The Only Victor Page 8

  Bolitho opened his chart and moved it beneath a swaying deckhead lantern. Even it was not spiralling now so violently. These great sails were like wings; could hold the schooner steady on her deep keel when other vessels would be pitching like corks.

  Bolitho looked at the chart, the hundreds of tiny soundings, bearings and identifying marks. He found that he was rubbing his injured eye, and stopped instantly, as if someone had called aloud to him.

  He could feel sweat on his spine and then knew why Allday had been so insistent about his not boarding Miranda.

  Bolitho shook his head and peered at the chart again. It was no use. It was the cabin. Not so different from the one he had been using in the topsail cutter Supreme. October 1803, when the French had found the little cutter and had fired on her; when Bolitho’s life had changed. One enemy ball had slammed into some buckets of sand and hurled him to the deck.

  It had been noon, but when he had been helped to his feet he had found only darkness. His left eye had plagued him badly since. In his old Hyperion it had almost cost him his life. The damage had been like a sea-mist creeping over the eye, rendering him half-blind. He recalled Catherine’s pleas before he had left Portsmouth in Truculent. Aboard Hyperion, at the height of her last-ever voyage, they had carried an eminent surgeon, Sir Piers Blachford, who with others of his profession had been scattered throughout the embattled squadrons of the fleet to discover at first hand what ship’s surgeons had to contend with in action. As an eventual result of their findings, it was hoped by the College of Surgeons in London that it would not be left to the butchers of the trade to deal with the appalling wounds and amputations which were the price of any battle.

  Blachford, like a tall, reedy heron, had told Bolitho that he would lose the sight of his left eye completely unless he quit the sea for a period of time lengthy enough to afford him the proper examination and perhaps treatment. Even then, he could not be sure . . .

  Bolitho stared at the chart’s wavering coastline and imagined he could feel the old pain deep inside his eye. It was imagination allied to fear. It had to be. He looked desperately around the cabin again. Allday had known. He always did.

  But it was not just a question of duty or arrogance. Bolitho did not have the conceit to pretend it was either. There were so few leaders with the experience, the understanding, that were needed so much now, perhaps even more so than before Trafalgar. With Nelson gone, and the enemy forces on land untouched by the victory and his sacrifice, it was just a matter of time before the next blow fell.

  The door banged open and Tyacke, bent double, thrust himself on to one of the bench seats. He was breathing hard as if he had been personally fighting his enemy, the sea, and his shirt was blotchy with spray. Bolitho noticed that he sat in the opposite corner where his disfigurement was in the deepest shadow.

  Tyacke said, “We’re running due south, Sir Richard. The wind’s veered a place, but that’s all to the good should we want to come about in a hurry.” He glanced at Bolitho. “Are you certain this is what you want to do, sir?”

  Bolitho smiled and gestured to the clothing which hung from the deckhead. His own sea-going coat was no better than Tyacke’s and he had purposely left the epaulettes with Ozzard.

  He said, “I know you cannot always tell the contents of a cask by its label, but at least I would hope that your people will feel more at ease. It was my choice, Mr Tyacke, so do not blame yourself.” He changed the subject. “Is all well with your company?”

  Tyacke’s eyes sharpened as he replied, “I have one matter left to deal with, but it must wait until I can speak to the person involved.” He sounded wary. “It is ship’s business, Sir Richard. Nothing which will impair the needs of this passage.”

  “I am glad to know it.” Bolitho folded the chart, feeling Tyacke watching him. All Miranda’s people were returned on board. But for the midshipman, who had according to Tyacke’s report acted with gallantry to save the master’s mate’s life. Ship’s business, he had said. He smiled briefly. In other words, not mine.

  Tyacke saw the smile and relaxed slightly, his hands hidden beneath the table. It was not easy. For him it was more than an intrusion; it was the deprivation of his freedom to think and act.

  He said, “There will be some food very soon, sir.” He grinned uncomfortably. “I know you told me not to use your title aboard this vessel, but it comes a bit hard.”

