The Only Victor

by Alexander Kent

  Bolitho reached up for the side as the boat lurched against the hull and the seamen tossed their oars, like white bones in the sunshine.

  He looked down at Allday’s troubled face and said calmly, “It is not a question of choice this time. For there is none.” Then he was up and over the bulwark. Allday followed and saw him already talking with Tyacke, who mercifully had his terrible scars turned away.

  After what he had suffered, it was unlikely that Tyacke would offer much support.

  Commodore Arthur Warren watched with open astonishment, while Bolitho tossed his crumpled shirt to Ozzard before slipping into a clean one. The little servant was fussing round him and almost got knocked over as Bolitho hurried between the table and the stern windows of Themis’s great cabin.

  Before Themis began to swing again to her cable, Bolitho had seen the busy activity aboard the nearest transport. The captured slaver was hidden on her seaward side, and he wondered how long it would take to complete the arrangements he had ordered.

  Bolitho had never understood his own instincts; how he could sense that time was in short supply. He felt it now, and it was vital that Warren knew what was happening.

  He said, “You’ll have the schooner Dove to repeat your signals to the offshore patrol.” In his mind he could see the thirty-six-gun frigate Searcher tacking back and forth somewhere beyond the horizon, Warren’s first line of defence should an enemy approach from the west. The second schooner was retained to keep the same contact with the main squadron at Saldanha Bay. It was up to each captain, from the senior, Varian, to the lieutenants who commanded the schooners, to use their own initiative if the wind changed against them, or they sighted any vessel which was obviously hostile. In his written orders Bolitho had stressed his requirements precisely and finally. There would be no heroics, no ship-to-ship actions without informing the commodore.

  The anchorage looked strangely deserted and even more vulnerable, and he wondered if Warren were regretting the removal of his aftermost cannon to replace them with useless “quakers.” It was too late for regrets now.

  Warren said, “I don’t like it, Sir Richard. If you fall in this venture, or are taken prisoner, how will I explain?”

  Bolitho looked at him impassively. Is that all it means? Perhaps Varian was right after all.

  He answered, “I have left some letters.” He saw Jenour turn from an open port. “But have no fear.” He failed to conceal his bitterness. “There are some who would not grieve too much!”

  Allday entered through a screen door and handed Bolitho his old sword. He ran his eyes critically over Bolitho’s appearance and nodded.

  Bolitho smiled. “Satisfied?”

  “Aye. But it don’t signify that I’ve changed my mind!”

  Allday too had changed into his fine blue jacket and nankeen breeches. He glanced at Bolitho’s other sword on the rack and remarked to Ozzard, “Take good care o’ that, matey.” He patted the little man’s bony shoulder. “Like the last time, remember?”

  Bolitho walked to the table again and stared at the chart.

  Captain Poland’s Truculent should be on her station to the west of Table Bay, ready to rendezvous with Miranda and her dangerous consort. Varian’s Zest, the most powerful of the frigates, would be standing to the south-west. If the attack was successful, it would be Varian’s task to chase and take any vessels which tried to put to sea to escape the fireship.

  Whether the enemy recognised the Albacora or not made little difference to the attack. Only to those who remained with the fireship until the last moment would it be important.

  The marine sentry called from the door, “Surgeon, sir!”

  The man who entered was a thin, unsmiling individual whose skin was as pale as Warren’s.

  He said abruptly, “I am sorry to intrude, sir but Miranda’s midshipman wishes to return to his ship immediately.”

  Warren frowned, irritated by the interruption. “Well, that is for you to say, surely. I am too busy for—”

  Bolitho asked, “Is he recovered enough?”

  Confused by the presence of the admiral dressed as he was now in his proper uniform, instead of the casual open shirt, the surgeon stammered, “It was a severe wound, sir, but he is young and very determined.” His mouth closed in a thin line, as if he had just decided not to say what he had been about to add. It was not his affair.

  “Then he can come over to Miranda with us. See to it, Stephen.” Bolitho saw the undisguised relief on the flag lieutenant’s features and added, “Did you think I would leave you yet again?” He tried to smile. “If Allday is my right arm, you surely must be my left!”

