Sword of Honour

18

Final Embrace

Bolitho pressed his face against the thick glass of the quarter-gallery, and watched the little schooner’s distorted shape as she clawed her way across the wind.

When he turned he saw the stains of salt water on the deck covering, where Tireless’s captain had stood after a hasty pull to the flagship.

So young, so earnest, perhaps not able to grasp the magnitude of these events. He had almost pleaded, ”I can stay in company, Sir Richard. We’re no match for close action, but surely we could do something?”

Bolitho had said, ”You have done enough. The signal, for instance.”

Penrose had forced a smile. ”I heard it said that you used the same ruse to deceive a more powerful enemy, so that he should believe you had sighted friendly ships.”

How could Penrose have known? It was beyond trickery now.

Bolitho had said, ”They will not run. They dare not. There is too much at stake.” He had taken his hand. ”Go to Malta with all haste. Tell the senior officer. I shall rely on it.”

Tyacke was standing by the table now, Avery by the fine wine cooler, his hand touching it as if to reassure himself. Beyond the screen there was utter silence except for the muffled sounds of sea and rigging. A ship holding her breath.

Tyacke said, ”Shall I remain on this course, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho walked to the table and lifted a corner of the chart. His unfinished letter still lay there; it had been hidden by the chart. Lieutenant Penrose could have picked it up, put it inside his spray-dappled coat before returning to his little command. And, sooner or later, she would have read it .... He recalled what Tyacke had asked him; he had not questioned or even doubted him. So much trust. It was like a betrayal, and he was suddenly angry.

Those fools in London, what do they know or even care, until all at once it is too late! All they can think about is grand receptions, peerages and self- congratulation! Men have died because of their arrogance and complacency! And will go on dying!”

Avery had stepped away from the cooler, his eyes very bright in the filtered sunshine. He had never seen Bolitho reveal his anger before, even though, many times, he had guessed it was there.

Bolitho said, ”Huntress was taken, a vital link in the chain of an overstretched squadron! What did their lordships expect? Perhaps that the tyrant would remain passive, indifferent? This is not merely a man, but a colossus, one who has cowed and conquered every force that stood against him, from Egypt to the snows of Russia, from the Indian Ocean to the Spanish Main. What in hell’s name did they expect?”

He calmed himself with an effort. ”There are hundreds, perhaps thousands of men who owed their power and influence to Napoleon. Without him to direct them, they are nothing.” He thought of Penrose again, and his signal. ”Oh, they will come, and we shall be ready for them.” He plucked his shirt from his body. ”But the trap is sprung. The maybes and the if onlys have no place here.”

He looked at Tyacke, his eyes very clear. ”You thought, perhaps, that nobody but a fool would challenge a ship of the line?”

Tyacke glanced at the chart, and saw the letter beneath it.

”Frobisher will dish them up, Sir Richard, you have my word on it!”

Yovell had appeared silently, and ventured, ”Then it will be war, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho said, ”We shall soon know.”

They all looked at the open skylight as the lookout’s voice pealed, ”Deck there! Sail to the nor’east!”

Bolitho turned to Avery. ”Take a glass, George. I need your experience today.”

Avery snatched up his hat. ”Could it be Huntress. Sir Richard?”

Another voice reached down to the great cabin. It was Midshipman Singleton this time.

”Deck there! Another sail to the nor’east!”

Bolitho pushed the lock of hair from his forehead. ”I think not, George.” Then he smiled, and Avery was very conscious of the warmth in it. ”And fetch down Mr. Singleton, or he’ll have no lungs left!”

The door closed and Tyacke waited, blue eyes watching every movement, every changing mood, like reflections on the sea’s face.

Bolitho nodded slowly. ”Yes, James, the two we saw in Algiers. Privateers, renegades, pirates, who can say? They will fight. They cannot afford to fail.”

Tyacke glanced around the cabin, imagining it stripped of all things personal, precious to this unbreakable man. A place of war.

”I would like to speak with the people, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho touched his arm as he walked to the opposite side. ”Good. It is their right.”

Tyacke understood. What you would do in my place. What so many would not.

Their eyes met, and Bolitho said quietly, ”Ten minutes, then? It will be enough, I think.”

