The Only Victor (15 page)

Tyacke swung round as the flames leapt up the moored ship's tarred shrouds and darted out along the yards. Some of the men who had been working feverishly to loose the topsails found themselves trapped by the mounting fires. Tyacke watched without expression as their tiny figures fell to the decks below, rather than face that slower, more horrific death. The second Indiaman had managed to cut her stern moorings but she had freed her cable too late. Fires were already blazing on her forecastle and flowing along her hammock nettings like spurting red liquid.

Nobody spoke in the boat, so that the sounds of creaking oars and the men's rasping breathing seemed to come from somewhere else.

So short a while ago, they had all expected to be dead. Now Fate had decided otherwise.

“Watch out for any place to beach when we get closer.”

Buller the Royal Marine paused, ramming home a ball into his musket, and swore with harsh disbelief. “You won't need no beach, sir!”

Tyacke stared until his mind throbbed and his eyes were too blind to see; all that remained was the memory.
Miranda
's sails folding like broken wings.

He gripped Segrave's wrist and said, “
Truculent!
She's coming for us!”

The oars seemed to bend as with sudden hope they threw themselves on the looms. The boat headed away towards the frigate's silhouette while she rounded the point, as they themselves had done just a few hours earlier.

Segrave turned to look astern, but there was only a towering wall of black smoke which appeared to be pursuing them, its heart still writhing with flames. He glanced at Tyacke. He knew the lieutenant had intended to stay at the helm and die. The pistol had been ready to prevent anyone dragging him to the boat by force; and for no other reason.

Then Segrave looked away and watched the frigate standing-off to receive them. His pleas had somehow given Tyacke the will to reach out for another chance. And for that, Segrave was suddenly grateful.

For if Tyacke had changed, so had he.

7 A CHANCE TO
L
IVE

B
OLITHO
walked to one of
Themis
's open ports and rested his hand on the wooden muzzle of a quaker. In the afternoon sunlight it felt as hot as iron, as if it were a real gun which had just been fired.

The flagship seemed unusually quiet and motionless, and he could see
Truculent
anchored close by, making a perfect twin of her reflection on the calm water. At the cabin table, Yovell, his secretary, was writing busily, preparing more despatches which would in time reach all the senior officers of both squadrons, and others which might eventually end their journey on Sir Owen Godschale's desk at the Admiralty. As the
Themis
swung very slightly to her cable, Bolitho saw part of the land, the unmoving haze above it, much of it dust. Occasionally he heard the distant bark of artillery and pictured the foot-soldiers pressing on towards Cape Town. The Admiralty seemed a million miles away from this place, he thought.

He saw Jenour dabbing his face and neck with a handkerchief while he leaned over Yovell's plump shoulder to check something. He looked strained, as he had done since
Miranda
's sudden and violent destruction. After picking up the crew of the fireship,
Truculent
had made off under full sail to seek out the French frigate, or at least to be in time to assist Captain Varian's
Zest
when he confronted her. Placed as he was, Varian should have been in a perfect position to capture or attack any vessel which tried to escape the fireship's terrible devastation.

But there had been no sign of the enemy, and not until three days later had they met up with
Zest.
Varian had explained that another vessel had been sighted approaching from seaward, and he had given chase, but without success. Bolitho had expected Poland to make some criticism once the frigates had separated again, as it was rumoured there was bad blood between the captains. He had said nothing. Nor, upon reflection, had he seemed surprised.

Bolitho tried not to dwell on
Miranda
's loss. Nor on Tyacke's contained anguish as he had clambered up from the fireship's boat. The column of black smoke above the anchorage had been visible for many hours, long after
Truculent
had headed out to the open sea.

The general's soldiers would see it and take new heart, and the Dutch might realise that there was nothing but their own courage to sustain them. But although he tried, Bolitho could not put the memory from his mind.
He must tell himself.
It had been a remarkable feat, the success far outweighing the cost. But he could not forget. He had once again allowed himself to get too close. To Simcox, and Jay, even to an unknown Cornish lookout who had come from Penzance.

There was a tap at the door and then Commander Maguire entered the cabin, his hat beneath his arm.

