The Only Victor (13 page)

Segrave said, “It seems easier, sir.”

“What?” Again, so distant. “Yes, we're closer inshore. But the wind's as much an enemy as before.” He sat down unexpectedly on a cask and looked at the youth, his awful wound in shadow. “Mr Simcox told me about your other injuries.” He eyed him calmly, as if there was nothing to do, with all the time in the world to do it. “Beat you, did they? Because you were no use on board?”

Segrave clenched his fists. Remembering the first time, and all the others which were to follow. The captain had been uninterested in what went on in the midshipmen's berth, and as he had been heard to tell his first lieutenant on several occasions, he was only concerned with
results.
Another lieutenant had been chosen to divide the midshipmen into teams, and would set one against the other in all drills and exercises in seamanship, gunnery and boatwork. There were penalties for the laggards, minor awards for the winners.

Tyacke was not far from the truth in his casual summing-up. Except that it was persecution of the worst kind. Segrave had been stripped naked and bent over a gun and flogged without mercy either by the lieutenant or some of the midshipmen. They had humiliated him in any way they could, had worked off a kind of madness in their cruelty. It was doubtful if he would ever lose the scars, any more than a sailor flogged at the gratings.

Segrave found that he was blurting it out in short, desperate sentences although he did not recall beginning to speak at all.

Tyacke said nothing until he had fallen silent. Then he said, “In any ship where such brutality is tolerated it is the fault of her captain. It is the way of things. Disinterest in how his lieutenants administer discipline or enforce his orders must lie at his door. No lieutenant would dare to act in this fashion without the full knowledge of his captain.” His eyes gleamed in the shadows. “The orders to return to your old ship in due course prompted you to volunteer, is that it?” When Segrave remained silent he said harshly, “By God, boy, you would have done better to kill that lieutenant, for the end will likely be the same, without the satisfaction!” He reached across suddenly and gripped his shoulder. “It was your choice.” He turned away and a shaft of sunlight filtered through the filthy skylight to lay bare his disfigurement. “As it was mine.”

He twisted round as feet pattered along the deck overhead, and the boatswain's hoarse bellow chased some of the crew to their stations for altering course.

Segrave said simply, “I'm glad I came, sir.”

He did not cringe as Tyacke pushed his face nearer and said,
“Well spoken!”

They went on deck together, and after the foul stench below the air tasted like wine.

Tyacke glanced at the streaming masthead pendant, then at the compass. The wind was as before, but as the youth had noticed, it was less violent in the shelter of the land.

As he removed a telescope from a rack beside the compass box he glanced quickly at the men on deck. Including himself there were twelve of them aboard. He saw the seaman named Swayne, the deserter, hauling on a halliard to take out some slack. He moved quickly and easily, a proper Jack, Tyacke thought. Now that he had accepted what he had done by coming here with the others, he even looked cheerful. While there was life there was still hope. Aboard the flagship an award of two hundred lashes or more, with the only other alternative being an agonising dance at the yardarm, left no room for hope.

Tyacke stared at the other volunteer, a Royal Marine named Buller, under a similar sentence for striking a sergeant after getting fighting drunk on pilfered rum. When it came to such matters the “Royals” could be merciless with one of their own.

The other faces he knew well. He saw the squat figure of George Sperry, the
Miranda
's boatswain, calling to two hands who were working with chain slings on the foreyard. Once the fire was started, the tarred rigging would ignite in seconds, the sails too if the deed were done too soon. Chain would keep their sails in place just that much longer. Tyacke's face twisted into a grimace. Or so he had been told. Like all sailors Tyacke hated the danger of fire more than anything. He touched his burned face and wondered if he would break at the last moment; knowing in the same breath he would not.

He looked at Segrave, his hair ruffling in the wind, and thought of his faltering voice as he had stammered out his story. Tyacke had found his rage mounting to match the boy's shame. Those others should be the ones to feel shame, he thought. There would always be scum like that, but only where their cruelty was condoned.

Tyacke raised his glass and trained it past the midshipman's shoulder. The land was hard abeam, the very tip of the point which guarded the entrance to the bay reaching out rocky and green in the pale sunshine. He felt the deck planking growing warm again; very soon the whole schooner would be as dry as tinder. God help them if the enemy had sited some long-range guns as far out as the point. He doubted it; it was an impossible place for a landing party to scale or even disembark. But the doubt remained. No ship was a match for land artillery, especially those with heated shot. Tyacke forced his mind away from the picture of a red-hot ball slamming into the crammed hull beneath his shoes.

“Deck there!” The lookout was pointing astern. “
Miranda
's tackin' to the point, sir!”

Tyacke turned his glass towards the open sea, where the water was a deeper blue as if unwilling to give up the night.

He felt a lump in his throat as he saw
Miranda
's huge courses swinging above the waves, her single topsail flapping wildly as she began to change tack. To all appearances it might well look as if she was in pursuit of the shabby
Albacora.

“Shake out all reefs, Mr Sperry! Lively there!” He saw the boatswain give his broken-toothed grin as he added, “We don't want a King's ship to catch us!” But he turned away in case Sperry saw, and understood, the lie.

He said to Segrave, “Lend a hand at the helm. As far as I can calculate we shall have to make good some ten miles before we can attempt a final approach.”

Segrave watched him as he voiced his thoughts aloud. He found he could do it now without revulsion. There was something compelling about the tall lieutenant, and something frightening too.

Tyacke waved the telescope towards the full breadth of the bay as the point of land appeared to slide across the larboard quarter, like the opening of a giant gateway.

