But there had been no sign of the enemy, and not until three days later had they met up with Zest. Varian had explained that another vessel had been sighted approaching from seaward, and he had given chase, but without success. Bolitho had expected Poland to make some criticism once the frigates had separated again, as it was rumoured there was bad blood between the captains. He had said nothing. Nor, upon reflection, had he seemed surprised.
Bolitho tried not to dwell on Miranda’s loss. Nor on Tyacke’s contained anguish as he had clambered up from the fireship’s boat. The column of black smoke above the anchorage had been visible for many hours, long after Truculent had headed out to the open sea.
The general’s soldiers would see it and take new heart, and the Dutch might realise that there was nothing but their own courage to sustain them. But although he tried, Bolitho could not put the memory from his mind. He must tell himself. It had been a remarkable feat, the success far outweighing the cost. But he could not forget. He had once again allowed himself to get too close. To Simcox, and Jay, even to an unknown Cornish lookout who had come from Penzance.
There was a tap at the door and then Commander Maguire entered the cabin, his hat beneath his arm.
“You sent for me, Sir Richard?” His eyes moved to the open stern windows as more gunfire echoed across the flat blue water.
Bolitho nodded. “Be seated.” He walked past him to the table, each step bringing his body out in a rash of sweat. Just to be in a moving ship again, to feel the wind. Instead of . . . He turned over some papers. “When this campaign comes to a close, Commander Maguire, you will be sailing for England. It is all in your orders. You will place yourself with certain other vessels under the charge of Commodore Popham until that time is suitable.” He saw little response on the man’s lined features. Perhaps, like some others in the squadron, he might be thinking that the fireship and Miranda’s sacrifice would make no difference; that it would drag on into stalemate. There was a thud from the adjoining cabin, then the sounds of a heavy chest being manhandled across the deck. Only then did Bolitho see some expression on Maguire’s face. He had served with Warren for a long time.
On Truculent’s return to the anchorage Bolitho had realised that he would never speak with Warren again. He had apparently died even as Truculent’s topsails had been sighted standing inshore.
Now Warren’s clerk and servant were gathering the last of his belongings for stowage in one of the transports to await passage— where, he wondered? Warren had no home but this ship, no relatives apart from a sister somewhere in England, whom he had rarely seen even on his visits to the country he had seemingly rejected for the West Indies.
Maguire frowned and asked, “What will become of the ship, Sir Richard?”
Bolitho saw Jenour watching them, his eyes fall as their gaze met.
“She will doubtless receive a much needed overhaul and refit.”
“But she’s too old, Sir Richard!”
Bolitho ignored the protest. “Not as old as my flagship.” He did not mean to let it come out so sharply, and saw the other man start. “The war continues, Commander Maguire, and we shall need every ship we can lay hands on. Ships which can stand and fight and still give of their best.” He walked to the stern, and leaned on the heated sill to look down into the clear water as it lifted and gurgled around the rudder. He could see the trailing weed, the copper, which was dull and pitted with constant service. As his Hyperion had once been when he had first taken command, in that other world. Over his shoulder he added bitterly, “We need more than wooden guns in the Channel Fleet too!”
It was a dismissal, and he heard the door close behind him, the sentry’s musket coming down to rest again with a sharp tap.
“I suppose you think that was wrong of me?”
Jenour straightened his back. “There comes a time, sir—”
Bolitho smiled, although he felt drained as well as impatient. “Well, now. What has my sage to tell me?”
Jenour’s open face lit up with a broad grin. Relief, surprise; it was both. “I know I am inexperienced when compared with some, sir.”
Bolitho held up his hand. “A damned sight more experienced than a few I can mention! I was sorry for Warren, but he did not belong here. Like the ship, he had become a relic. That did not count for much once. But this is no game, Stephen, nor was it even when I entered the King’s navy.” He looked at him fondly. “But it took the blade of the guillotine to make some of our betters take heed. This war must be won. We have to care about our people. But there is no longer any stowage-space for sentiment.”
