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.
Of the Dutch defenders he had written, "They will fight on, or they will surrender very soon. There will be no half measures, on either side." Of the fireship he had said, "Brave men are always missed and then too often forgotten. At least others will not die in vain." Bolitho could almost hear him saying it, as he had on the shore when he had begged for his assistance. Baird had finished his letter by describing his opponent, the Dutch general Jansens, as a good soldier, and one not given to senseless destruction. Did that mean that he would capitulate rather than see Cape Town brought down in ruins?
Bolitho clutched his arms across his chest as a cold shiver ran through him, despite the scorching air in the cabin.
Warren had gone, but it felt as if he was still here, watching him, hating him for what he was doing with his ship.
Allday asked, "All right, Sir Richard?"
Bolitho crossed to the windows and stood in the sunshine until the heat burned the chill out of his body For an instant he had imagined it was a warning of the old fever. The one which had all but killed him. He smiled sadly When Catherine had climbed into his bed without him knowing or remembering a thing about it. Her care, and the warmth of her nakedness, had helped to save him.
Maybe Warrenwas watching? After all, they had buried him nearby, weighed with shot, down in the depths where even the sharks would not venture. Maguire had used one of the longboats, and the oarsmen had continued to pull until a leadsman had reported "no bottom" on his line.
The marine sentry shouted from beyond the screen, "Officero'-the-Watch, sir! "
The lieutenant seemed to be walking on tiptoe as he entered the presence of the viceadmiral. Bolitho wondered how much more they knew about him now since his arrival among them.
The lieutenant said, "Truculent's boat has cast off, Sir Richard."
"Very well, Mr Latham. Please offer Lieutenant Tyacke all respects when he is come aboard the flagship. He was in command, remember."
The lieutenant almost bowed himself out, his face astonished more by Bolitho's remembering his name than at his instruction.
Ozzard appeared as if spirited by a genie's lamp.
"A fresh shirt, Sir Richard?"
Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the boat pulling slowly towards Themis's side, pinned down in the hazy glare as if it could scarcely make the crossing.
"I think not, Ozzard." He thought of the schooner's tiny cabin, where a clean shirt and ample drinking water were both luxuries.
Tyacke would be feeling badly enough as it was. The interview he was about to have with the tall lieutenant was suddenly important. It was not merely something to replace his loss, or to offer him compensation for his terrible wound. It mattered; but until now Bolitho had not really known how much.
He said quietly, "Will you leave me, please?" He watched Yovell gather up his papers, his round features completely absorbed with his inner thoughts. A direct contrast to Allday, and yet… Neither would change even at the gates of Heaven.
To Jenour he added, "I would like to dine with Mr Tyacke this evening, and for you to join us." He saw Jenour's obvious pleasure and said, "But for this moment it is better without an audience."
Jenour withdrew and saw a marine guard presenting arms to the man in question as he climbed aboard and raised his hat to the quarterdeck. Half a man, Jenour thought, and now with his dreadful scars turned away he could see what he had once been: perhaps what Bolitho was hoping to restore.
Allday stood his ground as Tyacke walked aft and ducked beneath the poop.
Tyacke halted and said coldly, "All waiting, are they?" He was very much on the defensive. But Allday knew men better than most, sailors more than any. Tyacke was ashamed. Because of his disfigurement; and because he had lost his ship.
He replied, "Be easy with him, sir." He saw the sudden surprise in Tyacke's eyes and added, "He still feels the loss of his old ship very badly. Like one o' the family, personal."
Tyacke nodded, but said nothing. Allday's casual confidence had unnerved him, scattered all his carefully prepared thoughts, and what he had been about to say.
Allday walked away and stooped thoughtfully over the pin of brandy which had been sent over by the redcoats. It was strange when you thought about it. Bolitho and Tyacke were very much alike. Had things been different for them they might even have changed roles.
He heard Ozzard right behind him. "You can keep your eyes off that little cask, Mister Allday! " He stood, arms folded, his watery eyes severe. "I know you when you get your hooks on some brandy."
The guns ashore fired a long, unbroken salvo, like thunder echoing around those sombre, alien hills.
