He gripped Segrave's wrist and said, "Truculent! She's coming for us! "
The oars seemed to bend as with sudden hope they threw themselves on the looms. The boat headed away towards the frigate's silhouette while she rounded the point, as they themselves had done just a few hours earlier.
Segrave turned to look astern, but there was only a towering wall of black smoke which appeared to be pursuing them, its heart still writhing with flames. He glanced at Tyacke. He knew the lieutenant had intended to stay at the helm and die. The pistol had been ready to prevent anyone dragging him to the boat by force; and for no other reason.
Then Segrave looked away and watched the frigate standing-off to receive them. His pleas had somehow given Tyacke the will to reach out for another chance. And for that, Segrave was suddenly grateful.
For if Tyacke had changed, so had he.
7. A Chance To Live
BOLITHO walked to one of Themis's open ports and rested his hand on the wooden muzzle of a quaker. In the afternoon sunlight it felt as hot as iron, as if it were a real gun which had just been fired.
The flagship seemed unusually quiet and motionless, and he could see Truculent anchored close by making a perfect twin of her reflection on the calm water. At the cabin table, Yovell, his secretary was writing busily preparing more despatches which would in time reach all the senior officers of both squadrons, and others, which might eventually end their journey on Sir Owen Godschale's desk at the Admiralty As the Themis swung very slightly to her cable, Bolitho saw part of the land, the unmoving haze above it, much of it dust. Occasionally he heard the distant bark of artillery and pictured the foot-soldiers pressing on towards Cape Town. The.
Admiralty seemed a million miles away from this place, he thought.
He saw Jenour dabbing his face and neck with a handkerchief while he leaned over Yovell's plump shoulder to check something. He looked strained, as he had done since Miranda's sudden and violent destruction. After picking up the crew of the fireship, Truculent had made off under full sail to seek out the French frigate, or at least to be in time to assist Captain Varian's Zest when he confronted her. Placed as he was, Varian should have been in a perfect position to capture or attack any vessel which tried to escape the fireship's terrible devastation.
But there had been no sign of the enemy and not until three days later had they met up with Zest. Varian had explained that another vessel had been sighted approaching from seaward, and he had given chase, but without success. Bolitho had expected Poland to make some criticism once the frigates had separated again, as it was rumoured there was bad blood between the captains. He had said nothing. Nor, upon reflection, had he seemed surprised.
Bolitho tried not to dwell on Miranda's loss. Nor on Tyacke's contained anguish as he had clambered up from the fireship's boat. The column of black smoke above the anchorage had been visible for many hours, long after Truculent had headed out to the open sea.
The general's soldiers would see it and take new heart, and the Dutch might realise that there was nothing but their own courage to sustain them. But although he tried, Bolitho could not put the memory from his mind. He must tell himself. It had been a remarkable feat, the success far outweighing the cost. But he could not forget. He had once again allowed himself to get too close. To Simcox, and Jay, even to an unknown Cornish lookout who had come from Penzance.
There was a tap at the door and then Commander Maguire entered the cabin, his hat beneath his arm.
"You sent for me, Sir Richard?" His eyes moved to the open stern windows as more gunfire echoed across the flat blue water.
Bolitho nodded. "Be seated." He walked past him to the table, each step bringing his body out in a rash of sweat. Just to be in a moving ship again, to feel the wind. Instead of… He turned over some papers. "When this campaign comes to a close, Commander Maguire, you will be sailing for England. It is all in your orders. You will place yourself with certain other vessels under the charge of Commodore Popham until that time is suitable." He saw little response on the man's lined features. Perhaps, like some others in the squadron, he might be thinking that the fireship and Miranda's sacrifice would make no difference; that it would drag on into stalemate. There was a thud from the adjoining cabin, then the sounds of a heavy chest being manhandled across the deck. Only then did Bolitho see some expression on Maguire's face. He had served with Warren for a long time.
On Truculent's return to the anchorage Bolitho had realised that he would never speak with Warren again. He had apparently died even as Truculent's topsails had been sighted standing inshore.
Now Warren 's clerk and servant were gathering the last of his belongings for stowage in one of the transports to await passage-where, he wondered? Warren had no home but this ship, no relatives apart from a sister somewhere in England, whom he had rarely seen even on his visits to the country he had seemingly rejected for the West Indies.
Maguire frowned and asked, "What will become of the ship, Sir Richard?"
Bolitho saw Jenour watching them, his eyes fall as their gaze met.
"She will doubtless receive a much needed overhaul and refit."
"But she's too old, Sir Richard! "
Bolitho ignored the protest. "Not as old as my flagship." He did not mean to let it come out so sharply and saw the other man start. "The war continues, Commander Maguire, and we shall need every ship we can lay hands on. Ships which can stand and fight and still give of their best." He walked to the stern, and leaned on the heated sill to look down into the clear water as it lifted and gurgled around the rudder. He could see the trailing weed, the copper, which was dull and pitted with constant service. As his Hyperion had once been when he had first taken command, in that other world. Over his shoulder he added bitterly "We need more than wooden guns in the Channel Fleet too! "
It was a dismissal, and he heard the door close behind him, the sentry's musket coming down to rest again with a sharp tap.
"I suppose you think that was wrong of me?"
Jenour straightened his back. "There comes a time, sir-"
Bolitho smiled, although he felt drained as well as impatient. "Well, now. What has my sage to tell me?"
Jenour's open face lit up with a broad grin. Relief, surprise; it was both. "I know I am inexperienced when compared with some, sir."
Bolitho held up his hand. "A damned sight more experienced than a few I can mention! I was sorry for Warren, but he did not belong here. Like the ship, he had become a relic. That did not count for much once. But this is no game, Stephen, nor was it even when I entered the King's navy He looked at him fondly "But it took the.".
blade of the guillotine to make some of our betters take heed. This war must be won. We have to care about our people. But there is no longer any stowage-space for sentiment."
Allday entered by the other door and said, "Some casks of beer have just been brought over, Sir Richard. Seems it was for Miranda's people." He watched Bolitho, his eyes troubled. "Otherwise, I wouldn't have said-"
Bolitho loosened his shirt for the thousandth time and shook his head. "I have been bad company since that day, old friend." He glanced from one to the other. "I will try to make amends, for my own sake as well as yours."
Allday was still watching him warily, like a rider with an unknown mount. What did he mean, he wondered? Since that day. Miranda, or was he still fretting over his old flagship?
He said, "There's a pin o' brandy for yourself, Sir Richard, From th' General, no less."
Bolitho looked towards the land, his fingers playing with the locket beneath his damp shirt. "Sir David said as much in his letter to me." He had a sudden picture of Baird somewhere over there: in his tent, on horseback, or studying the enemy's positions. Did he ever consider defeat or disgrace? He certainly did not show it.