For My Country’s Freedom

5. "Indomitable"

Henry the carter tugged slightly at the reins as the wheels clattered over the first of the dockyard cobbles.

He said, "She’s out at anchor, zur." He glanced at his passenger’s strong profile, unable to understand why anybody would willingly go to sea, captain or not.

Tyacke stared across the gleaming water and was surprised that he was so calm. No, that was not it. He felt no emotion whatsoever.

He glanced towards the wall and was relieved to see that Larne had moved her berth, doubtless to complete her re-rigging. He wondered if they knew he was here, if someone was watching him with a telescope at this very second.

He said, "There are stairs at the end."

"Roight, zur. I’ll make sure there be a boat waitin’ for ’ee."

Oh, there will be, he thought. Even if the boat’s crew had been up since before dawn. Tyacke had done it himself often enough. Waiting for the new lord and master, imagining what he would be like: the man who would rule everybody’s life from senior lieutenant to ship’s boy; who could promote, disrate, flog and, if necessary, hang anyone who did not abide by his orders.

He shivered slightly but disdained to put on his boat-cloak It was a fair morning and the sea was a mass of dancing white horses, but it was not the cool air that caused him to tremble. It was this moment, which he had dreaded, of this particular day.

He saw a flurry of splashes and knew it was a boat casting off from a mooring buoy. His arrival had been noted.

"Thank you, Henry." He put some coins into the man’s fist and stared at the big brass-bound chest. They had travelled a long way together since he had recovered from his injuries. His complete world was contained in it.

Recovered? Hardly that. It was impossible not to be reminded of it daily. He saw himself reflected in other people’s faces, and the horror and the pity he saw there had never ceased to wound him.

All through the night he had gone over everything he had discovered about Indomitable, his head filled, as if it would burst if he could not rest. All the lieutenants had been aboard throughout the refit, even the luckless Laroche who had blundered into the inn parlour. The first confrontation. There would be many more.

He gazed out at the moored ship. Without her original top-hamper she looked like any other large frigate at this distance. Like the Valkyrie, with her main gun deck higher than fifth- and sixth-rates so that her devastating broadside could be used to maximum effect. He watched the approaching boat critically, the oars rising and falling like wings. He thought even Allday would approve.

He turned to speak once more, but the little cart had gone. Only the sea-chest remained. The gig swung in a tight arc, the bowman poised with his boat-hook to grip the mooring ring on the stairs.

After what seemed an eternity a young lieutenant ran up the stairs and raised his hat with a flourish.

"Protheroe, sir! At your service!"

"Ah, yes. Fourth lieutenant." He saw the young officer’s eyebrows lift with surprise, and thought for a moment that his memory had betrayed him.

"Why-yes, sir!"

Tyacke turned deliberately to reveal the burned side of his face. It had the effect he expected. When he turned back, Protheroe had gone pale. But his voice was controlled as he rapped out orders, and two seamen ran to collect the heavy chest.

Tyacke glanced at them as they hurried past with their eyes

averted. Laroche had obviously told a grim story about their new captain.

Protheroe watched the chest being carried down to the gig, no doubt terrified that they would let it fall into the water. Not long out of a midshipman’s berth, Tyacke thought.

"May we proceed, Mr Protheroe?"

The lieutenant stared around with dismay. "I was looking for your coxswain, sir."

Tyacke felt his mouth break into a smile.

"I am afraid that the commander of a brig does not run to his own cox’n!"

"I see, sir." He stood aside and waited for Tyacke to descend the weed-lined steps.

Again the quick stares from the boat’s crew, then every eye looking instantly away as his glance passed over them. Tyacke sat down in the sternsheets and held his sword against his thigh, as he had done when he left Larne.

"Let go! Bear off forrard! Out oars!"

Tyacke turned to watch the gap of lively water widening. I am leaving. God for what?

"Give way all!"

He asked, "How long have you been in Indomitable?"

