For My Country's Freedom by Alexander Kent

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.
    â€œI am Scarlett, the senior here.” He hesitated and added, “Welcome to Indomitable, sir.”
    A serious-looking face. Reliable . . . perhaps.
    â€œThank 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.
    â€œWe 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.
    â€œHave 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?”
    â€œHave 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.
    â€œIf 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.
    â€œDear 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