Tyacke closed the door behind him, and Yovell, too, prepared to leave.

Bolitho said. ”Wait a moment, Daniel. Bring me a pen. Then you may put this letter in the strongbox.”

Yovell went to the desk where he kept his pens. Pipes shrilled, and he was surprised that he was unafraid.

”All hands! Clear the lower deck and lay aft!”

He looked toward the tall figure by the table, remembering. It is their right. Then he pulled open a drawer, his mind clear. He would fetch his Bible; it had never failed to comfort him. He placed a fresh pen on the table and saw Bolitho press the letter between his hands. His profile was composed, as if he was able to detach himself and his mind from the din of running feet, and the voices calling to one another. Voices offering hope and reassurance, and he was moved by them.

And then there was utter silence again; he thought of the flag lieutenant up in the cross trees with his telescope, probably looking down at the ship and the assembled seamen and marines, so rarely seen all together at one time.

Bolitho did not look up as Yovell padded quietly from the cabin. He read the first part of the letter very slowly, and hoped she would hear his voice when she read it. How could he be so sure that she would even receive it, or that they would be victorious today?

The pen hesitated above the letter, and then he smiled. There was nothing to add.

He wrote, I love thee, Kate, my rose. Then he kissed it, and sealed it with great care.

He was aware of the Royal Marine sentry outside the door, shuffling his feet and probably trying to hear what the captain was saying on deck.

The adjoining door opened and Allday entered, pausing only to close the skylight. His own way of holding the things he hated at bay. He said offhandedly, ”Young Mr. Singleton says there are two frigates. Sir Richard.” He glanced at the eighteen-pounder gun near him. ”They’ll not do much, no matter what they thinks, an’ that’s no error!”

Bolitho smiled at him. and hoped that there was no sadness in his heart.

But we know differently, my dear friend. We have done it ourselves. Can you not remember?

Instead he said. ”We’ve a fine day for it, old friend.” He saw Allday’s eyes move to the swords on their rack. ”So let’s be about it!”

Ozzard was here also, Bolitho’s coat over his narrow shoulder. ”This one. Sir Richard?”

”Yes.”

It would be a hard fight, no matter what Allday thought about it. Frobisher’s company would need to see him. To know they were not alone, and that someone cared for them.

Then the drums began to rattle, urgent and insistent.

”Hands to quarters! Clear for action!”

He slipped his arms into the sleeves and took his hat from Ozzard. The one she had persuaded him to buy in that other, timeless shop in St. James’s.

My admiral of England.

He held out his arms and waited for Allday to fasten the old sword into position. Ozzard would take the glittering presentation blade with him when he went down to the orlop, when the guns began their deadly symphony.

Allday opened the door for him and the marine sentry slammed his heels together, waiting to be released from this duty so that he could be with his comrades.

Allday closed the door from habit, even though the ship would soon be cleared from bow to stern, screens and cabins torn down, personal possessions stowed away until they were recovered by their owners, or sold to their mates if fate turned against them.

He found time to notice that Bolitho did not look back.

Captain James Tyacke stood by the quarterdeck rail, his arms folded while he surveyed the ship, his ship, in this moment of instinct and experience when nothing could be overlooked. He could feel the first lieutenant watching him, perhaps seeking approval, or preparing for some sharp criticism. But he was a good officer, and he had done well. The chain slings had been rigged to the yards, and nets spread to protect men on the maindeck from falling debris. There were boarding nets also. They could not estimate the strength or the determination of the enemy. If fanatics from a chebeck could hack their way aboard, this was no time to take chances.

He looked along each line of guns, the eighteen-pounders which made up half of Frobisher’s artillery. Until action was joined, each remained a separate unit, the gun captains sorting over the rows of black balls in the shot garlands. A good gun captain could select a perfectly moulded shot just by turning it in his hands.

A glance aloft, to the small scarlet clusters in each fighting top: marine marksmen and others who could aim and fire the deadly swivel guns. Known by the Royals as daisy cutters, they could scythe anything more than an inch high to the ground, or to the deck. Most sailors hated the swivels; they were unpredictable, and could be equally dangerous to friend and foe alike.

The decks had been well sanded. It was said to prevent men from slipping in the heat of action, although everyone knew the real reason for it.