"A year, sir. I joined her while she was still laid up in ordinary and about to complete her rebuilding." He faltered under Tyacke’s eyes. "Before that I was signals midshipman in the Crusader, 32."

Tyacke stared across the stroke oarsman’s broad shoulder at the masts and yards rising up to greet him, as if they were lifting from the seabed. Now he could see the difference. One hundred and eighty feet overall, and of some fourteen hundred tons, her broad beam betrayed that she had been built originally for the line of battle. Her sail plan had changed little, he thought. With a wind over the quarter she would run like a deer if properly handled.

He saw the pale sunlight gleaming on several telescopes and knew the men were stampeding to their stations.

What would his first lieutenant be like? Perhaps he had expected promotion, even command of the powerful ship once her overhaul was completed. Indomitable’s last captain had left her months ago, leaving his senior lieutenant in charge until their lordships had decided what to do with her. They had not. He gripped his sword even tighter. Sir Richard Bolitho had made that decision. He could imagine the words. So be it.

"Bring her to larboard, Mr Protheroe!" There was an edge to his voice, although he had not realised it.

As he watched the long tapering jib-boom reaching out towards them like a lance, he saw the figurehead where it crouched beneath the beak-head. Crouched was right. It was in the form of a lion about to attack with both paws slashing at the air. A fine piece of work, Tyacke thought, but it was not the original figurehead, which would have been far too big for the rebuilt hull. Except for the bright red mouth and gleaming eyes, it shone with expensive gold paint, perhaps a gift from the builders who had converted her.

"Carry on, Mr Protheroe." He was suddenly eager to begin, his stomach in knots as the gig veered towards the main-chains and the entry port, where he had already seen the scarlet of the marines. My marines.

He thought of Adam Bolitho’s frigate, Anemone. Lying alongside this ship, she would be overwhelmed.

His experienced eye took in everything, from the buff and black hull that shone like glass above the cruising white horses, to the new rigging, shrouds and stays freshly blacked-down and every sail neatly furled, probably by the petty officers themselves for this important occasion.

For all of us, a voice seemed to say.

He would find himself a personal coxswain. Another Allday, if there was such a man. He would be more than useful at times like these.

The gig had hooked on, the oars tossed, the seamen staring directly astern. Anywhere but at their new captain.

Tyacke rose to his feet, very aware of the lively gig’s movement, waiting for the exact moment to climb up to the entry port.

"Thank you, Mr Protheroe. I am obliged."

Then he seized the handropes and stepped quickly on to the tumblehome before the sea could drag him down.

Like the walk from Larne to the waiting carriage, the minutes seemed endless. As his head rose above the port, the sudden explosion of noise was deafening. The bayoneted muskets of the Royal Marines snapped in salute in time with their officer’s sword, and the calls of boatswain’s mates, followed by the rattle of drums, rose and then fell silent.

Tyacke removed his hat in salute to the extended quarterdeck with its neatly-packed hammock nettings. He noticed that the wheel and compass boxes were unsheltered. Builders and designers, then as now, saw only the efficiency of their work, not men being shot down by enemy sharpshooters with nothing but the stowed hammocks to protect them.

A square-faced lieutenant stepped from the ranks of blue and white, warrant officers and midshipmen, two so young that Tyacke wondered how anyone could have allowed them to leave home.

"I am Scarlett, the senior here." He hesitated and added, "Welcome to Indomitable, sir."

A serious-looking face. Reliable… perhaps.

"Thank you, Mr Scarlett." He followed the first lieutenant along the rank, all standing in order of seniority Even Protheroe had managed to slip into the line during the brief ceremony at the entry port.

Four lieutenants, including the unfortunate Laroche. Their eyes met and Tyacke asked coldly, "How many men did you press, Mr Laroche?"

He stammered, "Three, sir." He hung his head, expecting the mainmast to fall on him.

"We shall find many more. I daresay all Plymouth knew you were abroad last night." He moved on, leaving the third lieutenant looking dazed.

Lieutenant Scarlett was saying, "This is Isaac York, sir, our sailing-master."

