The Only Victor

by Alexander Kent

  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.

  Bolitho said, “It will be summer in England, Stephen. How quickly the months go past.”

  Jenour turned, his profile in dark shadow, as if, like Tyacke, he had only half a face. “A year for victory, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho touched his arm. The hopes of youth knew no bounds. “I am past believing in miracles!”

  “Anchor’s aweigh, sir!”

  Bolitho gripped the nettings. The ship seemed to rear away as the anchor was hauled up and secured at the cathead. Even that seemed to symbolise the difference he had felt here. When they anchored once more in England, in another hemisphere, they would drop the one on the opposite side.

  Truculent came about, canvas banging in confusion, shadowy figures dashing everywhere to bring her under control. Hull, the sailing master, shouted, “Steady there! Hold her!”

  Bolitho watched him and his helmsmen as they clung on the double spokes, their eyes gleaming in the disappearing sun. He thought of Simcox, who would have been like Hull one day. He had wanted it more than anything. But not enough to leave his friend when his life was threatened.

  He said, “Fate is fate.”

  Jenour looked at him. “Sir?”

  “Thoughts, Stephen. Just thoughts.”

  The topsails hardened to the wind and the deck seemed to hold steady as Truculent pointed her bows towards the headland and the empty, coppery wastes beyond.

  “West-sou’-west, sir! Full an’ bye!”

  Poland’s mouth was set in a tight line. “Bring her up a point. As close as she’ll bear.” He waited for the first lieutenant to come aft again. “Get the courses and royals on her as soon as we are clear, Mr Williams.” He glanced quickly at Bolitho’s figure by the nettings. “No mistakes.”

  Bolitho remained on deck until the land and the sheltering ships were lost in the swift darkness. He waited until the world had shrunk to the leaping spray and trailing phosphorescence, when the sky was so dark there was no margin between it and the ocean. Only then did he go below, where Ozzard was bustling about, preparing a late meal.

  Bolitho walked to the stern windows, which were smeared with salt and dappled in spray, and thought of his years as a frigate captain. Leaving port had always been exciting, a kind of rare freedom. It was a pity that Poland did not see it like that. Or perhaps he was merely counting the days until he could rid himself of his responsibility—looking after a vice-admiral.

  He glanced up as feet thudded across the deck, and voices echoed through the wind and the din of sails and rigging. It never changed, he thought, even after all the years. He still felt he should be up there, making decisions, taking charge of the ship and using her skills to the full. He gave a grim smile. No, he would never get used to it.

  In the adjoining sleeping-cabin, he sat down by his open chest and stared at h
imself in the attached looking-glass.

  Everyone imagined him to be younger than he really was. But what would she think as the years passed? He thought suddenly of the young officers who were probably sitting down to enjoy their first meal out of harbour, sharing their table with Jenour and probably trying to pry out the truth of the man he served. It might make a change from all the plentiful rumours, he thought. He stared at his reflection, his eyes pitiless, as if he were inspecting one of his own subordinates.

  He was forty-nine years old. The rest was flattery. This was the bitter truth. Catherine was a lovely, passionate woman, one whom any man would fight and die for, if indeed he was a man. She would turn every head, be it at Court or in a street. There were some who might chance their hand now that they knew something of their love, their affair as many would term it.

  Bolitho pushed the white lock of hair from his forehead, hating it; knowing he was being stupid, with no more sense than a heartsick midshipman.

  I am jealous, and I do not want to lose her love. Because it is my life. Without her, I am nothing.

  He saw Allday looking in. He said, “Shall Ozzard pour the wine, Sir Richard?” He saw the expression on Bolitho’s face and thought he knew why he was troubled. Leaving her had been bad. Returning might be harder for him, with all his doubts.

  “I am not hungry.” He heard the sea roar alongside the hull like something wilful, and knew that the ship was ploughing into the ocean, away from the land’s last protection.

  If only they could move faster, and cut away the leagues.

  Allday said, “You’ve done a lot, Sir Richard. Not spared yourself a moment since we made our landfall. You’ll feel your old self tomorrow, you’ll see.”

  Bolitho watched his face in the glass. I never give him any peace.

  Allday tried again. “It’s a nice plate o’ pork in proper bread-crumbs, just as you like it. Not get anything as good after a few weeks of this lot!”

  Bolitho turned on the chair and said, “I want you to cut my hair tomorrow.” When Allday said nothing, he added angrily, “I suppose you think that’s idiotic!”

  Allday replied diplomatically, “Well, Sir Richard, I sees that most o’ the wardroom bloods affects the newer fashion these days.” He shook his pigtail and added reproachfully, “Don’t see it signifies meself.”

  “Can you do it?”

  A slow grin spread across Allday’s weathered face. “Course I will, Sir Richard.”

  Then the true importance of the request hit him like a block. “Can I say me piece, Sir Richard?”

  “Have I ever prevented you?”

  Allday shrugged. “Well, not hardly ever. That is, not often.”

  “Go on, you damned rascal!”

  Allday let out his breath. That was more like it. The old gleam in those sea-grey eyes. The friend, not just the admiral.

  “I saw what you done for Mr Tyacke—”

  Bolitho snapped, “What anyone would have done!”

  Allday stood firm. “No, they wouldn’t lift a finger, an’ you knows it, beggin’ your pardon.”

  They glared at each other like antagonists until Bolitho said, “Well, spit it out.”

  Allday continued, “I just think it’s right an’ proper that you gets some o’ the cream for yourself, an’ that’s no error neither!” He grimaced and put his hand to his chest and saw Bolitho’s instant concern. “See, Sir Richard, you’re doing it this minute! Thinking o’ me, of anyone but yourself.”

