The Only Victor Page 6

She had hugged him, and then held him at arm’s length. She had sounded hurt. “After all the Admiral has done for you and the family—” It was strange, but Segrave could never recall his uncle being called by name. He was always the Admiral.

  “Be brave, Roger. Make us proud of you!”

  He tensed as the captain turned aft towards him. If only his face were not like that. Segrave was not too immature not to know how Tyacke must hate and loathe his own appearance. And yet he could not stop himself from staring at his disfigurement, even when he was trying to prevent himself from doing so.

  If he passed his examination . . . Segrave ducked as a curtain of spray soaked into him again. If —he would be appointed as a lieutenant, the first real step, to share a wardroom with other officers who would see him as the weak link, a danger whenever they were called to action.

  But suppose—he found he was clenching his fists until they ached—he ended up with a terrible wound like Tyacke? He felt the bile in his throat, choking him.

  Simcox slapped him on the shoulder. “Let her fall off a point. Steer sou’-sou’-west.” He watched as Segrave relayed his order to the helmsman, but saw the senior hand at the tiller glance at him, not the boy, to make certain it was correct.

  “Deck thar! She’s standin’ away, sir, an’ makin’ more sail!”

  Tyacke tucked his thumbs into his belt. “So he wants to play games, does he?” He cupped his hands and called, “Would you take a glass aloft, Mr Jay?” As the master’s mate hurried to the shrouds he said, “Hands aloft, and loose tops’l, Ben!” He gave a rare grin. “I’ll wager he’ll not outreach Miranda!”

  Then he appeared to notice the midshipman for the first time. “Go with him and learn something!” He dismissed him immediately as the topsail suddenly boomed out from its yard and then hardened like a breastplate.

  Simcox eyed the set of the sails. “We must catch him afore dusk. Sir Richard Bolitho’ll not thank us for keepin’ him waiting!”

  Segrave finally reached the top of the quivering ratlines and joined the master’s mate by the foot of the fidded topmast. Heights did not trouble him, and he gazed across the endless dark blue desert with its ranks of yellow-crested waves. The ship was momentarily forgotten; he stared wide-eyed at the spray as it drifted up from the plunging stem, felt the mast shaking and jerking, every brace and shroud catching the wind in a wild chorus which drowned out the men on the deck far below.

  “Take a look.” Jay handed him the telescope before bellowing to the deck, “Schooner, sir! Flies no flag!”

  Tyacke’s voice carried effortlessly from aft. “She running?”

  “Aye, sir!”

  They heard the squeal of a block, and seconds later a huge White Ensign floated from Miranda’s gaff.

  Jay chuckled. “That’ll show the buggers!”

  But Segrave was peering at the other vessel as she heeled over to an angle that matched Miranda’s. The vessel seemed to leap out of the distance so that he could see the patched and dirty sails, even some loose trailing cordage awaiting repair, Irish pendants as he had heard the old sailors call them. The hull was originally black but was scored, and in places worn bare by wind and weather. It would not be tolerated in a King’s ship, no matter how hard she was worked.

  “What d’you think, Mr Jay?”

  The man looked at him before raising the glass again. “At a guess she’s a bloody blackbirder.” He saw the uncertainty on the youth’s face. “Slaver, lad.”

  Segrave looked away and did not see the other man’s pitying stare. “Will we catch her?”

  Jay was watching the other vessel with professional interest. “We’ll catch the bastard right enough.”

  There was a hail from the deck. “Clear for action! Mr Archer, lay aft if you please!”

  Archer was the gunner, so there could be little doubt about it now.

  Tyacke’s voice seemed to be right beside him.

  “Mr Segrave! Down here at the double!”

  Jay watched him clambering down the ratlines, his fair hair rippling in the wind.

  There was nothing to dislike about the midshipman, but Jay knew the dangers. In small ships like Miranda it was one hand for the King, t’other for yourself. There was no room for passengers and mother’s boys.

  Simcox faced Segrave as he reached the bulwark. “Keep with Mr Archer. He will personally lay and point a four-pounder. You will do well to watch him!”

  The tub-like boatswain grinned and showed him broken teeth.

  “I knowed Elias Archer knock an apple off a tree at a ’undred paces!”

