The Victory (55 page)

‘
My compliments to Mr Tyler,' Haworth said tautly,
wrestling with a sealing-wafer which
would
stick to his
fingers, 'and I am confident he can deal with the new anchor-
cable without my presence.’

Rose's ears crimsoned. 'Begging your pardon, sir, but there
was somebody in the boat, sir, that was asking to see you
urgently, sir.’

Haworth cursed inwardly, but only sighed outwardly.
Though knowing it would turn out to be some petty problem
that there was no need to disturb him for, he was too just to
execute the messenger. 'Very well, Mr Rose. Tell Mr Tyler I
shall be there directly.’

He managed at last to seal the report, and brushing off Dugasse with a bow and putting Africa gently but firmly
aside, he went up on deck, taking the steps slowly, for he was
still very stiff, though now the bruising had begun to come
out in a spectacular display of colours, it was not quite so
painful. The fo'c'sl was a-throng as the boatswain's party
hauled the new cable up from the
Nemesis's
boat, but on the
comparative quiet of the quarterdeck the visitor was waiting
for him, bareheaded in the sunshine, his hands twisting
anxiously before him. It was Bates.

‘
What are you doing here, Bates?' Haworth asked in aston
ishment.

‘
Oh, Captain Haworth, sir, it's my master — it's Captain
Weston, sir. He's badly hurt, and asking for you, and please
will you come right away, sir?'

‘Hurt? How is he hurt? What's happened?'

‘
It was when you ran on board us, sir, in the storm,' Bates
said, lifting his eyes to Haworth's, his face drawn with
distress. 'The Cap'n threw himself on Mr Reid, sir, to save
him, and the bowsprit hit him and crushed him, sir.'

‘
Good God!' The horror of it hit Haworth like a blow to
the stomach. He remembered the scream he had heard. 'We saw someone had been hurt, but I never dreamed it was the
captain. How bad is it?'

‘
Mortal bad, sir. Mr Oakleigh — the surgeon — says he
doesn't think ...' Bates swallowed, unable to complete the
sentence. 'Only he's been asking for you, over and over, sir,
and now we've anchored, Mr Oakleigh thinks you ought to
come at once, sir, if you can, because he doesn't know how
long ... how long he'll last.’

Haworth hesitated only an instant. There were so many
official things he was obliged to do as soon as he arrived in
port, but technically he had not yet anchored, and that would
serve as an excuse if excuse were needed. Weston was his
friend, almost his brother: he must go.

‘
Very well, I'll come,' he said. 'Take over, Mr Tyler.’

 
‘
Aye aye, sir.’

In the boat, pulling for
Nemesis's
side, Bates spoke again:
‘Mr Osborne took over, of course, sir, and then the Admiral
sent us straight off to Gibraltar, so there wasn't time to tell
anyone, not that there was anything anyone could have done.
Mr Oakleigh says there's internal hem — something.'

‘Haemorrhage?'

‘
That's it, sir. He thinks the Cap'n's liver may have been
crushed. He's been trying to keep him still, sir, but it wasn't
easy in the storm. Mr Reid's got three broken ribs. The Cap'n
saved his life, sir,' Bates added miserably.

‘
You did right to come for me, Bates,' Haworth said,
automatically trying to comfort him. Weston dying? He could
not believe it. Weston was too young and strong and full of
energy. He had promised to help him celebrate the victory at
Spithead. He had to live to keep that promise.

Osborne saluted him as he stepped on board the
Nemesis,
but did not delay him on deck. 'He's in his cabin, sir. The
surgeon's with him.'

‘Thank you, Mr Osborne.’

The sentry at the cabin door came to attention; Haworth
entered. Even at such a moment, he noticed the difference
from his own cabin.
Nemesis
had not taken direct part in the
action, and despite the damage to her stern, the cabin furni
ture was still intact. He glimpsed mahogany and silver, gained
an impression of modest luxury and expensive good taste,
before the surgeon came forward to greet him.

‘
Captain Haworth? Oakleigh, sir. I'm glad you've come. He's been asking for you ever since he regained conscious
ness.'

‘How is he?’

Oakleigh shook his head. 'Frankly, sir, I did not expect him
to last this long. There is a spinal injury and extensive inter
nal damage, shock, haemorrhage. It was only his great vitality
which brought him back to consciousness at all.’

‘But now we are here, we can transfer him to the shore
hospital,' said Haworth quickly. 'With their better facilities —'

‘
Even if he were to survive the transfer to shore by boat,
sir, they would not be able to help him, I'm afraid. There's
nothing anyone can do.'

‘Is he in pain?'

‘
He feels very little, sir. The injury to the spine has numbed
his lower body. He is very restless, and that is typical of his
condition, but I am sure it has also to do with his desire to
speak to you. I hope you may be able to ease his mind, sir.’