”Well done, Mr. Kellett.” Tyacke took a telescope from the rack and raised it to his eye. Without looking, he knew that Kellett was smiling his deceptively gentle smile, satisfied.

He felt his jaw tighten as the first pyramid of sails appeared to rise out of the shark-blue water like a phantom. He moved the glass again. The second frigate had luffed, and was drawing away from her consort. Almost to himself, he said, They hope to divide our fire.”

He lowered the glass slightly and glanced up at Frobisher’ sspread of canvas, topsails and fore course flying and outer jib, with the big driver angled across the poop, the White Ensign streaming out from the peak. He knew that Tregidgo, the sailing master, was watching him. He ignored him. They all had their vital roles to play, but he was the captain. He must decide.

The wind was as before, from the north-west, not strong, but steady. Enough to change tack when required. She would handle even better when the order was given to slip the boats from their tow-lines astern; the main deck looked strangely clean and bare without them. Always a bad moment for sailors, when they saw their means of survival cast adrift. But the risk of flying splinters was far greater.

The sky was clearing, so different from the dawn. Long banks of pale clouds, but the sun already stronger and higher. He grimaced. A perfect setting.

He turned to face Kellett. ”I want to make this quite clear. When we get to grips with those fellows, I want every available man at his station. Provided he can walk, I need him today, and I’ll not stand for carrying passengers! The lower gundeck is the key to any fight with faster vessels. Inform Mr. Gage and Mr. Armytage that I expect them to maintain rapid fire no matter what may be happening up here. Is that understood?”

Kellett nodded. He had heard about Tyacke’s experience at the Nile, when he had been on the lower gundeck with the big thirty-two pounders. Guns which, if properly laid and trained, could pierce nearly three feet of solid oak. Or so it was claimed.

Kellett had only served on a lower gundeck once, as a very junior lieutenant. The noise and the inferno of fire and smoke had been enough to drive some men to panic. It was a place and a time where only discipline and rigid training could overcome fear and madness. How it must have been for Tyacke .... He remarked, ”They wear no colours, sir.” It was something to say, to ease the tension.

Tyacke raised his glass again. ”They soon will. And by God they’ll lose them, too!”

He concentrated on the leading frigate. There was a fine display of gilded carving around her beak head He smiled, unconsciously. She was Spanish, or had been once. He wondered what had happened to Huntress; perhaps they had put her down after the failure to lure Tireless beneath her broadside. He thought of his own depleted company. He must keep the enemy at a distance, cripple at least one of them.

How easy it was to regard strange ships as enemies; he had been doing it for most of his life. He thought suddenly of Bolitho. He was in the chart room, probably keeping out of the way. when every fibre in his body was tugging at him to take command, as a captain again. But there was neither fleet nor squadron this time, and some of the waiting seamen would be thinking as much. Their fate lay in the hands of three captains, and the man whose flag whipped out from the mainmast truck.

Tyacke heard Midshipman Singleton instructing his signals party by the halliards. The boy seemed different in some way, not yet mature, but in definably different.

Tyacke moved to the compass box and gazed at the group there, the backbone of any company committed to action. The master and his mates, three midshipmen to carry messages, four helmsmen at the tall double wheel, and beyond them, the rest of the after guard the marines and nine-pounder crews. Protected by nothing more than tightly-packed hammocks in the nettings, they would be the first target for any sharpshooter.

He said, ”Converging tack, Mr. Tregidgo.” He saw him nod; Tregidgo was not one to waste words. ”We will engage from either side.” He looked at their faces, stiff, empty. It was too late for anything else. I have decided.

He walked to the rail and gripped it. Warm, but nothing more. He smiled tightly. That would soon change. He looked along his command yet again, sobered by the thought that she might not be his for much longer. At the Nile, his own captain had fallen, and so many others on that bloody day. Could Kellett fight the ship if that happened? He shook himself angrily. It was not that. He had faced and accepted death many times. It was the navy’s way, perhaps the only way. To make men confront and accept what was, in truth, unacceptable.

It was Marion. The new belief, the hope that a hand had reached out for him. Something he had sometimes dreamed about, but too often dreaded. He thought of Portsmouth, gazing at the nearest gun’s crew. When all this had begun, when she had come to find him. With such quiet warmth, and such pride.

