Poor Herrick. He seemed as surprised at his promotion to captain as he was confused by the new relationship it had presented. Bolitho had seen him glancing nervously at the line of wall plaques near the pulpit, and the record of Bolitho's ancestors stretching back in time. The last one was small and plain. It merely stated, `Lieutenant Hugh Bolitho. Born 1742. Died 1782.' And he found time to wonder what Herrick would say if he knew the truth about his brother. Somewhere on the other side of the world Hugh might be thinking about it, too, even smiling at the macabre joke which life had played on him.
Then Bolitho's thoughts had been scattered by the sudden boom of the organ and the immediate ripple of excitement at his back. When he had turned he had seen many familiar faces amongst the congregation, some of which brought back memories too painful to dwell on. Hyperion was lying at Plymouth, still undergoing repairs to the damage of battle and the long voyage home'. But Inch was here, and Gossett, even Captain Ashby, who should have known better. He had lost an arm, but nothing, it seemed,, could keep him away. In a month or so he would be taking Hyperion back to sea, but he would have to rejoin her long before that. There would be new officers and a whole world of fresh, untrained faces to mould into the old ship's way of life. But no Hetrick this time,, and very few of the others either. He knew Herrick was angry that he had not been promoted also. But it had been Pomfret's victory. It started. so in the Gazette, even though every man-jack in the fleet knew better.
Bolitho had forgotten everything as the girl had appeared in the church entrance, her figure outlined against the sunlight,. one hand resting on the arm of her brother.
It was strange to see the boy in civilian dress. Stranger still to realise that he was now a man of property and substance. Pomfret's will had made it plain that he wanted him to have everything. His land and his house, and a considerable amount of money to go with them. The only condition was that he should leave the sea. Young Seton had protested, but Bolitho had made him agree. There were men who fought battles and gave all for their country without counting the odds. Bolitho and Herrick were such men. But if England were to survive the war's growing harvest it needed men like Seton to work from within. Men of loyalty and sensitivity, of gentleness and vision. They would build on the ruins when there was no more need to die for a cause.
Bolitho's recollections after that moment became more confused as she reached his side and the actual service commenced. The touch of her hand, the grave understanding of those eyes which shone like the sea. The rector's reedy voice, and-Herrick's acknowledgement as he produced the ring. Too loud, and somewhat out of place, his `Aye, aye, sirl' had brought titters from the watching choristers.
Now it was done, and the waters below the headland were deep in purple shadow. The toasting and the back- slapping, the speeches and his sister's tears, all had gone with the closing of the heavy door.
Behind him in the high-ceilinged room he heard her stirring on the bed. She called quietly, `What is it, Richard?'
He was watching a ship, anchored far out and ready for the morning tide. A man-of-war. Probably a frigate, he thought. It was easy to picture the officers drowsing over their pipes and tankards, the sound of a violin from the forecastle, and the moan of wind through the shrouds as she tugged impatiently at her cable. Sailors often bemoaned leaving the land, but ships rejoiced at it.
He replied, `All my' family have been sailors. I am the same. There will always be ships, out there, waiting.'
Bolitho turned and watched her as she lifted her arms, pale in the darkness.
`I know that, my darling Richard. And each time you return here to Falmouth I will be waiting, too!'
Down in the deserted dining room Aliday stared at the litter of empty glasses and discarded plates. After a moment he picked up an unused goblet and poured a full measure of brandy. Then he walked to the other room and stood looking at the sword above the great stone fireplace. Somehow it looked at peace, he thought. He downed the brandy in one gulp and walked slowly out of the door whistling an old tune, the name of which he had long forgotten.
End
