The Only Victor (17 page)

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 vice-admiral.

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 Verde Islands, 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 Table Mountain 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!

8 FULL
M
OON

B
RYAN
F
ERGUSON
dabbed his face with his handkerchief while he leaned against the stile to regain his breath. The wind off the sea was no match for the sun which burned down directly across the grey bulk of Pendennis Castle, and threw back such a glare from the water it was not possible to look at it for long.

It was a view he never got tired of. He smiled to himself. He had been steward of Bolitho's estate for over twenty years now. Sometimes it did not seem possible. The Bolitho house was behind him, down the sloping hillside where the fields were banked with wild flowers, while the long grass waved in the breeze like waves on water.

He squinted into the sunlight and stared towards the narrow winding path which led up and around the cliff. He saw her standing where the path turned and was lost around the bend— a treacherous place in the dark, or at any time if you did not take heed. If you fell to the rocks below there was no second chance.

She had told him to remain by the stile, to recover his breath or because she needed to be alone, he did not know. He watched her with silent admiration. Her hair, loosely tied, was whipping in the wind, her gown pressed to her body, making her look like some enchantress in an old poem or folk-tale, he thought.

The household had accepted her warily, unwilling to discuss her presence here with the local people, but, like Ferguson, prepared to defend her right as Bolitho had instructed.

Ferguson and his wife, who was the housekeeper, had expected Bolitho's lady to remain detached from the estate and its affairs. He shook his head as he saw her turn and begin to descend the pathway towards him. How wrong they had been. Almost from the moment she had returned from Portsmouth after saying farewell to Bolitho, she had displayed an interest in everything. But she had always
asked,
not ordered. Ferguson tried not to think of Lady Belinda who had been rather the opposite. It made him feel uneasy and vaguely disloyal.

She had ridden with him to visit the surrounding cottages which were part of the Bolitho heritage; she had even managed to get him to reveal how much larger the estate had originally been in the days of Bolitho's father, Captain James. Much of it had been sold to clear the debts amassed by his other son Hugh, who had deserted the navy and joined the Americans in their fight against the Crown.

Ferguson glanced down at his empty sleeve. Like Allday he'd been pressed not far from here and taken to the frigate
Phalarope,
Bolitho's own command. Ferguson's arm had been taken off at the Saintes. He gave a wry smile. And yet they were still together.

At other times, like today, she had walked with him, asking about crops, the price of seed, ploughing, and the areas where grain and vegetables from the estate were sold. No, she was like nobody Ferguson had ever met.

He had come to understand her during her first days here, when he had been taking her around the old house, showing and naming the grave-faced portraits of Bolitho's ancestors. From old Captain Julius who had died right in Falmouth trying to break the Roundhead blockade of Pendennis Castle, to the recent past. In a small bedroom, covered by a sheet, she had discovered the portrait of Cheney. She had asked him to put it by the window so that she could see it. In that silent room Ferguson had heard her breathing, watched the quick movement of her breasts while she had studied it before asking, “Why here?” He had tried to explain but she had interrupted him with quiet emphasis. “Her Ladyship
insisted,
no doubt.” It had not been a question.

Then, after considering, it, “We will have it cleaned. All of them.” He had seen a rare excitement in her dark eyes and had known a sort of pride at sharing it. A woman who could make a man's head swim; but he could just as easily picture her with a Brown Bess to her shoulder, the way Allday had described.

She had stepped back to look at Cheney's portrait again. It had been Cheney's gift, as a surprise for Bolitho when he had returned from the war. Instead he found only the portrait waiting. Cheney and their unborn child had been killed in a coaching accident.

Catherine had faced Ferguson when he had tried to tell her about it, had gripped his arm with compassion. “
You
were the one who carried her.” Her eyes had moved to his empty sleeve. “You did all you could.”

Then she had remarked, “So when I came here you all decided to conceal it further. What did you expect of me, envy?” She had shaken her head, her eyes misty. “Like the ocean,
his
ocean, some things are permanent.”

And so the portrait was returned to its original place, facing the window and the sea beyond, the colour of Cheney's eyes.

He straightened his back as she strode down to the stile and held out his hand to steady her while she climbed over. Even now, with her hair breaking away from the ribbon which she had used to control it, with wet sand and dust on her gown, she seemed to give off some inner force. She was taller than Ferguson; there could not be much difference between her and Bolitho, he thought. She squeezed his hand. A casual thing, but again he could feel it; strength, tenderness, defiance, it was all there.

“That land yonder. What has been done with it?”

Ferguson replied, “Too many rocks washed down from the hill. No place for a plough. There's that old copse too.” He watched her lip curve, and imagined her and Bolitho together. When he spoke again his voice was hoarse, so that she looked directly at him, her eyes like dark pools; as if she saw right through him and into his passing thought.

Then she smiled broadly and said, “I can see I shall have to watch
you,
Mr Ferguson, one arm or no!”

Ferguson flushed, which after serving at sea and then running the estate for so long, was almost unique.

He stammered, “I beg your pardon, m'lady.” He looked away. “We've not the men, you see. All taken by the press, or gone for a soldier. Old men and cripples, that's all we've got.”

When he looked at her again he was surprised by the emotion in her eyes.

She said, “You're no cripple. Together we'll make something of that land.” She was thinking aloud, her voice suddenly fierce. “I'll not stand by and see him milked by everyone who seems to have lived well off his courage! I don't believe the squire—” her mouth puckered “—
the King of Cornwall
as he is called, I believe?
He
seems to have no difficulty managing his land!”