He thought of Bolitho’s unfinished letter, hidden by the chart in the great cabin. Marion could never have realised what strength he had found in her.

He heard Allday’s voice from the poop, and turned in readiness. He saw Bolitho, apparently quite calm, and Allday walking with him. As a friend, an equal. He smiled. No wonder it was so hard for people to understand, let alone share.

He touched his hat. ”I would like to alter course, Sir Richard. Those two beauties will try to harry us, to use haste to avoid being dismasted.” He waited while Bolitho took the big signals telescope from Midshipman Singleton, saw the way he held his head at an angle to obtain the best image. It was not possible to believe that he was blind in one eye.

They’m running up their colours, sir!”

Tyacke levelled his glass on the leading frigate. Had he really clung to a last doubt, a hope? He could see the Tricolour standing out to the wind. More than a gesture; it meant that this was war again, even if the rest of the world was ignorant of it. Napoleon had escaped from what had been, at best, a token captivity. He recalled Bolitho’s rare anger, his despair for the men he had led, who, in his eyes, had been betrayed by complacency. Tyacke glanced at him now, and saw the bitterness on his features as he returned the glass to Singleton.

Then he looked directly at his flag captain. ”So it is war once more, James.” There was a cold edge to his voice. ”So much for the Bourbon Restoration.” He looked around at the silent gun crews and the waiting seamen, and the marines, faces shadowed beneath their leather hats. Very quietly, he said, ”Too much blood, too many good men.”

Then he smiled, his teeth very white in his tanned face, and only those close enough could see the pain and the anger which lay there.

”So cast the boats adrift, Captain Tyacke, and let us give these scum a lesson, teach them that now, as before, we are here, and ready!”

Somebody gave a wild cheer, and it was carried along the deck to the forecastle and the men crouching at the carronades, although they could not have heard a single word.

It was infectious. A madness, and yet so much more.

Tyacke touched his hat with equal formality. ”I am yours to command, Sir Richard.”

Allday watched the cluster of boats drift haphazardly away from the counter. There was no cheering now, nor would there be until the flag came down. Theirs or ours, the rules never changed.

He touched his chest as the pain moved through him like a warning. Then he grinned. One more time. And they were still together.

Bolitho stood beside Tyacke and watched the oncoming ships. The range was closing, and, at a guess, stood at about three miles. An hour and a half had passed since Frobisher had cleared for action; it felt like an eternity.

The two frigates were almost in line ahead, their sails overlapping, as if they were joined. It was the usual illusion; they were perhaps a mile apart, and pointing directly towards Frobisher’s larboard bow. The wind had not varied by a degree; it was still north-westerly, light but steady enough. The frigates were close-hauled on the starboard tack, probably as near to the wind as they could manage.

”Shall I run out. Sir Richard?”

Bolitho glanced at him, at his burned profile, and the steady blue eye.

‘i think they intend to tackle us separately. They’d never risk a fight broadside-to-broadside, not against our armament. If I were in command, I would change tack at the last possible moment. The leader could then lie athwart our hawse and be able to rake us as he passes, and we’d not be able to bring a single gun to bear.”

Tyacke nodded slowly, seeing it. ”If we try to follow him round, which we can do with the wind in our favour, the other one will go for our stern, and pour a broadside through us while we are engaged. I think we should run out now, and try to cripple one of them with our heavy battery.” He looked at Bolitho. ”What do you suggest? You’re a frigate captain, and always will be. I’d welcome your experience!”

Bolitho smiled. That was bravely said. It is just a feeling.” He could not keep the excitement out of his voice. ”Those two captains are desperate, to engage us, to cripple us, above all to provoke close action. The wind is in our favour, but they can match our strength with their agility. I think that the unexpected will win the day. We can come about into the wind, be taken aback in all probability, but we can give each a broadside before either captain can stand away. What say you, James?”

Tyacke was staring at the two oncoming frigates, as if they were being drawn towards Frobisher by an invisible force, like a line on a chart.

”I’ll pass the word.”

He looked down as Bolitho touched his sleeve. ”When we turn, run out the upper guns, James. Keep the lower gundeck sealed. It will give them something to ponder over.”

