The Only Victor by Alexander Kent

“It is ship’s business, Sir Richard. Nothing which will impair the needs of this passage.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œIt 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