  He thought of Jenour’s face when he boarded the flagship only hours ago. A courier brigantine had paused at the anchorage and had sent over a despatch bag without even stopping long enough to anchor. She had been so fast that it was little wonder Miranda had not seen any sign of her.

  Jenour had dropped his voice as they had walked aft to the cabin. “Inside your official envelope there is . . . a letter . . . for you, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho had turned on him. “Tell me, Stephen—I beg of you!”

  Warren had been coming towards them, dragging his feet, trying to control his painful breathing, and Jenour had answered quickly, “It is from your lady, Sir Richard.” He had recognised Bolitho’s remaining uncertainty and clarified, “From Falmouth.”

  “Thank God.” At long last. The first letter. He had half expected it might be from Belinda. With distance to give her confidence she might have been demanding more money, or suggesting another reconciliation for the sake of appearances.

  The letter was in his pocket now. Somehow, even in Miranda’s crowded world, he would find a private place where he could read it, feel her presence, hear her voice. When this was over he would write to her again, tell her all the longings he had built up since their wretched parting.

  He looked towards the glittering water beyond the stern windows. If I should fall . . . Then there would be the other letter which was locked in his strongbox.

  Bolitho raised his arm to allow Allday to clip the old family sword to his belt. So many times; and too many had seemed like the last.

  Bolitho left the cabin and paused where Ozzard was waiting with his hat. “When we are finished with this matter we shall return to Falmouth.” He saw the anxiety in Ozzard’s eyes and added gently, “You are better off here.” He looked across his rounded shoulders. “Commodore Warren will see that you are taken care of.”

  He hurried to the entry port and glanced at the silent figures who had paused in their work to watch him leave. How different from England, he thought. These men were probably glad to see him go, as if by remaining their own lives would be more at risk.

  The sun was dipping very slowly, like a gigantic red ball which quivered above its own reflection and made the horizon glisten like a heated wire.

  Commodore Warren doffed his hat and the calls trilled, while the flagship’s reduced section of Royal Marines slapped their muskets in salute.

  Then he lowered himself to the longboat and got a brief glimpse of the midshipman, who was sitting crammed beside Jenour and Allday.

  “Good day—Mr Segrave, is it not?” The youth stammered something, but at that moment the boat was cast off and with oars pulling and backing, steered away from the side.

  Jenour peered astern, glad he was not remaining in Themis with Yovell and Ozzard. He touched the lanyard on his fine sword and lifted his chin as if in defiance.

  Allday was watching the fiery sunset. It had taken on a new meaning, a threatening aspect, with Death the winner one way or the other.

  To break the silence Bolitho asked, “What else do you have in your important-looking bag, Stephen?”

  Jenour tore his mind from the letter he was writing in his mind to his parents in Southampton.

  “For Miranda, Sir Richard.” He could guess what Bolitho was thinking and recalled the letter he had given to him. Bolitho had taken it as if i
t were life itself. It should have surprised him that his admiral could be two such different men: the one who inspired and commanded, and the other who needed that lady’s love so much, but could not hide it as he did his other fears and hopes.

  Lieutenant Tyacke waited by the ladder and touched his hat as Bolitho climbed aboard. He even managed an ironic smile as he looked at Jenour and Midshipman Segrave. “Two bad pennies together, eh, Sir Richard?” He took the package from Jenour and said, “The Albacora is all but ready, sir.” They stared across the darkening water to the other, untidy schooner. In the sunset’s glow she looked as if she were already burning from within.

  “We did our best, sir. But not being pierced for gunports to draw the flames, we had to cut makeshift ones to the main hold an’ the like.” He nodded grimly. “She’ll burn like a torch when need be.”

  He turned away; his men were waiting for his attention. Both schooners would sail at nightfall, slink away from the other ships like assassins. Thinking aloud, Tyacke said, “With God’s help we should rendezvous with Truculent at dawn. Then you’ll have a mite more comfort in her than I can offer you, sir!”

  Bolitho looked at him and saw the red glow on the ruined face. Like melted wax. As if it had just happened.