Allday put his hand on the little man's shoulder. "Listen to 'em, matey. Don't even know what they're fighting about! "
Ozzard smiled wryly. "Not like us, eh? Heart of Oak! "
He began to roll the brandy towards the poop's deeper shadow and Allday gave a sigh. A nice "wet" of brandy would have made a change.
They both made a point of not looking towards the great cabin where Warren had died, and another was about to be given a chance to live.
Tyacke waited while the sentry called out his name, his eyes averted from the lieutenant's face.
He pushed open the door and saw Bolitho by the open stern windows. The cabin was otherwise empty His eyes moved quickly around it, recalling the few times he had been there. As before, he noticed its total lack of personality Impossible to judge its previous occupant, although he had lived here for such a long time. Perhaps Warren had had nothing to offer it? He tried not to think of all the clutter, the sense of belonging in Miranda's tiny, cramped quarters. It was gone. He had to remember that.
"Please sit down." Bolitho gestured to a small table with some wine and two glasses. "It is good of you to come."
Tyacke straightened his borrowed coat, giving himself time to gather his wits.
"I must apologise for my rig, Sir Richard. Truculent's wardroom had a collection for me, you see?"
Bolitho nodded. "I do see. All your things rest on the seabed. Like many of my most valued possessions." He moved to the table and poured two glasses of the hock Ozzard had discovered somewhere. "I am unused to this vessel, Mr Tyacke." He paused with the bottle in mid-air, his eyes towards the windows as the air quivered to the distant cannon fire. "I suppose that is the span between us and the military Sailors are like turtles, in a way We carry our homes around with us. They become personal to us; in some ways too much so. Whereas the poor soldier sees only the land in front of him." He smiled suddenly over the rim of his glass. "And to think I was lecturing my flag lieutenant on the folly of sentiment! "
He sat down opposite Tyacke and stretched out his legs. "Now tell me about the men who were with you. That marine, for instance-has he repented of being a volunteer?"
Tyacke found himself describing the long and difficult process of beating back and forth against the wind to get closer to the merchantmen. Of Buller's insolence, and his superb marksmanship. Of the deserter Swayne, and the midshipman who had somehow found courage when he needed it most. Shadowy figures became real as he told of their courage and their fear.
Bolitho refilled the glasses and doubted if either of them had noticed what they were drinking.
"You gave that boy courage-you know that, don't you?"
Tyacke answered simply, "But for him I wouldn't be here."
Bolitho eyed him gravely. "That was then. This is now. I would wish you to sup with me this evening. No talk of war-we shall let it take us where it fancies. I have enough burdens of my own. It would ease the load if I knew I was to achieve something personal before I leave this place."
Tyacke thought he had misheard. Sup with the viceadmiral? This was not a lowly schooner, and Sir Richard Bolitho was no longer a tolerant passenger.
He heard himself ask, "What is it, Sir Richard? If there is something I can do, you have but to ask. I may have been changed by events; my respect and loyalty to you have not. And I am not a man to offer false praise to gain favour, sir."
"Believe me, I do know what you went through; what you are enduring now. We are both seaofficers. Rank divides us, but we still curse and rave at the incompetence of others, those who care nothing for Poor Jack, until they are in risk and danger themselves." He leaned forward, his voice so quiet that it was almost lost in the gentle ship noises around them. "My late father once said something to me, when I was younger than you are now, at a time when all things seemed set against us. He said, ' England needs all her sons now.'"
Tyacke listened, all resentment and despair held at bay, almost fearful of missing something of this reserved, compelling man who could have been his brother, and not an envied flagofficer.
Bolitho's eyes were far away. "Trafalgar has not changed that. We need fine ships to replace our losses and old veterans like this one. But most of all we need officers and seamen of courage and experience. Like yourself."
"You want me to forget Miranda, Sir Richard. To become a serving lieutenant again." Tyacke's expression had changed. He looked trapped, even afraid. "For if so-"
Bolitho said, "Do you know the brig Larne, Mr Tyacke?" He watched the man's quiet desperation, his obvious inner struggle. "She is with Commodore Popham's squadron at present."
Tyacke said, "Commander Blackmore. I have seen her on occasion." He sounded mystified.
Bolitho reached over and picked up a piece of Yovell's hard work. "Blackmore is fortunate. He is promoted to command a sixth-rate. I want you to take her."
