Epilogue
Captain Beves Conway swung away from the
stern windows of his day cabin and called, ‘Have him come aft
directly, man!’
He had been watching
the thirty-two gun frigate Condor enter
harbour and drop anchor with a minimum of fuss and delay; it was
what he would expect from a captain like Maude. Always busy, always
in demand. He cocked his head to listen to his own ship’s routine,
and almost sighed with relief. The disruption of overhaul was
finished, until their lordships insisted on another; the constant
comings and goings of working parties and dockyard experts and the
noise, smells and personal discomfort were being inflicted on some
other vessel, and His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Gorgon could now show even a frigate a thing or two
if required. Freshly blackened standing rigging and gleaming
paintwork were shining brightly, despite a morning so cold and
misty that even the usually restless gulls seemed content to float
upon the anchorage like discarded wreaths.
The screen door
opened a few inches, and the lieutenant said, ‘Mr. Bolitho, sir. He
has apologised for the state of his uniform.’ He said it without a
smile, unlike Verling. It felt strange to have another officer
standing in for him until his return from Guernsey. Verling would
be fretting over the delay. He would have heard all the latest news
from the colonies when Condor had
called at St. Peter Port with the admiral’s
despatches.
It would be good to
have him back as first lieutenant. Although he might feel quite
differently about it, after his brief but exciting flirtation with
the schooner Hotspur.
Conway glanced at the
letters lying open on his desk; they had been sent across from
Condor within minutes of her anchor
hitting the bottom.
One letter had been
from his old friend’s son, Midshipman Andrew Sewell. He was still
with Verling and the passage crew in Guernsey, but the short,
simple note had seemed like a reward, something which had warmed
him more than he would have believed, or hoped.
The door opened, and
Richard Bolitho walked into the cabin. This was only just February,
and much had happened since their last meeting, the Board held in
the flagship, which was still moored in exactly the same position
as the day when several ‘young gentlemen’ had been required to face
their tormentors. They all had to endure it, and laughed about it
afterwards. The fortunate ones, anyway.
He strode to meet him
and clasped his hands.
‘So good to see you
again, my boy! I want to hear all about the capture of the
smugglers, and the contraband you helped to seize. It will carry
some weight, I can tell you, with their lordships, and
above!’
He guided him to a
chair and the table where a servant had laid out some wine and his
best goblets.
‘I arranged for you
to take passage in Condor. I hope it
was a pleasant, if uneventful one?’ He did not wait for a reply; he
rarely did. ‘I know you will have a good deal to do, and I shall
not delay you unnecessarily. My clerk will take care of the other
matters.’
Bolitho leaned his
back against the chair. The same ship; even the weather, cold and
grey, had not changed. The houses of Plymouth, like the ranks of
anchored ships, were still half-shrouded in mist. It had seemed to
take an eternity for the frigate to make her entrance and
anchor.
And yet only days had
passed since it had begun. When they had climbed aboard
Hotspur, a lifetime ago.
He glanced down at
the breeches someone had loaned him, and at the makeshift patches
on his coat. Reminders, like the cuts and bruises on his
body.
The captain had
poured the wine himself and was smiling down at him.
‘I am very proud of
you, Richard. One of my midshipmen.’ He
raised his glass. ‘No need for you to be delayed when it could be
avoided. I had a word with the flag captain.’ He was refilling his
glass, although Bolitho did not recall tasting the wine. ‘And I
wanted to do it myself.’ He pulled open a drawer and took out an
unsealed envelope. ‘You are free to leave the ship and complete
your arrangements.’
He watched him take
the envelope, the ‘scrap of parchment’ they all joked about.
Afterwards.
‘Your commission,
Richard. None better deserved!’
Bolitho saw his
goblet being refilled. And still he could taste
nothing.
It was here. The
moment, the impossible step. He had seen some of the frigate’s
midshipmen glancing over at him during their brief time together.
All so young, like Sewell . . . although Sewell had
seemed suddenly mature.
And his first
appointment. You are herewith directed and
commanded, upon receipt of these orders . . .
The rest was blurred.
But it was a frigate,
named Destiny.
Conway was saying, ‘I
shall delay you no longer.’ He looked over at the desk. ‘Young
Andrew Sewell has told me what you did for him. It helped him more
than you can know. His father would have been obliged to you, had
he been here himself to thank you.’
Bolitho stood up;
there were voices in the outer cabin. He was grateful for the
interruption, and so, possibly, was the captain.
He said, ‘Martyn
Dancer was a great help to him, sir. They got on well
together.’
Conway walked with
him to the screen door, and impetuously put his arm around
Bolitho’s shoulder. Afterwards, the cabin servant remarked that he
had never seen Conway do anything like it, and it was never
repeated.
Conway said, ‘Then my
thanks are to you both.’ He looked again at the stern windows. ‘God
be with you when you join Destiny,’ and
he paused. ‘As a King’s officer.’
Out on the broad
quarterdeck the air was still misty, but there was a gleam on the
water, as if the sun were about to break through.
He would go to
Falmouth and tell his mother and sister. It would have to be a
brief visit, and he was glad of that also.
He looked around the
familiar decks, and at the groups of seamen and
marines.
This was the past.
Ahead lay the new horizon.