A capable, interesting face: you would know him as a deep-water sailor even if he were disguised as a priest.

Tyacke asked, "How long have you been sailing-master, Mr York?"

He was younger than most masters he had known, the characters of almost every vessel.

York grinned. "A year, sir. Afore that I was master’s mate aboard this ship for four years."

Tyacke nodded, satisfied. A man who knew how she would handle under all conditions. The face appeared about thirty except that his neatly cut hair was slate-grey

They turned to the quarterdeck rail. The midshipmen could wait.

Tyacke felt in his coat for his commission. As so ordered, he would read himself in.

"Have all hands lay aft, Mr Scarlett-" He stopped, and saw the first lieutenant’s instant uncertainty. "That man, by the boat tier…"

Scarlett relaxed only slightly. "That’s Troughton. He serves as cook. Is something wrong, sir?"

"Have him come aft."

A midshipman scuttled away to fetch him and most of the men already on deck turned to watch as the one-legged sailor in

the long white apron clumped on to the quarterdeck.

"If you do not approve, sir?" Scarlett sounded apprehensive.

Tyacke stared at the limping figure. He had sensed somebody’s eyes upon him even as he had come aboard. Now, of all times… There was utter silence as he strode over to the cook and, reaching him, put his hands on the thin shoulders.

"Dear God. I was told you were dead, Troughton."

The man studied him feature by feature and, lastly, the scars. Then he glanced down at his wooden leg and said quietly, "They tried to do for both of us that day, sir. I’m so glad you’ve come to the old Indom. Welcome aboard!"

Very solemnly they shook hands. So she even had a special nickname, Tyacke thought. It was like a triumph: someone had survived on that hideous day. A young seaman working with a handspike to retrain one of his guns. He should have been killed; Tyacke had imagined him being thrown outboard with all the other corpses. But he himself had been deafened and blinded, and had heard only screams. His own.

As the ship’s company swarmed aft and he took out his commission and unrolled it, Tyacke saw men whispering to each other, those who had seen the incident trying to describe it to their friends. The scarred captain and a one-legged cook.

Grouped behind him, most of the officers were too young to understand, but York the master and the first lieutenant knew well enough what it meant.

And when Tyacke began to read himself in they both leaned closer to hear, as if this tall straight-backed man gave the formality both significance and a new impact.

It was addressed to James Tyacke Esquire, appointing him to the Indomitable on this day in April 1811. Not far from the place where Drake was alleged to have kept the fleet and the Dons waiting while he finished his game of bowls.

Willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon

you the charge and command of captain in her accordingly; strictly charging and commanding all the officers and company of the said Indomitable … At that point Tyacke looked across the mass of upturned faces. The old Indom. But the one-legged cook was not in sight. Perhaps he had imagined it, and Troughton had been only a lingering spectre who had come back to give him the strength he had needed.

Eventually it was all over, ending with the customary warning. Threat, as he perceived it. Hereof nor you nor any of you may fail as will answer the contrary at your peril.

He rolled up the commission and said, "God Save the King!"

There was neither sound nor cheering, and the silence at any other time would have been oppressive.

He replaced his hat and gazed aloft where Sir Richard Bolitho’s flag would soon be hoisted to the mainmast truck for the first time.

"You may dismiss the hands, Mr Scarlett. I will see all officers in my quarters in one hour, if you please."

The figures crowded below the quarterdeck rail were still thinking only of their own future, and not of the ship. Not yet.

And yet despite the silence he could feel only a sense of elation, an emotion which was rare to him.

This was not his beloved Larne. It was a new beginning, for him and for the ship.

Lieutenant Matthew Scarlett strode aft, glancing this way and that to ensure that the ship was tidy, the hammock nettings empty all spare cordage coiled or flaked down until the new day. The air that touched his face when he passed an open gunport was cold, and the ship’s motion was unsteady for so powerful a hull.

