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! '
In the sudden silence the sea intruded like a soothing chorus.
Segrave said in a whisper, 'I am very sorry, sir.'
Surprisingly, Tyacke's hideous face moved in a smile. 'No. I abused you. That is wrong when you are unable to answer back.' He mopped his forehead with a crumpled handkerchief. 'But I meant every bloody word, so be warned! '
'Deck thar! ' The masthead's cry was shredded by the brisk north-westerly. 'Sail on th' starboard bow! '
Simcox thrust his mug into a safe corner and began to slide towards the door.
No matter what this proved to be, he thought, it had come along just in time.
'Sou'-west-by-south, sir! Full an' bye! '
The Miranda's deck tilted even more steeply as she responded to her rudder and the great span of main and staysails, water cascading around the barebacked seamen while they sheeted home swollen halliards and dug with their toes at anything which would hold them.
Lieutenant Tyacke lurched up to the weather rail, and watched the surf and spray leaping high from the stem to make the flapping jib glint in the sunshine like polished metal.
Simcox nodded with approval as George Sperry, the tub-shaped boatswain, put two extra hands on the tiller. Miranda did not boast a wheel but had a long, ornately carved tiller bar, which took some handling in the brisk wind sweeping down on the starboard quarter.
He saw Midshipman Segrave standing in the shadow of the heavily raked mainmast, his eyes wary as he tried to avoid men dashing past to take up the slack of the forebrace.
Simcox called, 'Over here! ' He sighed when the youth all but fell, as a wave curled lazily over the lee bulwark and broke around him, leaving him spluttering and gasping, water pouring from his shirt and breeches as if he had just been pulled from the sea.
'Just bide along o' me, young feller, and watch the mains'l an' compass. Get th' feel of 'er, see?'
He forgot Segrave as a line high above the deck cracked like a whip, and instantly began to unreeve itself as if it were alive.
A sailor was already swarming aloft, another bending on some fresh cordage so that no time would be lost in repairs.
Segrave clung to the bitts beneath the driver-boom and stared dully at the men working on the damaged rigging, paying no heed to the wind which tried to pluck them down. He could not recall when he had felt so wretched, so utterly miserable, and so unable to see his way out of it.
Tyacke's words still stung, and although it was not the first time the captain had given him the sharp side of his tongue, the boy had never seen him so angry: as if he had lost control and wanted to strike him.
Segrave had earnestly tried not to rouse Tyacke's ire; had wanted nothing more than to keep out of his way. Both were impossible in so small a ship.
He had nobody to talk to, really talk and understand. There had been plenty of midshipmen aboard his last ship-his only ship. He shuddered. What must he do?
His father had been a hero, although Segrave could barely remember him. Even on his rare returns to their home he had seemed distant, vaguely disapproving, perhaps because he had but one son and three daughters. Then one day the news had been brought to that far-off Surrey house. Captain Segrave had been killed in battle, fighting under Admiral Dundas at Camperdown. His mother had told them, her face sad but composed. By then it was already too late for Roger Segrave. His uncle, a retired flagofficer in Plymouth, had decided to offer him his patronage-for his father's memory for the honour of the family As soon as a ship could be found he was kitted out and packed off to sea. For Segrave it had been three years of hell.
He looked despairingly at Simcox. His rough kindness had almost finished him. But he would understand no better than Segrave's lieutenant in the three-decker. What would he say if he knew that Segrave hated the navy,
