Alexander Kent - The Only Victor

Bolitho massaged his forehead. It was a code, and he was surprised that even the quick-witted Jenour had missed a vital clue.

It fell to Yovell, who had been peering at his papers, his fat fingers holding his spectacles in place, to discover it.

He exclaimed, "The battle off Cape Trafalgar, Sir Richard! The sender mentions it to his friend! "

Bolitho saw their expressions begin to change. "Quite what you would expect, eh? Except that Truculent made a record passage here from England, before anyone in this squadron knew about the battle and Lord Nelson's death. So to have time in hand to pass this letter to a slaver, the sender must have been in these waters ahead of us! "

Warren dabbed his mouth with care. "A French man-of-war?"

Jenour clenched his fists with disbelief. "One of those which broke out of Brest?"

Bolitho tugged the chart towards him. " Cape Town is the clue, my friends, although I fear I cannot determine what it is."

He made up his mind. "Make a signal to Miranda, Stephen. Summon her commander aboard. I would like to meet him in any case."

As Jenour turned towards the door Commodore Warren said humbly, "I am sorry. It slipped my mind, Sir Richard. Lieutenant Tyacke has been aboard since he delivered the pouch."

Bolitho bit back a sharp retort. It was not now the time, but later… He sighed. Two frigate captains who disliked one another-their commodore who showed little interest in the whole operation-and a mixed handful of vessels which had barely worked with one another before. Small beginnings.

He said, "Ask him to come in, Stephen."

Warren shifted uneasily. "There is another thing about him…"

But Jenour already had the door to the cabin open, so he did not finish it.

Jenour stepped into the other cabin and looked at the tall man who was standing by an open gunport, his hands clasped behind him.

"If you will step aft-Sir Richard Bolitho wishes to speak with you." He was relieved to see that the lieutenant had at least been given refreshment, and doubtless some of the commodore's terrible wine. "We were not aware that you were still…" The words froze on his lips as the other man turned to stare at him. How could anyone

live with a wound like that?

Tyacke said abruptly, "And who are you, might I ask?" Then he saw the twist of gold lace at Jenour's shoulder. "I see, Flag Lieutenant."

Jenour tried again. "Forgive me. I did not mean-"

Tyacke shifted the sword at his belt and turned his disfigurement aside. "I am accustomed to it. But I don't have to enjoy it." He did not attempt to hide his anger and bitterness. Who did they think they were?

He lowered his head between the deck beams and stepped into the enlarged cabin. For a few moments he was taken completely off-balance. The commodore he knew slightly by sight, and for some lingering seconds he imagined that the plump man in the plain blue coat must be the much-talked about Bolitho. Not an heroic figure; but then most of the flag officers Tyacke had met were not.

"Will you accept my apologies, Mr Tyacke?" Bolitho walked from the shadows and crossed beneath a skylight. "I was not told you had been kept waiting. Please forgive this oversight and take a seat, will you?"

Tyacke sat down awkwardly Perhaps he had been at sea too long, or had misheard somehow. But the man in the white shirt, with the almost gentle manner of greeting, was not what he had expected. For one thing Bolitho looked no older than himself, although he knew he must be nearer fifty than forty But for the deep lines around his mouth, and the traces of white in a solitary lock of hair above one eye, he was a young man. Bolitho was looking at him again in that strangely direct and open manner. The eyes were grey, and for a few seconds Tyacke felt tongue-tied, more like Midshipman Segrave than himself.

Bolitho continued, "Your discovery aboard that slaver may be more useful than any of us realise." He smiled suddenly, so that he appeared even younger. "I am trying to fathom how it may help us."

A door opened, and a very small servant padded across the cabin and paused by Tyacke's chair. "Some hock, sir?" He watched Tyacke's expression and added mildly, "It is quite cold, sir." It sounded as if it was better wine than was usually available in this elderly flagship.

Tyacke swallowed hard. This must be one of Bolitho's men too. He drank deeply, trying to contain something he thought he had lost. Emotion. The little man had not even blinked; had shown neither curiosity nor disgust.

Bolitho observed him and saw the lieutenant's hand tremble as his glass was refilled. Another survivor. One more victim which the war had tossed aside, as the sea gave up driftwood.

He asked quietly, "Where is this Albacora now?"

Tyacke seemed to pull himself out of his thoughts with a physical effort.

"She will be here in two days, Sir Richard. I left a small prize crew aboard and the injured midshipman."

Bolitho nodded. "I read of him in your report. He sounds a brave youngster."

Tyacke dropped his gaze. "He surprised me."

Bolitho looked at his secretary. "I shall require you to write some orders for another of the schooners." His voice hardened and he saw the commodore watching him anxiously. "I want the Albacora put alongside one of the storeships when she arrives. She must be met at sea, out of sight of prying telescopes ashore, then brought to her moorings at night." He waited for his words to sink in. "Will you attend to that, Commodore Warren?"

Warren bobbed and fell into a fit of violent coughing.

Bolitho turned his back and studied the tall lieutenant. "I wish to take passage in your command, Mr Tyacke." He saw the disbelief, the arguments rushing into the man's eyes. "I am used to small vessels so have no fear for my-er, dignity! "

When he looked again, the commodore had left the cabin, but he could still hear him coughing. Jenour was at Yovell's shoulder peering at the plump Devonian's neat, round writing.

For a few minutes they were alone, ignored. Bolitho asked softly, "Where did it happen?" That was all he said, but he saw the words hit Tyacke like a clenched fist.

Then Tyacke met his gaze and said without hesitation, "The Nile, Sir Richard. The Majestic, seventy-four."

Bolitho nodded very slowly. "Yes. Captain Westcott. A fine man. Sadly missed." He touched his left eyelid with one finger and Tyacke imagined that he saw him wince.

Bolitho said, "Please return to your ship. As soon as the remainder of your people arrive in the prize, your prize, Mr Tyacke, be prepared to weigh anchor again."

Tyacke glanced at the others but Jenour was studying some papers; or perhaps he simply could not face him.

Bolitho added, "I shall want you to take me to the Cape itself, beyond if need be. I am doing no good here."

As Tyacke turned to leave Bolitho called to him, "There is one more thing." He walked across the cabin until they faced each other again. "I would like to shake your hand." His grasp was firm. "You are a very brave officer." For just seconds he hesitated. "You have given me hope. I shall not forget."

Tyacke found himself in the harsh sunlight and then down in Miranda's longboat before he knew what had happened.

Simcox was in the boat, agog with excitement and questions.

Tyacke watched dully as the boat cast off and the seamen picked up the stroke. Then he said without emphasis, "He wants us to take him to the Cape."

Simcox stared. "A viceadmiral! In Miranda! "

The lieutenant nodded, remembering, holding on to it. And lastly the handshake, the momentary wistfulness in Bolitho's voice.

Simcox was unnerved by the change in his friend. Something strange and important must have happened aboard the flagship. He hoped that Tyacke had not been hurt again.

He tried to pass it off. "And I'll bet you forgot to ask him about our beer ration, what say you?"