he could rightly understand. Was that God's will, too? What would all these sunburned seamen think of him if they knew he still had her portrait in his sea-chest, and the gown he had once bought for her in Lisbon?
He was suddenly angry with himself. 'Stand by on deck!'
Pitcairn the sailing-master joined the first lieutenant by the wheel.
'Takin' it badly, is he?'
'He's… lost something. I'm not certain what.'
'Off tacks and sheets! Stand by! Man the braces, lively there!'
Men crouched and stooped over braces and halliards were suddenly changed into living statues as the distant crash of gunfire echoed across the reefs.
'Belay that order!' Tyacke snatched a telescope from the rack. 'Get the t'gallants on her!'
'Hands aloft!' A master's mate had to push one man bodily to the shrouds.
Tyacke studied the sweeping green arm of the island as it began to dip down towards the eye-searing water.
Another shot. He gritted his teeth. It might be anything. Come on, old lady, you can fly when it takes you thus!
'Deck there! Sail on the lee bow! Brig, she is!'
Tyacke shouted impatiently, 'What other vessel?'
The man, even at that height, sounded puzzled. 'None, sir!'
'They've sighted us, sir.'
Tyacke gripped his hands behind him until the pain steadied him.
'Clear away larboard battery! Stand fast all other hands!'
Men stumbled from their various stations and ran to the seven guns of the larboard battery.
Then, as the land fell completely away, Tyacke saw the other brig. He said almost in a whisper, 'She's the bloody Raven, by God.'
Ozanne rubbed his hands. 'We'll dish that bugger up afore he knows it!' He turned away and did not see Tyacke's expression. 'Run up the Colours! Mr Robyns, a shot across her snout, and the next into 'er belly if she fails to heave-to!'
The forward gun lurched inboard and seconds later a ball splashed down some fifty feet beyond the Raven's bowsprit.
But Tyacke had shifted his glass, the slaver almost forgotten as he saw the low shape of the jolly-boat.
'Raven's shortening sail, sir!'
Tyacke moved the glass with elaborate care on to the pitching boat and flapping sail.
'It's them. It can't be, but it is.' He turned to the lieutenant, his eyes shining. 'God's will, after all!'
Ozanne shook his head. 'I've been at sea too long. I just can't take it in.'
Tyacke tried to drag his mind from the picture in his powerful telescope.
'Heave-to and send a boarding party across to the Raven.' He heard the boat already being hoisted over the side, the clatter of weapons as the armed men clambered after it. 'And Mr Robyns-don't let them know how short- handed we are. Tell that bloody slaver that if he tries to rid himself of evidence, I'll not wait till Freetown to see him dance!'
Lieutenant Ozanne remarked, 'So that is the famous Bolitho.'
Tyacke watched the oars coming to life, the jolly-boat labouring round towards the drifting Larne.
Ozanne observed, 'Not many of them, sir.' He glanced at Tyacke's face, the tension and intensity in his uninjured profile. What was it, he wondered. Instinct? Somehow he knew it was more; much more. He shaded his eyes. 'Who's the young officer beside him, sir?'
Tyacke turned toward him, and his hideous face split into a great grin of relief. 'My God, Paul, you have been at sea too long!' He handed him the glass. 'Take a look-even you might recognise a woman after all this time!' He touched his arm. 'The admiral's lady… and ours is the honour.'
Someone called, 'They've run up our flag over the Raven, sir!' But Tyacke did not even hear. 'Man the side, Paul. This is a day to remember.'
12. WELCOME…
LEWIS ROXBY, 'the King of Cornwall,' chose his moment with some care and then rose to his feet. It had been a magnificent dinner even by Roxby's expansive standards-his kitchen was said to produce the finest food in the whole county, and this would be talked about for months. It was not a large gathering by any means-twenty people in all-but it was an affair to be proud of, he thought. The best silver was on display, and all the candles had been changed throughout the meal: no smoke or untidy guttering here.
It was an event nobody had considered even remotely possible when they had all been gathered in the church at Falmouth. Now that was past, like a return from the dead.
Roxby looked along the table and saw Bolitho sitting beside Nancy, and wondered what it had all been like, truly like. Adam was halfway down the table, his face impassive, almost withdrawn as he toyed with a glass of madeira. He seemed different, perhaps because of the second gleaming epaulette on his shoulder, the coveted post-rank which had been granted even as Bolitho and Lady Catherine had returned home to a tumultuous welcome. The square, the coaching road, even the lane that led up to the Bolitho house had been packed with cheering people.
Roxby saw Lieutenant Stephen Jenour speaking quietly to his parents. The Jenours were very much in awe of the other guests, but the excellent meal and an endless procession of wines had done much to put them at their ease.
Bolitho's sister Felicity was also here, as was her son Miles who, Roxby noted, had splashed his shirt with red wine, like the victim of a duel.
A fellow magistrate and local landowner whose fortune was second only to Roxby's, Sir James Hallyburton and his lady, the port admiral from Plymouth, and a few other people who were useful business acquaintances rather than friends, completed the assembly.
Roxby cleared his throat. 'Ladies and gentlemen, friends all-we are here to welcome home a man who is very special to us for many different reasons.' He saw Bolitho staring along the table, not at him, but at the woman who sat at his right hand. When Bolitho had brought her into the drawing-room where Roxby had begun the reception, with its tall glass doors still open to the gardens despite the nearness of autumn, there had been many gasps of surprise. In a dark green gown, her hair piled above her ears to reveal Bolitho's gift of earrings, she was not as they had expected to see her after such an ordeal. Her neck and shoulders were bare, darkened so much by the scorching sun that she could have been from the South Americas, and her beauty seemed somehow more exotic, more defiantly unconventional. Roxby glanced down at her now, and saw the one revealing burn on her shoulder, as if she had been branded. She met his eyes, and he said quietly, 'And we welcome you, Lady Catherine, and thank God for your safety. I thought this private gathering of friends would suit you far better than something grand, after all the travelling you have been forced to do since you reached Portsmouth, and then came west to us!'
She bowed her head, so that her high cheekbones caught the light from the candles, and her voice was composed as she answered, 'Your kindness means so much to us.'
Then she allowed her mind to drift as Roxby continued with his well-prepared speech.
It was still almost impossible to believe it was over, behind them. Separate incidents stood out more than others. Some she could not bear to think about. Perhaps most of all she recalled her shocked disbelief when the brig Larne had been sighted tacking around a necklace of reefs.
And poor Tyacke trying to welcome her, his seamen cheering as they had been pulled up from the jolly-boat; the boat that had been their salvation and prison, where men had died, and others had clung to their simple faith that Bolitho would somehow get them to safety, even when everything suggested otherwise.
Then, with exhaustion sweeping over her, she had felt her resistance give way because of Tyacke's unexpected gift: a gown, badly creased from months, perhaps years, of being crammed into a chest, which she now knew he had carried with him ever since the girl he had wanted for his own had rejected him.
He had muttered awkwardly, 'You're a mite taller than she was, m'lady, but-'