  The other man who waited by halliards and braces grinned as if it was a huge joke.

  Segrave saw Tyacke turn to speak with the helmsmen. In the sun’s angry glare his face looked as if it had just been clawed away. Then he followed the gunner to the foremost starboard side port and tried not to think about it. He felt like running below to hide, anything but being made to bare his fear before the others.

  Elias Archer, Miranda’s master gunner, was a grizzled little man and stood effortlessly on the pitching foredeck, his arms folded while he waited for his men to clear away the four-pounder nearest to the bows.

  “Done much of this, ’ave yer?” He glanced briefly at the midshipman, then returned his gaze to the other vessel. She was larger than Miranda, and might yet outsail them until nightfall made a further chase impossible.

  Segrave shook his head. His body was like ice in spite of the sun’s high glare across his neck and shoulders; and each time the schooner dipped her stem the bursting spray made him shiver uncontrollably.

  He replied, “Not like this. My last ship engaged a French two-decker, but she ran aground and caught fire before we could take her.”

  “This is different.” Archer took a shining black ball from the shot garland and felt it in his hard palms. “Ships like this ’un ’ave to be quick an’ nimble. But without the likes o’ us the fleet would be all aback fer news, an’ without that even Our Nel couldn’t move.” He nodded to one of his crew. “Right, Mason, open the port.”

  Segrave watched as other men ran to the halliards and braces and the deck canted over again. The other schooner must have headed away a point or so, but it was hard to tell from where they stood now, here in the eyes of the ship.

  Archer leaned over to supervise as the charge was carefully tamped home. He said, “Some ’otheads double-shot their guns. But not me. Not in a little piece like this ’un.”

  Segrave heard the captain call, “Signal that bastard to heave-to!”

  Archer chuckled, “’E won’t take no notice!”

  Segrave was puzzled. “Maybe he cannot read our signals?”

  A seaman with the rammer grinned and pointed at the gun. “He’ll understand this, right enough.”

  The other schooner was showing her bilge as she heeled over to the press of canvas. There were several heads above her bulwark, but there was no response to the signal.

  Lieutenant Tyacke shouted, “Load and run out!”

  The shot was thrust down the muzzle with a wad to keep it secure. Then, with the hands hauling on the tackles, the little gun was run up to the open port.

  Archer explained, “Y’see, my lad, that bugger yonder has the wind-gage, but it will help us to put a shot down where we wants it.”

  Jay, the forgotten master’s mate, called from the foremast: “They’ve just pitched a corpse over the side, sir! There goes another!”

  Tyacke lowered his telescope, his eyes hard. “That last one was still alive, Mr Simcox.” The sudden formality seemed to add menace to the moment.

  “Beyond her if you can, Mr Archer!”

  Archer was crouching like an athlete, the trigger-line pulled taut as he peered over the barrel.

  He jerked the line and the gun hurtled inboard on its tackles, smoke fanning through the port even as they began to sponge out for the next shot.

  Segrave saw a sudden confusion of spray to starboard and for an instant thought that Archer
’s aim had failed him. But the ball hit the water just a few yards from the schooner’s lee bow and ricocheted across the waves like a jubilant dolphin. Segrave pointed at the other disturbance which was already settling again.

  “What’s that?”

  Sperry the boatswain, who had sauntered forward to watch, said harshly, “Sharks.”

  Segrave felt the nausea returning. Those two unknown people had been cast outboard like so much rubbish; torn to pieces while he had watched.

  “Bosun! Stand by to sway out the boat!”

  Segrave raised his eyes again. The other vessel was heaving-to, her patched sails in wild confusion as she rounded-up into the wind.

  Segrave had the feeling that Miranda’s people were used to this kind of thing. The arms chest was already on deck and open, and Jay came slithering down a back stay with a grunt, his hands already reaching for a hanger while someone passed him his pistol.

  Tyacke was saying, “I shall stand off. Board the schooner and search her. Don’t take any insolence from any of them. You know what to do.”

  Simcox beckoned to the midshipman. “You go with Mr Jay, lad. If that bastard is full of slaves we’ll have to release him. There’s no law against blackbirdin’, not yet anyways, an’ we’d get precious few thanks from the commodore if we return to th’ squadron with a load o’ slaves. Me, I’d hang the bastards an’ to hell with the law an’ th’ right o’ it!”

