Propped against the compass box with one leg bent beneath him was Herrick. He was barely conscious, although Bolitho guessed that his pain was deeper than any gunshot wound.
He held a pistol in one hand, and raised his head, holding it to one side as if the broadsides had rendered him deaf.
'Ready, Marines! We've got 'em on the run! Take aim, my lads! '
Bolitho heard Allday mutter, 'God, look at it.'
The marines did not stir. They lay, from sergeant to private, like fallen toy soldiers, their weapons still pointing towards an invisible enemy.
Allday said sharply, 'Easy, sir.'
Bolitho stepped over an out-thrust scarlet arm with two chevrons upon it and gently took the pistol from Herrick's hand.
He passed it to Allday, who noted that it was in fact loaded and cocked.
'Rest easy, Thomas. Help is here.' He took his arm and waited for the blue eyes to focus and recover their understanding. 'Listen to the cheering! The battle's o'er-the day is won! '
Herrick allowed himself to be raised to a more comfortable position. He stared at the splintered decks and abandoned guns, the dead, and the scarlet trails which marked the retreat of the dying.
As if speaking from far away he said thickly, 'So you came, Richard.'
He uses my name and yet he meets me as a stranger. Bolitho waited sadly, the madness and the exhilaration of battle already drained from him.
Herrick was trying to smile. 'It will be… another triumph for you.'
Bolitho released his arm very gently and stood up, and beckoned to the surgeon. 'Attend to the RearAdmiral, if you please.' He saw the dead marine corporal's hair blowing in the breeze, his eyes fixed with attention as if he were listening.
Bolitho looked at Jenour, and past him to the waiting, listless ships.
'I think not, Thomas. Here, Death is the only victor.'
It was over.
EPILOGUE
THE RELENTLESS bombardment of Copenhagen by day and night brought its inevitable conclusion. On the fifth of September, General Peyman, the governor of the city, sent out a flag of truce. Terms were still to be agreed, if possible with some honour left to the heroic defenders, but all fighting was to end.
While Bolitho and his ships took charge of their prizes and did what they could for the many killed and wounded, the terms of Copenhagen were decided. The surrender of all Danish ships and naval stores, and the removal of any other vessel not yet completed in the dockyard, and the occupation by Lord Cathcart's forces of The
Citadel and other fortifications for a period of six weeks while these tasks were carried out, formed the basis of the armistice. It was thought by some that even the skills and experience of the English sailors would be insufficient to complete this great operation within the allotted time, but even the most doubtful critics were forced to show admiration and pride at the Fleet's achievements.
In the allotted span of six weeks, sixteen sail of the line, frigates, sloops and many smaller vessels were despatched to English ports, and the country's fear that the blockade of enemy ports would collapse due to lack of ships was ended.
The various squadrons were returned to their normal stations and some were disbanded to await further instructions. Perhaps, after the glory of Trafalgar, the second battle of Copenhagen was slow to catch the imagination of a public hungry for victories. But the results, and the severe setback to Napoleon's last hope of breaking the line of wooden-walls which stretched from the Channel ports to Biscay and from Gibraltar to the shores of Italy, were real enough.
The New Year arrived, and with it some of the victors came home.
For late January it was deceptively mild and peaceful in the little Cornish village of Zennor. Some said it was an omen for such a special occasion, for this part of the county was not noted for its placid weather. Zennor lay on the north shore of the peninsula, as different from Falmouth and its pastoral landscape of low hills silver estuaries and lovely bays as could be imagined. Here was a savage coastline of cliffs and serried lines of jagged black rocks like broken teeth, where the sea boiled and thundered in constant unrest. In normal times, a bleak, uncompromising shore where many a fine ship had made its last and fatal landfall.
Zennor was a small place, owing its existence mainly to the land, as only the foolhardy sought to live from fishing, and there were many stones in the church to confirm as much.
Despite the chill, damp air, not a villager missed this particular day, when one of their own, the daughter of a respected local man who had been wrongly executed for speaking out on the freedoms of farm workers and others, was to be married.
The village had never seen such an occasion. At first glance there were more expensive carriages and horses than residents. The blue and white of sea officers rubbed shoulders with a few Royal Marines and some of the local garrison, while the gowns of the ladies were of a quality and style rarely seen in this proud but humble place.
The little twelfth-century church, more accustomed to farming festivals and local weddings, was packed. Even with extra chairs and stools brought from the dairy some of the congregation had to remain outside in the timeless churchyard-as much a part of their heritage as the sea and the rolling fields which surrounded the village.
A young lieutenant bowed to Catherine as she entered the church on the arm of Captain Adam Bolitho. 'If you will follow me, my lady! '
An organ was playing in the background when she reached her allotted place; she had noticed several heads leaning forward to watch her pass, then moving together for a quiet remark, or more gossip perhaps.
Strangely it no longer mattered. She glanced across the church and thought she recognised some of Bolitho's captains. It must have been difficult for a few of them to reach this remote village, she thought. From Falmouth it was some forty miles, first north and through Truro on the main coaching road, then westward where with each passing mile the roads became narrower and more rutted. She smiled to herself. Nancy 's husband, 'The King of Cornwall,' had performed magnificently living up to his name by obtaining the full co-operation of the local squire, willingly or otherwise. He had offered his spacious house, not only for many of the guests to stay overnight, but had also joined with Roxby in providing such a spread of food and drink there that it would be talked about for years to come.
She said quietly, 'I am so glad it is a fine day for them.' She watched Adam's profile and remembered what Bolitho had told her, that he seemed troubled by something. 'Look at poor Val! He would rather face another battle than stand and be still like this! '
Keen was standing by the small altar, with his brother beside him. Like his two sisters in the church, the other man was fair; and it appeared odd, in this gathering, for him not to be wearing uniform, but Catherine knew he was a distinguished barrister in London.
Adam said, 'I shall have to leave soon after the wedding, Catherine.' He glanced at her, and she felt her heart leap at the resemblance as it always did. So like Richard; or perhaps all the Bolithos were cast in the same mold.
'So soon?' She laid her hand on his sleeve. The young hero who said that he had all he had ever dreamed of; but for a few moments he had looked quite lost, like the boy he had once been.
He smiled at her-Bolitho's smile. 'It is the burden of every frigate captain, I'm told. Turn your back and the admiral will poach your best men for some other captain. You find only the sweepings of the press if you stay away too long.'
It was not the reason, and she knew that he realised she understood as much. He said suddenly, 'I want to tell you, Catherine.' He gripped her hand. 'You of all people-I know you-care.'
She returned the pressure on his hand. 'When you are ready, you will share it perhaps.'
There were more whispers by the altar. She sat silently studying the ancient ceiling of Cornish barrel vaulting, recalling the famous legend of this place. It was said that a mermaid had once sat in the back of the church and lost
