Alexander Kent - The Only Victor

But the whole of the right side of his face had been scored away, left like charred meat, half a face which people turned their heads not to see. How his eye had survived was the real miracle.

He thought of his visit to the flagship. He had not seen the general or even the commodore, just a bored-looking colonel who had been carrying a glass of hock or something cool in one elegant hand. They had not even asked Tyacke to be seated, let alone to take a glass with them.

As he had gone down the great ship's side to his own longboat, that same aide had come dashing after him.

"I say, Lieutenant! Why did you not tell me the news? About Nelson and the victory?"

Tyacke had looked up the ship's curving black and buff hull and had not tried to conceal his contempt.

"'Cause nobody asked me, sir! " God damn their eyes.

Benjamin Simcox, master's mate and acting-master of the schooner Miranda, lurched along the treacherous planking to join him. He was the same age as his captain, a seaman through and through who originally like the schooner, had been in the merchant service. In such a small vessel-she was a bare sixty-five feet long, with a company of thirty-you got to know a man very well. Love or hate and not much in between. With Bob Jay, another master's mate, they ran the schooner to perform at her best. It was a matter of pride.

Usually one of them was on watch, and when Simcox had spent a few watches below with the tall lieutenant he had got to know him well. Now, after three years, they were true friends, their separate ranks only intruding in rare moments of formality. Like Tyacke's visit to the flagship for instance.

Tyacke had looked at him, momentarily forgetting his hideous scars, and had said, "First time I've buckled on a sword for over a year, Ben! " It was good to hear him joke about it. It was rare too.

Did he ever think about the girl in Portsmouth, Simcox wondered? One night in harbour he had been awakened in his tiny cabin by Tyacke's pitiful, dreaming entreaties to the girl who had promised to wait for him, to marry him. Rather than wake the whole ship, Simcox had shaken his shoulder, but had not explained. Tyacke had understood, and had fetched a bottle of brandy which they had taken off a runner. When dawn had broken the bottle had been empty.

Tyacke had not blamed the girl he had known for most of his life. Nobody would want to see his face every morning. But he had been deeply hurt; wounded no less severely than others at the Nile.

Simcox shouted above the din, "Runnin' well! " He jerked a thumb at a slight figure who was clinging to the companion hatch, a lifeline tied around his waist, his breeches and stockings soiled with vomit. "He's not so good, though! "

Mister Midshipman Roger Segrave had been in Miranda since they had taken on stores at Gibraltar. At the request of his captain he had been transferred from a big three-decker to complete his time as midshipman in a vessel where he might learn something more about practical seamanship and self-reliance. It had been said that the midshipman's uncle, an admiral at Plymouth, had arranged the transfer, not merely for the youth's sake but also for the family name. It would not look good to fail the lieutenant's examination, especially in time of war when chances of promotion lay on every hand.

Tyacke had made it clear he disliked the idea. Segrave's presence had upset their tight routine, an intrusion, like an unwanted visitor.

Simcox was one of the old school; the rope's end or a clip round the ear were, in his book, worth far more than lengthy discussions on tradition and discipline.

But he was not a hard man, and tried to explain to the midshipman what he might expect. Lieutenant Tyacke was the only commissioned officer aboard. He could not be expected to live in total isolation in a ninety-two-ton schooner; they were a team. But he knew that Segrave did not really understand. In the teeming world of a ship of the line everything was divided and sub-divided by rank, status and experience. At the top there was the captain, usually so remote he seemed like a god. The rest, though crammed together out of necessity, were totally separated.

Segrave rolled over and leaned back against the hatchway with a deep groan. He was sixteen years old with fair, almost girlish good looks. He had perfect manners, was careful, even shy when dealing with the hands-not like some little monsters Simcox had heard about. And he tried hard at everything but, even Simcox had to agree, with very little success. He was staring up at the sky, seemingly oblivious to the spray which ripped over the deck like pellets, or the filthy state of his clothing.

Lieutenant Tyacke looked at him coldly. "Free yourself and go below, Mr Segrave, and fetch some rum from the clerk. I can't afford to let anyone useful stand-down until I change tack again."

As the youth clambered wretchedly down the ladder, Simcox grinned.

"Bit hard on the lad, James."

Tyacke shrugged. "You think so?" He almost spat. "In a year or two he'll be sending men to the gratings for a striped shirt, just for looking at him! "

The master's mate yelled, "Wind's veered a piece! "

"Bring her up a point. I think this is going to blow over. I want to get the tops'l spread if it does, and run with the wind under our coat-tails."

There was a sound of breaking pottery and someone vomiting from the deck below.

Tyacke murmured, "I swear I shall kill that one."

Simcox asked, "What d'you reckon to ViceAdmiral Bolitho, James?"

The lieutenant gripped the stay again and bent from the waist as the sea boiled over the weather bulwark in a solid flood. Amongst the streaming water and foam he saw his men, like half-naked urchins, nodding and grinning to each other. Making certain that no one had gone over.

He replied, "A good man to all accounts. When I was at the-" He looked away remembering the cheers despite the hell when Bolitho's ship was reported engaging. He changed tack. "I've known plenty who've served with him-there used to be an old fellow who lived in Dover. I used to speak with him when I was a lad, down by, the harbour." He smiled suddenly. "Not far from where they built this schooner, as a matter of fact… He was serving under Richard Bolitho's father when he lost his arm."

Simcox watched his strong profile. If you did not see the other side of his face, he was handsome enough to catch any girl's fancy, he thought.

He said, "You should tell him that, if you meet."

Tyacke wiped the spray from his face and throat. "He's a viceadmiral now."

Simcox smiled but was uneasy. "God, you make him sound like the enemy, James! "

"Do I? Well, there's a thing! " He touched his dripping sleeve. "Now rouse these layabouts and stand by to change tack. We will steer south by east."

Within the hour the squall had fallen away, and with all sails filling well, their dark shadows riding across the waves alongside like huge fins, Miranda responded with her usual disdain.

She had started life as a Dover mail packet, but had been taken by the navy before she had completed more than a few passages. Now at seventeen years, she was one of the many such vessels working under a naval ensign. She was not only a lively sailer; she was a delight to handle because of her simple sail-plan and deep keel. A large mainsail aft, with a forestaysail and jib and the one topsail on her foremast, she could outmanoeuvre almost anything. The deep keel, even when she was closehauled, prevented her from losing leeway like a cutter or something heavier. Armed with only four 4-pounders and some swivels, she was meant for carrying despatches, rather than taking part in any real skirmish.

Smugglers and privateers were one thing; but half a broadside from some enemy frigate would change her from a lean thoroughbred to a total wreck.