been brought to the Admiralty; he himself had been the one to interrupt the First Lord’s conference and announce it. Fourteen months ago, almost to the day. And since then, the chain of events which had freed the tyrant from Elba, and had set his feet once more on the march for Paris…
He glanced at Adam’s profile, knowing that he was remembering also. When England ’s hero, their beloved friend, had fallen to the enemy’s marksman.
Tomorrow he must draft new orders to his captains and commanders, for no matter how the war was waged ashore the requirements for this squadron, like the whole fleet, were unchanged. To show the flag, to protect, to fight, and if need be, to intimidate, and maintain mastery of the sea which had been won with so much blood.
Adam felt the scrutiny but kept his eyes on the dark harbour, and the place where he knew Unrivalled was lying. Thinking of them all… Galbraith, quietly proud one moment, openly emotional the next. The imposing surgeon, O’Beirne, forgetting himself and capering in a little jig to the shanty man’s fiddle. And the others, faces he had come to know. Faces he had once attempted to hold at a distance.
And the prisoner, Roddie Lovatt, delirious, but reaching out for his son, speaking in both English and French with equal intensity. Adam had seen the boy, and had recalled Lovatt’s words to him. If there had been any name for the expression on the face of one so young, it could only be hatred.
A servant had brought yet another tray of filled glasses, one of which he placed carefully with the rest where Onslow still lay snoring loudly.
Bethune called, “To our special friends! They will live forever!”
Adam felt the locket in his pocket, and shared the moment. And the guilt.
The three glasses clinked together and a voice said, “To Catherine!”
Across the darkened courtyard Bethune thought he heard her laugh.
9. Luckier Than Most
UNIS ALLDAY paused and brushed a stray hair from her eyes and listened to some of the customers in the “long room,” as her brother called it, laughing and banging their tankards on the scrubbed tables. The Old Hyperion had been busy today, busier than she could remember for some months.
She scraped the slices of apple into a dish and stared out of the kitchen window. Flowers everywhere, bees tapping against the glass, the sun warm across her bare arms. The news of the great battle “over there” had been brought to Falmouth by courier brig and had gone through the port and surrounding villages like wildfire, eventually reaching this little inn which nestled on the Helford River at Fallowfield.
It was not a rumour this time; it was far beyond that. The people who worked on the farms and estates in the area could only speak of victory, and no longer when or if. Men could go about their affairs without fear of being called to the Colours or snatched up by the hated press-gangs. The war had levied a heavy toll; there were still very few young men to be seen in the lanes or around the harbours, unless they held the precious Protection. Even then, they could never be certain how some zealous lieutenant, desperate for recruits and fearful of what his captain might say if he returned to his ship empty-handed, might interpret his duty if the chance offered itself. And there were cripples a-plenty to remind anyone who might believe that the war had kept its distance from Cornwall.
She thought of her brother John, who had lost a leg when he had been serving with the Thirty-First regiment of foot. She could not have managed without him, when she had taken this inn and had made it prosper. Then her other John, Allday, had come into her life, and they had been wed here in Fallowfield.
Her brother had said very little since the news of the French collapse had been shouted around the villages, and had seemed to distance himself from the customers. Perhaps he despised the lively banter and the steady sale of cider and ale which kept it close company, remembering now more than ever what the war had cost him, and all those who had stood shoulder to shoulder with him on the right of the line.
Maybe he would get over it, she thought. He was a kindly man, and had been so good with little Kate when she had been born, with John away at sea. She inspected a pot on its hook without seeing it, and then turned to look at the model of the Hyperion which John Allday had made for her. The old ship which had changed and directed the lives of so many, hers among them. Her first husband had served in Hyperion as a master’s mate and had been killed in battle. John Allday had been pressed in Falmouth and put aboard a frigate commanded by Captain Richard Bolitho; Hyperion had later become their ship. She would always think of them together, although she knew little of men-of-war, except those which came and left on the tide. It had seemed only right that this inn should now bear Hyperion’s name.
John Allday was not very good at hiding things from her, neither his love for her and their child, nor his grief.
People who did not understand always wanted to know, were always asking him, despite her warnings, about Sir Richard Bolitho. What he was like, truly like as a man. And always asking about his death.
Allday had tried, and was still trying, to fill every day, as if that was the only way he could come to terms with it. As his best friend Bryan Ferguson had confided, “Like the old dog losing his master. No point any more.”
And Unis knew that the old wound was troubling him, although if she had asked him he would have denied it. Ferguson had said that he should have quit the sea long ago, even as he had known, better than anyone, that John Allday would never leave the side of his admiral, his friend, while they were both still needed.
Unis saw the pain in his face more frequently now, as he made himself useful about the inn, especially when he was lifting barrels of ale on to their trestles. She would get some of the other men to do it in future, if she could manage it without Allday finding out.
She knew that he went occasionally across to Falmouth, and this was something she could not share, nor attempt to. The ships, the sailors, and the memories. Missing being a part of it, not wanting to become just another old Jack, “swinging the lamp,” as he put it.
Unis often thought of the ones who had become close to her. George Avery, who had stayed here several times, and who wrote her husband’s letters at sea for him, and read hers to him. John had told her that Avery never received any letters himself, and it had saddened her in some way.
And Catherine, who had called here when she had needed to be with friends. Unis had never forgotten that, nor would she.
Nothing was the same, even at the big grey house below Pendennis Castle. Ferguson had said little about it, but she knew he was deeply concerned. Lawyers had been to the house from London, pursuing the matter of a settlement, he had said. The estate had been left to Captain Adam Bolitho; it had been signed and sealed. But there were complications. Sir Richard’s widow and his daughter Elizabeth had to be considered. No matter what Sir Richard had wanted, nor what Catherine had meant to him.
Where would she go now? What would she do? Bryan Ferguson would not be drawn on the possibilities. He was worried about his own future; he and his wife had lived and worked at the estate for many years. How could lawyers from London know anything about such things as trust and loyalty?
She thought, too, of the memorial service at Falmouth. She had heard of the grander services at Plymouth and in the City of London, but she doubted they could match the united bond of pride and love, as well as sorrow, that day in the crowded church.
Her brother walked into the kitchen, his wooden leg thumping heavily on the flagstones.
He reached for his long clay pipe. “Just spoke with Bob, the farrier’s son.” He took a taper from the mantel and held it to the flames, careful not to look at her. “There’s a frigate in Carrick Roads. Came in this morning.” He saw her fingers bunch into her apron, and added, “Don’t fret, lass, none of her people will come this far out.”
She looked at the old clock. “He’ll be down there, then. Watching.”
He studied the smoke from his pipe, almost motionless in the warm air. Like that day when he had been struck down. All in a line, like toy soldiers. The smoke had lingered there too. For days. While men had called out, and had eventually died.
“He’s got you, and young Kate. He’s lucky. Luckier than most.”
She put her arms round him. “And we’ve got you, thank God!”
Someone banged his tankard on a table and she dabbed her face with her apron.
“There now, no rest for the wicked!”
Her brother watched her bustle out of the kitchen, and heard her call out to somebody by name.
