Darkening Sea

by Kent, Alexander

  Bolitho nodded to them, and turned his face away. “I wish you all good fortune. I am proud to have been in your midst.”

  Vague impressions now, the cloud of pipeclay above the bayonetted muskets as the guard presented arms, the piercing twitter of calls, the fleeting anxiety on Allday’s rugged features as he reached the gig in safety. He saw Adam by the rail, his hand half-raised, while behind him his lieutenants and warrant officers sought to be the first to take his attention. A man-of-war at sea or in harbour was never at rest, and already boats were putting off from the harbour wall to conduct, if they could, every kind of business from the sale of tobacco and fruit to the services of women of the town, if a captain would permit them on board.

  “Give way all!” The midshipman’s voice was a squeak. Bolitho shaded his eyes to see the people on the nearest jetty. Faintly, above the scream of gulls circling some incoming fishing boats, he heard the church clock strike the half-hour. Old Partridge had been right about the time of their arrival. Anemone must have anchored exactly at four bells as he had predicted.

  More uniforms at the top of the stone stairs, and an old man with a wooden leg who was grinning as if Bolitho were his own son.

  Bolitho said, “Morning, Ned.” He was an old boatswain’s mate who had once served with him. What ship? How many years ago?

  The man piped after him, “Did ’ee give they Frenchies a quiltin’, zur?”

  But Bolitho had hurried away. He had seen her watching him from the narrow lane that led eventually to the house by a less public route.

  She stood quite still, only one hand moving as it stroked the horse’s neck, her eyes never leaving his face.

  He had known she would be here, just as she had been drawn from her bed to be the first, the only one to greet him.

  He was home.

  Bolitho paused with his arm around Catherine’s shoulder, one hand touching her skin. The tall glass doors leading from the library were wide open, and the air was heavy with the fragrance of roses. She glanced at his profile, the white lock of hair etched against his sunburn. She had called it distinguished, to comfort him, although she knew he hated it, as if it were some trick to constantly remind him of the difference in years between them.

  She said quietly, “I have always loved roses. When you took me to see your sister’s garden I knew we should have more of them.”

  He caressed her shoulder, still barely able to believe that he was here, that he had come ashore only an hour ago. All the weeks and the months remembering their time together, her courage and endurance before and after the loss of the Golden Plover, when he himself had doubted that they would survive the misery and suffering of an open boat, with the sharks never far away.

  A small housemaid hurried past with some linen and looked at Bolitho with astonishment.

  “Why, welcome home, Sir Richard! Tes a real joy to see you!”

  He smiled. “I relish being here, my girl.” He saw the servant dart a quick glance at Catherine who was still wearing the old coat, and the riding skirt splashed with dew and marked by the dust of the cliff track.

  He asked quietly, “Have they treated you well, Kate?”

  “They have been more than kind. Bryan Ferguson has been a tower of strength.”

  “He told me just now when you were sending for coffee that you have put him to shame in the estate office.” He squeezed her. “I am so proud of you.”

  She looked across the sloping garden to the low wall and beyond, where the sea’s edge shone above the hillside like water in a dam.

  “The letters that were waiting for you . . .” She faced him, her fine eyes suddenly anxious. “Richard—there will be time for us?”

  He said, “They will not even know I am back until Adam sends his despatch on the telegraph from Portsmouth. But nothing has been explained about my recall nor will it be, I suspect, until I visit the Admiralty.”

  He searched her face, trying to dispel her fear that they would soon be parted like the last time. “One thing is certain: Lord Godschale has quit the Admiralty. We shall doubtless have an explanation for that before long!”

  She seemed satisfied, and with her hand through his arm they walked out into the garden. It was very hot, and the wind seemed to have fallen away to a mere breeze. He wondered if Adam would be able to claw his way out of the harbour.

  He asked, “What news of Miles Vincent? You wrote to me that he had been pressed by the Ipswich. ”

  She frowned. “Roxby wrote to the port admiral when he discovered what had happened. The admiral was going to send a despatch to Ipswich ’s captain to explain the mistake . . .”

