The Only Victor (16 page)

He began to roll the brandy towards the poop's deeper shadow and Allday gave a sigh. A nice “wet” of brandy would have made a change.

They both made a point of not looking towards the great cabin where Warren had died, and another was about to be given a chance to live.

Tyacke waited while the sentry called out his name, his eyes averted from the lieutenant's face.

He pushed open the door and saw Bolitho by the open stern windows. The cabin was otherwise empty. His eyes moved quickly around it, recalling the few times he had been there. As before, he noticed its total lack of personality. Impossible to judge its previous occupant, although he had lived here for such a long time. Perhaps Warren had had nothing to offer it? He tried not to think of all the clutter, the sense of
belonging
in
Miranda
's tiny, cramped quarters. It was gone. He had to remember that.

“Please sit down.” Bolitho gestured to a small table with some wine and two glasses. “It is good of you to come.”

Tyacke straightened his borrowed coat, giving himself time to gather his wits.

“I must apologise for my rig, Sir Richard.
Truculent
's ward-room had a collection for me, you see?”

Bolitho nodded. “I do see. All your things rest on the seabed. Like many of my most valued possessions.” He moved to the table and poured two glasses of the hock Ozzard had discovered somewhere. “I am unused to this vessel, Mr Tyacke.” He paused with the bottle in mid-air, his eyes towards the windows as the air quivered to the distant cannon fire. “I suppose that is the span between us and the military. Sailors are like turtles, in a way. We carry our homes around with us. They become personal to us; in some ways too much so. Whereas the poor soldier sees only the land in front of him.” He smiled suddenly over the rim of his glass. “And to think I was lecturing my flag lieutenant on the folly of sentiment!”

He sat down opposite Tyacke and stretched out his legs. “Now tell me about the men who were with you. That marine, for instance—has he repented of being a volunteer?”

Tyacke found himself describing the long and difficult process of beating back and forth against the wind to get closer to the merchantmen. Of Buller's insolence, and his superb marksman-ship. Of the deserter Swayne, and the midshipman who had somehow found courage when he needed it most. Shadowy figures became real as he told of their courage and their fear.

Bolitho refilled the glasses and doubted if either of them had noticed what they were drinking.

“You
gave
that boy courage—you know that, don't you?”

Tyacke answered simply, “But for him I wouldn't be here.”

Bolitho eyed him gravely. “That was then. This is now. I would wish you to sup with me this evening. No talk of war— we shall let it take us where it fancies. I have enough burdens of my own. It would ease the load if I knew I was to achieve something personal before I leave this place.”

Tyacke thought he had misheard. Sup with the vice-admiral? This was not a lowly schooner, and Sir Richard Bolitho was no longer a tolerant passenger.

He heard himself ask, “What is it, Sir Richard? If there is something I can do, you have but to ask. I may have been changed by events; my respect and loyalty to you have not. And I am not a man to offer false praise to gain favour, sir.”

“Believe me, I do know what you went through; what you are enduring now. We are both sea-officers. Rank divides us, but we still curse and rave at the incompetence of others, those who care nothing for Poor Jack, until
they
are in risk and danger themselves.” He leaned forward, his voice so quiet that it was almost lost in the gentle ship noises around them. “My late father once said something to me, when I was younger than you are now, at a time when all things seemed set against us. He said, ‘England needs all her sons now.'”

Tyacke listened, all resentment and despair held at bay, almost fearful of missing something of this reserved, compelling man who could have been his brother, and not an envied flag-officer.

Bolitho's eyes were far away. “Trafalgar has not changed that. We
need
fine ships to replace our losses and old veterans like this one. But most of all we need officers and seamen of courage and experience. Like yourself.”

“You want me to forget
Miranda,
Sir Richard. To become a serving lieutenant again.” Tyacke's expression had changed. He looked trapped, even afraid. “For if so—”

Bolitho said, “Do you know the brig
Larne,
Mr Tyacke?” He watched the man's quiet desperation, his obvious inner struggle. “She is with Commodore Popham's squadron at present.”

Tyacke said, “Commander Blackmore. I have seen her on occasion.” He sounded mystified.

Bolitho reached over and picked up a piece of Yovell's hard work. “Blackmore is fortunate. He is promoted to command a sixth-rate. I want
you
to take her.”

Tyacke stared at him. “But I cannot—I do not have—”

Bolitho handed him the envelope. “Here is the commission to take her in your charge. It will be confirmed at Their Lordships' leisure, but you are herewith promoted to the rank of commander.” He forced a smile to cover Tyacke's confusion and undisguised emotion. “I will see what my aide can do about obtaining some more suitable uniform for you without delay!”

He waited, pouring more wine, then asked, “Will you do this—for me, if for no other reason?”

Tyacke got to his feet without knowing it. “I will, Sir Richard, and I'd ask no better reason than that!”

Bolitho stood up, very alert.
“Listen.”

“What is it, Sir Richard?”

Before he turned away Tyacke saw the emotion clearly in Bolitho's eyes, as clearly as he himself had betrayed his own seconds earlier.

Bolitho said softly, “The guns. They're silent now.” He faced him and added, “It means,
Commander
Tyacke, that it's over. The enemy have struck to us.”

There was a brief knock at the door, and Jenour almost burst into the cabin. “I have just heard, Sir Richard!”

His admiral smiled at him. It was a moment Jenour was to remember for a long while afterwards.

Then Bolitho said, “Now we can go home.”