He had overheard the sailing-master lecturing some of the "young gentlemen" during the dogwatches. "When the gulls fly low over the rocks at night, it’ll be bad next day, no matter what

some clever Jacks tell you!" Scarlett had seen the two newest midshipmen glance doubtfully at one another. But the gulls had flown abeam even as the darkness of evening had started to close in around the anchored ship. Isaac York was rarely mistaken.

Past the unattended double wheel and further aft into the shadows, where a Royal Marine sentry stood in the light of a spiralling lantern. The Indomitable had been converted to contain two large cabins aft, one for her captain, and the other for use by the senior officer of a flotilla or squadron.

But for Tyacke’s arrival and the vessel’s selection as Sir Richard Bolitho’s flagship, one of the cabins might have been his. He acknowledged the watchful sentry and reached for the screen door.

The sentry tapped the deck with his musket and bawled, "First Lieutenant, sir!"

"Enter!"

Scarlett closed the door behind him, his eyes taking in several things at once.

Tyacke’s supper stood on a tray untouched; the coffee he had requested must be ice-cold. The table was completely covered with books, canvas folios and pages of the captain’s own notes.

Scarlett thought of the officers all packed into this cabin shortly after the captain had read himself in. Could that have been only this morning? Tyacke must have been going through the ship’s affairs ever since.

"You have not eaten, sir. May I send for something?"

Tyacke looked at him for the first time. "You were at Trafalgar, I believe?"

Scarlett nodded, taken aback by the directness.

"Aye, sir. I was in Lord Nelson’s weather column, the Sparti-ate, 74. Captain Sir Francis Laforey"

"Did you ever meet Nelson?"

"No, sir. We saw him often enough aboard the flagship. Few

of us ever met him. After he fell, many of our people wept, as if they had known him all their lives."

"I see."

Scarlett watched Tyacke’s sun-browned hands leafing through another book. "Did you ever meet him, sir?"

Tyacke stared up from the table, his eyes very blue in the swaying lanterns.

"Like you, I only saw him in the far distance." He was touching his scarred face, his eyes suddenly hard. "At the Nile."

Scarlett waited. So that was where it had happened.

Tyacke said abruptly, "I understand that the purser’s clerk has been doing the work of ship’s clerk as well as his own?"

"Yes, sir. We have been very short-handed, so I thought…"

Tyacke closed the book. "Pursers and their clerks are necessary, Mr Scarlett. But it is sometimes a risk to give them too much leeway in ship’s affairs." He pushed the book aside and opened another where he had used a quill as a marker. "Detail one of the reliable midshipmen for the task until we are fully manned."

"I shall ask the purser if…"

Tyacke regarded him. "No, tell Mr Viney what you intend." He paused. "I have also been going through the punishment book."

Scarlett tensed, with growing resentment at the manner in which the new captain was treating him.

"Sir?"

"This man, Fullerton. Three dozen lashes for stealing some trifle or other from a messmate. Rather harsh, surely?"

"It was my decision, sir. It was harsh, but the laws of the lower deck are harder than the Articles of War. His messmates would have put him over the side." He waited for a challenge, but surprisingly Tyacke smiled.

"I’d have offered him four dozen!" He glanced around and

Scarlett studied the burned half of his face. He looks at me as the captain, but inwardly he must bleed at every curious stare.

Tyacke said, "I will not tolerate unfair or brutal punishment. But I will have discipline in my ship and I will always support my officers, unless…" He did not finish it.

He pushed some papers along the black and white chequered deck-covering and revealed a bottle of brandy.

"Fetch two glasses." His voice pursued the first lieutenant as he pulled open a cupboard.

Scarlett saw all the other carefully-stowed bottles. He had watched it being swayed up on a tackle just the previous day.

He said cautiously, "Fine brandy, sir."

"From a lady." Who but Lady Catherine would have taken the trouble? Would even have cared?

They drank in silence, the ship groaning around them, a wet breeze rattling the halliards overhead.