  “It should draw us closer.” Bolitho felt his stomach contract. He was hungry, in spite of everything. Perhaps Sir Piers Blachford was wrong. It was not unknown. When he returned to England . . . well, perhaps then he would take Catherine’s advice.

  He recalled one of the transports he had visited while waiting for Miranda’s return from Saldanha Bay. It had been unspeakable; and a miracle some of the soldiers had not died of disease already. The stench had been appalling, more like a farmyard than a vessel in the King’s service. Men, horses, guns and equipment, packed deck upon deck, with less room than a convict ship.

  And so they must wait and endure it, until Sir David Baird’s artillery and foot soldiers fought their way to the gates of Cape Town. But suppose the Dutch were stronger than anyone realised? They might turn the English advance into a rout, in which case there was only Commodore Warren’s small force to land soldiers and marines and harass the enemy from the rear. The wretched men he had seen aboard the transport would be no match for the difficult landing, let alone the fighting expected of them.

  He heard Allday’s deep voice beyond the door and knew he was helping one of Tyacke’s men to fetch a meal for the officers.

  Bolitho said, “With your experience, you should have a larger command.” Again he saw the guard drop in the ruined face. “Your promotion ought to have been immediate.”

  Tyacke’s eyes flashed. “I was offered it, sir. I declined it.” There was something like sad pride in his tone. “Miranda’s enough for me, and nobody can find cause to complain on her performance.”

  Bolitho turned as a seaman bowed through the door with some steaming dishes. A far cry from a ship of the line. From Hyperion.

  The old ship’s name was still hanging in his mind when he saw Allday look at him across the sailor’s stooped shoulders. He murmured, “It is all right, old friend. Believe me.”

  Allday responded with a cautious grin, as if he were only half-convinced.

  The door closed and Tyacke watched covertly as Bolitho cut the greasy pork on his plate as if it were some rare delicacy.

  Simcox kept asking him what Bolitho was like. Really like.

  How could he explain? How might he describe a man who refrained from probing with his questions, when anyone else of his rank and fame would have insisted? Or how could he begin to tell Simcox about the bond between the admiral and his coxswain? Old friend, he had just called him. It was like having a vibrant force in the hull. A new light.

  He thought of Simcox’s earlier remark and smiled to himself. He poured two goblets of madeira and said, “I was just thinking, sir. Some beer would not come amiss, if we could lay hands on some.”

  Bolitho held up the goblet to the lantern, his face serious for a few seconds until he realised that the glass and not his eye had misted over.

  Tyacke, sensing his change of mood, exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, Sir Rich—er— sir!”

  It was the first time Bolitho had seen him in irons.

  “Beer, you say? I will pass the word to the army. It is the very least they can do.” He was still holding the goblet when he asked, “It is Saturday, is it not? So we shall call a toast.”

  Tyacke took up his glass. “Sweethearts and wives, sir?”

  Bolitho touched the locket beneath his shirt and shook his head.

  “To loved ones. May they be patient with us.”

  Tyacke drank the toast but said nothing, as he had no one to care if he lived or died.

  He glanced at Bolitho’s expression and was deeply moved nonetheless. For a moment at least he was with her, no matter the
many miles which held them apart.

  Allday wiped his glittering razor and grunted, “That should do it, Sir Richard. About all the water is fit for in this ship!” He did not conceal his disgust. “It’ll be a fisherman’s dory next at this pace, I’m thinking.”

  Bolitho sighed and slipped into the same crumpled shirt. It was the luxury he missed the most, a clean shirt when he needed it. Like stockings; they seemed to mark his progress from midshipmen’s berth to flag-officer. Even as a lowly lieutenant there had been occasions when he had but two pairs of stockings to his name. But in many ways they had been good times; or maybe they always were, in hindsight—the memories of youth.

  He thought of Tyacke’s brief mention of his midshipman. Something was wrong there. He glanced up at the pale glow in the skylight. Dawn already; he was surprised that he had slept without waking once.

  Allday gestured to the coffee and added, “Barely kills the taste!”

  Bolitho smiled. How Allday could shave him when he could scarcely stand upright beneath the skylight was a marvel. He could never recall him cutting his face once.