  She looked at him with surprise as Bolitho said, “Being pressed into the service he abused with his cruelty and arrogance might do him good! That petty little tyrant needs a lesson, and feeling the justice of the lower deck instead of the gunroom might reap some reward, but I doubt it.”

  She paused to shade her eyes. “I am sorry Adam could not accompany you here.”

  The mood left her and she twisted round in his arms and gave him her radiant smile.

  “But I lie! I wanted to share you with no one. Oh, dearest of men—you came as I knew you would, and you look so well!”

  They walked on in silence until she asked quietly, “How is your eye?”

  He tried to dismiss it. “Nothing changes, Kate. And sometimes it reminds me of everything we have done . . . that we are so much luckier than those brave ones who will never know a woman’s embrace, or smell a new dawn in the hills of Cornwall.”

  “I hear people in the yard, Richard.” Her sudden frown faded as she heard Allday’s deep laugh.

  Bolitho smiled. “My oak. He stayed behind with Yovell to supervise the landing of some chests, and that splendid wine cooler you gave to me. I would not lose it like the other one.” He spoke calmly but his eyes were faraway.

  “It was a brave fight, Kate. We lost some good men that day.” Again the tired shrug. “But for Captain Rathcullen’s initiative I fear things would have gone very much against us.”

  She nodded, remembering the intensity on young Stephen Jenour’s face when he had visited her, as Richard had requested he should.

  “And Thomas Herrick failed you again, in spite of all the danger, and what you had once been to one another . . .”

  He stared at the sea and felt his left eye smart slightly. “Yes. But we won, and now they say that but for our victory our main forces would have had to fall back from Martinique.”

  “But for you, Richard! You must never forget what you have done for your navy, your country.”

  He lowered his head and gently kissed her neck. “My tiger.”

  “Be certain of it!”

  Ferguson’s wife Grace, the housekeeper, came out to them and stood beaming with a tray of coffee. “I believed you would like it out here, m’lady.”

  She said, “Yes, that was thoughtful. The house seems extra busy today.”

  She reached out suddenly and gripped his hand. “Too many people, Richard. Demanding to see you, to ask for things, to wish you well. It is difficult to be alone even in our own house.” Then she looked at him, a pulse beating quickly in her neck. “I have ached for you, wanted you in every way you dare to use me.” She shook her head so that some of her loosely pinned hair fell across her face. “Is that so wicked?”

  He took her hand tightly. “There is a small cove.”

  She raised her eyes to his.

  “Our special place?” She studied him until her breathing became steadier. “Now?”

  Ferguson found his wife by the stone table in the garden. She was looking at the coffee, which was untouched.

  He said, “I heard horses . . .” He saw her expression and sat down at the table. “Pity to waste it.” He reached out with his one arm and squeezed his wife’s waist. It was hard to remember her as the thin, sickly girl she had been when Bolitho’s press-gang had caught him and Allday with some others.

  “They’ve gone to find one a
nother again.” She touched his hair, her thoughts, like his, drifting, remembering.

  Even down in the town they looked at her ladyship differently now. Once she had been the whore Sir Richard Bolitho had abandoned his wife for, who would turn any man’s head with her beauty and her proud defiance. There would always be dislike and contempt from some, but the awe at what she had done and endured aboard the ill-fated Golden Plover and the squalor and the fight for survival she had shared with the others in that open boat had changed almost everything.

  It was said that she had cut down one of the mutineers with her own Spanish comb when Bolitho’s plan to retake the vessel had misfired.

  Some women had tried to imagine what it would be like to share a small boat with the good and the bad, the desperate and the lustful when everything else seemed lost. The men watched her pass and imagined themselves alone with the vice-admiral’s woman.

  Grace Ferguson came out of her dreaming with a start. “It’ll be lamb for tonight, Bryan.” She was in charge once more. “And some of that Frenchie wine they both seem to like.”