Tyacke stared at him. "But I cannot-I do not have-"
Bolitho handed him the envelope. "Here is the commission to take her in your charge. It will be confirmed at Their Lordships' leisure, but you are herewith promoted to the rank of commander." He forced a smile to cover Tyacke's confusion and undisguised emotion. "I will see what my aide can do about obtaining some more suitable uniform for you without delay! "
He waited, pouring more wine, then asked, "Will you do this-for me, if for no other reason?"
Tyacke got to his feet without knowing it. "I will, Sir Richard, and I'd ask no better reason than that! "
Bolitho stood up, very alert. "Listen."
"What is it, Sir Richard?"
Before he turned away Tyacke saw the emotion clearly in Bolitho's eyes, as clearly as he himself had betrayed his own seconds earlier.
Bolitho said softly, "The guns. They're silent now." He faced him and added, "It means, Commander Tyacke, that it's over. The enemy have struck to us."
There was a brief knock at the door, and Jenour almost burst into the cabin. "I have just heard, Sir Richard! "
His admiral smiled at him. It was a moment Jenour was to remember for a long while afterwards.
Then Bolitho said, "Now we can go home."
Captain Daniel Poland stood, arms folded, and watched the throng of barebacked seamen hurrying to their stations. From the capstan came the scrape of a fiddle accompanied by Truculent's shantyman, an old sailor with a surprisingly carrying voice.
"When we did bang the damned mounseer You gave us beef an' beer Now we 'ave naught to eat an' drink For you 'ave naught to fear! "
A boatswain's mate bellowed in each interval, "Heave! Heave! Put yer bloody backs into it if you wants to see old England again! "
The first lieutenant gave a discreet cough. "The admiral, sir."
Poland glanced away from the busy figures on deck and aloft on the yards.
"Thank you, Mr Williams, but we have nothing to hide."
He touched his hat as Bolitho walked beneath the driver-boom, his face and chest like beaten copper in the dying sunlight.
"We are ready to proceed, Sir Richard."
Bolitho was listening to the fiddle and the sing-song voice of the shantyman. For you have naught to fear. A song which went back a long, long way with slight variations to suit the campaign or the war. Bolitho recalled his own father talking about it when he had described the battle of QuiberonBay The sailor's despair of those he fought and died for only too often.
It was an inspiring sunset, he thought; few painters could do it credit. The sea, the distant ridge of TableMountain and all the anchored ships were glowing like molten metal. Only the offshore wind gave life to the picture, the low rollers cruising towards the shadows to awaken the hull and gurgle around the stem. Bolitho could feel the last heat of the day, like a hot breath, and wondered why Poland could not reveal any excitement at this departure.
He heard the sharp clank of the first capstan pawl, the boatswain's harsh encouragement for the seamen to thrust at the bars with all their might.
Bolitho watched the other ships, their open gunports gleaming like lines of watchful eyes. Their part was over, and as dusk had descended on Table Bay he had taken a telescope to look at the Union Flag which now flew above the main battery. It would remain there.
Some of the squadron had already weighed and headed out of the bay to begin the long passage back to England. Two ships of the line, five frigates including Varian's Zest, and a flotilla of smaller, unrated vessels. While England waited for her old enemy's next move, these reinforcements would be more than welcome.
Others, including Themis, would follow as soon as the army had fully established its control of Cape Town and the anchorages which would sustain them against all comers. The blackened bones of the two Dutch Indiamen would be grim reminders of the price of complacency, he thought.
He remembered Tyacke's face when they had shared a last handshake, his voice when he had said, "I thank you for giving me another chance to live, Sir Richard."
Bolitho had said, "Later you may curse me too."
"I doubt that. Larne is a fine vessel. She'll be a challenge after Miranda." He had spoken her name as a man might dwell on a dead friend. "But she and I will come to respect one another! "
Larne was already hidden in shadow, but Bolitho could see her riding light, and somehow knew that Tyacke would be over there now, on deck to watch Truculent's anchor break out of the ground.
Shadows ebbed and flowed across the quarterdeck, and Bolitho moved clear to give the captain the freedom he needed to get under way. He saw Jenour by the nettings, a slight figure standing near him. The latter made to leave but Bolitho said, "How does it feel, Mr Segrave? So short a stay, so much experience?"