  He was right about the coffee. He decided to send a despatch regarding beer for the sweltering ships. It would help until they could take on fresh water.

  Commodore Warren should have made some arrangements. Perhaps he no longer cared? Bolitho pushed the coffee away. Or maybe somebody wanted him out of the way. Like me.

  He heard the sluice of water and the crank of a pump as the hands washed down the deck for a new day. Like everything else in the sixty-five-foot schooner, the sounds were always close, more personal than in any larger craft.

  “I’ll go up.” He rose from the seat and winced as his head glanced off a deckhead beam.

  Allday folded his razor away with great care and muttered, “Bloody little paintpot, that’s all she is!” Then he followed Bolitho up the short companion ladder and into the damp wind.

  Bolitho walked to the compass box. How much steeper the angle of the deck seemed than when he had been below. There appeared to be people everywhere, swabbing down, working in the shrouds, or engaged in the many tasks with running-rigging and coiled halliards.

  Tyacke touched his forehead, “Morning, sir. Steady at sou’east-by-south.” He raised one arm and pointed over the bulwark. “That’s the beginning of the Cape, sir, ’bout four miles abeam.” He smiled, proud of his little ship. “I’d not risk weathering it much closer. You have to be careful not to be deceived by the soundings hereabouts. There’s no bottom according to some charts, but if you glance yonder you’ll see a reef all the same!” It seemed to amuse him. Another challenge perhaps?

  Bolitho turned and saw all the watching eyes drop or return to their various tasks. Like pulling on a line of puppets.

  Tyacke said quietly, “Don’t mind them, sir. The highest ranking officer who came aboard before you, begging your pardon, was the commander in charge of the guard at Gibraltar.”

  Simcox joined them and said, “Sky’s clearin’, sir.” It was a totally unnecessary comment and Bolitho knew that he was like the rest, nervous in his presence.

  “When do you become appointed Master, Mr Simcox?”

  The man shifted his feet. “Not certain, Sir Richard.” He glanced at his friend and Bolitho could guess what was troubling him. Leaving Miranda; taking away Tyacke’s only prop.

  Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the sea changing colour in the faint sunshine. Plenty of birds this morning, messengers from the land. He looked abeam and saw the mass of Table Mountain, and another across the larboard bow still wreathed in mist, with only its high, craggy ridges bathed in gold.

  Simcox cleared his throat. “The wind favours us, Sir Richard, but I’ve known ships caught in a gale to the south’rd o’ this point, blown all the way to Cape Agulhas afore they could fight their way back!”

  Bolitho nodded. Experience? Or was it a warning? Suppose there were men-of-war around the jutting tusk of the Cape? It was unlikely they would wish to reveal themselves for the sake of one frail schooner. But Supreme had been small too when the frigate had run down on her.

  Tyacke lowered his telescope and said, “Call all hands, Ben.” The first name had slipped out by accident. “We will wear ship and steer due east.” He glanced at Bolitho. “Into the lion’s den!”

  Bolitho looked up at the whipping pendant. Yes, Tyacke would miss the acting-master when he was promoted to full warrant rank. He might even see his replacement as another intruder.

  He said, “It is the only way, Mr Tyacke, but I shall not hazard the ship unduly.”

  The seamen ran to the braces and halliards, fingers loosening belaying pins, casting off lines from their cleats with such deft familiarity that they needed no shouts or curses to hasten them. The sky was growing brighter by the minute, and Bolitho felt his stomach muscles tighten when he considered what he must do. He could sense Allday gazing at him while he stood ready to assist the helmsmen if needed.

  It had not just been stockings which had marked Bolitho’s change of fortune. Once he had gained promotion to lieutenant at the tender age of eighteen, he had been freed from the one duty he had feared and hated most. As a lieutenant, no longer did he have to scramble up the treacherous ratlines to his particular station aloft whenever the pipe was shrilled between decks, or while he stood his watch with the others.

