The Only Victor (6 page)

Tyacke said suddenly, “If I
do
see him, the admiral I mean, I shall ask him about getting some beer. I saw some of the soldiers drinking their fill when I visited the flagship. So why not us? The water out here will kill more good sailors than Johnny Dutchman!”

They both turned as the midshipman spoke up.

Segrave said, “There was a lot of talk in London about Vice-Admiral Bolitho.”

Tyacke's tone was deceptively mild. “Oh, and what sort of talk was that?”

Encouraged, his sickness momentarily quiescent, Segrave expounded willingly.

“My mother said it was disgraceful how he behaved. How he left his lady for that woman. She said London was up in arms about it—” He got no further.

“If you speak like that in front of the people I'll put you under arrest—
in bloody irons if need be!
” Tyacke was shouting, and Simcox guessed that many of the offwatch seamen would hear. There was something terrible about his rage; pathetic too.

Tyacke leaned over towards the pale-faced youth and added, “And if you speak such shite to me, I'll damn well call you out, young and useless though you may be!”

Simcox rested his hand on his wrist. “Be easy, James. He knows no better.”

Tyacke shook his hand away. “God damn them, Ben, what do they want of us? How dare they condemn men who daily, hourly risk their lives so that
they
—” he pointed an accusing finger at Segrave “—can sip their tea and eat their cakes in comfort.” He was shaking, his voice almost a sob. “I've never met this Richard Bolitho, but God damn me, I'd lay down my life for him right now, if only to get back at those useless, gutless bastards!”

In the sudden silence the sea intruded like a soothing chorus.

Segrave said in a whisper, “I am very sorry, sir.”

Surprisingly, Tyacke's hideous face moved in a smile. “No. I abused you. That is wrong when you are unable to answer back.” He mopped his forehead with a crumpled handkerchief. “But I meant every bloody word, so be warned!”

“Deck thar!” The masthead's cry was shredded by the brisk north-westerly. “Sail on th' starboard bow!”

Simcox thrust his mug into a safe corner and began to slide towards the door.

No matter what this proved to be, he thought, it had come along just in time.

“Sou'-west-by-south, sir! Full an' bye!”

The
Miranda
's deck tilted even more steeply as she responded to her rudder and the great span of main and staysails, water cascading around the bare-backed seamen while they sheeted home swollen halliards and dug with their toes at anything which would hold them.

Lieutenant Tyacke lurched up to the weather rail, and watched the surf and spray leaping high from the stem to make the flap-ping jib glint in the sunshine like polished metal.

Simcox nodded with approval as George Sperry, the tub-shaped boatswain, put two extra hands on the tiller.
Miranda
did not boast a wheel but had a long, ornately carved tiller bar, which took some handling in the brisk wind sweeping down on the starboard quarter.

He saw Midshipman Segrave standing in the shadow of the heavily raked mainmast, his eyes wary as he tried to avoid men dashing past to take up the slack of the forebrace.

Simcox called, “Over here!” He sighed when the youth all but fell, as a wave curled lazily over the lee bulwark and broke around him, leaving him spluttering and gasping, water pouring from his shirt and breeches as if he had just been pulled from the sea.

“Just bide along o' me, young feller, and watch the mains'l an' compass. Get th'
feel
of
'er
, see?”

He forgot Segrave as a line high above the deck cracked like a whip, and instantly began to unreeve itself as if it were alive.

A sailor was already swarming aloft, another bending on some fresh cordage so that no time would be lost in repairs.

Segrave clung to the bitts beneath the driver-boom and stared dully at the men working on the damaged rigging, paying no heed to the wind which tried to pluck them down. He could not recall when he had felt so wretched, so utterly miserable, and so unable to see his way out of it.

Tyacke's words still stung, and although it was not the first time the captain had given him the sharp side of his tongue, the boy had never seen him so angry: as if he had lost control and wanted to strike him.

Segrave had earnestly tried not to rouse Tyacke's ire; had wanted nothing more than to keep out of his way. Both were impossible in so small a ship.

He had nobody to talk to, really talk and understand. There had been plenty of midshipmen aboard his last ship—his
only
ship. He shuddered. What must he do?

His father had been a hero, although Segrave could barely remember him. Even on his rare returns to their home he had seemed distant, vaguely disapproving, perhaps because he had but one son and three daughters. Then one day the news had been brought to that far-off Surrey house. Captain Segrave had been killed in battle, fighting under Admiral Dundas at Camperdown. His mother had told them, her face sad but composed. By then it was already too late for Roger Segrave. His uncle, a retired flagofficer in Plymouth, had decided to offer him his patronage—for his father's memory, for the honour of the family. As soon as a ship could be found he was kitted out and packed off to sea. For Segrave it had been three years of hell.

He looked despairingly at Simcox. His rough kindness had almost finished him. But he would understand no better than Segrave's lieutenant in the three-decker. What would he say if he knew that Segrave hated the navy, and had never wanted to follow the family tradition.
Never.

He had intended to tell his mother on that last leave, when she had taken him to London to stay with some of her friends. They had clucked over him like hens.
So sweet in his uniform
as one of them had exclaimed. That had been when he had heard them discussing Nelson and another name, Richard Bolitho.

Now the unthinkable had happened. Brave Nelson was dead. And the other name was here, with the squadron.

Before he had left for Portsmouth to take passage to the Mediterranean, he had tried to explain to his mother.

She had hugged him, and then held him at arm's length. She had sounded hurt. “After all the Admiral has done for you and the family—” It was strange, but Segrave could never recall his uncle being called by name. He was always
the Admiral.