The youth stared at him in the strong copper glow. "I-I am glad I was here, Sir Richard." He turned, his hair flapping in the hot breeze as the capstan began to clatter more eagerly, the pawls falling while the long cable continued to come inboard.
Bolitho watched him, seeing Tyacke, remembering his own early days at sea, when he had shared the danger and the mirth with other midshipmen like Segrave.
"But you also regret leaving?"
Segrave nodded slowly, and momentarily forgot he was speaking with a viceadmiral, the hero whom others had described in so many different guises. "I only hope that when I return to my old ship…" He did not have to finish it.
Bolitho watched as the guardboat drifted abeam, oars tossed in salute, a lieutenant standing to doff his hat to his flag at the fore. Perhaps to the man as well.
"You can be neither too young nor too old to have your heart broken." Bolitho sensed Jenour turn to listen. "Courage is something else. I think you will have little to worry you when you rejoin your ship."
Jenour wanted to smile but Bolitho's voice was too intense. He knew that Yovell had already copied a letter for Segrave's captain. It would be enough. If it was not, the captain would soon learn that Bolitho could be ruthless where brutality was concerned.
"Thank you, sir."
Bolitho leaned on the hammock nettings and thought of all the miles which lay ahead. It would be a far cry from the swift passage which had brought him here. What might he discover? Would Catherine still feel the same for him after their separation?
When he looked again, the midshipman had gone.
Jenour said, "He'll do well enough, Sir Richard."
"You knew then, Stephen?"
"I guessed. Allday put the rest together. His life must have been hell. He should never have been put to sea."
Bolitho smiled. "It changes all of us. Even you."
Then he felt his heart leap as the cry came from forward.
"Anchor's hove short, sir! "
Calls trilled, and a man grunted as a rope's end hurried him after the others to halliards and braces.
Lieutenant Williams reported, "Standing by, sir! "
"Loose heads'ls." Poland sounded calm, remote. Bolitho wondered what did move him, why he disliked Varian, what he hoped for beyond promotion?
He looked up at the yards where the strung-out, foreshortened bodies of the topmen tensed to release their charges to the wind. On deck, others stood by the braces, ready to transform their anchored ship into a flying thoroughbred. What awaited most of them when Truculent reached England? Would they be cooped up aboard while they awaited new orders, or sent to other ships to strengthen the ranks of landmen and newly-pressed hands ignorant of the sea and of the navy? The fiddle was scraping out a livelier tune and the capstan was turning even more quickly, as if to hasten their departure.
Bolitho said, "It will be summer in England, Stephen. How quickly the months go past."
Jenour turned, his profile in dark shadow, as if, like Tyacke, he had only half a face. "A year for victory, Sir Richard."
Bolitho touched his arm. The hopes of youth knew no bounds. "I am past believing in miracles! "
"Anchor's aweigh, sir! "
Bolitho gripped the nettings. The ship seemed to rear away as the anchor was hauled up and secured at the cathead. Even that seemed to symbolise the difference he had felt here. When they anchored once more in England, in another hemisphere, they would drop the one on the opposite side.
Truculent came about, canvas banging in confusion, shadowy figures dashing everywhere to bring her under control. Hull, the sailing master, shouted, "Steady there! Hold her! "
Bolitho watched him and his helmsmen as they clung on the double spokes, their eyes gleaming in the disappearing sun. He thought of Simcox, who would have been like Hull one day. He had wanted it more than anything. But not enough to leave his friend when his life was threatened.
He said, "Fate is fate."
Jenour looked at him. "Sir?"
"Thoughts, Stephen. Just thoughts."
The topsails hardened to the wind and the deck seemed to hold steady as Truculent pointed her bows towards the headland and the empty, coppery wastes beyond.
"West-sou'-west, sir! Full an' bye! "
Poland 's mouth was set in a tight line. "Bring her up a point. As close as she'll bear." He waited for the first lieutenant to come aft again. "Get the courses and royals on her as soon as we are clear, Mr Williams." He glanced quickly at Bolitho's figure by the nettings. "No mistakes."
Bolitho remained on deck until the land and the sheltering ships were lost in the swift darkness. He waited until the world had shrunk to the leaping spray and trailing phosphorescence, when the sky was so dark there was no margin between it and the ocean. Only then did he go below, where Ozzard was bustling about preparing a late meal.
