship from bow to stern, opening her up into two great batteries.

  Bolitho watched without expression. Even right aft beneath this deck, there would be nothing to impede the seamen and marines once action was joined. All gone: Catherine’s gifts, the green-bound Shakespeare sonnets, the wine-cooler which she had had engraved with the Bolitho crest and family motto, For My Country’s Freedom.

  He could recall his father tracing that same motto with his fingers on the great fireplace in Falmouth . . . It would be cold in Cornwall now, the wind off the sea, the anger of breakers beneath the cliffs. Where Zenoria had thrown herself away and had broken Adam’s heart . . . Everything carried below. A few portraits perhaps, wardroom chairs, a metal box with individual money-pouches, a family watch, a lock of somebody’s hair.

  “Cleared for action, sir!” Scarlett sounded breathless, although he had not moved from this place.

  And Tyacke’s laconic comment. “Nine minutes, Mr Scarlett! They do you proudly, sir!”

  Bolitho touched his eye. Praise indeed from Tyacke. Or was it Scarlett’s troubles that concerned him more?

  “Deck there! Sail in sight to the nor’-west!” Then Midshipman Blisset’s reedy voice. “’Tis Zest, sir!”

  Tyacke smiled. “I had forgotten all about that shrimp! Acknowledge, but tell Zest to remain on station.”

  Avery saw Bolitho nod to him and he touched the signals midshipman on the arm. He jumped as if he had been hit by a musket-ball.

  “Hoist battle ensigns, Mr Carleton!” How do I feel? He lifted and dropped the hanger in its scabbard at his hip and saw some of the quarterdeck gun crews staring at him. I feel nothing. Only the need t
o belong. He glanced at Bolitho, his profile so calm as he watched the horizon for the first sign of the enemy. To serve this man like no other.

  “Deck there! Second sail to the sou’-west! ’Nother man-o’-war, sir!”

  Avery expected he might see surprise, even dismay in the profile turned towards him. If there was anything he might recognise, it was relief. He repeated his thoughts in his mind. Like no other.

  Bolitho stood watching the sea, and his men while they waited for their next orders.

  The little Woodpecker would give them early warning before scuttling to safety from those great guns. Two ships then, as he had expected. The other one must be Baltimore.

  “Royal Marines, take station!”

  Up the shrouds on either side to their positions in the fighting-tops, Marines known to be good shots above the rest; at least three of them, Tyacke had discovered, were once poachers. The rest tramped across the quarterdeck and took up their stations behind the tightly-packed hammock nettings, grim-faced, bayonets fixed, the debonair Captain Cedric du Cann watching them with cold, professional interest, his face almost the colour of his tunic.

  Solitary scarlet figures stood at the hatchways, ready to prevent men from running below if their nerve broke or they were driven mad by the sights and sounds around them.

  Tyacke called, “You may cast off the boats, Mr Hockenhull!”

  Always a bad moment even for the most experienced seamen, who would know well the additional danger from flying splinters if a longboat were smashed by cannon fire. But as they were lowered and allowed to drift away, many saw them as a last chance of survival if the battle turned against them. Loosely moored together, they would drift with the sea to await recovery by the victors, whoever they might be.

  “Rig the nets!”

  More men ran to obey, and Allday saw his son hauling on blocks and tackles with his new companions to spread the protective net above the big double-wheel and its four helmsmen.

  Just a glance, and he was gone. For a brief second Allday tried to recall Bankart’s mother, and was shocked to discover he could remember nothing about her. As if she had never been.