Captain Daniel Poland stood, arms folded, and watched the throng of bare-backed seamen hurrying to their stations. From the capstan came the scrape of a fiddle accompanied by
Truculent
's shantyman, an old sailor with a surprisingly carrying voice.

“When we did bang the damned mounseer,
You gave us beef an' beer,
Now we 'ave naught to eat an' drink,
For you 'ave naught to fear!”

A boatswain's mate bellowed in each interval, “
Heave! Heave!
Put yer bloody backs into it if you wants to see old England again!”

The first lieutenant gave a discreet cough. “The admiral, sir.”

Poland glanced away from the busy figures on deck and aloft on the yards.

“Thank you, Mr Williams, but we have nothing to hide.”

He touched his hat as Bolitho walked beneath the driver-boom, his face and chest like beaten copper in the dying sunlight.

“We are ready to proceed, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho was listening to the fiddle and the sing-song voice of the shantyman.
For you have naught to fear.
A song which went back a long, long way with slight variations to suit the campaign or the war. Bolitho recalled his own father talking about it when he had described the battle of Quiberon Bay. The sailor's despair of those he fought and died for only too often.

It was an inspiring sunset, he thought; few painters could do it credit. The sea, the distant ridge of Table Mountain and all the anchored ships were glowing like molten metal. Only the offshore wind gave life to the picture, the low rollers cruising towards the shadows to awaken the hull and gurgle around the stem. Bolitho could feel the last heat of the day, like a hot breath, and wondered why Poland could not reveal any excitement at this departure.

He heard the sharp clank of the first capstan pawl, the boatswain's harsh encouragement for the seamen to thrust at the bars with all their might.

Bolitho watched the other ships, their open gunports gleaming like lines of watchful eyes. Their part was over, and as dusk had descended on Table Bay he had taken a telescope to look at the Union Flag which now flew above the main battery. It would remain there.

Some of the squadron had already weighed and headed out of the bay to begin the long passage back to England. Two ships of the line, five frigates including Varian's
Zest,
and a flotilla of smaller, unrated vessels. While England waited for her old enemy's next move, these reinforcements would be more than welcome. Others, including
Themis,
would follow as soon as the army had fully established its control of Cape Town and the anchorages which would sustain them against all comers. The blackened bones of the two Dutch Indiamen would be grim reminders of the price of complacency, he thought.

He remembered Tyacke's face when they had shared a last handshake, his voice when he had said, “I thank you for giving me another chance to live, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho had said, “Later you may curse me too.”

“I doubt that.
Larne
is a fine vessel. She'll be a challenge after
Miranda.
” He had spoken her name as a man might dwell on a dead friend. “But she and I will come to respect one another!”

Larne
was already hidden in shadow, but Bolitho could see her riding light, and somehow knew that Tyacke would be over there now, on deck to watch
Truculent
's anchor break out of the ground.

Shadows ebbed and flowed across the quarterdeck, and Bolitho moved clear to give the captain the freedom he needed to get under way. He saw Jenour by the nettings, a slight figure standing near him. The latter made to leave but Bolitho said, “How does it feel, Mr Segrave? So short a stay, so much experience?”

The youth stared at him in the strong copper glow. “I—I am glad I was here, Sir Richard.” He turned, his hair flapping in the hot breeze as the capstan began to clatter more eagerly, the pawls falling while the long cable continued to come inboard.

Bolitho watched him, seeing Tyacke, remembering his own early days at sea, when he had shared the danger and the mirth with other midshipmen like Segrave.

“But you also regret leaving?”

Segrave nodded slowly, and momentarily forgot he was speaking with a vice-admiral, the hero whom others had described in so many different guises. “I only hope that when I return to my old ship . . .” He did not have to finish it.

Bolitho watched as the guardboat drifted abeam, oars tossed in salute, a lieutenant standing to doff his hat to his flag at the fore. Perhaps to the man as well.

“You can be neither too young nor too old to have your heart broken.” Bolitho sensed Jenour turn to listen. “Courage is something else. I think you will have little to worry you when you rejoin your ship.”

Jenour wanted to smile but Bolitho's voice was too intense. He knew that Yovell had already copied a letter for Segrave's captain. It would be enough. If it was not, the captain would soon learn that Bolitho could be ruthless where brutality was concerned.

“Thank you, sir.”

Bolitho leaned on the hammock nettings and thought of all the miles which lay ahead. It would be a far cry from the swift passage which had brought him here. What might he discover? Would Catherine still feel the same for him after their separation?

When he looked again, the midshipman had gone.

Jenour said, “He'll do well enough, Sir Richard.”

“You knew then, Stephen?”

“I guessed. Allday put the rest together. His life must have been hell. He should never have been put to sea.”

Bolitho smiled. “It changes all of us. Even you.”

Then he felt his heart leap as the cry came from forward.

“Anchor's hove short, sir!”

Calls trilled, and a man grunted as a rope's end hurried him after the others to halliards and braces.

Lieutenant Williams reported, “Standing by, sir!”

“Loose heads'ls.” Poland sounded calm, remote. Bolitho wondered what did move him, why he disliked Varian, what he hoped for beyond promotion?

He looked up at the yards where the strung-out, foreshortened bodies of the topmen tensed to release their charges to the wind. On deck, others stood by the braces, ready to transform their anchored ship into a flying thoroughbred. What awaited most of them when
Truculent
reached England? Would they be cooped up aboard while they awaited new orders, or sent to other ships to strengthen the ranks of landmen and newly-pressed hands ignorant of the sea and of the navy? The fiddle was scraping out a livelier tune and the capstan was turning even more quickly, as if to hasten their departure.