Tyacke smiled. ”It might just work, by God! Trick for trick!”

Bolitho saw Avery watching him, brushing threads of cordage from his breeches after his hasty descent to the deck.

”I’ll send him, if I may, James. Captains and admirals should sometimes keep their distance.”

He saw Tyacke’s smile open into a grin. Because of the unlikely plan of action, or because he had not been too proud to ask for advice? But he was already calling to Kellett and the other lieutenants to outline what he required of them.

Avery listened to Bolitho without comment, his expression thoughtful, curious.

Bolitho repeated, ”No double-shotting, no grape. I want every shot to find its target. Tell the lieutenant on the lower gundeck to keep firing, no matter what!” His grey eyes moved towards the waiting gun crews. ”Otherwise it will be bloody work up here.”

Avery looked at the other ships. Was it only his imagination, or were they much closer?

”And Napoleon. Sir Richard? Where will he be, at this moment?”

Bolitho heard the crash of a solitary gun, but could see no telltale fall of shot. A signal, one ship to the other? A misfire, perhaps?

He answered, ”He could be anywhere.” He added quietly, ”He may have gone to his home in Corsica, but a few miles from Elba. Can you imagine a more reckless place to imprison such a man? But my guess is France, where his real strength lies, where people will rise up and follow him yet again.”

”You admire him, don’t you, Sir Richard?”

”Admire! That is too strong a word. He is the enemy.” Then he gripped his arm, the mood changing again. ”But if I were a Frenchman, i would be there to welcome him.”

He watched Avery move away, and said, Take young Singleton, for the experience.” He shaded his eye to look at the masthead. ”I shall need no signals today.”

Avery hesitated, and saw some of the seamen running to the braces and halliards, Tyacke consulting the sailing master and his mates by the compass. In a moment the ship would alter course to larboard, into the wind, into the enemy. He looked at the distant pyramids of sails. Half an hour, at the most. He beckoned to the midshipman and together they hurried to the companion ladder.

After the brightness of the upper deck, the lower hull seemed like a musty vault.

When they reached the lower gundeck, Avery had to stand for several seconds to accustom his eyes to the gloom, and the sudden sense of danger. A little, feeble light filtered through the tiny observation ports on either bow, and from lanterns protected behind thick glass. The guns were manned and loaded, and he could see the eyes of some of the seamen glinting as they turned to watch him. Was that why Bolitho had told him to take Singleton with him? Because he was known to these men, young or not, and because as flag lieutenant he himself would be, and would remain, a stranger?

Objects were taking shape on either side, the great black humps of the breeches, the powerful thirty-two pounders, fourteen on either side. Tiny pinpricks of light, like malevolent eyes, flickered in each match tub, slow matches in readiness if the more modern flintlock should fail or misfire.

He was joined by the two lieutenants in charge, ”Holly’ Gage and Walter Armytage. He met them often enough in the wardroom, but it went no further than that.

He could feel the intensity of their concentration as he explained what was intended.

Gage said doubtfully, ”Might work.”

His friend laughed, and some of his men leaned over to listen. ”I shall tell our people we need a miracle today!”

Avery touched his arm. ”If the order comes, you’ll know they’re trying to board us.” He gestured toward the guns. ”Seal the ports and clear the deck. We’ll need every man jack to repel an attack in strength!”

As they moved to the ladder again, he saw the side of the hull, dull red in the feeble light. If the enemy’s iron burst into this crowded deck, at least the paint would conceal the blood.

Singleton said, ”Will it work, sir?” He sounded very serious, but not afraid.

Avery thought of all those other times, and replied, ”If anyone can do it, he can.”

The light seemed blinding on the upper deck. Avery saw Tyacke turn towards the admiral, one arm half-raised as he said, ”Now, sir?”

Bolitho nodded, and gripped his sword against his hip.

”Stand by on the quarterdeck!”

”Ready ho!”

Tyacke barely raised his voice. ”Put the helm down!”

As the wheel was hauled over and the ship began to turn to larboard, men were already running like demons to let go the headsail sheets, spilling out the wind so as not to hamper the ship’s head from swinging.

Instead of the peace and the menace of their approach, everything was noise and orderly confusion, the sails banging and flapping wildly as the ship continued to turn.