“Be brave, Roger. Make us proud of you!”

He tensed as the captain turned aft towards him. If only his face were not like that. Segrave was not too immature not to know how Tyacke must hate and loathe his own appearance. And yet he could not stop himself from staring at his disfigurement, even when he was trying to prevent himself from doing so.

If he passed his examination . . . Segrave ducked as a curtain of spray soaked into him again.
If
—he would be appointed as a lieutenant, the first real step, to share a wardroom with other officers who would see him as the weak link, a danger whenever they were called to action.

But suppose—he found he was clenching his fists until they ached—he ended up with a terrible wound like Tyacke? He felt the bile in his throat, choking him.

Simcox slapped him on the shoulder. “Let her fall off a point. Steer sou'-sou'-west.” He watched as Segrave relayed his order to the helmsman, but saw the senior hand at the tiller glance at him, not the boy, to make certain it was correct.

“Deck thar! She's standin' away, sir, an' makin' more sail!”

Tyacke tucked his thumbs into his belt. “So he wants to play games, does he?” He cupped his hands and called, “Would you take a glass aloft, Mr Jay?” As the master's mate hurried to the shrouds he said, “Hands aloft, and loose tops'l, Ben!” He gave a rare grin. “I'll wager he'll not outreach
Miranda!
”

Then he appeared to notice the midshipman for the first time. “Go with him and learn something!” He dismissed him immediately as the topsail suddenly boomed out from its yard and then hardened like a breastplate.

Simcox eyed the set of the sails. “We must catch him afore dusk. Sir Richard Bolitho'll not thank us for keepin' him waiting!”

Segrave finally reached the top of the quivering ratlines and joined the master's mate by the foot of the fidded topmast. Heights did not trouble him, and he gazed across the endless dark blue desert with its ranks of yellow-crested waves. The ship was momentarily forgotten; he stared wide-eyed at the spray as it drifted up from the plunging stem, felt the mast shaking and jerking, every brace and shroud catching the wind in a wild chorus which drowned out the men on the deck far below.

“Take a look.” Jay handed him the telescope before bellowing to the deck, “Schooner, sir! Flies no flag!”

Tyacke's voice carried effortlessly from aft. “She running?”

“Aye, sir!”

They heard the squeal of a block, and seconds later a huge White Ensign floated from
Miranda
's gaff.

Jay chuckled. “That'll show the buggers!”

But Segrave was peering at the other vessel as she heeled over to an angle that matched
Miranda
's. The vessel seemed to leap out of the distance so that he could see the patched and dirty sails, even some loose trailing cordage awaiting repair,
Irish pendants
as he had heard the old sailors call them. The hull was originally black but was scored, and in places worn bare by wind and weather. It would not be tolerated in a King's ship, no matter how hard she was worked.

“What d'you think, Mr Jay?”

The man looked at him before raising the glass again. “At a guess she's a bloody blackbirder.” He saw the uncertainty on the youth's face. “Slaver, lad.”

Segrave looked away and did not see the other man's pitying stare. “Will we catch her?”

Jay was watching the other vessel with professional interest. “We'll
catch
the bastard right enough.”

There was a hail from the deck. “Clear for action! Mr Archer, lay aft if you please!”

Archer was the gunner, so there could be little doubt about it now.

Tyacke's voice seemed to be right beside him.

“
Mr Segrave!
Down here at the double!”

Jay watched him clambering down the ratlines, his fair hair rippling in the wind.

There was nothing to dislike about the midshipman, but Jay knew the dangers. In small ships like
Miranda
it was one hand for the King, t'other for yourself. There was no room for passengers and mother's boys.

Simcox faced Segrave as he reached the bulwark. “Keep with Mr Archer. He will personally lay and point a four-pounder. You will do well to watch him!”

The tub-like boatswain grinned and showed him broken teeth.

“I knowed Elias Archer knock an apple off a tree at a 'undred paces!”

The other man who waited by halliards and braces grinned as if it was a huge joke.

Segrave saw Tyacke turn to speak with the helmsmen. In the sun's angry glare his face looked as if it had just been clawed away. Then he followed the gunner to the foremost starboard side port and tried not to think about it. He felt like running below to hide, anything but being made to bare his fear before the others.

Elias Archer,
Miranda
's master gunner, was a grizzled little man and stood effortlessly on the pitching foredeck, his arms folded while he waited for his men to clear away the four-pounder nearest to the bows.

“Done much of this, 'ave yer?” He glanced briefly at the midshipman, then returned his gaze to the other vessel. She was larger than
Miranda,
and might yet outsail them until nightfall made a further chase impossible.

Segrave shook his head. His body was like ice in spite of the sun's high glare across his neck and shoulders; and each time the schooner dipped her stem the bursting spray made him shiver uncontrollably.

He replied, “Not like this. My last ship engaged a French two-decker, but she ran aground and caught fire before we could take her.”

“This is different.” Archer took a shining black ball from the shot garland and felt it in his hard palms. “Ships like this 'un 'ave to be quick an' nimble. But without the likes o' us the fleet would be all aback fer news, an' without
that
even Our Nel couldn't move.” He nodded to one of his crew. “Right, Mason, open the port.”

Segrave watched as other men ran to the halliards and braces and the deck canted over again. The other schooner must have headed away a point or so, but it was hard to tell from where they stood now, here in the eyes of the ship.

Archer leaned over to supervise as the charge was carefully tamped home. He said, “Some 'otheads double-shot their guns. But not me. Not in a little piece like this 'un.”