  He had never gotten used to it. In all weathers, with the ship hidden below by a drifting mist of spray and spindrift, he had clung to his precarious perch, watching his men, some of whom had been sent aloft for the first time in their lives. He had seen sailors fall to an agonising death on the deck, hurled from rigging and yard by the force of a gale, or by billowing canvas which had refused all efforts to quell it.

  Others had dropped into the sea, to surface perhaps in time to see their ship vanishing into a squall. It was no wonder that young men fled when the press gangs were on the prowl.

  “Stand by aft!” Tyacke wiped the spray from his scarred face with the back of his hand, his eyes everywhere while he studied his men and the set of each sail.

  “Let go an’ haul! Roundly there! Tom, another hand on th’ forebrace!”

  The shadows of the main and staysail seemed to pass right over the busy figures as the long tiller bar went down, the canvas and rigging clattering in protest.

  Bolitho could feel his shoes slipping, and saw the sea creaming under the lee rail as Tyacke brought her round. He saw too the uneven barrier of land stagger across the bowsprit while the schooner continued to swing.

  Allday muttered, “By God, she can turn on a sovereign!” But everyone was too busy, and the noise too overwhelming, to hear what might be admiration instead of scorn.

  “Meet her! Steady as you go! Now, let her fall off a point!”

  The senior helmsman croaked, “Steady she goes, sir! East by north!”

  “Secure!” Tyacke peered up into the glare. “Hands aloft to reef tops’l, Mr Simcox!” A quick grin flashed between them. “With the wind abeam it’ll not do the work intended, and we might lose it.”

  The twin masts swayed almost vertical and then leaned over once more to the wind’s thrust.

  Bolitho said, “A glass, if you please.” He tried not to swallow. “I am going to the foremast to take a look.” He ignored Allday’s unspoken protest. “I imagine that there will not be too many watching eyes this early!”

  Without giving himself time to change his mind he strode forward, and after a quick glance at the surging water leaping up from the stem, he swung himself on to the weather bulwark and dug his hands and feet into the ratlines. Up and up, his steps mounting the shivering and protesting shrouds. Never look down. He had never forgotten that. He heard rather than saw the topmen descending the opposite side, their work done as quickly as thought. What must they think, he wondered? A vice-admiral making an exhibition of himself, for some reason known only to himself . . .

  The masthead lookout had watched him all the way, and as he clambered, gasping, to th
e lower yard he said cheerfully, “Foine day, Zur Richard!”

  Bolitho clung to a stay and waited for his heart to return to normal. Damn the others who had raced him up the shrouds when they had all been reckless midshipmen.

  He turned and stared at the lookout. “You’re a Cornishman.”

  The sailor grinned and bobbed his head. He did not appear to be holding on to anything. “That be roight, zur. From Penzance.”

  Bolitho unslung the telescope from around his shoulders. Two Cornishmen. So strange a meeting-place.

  It took several attempts to train the glass in time with the schooner’s lunges into the offshore breakers. He saw the sharp beak of the headland creeping out towards the weather bow, a tell-tale spurt of spray from the reefs Tyacke had mentioned.

  It was already much warmer; his shirt clung to him like another skin. He could see the crisscross of currents as the sea contested the jutting land before surging, confused and beaten, around it. As it had since time began. From this point and beyond, two great oceans, the Atlantic and the Indian Ocean, met. It was like a giant hinge, a gateway which gave access to India, Ceylon and all the territories of New South Wales. No wonder Cape Town was so valuable, so cherished. It was like Gibraltar at the gates of the Mediterranean: whoever held the Rock also held the key.

  “Ships, zur! Larboard, yonder!”

  Bolitho did not need to ask how he could already see them without the advantage of a telescope. Good lookouts were born, not trained, and he had always respected such sailors. The ones who were first to sight the dreaded breakers ahead when every chart claimed otherwise. Often in time for the captain to bring his ship about and save the lives of all aboard.

  He waited for the glass to steady again and felt his face stiffen.

  Two large ships at anchor; or were they moored fore-and-aft? It would seem so, he thought, to offer greater protection, a defence against a cutting-out attempt, and also to provide a fixed battery of guns to fend off attack.