“You sent for me, Sir Richard?” His eyes moved to the open stern windows as more gunfire echoed across the flat blue water.

Bolitho nodded. “Be seated.” He walked past him to the table, each step bringing his body out in a rash of sweat.
Just to be in a moving ship again, to feel the wind. Instead of . . .
He turned over some papers. “When this campaign comes to a close, Commander Maguire, you will be sailing for England. It is all in your orders. You will place yourself with certain other vessels under the charge of Commodore Popham until that time is suitable.” He saw little response on the man's lined features. Perhaps, like some others in the squadron, he might be thinking that the fireship and
Miranda
's sacrifice would make no difference; that it would drag on into stalemate. There was a thud from the adjoining cabin, then the sounds of a heavy chest being manhandled across the deck. Only then did Bolitho see some expression on Maguire's face. He had served with Warren for a long time.

On
Truculent
's return to the anchorage Bolitho had realised that he would never speak with Warren again. He had apparently died even as
Truculent
's topsails had been sighted standing inshore.

Now Warren's clerk and servant were gathering the last of his belongings for stowage in one of the transports to await passage—
where,
he wondered? Warren had no home but this ship, no relatives apart from a sister somewhere in England, whom he had rarely seen even on his visits to the country he had seemingly rejected for the West Indies.

Maguire frowned and asked, “What will become of the ship, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho saw Jenour watching them, his eyes fall as their gaze met.

“She will doubtless receive a much needed overhaul and refit.”

“But she's too
old,
Sir Richard!”

Bolitho ignored the protest. “Not as old as my flagship.” He did not mean to let it come out so sharply, and saw the other man start. “The war continues, Commander Maguire, and we shall need every ship we can lay hands on. Ships which can stand and fight and still give of their best.” He walked to the stern, and leaned on the heated sill to look down into the clear water as it lifted and gurgled around the rudder. He could see the trailing weed, the copper, which was dull and pitted with constant service. As his
Hyperion
had once been when he had first taken command, in that other world. Over his shoulder he added bitterly, “We need more than wooden guns in the Channel Fleet too!”

It was a dismissal, and he heard the door close behind him, the sentry's musket coming down to rest again with a sharp tap.

“I suppose you think that was wrong of me?”

Jenour straightened his back. “There comes a time, sir—”

Bolitho smiled, although he felt drained as well as impatient. “Well, now. What has my sage to tell me?”

Jenour's open face lit up with a broad grin. Relief, surprise; it was both. “I know I am inexperienced when compared with some, sir.”

Bolitho held up his hand. “A damned sight
more
experienced than a few I can mention! I was sorry for Warren, but he did not belong here. Like the ship, he had become a relic. That did not count for much once. But this is no game, Stephen, nor was it even when I entered the King's navy.” He looked at him fondly. “But it took the blade of the guillotine to make some of our
betters
take heed. This war
must be won.
We have to care about our people. But there is no longer any stowage-space for sentiment.”

Allday entered by the other door and said, “Some casks of beer have just been brought over, Sir Richard. Seems it was for
Miranda
's people.” He watched Bolitho, his eyes troubled. “Otherwise, I wouldn't have said—”

Bolitho loosened his shirt for the thousandth time and shook his head. “I have been bad company since that day, old friend.” He glanced from one to the other. “I will try to make amends, for my own sake as well as yours.”

Allday was still watching him warily, like a rider with an unknown mount. What did he mean, he wondered?
Since that day. Miranda,
or was he still fretting over his old flagship?

He said, “There's a pin o' brandy for yourself, Sir Richard, From th' General, no less.”

Bolitho looked towards the land, his fingers playing with the locket beneath his damp shirt. “Sir David said as much in his letter to me.” He had a sudden picture of Baird somewhere over there: in his tent, on horseback, or studying the enemy's positions. Did
he
ever consider defeat or disgrace? He certainly did not show it.