  He looked at her with amusement. “Champagne, they call it, my dear.”

  As she made to hurry away to begin her preparations she paused and hugged him.

  “I’ll tell you one thing. They can be no happier than we’ve been in spite of all th’ devils that plagued us!”

  Ferguson stared after her. Even now, she could still surprise him.

  2 A VERY HONOURABLE MAN

  BRYAN FERGUSON reined his little trap to a halt and watched his friend as he stared down the lane towards the inn. The Stag’s Head was pleasantly situated in the tiny hamlet of Fallowfield on the Helford River. It was almost dusk, but on this balmy June evening he could still see the glint of a stretch of the river through a rank of tall trees, and the air was alive with late birdsong and the buzz of insects.

  John Allday was wearing his best blue jacket with the special gilt buttons Bolitho had given him. Each button bore the Bolitho crest, and Allday had been bursting with pride at the gesture: one of the family, as he had described himself many times.

  Ferguson watched his friend’s uncertainty, a nervousness he had not seen in Allday since he had first visited the Stag after saving the life of the woman who now owned it: Unis Polin, the comely widow of a master’s mate in the old Hyperion. She had been attacked by two footpads even as she had driven her few belongings down to this very place.

  Ferguson considered it. With his face tanned like leather, and in his fine blue coat and nankeen breeches, to most people Allday would seem the perfect example of Jack Tar, the sure shield against the French or any other enemy who dared to come against His Britannic Majesty’s navy. He had seen and done almost everything. To a privileged few he was also known as more than just Vice-Admiral Sir Richard Bolitho’s coxswain. He was his true friend. For some it was hard to picture one without the other.

  But on this evening it was difficult for Ferguson to see him as that same confident man. He ventured, “Losing your nerve, John?”

  Allday licked his lips. “To you an’ none other I’ll confess that I’m all aback. I’ve thought of the moment and of her, right enough. When Anemone showed her copper as we tacked past Rosemullion Head yonder, my head was packed so full of notions I could barely see straight. But now . . .”

  “Afraid of making a fool of yourself?”

  “Something like that. Tom Ozzard thinks as much.”

  Ferguson shook his head. “Oh, him! What does he know about women?”

  Allday glanced at him. “Not too sure o’ that either.”

  Ferguson laid his hand on Allday’s arm. It felt like a piece of timber.

  “She’s a fine woman. Just what you need when you settle down. This damned war can’t last much longer.”

  “What about Sir Richard?”

  Ferguson looked at the darkening river. So that was it. He had guessed as much. The old dog worried about his master. As ever.

  Allday took his silence for doubt. “I’d not leave him. You knows that!”

  Ferguson shook the reins very gently and the pony started down the slope. “You dropped anchor only yesterday, and you’ve been like a bear with a sore head ever since. You couldn’t think of anything else.” He smiled. “So let’s go and see, eh?”

  It was St John’s Eve, the twenty-third of the month, a feast that dated from pagan times although it was bound up with Christian traditions. Old folk could remember when the celebration was held after sunset and marked by a chain of bonfires right across the county. The fires were blessed with wild flowers and herbs and when all was well alight young couples would often jump hand-in-hand through the flames to ensure good luck, and the blessing was spoken in the old Cornish tongue. A good deal of eating and drinking had accompanied the ceremony, and some doubters maintained that witchcraft rather than religion was paramount.

  But this evening was quiet, although they had seen one fire beyond the hamlet, where some farmer or landowner was celebrating with his workers. The chain of bonfires had ceased when the King of France’s head had been hacked from his shoulders and the Terror had ripped through that country like a fast fuse. If anyone was indiscreet enough to start up the old custom again here every countryman and the local Militia would be drummed to arms, because such a chain of fires would cry invasion.

  Ferguson played with the reins. It was almost time. He had to discover something. He had heard all about Allday’s old chest wound cutting him down as surely as any enemy ball when he had rescued the woman from the two robbers. Allday could cross blades with anybody, and was like a lion just so long as the wound held its peace. But it was a long walk from the inn to the Bolitho house at Falmouth. A dark track: anything might happen.

