Read Online The Only Victor by Alexander Kent - Free Book Online

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!”
    â€œDeck 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.
    â€œSou’-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 bare-backed 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 flap-ping 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.
    â€œJust 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