The Only Victor by Alexander Kent Page B

Master, Mr Simcox?”
    The man shifted his feet. “Not certain, Sir Richard.” He glanced at his friend and Bolitho could guess what was troubling him. Leaving Miranda; taking away Tyacke’s only prop.
    Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the sea changing colour in the faint sunshine. Plenty of birds this morning, messengers from the land. He looked abeam and saw the mass of Table Mountain, and another across the larboard bow still wreathed in mist, with only its high, craggy ridges bathed in gold.
    Simcox cleared his throat. “The wind favours us, Sir Richard, but I’ve known ships caught in a gale to the south’rd o’ this point, blown all the way to Cape Agulhas afore they could fight their way back!”
    Bolitho nodded. Experience? Or was it a warning? Suppose there were men-of-war around the jutting tusk of the Cape? It was unlikely they would wish to reveal themselves for the sake of one frail schooner. But Supreme had been small too when the frigate had run down on her.
    Tyacke lowered his telescope and said, “Call all hands, Ben.” The first name had slipped out by accident. “We will wear ship and steer due east.” He glanced at Bolitho. “Into the lion’s den!”
    Bolitho looked up at the whipping pendant. Yes, Tyacke would miss the acting-master when he was promoted to full warrant rank. He might even see his replacement as another intruder.
    He said, “It is the only way, Mr Tyacke, but I shall not hazard the ship unduly.”
    The seamen ran to the braces and halliards, fingers loosening belaying pins, casting off lines from their cleats with such deft familiarity that they needed no shouts or curses to hasten them. The sky was growing brighter by the minute, and Bolitho felt his stomach muscles tighten when he considered what he must do. He could sense Allday gazing at him while he stood ready to assist the helmsmen if needed.
    It had not just been stockings which had marked Bolitho’s change of fortune. Once he had gained promotion to lieutenant at the tender age of eighteen, he had been freed from the one duty he had feared and hated most. As a lieutenant, no longer did he have to scramble up the treacherous ratlines to his particular station aloft whenever the pipe was shrilled between decks, or while he stood his watch with the others.
    He had never gotten used to it. In all weathers, with the ship hidden below by a drifting mist of spray and spindrift, he had clung to his precarious perch, watching his men, some of whom had been sent aloft for the first time in their lives. He had seen sailors fall to an agonising death on the deck, hurled from rigging and yard by the force of a gale, or by billowing canvas which had refused all efforts to quell it.
    Others had dropped into the sea, to surface perhaps in time to see their ship vanishing into a squall. It was no wonder that young men fled when the press gangs were on the prowl.
    â€œStand by aft!” Tyacke wiped the spray from his scarred face with the back of his hand, his eyes everywhere while he studied his men and the set of each sail.
    â€œLet go an’ haul! Roundly there! Tom, another hand on th’ forebrace!”
    The shadows of the main and staysail seemed to pass right over the busy figures as the long tiller bar went down, the canvas and rigging clattering in protest.
    Bolitho could feel his shoes slipping, and saw the sea creaming under the lee rail as Tyacke brought her round. He saw too the uneven barrier of land stagger across the bowsprit while the schooner continued to swing.
    Allday muttered, “By God, she can turn on a sovereign!” But everyone was too busy, and the noise too overwhelming, to hear what might be admiration instead of scorn.
    â€œ Meet her! Steady as you go! Now, let her fall off a point!”
    The senior helmsman croaked, “Steady she goes, sir! East by north!”
    â€œSecure!” Tyacke peered up into the glare. “Hands