Allday entered by the other door and said, “Some casks of beer have just been brought over, Sir Richard. Seems it was for Miranda’s people.” He watched Bolitho, his eyes troubled. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have said—”
Bolitho loosened his shirt for the thousandth time and shook his head. “I have been bad company since that day, old friend.” He glanced from one to the other. “I will try to make amends, for my own sake as well as yours.”
Allday was still watching him warily, like a rider with an unknown mount. What did he mean, he wondered? Since that day. Miranda, or was he still fretting over his old flagship?
He said, “There’s a pin o’ brandy for yourself, Sir Richard, From th’ General, no less.”
Bolitho looked towards the land, his fingers playing with the locket beneath his damp shirt. “Sir David said as much in his letter to me.” He had a sudden picture of Baird somewhere over there: in his tent, on horseback, or studying the enemy’s positions. Did he ever consider defeat or disgrace? He certainly did not show it.
Of the Dutch defenders he had written, “They will fight on, or they will surrender very soon. There will be no half measures, on either side.” Of the fireship he had said, “Brave men are always missed and then too often forgotten. At least others will not die in vain.” Bolitho could almost hear him saying it, as he had on the shore when he had begged for his assistance. Baird had finished his letter by describing his opponent, the Dutch general Jansens, as a good soldier, and one not given to senseless destruction. Did that mean that he would capitulate rather than see Cape Town brought down in ruins?
Bolitho clutched his arms across his chest as a cold shiver ran through him, despite the scorching air in the cabin.
Warren had gone, but it felt as if he was still here, watching him, hating him for what he was doing with his ship.
Allday asked, “All right, Sir Richard?”
Bolitho crossed to the windows and stood in the sunshine until the heat burned the chill out of his body. For an instant he had imagined it was a warning of the old fever. The one which had all but killed him. He smiled sadly. When Catherine had climbed into his bed without him knowing or remembering a thing about it. Her care, and the warmth of her nakedness, had helped to save him.
Maybe Warren was watching? After all, they had buried him nearby, weighed with shot, down in the depths where even the sharks would not venture. Maguire had used one of the longboats, and the oarsmen had continued to pull until a leadsman had reported “no bottom” on his line.
The marine sentry shouted from beyond the screen, “Officero’-the-Watch, sir!”
The lieutenant seemed to be walking on tiptoe as he entered the presence of the vice-admiral. Bolitho wondered how much more they knew about him now since his arrival among them.
The lieutenant said, “Truculent’s boat has cast off, Sir Richard.”
“Very well, Mr Latham. Please offer Lieutenant Tyacke all respects when he is come aboard the flagship. He was in command, remember.”
The lieutenant almost bowed himself out, his face astonished more by Bolitho’s remembering his name than at his instruction.
Ozzard appeared as if spirited by a genie’s lamp.
“A fresh shirt, Sir Richard?”
Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the boat pulling slowly towards Themis’s side, pinned down in the hazy glare as if it could scarcely make the crossing.
“I think not, Ozzard.” He thought of the schooner’s tiny cabin, where a clean shirt and ample drinking water were both luxuries.
Tyacke would be feeling badly enough as it was. The interview he was about to have with the tall lieutenant was suddenly important. It was not merely something to replace his loss, or to offer him compensation for his terrible wound. It mattered; but until now Bolitho had not really known how much.
He said quietly, “Will you leave me, please?” He watched Yovell gather up his papers, his round features completely absorbed with his inner thoughts. A direct contrast to Allday, and yet . . . Neither would change even at the gates of Heaven.
To Jenour he added, “I would like to dine with Mr Tyacke this evening, and for you to join us.” He saw Jenour’s obvious pleasure and said, “But for this moment it is better without an audience.”
Jenour withdrew and saw a marine guard presenting arms to the man in question as he climbed aboard and raised his hat to the quarterdeck. Half a man, Jenour thought, and now with his dreadful scars turned away he could see what he had once been: perhaps what Bolitho was hoping to restore.