  He asked bluntly, “If she takes kindly to you, John—what I mean is . . .”

  Surprisingly Allday grinned. “I’m not staying the night, if that’s what you think. It would damage her name hereabouts. She’ll still be a foreigner to most.”

  Ferguson exclaimed with relief. “From Devon, you mean!” He looked at him gravely as they turned into the yard. “I’ve got to go over and visit old Josiah the mason. He was injured on our land a few days back, so her ladyship bid me take some things to cheer his hours away.”

  Allday chuckled. “Rum, is it?” He became serious again. “By God, you should have seen Lady Catherine when we were in that bloody longboat, Bryan.” He shook his shaggy head. “But for her, I don’t reckon we’d have come through it alive.”

  The little trap swayed over as Allday climbed down. “I’ll see you when you returns, then.” He was still standing staring at the inn door when Ferguson guided the trap on to the road again.

  Allday took the heavy iron handle as if he was about to release some raging beast and pushed open the door.

  His immediate impression was that it had changed since his last visit. The woman’s hand, perhaps?

  An old farmer sat beside the empty fireplace with his tankard of ale, and a pipe which appeared to have gone out some time ago; a sheep dog lay by the man’s chair, only his eyes moving as Allday closed the door behind him. Two well-dressed merchants looked up with sudden alarm at the sight of the blue jacket and buttons, probably imagining he was part of a press-gang making a last-minute search for recruits. It was not so common now for innocent traders to be snatched up by the press in their never-ending hunt for men to feed the demands of the fleet: Allday had even heard of a young groom who had been taken from his bride’s arms as he had been leaving the church door. Ferguson had been right; most of the local people must be at the St John’s celebrations elsewhere. These men were probably on their way to the Falmouth stock sale, and would lodge here overnight.

  Everything shone like an individual welcome. A smell of flowers, a table of fine cheeses and the sturdy pints of ale balanced on their trestles completed the picture every countryman cherished when far away from home, the men of the blockading squadrons or in the fast frigates like Anemone, who might n
ot set foot ashore for months, or even years.

  “And what’ll your pleasure be?”

  Allday swung round and saw a tall, level-eyed man wearing a green apron watching him from beyond the ale barrels. No doubt he thought him to be a member of the hated press. They were rarely welcome at any inn, where custom would soon become scarce if they visited regularly. There was something vaguely familiar about the man, but all Allday could feel was disappointment, a sense of loss. He was being stupid. He should have known. Perhaps even the secretive Ozzard had been trying to save him from the hurt of it.

  “There’s some good ale from Truro. Fetched it myself.” The man folded his arms and Allday saw the vivid tattoo: crossed flags and the number “ 31 st.” The pain went deeper. Not even a sailor, then.

  Almost to himself he said, “The Thirty-First Foot, the Old Huntingdonshires.”

  The man stared at him. “Fancy you knowing that.”

  He made to move around the barrels, and Allday heard the thud of a wooden leg.

  He reached out and clasped Allday’s hand in his, his face completely changed.

  “I’m a fool—I should have guessed! You’re John Allday, the one who saved my sister from those bloody hounds.”

  Allday studied him. Sister. Of course, he should have seen it. The same eyes.

  He was saying, “My name’s John too. One-time butcher in the old Thirty-First, ’til I lost this.”

  Allday watched the memories flooding across his face. Like Bryan Ferguson and all the other poor Jacks he had seen in every port, and the others he had watched go over the side, stitched up in their hammocks like so much rubbish.

  “There’s a cottage here, so when she wrote an’ asked me . . .” He turned and said quietly, “An’ here she be, God bless her!”

  “Welcome back, John Allday.” She was looking very neat and pretty in a new dress, her hair set carefully above her ears.

  He said awkwardly, “You’re a real picture—er, Unis.”

  She was still watching him. “I dressed like this for you when I heard Sir Richard was back home. I’d never have spoken to you again if . . .”