Of the Dutch defenders he had written,
“They will fight on, or they will surrender very soon. There will be no half measures, on either side.”
Of the fireship he had said,
“Brave men are always missed and then too often forgotten. At least others will not die in vain.”
Bolitho could almost hear him saying it, as he had on the shore when he had begged for his assistance. Baird had finished his letter by describing his opponent, the Dutch general Jansens, as a good soldier, and one not given to senseless destruction. Did that mean that he would capitulate rather than see Cape Town brought down in ruins?

Bolitho clutched his arms across his chest as a cold shiver ran through him, despite the scorching air in the cabin.

Warren had gone, but it felt as if he was still here, watching him, hating him for what he was doing with his ship.

Allday asked, “All right, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho crossed to the windows and stood in the sunshine until the heat burned the chill out of his body. For an instant he had imagined it was a warning of the old fever. The one which had all but killed him. He smiled sadly. When Catherine had climbed into his bed without him knowing or remembering a thing about it. Her care, and the warmth of her nakedness, had helped to save him.

Maybe Warren
was
watching? After all, they had buried him nearby, weighed with shot, down in the depths where even the sharks would not venture. Maguire had used one of the longboats, and the oarsmen had continued to pull until a leadsman had reported “no bottom” on his line.

The marine sentry shouted from beyond the screen, “Officero'-the-Watch,
sir!
”

The lieutenant seemed to be walking on tiptoe as he entered the presence of the vice-admiral. Bolitho wondered how much more they knew about him now since his arrival among them.

The lieutenant said, “
Truculent
's boat has cast off, Sir Richard.”

“Very well, Mr Latham. Please offer Lieutenant Tyacke all respects when he is come aboard the flagship. He
was
in command, remember.”

The lieutenant almost bowed himself out, his face astonished more by Bolitho's remembering his name than at his instruction.

Ozzard appeared as if spirited by a genie's lamp.

“A fresh shirt, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the boat pulling slowly towards
Themis
's side, pinned down in the hazy glare as if it could scarcely make the crossing.

“I think not, Ozzard.” He thought of the schooner's tiny cabin, where a clean shirt and ample drinking water were both luxuries.

Tyacke would be feeling badly enough as it was. The interview he was about to have with the tall lieutenant was suddenly important. It was not merely something to replace his loss, or to offer him compensation for his terrible wound. It
mattered;
but until now Bolitho had not really known how much.

He said quietly, “Will you leave me, please?” He watched Yovell gather up his papers, his round features completely absorbed with his inner thoughts. A direct contrast to Allday, and yet . . . Neither would change even at the gates of Heaven.

To Jenour he added, “I would like to dine with Mr Tyacke this evening, and for you to join us.” He saw Jenour's obvious pleasure and said, “But for this moment it is better without an audience.”

Jenour withdrew and saw a marine guard presenting arms to the man in question as he climbed aboard and raised his hat to the quarterdeck.
Half a man,
Jenour thought, and now with his dreadful scars turned away he could see what he had once been: perhaps what Bolitho was hoping to restore.

Allday stood his ground as Tyacke walked aft and ducked beneath the poop.

Tyacke halted and said coldly, “All waiting, are they?” He was very much on the defensive. But Allday knew men better than most, sailors more than any. Tyacke was ashamed. Because of his disfigurement; and because he had lost his ship.

He replied, “Be easy with him, sir.” He saw the sudden surprise in Tyacke's eyes and added, “He still feels the loss of his old ship very badly. Like one o' the family,
personal.
”

Tyacke nodded, but said nothing. Allday's casual confidence had unnerved him, scattered all his carefully prepared thoughts, and what he had been about to say.

Allday walked away and stooped thoughtfully over the pin of brandy which had been sent over by the redcoats. It was strange when you thought about it. Bolitho and Tyacke were very much alike. Had things been different for them they might even have changed roles.

He heard Ozzard right behind him. “You can keep your eyes off that little cask,
Mister Allday!
” He stood, arms folded, his watery eyes severe. “I
know
you when you get your hooks on some brandy.”

The guns ashore fired a long, unbroken salvo, like thunder echoing around those sombre, alien hills.

Allday put his hand on the little man's shoulder. “Listen to 'em, matey. Don't even know what they're fighting about!”

Ozzard smiled wryly. “Not like us, eh?
Heart of Oak!
”