Achates' junior lieutenant, who had been a hostage in Rivers' fortress.
Seconds ago he had been fighting with his men and working the guns in his division.
Now, filthy but bright-eyed, he was a boy again, and his eyes shone with emotion as he reported, 'They have hauled down their colours, sir.' He fell silent as the seamen and marines crowded closer to hear. Then he tried again, 'Mr Knocker has sent a messenger across… ' He looked down, the tears running unheeded on his grimy cheeks.
Bolitho said quietly, 'You've done well, Mr Trevenen. Please continue.'
The lieutenant looked at him. 'A ship has been sighted to the south'rd, sir. One of our seventy-fours!'
Bolitho moved through his men, hearing them cheering and slapping each other. It was as if it was all somewhere else and he was a mere spectator.
He found the French rear-admiral by the wheel. He had been slightly wounded in the arm and was supported by two of his officers.
They stood and faced each other.
Then Jobert said simply, 'I should have known when I saw it was your ship.' He tried to shrug but the pain made him wince. He added, 'You were to give me an island.' He struggled with his sword. 'Now I must give you this.'
Bolitho shook his head. 'No, M'sieu. You've earned the right to it.'
He turned and walked back towards the side, his ears ringing to the shouts and wild huzzas.
Hands reached out to assist him across to the Achates' torn and littered deck, and he saw Midshipman Ferrier and Rooke, the boatswain, watching him, grinning and waving their hats.
If only they would stop.
He glanced at the figures on the gun-deck, ones who would never cheer now. How sleep the brave? And he thought of the others on the orlop who were paying the price of his victory.
He turned as he heard Allday's painful, dragging steps and saw that he was carrying Jobert's flag over his shoulder.
Bolitho gripped his arm. 'You old dog! Will you never do as I say?'
Allday shook his head, his breath wheezing. But he managed to grin as he replied, 'Doubt it, sir. Too long in th' tooth now.'
Bolitho walked blindly to the rail where Keen was sitting propped in a chipped and blood-stained chair while Tuson examined his wound.
Keen said huskily, 'We did it, sir. I'm told the ship which is heading this way is a seventy-four.' He tried to smile. 'You'll be able to shift your flag to her and be home long before us.'
Bolitho heard the cheering again and again. Three to one. Yes, they had won, and all England would soon know about it.
He said, 'No, Val. My flag stays here. We'll sail home together.' He smiled sadly. 'With Old Katie.'
Epilogue
Bolitho's home-coming was more than he had dared to hope for during the long months he had been away. In other ways it was sad, as he knew it would be. The farewells at Plymouth were as moving as the welcome when the scarred and battered Achates had dropped her anchor, her prize, the Argonaute, given immediately into the hands of the dockyard.
It must have been Old Katie's finest hour, Bolitho thought, with her pumps going as they had every hour of the day since that terrible battle. Even her ill-matched jury-rig had somehow managed to look rakish with his flag fluttering at half its proper height. She had brought crowds to the Hoe which few could remember.
Adam had watched Bolitho's grave features as he had walked from beneath the splintered poop to say good- bye to those who had become so familiar to him since they had sailed from the Beaulieu River a year ago.
Scott and Trevenen, Hawtayne and young Ferrier. And Tuson, the surgeon, who had removed a metal splinter from Keen's side the size of a man's thumb. And little Evans, who in his own way had become a man.
Bolitho had been thinking of those he would not see again, who could not share in the home-coming.
The captured seventy-four would be under the British ensign in a matter of months, a very valuable addition to the depleted fleet. But Achates had taken the battle badly. It was unlikely she would ever feel the blue waters of the Caribbean again, and would probably end her days as a hulk.
It had been a slow and painful passage up the Channel, and they had sailed so near to the Cornish coast that Adam had shinned aloft to the mizzen cross-trees with a glass to see it for himself.
When he had returned to the deck he had said simply, 'I saw part of the house, Uncle.' It had seemed to bring to him then and there how near he had been to not seeing it again. 'There are crowds on the headland, all the way to St Anthony.'
So slow had been their progress in the warm spring airs that a carriage had been sent to Plymouth in time to meet him.
He was thankful Belinda had not come herself. He had made her promise because of Allday, and if she had seen the ship, listing and blackened, she would have been deeply distressed.
Keen had accompanied him in the barge for the last time. The crowds on the waterfront had cheered and thrown their hats in the air, and women had held up their babies to see Bolitho. The news of his victory had preceded him like a rainbow. He had noticed there were few young men in the crowds.
Once again England was at war with the old enemy, and the press-gangs would be quick to snatch any suitable hands left over by the recruiting parties.
He had also said good-bye to Tyrrell. That had been harder than he had expected. But Tyrrell's dogged independence forced them apart.
Tyrrell had grasped his hands in both of his own and had said, 'I'll be lookin' around for a while, Dick. Just to discover if I like what I see.'
Bolitho had persisted. 'Come to Falmouth soon. Don't forget us.'
Tyrrell had slung his bag over his shoulder and had said, 'I never forgot you, Dick. Nor will I. Ever.'
That had been a week ago. Now, as Bolitho stood by a window and looked out across the flowers and shady trees, he could still scarcely believe it.
Their first meeting had been one of joy and tears.
Belinda had pressed her face into his coat and had whispered, 'I made Ferguson take me to the headland. I saw you sail past. That poor little ship. I was so afraid, and yet so proud.' She had looked up at him, searching out the strain on his face. 'There were people everywhere. They began to cheer. You couldn't hear them of course, but they seemed to want you to know they were there.'
Bolitho saw Allday speaking with the groom, making the man laugh with one of his yarns. That was another memory fixed in his mind.
When Allday had walked from the coach, worried and trying not to drag his feet up the stone steps.
She had gone to him and had put her arms round his neck and had said quietly, 'Thank you for bringing my men home, Allday. I knew you would.'
She had given him life, as she had this old house, he thought. Her very presence here had made its mark.
How quickly the week had flashed past and yet they had not left the grounds. Her gentle understanding after what he had endured, her passion which she gave without restraint, had brought them closer than ever.
He thought too of his first meeting with their child. He smiled as he recalled the exact moment.
The way Belinda had laughed at him and had cried at the same time when she had said, 'She won't break, Richard! Pick her up!'
Elizabeth. A new person. Belinda had chosen the name herself, like she had managed everything else during his absence.
Nothing seemed to matter now beyond here and his family. Rivers had gone to London in the same coach as Jobert. The French admiral would be exchanged eventually, but Rivers' fate was less certain.
He looked from the window again but Allday had gone. It was hard to think there was a war again. What had happened to the peace?