  Ozzard made a polite clatter with some crockery in the great cabin and Allday concluded firmly, “That lady would worship you even if you looked like poor Mr Tyacke.”

  Bolitho stood up and brushed past him. “Perhaps I shall eat after all.” He looked from him to Ozzard. “It seems I shall get no rest otherwise.” As Ozzard bent to pour some wine Bolitho added, “Open the General’s brandy directly.” To Allday he said, “Baird was right about you. We could indeed use a few thousand more like you!”

  Ozzard laid the wine in a cooler and thought sadly of the splendid cabinet she had given him, which lay somewhere on the sea-bed in the shattered wreck of the Hyperion. He had seen the glance which passed between Bolitho and his rugged coxswain. A bond. Unbreakable to the end.

  Bolitho said, “Take some brandy, Allday, and be off with you.”

  Allday turned by the screen door and peered aft as Bolitho seated himself at the table. So many, many times he had stood behind him in countless different gigs and barges. Always the black hair tied at the nape of his neck above his collar. With death and danger all around, and in times of rejoicing it had always been there.

  He closed the door behind and gave the motionless sentry a wink. Whatever the rights and wrongs of it, no matter how they sorted it out with so many set against them, Bolitho and his lady would come through it. He smiled to himself, remembering when she had taken the time to speak with him. A real sailor’s woman.

  And God help anyone who tried to come between them.

  In the days and the weeks which followed, while Truculent battled her way north-west towards the Cape Verde Islands, against perverse changes of wind which seemed intent only on delaying her passage, Bolitho withdrew into himself, even more than when outward bound.

  Allday knew it was because he had nothing to plan or prepare this time, not even the affairs of the ship to divert his attention. Jenour too had seen the change in him when he had taken his daily walks on deck; surrounded by Truculent’s people and the busy routine found in any man-of-war, and yet so completely alone.

  Each time he came on deck he examined the chart or watched the master instructing the midshipmen with the noon sights. Poland probably resented it, and took Bolitho’s regular examinations of the calculations and knots-made-good as unspoken criticism.

  Bolitho had even turned on Jenour over some trivial matter, and just as quickly had apologised. Had stared at the empty sea and said, “This waiting is destroying me, Stephen!”

  Now he was fast asleep in his cot after being awake half the night, tormented by dreams which had left him shaking uncontrollably.

  Catherine watching him with her lovely eyes, then laughing while another took her away without even a struggle. Catherine, soft and pliable in his hands, then far beyond his reach as he awoke calling her name.

  Seven weeks and two days exactly since Bolitho had seen Table Mountain swallowed up in darkness. He rolled over gasping, his mouth dry as he tried to remember his last dream.

  With a start he realised that Allday was crouching by his cot, his figure in shadow as he held out a steaming mug. Bolitho’s mind reeled, and all his old senses and reactions put an edge to his voice. “What is it, man?” With something like terror he clapped his hand to his face, but Allday murmured, “’Tis all right, Sir Richard, your eye ain’t playin’ tricks.” He stumbled from the cot and followed Allday into the stern cabin, the mug of coffee untouched.

  If the ship seemed to be in darkness, beyond the stern windows the sea’s face was already pale and hard, like polished pewter.

  Allday guided him to the quarter window and said, “I know it’s a mite early, Sir Richard. The morning watch is just on deck.”

  Bolitho stared until his eyes stung. He heard Allday say harshly, “I thought you’d want to be called, no matter the hour.”

  There was no burning sunshine or brilliant dawn here. He wiped the thick, salt-stained glass with his sleeve and saw the first spur of land as it crept through the misty greyness. Leaping waves like wild spectres, their roar lost in far distance.

  “You recognise it, old friend?” He sensed that Allday had nodded but he said nothing. Maybe he could not.

  Bolitho exclaimed, “The Lizard. A landfall—and surely there could be none better!”

  He rose from the bench seat and stared around the shadows. “Though we shall stand too far out to see it, we will be abeam of Falmouth at eight bells.”

  Allday watched him as he strode about the cabin, the coffee spilling unheeded on the ch
eckered deck covering. He was glad now that he had awakened to hear the lookout calling to the quarterdeck, “Land on the lee bow!”

  The Lizard. Not just any landfall but the coast of Cornwall.

  Bolitho did not see the relief and the pleasure in Allday’s eyes. It was like a cloud being driven away. The threat of a storm giving way to hope. She would be in their room at this very moment, and would not know how close he was.

  Allday picked up the mug and grinned. “I’ll fetch some fresh.”

  He might as well have said nothing. Bolitho had taken out the locket she had given him, and was staring at it intently as the grey light penetrated the cabin.

  Allday opened the door of the little storeroom. Ozzard was curled up asleep in one corner. With elaborate care he lifted one of Ozzard’s outflung arms off the brandy cask and gently turned the tap over the mug.

  Home again. He held the mug to his lips even as the calls trilled to rouse the hands for the new, but different, day.

  And not a moment too soon, matey!

  8 FULL MOON

  BRYAN FERGUSON dabbed his face with his handkerchief while he leaned against the stile to regain his breath. The wind off the sea was no match for the sun which burned down directly across the grey bulk of Pendennis Castle, and threw back such a glare from the water it was not possible to look at it for long.

  It was a view he never got tired of. He smiled to himself. He had been steward of Bolitho’s estate for over twenty years now. Sometimes it did not seem possible. The Bolitho house was behind him, down the sloping hillside where the fields were banked with wild flowers, while the long grass waved in the breeze like waves on water.

  He squinted into the sunlight and stared towards the narrow winding path which led up and around the cliff. He saw her standing where the path turned and was lost around the bend— a treacherous place in the dark, or at any time if you did not take heed. If you fell to the rocks below there was no second chance.