Alexander Kent - For My Country’s Freedom

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.

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!"

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.