Haworth nodded, and Oakleigh led the way into the sleeping-
cabin. The cot had been lowered on to its frame, now that
the ship was at anchor, and in it, carefully packed with sheets
to prevent movement, lay Weston. Haworth bent over him,
his mouth dry with shock, his heart contracting with pity at
the sight of him.

Weston's skin was yellow-white, moist and clammy, his
hair dark with sweat, his eyes seeming already sunken in his
face. Haworth carefully took the hand that was lying on the
sheet, and it felt cold and impersonal, unreal, as if it were
made of wax.

‘Haworth?' Weston's voice was only a whisper.

‘Yes, I'm here.’

Weston licked his lips, and his brown eyes moved over
Haworth's face restlessly. He seemed to have forgotten what
he wanted to say.

‘
You sent for me, and I'm here,' Haworth said clearly. 'I'm going to see you're looked after. You've had a bit of a knock, old fellow, but now we've reached Gibraltar, we'll get you to
the hospital, and —'

‘
No,' Weston whispered, and he gripped Haworth's hand
weakly. 'Listen.' Haworth waited in silence, watching the
younger man gathering his strength, arresting his wandering
thoughts. 'Don't ...' A long pause. 'Don't bury me here.' He
stopped, and lay panting shallowly, his skin seeming to take
on a grey tinge from the effort. 'Take me home.’

Haworth pressed his hand. 'You're not going to die. You're
going to be all right. You can't die, Weston.’

The hand gripped tighter.
'Promise!’

Reluctantly, Haworth nodded. 'I'll take you home. I
promise.’

The eyes locked on his, filled with the urgency of his
struggle. 'Tell Lucy — I love her.'

‘
Yes,' said Haworth, his throat aching. 'I'll tell her. I'll look
after her, Weston, I promise you.’

Weston nodded, and closed his eyes with relief. Haworth
waited. The cold, damp hand in his grew limp again, and the
surgeon came up to the bedside and took the other wrist to
feel for the pulse. Weston was still for so long, that Haworth began at last to withdraw his hand, upon which the eyes flew
open again, searching for his face.

‘It's all right — I'm still here,' Haworth said gently.

‘
Cold,' Weston whispered. His eyes wandered again, and a look of great bitterness seemed to cross his face. 'Thomas,' he
said, incomprehensibly to Haworth. He chafed the dying
man's hand, not knowing what else to do for him.

The surgeon put down the other hand, caught Haworth's
eye and shook his head. 'I don't think it will be long.’

Weston was staring at nothing, locked in the unapproach
able solitude of his death, his eyes beginning to glaze. His lips
parted once more. 'Tell Lucy,' he whispered, quite clearly.
His breathing hitched and stumbled, dragged on again more
faintly. His lips moved, but Haworth could not catch what he
said, and then the breathing stopped and did not resume.

Haworth laid down his hand he held gently on the sheet, and then stood indecisively, not knowing quite what to do. It did
not seem possible that it could end like this. There must be
something more to be done.

When at last he went back on deck, he was astonished to
find bright day, and the life of the ship and the port still going
on all around. It seemed an affront for the sun to continue so
unheedingly to shine; it felt as though he had been in that
cabin for hours.

*

With two jury masts and her shot-holes roughly but securely
patched, the
Cetus
set sail for England on 1 November. In her
hold was the lead-lined coffin Haworth had had made for the
body of Captain Weston, and his cabin furniture and private
papers and belongings packed in his sea trunk. Haworth's
cabin was now gratefully free of French officers, who had been transferred to the Governor's charge, and the orlop of
wounded, who had been transferred to the shore hospital.

Nemesis
was remaining in Gibraltar, receiving her refit and
waiting for a new captain to be promoted into her, but on
Haworth's representation to the port admiral, Bates, who was
dazed with grief, was coming home in the
Cetus.
Dipton had
tactfully let him think that he needed help in looking after
Captain Haworth and his daughter.

‘
Give him something to do, sir,' Dipton murmured to
Haworth, with a nod towards Bates, who was polishing
knives in a bemused manner. 'Keep his mind off, a bit. I told
him Miss Africa was a bit of a handful, begging your pardon,
sir, and took up all my time.’

Africa, at least, had something to be glad about, for the
stowing of the coffin and the trunk in the hold had resulted in
the rediscovery of Cleopatra, who had been thrown there with
a miscellaneous collection of odds and ends when the ship was
cleared for action. She emerged a little scarred, and minus a wheel, but Africa was delighted to have her back. On sunny days she sat with Bullen on the fo'c'sl while he attempted to
repair Cleopatra one-handed, and demonstrated his new and
painfully-acquired ability to whistle through the gaps in his
teeth.