  Tyacke crossed the deck. “Help Mr Jay all you can. Arm yourself—they’re as treacherous as snakes.”

  Small though she was, Miranda appeared to tower over them as they tumbled into the longboat and cast off.

  “Give way all!” Jay grasped the tiller bar and watched narrowly as the men pulled strongly towards the other schooner.

  Sperry was in the boat too, a boarding axe and a heavy cutlass in his belt.

  “No slaves,” he said.

  Jay asked, “How so, George?”

  “No bloody stench, is there? An’ us downwind of ’em an’ all!”

  Segrave gritted his teeth and gripped the bulwark with all his strength. It was another nightmare. He saw a sudden picture of his mother when she had told them about their father’s death. How would she feel about him? Proud? Moist-eyed that her only son had died in battle? He stared wildly at the other vessel, stared until his eyes watered and smarted. Damn them all.

  Jay cupped his hands. “We’re comin’ aboard! In th’ King’s name!”

  Sperry bared his teeth and loosened the axe in his belt.

  “Oh, that was prettily said, Bob!”

  They grinned fiercely at each other while Segrave could only stare at them. At any second they might be fired on; he had heard it said that slavers were often well armed.

  Jay was suddenly serious. “The usual, lads. Take over the helm, an’ disarm the crew.” He glanced at Segrave. “You stick with me, lad. Nowt to it!”

  A grapnel flew over the schooner’s bulwark and the next second they were clambering aboard, the sea-noises fading slightly as they found themselves on the deck. Segrave stayed close to the master’s mate. When he looked at his companions he was not surprised that this vessel had failed to stop. Miranda’s White Ensign was genuine but the little boarding party looked more like ragged pirates than the King’s seamen.

  Jay beckoned to a man in dirty white breeches and a contrasting ruffled silk shirt.

  “You th’ Master?”

  Segrave looked at the others. A mixture. The sweepings of the gutter.

  “An’ wot do we ’ave ’ere?” The boatswain’s thick arm shot out and dragged one of the crew away from the others. With surprising speed for such a squat man, Sperry ripped off the sailor’s shirt, then swung him round so that Jay could see the tattoos on his skin. Crossed flags and cannon, and a ship’s name: Donegal.

  Jay rasped, “A deserter, eh? Looks like the end o’ th’ roamin’ life for you!”

  The man cringed. “For Gawd’s sake ’ave some pity. I’m just a poor Jack like yerselves!”

  Sperry shook him gently. “An’ soon you’ll be a poor dead Jack, dancin’ at the yardarm, you bastard!”

  Segrave had never even tried to understand it. How men who had been taken by the press gangs as some of Miranda’s had, were always outraged by those who had run.

  The one who was obviously the master shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

  Jay sighed. “Don’t speak no English.” His eyes gleamed and he pointed at the deserter with his hanger.

  “You’ll do! You ’elp us an’ we’ll see you escapes the rope, eh?”

  The sailor’s gratitude was pathetic to see. He fell on his knees and sobbed, “I only done one passage in ’er, ’onest, sir!”

  “Wot about the two ‘burials’?” The point of the hanger lifted suddenly until it rested on the man’s throat. “An’ don’t lie, or you’ll be joinin’ them!”

  “The master put ’em over, sir!” He was babbling with fear and relief. “They’d been fighting, and one stabbed t’other.” He dropped his eyes. “The master was goin’ to get rid of ’em anyway. They weren’t strong enough for ’ard work.”

  Segrave watched the man in the frilled shirt. He seemed calm, indifferent even. They could not hold him, although he had murdered two slaves who were no longer of any use.

  Jay snapped, “Take charge of the deck, George.” He beckoned to a seaman. “We’ll go below.” He added, “You too, Mr Segrave!”

  It was even filthier between decks, the whole hull creaking and pitching while the sailors, holding lanterns like tin-miners, crept amongst the evidence of the schooner’s trade. Ranks of manacles and leg-irons lined and crisscrossed the main hold, with chains to keep each batch of slaves from moving more than a few feet. And this for a voyage across an ocean, to the Indies or the Spanish Main.