  He said simply, “It is not comfort I need. Your ship has offered me what I want most.”

  Tyacke asked with a touch of wariness, “And what may that be, sir?”

  “An example, Mr Tyacke. How all ships could be, large or small, offered the right trust and leadership.”

  “If you will excuse me, sir.” He turned awkwardly. “There is much to do.”

  Bolitho gazed at the sun sliding into the horizon and the sea. There should be steam or an explosion, so powerful was its majesty, and menace.

  Midshipman Segrave was groping beneath the companion hatch when Simcox found him and said, “You’ll have to sleep rough tonight, my lad. We’re somewhat overfull till I can discover Truculent’s whereabouts.” The lighter mood eluded him and he said, “Bob Jay told me about your other injuries.” He saw the youth staring at him in the gloom. “’E ’ad to. It was ’is duty to me.”

  Segrave looked down at his clenched fists. “You had no right . . .”

  “Don’t you lecture me about rights, Mister Segrave! I’ve had a bloody gutful o’ them since I first donned the King’s coat, so let’s ’ave no more of ’em, see?” His face was only inches from Segrave’s as he added vehemently, “You was whipped like a dog to have scars like that, Bob Jay said. Bully you, did they? Some poxy scum who thought you was lettin’ them down, was that it?” He saw the youth bow his head and nod. Afterwards Simcox thought he had never witnessed such despair. He said, “Well, it’s in the past now. Bob Jay’ll never forget you saved ’is skin.” He touched his shoulder and added roughly, “I ’ad to tell the Cap’n.”

  Segrave shivered, wiping his face with his forearm.

  “That was your duty too.” But there was no sarcasm or resentment. There was simply nothing at all.

  Simcox watched him with concern. “All right then, son?”

  Segrave looked at him, his eyes very bright in the lantern’s glow from the cabin.

  “You don’t understand. I was told aboard Themis. I am to return to my old ship as soon as we leave the Cape.” He got to his feet and made for the companion ladder. “So you see, it was a lie, like everything else!”

  Later, as darkness folded over the anchorage and the stars were still too feeble to separate sea from sky, Bolitho sat at the cabin table, half listening to the muffled commands from the deck, the creak of the windlass as the cable was hove short. Jay, the master’s mate, was across in Albacora with a small prize crew, so all hands would be working doubly hard and standing watch-and-watch until the rendezvous was made.

  Tyacke peered through the door. “Ready to proceed, Sir Richard.” He waited questioningly. “Any further orders?”

  Something about him was different.

  Bolitho asked, “What is troubling you?”

  Tyacke said steadily, “I received orders in the despatch bag, sir. Both Mr Simcox and Segrave are leaving my command after this is over and done with.” He tried to smile, but it made him look desperate. “Ben Simcox is a good friend, and I’ve come to feel differently about the midshipman since . . .” He did not go on.

  “I understand.” Bolitho saw the surprise on Tyacke’s maimed face.

  “Because I am what I am, is that it?” He shook his head and Tyacke caught a quick glimpse of the terrible scar which was only partly hidden by the lock of hair. “I had another flag lieutenant once. He used to call me and my captains, We Happy Few. By God, Mr Tyacke, there are precious few of us now! Oh yes, I know what it is to find a friend, then lose him in the twinkling of an eye. Sometimes I think it is best to know nobody, and to care for nothing.”

  Somebody called from the deck, “Th’ slaver’s under way, sir!”

  “I—I am sorry, sir.” Tyacke had to leave, but wanted to remain.

  “There’s no need.” Bolitho met his gaze and smiled. “And know this. I do care. And when I call for volunteers tomorrow—”

  Tyacke turned to the ladder. “You’ll not lack them, Sir Richard. Not in this ship.” Then he was gone, and moments later came the cry, “Anchor’s aweigh!”

  Bolitho sat for several minutes, his ears deaf to the din of rudder and canvas as the schooner curtsied round, free of the land once more.

  Why had he spoken to Tyacke like that? He smiled at his own answer. Because he needed him and his men more than they would ever know, or understand.

  With great care he opened the letter, then stared with surprise as a dried ivy leaf fell to the table.