Tyacke said, "We will sail with the tide at noon. We will gain sea room and set course for Falmouth, where Sir Richard Bolitho will hoist his flag. I have no doubt that Lady Catherine Somervell will come aboard with him." He felt rather than saw Scarlett’s surprise. "So make certain the hands are well turned out, and that a bosun’s chair is ready for her."

Scarlett ventured, "From what I’ve heard of the lady, sir…" He saw Tyacke tense, as if about to reprimand him. He continued, "She could climb aboard unaided." He saw Tyacke nod, his eyes distant, for that moment only another man entirely.

"She could indeed." He gestured towards the bottle. "Another thing. As of tomorrow, this ship will wear the White Ensign and masthead pendant accordingly." He took the goblet and stared at it. "I know that Sir Richard is now an Admiral of the Red, and to my knowledge he has always sailed under that colour. But their lordships have decreed that if we are to fight, it will be under the White Ensign."

Scarlett looked away. "As we did at Trafalgar, sir."

"Yes."

"About a coxswain, sir?"

"D’you have anyone in mind?"

"There’s a gun captain named Fairbrother. A good hand. But if he doesn’t suit I’ll find another."

"I’ll see him after breakfast."

Rain pattered across the tall stern windows. "It’s going to blow tomorrow, sir."

"All the better. I went through your watch and quarter bills." Immediately he sensed Scarlett’s anxiety One who resented criticism, or had been unfairly used in the past. "You’ve done a good job. Not too many bumpkins in one watch, or too many seasoned hands in another. But once standing down-Channel I want all hands turned-to for sail and gun drill. They will be our strength, as always." He stood up and walked aft to the windows, now streaked with salt spray.

"We carry eight midshipmen. Keep them changing around- get them to work more closely with the master’s mates. It is not enough to tip your hat like some half-pay admiral, or have perfect manners at the mess table. As far as the people are concerned they are King’s officers, God help us, so they will perform accordingly. Who is in charge of signals, by the way?"

"Mr Midshipman Blythe, sir." Scarlett was amazed at the way the captain’s mind could jump so swiftly from one subject to the next. "He will be due for examination for lieutenant shortly."

"Is he any good?" He saw the lieutenant start at the bluntness of his question and added more gently, "You do no wrong, Mr Scarlett. Your loyalty is to me and the ship in that order, and not to the members of your wardroom."

Scarlett smiled. "He attends well to his duties, sir. I must say that his head sometimes gets larger as the examination draws closer!"

"Well said. One other thing. When Sir Richard’s flag breaks at the mainmast truck, remember, I am still your captain. Always feel free to speak with me. It is better than keeping it all sealed up like some fireship about to explode." He watched the effect of his words on Scarlett’s open, honest features. "You can carry on now. I feel certain that the wardroom is all agog for your news." But he said it without malice.

He realised that Scarlett was still there, his hands playing with his cocked hat.

"Is there something else, Mr Scarlett?"

"Well, sir…" Scarlett hesitated. "As we are to be of one company, war or no, may I ask something?"

"If it is reasonable."

"Sir Richard Bolitho. What is he like, sir? Truly like?"

For a moment he thought he had tested the captain’s confidences too far. Tyacke’s emotions were mixed, as if one were fighting the other. He strode across the spacious cabin and back again, his hair almost brushing the deckhead.

"We spoke of Lord Nelson, a leader of courage and inspiration. One I would have liked to meet. But serve under him-I think not."

He knew Scarlett was staring at him, earnestly waiting. "Sir Richard Bolitho, now…" He hesitated and thought of the brandy and wine Lady Catherine had sent aboard for him. He felt suddenly angry with himself for discussing their special relationship. But I did invite his confidence. He said quietly, "Let me say this, Mr Scarlett. I would serve no other man. For that is what he is. A man." He touched his face but did not notice it. "He gave me back my pride. And my hope."

"Thank you, sir." Scarlett reached the screen door. Afterwards he guessed that the captain had not even heard him.