Allday stood his ground as Tyacke walked aft and ducked beneath the poop.
Tyacke halted and said coldly, “All waiting, are they?” He was very much on the defensive. But Allday knew men better than most, sailors more than any. Tyacke was ashamed. Because of his disfigurement; and because he had lost his ship.
He replied, “Be easy with him, sir.” He saw the sudden surprise in Tyacke’s eyes and added, “He still feels the loss of his old ship very badly. Like one o’ the family, personal.”
Tyacke nodded, but said nothing. Allday’s casual confidence had unnerved him, scattered all his carefully prepared thoughts, and what he had been about to say.
Allday walked away and stooped thoughtfully over the pin of brandy which had been sent over by the redcoats. It was strange when you thought about it. Bolitho and Tyacke were very much alike. Had things been different for them they might even have changed roles.
He heard Ozzard right behind him. “You can keep your eyes off that little cask, Mister Allday!” He stood, arms folded, his watery eyes severe. “I know you when you get your hooks on some brandy.”
The guns ashore fired a long, unbroken salvo, like thunder echoing around those sombre, alien hills.
Allday put his hand on the little man’s shoulder. “Listen to ’em, matey. Don’t even know what they’re fighting about!”
Ozzard smiled wryly. “Not like us, eh? Heart of Oak!”
He began to roll the brandy towards the poop’s deeper shadow and Allday gave a sigh. A nice “wet” of brandy would have made a change.
They both made a point of not looking towards the great cabin where Warren had died, and another was about to be given a chance to live.
Tyacke waited while the sentry called out his name, his eyes averted from the lieutenant’s face.
He pushed open the door and saw Bolitho by the open stern windows. The cabin was otherwise empty. His eyes moved quickly around it, recalling the few times he had been there. As before, he noticed its total lack of personality. Impossible to judge its previous occupant, although he had lived here for such a long time. Perhaps Warren had had nothing to offer it? He tried not to think of all the clutter, the sense of belonging in Miranda’s tiny, cramped quarters. It was gone. He had to remember that.
“Please sit down.” Bolitho gestured to a small table with some wine and two glasses. “It is good of you to come.”
Tyacke straightened his borrowed coat, giving himself time to gather his wits.
“I must apologise for my rig, Sir Richard. Truculent’s ward-room had a collection for me, you see?”
Bolitho nodded. “I do see. All your things rest on the seabed. Like many of my most valued possessions.” He moved to the table and poured two glasses of the hock Ozzard had discovered somewhere. “I am unused to this vessel, Mr Tyacke.” He paused with the bottle in mid-air, his eyes towards the windows as the air quivered to the distant cannon fire. “I suppose that is the span between us and the military. Sailors are like turtles, in a way. We carry our homes around with us. They become personal to us; in some ways too much so. Whereas the poor soldier sees only the land in front of him.” He smiled suddenly over the rim of his glass. “And to think I was lecturing my flag lieutenant on the folly of sentiment!”
He sat down opposite Tyacke and stretched out his legs. “Now tell me about the men who were with you. That marine, for instance—has he repented of being a volunteer?”
Tyacke found himself describing the long and difficult process of beating back and forth against the wind to get closer to the merchantmen. Of Buller’s insolence, and his superb marksman-ship. Of the deserter Swayne, and the midshipman who had somehow found courage when he needed it most. Shadowy figures became real as he told of their courage and their fear.
Bolitho refilled the glasses and doubted if either of them had noticed what they were drinking.
“You gave that boy courage—you know that, don’t you?”
Tyacke answered simply, “But for him I wouldn’t be here.”
Bolitho eyed him gravely. “That was then. This is now. I would wish you to sup with me this evening. No talk of war— we shall let it take us where it fancies. I have enough burdens of my own. It would ease the load if I knew I was to achieve something personal before I leave this place.”
Tyacke thought he had misheard. Sup with the vice-admiral? This was not a lowly schooner, and Sir Richard Bolitho was no longer a tolerant passenger.
