Did he ever think about the girl in Portsmouth, Simcox wondered? One night in harbour he had been awakened in his tiny cabin by Tyacke's pitiful, dreaming entreaties to the girl who had promised to wait for him, to marry him. Rather than wake the whole ship, Simcox had shaken his shoulder, but had not explained. Tyacke had understood, and had fetched a bottle of brandy which they had taken off a runner. When dawn had broken the bottle had been empty.
Tyacke had not blamed the girl he had known for most of his life. Nobody would want to see his face every morning. But he had been deeply hurt; wounded no less severely than others at the Nile.
Simcox shouted above the din, "Runnin' well! " He jerked a thumb at a slight figure who was clinging to the companion hatch, a lifeline tied around his waist, his breeches and stockings soiled with vomit. "He's not so good, though! "
Mister Midshipman Roger Segrave had been in Miranda since they had taken on stores at Gibraltar. At the request of his captain he had been transferred from a big three-decker to complete his time as midshipman in a vessel where he might learn something more about practical seamanship and self-reliance. It had been said that the midshipman's uncle, an admiral at Plymouth, had arranged the transfer, not merely for the youth's sake but also for the family name. It would not look good to fail the lieutenant's examination, especially in time of war when chances of promotion lay on every hand.
Tyacke had made it clear he disliked the idea. Segrave's presence had upset their tight routine, an intrusion, like an unwanted visitor.
Simcox was one of the old school; the rope's end or a clip round the ear were, in his book, worth far more than lengthy discussions on tradition and discipline.
But he was not a hard man, and tried to explain to the midshipman what he might expect. Lieutenant Tyacke was the only commissioned officer aboard. He could not be expected to live in total isolation in a ninety-two-ton schooner; they were a team. But he knew that Segrave did not really understand. In the teeming world of a ship of the line everything was divided and sub-divided by rank, status and experience. At the top there was the captain, usually so remote he seemed like a god. The rest, though crammed together out of necessity, were totally separated.
Segrave rolled over and leaned back against the hatchway with a deep groan. He was sixteen years old with fair, almost girlish good looks. He had perfect manners, was careful, even shy when dealing with the hands-not like some little monsters Simcox had heard about. And he tried hard at everything but, even Simcox had to agree, with very little success. He was staring up at the sky, seemingly oblivious to the spray which ripped over the deck like pellets, or the filthy state of his clothing.
Lieutenant Tyacke looked at him coldly. "Free yourself and go below, Mr Segrave, and fetch some rum from the clerk. I can't afford to let anyone useful stand-down until I change tack again."
As the youth clambered wretchedly down the ladder, Simcox grinned.
"Bit hard on the lad, James."
Tyacke shrugged. "You think so?" He almost spat. "In a year or two he'll be sending men to the gratings for a striped shirt, just for looking at him! "
The master's mate yelled, "Wind's veered a piece! "
"Bring her up a point. I think this is going to blow over. I want to get the tops'l spread if it does, and run with the wind under our coat-tails."
There was a sound of breaking pottery and someone vomiting from the deck below.
Tyacke murmured, "I swear I shall kill that one."
Simcox asked, "What d'you reckon to ViceAdmiral Bolitho, James?"
The lieutenant gripped the stay again and bent from the waist as the sea boiled over the weather bulwark in a solid flood. Amongst the streaming water and foam he saw his men, like half-naked urchins, nodding and grinning to each other. Making certain that no one had gone over.
He replied, "A good man to all accounts. When I was at the-" He looked away remembering the cheers despite the hell when Bolitho's ship was reported engaging. He changed tack. "I've known plenty who've served with him-there used to be an old fellow who lived in Dover. I used to speak with him when I was a lad, down by, the harbour." He smiled suddenly. "Not far from where they built this schooner, as a matter of fact… He was serving under Richard Bolitho's father when he lost his arm."
Simcox watched his strong profile. If you did not see the other side of his face, he was handsome enough to catch any girl's fancy, he thought.
He said, "You should tell him that, if you meet."
Tyacke wiped the spray from his face and throat. "He's a viceadmiral now."
Simcox smiled but was uneasy. "God, you make him sound like the enemy, James! "
"Do I? Well, there's a thing! " He touched his dripping sleeve. "Now rouse these layabouts and stand by to change tack. We will steer south by east."
Within the hour the squall had fallen away, and with all sails filling well, their dark shadows riding across the waves alongside like huge fins, Miranda responded with her usual disdain.
She had started life as a Dover mail packet, but had been taken by the navy before she had completed more than a few passages. Now at seventeen years, she was one of the many such vessels working under a naval ensign. She was not only a lively sailer; she was a delight to handle because of her simple sail-plan and deep keel. A large mainsail aft, with a forestaysail and jib and the one topsail on her foremast, she could outmanoeuvre almost anything. The deep keel, even when she was closehauled, prevented her from losing leeway like a cutter or something heavier. Armed with only four 4-pounders and some swivels, she was meant for carrying despatches, rather than taking part in any real skirmish.
Smugglers and privateers were one thing; but half a broadside from some enemy frigate would change her from a lean thoroughbred to a total wreck.
Between decks there was the strong smell of rum and tobacco, and the greasy aroma of the noon meal. As the watch below scrambled down to their messdeck, Tyacke and Simcox sat wedged on either side of the cabin table. Both men were tall, so that any movement in the cabin had to be performed bent double.
The midshipman, repentant and anxious, sat at the other end of the table. Simcox could pity him, for even under reefed canvas the motion was violent, the sea surging astern from the sharply raked counter, the prospect of food another threat for any delicate stomach.
Tyacke said suddenly, "If I do see him, the admiral I mean, I shall ask him about getting some beer. I saw some of the soldiers drinking their fill when I visited the flagship. So why not us? The water out here will kill more good sailors than Johnny Dutchman! "
They both turned as the midshipman spoke up.
Segrave said, "There was a lot of talk in London about ViceAdmiral Bolitho."
Tyacke's tone was deceptively mild. "Oh, and what sort of talk was that?"
Encouraged, his sickness momentarily quiescent, Segrave expounded willingly.
"My mother said it was disgraceful how he behaved. How he left his lady for that woman. She said London was up in arms about it-" He got no further.
"If you speak like that in front of the people I'll put you under arrest-in bloody irons if need be! " Tyacke was shouting, and Simcox guessed that many of the offwatch seamen would hear. There was something terrible about his rage; pathetic too.
Tyacke leaned over towards the pale-faced youth and added, "And if you speak such shite to me, I'll damn well call you out, young and useless though you may be! "
Simcox rested his hand on his wrist. "Be easy, James. He knows no better."
Tyacke shook his hand away "God damn them, Ben, what do they want of us? How dare they condemn men who daily hourly risk their lives so that they-" he pointed an accusing finger at Segrave "-can sip their tea and eat their cakes in comfort." He was shaking, his voice almost a sob. "I've never met this Richard Bolitho, but. God damn me, I'd lay down my life for him right now, if only to get back at those useless, gutless bastards! "