James Tyacke looked around the large cabin before examining his

face in the mirror that hung above his sea-chest. For a second or two he touched the mirror, scratched here and there, dented around the frame. He often wondered how it had survived over the years. Or me, either.

The ship had quietened somewhat after all the bustle and preparations to get under way. Calls twittered and voices still shouted occasional orders, but for the most part they were ready.

Tyacke walked to the stern windows and rubbed the misty glass with his sleeve.

It was blustery, the windows full of cruising white horses, the nearest land only a wedge of green.

He could faintly hear the clank, clank of pawls as the seamen threw their weight on the capstan bars. But down aft, this cabin was like a haven, a barrier between him and the ship. Unlike the little Larne where everybody had seemed to get under his feet.

Any minute now and Scarlett would come down and report that they were ready. He would be curious, no doubt, to see how the new captain would perform on his first day at sea.

Tyacke had already been on deck at the first suggestion of dawn, with Plymouth Sound glittering in a moving panorama of small angry waves.

He had found the master, Isaac York, by the compass boxes speaking with two of his mates; the latter had melted away when they had seen their captain up and about so early. They might think him nervous, unable to stay away from the scurrying seamen both on deck and aft.

"How is the wind, Mr York?"

York had peered aloft, his eyes crinkling into deep crow’s-feet. "Steady enough, sir. East by north. It’ll be lively when we clear the land."

Confident. A professional sailor who could still appreciate being consulted by his captain.

He had added in an almost fond tone, "The Indom’s a fine

sailer, sir. I’ve known none better. She’ll hold close to the wind even under storm stays’ls. Not many frigates could boast as much." He had squinted up at the small monkey-like figures working far above the deck. "With her press of canvas she can shift herself!" A man proud of his ship, and of what he had achieved to become her master.

Tyacke dragged out his watch. Almost time. He listened to the clank of the capstan and could picture the straining seamen as they fought to haul the ship up to her anchor. Boots thumped overhead: the Royal Marines who were part of the after-guard preparing to free the mizzen sails and the big driver when so ordered. The seamen always claimed contemptuously that the marines were only given the task because the mizzen-mast was the simplest rigged, and even they could manage it.

More feet were running over the deck. Tyacke tried to identify every sound. The boats were hoisted on their tier. The ship’s launch had been landed and a new, dark green barge lashed in its place, the admiral’s own boat. He thought about the colours being hoisted that morning, the White Ensign curling in the wind. Nelson at Trafalgar had been the first admiral to fight a fleet action under that flag. In the smoke and hatred of a sea-battle it was absolutely vital that every captain should know friend from foe, and the Red Ensign or even the Blue had been too dangerous at Trafalgar, where French and Spanish flags of similar colouring could easily have confused the identity of ships, and impeded the immediate response to signals.

He knew that Scarlett was coming even before the sentry yelled out the news. He compared him to the two Royal Marine officers, Captain Cedric du Cann and his lieutenant, David Merrick. Men who would never question their orders, no matter what. Perhaps it was better to be like them. Imagination could be a risky possession.

He called, "Enter!"

Scarlett, hat tucked underneath one arm, opened the screen door, his eyes seeking out his captain. To assess his demeanour, or plumb the depths of his uncertainty?

"The anchor is all but hove short, sir."

"I shall come up."

Scarlett was still watching him. "The master has laid a course to weather Nare Head, sir."

"I know."

Scarlett saw him glance around the cabin. He himself had gone on deck after a late night in the wardroom, fending off speculation and gossip until the others had tired of it. Except the purser, James Viney who had repeatedly questioned him about the captain’s decision regarding his clerk. Scarlett was beginning to wonder if Viney did have something to hide. It was often said that half the inns and lodging-houses in naval ports were either owned or supplied by pursers at the country’s expense. But once on deck, Scarlett had seen the captain’s skylight still aglow. Did he never sleep or rest? Could he not?

Tyacke led the way up the companion ladder and on to the breezy quarterdeck. A slow glance took it all in. Seamen standing at braces and halliards, topmen already aloft, spread out on the yards and silhouetted against the sky like dwarfs.

