required to leave the King's service, or as Keen had put it, face a court martial instead. Was he calculating how he might benefit from his uncle's death?
And there were uniforms a-plenty. The port admiral from Plymouth, some officers of the Coastguard, even a few dragoons from the garrison at Truro.
Overhead the bell began to toll; it sounded faraway from within the body of the church. But on the hillsides and in the harbour, men and women would be listening to its finality.
Others arrived: Young Matthew the head coachman, Tom the revenue officer, even Vanzell the one-legged sailor who had once served Bolitho, and been instrumental in freeing Lady Catherine from that stinking jail to the north of London. It was rumoured that Lady Catherine's husband had planned to have her falsely imprisoned and deported with the connivance of Bolitho's wife. What was she thinking now as she whispered to her elegant companion? Pride in her late husband? Or more incensed by the victory death had granted her rival?
Whenever she turned from her friend to stare around the church, Ferguson had the impression that it was with contempt, and no kind of regret for the life she had left in this ancient seaport.
And in months, maybe sooner, the legalities would have to be settled. Squire Roxby had never made any secret of his readiness to take over the Bolitho estate and add it to his own. That would certainly preserve it for his wife and their two children, if nothing else. Belinda would want a settlement to compensate for the lavish life and fashionable house she enjoyed in London. Ferguson felt his wife gripping his hand again as the straight-backed, solitary figure of Captain Adam Bolitho strode up the aisle to take his place in his family pew.
Ferguson believed him the one man who would save the estate and the livelihood of all those who depended on it. Even that reminded him of Allday again. His pride at living there when he was not at sea. Like being one of the family, he had so often proclaimed.
He watched Captain Adam shaking hands with the rector. It was about to begin. A day they would all have cause to remember, and for such diverse reasons. He saw Keen's young wife lean out towards Adam. He was to be posted next month, and had been so looking forward to seeing his uncle with the coveted second epaulette on his shoulder, when Bolitho had returned from his mission.
Ferguson had been troubled by Adam's frequent visits to the house. But for his vehement insistence that Bolitho was still alive and somehow, even by a miracle, would return home, Ferguson might have suspected some unexpected liaison between him and Zenoria Keen.
The bell had stopped and a great silence had fallen over the church; the glittering colours of the tall windows were very bright in the noon sunlight.
The rector climbed into the old pulpit and surveyed the crowded pews. Not many young faces, he thought sadly. And with the war already reaching into Portugal and perhaps Spain, many more sons would leave home, never to return.
At the very back of the church, seated on two cushions so that she could see over the shoulders of those in front of her, the widow of Jonas Polin, one-time master's mate in the Hyperion, was aware of the people all around her in this grand place, but could think only of the big, shambling man who had rescued her that day on the road. Now the admiral's coxswain would never call on her at the Stag's Head at Fallowfield. She had told herself not to be so stupid. But as the days had dragged past after the news had broken over the county, she had felt the loss even more. Like being cheated. She closed her eyes tightly as the rector began, 'We are all very aware of why we are come here today…'
Ferguson stared blindly around him. And what of Catherine Somervell? Did nobody grieve for her? He saw her on the cliff walk, her face brown in the sun, her hair on the wind from the sea like a dark banner. He thought of what Allday and the others had told him, how she had risked her life to help Herrick's dying wife. A thousand things; most of all what she had done for her Richard, as she called him. Dearest of men. Unlike so many, they had been together when death had marked them down. He half-listened to the drone of the rector's voice, let it wash over him as he relived so many precious moments.
One man sat in an almost empty pew, shielded from the great mass of people by a pillar, his hooded eyes inscrutable while he paid his respects in his private fashion. Dressed all in grey, Sir Paul Sillitoe had arrived uninvited and unannounced, his beautiful carriage bringing many curious stares when he had reached the church.
Ferguson need not have worried on Catherine's behalf. Sillitoe had driven all the way from London and, although he had greatly respected Bolitho, he was more shocked by his grief at the loss of Bolitho's mistress, for reasons he could not define, even to himself.
The rector was saying, 'We must never lose sight of the great service this fine local family has offered…' He broke off, aware from long experience that he no longer held the attention of the congregation.
There was a distant noise, and shouting, like a tavern turning out, and Roxby was glaring round, flushed and angry as he hissed, 'These oafs! What are they thinking of?'
Everyone fell silent as Adam Bolitho stood up suddenly, and without even a customary bow to the altar strode quickly back down the aisle. He glanced at nobody, and as he passed Ferguson thought he looked as if he had no control over what he was doing. 'In a trance,' he would later hear it described.
Adam reached the great, weathered doors and dragged them wide open so that the din flooded into the church, where everyone now was standing, their backs to the rector marooned in his pulpit.
The square was crammed, and a recently arrived mail coach was completely surrounded by a cheering, laughing mob. In the centre of it all two grinning sea officers on horseback, their mounts lathered in sweat from a hard ride, were being hailed like heroes.
Adam stood quite still as he recognised one of them as his own first lieutenant. He was trying to make himself heard above the noise, but Adam could not understand him.
A man he had never seen before ran up the church steps and seized his hands.
'They'm alive, Cap'n Adam, sir! Your officer's brought word from Plymouth!'
The lieutenant managed to fight his way through, his hat knocked awry.
'All safe, sir! A bloody miracle, if you'll pardon my saying so!'
Adam led him back into the church. He saw Zenoria with Keen's sisters standing in the aisle, framed against the high altar. He asked quietly, 'All my uncle's party? Safe?'
He saw his lieutenant nod excitedly. 'I knew my uncle could do it. The fairest of men… I shall tell the rector myself. Wait for me, please. You must come to the house.'
The lieutenant said to his companion, 'Took it well, I thought, Aubrey?'
'He had more faith than I did.'
Adam reached the others and held out his hands. 'They are all safe.' He saw Zenoria sobbing in the arms of one of Keen's sisters, and beyond her Belinda, now strangely out of place in her sombre black.
At the rear of the church Sir Paul Sillitoe picked up his hat and then turned as he saw the woman who had been just behind him. She was crying now, but not with grief.
He asked kindly, 'Someone very dear to you, is he?'
She curtsied and wiped her eyes. 'Just a man, sir.'
Sillitoe thought of Adam's expression when he had reentered the church, of the sudden ache in his own heart when the news had broken over them like a great, unstoppable wave.
He smiled at her. 'We are all just men, my dear. It is better not to forget that sometimes.'
He walked out into the jostling, noisy square and heard the peal of bells following him.
He thought of their first encounter at one of Godschale's ridiculous receptions. Like no other woman he had ever met. But at this moment in Falmouth his own words to her were uppermost in his mind. She had protested that Bolitho was being ordered back to immediate duty after all he had suffered, and suggested angrily that some other flag officer be sent instead. Sillitoe seemed to hear himself, in memory. Fine leaders-they have the confidence of the whole fleet. But Sir Richard Bolitho holds their hearts.
He looked round for his carriage, at these simple, ordinary people who were a far cry from those he knew and directed.
Aloud he said, 'As you, my dear Catherine, hold mine.'
His Britannic Majesty's brig Larne of fourteen guns rolled untidily in a steep offshore swell, sailing so close to the wind that to any landsman her yards would appear to be braced almost fore-and-aft. The island lay enticingly abeam, its greenness shimmering in heat-haze, the nearest beaches pure white in the sunshine. But like an evil barrier between the island and the sturdy brig lay the protective reef, showing itself every so often in violent spurts