Bolitho walked to the opposite side and watched the enemy. Perhaps they had been expecting Frobisher to stand downwind to give battle to the leader, exposing her stern to the other frigate. Now it appeared as if they and not Frobisher were turning, separating, one on either bow.

He glanced aloft, at the writhing sails pressed against masts and yards. The ship was aback, unable to pay off on either tack, but the frigates were in a worse plight, sailing so close to the wind that they had no choice but to alter course. Frobisher was almost hove-to, and might even have lost steerage way, but it made no difference now.

He shouted, ”At ‘em, lads!”

The port lids were hauled up, and to the shrill of a whistle the main deck eighteen-pounders trundled their black muzzles out into the sunlight.

”As you bear! Fire!” That was Lieutenant Pennington, his face scarred from the fight with the Algerines. The leading frigate seemed to turn away, her foremast and rigging reeling over in the carefully-aimed broadside, gun by gun, each shot controlled by Pennington and another lieutenant. Up forward, the breathless crews were already sponging out and ramming home new charges, oblivious to the banging canvas and the yells of top men high above them.

”As you bear!” Tyacke’s sword blinked in the sun as he brought it down. ”Fire!”

The second frigate had recovered and was already setting more sails, to continue with her original attack or to escape further setbacks, Bolitho could not tell. She was standing across the starboard bow, changing tack, close enough to her damaged consort to be able to see the destruction and the upended guns.

Bolitho looked at Avery. ”Now!”

Avery, with Singleton at his heels, ran for the companion ladder, tugging a whistle from his shirt as he stumbled and almost fell down the last steps.

Smoky daylight scythed through the gundeck as the port lids opened as one, and the crews threw themselves on the tackles to haul their massive charges towards the enemy. Each ”Long Nine’, as these guns were nicknamed, weighed three tons, and the naked backs of the seamen were soon shining with sweat.

Lieutenant Gage was pressed up to his small spy-hole, then he turned, his face wild. ”On the up roll lads!”

Avery heard Singleton shout, ”Cover your ears, sir!” Then the world seemed to explode, smoke billowing through the deck, where men were already serving their guns and others waited with handspikes and rammers to compete with their messmates. The same men who served these guns slept and ate beside them; the guns were the first things they saw upon waking every day, and, too often, in dying, the last.

Each gun captain held up his fist, and Armytage yelled, ”Ready, sir!”

”Fire!”

Again the guns crashed inboard on their tackles, but suddenly another whistle shrilled, and the same crews were struggling to secure them and close the ports to prevent the enemy boarders from attacking them in their midst. In their home.

Armytage was shouting, ”Arm yourselves!” As he ran past Avery, he called, ”We’re going to foul the first bugger, George! We’ve done for the other one!” He was grinning, mad with excitement, but all Avery could think was that it was the first time he had called him by name.

On deck, Bolitho watched the second frigate with something like disbelief. An enemy, driven by hatred and revenge, but a thing of beauty, two broadsides from those thirty-two-pounders had reduced her to a mast less wreck. He turned and stared at the mainmast of the frigate which had taken their first, carefully aimed broadside, when Frobisher had caught the enemy completely by surprise. A collision was inevitable; Frobisher had not regained the wind, and the other ship was out of command. Seamen and marines were already running to the point of impact, bayonets and cutlasses shining through the seemingly immovable pall of pale smoke.

There were cheers, too, as more men came pouring from the lower gundeck, either already armed or snatching up weapons from the chests prepared earlier by the gunner.

Bolitho saw Captain Wise of the Royal Marines striding, not deigning to run after his men as they crouched by the hammock nettings and searched for targets.

Shots cracked and whined overhead or smacked through the heavy canvas, and here and there a man fell, or was dragged away by his companions. But their blood was up; no boarder would survive this day.

He saw Avery and Singleton hurrying toward the quarterdeck; the midshipman was almost knocked over by a charging, wild-eyed marine.

Tyacke waved his sword. ”Board ‘em, lads! Cut that bloody flag down!”

Bolitho strained his eyes through the smoke, and saw men already on the frigate’s forecastle. There was resistance, but the harsh blast of a swivel gun scattered the defiant ones like torn rags.