  Jay muttered, “That’s why they only takes the fit ones. T’others would never last the passage.” He spat. “Lyin’ in their own filth for weeks on end. Don’t bear thinkin’ about.” He shrugged. “Still, I suppose it’s a livin’, like everythin’ else.”

  Segrave wanted to be sick, but he controlled it and asked timidly, “That deserter—will he really be pardoned?”

  Jay paused and glanced at him. “Yes, if he’s any use to us. Pardoned the rope anyway. He’ll likely get two hundred strokes of the cat, just to remind him of ’is loyalties in the future!”

  The young seaman named Dwyer said softly, “What’s abaft this lot, Mr Jay?”

  Jay forgot Segrave and turned swiftly. “Th’ cabins. Why?”

  “I heard something, or someone more like.”

  “God’s teeth!” Jay drew his pistol and cocked it. “Might be some bastard with a slow-match ready to blow us all to hell! Use yer shoulder, Dwyer!”

  The young seaman hurled himself against one of the doors and it burst open, smashed from its hinges by the blow.

  The hutchlike cabin was in darkness but for a patch of sunshine which could barely penetrate the filthy glass of a skylight.

  On a littered and stained bunk was a young black woman. She was sitting half-upright, propped on her elbows, her lower limbs covered by a soiled sheet. She was otherwise quite naked. There was no fear, not even surprise, but when she tried to move a chain around her ankle restricted her.

  Jay said quietly, “Well, well. Does himself very nicely, does the master!”

  He led the way on deck again and shaded his eyes in the glare as Miranda changed tack and drew closer to the drifting vessel, which was apparently named Albacora.

  Tyacke’s voice, unreal in a speaking-trumpet, reached them easily. “What is she?”

  Jay cupped his hands, “Slaver, sir. No cargo but for one. We’ve a deserter on board as well.”

  Segrave saw the man bobbing and smiling wretchedly in the background as if Tyacke could see him. But he kept thinking of the black girl. Chained there like a wild animal for the slaver’s pleasure. She had a lovely body, despite . . .

  Tyacke called over, “Where boun
d?”

  Jay held up the chart. “Madagascar, sir.”

  A seaman near Segrave murmured, “We’ll have to let ’er go.” He glared around the filthy deck. “She hain’t much but she’d fetch a few shillin’s in the prize court!” His mate nodded in agreement.

  Tyacke’s voice betrayed no emotion. “Very well, Mr Jay. Return on board and bring the deserter with you.”

  The man in question shouted, “No! No!” The boatswain cuffed him around the ear and sent him sprawling, but he crawled across the deck and clawed at Jay’s shoes like a crippled beggar.

  He shouted again, “He took the chart below when you was sighted, sir! I seen him do it afore. He puts a different one for all to see.”

  Jay kicked his hands away. “Now, why didn’t I think of that?” He touched Segrave’s arm. “Come with me.”

  They returned to the cabin where the girl still lay propped on her elbows, as if she had not moved.

  They searched through the litter of books and charts, discarded clothing and weapons, Jay becoming clumsier by the moment, well aware of Tyacke’s impatience to get under way again.

  Jay said desperately, “ ’S no use. I can’t find it, an’ that bugger don’t speak English.” He sounded angry. “I’ll lay odds that the deserter is lyin’ to save ’is own skin. He’ll ’ave no skin left when I’ve done with ’im!”

  There was a looking-glass leaning against a case of paired pistols. Jay picked it up and searched behind it as a last hope.

  “Not a god-damned thing!” He tossed the glass on the table and Segrave snatched it as it slithered towards the deck. As he did so he caught the merest glimpse of the girl behind him, now turned slightly to watch, her breasts shining in the filtered sunlight.

  He exclaimed, “She’s lying on something, Mr Jay!”

  Jay stared from him to her with stunned amazement. “By the livin’ Jesus!” He sprang across the cabin and seized the girl’s naked shoulder to push her across the bunk.

  But her body, slippery with sweat, escaped his grasp, and she moved like lightning, a knife appearing in her left hand even as Segrave ran to Jay’s assistance.

  Jay went sprawling from the impetus of his charge across the cabin and as he pitched to the deck he saw Segrave fall over the girl, and heard his sharp cry of agony.