  Her writing seemed to blur as he held the letter closer to the swaying lantern.

  My darling Richard,

  This leaf is from your house and my home—

  It was enough. The remainder he would read later when he was quite alone.

  6 WHILE OTHERS DARE . . .

  LIEUTENANT James Tyacke clung to the weather rail and squinted through the spray as Bolitho appeared by the companion-way.

  “Sail in sight, sir!”

  Bolitho clutched a backstay and nodded. “I heard the call, Mr Tyacke. You’ve a good man aloft!”

  It had been dark to all intents when he had caught the lookout’s cry. Even in so small a vessel it had been difficult, and to anyone less experienced the overnight change in wind and weather would have appeared astonishing. The wind had veered several points and now came from the north, or near enough. With her bowsprit pointing due east, Miranda appeared to be lying hard over, the sea occasionally licking above the lee bulwark; when it touched your skin it felt like ice.

  Bolitho peered to where the horizon should be, but could see nothing. Only the creaming wave-crests and the blacker depths of fast-moving troughs. It would make the two schooners’ approach doubly challenging. A lantern was shuttered across the tumbling water, and Bolitho guessed that the captured slaver was less than half a cable away. It was a mark of Tyacke’s and Jay’s experience that they had managed to keep in close company all through the night. When dawn finally broke the seamen would be at their worst, he thought. Worn out by trimming sails, reefing and changing tack over and over again.

  Tyacke shouted, “Time to close with Albacora, sir.” He was watching him in the darkness, his eyes well accustomed to the night while Bolitho was still trying to adjust to it.

  It was strange to realise that the lookout could not only see the rising dawn but the sails of another vessel. It had to be Truculent. If it was not, it could only be the enemy.

  “Deck there! She’s a frigate, sir. Hove-to.”

  Bolitho heard Simcox release a sigh. So it was Truculent. Captain Poland could justly be proud of another successful rendezvous.

  Someone called, “Th’ slaver’s come about, sir. ’Er boat’s in the water.”

  Tyacke muttered, “Lucky it’s no further. It’ll be a rough haul for the oarsmen.”r />
  Bolitho touched Tyacke’s arm and said, “About the volunteers?”

  Tyacke faced him. “That deserter was sent over from the flag-ship with the prize crew. There was a Royal Marine too, for all the use he’ll be.” He spoke with the unreasonable contempt of sailors for members of the Corps.

  “Is that all?”

  Tyacke shrugged. “It’s better this way, sir. My ship will provide the remainder.” His teeth showed faintly through the shadows as the first hint of light fingered the horizon. “I spoke to them myself, sir. Men I know and trust.” He added bluntly, “More to the point, who trust me.”

  “Mr Simcox knows what he must do?”

  Tyacke did not answer directly. He was watching the approaching boat as it lifted and plunged like a winged fish while it fought around the stern to find shelter beneath Miranda’s lee. He said, “Mr Simcox will remain in Miranda.” He paused as if expecting to be challenged.

  Bolitho said, “I placed you in charge. It must be your decision.”

  Simcox suddenly lurched towards them. “I must protest! I know these waters, and in any case—” Tyacke seized his arm and spun him round. “Do as you’re bloody told, man! I command here! Now attend to that boat!”

  Bolitho could barely see the acting-master in the gloom, but felt his disbelief and hurt as if Tyacke had struck him.

  Tyacke said heavily, “Ben is a fine sailor. If he survives this bloody war, begging your pardon, sir—and I said if —he’ll have a career. Something waiting for him even if they pitch him on the beach with all the others.” He gestured angrily towards the confusion in the waist of the schooner. God damn you, Morgan, catch a turn there, or you’ll stove in the bloody boat!”

  Bolitho had not heard him berate any of his seamen before. He was trying to get it out of himself, to forget what he had said and done to his only friend.

  Figures lurched through the darkness and then Jay, the master’s mate, appeared by the tiller.

  “All prepared, sir! Ready to change crews!” He glanced quickly from Tyacke to Simcox, who was standing by the foremast, then asked, “Ben not ready yet, sir?”