Singleton’s voice cracked for the first time. ”They’ve struck, sir! They’re done for!” He was almost weeping with excitement.

Bolitho turned to Allday. So it was war again. But even war would not keep him from her.

A seaman running with a boarding pike slipped on blood and would have fallen, but for Bolitho’s grip on his arm.

He lifted his eyes in disbelief, and managed to stammer, ”Thankee, Sir Richard! I be all right now!”

Allday was about to say something, he did not know what, when he felt the pain again, so intense that he could barely move. But it was not the old wound this time. He saw Bolitho turn and stare at him, as if he would speak, but seemed unable to find the words.

He heard Avery shout, ”Hold him!” Then he saw Bolitho fall. It was like being given new life, new strength; he leaped forward and caught him around the shoulders, holding him, lowering him carefully, everything else without meaning or purpose.

Men were cheering, some firing their muskets. It meant nothing.

From the starboard gangway Tyacke saw him fall, but knew he must not leave his men while they boarded the enemy, following his orders. Midshipman Singleton, who had become a man this day, also saw him fall, and was on his knees beside him with Allday and Avery.

Bolitho turned his face away from the sunlight which lanced down between the shrouds and the limp sails. His eye was stinging in the smoke, and he wanted to rub it. But when he attempted to move, there was no response, no sensation, only numbness.

Shadows moved across the sun, and he could hear faint cheers, as if they came from another time, another victory.

They were all here, then. Waiting. A sudden anxiety ran through him.

Where was Herrick? Herrick should be here .... Someone reached around him and dabbed his face with a wet cloth. He recognised the sleeve; it was Lefroy, the bald surgeon.

He heard Allday’s painful breathing, and needed to tell him, to reassure him. Everything would be the same.

But when he tried to reach out for him, he realised for the first time that his hand was tightly gripped between Allday’s. Then he saw him, watching him, his hair shaggy against the smoke and the sun.

Allday murmured, ”Mr. Herrick’s not here, Cap’n. But don’t you fret now.”

It was wrong that he should be so distressed. One who had done so much. He tried again, and said, ”Easy, old friend, be easy now.” He felt Allday nod. ”No grief, we always knew .. ..”

Lefroy stood slowly, and said, ”He’s gone, I’m afraid.”

Tyacke was here now, his sword still in his hand. He stood in silence, unable to accept it, and yet knowing that all the others were looking to him. To the captain.

Then something made him reach down and grip the sobbing midshipman’s shoulder. Like that time at the Nile.

He said, ”Haul down his flag, Mr. Singleton.” And then, gazing unseeingly at Allday’s bowed head, ”Help him, will you? There’s none better for the task.”

He saw Kellett and the others watching, the fight forgotten, the victory now pointless, empty.

He turned, as Avery stood and said quietly, ”Goodbye, dearest of men.”

As if she had spoken through him.

It was over.

Epilogue

The carriage wheeled into the stable yard and came to a halt with practised ease, and a stable boy ran to take the horses’ heads. To pacify them, perhaps, after so short a journey from the harbour.

Adam Bolitho opened the door without hesitation. This was the only way he knew, to go through with it.

He climbed down and stood on the worn cobbles and stared at the old grey house with a certain defiance.

Young Matthew had remained on the carriage, his face grim and downcast, almost a stranger, like the stable boy.

It had been Bryan Ferguson’s idea to send the carriage, as soon as he had received word that the frigate Unrivalled had anchored in Carrick Roads.

Adam glanced around now, at the carpets of daffodils and bluebells amongst the trees, seeing none of it.

This was the place where he had come for help, for sanctuary, when his mother had died. Then, from midshipman to post-captain, a life full of excitement, elation and pain; and he owed it all to one man, his uncle. And now he, too, was dead. It was still stark and unreal, and yet, in some strange way, he had sensed it.

When Unrivalled had entered Plymouth after her first weeks under his command, he had known it then. The port admiral, Vice-Admiral Valentine Keen, had put off in his barge to meet him personally. To tell him. We Happy Few.

Napoleon had escaped from Elba, and a few days later had landed near Cannes, to be greeted not with hostility or fear but like a conquering hero, especially by his marshals and Old Guard, who had never lost their faith in him.

