Falmouth there will be plenty of friends if you need anything.'
She nodded, then reached out and touched his whitelapelled coat and rested her fingers on his sword hilt. 'I will be waiting for you, my dear Richard.' She dropped her eyes. 'And if you are at sea when our child is born you will still be with me.'
Allday's stocky figure rounded the side of the door. 'The barge is waiting, Captain. I've stowed all the gear as ma'am ordered.' He looked at her admiringly. 'And never fret, ma'am, I'll take good care of him.'
She gripped Bolitho's arm fiercely and whispered, 'See that you do. And pray God will keep both of you safe!'
Bolitho prised her fingers away and kissed her gently. He felt wretched and wished he had words to make the parting easier. At the same time he knew that there were no such words, nor ever had been.
He picked up his gold-laced hat and tugged it down across his forehead. Then he held her in his gaze for a few more seconds, feeling their pain, understanding their loss, and then without another word turned and strode to the stairs.
The landlord bowed as he crossed to the main doors, his round face solemn as he intoned, 'Good luck, Cap'n! Kill a few o' they Frogs for us'n!'
Bolitho nodded curtly and allowed Allday to wrap the thick boat-cloak around his shoulders. The landlord's words were meaningless, he thought. He probably said exactly the same to the endless procession of captains and sea officers who stayed briefly beneath his roof before returning to their ships, some for the last time.
He caught sight of himself in a wall mirror beside the ostler's bell and saw that he was frowning. But what a difference the past six months had made. The realisation made him stare at himself for several moments. The deep lines around his mouth had faded, and his tall figure looked more relaxed Ann he could remember. His black hair was without a trace of grey, in spite of the fever which had nearly killed him between the wars, and the one lock which still curled rebelliously above his right eye made him look younger than his years. He saw Allday watching him and forced a smile.
Allday threw open the doors and touched his hat. 'It seems like a long while since we were to sea, Captain.' He grinned. 'I'll not be sorry to leave. The Plymouth wenches are not what they were.'
Bolitho walked past him and felt the rain across his face like ice rime. He quickened his pace with Allday striding comfortably behind him. The ship was lying a good two miles offshore, both to take advantage of the wind and tide and to deter any would-be deserter. The barge crew would have a hard pull to reach her.
He paused above the jetty stairs feeling the wind swirling around him, the land beneath his feet, and knowing as he always did that he might never set foot ashore again. Or worse, he might return as some helpless cripple, armless or eyeless, like so many who thronged the waterfront taverns as reminders of the war which was always present, even if unseen.
He turned to look back at the inn and imagined he could see her in the window.
Then he said, 'Very well, Allday, call the barge alongside.'
Once clear of the jetty wall the oars seemed to make the boat skim across the low cruising whitecaps, and as Bolitho sat huddled in his cloak he wished that he had a whole ship's company like these bargemen. For they were his original barge crew, and in their white trousers and check shirts, with their pigtails and tanned faces they looked every inch the landsman' idea of British sailors.
The barge's motion became heavier as it plunged clear of the shore, and Bolitho settled down to watch his ship as she grew slowly out of the haze of spray and drizzle until the towering masts and yards and the neatly furled sails seemed to fill the horizon. It was a normal illusion but one which never failed to impress him. Once, when a mere child, he had gone to join his first ship, of similar size to Hyperion, but in those tender years she had seemed even larger and more than a little frightening. As this ship must now seem to the newly gathered men, he thought, both the volunteers and those pressed from safer lives ashore.
Allday swung the tiller and guided the barge past the high bows so that the gilt figurehead of Hyperion the Sun God seemed to reach with his trident right above their heads.
Bolitho could hear the twitter of pipes carried on the wind, and saw the scarlet-coated marines already mustered by the entry port, the blue and white of the officers and the anonymous press of figures beyond.
He wondered what Inch, his first lieutenant, would be thinking about this moment of departure. He wondered, too, what had made him retain the young lieutenant when plenty of senior ones had been ready to take such a coveted appointment. Next in line to a ship's captain there was always the chance, even the hope that promotion would come by that captain's sudden death or advancement to flag rank.
When he had taken command of the old seventy-four Bolitho had found Inch as the fifth and junior lieutenant. Service away from the land and often far from the fleet had guided the young officer's feet up the ladder of promotion as one officer after the other had died. When the first lieutenant had taken his own life Bolitho's friend Thomas Herrick had been on hand to take over, but now even he had left the ship with a captain's rank and a ship of his own. And so, Lieutenant Francis Inch, gangling, horse-faced and ever-eager, had got his chance. For some reason, not really understood by Bolitho himself, he was being allowed to keep it. But the thought of taking the ship to sea as second-in-command for the very first time might make him view his new status with misgivings and no little anxiety.
'Boat ahoy?' The customary challenge floated down the ship's side.
Allday cupped his hand. 'Hyperion!'
As the oars were tossed and the bowman hooked on to the chains, Bolitho slipped out of his cloak, and clutching his sword to his hip jumped quickly for the entry port. And he was not even breathless. He found time to marvel at what good food and regular exercise ashore could do for one so long cramped and adjusted to shipboard life.
As his head came above the coaming the pipes broke into a shrill twitter, and he saw the sharp jerk of muskets as the marine guard came to the present.
Inch was there, bobbing anxiously, his uniform soaked with rain so that Bolitho guessed he had not left the quarter-deck since first light.
The din ceased and Inch said, 'Welcome aboard, sir.'
Bolitho smiled. 'Thank you, Mr. Inch.' He looked around at the watching men. 'You have been busy.'
Inch was peering at the barge and was about to call to its crew when Bolitho said quietly, 'No, Mr. Inch, that is no longer your work.' He saw Inch staring at him. 'Leave it to your subordinates. If you trust them they will-come to
trust you.'
He heard heavy footsteps on the damp planking and turned to see Gossett, the master, plodding to meet him. Thank God he at least had been aboard the ship for several years.
Gossett was huge and bulky like a barrel, with a pair of the brightest eyes Bolitho had ever seen, although they were usually half hidden in his seamed and battered face.
'No complaints, Mr. Gossett?'
The master shook his head. 'None, sir. I always said the old lady'd fly along once she got rid of 'er weed.' He rubbed his massive red hands. 'An' so she will if I 'ave any say.'
The assembled company were still crowded on the gangways and deckspace, their faces pale when compared with Gossett and Allday.
This should have been the moment for a rousing speech, a time to bring a cheer from these men who were still strangers to him and to each other.
He lifted his voice above the wind. 'We will waste no more time. Our orders are to join the blockading squadron off Lorient without delay. We have a well-found ship, one with a fine history and great tradition, and together' we will do our best to seal the enemy in his harbours, or destroy him should he be foolish enough to venture outside!'
He leaned forward, resting his hands on the quarterdeck rail as the ship lifted ponderously beneath him. It was amazing, but some of the men were nudging each other and grinning at his empty words. In a few months they would know the true wretchedness of blockade duty. Riding out all weathers with neither shelter nor fresh food, while the French rested in their harbours and waited in comfort for a gap in the British chain of ships when they might dash out, hit hard and return before any offensive action might be taken against them.
Occasionally a ship would be relieved for reprovisioning or serious repairs and another would take her place, as Hyperion was now doing.