Three men on the wheel; York was taking no chances. The lieutenants like little islands of blue and white at each mast, each man staring aft as Tyacke walked to the quarterdeck rail.

He listened to the capstan and heard the faint scrape of a violin, the sound of which had been inaudible in his quarters.

The signals midshipman, Blythe, was standing with his small crew of seamen, his face severe as he watched the captain.

Tyacke nodded to him. He could well imagine he would have a big head.

He glanced aft. The two marine officers with some of their men, their scarlet coats very bright in the drifting spray. York was

with his mates near the wheel, but peered up at him and touched his hat.

"Standing by, sir!"

Tyacke saw a squat figure in a plain blue coat and carrying a rattan cane walking along the larboard guns. That would be Sam Hockenhull, the boatswain, seeking the new men, all of whom were probably sick with dismay at being torn from their loved ones, to go to God knew where, and for how long. Beyond Hockenhull he could see one upraised paw of the lion figurehead. Further still, the blurred outline of Plymouth and what looked like a church tower.

He walked across the deck, feeling the stares, hating them.

"There are two collier brigs, larboard quarter, Mr York."

The master did not smile. "Aye, sir. I’ve marked ’em well."

Tyacke looked at him. "I’m told that if you ram a fully laden collier it’s like hitting the Barrier Reef."

Then York did grin. "I’ll not be the one to find out, sir!"

"Anchor’s coming home now, sir!"

Tyacke folded his arms. "Get the ship under way, if you please."

"Stand by the capstan."

More calls twittered urgently. Spithead Nightingales, the sailors called them.

"Loose the heads’ls!"

Hockenhull the boatswain jabbed the air with his rattan. "You-move yourself! Take that man’s name, Mr Sloper!"

"Loose tops’ls!" That was Scarlett, his powerful voice magnified by his speaking-trumpet while he wiped the drifting spray from his eyes.

"Man the braces! Mr Laroche, put more hands on the weather side as she comes clear!"

Tyacke shaded his eyes and watched the headsails flapping and banging until brought under command. Then up to the topsail yards where the tan-coloured canvas was barely under control, the

wind eagerly exploring it as if to hurl the topmen down to the deck.

Tyacke studied the great mainsail yard, its canvas still neatly lashed into place. From the quarterdeck it looked twice the length of Larne’s main-yard, where one or two slavers had danced their lives away.

"Anchor’s aweigh, sir!"

Released from the land Indomitable heeled over to the thrust of canvas and rudder, the sea almost brushing the lee gunports while she came about, sails thundering as fore and mainsails were hauled and beaten into submission. Some men lost their footing on the deck and fell gasping until dragged back to the taut braces, helped or punched as seemed necessary.

Tyacke watched the two anchored colliers slide past, as if they and not Indomitable were moving.

He heard the squeak of halliards and saw a new ensign break out from the gaff, so white against the angry clouds.

"Hold her steady! Steer south-west by south!"

He walked up the tilting deck while men dashed hither and thither on the wet planking.

"Steady she goes, sir! Full an’ bye!"

Tyacke called, "Once we clear the Point we will set the driver, Mr Scarlett!" He had to shout above the violent din of rigging and canvas, the crack of halliards and shrouds as every inch of cordage took and held the strain.

Scarlett touched his hat. "Aye, aye, sir!" He wiped his face and grinned. "Someone wishes us well."

Tyacke crossed to the nettings and stared across the choppy water. It was Larne. Out at an anchorage now; perhaps leaving this very day. But it was not that. Every yard was manned, with more seamen clinging to the ratlines to wave and cheer. Even Indomitable’s own chorus could not drown the wild cheering.

Scarlett glanced round curiously as Tyacke removed his hat,

and then waved it slowly back and forth above his head.

The uninjured side of Tyacke’s face was turned towards him, and he felt something like pity as he realised what he was seeing.

It was a last farewell.