He gazed at the tired, powder-stained faces he knew and loved-that was the only word to describe it.
Allday, massive and unhurt, turning to take a mug of something from Ozzard as he crept past the damage and the gaping corpses. Keen, already thinking of his men, and the need to prepare his ship again for any challenge, be it from the enemy or the ocean.
And those he only knew by sight and name. Like the two midshipmen nearby who were sobbing quietly, not caring who saw their relief. Julyan the sailing-master, tying his favourite red handkerchief around the wrist of one of his mates.
And all those who were cheering still, at him and to one another. And here came William Coutts the surgeon, more like a slaughterman in his bloodstained apron. Bringing the bill to his captain, the price they had paid on this day in February. The names of those who would never see England again, or know pride in anything they had done.
Jenour said, 'Orders, Sir Richard?'
Bolitho reached out and gripped his arms, and said quietly, 'Over there-the captured frigate Triton.' He saw it shake Jenour even from the brutal reality of battle.
'I… I don't want to, Sir Richard…'
'You will take my despatches to London yourself, Commander Jenour. Their lordships will doubtless give her to another, more experienced or with more influence, but certainly not more worthy. Equally, they must offer you a command of your own.'
Jenour could not speak, and Allday turned away, unwilling to watch.
Bolitho insisted, 'I shall miss you, Stephen, more than you realise. But war is war, and I owe your experience to the men you will command.'
Jenour nodded, his face lowered. 'I shall never forget…'
'And something else, Stephen. I want you to see Lady Catherine yourself and give her my letter. Will you do that?'
Jenour could say nothing. His face was drawn and masklike.
'Tell her what it was like, tell her the truth-the way only you can. And give her… my deepest love.' He himself could no longer speak; his eyes were distant, seeing her walking on that wintry headland.
Someone called, 'Matchless is lying-to, sir!'
Her Irish captain, Lord Rathcullen, must have sailed her like a madman, like the day he had all but dismasted her. The remaining ships of the squadron were still far astern of him.
Keen said, 'I can't make it out, sir. They've lowered the rearadmiral's flag.' Then he said sharply, 'Muster the side party-Matchless has dropped a boat.'
Bolitho said, 'That is to let me know that I am in command again-he wants no part in all this.'
But when the boat came alongside there was no Herrick aboard.
Bolitho greeted the tall Irish peer at the entry port and said, 'You arrived just in time, sir!'
Rathcullen looked around at the dangling rigging, the dull smears where corpses had been dragged away, the hanging smoke and lingering chaos he had missed.
'I thought we were too late, Sir Richard. When I discovered what…'
'But where is RearAdmiral Herrick? Is he well?'
Rathcullen was shaking hands with Keen. 'It was a ruse, Sir Richard. I guessed that if the enemy saw an admiral's flag they would assume a far larger squadron was about to engage them.'
Keen said shortly, 'It succeeded. Nothing else would have saved us, and we captured the French admiral for good measure.' But his voice was dull; he was haunted by the disbelief, the deepening hurt on Bolitho's face.
His head still echoed to the crash and thunder of battle: men dying, others pleading for death rather than the surgeon's knife. But all he could think of was Herrick.
Rathcullen sensed his disappointment. He said in a dispassionate voice, 'I reminded RearAdmiral Herrick that I came under your command, sir. I suggested he should hoist his flag over my ship later-it gave me the notion for my ruse.'
'What did he say?'
Rathcullen glanced grimly at Keen. 'He said, 'I'll not be blamed twice,' Sir Richard.'
'I see.'
Keen said, 'I'd be obliged if you would pass a tow to my ship, Captain, until I can have the steering re- rigged.'
He looked back only once, and Bolitho half-raised a hand to him.
'Thank you, Val.'
Ozzard had reappeared with a heavy goblet. Allday took it and held it out to Bolitho. In his fist it looked like a thimble.
'Not all wounds bleed, Sir Richard.' He watched him put it to his lips. He hesitated. 'Lady Catherine would tell you. Some people change. It's not always their fault…'
Bolitho emptied the glass, and wondered if it had come from the shop in St James's.
'I thank God you do not, old friend.'
Jenour saw them walking together, and pausing to talk with some of the seamen. Their world. It had been his; it was his no more. He looked across at the captured frigate, and seemed to hear Bolitho's voice again. The most coveted gift.
But Lieutenant, now Acting-Commander, Stephen Jenour, once of Southampton, England, felt that he had just lost everything.