Bolitho walked to the stern windows, which were smeared with salt and dappled in spray and thought of his years as a frigate captain. Leaving port had always been exciting, a kind of rare freedom. It was a pity that Poland did not see it like that. Or perhaps he was merely counting the days until he could rid himself of his responsibility-looking after a viceadmiral.
He glanced up as feet thudded across the deck, and voices echoed through the wind and the din of sails and rigging. It never changed, he thought, even after all the years. He still felt he should be up there, making decisions, taking charge of the ship and using her skills to the full. He gave a grim smile. No, he would never get used to it.
In the adjoining sleeping-cabin, he sat down by his open chest and stared at himself in the attached looking-glass.
Everyone imagined him to be younger than he really was. But what would she think as the years passed? He thought suddenly of the young officers who were probably sitting down to enjoy their first meal out of harbour, sharing their table with Jenour and probably trying to pry out the truth of the man he served. It might make a change from all the plentiful rumours, he thought. He stared at his reflection, his eyes pitiless, as if he were inspecting one of his own subordinates.
He was forty-nine years old. The rest was flattery This was the bitter truth. Catherine was a lovely passionate woman, one whom any man would fight and die for, if indeed he was a man. She would turn every head, be it at Court or in a street. There were some who might chance their hand now that they knew something of their. love, their affair as many would term it.
Bolitho pushed the white lock of hair from his forehead, hating it; knowing he was being stupid, with no more sense than a heartsick midshipman.
I am jealous, and I do not want to lose her love. Because it is my life. Without her, I am nothing.
He saw Allday looking in. He said, "Shall Ozzard pour the wine, Sir Richard?" He saw the expression on Bolitho's face and thought he knew why he was troubled. Leaving her had been bad. Returning might be harder for him, with all his doubts.
"I am not hungry." He heard the sea roar alongside the hull like something wilful, and knew that the ship was ploughing into the ocean, away from the land's last protection.
If only they could move faster, and cut away the leagues.
Allday said, "You've done a lot, Sir Richard. Not spared yourself a moment since we made our landfall. You'll feel your old self tomorrow, you'll see."
Bolitho watched his face in the glass. I never give him any peace.
Allday tried again. "It's a nice plate o' pork in proper bread-crumbs, just as you like it. Not get anything as good after a few weeks of this lot! "
Bolitho turned on the chair and said, "I want you to cut my hair tomorrow." When Allday said nothing, he added angrily, "I suppose you think that's idiotic! "
Allday replied diplomatically, "Well, Sir Richard, I sees that most o' the wardroom bloods affects the newer fashion these days." He shook his pigtail and added reproachfully, "Don't see it signifies meself."
"Can you do it?"
A slow grin spread across Allday's weathered face. "Course I will, Sir Richard."
Then the true importance of the request hit him like a block. "Can I say me piece, Sir Richard?"
"Have I ever prevented you?"
Allday shrugged. "Well, not hardly ever. That is, not often."
"Go on, you damned rascal! "
Allday let out his breath. That was more like it. The old gleam in those sea-grey eyes. The friend, not just the admiral.
"I saw what you done for Mr Tyacke-"
Bolitho snapped, "What anyone would have done! "
Allday stood firm. "No, they wouldn't lift a finger, an' you knows it, beggin' your pardon."
They glared at each other like antagonists until Bolitho said, "Well, spit it out."
Allday continued, "I just think it's right an' proper that you gets some o' the cream for yourself, an' that's no error neither! " He grimaced and put his hand to his chest and saw Bolitho's instant concern. "See, Sir Richard, you're doing it this minute! Thinking o' me, of anyone but yourself."
Ozzard made a polite clatter with some crockery in the great cabin and Allday concluded firmly, "That lady would worship you even if you looked like poor Mr Tyacke."
Bolitho stood up and brushed past him. "Perhaps I shall eat after all." He looked from him to Ozzard. "It seems I shall get no rest otherwise." As Ozzard bent to pour some wine Bolitho added, "Open the General's brandy directly." To Allday he said, "Baird was right about you. We could indeed use a few thousand more like you! "
Ozzard laid the wine in a cooler and thought sadly of the splendid cabinet she had given him, which lay somewhere on the sea-bed in the shattered wreck of the Hyperion. He had seen the glance which passed between Bolitho and his rugged coxswain. A bond. Unbreakable to the end.
