Alexander Kent - The Only Victor

But Tyacke had not heard him. He repeated, "Take him to the Cape. By the living God, I'd sail that man to hell and back if he asked me! "

They did not speak again until they reached Miranda.

Richard Bolitho wedged himself in one corner of the Miranda's small cabin and then stretched out his legs. The motion was certainly lively, he thought ruefully, and even his stomach, which had been hardened by every sort of sea and under most conditions, was queasy.

Lieutenant Tyacke had been on deck for most of the time since they had hauled anchor, and although he could see nothing apart from the bright blue rectangle through the skylight, Bolitho guessed that once clear of the choppy inshore currents things might be easier.

It seemed odd not to have Ozzard pattering about, anticipating his every need even before he had thought of it himself. But space was precious in the rakish schooner, and in any case it might appear as a slight to Miranda's people if he brought his own servant. It was probably shock enough to see him climb aboard, despite

Tyacke's warning beforehand. As he had made his way aft Bolitho had caught glimpses of the varied expressions. Astonishment, curiosity maybe even resentment. Like Tyacke, whose voice seemed to be everywhere on deck, they might see his presence more as an invasion of their private world than any sort of honour. He had asked Jenour to remain in the flagship, too. His eyes and ears were as useful as Miranda's.

Bolitho had seen the captured slaver alongside one of the transports, but had not gone over to her. He had heard about the woman in the master's cabin, and the deserter who was now under guard in the flagship, awaiting his fate. He guessed there were several other things which had not been mentioned in Tyacke's report.

He heard the boom of canvas as the fore-topsail filled out to the wind, and imagined he could feel the instant response while the schooner settled on her new tack.

He looked around the cramped cabin, hearing once more in his mind Allday's outspoken disapproval.

"Not fit for a viceadmiral, 'specially you, Sir Richard! A collier would offer more comfort! " He was out there somewhere, either quietly fuming, or, having accepted it, sharing a "wet" with one of the Miranda's senior hands. He usually managed to settle in that way, and gain more information than Bolitho might do in a year.

The cabin was packed with personal belongings, sea chests, clothing and weapons, the latter within easy reach for any occupant.

Tyacke had left the wounded midshipman in the care of Themis's surgeon. There was another story there, too, but Bolitho doubted if Tyacke would share it. The tall, powerful lieutenant discouraged confidences, apart from with his friend, the acting-master. Maybe he had always been a solitary man, and his terrible scars had only increased his isolation.

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 SaldanhaBay 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.