“French prisoners, m'lady. He is a magistrate, too.” He was glad to change the subject. Again he felt the guilt, when he had known she was referring to Belinda in her great house in London.

She said, “He is a fair man nevertheless. In any case I like his wife—Sir Richard's favourite sister, is she not?”

Ferguson fell into step beside her, but had to walk fast to keep up. “Aye, m'lady. Miss Nancy, as she once was, was in love with Sir Richard's best friend.”

She stopped and gazed at him searchingly. “What a lot you know! I envy you the smallest detail, every hour when you have known him and I have not.” She walked on, more slowly now, plucking a flower from a stone wall as she passed. “You are very fond of him also?”

Ferguson waved to some workers in the field. “I'd serve none other.”

She looked at the figures, who were pulling a large cart. Most of them were women, but she caught her breath as she recognised the old sailor, the one-legged man named Vanzell. Even he was adding his strength to the load.

Ferguson saw her face and knew she was remembering how Bolitho had taken her from the filth and horror of the Waites jail in London.

Her husband had connived and lied to have her transported. From what Allday had told him it seemed likely she would have died first. Allday had said that Bolitho had been beside himself, had half-carried her from the jail, bringing old Vanzell who had been a guard there out with him. There were several such on the estate. Men like Vanzell who had once served with Bolitho, or women who had lost husbands or sons under his command.

She said, “He's done so much. We shall repay some of it by making the land come alive again. There's Scotland—they always need grain, surely?”

Ferguson grinned. “Ships are expensive, m'lady!”

She looked at him thoughtfully, then gave the bubbling laugh he had heard when Bolitho had been with her. “There are always—”

She broke off as they reached the gate to the stable-yard.

Her skin was still sun-burned despite the winter here, but Ferguson later swore to his wife that she had gone as white as death.

“What is it, m'lady? Is something wrong?”

Her hand went to her breast. “It's the post-boy!”

The youth in his smart cocked hat and breeches was gossiping with Matthew, the head coachman.

Ferguson said, “He'll be from the town, m'lady. Unusual time of day though.” He beckoned the youth urgently. “Here, lad, lively now!”

The post-boy touched his hat and showed a gap-toothed smile. “Fer 'ee, ma'am.”

Ferguson muttered, “Show respect, or I'll—”

She said, “Thank you,” then turned away from the sunlight and stared at the letter. “It bears no mark!”

Ferguson stood by her elbow and nodded. “A clerk's hand, I'll wager.”

She gazed at him but he knew she could not see him. “
Something has happened to him.
In God's name, I cannot—”

The youth, who was willing but not very bright, said helpfully, “ 'Tes off the mail coach, y'see.” He grinned again. “They 'ad to sign for that 'un.” He looked at their faces and added importantly, “'Tes from Lunnon!”

“Easy, m'lady,” Ferguson took her arm. “Come into the house.”

But she was tearing open the cover which revealed another sealed letter inside.

Ferguson sensed his wife come down the stone steps to join them and was almost afraid to breathe. This was how it would happen. Those family portraits told the same story. There was not a single male Bolitho buried in Falmouth. All had been lost at sea. Even Captain Julius had never been found when his ship had exploded down there in Carrick Road in
1646.

She looked at him and said, “He is in London.” She looked at the letter as if she were dreaming. “The fight is over at Good Hope. Cape Town has fallen.” She began to shake but no tears came.

Grace Ferguson put a plump arm round her waist and whispered, “Thank God! 'Tis only right!”

Ferguson asked, “What is the date, m'lady?”

She appeared to bring herself under control with a physical effort. “It does not say.” She stared at his handwriting. So few lines, as if to reveal his haste, his need for her.

She exclaimed, “I felt it. A few nights ago. I got out of bed and looked out to sea.” When she turned, her eyes were shining with happiness. “He was there, on passage for Portsmouth.
I knew.
”

Ferguson thrust a coin into the post-boy's grubby hand. It had been a nasty moment. Now he guessed that the outer envelope had been to disguise its true contents from prying eyes. That was what he was returning to this time. What they would have to face together.

The post-boy had not gone, and seemed determined to discover what he had stumbled upon.

He said, “Th' coachman was a-tellin' Oi, zur, why the mail is late, y'see? One o' they coaches cast a wheel along the way— proper excitin' it were!”

Ferguson glared at him. So the letter was late. He looked at her profile, the joy she had always tried to control while he was away. In case . . .

He said, “He might he here in a day or so, m'lady.” He ticked off the points in his mind. “He would have to see them at the Admiralty. There would be a report.” He smiled, remembering Bolitho's constant frustration at the delays which had always followed the heat of action. “Then, of course . . .” He glanced round at the sound of hooves on the track which led down towards the town square and the church where the Bolithos were remembered.

Matthew said doubtfully, “'Tis not one o'
my
horses, m'lady.”

But she was already running, her arms outstretched, heedless of the staring eyes and gaping faces.

It was impossible; it could not be him so soon. Almost blinded, she ran through the gates as the horse and rider clattered over the cobbles towards the yard.

As Bolitho slipped from the saddle and caught her in his arms she pressed her face to his and gasped, “Oh, dearest of men, what can you think? How must I look—when I wanted to be ready for you!”

He put his hand under her chin and gazed at her for several seconds, perhaps to reassure them both that it was no mistake, nor was it the dream which maybe they had shared.

He said, “There were delays. I could not wait. I was afraid you might not—”

She put her fingers on his mouth. “Well, I have, and I want you to know . . .”