Bolitho said, "Take some brandy, Allday, and be off with you."
Allday turned by the screen door and peered aft as Bolitho seated himself at the table. So many, many times he had stood behind him in countless different gigs and barges. Always the black hair tied at the nape of his neck above his collar. With death and danger all around, and in times of rejoicing it had always been there.
He closed the door behind and gave the motionless sentry a wink. Whatever the rights and wrongs of it, no matter how they sorted it out with so many set against them, Bolitho and his lady would come through it. He smiled to himself, remembering when she had taken the time to speak with him. A real sailor's woman.
And God help anyone who tried to come between them.
In the days and the weeks which followed, while Truculent battled her way north-west towards the Cape VerdeIslands, against perverse changes of wind which seemed intent only on delaying her passage, Bolitho withdrew into himself, even more than when outward bound.
Allday knew it was because he had nothing to plan or prepare this time, not even the affairs of the ship to divert his attention. Jenour too had seen the change in him when he had taken his daily walks on deck; surrounded by Truculent's people and the busy routine found in any man-of-war, and yet so completely alone.
Each time he came on deck he examined the chart or watched the master instructing the midshipmen with the noon sights. Poland probably resented it, and took Bolitho's regular examinations of the calculations and knots-made-good as unspoken criticism.
Bolitho had even turned on Jenour over some trivial matter, and just as quickly had apologised. Had stared at the empty sea and said, "This waiting is destroying me, Stephen! "
Now he was fast asleep in his cot after being awake half the night, tormented by dreams which had left him shaking uncontrollably.
Catherine watching him with her lovely eyes, then laughing while another took her away without even a struggle. Catherine, soft and pliable in his hands, then far beyond his reach as he awoke calling her name.
Seven weeks and two days exactly since Bolitho had seen TableMountain swallowed up in darkness. He rolled over gasping, his mouth dry as he tried to remember his last dream.
With a start he realised that Allday was crouching by his cot, his figure in shadow as he held out a steaming mug. Bolitho's mind reeled, and all his old senses and reactions put an edge to his voice. "What is it, man?" With something like terror he clapped his hand to his face, but Allday murmured, "'Tis all right, Sir Richard your eye ain't playin' tricks." He stumbled from the cot and followed Allday into the stern cabin, the mug of coffee untouched.
If the ship seemed to be in darkness, beyond the stern windows the sea's face was already pale and hard, like polished pewter.
Allday guided him to the quarter window and said, "I know it's a mite early, Sir Richard. The morning watch is just on deck."
Bolitho stared until his eyes stung. He heard Allday say harshly, "I thought you'd want to be called, no matter the hour."
There was no burning sunshine or brilliant dawn here. He wiped the thick, salt-stained glass with his sleeve and saw the first spur of land as it crept through the misty greyness. Leaping waves like wild spectres, their roar lost in far distance.
"You recognise it, old friend?" He sensed that Allday had nodded but he said nothing. Maybe he could not.
Bolitho exclaimed, "The Lizard. A landfall-and surely there could be none better! "
He rose from the bench seat and stared around the shadows. "Though we shall stand too far out to see it, we will be abeam of Falmouth at eight bells."
Allday watched him as he strode about the cabin, the coffee spilling unheeded on the checkered deck covering. He was glad now that he had awakened to hear the lookout calling to the quarterdeck, "Land on the lee bow! "
The Lizard. Not just any landfall but the coast of Cornwall.
Bolitho did not see the relief and the pleasure in Allday's eyes. It was like a cloud being driven away. The threat of a storm giving way to hope. She would be in their room at this very moment, and would not know how close he was.
Allday picked up the mug and grinned. "I'll fetch some fresh."
He might as well have said nothing. Bolitho had taken out the locket she had given him, and was staring at it intently as the grey light penetrated the cabin.
Allday opened the door of the little storeroom. Ozzard was curled up asleep in one corner. With elaborate care he lifted one of Ozzard's outflung arms off the brandy cask and gently turned the tap over the mug.
Home again. He held the mug to his lips even as the calls trilled to rouse the hands for the new, but different, day.
And not a moment too soon, matey!