The Only Victor by Alexander Kent Page A

irons.
    â€œ Beer, you say? I will pass the word to the army. It is the very least they can do.” He was still holding the goblet when he asked, “It is Saturday, is it not? So we shall call a toast.”
    Tyacke took up his glass. “Sweethearts and wives, sir?”
    Bolitho touched the locket beneath his shirt and shook his head.
    â€œTo loved ones. May they be patient with us.”
    Tyacke drank the toast but said nothing, as he had no one to care if he lived or died.
    He glanced at Bolitho’s expression and was deeply moved nonetheless. For a moment at least he was with her, no matter the many miles which held them apart.
    Allday wiped his glittering razor and grunted, “That should do it, Sir Richard. About all the water is fit for in this ship!” He did not conceal his disgust. “It’ll be a fisherman’s dory next at this pace, I’m thinking.”
    Bolitho sighed and slipped into the same crumpled shirt. It was the luxury he missed the most, a clean shirt when he needed it. Like stockings; they seemed to mark his progress from midshipmen’s berth to flag-officer. Even as a lowly lieutenant there had been occasions when he had but two pairs of stockings to his name. But in many ways they had been good times; or maybe they always were, in hindsight—the memories of youth.
    He thought of Tyacke’s brief mention of his midshipman. Something was wrong there. He glanced up at the pale glow in the skylight. Dawn already; he was surprised that he had slept without waking once.
    Allday gestured to the coffee and added, “Barely kills the taste!”
    Bolitho smiled. How Allday could shave him when he could scarcely stand upright beneath the skylight was a marvel. He could never recall him cutting his face once.
    He was right about the coffee. He decided to send a despatch regarding beer for the sweltering ships. It would help until they could take on fresh water.
    Commodore Warren should have made some arrangements. Perhaps he no longer cared? Bolitho pushed the coffee away. Or maybe somebody wanted him out of the way. Like me.
    He heard the sluice of water and the crank of a pump as the hands washed down the deck for a new day. Like everything else in the sixty-five-foot schooner, the sounds were always close, more personal than in any larger craft.
    â€œI’ll go up.” He rose from the seat and winced as his head glanced off a deckhead beam.
    Allday folded his razor away with great care and muttered, “Bloody little paintpot, that’s all she is!” Then he followed Bolitho up the short companion ladder and into the damp wind.
    Bolitho walked to the compass box. How much steeper the angle of the deck seemed than when he had been below. There appeared to be people everywhere, swabbing down, working in the shrouds, or engaged in the many tasks with running-rigging and coiled halliards.
    Tyacke touched his forehead, “Morning, sir. Steady at sou’east-by-south.” He raised one arm and pointed over the bulwark. “That’s the beginning of the Cape, sir, ’bout four miles abeam.” He smiled, proud of his little ship. “I’d not risk weathering it much closer. You have to be careful not to be deceived by the soundings hereabouts. There’s no bottom according to some charts, but if you glance yonder you’ll see a reef all the same!” It seemed to amuse him. Another challenge perhaps?
    Bolitho turned and saw all the watching eyes drop or return to their various tasks. Like pulling on a line of puppets.
    Tyacke said quietly, “Don’t mind them, sir. The highest ranking officer who came aboard before you, begging your pardon, was the commander in charge of the guard at Gibraltar.”
    Simcox joined them and said, “Sky’s clearin’, sir.” It was a totally unnecessary comment and Bolitho knew that he was like the rest, nervous in his presence.
    â€œWhen do you become appointed