So young, and yet so adult in many ways. At the inn at St Austell, when some old man, probably a farmer, had scoffed, 'Bit young for a King's man, bain't 'ee? Lucky th' war's over, I say!'
Adam had turned from speaking with the landlord, ready to intervene, but had said nothing.
Napier had bent over and unhurriedly pulled up the leg of his new white trousers. In the filtered sunshine the jagged wound left by the splinter had been stark and horrific.
He had answered simply, 'Not too young for this, sir.'
The door opened and Napier resumed his seat beside Yovell, who had made room for him.
He looked at Adam and asked naively, 'Almost there, sir?'
Adam pointed at a slate wall which was turning to follow the narrow track, downward now, all the way to the sea.
He said, ' Hanger Lane, they call this, David. In the old days you were mad to walk here alone without one on your belt.' He recalled the ragged corpses hanging in irons by the roadside when they had skirted the moor. It was not very different today.
Yovell readjusted his spectacles. 'After six hours in this seat, I feel as if I've been round the Horn!'
It was a casual comment, to break some indefinable atmosphere. lie was not certain if this youthful man, who seemed to have been born to his captain's uniform, was suffering some lastminute misgivings.
Napier said quietly, 'You said we'd be back in England by June, sir.' lie glanced up at Yovell. 'We were faster than that!'
Yovell saw Adarn clench a fist against the worn leather.
It was the first of June, 1816. It would he his birthday next week; he had heard Sir Richard speak of it on several occasions.
Adam was thinking of Unrivalled lying at anchor. She was in good hands. He had heard Galbraith mention the risk of men deserting, and Cristie's gruff response. 'We'll not lose a soul, sir, which is a pity in a few cases I can think of! But 'til their lordships see fit to pay them their share of prize-an' bounty-money, you can sleep safe on it!'
And he thought of Luke Jago. What would he do? Who did he care about, if anyone?
And his characteristic answer when Adam had suggested he spend some time at the house in Falmouth.
'Not for me, sir! A few wets ashore an' mebbee a lass when I feels like it, that'll do me fairly!' Ile had laughed at the idea. And yet… Adam shook himself and leaned out of the window. The smell of the land, but above it the sea was there. Waiting.
'Drive on, Young Matthew! Before I change my mind!'
Young Matthew peered down at him, his face like a polished red apple beneath his hat.
'Then us'd be real sorry, zur!' He flicked the reins and clicked his tongue. The carriage rolled forward.
Adam leaned back in his seat and looked at Napier. Was that it? Was he trying to emulate his uncle's 'little crew'? Jago another John Allday, and this grave-eyed youngster perhaps as he had once been himself.
The sound of the wheels changed, and he looked out as the carriage rattled past a pair of cottages.
Two women were talking by a gate, and he saw them point, then wave. Smiling as if they knew him.
He raised his hand in greeting and felt Yovell watching him.
The crest on the carriage door would tell them. A Bolitho was back.
Coming home.
Bryan Ferguson shaded his eyes and looked across the stable yard, where a few of the estate workers had gathered to watch Young Matthew giving another riding lesson to his new friend. The boy Napier sat upright on the back of the pony, Jupiter, face determined, and still unable to believe he was here. Barefooted and stripped to the waist, he already wore some bandages to mark his progress, and his falls in the stable yard. Young Matthew had remembered his grandfather's golden rule, that to ride a horse you must first know how to sit properly. No stirrups or saddle, not even reins at this stage. Young Matthew guided the pony with a halter, giving an occasional hint or instruction, letting the boy learn for himself.
Ferguson thought of his wife Grace; there was no friendlier person alive, but as the Bolitho housekeeper she regarded all newcomers with suspicion until proved otherwise. It had taken only one day with Napier, after his first fall, when he had cut his knee on the cobbles.
She had come down to Ferguson in his estate office, unable to contain her tears.
'You should see that poor lad's leg, Bryan! He's lucky he didn't lose it! How could they let boys take such risks, war or no war!' She had relented immediately and had touched his pinnedup sleeve, his own reminder of action at sea. 'Forgive me. God's been so good to us.'
He turned away now from the sunlight and looked at his oldest friend, John Allday. Captain Adam had been back from sea for three days, and the time seemed to be running out like sand from an hourglass.
This was Allday's first visit, and Ferguson knew he was troubled by it, perhaps even relieved that Adam Bolitho had been away from home for most of the day.
The mug he always kept for his friend was grasped in his big hands like a thimble. His 'wet,' which they always shared on these occasions, had barely been touched. A had sign.
Allday was saying, 'Couldn't get away earlier, Bryan-lot going on at the Old Hyperion. Two new rooms being built-you know how it is.'
Yes, Ferguson knew. With the new road and a carriage toll, business at the inn would be improving. He thought of Allday's pretty little wife, Unis, and was glad for him. She had done well for both of them, and for her brother, 'the other John,' as she called him, who had done more than anyone else to help her when Allday had been at sea. Her brother had only one leg, a legacy of his service in the Thirty-First Foot, when he had been wounded on the bloody field of battle.
'I thought Dan'l Yovell might be here too?' Allday looked around as if he expected to see him.
'Gone to see somebody, John.' Keeping away, was the truer reason. Ten days, Captain Adam had said. And even that might be cut if some damned messenger came galloping up to the house with an instant recall to duty.
He heard a great chorus of laughter, then cheering, and looked at the yard again. Napier had nearly lost his seat, but was even now releasing the pony's shaggy mane, upright again, his face all smiles, something he sensed was rare, especially for one so young.
They were all busy, making each day count in its own way. Lady Roxby had apparently persuaded Captain Adam to sit for a portrait, to hang eventually with all the others in the old house. Ferguson closed it from his mind. One he might never see, something all sailors must consider.
He turned to his friend once more. Allday had none of it, the old dog who had lost his master. He did not belong. Unis, their little daughter Kate, the inn, and a life now unshadowed by the prospect of separation and danger… they were a part of something else. Even his trips into Falmouth to watch the ships anchoring and departing were fewer. Nor could he bear to mingle with all the loudmouthed veterans you found in every tavern and ale house. At least the village of Fallowfield, where The Old Hyperion remained the only inn, was usually free of sailors. And with the press-gangs only an evil memory, no King's men ever reached that far.
'Grace'll fetch some food presently.' He sat down opposite. The big, heavy hands were unchanged; they could wield a cutlass or create the most delicate of ship models, like the one of the old seventy-four Hyperion which occupied a place of honour in the inn parlour.
A strong man yet, although Ferguson knew better than most how Allday still suffered from the terrible wound in his chest. A Spanish blade, and the story had it that Sir Richard had thrown down his own sword in surrender in order to bargain for Allday's life.
Allday said, 'I ain't sure, Bryan. I'll be wanted over at Fallowfield.'
Ferguson picked up his own mug and studied the contents. The wrong word or some false sentiment, and his old friend would get up and leave. He knew him that well.
He thought about it often, how unlikely it would sound in the telling. I low he and this big, shambling sailorman had been seized by the press-gang here in Falmouth, or very close to it. And their captain had been Richard Bolitho, and the ship his frigate Phalarope.
After the Battle of the Saintes when he had lost his arm, Ferguson had been nursed back to health by Grace, and had risen to become steward of the estate. Allday had gone one better. He had become Bolitho's coxswain. And his friend, his oak.
Ferguson made up his mind.