He heard himself ask, “What is it, Sir Richard? If there is something I can do, you have but to ask. I may have been changed by events; my respect and loyalty to you have not. And I am not a man to offer false praise to gain favour, sir.”
“Believe me, I do know what you went through; what you are enduring now. We are both sea-officers. Rank divides us, but we still curse and rave at the incompetence of others, those who care nothing for Poor Jack, until they are in risk and danger themselves.” He leaned forward, his voice so quiet that it was almost lost in the gentle ship noises around them. “My late father once said something to me, when I was younger than you are now, at a time when all things seemed set against us. He said, ‘England needs all her sons now.’”
Tyacke listened, all resentment and despair held at bay, almost fearful of missing something of this reserved, compelling man who could have been his brother, and not an envied flag-officer.
Bolitho’s eyes were far away. “Trafalgar has not changed that. We need fine ships to replace our losses and old veterans like this one. But most of all we need officers and seamen of courage and experience. Like yourself.”
“You want me to forget Miranda, Sir Richard. To become a serving lieutenant again.” Tyacke’s expression had changed. He looked trapped, even afraid. “For if so—”
Bolitho said, “Do you know the brig Larne, Mr Tyacke?” He watched the man’s quiet desperation, his obvious inner struggle. “She is with Commodore Popham’s squadron at present.”
Tyacke said, “Commander Blackmore. I have seen her on occasion.” He sounded mystified.
Bolitho reached over and picked up a piece of Yovell’s hard work. “Blackmore is fortunate. He is promoted to command a sixth-rate. I want you to take her.”
Tyacke stared at him. “But I cannot—I do not have—”
Bolitho handed him the envelope. “Here is the commission to take her in your charge. It will be confirmed at Their Lordships’ leisure, but you are herewith promoted to the rank of commander.” He forced a smile to cover Tyacke’s confusion and undisguised emotion. “I will see what my aide can do about obtaining some more suitable uniform for you without delay!”
He waited, pouring more wine, then asked, “Will you do this—for me, if for no other reason?”
Tyacke got to his feet without knowing it. “I will, Sir Richard, and I’d ask no better reason than that!”
Boli
tho stood up, very alert. “Listen.”
“What is it, Sir Richard?”
Before he turned away Tyacke saw the emotion clearly in Bolitho’s eyes, as clearly as he himself had betrayed his own seconds earlier.
Bolitho said softly, “The guns. They’re silent now.” He faced him and added, “It means, Commander Tyacke, that it’s over. The enemy have struck to us.”
There was a brief knock at the door, and Jenour almost burst into the cabin. “I have just heard, Sir Richard!”
His admiral smiled at him. It was a moment Jenour was to remember for a long while afterwards.
Then Bolitho said, “Now we can go home.”
Captain Daniel Poland stood, arms folded, and watched the throng of bare-backed seamen hurrying to their stations. From the capstan came the scrape of a fiddle accompanied by Truculent’s shantyman, an old sailor with a surprisingly carrying voice.
“When we did bang the damned mounseer,
You gave us beef an’ beer,
Now we ’ave naught to eat an’ drink,
For you ’ave naught to fear!”
A boatswain’s mate bellowed in each interval, “Heave! Heave! Put yer bloody backs into it if you wants to see old England again!”
The first lieutenant gave a discreet cough. “The admiral, sir.”
Poland glanced away from the busy figures on deck and aloft on the yards.
“Thank you, Mr Williams, but we have nothing to hide.”
He touched his hat as Bolitho walked beneath the driver-boom, his face and chest like beaten copper in the dying sunlight.
“We are ready to proceed, Sir Richard.”
Bolitho was listening to the fiddle and the sing-song voice of the shantyman. For you have naught to fear. A song which went back a long, long way with slight variations to suit the campaign or the war. Bolitho recalled his own father talking about it when he had described the battle of Quiberon Bay. The sailor’s despair of those he fought and died for only too often.
The Only Victor Page 13