A Tradition of Victory (38 page)

He said, “But today is a special day. Let’s make the most of it. I’m glad we’re walking down to the church.” He looked steadily into Bolitho’s eyes. “She’s lucky. So are you.” He grinned.
“Sir.”

Allday opened the door, their hats in his hands. He looked very smart in his new gilt-buttoned jacket and nankeen breeches, a far cry from the man with a cutlass on the French flagship’s quarterdeck.

“There’s a visitor, gentlemen.”

Herrick groaned. “Send him or her packing, Allday. What a time to arrive!”

A tall shadow moved through the door and gave a stiff bow.

“With respect, sir, no admiral attends his wedding without his flag-lieutenant.”

Bolitho strode across the room and grasped both his hands.

“Oliver! Of all miracles!”

Browne gave his gentle smile. “A long story, sir. We escaped by boat and were picked up by a Yankee trader. Unfortunately, he was unwilling to put us ashore until we reached Morocco!” He studied Bolitho for several seconds. “Everywhere I’ve been I have heard nothing but praise for your victory. I did warn you that authority might take a different view if you succeeded with Admiral Beauchamp’s plan.” He glanced at Herrick’s new epaulettes and added, “But some rightful reward has been made, sir.”

Herrick said, “You’ve come at the right time, young fellow!”

Browne stepped back and then patted Bolitho’s coat and neckcloth into shape.

“There, sir, fit for
the
day.”

Bolitho walked through the open doors and looked at the empty grounds. The wedding was to be a quiet, personal thing, but it seemed as if every servant, Ferguson his steward, the gar-deners and even the stable-boy had gone on ahead of him.

He said softly, “Your safe arrival has done more good than I

can say, Oliver. It is like having a weight lifted from my heart.”

He turned and looked at his three friends and knew he meant it.

“Now we shall walk down together.”

As they arrived in the square and moved towards the old church of King Charles the Martyr, Bolitho was surprised to see a great crowd of townspeople waiting to see him.

As the three sea-officers, followed cheerfully by Allday, approached the church, many of the people began to cheer and wave their hats, and one man, obviously an old sailor, cupped his hands and yelled, “Good luck to ye! A cheer for Equality Dick!”

“What is happening, Thomas?”

Herrick shrugged unhelpfully. “Probably market day.”

Allday nodded, hiding a grin. “That might well be it, sir.

Bolitho paused on the steps and smiled at the expectant faces.

Some he knew, people he had played with as a child and had grown up with. Others he did not, for they had come from outlying villages, and some all the way from Plymouth where they had seen the squadron arrive and anchor.

For although the politicians and the lords of Admiralty could say and do as they pleased, to these ordinary people today was something important.

Once again a Bolitho had come home to the big grey house below Pendennis Castle. Not a stranger, but one of their own sons.

A clock chimed and Bolitho whispered, “Let us enter, Thomas.”

Herrick smiled at Browne. He had rarely seen Bolitho at a loss before.

The doors opened, and one more surprise waited to disturb Bolitho’s emotions.

The church was packed from end to end, and as Bolitho walked to meet the rector, he realized that many of them were officers and sailors from the squadron. One whole line was taken A

up by his captains and their wives, even their children. Inch, with his arm in a sling and his pretty wife. Veriker, his head to one side in case he misheard something. Valentine Keen whose
Nicator
had chased the last French ship under the guns of a coastal battery before he had decided to give the enemy best. Duncan and Lapish, and Lockhart of the
Ganymede,
obviously enjoying the twist of fate which had made him one of Bolitho’s captains. Nancy, Bolitho’s younger sister, was there beside her husband, the squire.

She was already dabbing her eyes and smiling at the same time, and even her husband looked unusually pleased with himself.

Some would be remembering that other time seven years ago when Richard Bolitho, then a captain himself, had waited here for his bride.

Bolitho looked at Herrick. Allday had melted into the mass of watching sailors and marines, and Browne stood beside Dulcie Herrick, her hand resting on his cuff.

“Well, old friend, we are alone again it seems.”

Herrick smiled. “Not for long.”

He too was remembering. In this place it was hard to forget.

The line of plaques on the wall near the pulpit, all Bolithos, from Captain Julius Bolitho who had died right here in Falmouth in 1646 trying to lift the Roundhead blockade on Pendennis Castle.

At the bottom there was one plain plaque. “Lieutenant Hugh Bolitho. Born 1752 … Died 1782.” Nearby was another, and Herrick guessed it had been placed there only recently. It stated,

“To the memory of Mr Selby, Master’s Mate in His Britannic Majesty’s Ship
Hyperion,
1795.”

Yes, it was very hard to forget.

He saw Bolitho straighten his back and turned to face the aisle as the doors reopened.

The organ played, and a rustle of expectancy transmitted itself through the building as Lieutenant Adam Pascoe, with Bolitho’s bride on his arm, walked slowly towards the altar.

Bolitho watched, afraid he might miss something. Belinda was beautiful, and Adam like a picture of himself from the past.

He saw Belinda raise her eyes to his and smile, and reached out to guide her the last few steps to the altar.

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, and Herrick heard him say, “Peace. At last.”

Herrick stepped up beside them. He doubted if anyone else here today would know what Bolitho had meant, and the realization made him feel like a giant.