Bolitho stared towards the open sea beyond the headland. She must be around the point and heading for the bay. A single ship could not be an enemy. He looked at Inch with sudden understanding. 'One of our reinforcements.' He walked quickly to the rail. 'At last!'
It took another half hour for the incoming vessel to show herself, and as she tacked slowly towards the bay Bolitho could hardly contain the sensation of relief and hope which her flapping topsails seemed to offer. She was a two-decker, but smaller than Hyperion, and in the bright sunlight he could see the sheen of new paintwork on her spray-dashed side and her figurehead agleam with fresh gilt.
Flags appeared as if by magic on her yards, and he heard Carlyon shouting to the officer of the watch, 'She's the Impulsive, sixty-four, sirl With despatches for the commodore!'
Inch said, 'From England!' It sounded like a cry from the heart.
Bolitho did not speak. The Impulsive was here, and with her his friend Thomas Herrick. He could feel his limbs trembling, like the return of his old fever, but he did not care. At last he would have someone to confide in. The one and only man with whom he had ever really shared his hopes and fears. Once his first lieutenant, now as captain of a ship of the line he was here, and nothing could ever be so grim as it had seemed before the sound of the signal gun.
He hurried down the ladder, seeing his men crowding the gangways to stare at the new arrival, and like himself accepting her as more than a mere reinforcement. She had come from England. She represented something different to each man, a memory, a village, a green field, or the face of one particular and dear to him.
Lieutenant Roth was already at the entry port mustering the side party.
Bolitho watched as the anchor splashed down beneath the Impulsive's bow and noted the smartness with which the sails vanished along her yards. Herrick had always been worried by the prospect of command. Bolitho had told him often enough that he had no need to doubt his ability, and the excellent seamanship he had just displayed was surely proof enough.
He heard Inch telling Roth that the captain who was about to be received on board had been Hyperion's first lieutenant before him, and he wondered if Herrick would notice the change which authority and hard work had wrought upon Inch. It would probably seem like a small miracle. He found himself smiling at the prospect of the confrontation.
From the corner of his eye he saw Captain Dawson raise his sword and the paraded marines stiffen to attention as the Impulsive's barge hooked on to the chains.
As a cocked hat appeared in the entry port and the pipes shrilled their salute Bolitho stepped forward, his hands outstretched in welcome.
Captain Thomas Herrick climbed through the port and removed his hat. Then he seized Bolitho's hands and held then for several seconds, his eyes, as clear and bright blue as the first day they had met, studying him with obvious emotion.
Bolitho said warmly, 'It is good to have you here, Thomas.' He took his arm and led him towards the quarterdeck ladder. 'The commodore is suffering from a wound, but I will take you to him directly.' He paused and looked at him again. 'How are things in England? Did you manage to visit Cheney before you sailed to join us?'
'I put into Plymouth for stores, then I went overland to visit her.' Herrick swung round and seized his hands, his tone tight with sudden anguish. 'In God's name, how can I tell you?'
Bolitho stared at him, chilled by Herrick's distress. 'What is it? Has something happened?'
Herrick looked past him, his eyes blurred as he relived his own part of the nightmare.
'She had been visiting your sister. It was to have been her last journey before the child was born. Close to St. Budock something must have startled the horses, for the berlin went off the road and overturned.' He paused, but when Bolitho said nothing continued, 'The coachman was killed, and your steward, Ferguson, who was with her, knocked almost senseless. When he recovered he carried her two miles.' He swallowed hard. 'For a one-armed man it must have been like a hundred!' He gripped Bolitho's hands tightly. 'But she was dead. I saw the doctor and a surgeon from the garrison who rode from Truro. There was nothing they could do for her.' He dropped his eyes. 'Or for the child.'
'Dead?' Bolitho pulled his hands free and walked to the rail. Around him the dismissed marines walked chatting to their mess, and high above the deck a seaman was whistling while he worked on the mainyard. Through a mist he saw Allday watching him from the top of the quarterdeck ladder, his shape shortened against the clear sky and his face in shadow. It was not happening. In a moment he would awake, and it would be all as before.
Herrick called, 'Allday, see to your captain!'
And as Inch came aft, his face startled and curious, he rapped, 'I must have audience with the commodore, wounded or not!' He held up his arm as Inch tried to reach Bolitho's side. 'At once, Mr. Inch!'
Allday walked slowly beside Bolitho until they reached the chartroom, then as Bolitho sank into a chair by the bulkhead he asked quietly, 'What is it, Captain?'
'My wife, Allday! Cheney… '
But the mention of her name was too much. He fell forward across the chart table and buried his face in his arms, unable to control the agony of his despair.
Allday stood stockstill, stunned by his grief and by his own inability to deal with it.
'Just you rest here, Captain.' The words seemed to flood from him. 'I'll fetch a drink.' He moved to the door, his eyes on Bolitho's shoulders. 'We'll-be-all right, Captain, just you see..' Then he ran from the chartroom, his mind empty of everything but the need to help.
Alone once more Bolitho prised himself from the table and leaned back against the bulkhead. Then, very carefully, he opened the front of his shirt and took out the locket, and held it in the palm of his hand.
16. A PERSONAL THING
Allday walked slowly into the stem cabin and stood the big coffee pot carefully on the table. The early morning sunlight threw a bright pattern of shimmering reflections across the beamed deckhead, and for a moment longer he was unable to see Bolitho.
'What do you want?'
He turned and saw Bolitho lying on the bench seat below one of the open windows, his back propped against the heavy frame so that his face was thrown into silhouette by the glittering water beyond. His shirt was crumpled and open to the waist, and his black hair was plastered across his forehead as he stared listlessly towards the distant hills.
Allday bit his lip. It was obvious that he had not slept, and in the clear light he could see the shadows around his eyes, the absolute despair on his tanned features.
He replied, 'Brought you some coffee, Captain. I've told Petch to arrange your breakfast just as soon as you're ready for it.' He moved carefully around the table. 'You should have turned in. You've not slept since…'
'Just leave me alone.' There was neither anger nor _ impatience in his tone. 'If you must do something, then fetch some brandy.'
Allday darted a quick glance at the desk. Beside a crumpled letter was one empty glass. Of the decanter there was no sign at all. 'It's not wise, Captain.' He faltered as Bolitho turned his head towards him. 'Let me get some food now.'
Bolitho did not appear to hear him.
'Do you remember what she said when we left Plymouth, Allday? She told us to take care.' He pressed his shoulders against the frame. 'Yet while we were out here, she died.' He brushed vaguely at the rebellious lock of hair above his eye and Allday saw the savage scar white against his skin like the mark of a branding iron. The gesture was so familiar, as was everything about him, that Allday felt strangely moved.
'She wouldn't have wanted you taking on, Captain.' He took a few more steps. 'When she was aboard the old Hyperion in the Mediterranean she had more courage than many of the men, and never once did I hear her complain when times got bad for us. She'd be distressed to see you all-aback now.'
'Then there were those times at Plymouth when we were fitting out, Captain. They were good days.' Allday rested his hands on the desk, his voice suddenly pleading. 'You must try and think of those times, Captain. For her