“We shall beat up to the nor'-east where the bottom shelves to a few fathoms. The sort of thing any ship's master might do if he was being chased by a man-o'-war. Then we'll come about and lay her on the starboard tack and run straight for 'em.” He glanced at Segrave's sensitive features. “That's if they're still there, of course.”

Tyacke rubbed his chin and wished he had had a shave. The idea made him smile. As if it mattered now! He recalled the vice-admiral's coxswain, Allday, with the morning ritual. He thought also of his own private talks with Bolitho. Such an easy man to speak with, to share confidences. Like the time when Bolitho had asked him about his face and the Nile, when he had found himself answering without his usual defence and resentment.

And it was all true. There was no falseness in Bolitho, no using men as mere tools to complete some plan, or hiding indifference behind his rank.

“Stand by to alter course, Mr Segrave.” He saw him start with surprise. “In a minute or so we shall steer nor'-east, so watch the mains'l no less than the compass!”

Segrave swallowed hard then joined the helmsman who acknowledged him almost shyly. Segrave saw that it was the young seaman named Dwyer, the one who had tried to tie up his wound in the cabin beneath them.

Dwyer said, “We'll manage well enough, eh, Mr Segrave?”

Segrave nodded and discovered he could even offer a smile. “We shall.”

Tyacke turned as a shot echoed across the water, and was in time to see a faint puff of smoke shred away from
Miranda
's bows. Simcox had started to play his part. It was to be hoped he did not over-play it and outrun the
Albacora
as
Miranda
had done before.

Then he returned attention to the sailing of the fireship; but even as he signalled for Sperry to put two of his hard-pressed men on the foremast boom, he found himself thinking of the girl he had known in Portsmouth. Marion. He dashed the sweat from his eyes with his grubby shirt sleeve and believed for an instant that he had said her name aloud.
If only . . .
Another shot echoed over the glittering water, and from a corner of his eye Tyacke saw the four-pound ball jag into the sea a good cable astern.

“Steady she goes, sir! Nor'-east it is!” It was strange to hear Segrave call out when he was usually so quiet and withdrawn.

Tyacke glanced at him sadly.
We are both scarred, inwardly or out.

Spray dashed over the side and swept over the patched and dirty deck like a tide. Tyacke saw the boatswain blink as another shot banged out astern, and the ball ploughed down a bit closer than the previous one. He glanced at the skylight and Tyacke knew he was thinking about the woman he had satisfied his lust with in the cabin.
We all have only memories now.

Tyacke gazed along the busy deck as the schooner leaned over still further under her full press of sail.

Perhaps Marion would read about it someday. He gave a bitter smile.
My last command.

Captain Daniel Poland remained a little apart from Bolitho as he stood by the cabin table, and used some dividers to measure off the calculations on his chart.

Bolitho said, half to himself, “As far as we know, there have been no new arrivals in the bay. If there had been, either you or Captain Varian in
Zest
would likely have sighted them. Likewise, the big ships and frigate must still be at anchor.” He looked up in time to see Poland's doubtful expression. “Don't you agree?”

Poland responded, “It is a big area, Sir Richard. Four times the size of Table Bay.” He faltered under the grey stare. “But as you say, it is perhaps unlikely.”

Bolitho watched the sunlight fanning through
Truculent
's stern windows, swinging across the cabin like fiery bars as the frigate changed tack yet again.

Poland bit his lip with annoyance as someone or something fell heavily on the deck above.
“Clumsy oafs!”

Bolitho half-smiled. Maybe it was better to be like Poland.

Caring only for the immediate and the things he knew best.

He tugged out his watch and studied it. Tyacke should be standing into his proper position by now,
Miranda
too. It was still stark in his mind, the way Tyacke had changed places with his friend. But it was more than a gesture to save his friend, to cast himself away. It was the act of a leader; what he had seen others do without a thought for the cost of it.

It did not occur to Bolitho that it was exactly what he would have done in Tyacke's position.

Jenour, who had been moving restlessly by the stern windows, straightened up and exclaimed, “Gunfire, Sir Richard!”

Bolitho gave a last lingering glance over the chart. “So it was, Stephen.” He looked around the cabin which had been his hiding-place on the passage from England. From Catherine. After
Miranda
it was like a ship of the line. He faced Poland as feet clattered along the passageway towards the screen door.

“While others dare, we must wait, Captain.” His own words depressed him, and he added shortly, “You may beat to quarters when convenient.” He touched his hip as if to find his sword. “Tell Allday—”

Allday padded across the cabin. “I'm here, Sir Richard.” He grinned as Bolitho raised his arm for him to fix the scabbard in place. “Like always!”

Another far-off shot brought Allday's words into sharp focus and Bolitho said quietly, “I am depending on it.”

Lieutenant Tyacke reluctantly lowered his glass. It would not be sensible to be seen watching the anchored ships rather than the pursuing
Miranda.
But in those last brief seconds he had seen the two large ships, and they certainly had all the appearances of Dutch Indiamen. The most important factor was that they were not moving with the wind and current. So Bolitho's first impression had been right. They were anchored fore-and-aft to provide two fixed batteries of guns against any attacker, which would be in trouble enough beating against the northerly wind.

Dwyer exclaimed admiringly, “God, look at 'er go, Mr Segrave!” He was staring across the quarter at
Miranda
's bulging sails as she came up into the wind yet again, cutting away the distance still further so that Segrave imagined he could see Simcox aft by the tiller, his unruly hair waving in the wind.

Another puff of smoke from her bow-chaser and this time the ball slammed down just a boat's length clear. Some of the spray pattered across the deck and Sperry cursed violently. “Damn you, Elias Archer. Lay another ball like that an' I'll not forgive 'ee.”