He had walked the streets of Plymouth, grappling with it, fighting it. His uncle had fallen on the very day that Napoleon had stepped ashore.

Even through his grief, he had sensed the mood in that seaport which had seen so much. Anger, frustration, a sense of betrayal. He understood their bitterness; there was hardly a village in England which had not lost someone in a war against the old enemy. And in seaports like Plymouth and in garrison towns, there were too many cripples in evidence to allow them to forget.

In Falmouth, it had been much worse. Falmouth was no city but lived off the sea, and the ships of every size and flag which came and went on the tides. Bad news rides a fast horse, Ferguson had said. Enemies were nothing new to these people; like the sea, the dangers were always there. But this was different, close, personal. Falmouth had lost her most beloved son. The flag above the church of King Charles the Martyr was at half-mast, and idlers had dropped their eyes when he had climbed from his gig, as if they were unable to face him. During the short journey from the town square, past familiar fields where he had seen men and women working together in the warm spring sunlight, some had looked up as the coach with its familiar crest rattled past, as if they still believed, dared to hope, then, as quickly, they had looked away.

The pleasure of his new command seemed unimportant; there was no one with whom to share it now. Even the names and faces of his ship’s company were blurred, a part of something else, irrelevant.

He himself had remained composed, withdrawn; he had seen too many men die in battle to be unprepared, or to reveal the distress which was now tearing him apart.

He saw Ferguson climb down from the carriage, using his solitary arm as if he had never known anything different. He was a good man, a reliable one, and a friend. Ferguson understood him well enough to ensure that he was spared the agony of being greeted by the people who worked here and on the estate, especially his wife Grace, who would have been unable to contain her tears.

How quiet it seemed, the windows in shadow, watching.

Ferguson said, ”We got the news two days back. A cutter came into port. I told Lady Catherine myself. She left for London immediately.”

Adam turned and looked back at the stables, at the big mare Tamara, tossing her head up and down.

Ferguson saw his glance, and said, ”Lady Catherine will come back. She’d not leave Tamara.” He hesitated, his hand twisting at his belt. ”John Allday. D’you happen to know

”Safe.” Bethune had sent a full report to Keen, probably quite a different kind from that which he would write for the Admiralty. But until the others came home, they would not know the full story.

Keen had tried to explain to him, and Adam had guessed much of it. Frobisher had returned to Malta to land her dead and wounded, although there had been few of either. Bethune, Tyacke, A very; someone close to Sir Richard must have suggested a sea burial. To avoid the splendid ritual which had attended Nelson’s death, the ostentatious displays of grief and mourning from people who had hated England’s hero in life. To spare Catherine the agony of seeing the same mockery made of her lover’s sacrifice.

They had buried him at sea. Adam had seen it as vividly as if he had been there. Wrapped in his flag, an admiral of England, at a place marked on a chart of which few would know. Surely no better resting-place, by his old ship Hyperion, and so many of her company whom he had never forgotten.

He found that he was on the stone steps, and knew Ferguson had stopped by the tall, double doors to allow him the time and the solitude for this reunion.

It was all exactly as he remembered it, the grave portraits, the great hearth where he had lain with Zenoria, some fresh flowers on a table, the door to the library partly open, as if somebody might appear there; he could even imagine the smell of jasmine.

He clenched his fists as he saw the sword, lying on a table in a patch of sunshine. Bethune must have sent it with his courier, perhaps not knowing what he should do with it. And Keen had sent a cutter to Falmouth with his own letter of condolence to Catherine. It was strange that he had not mentioned it in Plymouth.

He picked up the old sword very slowly, and saw the sheet of paper which had been folded beneath it.

It was Catherine’s writing. What it must have cost her to sit here in anguish, and yet be able to think of him.

Dearest Adam,

The sword outwore its scabbard. Wear it with pride, as he always wanted. God bless you.

Ferguson stepped quietly into the room and watched, holding his breath, as Adam Bolitho unfastened his own sword and clipped the old blade in its place.

In this room, and in this light, it was not Adam but Richard standing there, all those years ago, and he was deeply moved by it.

When he looked again, Adam was smiling, and holding out both hands to him.

It needed no words.

The last Bolitho had come home.

End