Ozzard laid the wine in a cooler and thought sadly of the splendid cabinet she had given him, which lay somewhere on the sea-bed in the shattered wreck of the Hyperion. He had seen the glance which passed between Bolitho and his rugged coxswain. A bond. Unbreakable to the end.
Bolitho said, "Take some brandy, Allday, and be off with you."
Allday turned by the screen door and peered aft as Bolitho seated himself at the table. So many, many times he had stood behind him in countless different gigs and barges. Always the black hair tied at the nape of his neck above his collar. With death and danger all around, and in times of rejoicing it had always been there.
He closed the door behind and gave the motionless sentry a wink. Whatever the rights and wrongs of it, no matter how they sorted it out with so many set against them, Bolitho and his lady would come through it. He smiled to himself, remembering when she had taken the time to speak with him. A real sailor's woman.
And God help anyone who tried to come between them.
In the days and the weeks which followed, while Truculent battled her way north-west towards the Cape VerdeIslands, against perverse changes of wind which seemed intent only on delaying her passage, Bolitho withdrew into himself, even more than when outward bound.
Allday knew it was because he had nothing to plan or prepare this time, not even the affairs of the ship to divert his attention. Jenour too had seen the change in him when he had taken his daily walks on deck; surrounded by Truculent's people and the busy routine found in any man-of-war, and yet so completely alone.
Each time he came on deck he examined the chart or watched the master instructing the midshipmen with the noon sights. Poland probably resented it, and took Bolitho's regular examinations of the calculations and knots-made-good as unspoken criticism.
Bolitho had even turned on Jenour over some trivial matter, and just as quickly had apologised. Had stared at the empty sea and said, "This waiting is destroying me, Stephen! "
Now he was fast asleep in his cot after being awake half the night, tormented by dreams which had left him shaking uncontrollably.
Catherine watching him with her lovely eyes, then laughing while another took her away without even a struggle. Catherine, soft and pliable in his hands, then far beyond his reach as he awoke calling her name.
Seven weeks and two days exactly since Bolitho had seen TableMountain swallowed up in darkness. He rolled over gasping, his mouth dry as he tried to remember his last dream.
With a start he realised that Allday was crouching by his cot, his figure in shadow as he held out a steaming mug. Bolitho's mind reeled, and all his old senses and reactions put an edge to his voice. "What is it, man?" With something like terror he clapped his hand to his face, but Allday murmured, "'Tis all right, Sir Richard your eye ain't playin' tricks." He stumbled from the cot and followed Allday into the stern cabin, the mug of coffee untouched.
If the ship seemed to be in darkness, beyond the stern windows the sea's face was already pale and hard, like polished pewter.
Allday guided him to the quarter window and said, "I know it's a mite early, Sir Richard. The morning watch is just on deck."
Bolitho stared until his eyes stung. He heard Allday say harshly, "I thought you'd want to be called, no matter the hour."
There was no burning sunshine or brilliant dawn here. He wiped the thick, salt-stained glass with his sleeve and saw the first spur of land as it crept through the misty greyness. Leaping waves like wild spectres, their roar lost in far distance.
"You recognise it, old friend?" He sensed that Allday had nodded but he said nothing. Maybe he could not.
Bolitho exclaimed, "The Lizard. A landfall-and surely there could be none better! "
He rose from the bench seat and stared around the shadows. "Though we shall stand too far out to see it, we will be abeam of Falmouth at eight bells."
Allday watched him as he strode about the cabin, the coffee spilling unheeded on the checkered deck covering. He was glad now that he had awakened to hear the lookout calling to the quarterdeck, "Land on the lee bow! "
The Lizard. Not just any landfall but the coast of Cornwall.
Bolitho did not see the relief and the pleasure in Allday's eyes. It was like a cloud being driven away. The threat of a storm giving way to hope. She would be in their room at this very moment, and would not know how close he was.
Allday picked up the mug and grinned. "I'll fetch some fresh."
He might as well have said nothing. Bolitho had taken out the locket she had given him, and was staring at it intently as the grey light penetrated the cabin.
Allday opened the door of the little storeroom. Ozzard was curled up asleep in one corner. With elaborate care he lifted one of Ozzard's outflung arms off the brandy cask and gently turned the tap over the mug.
Home again. He held the mug to his lips even as the calls trilled to rouse the hands for the new, but different, day.
And not a moment too soon, matey!
8. Full Moon
BRYAN FERGUSON dabbed his face with his handkerchief while he leaned against the stile to regain his breath. The wind off the sea was no match for the sun which burned down directly across the grey bulk of PendennisCastle, and threw back such a glare from the water it was not possible to look at it for long.
It was a view he never got tired of. He smiled to himself. He had been steward of Bolitho's estate for over twenty years now. Sometimes it did not seem possible. The Bolitho house was behind him, down the sloping hillside where the fields were banked with wild flowers, while the long grass waved in the breeze like waves on water.
He squinted into the sunlight and stared towards the narrow winding path which led up and around the cliff. He saw her standing where the path turned and was lost around the bend-a treacherous place in the dark, or at any time if you did not take heed. If you fell to the rocks below there was no second chance.
She had told him to remain by the stile, to recover his breath or because she needed to be alone, he did not know. He watched her with silent admiration. Her hair, loosely tied, was whipping in the wind, her gown pressed to her body, making her look like some enchantress in an old poem or folk-tale, he thought.
The household had accepted her warily, unwilling to discuss her presence here with the local people, but, like Ferguson, prepared to defend her right as Bolitho had instructed.
Ferguson and his wife, who was the housekeeper, had expected Bolitho's lady to remain detached from the estate and its affairs. He shook his head as he saw her turn and begin to descend the pathway towards him. How wrong they had been. Almost from the moment she had returned from Portsmouth after saying farewell to
Bolitho, she had displayed an interest in everything. But she had always asked, not ordered. Ferguson tried not to think of Lady Belinda who had been rather the opposite. It made him feel uneasy and vaguely disloyal.
She had ridden with him to visit the surrounding cottages which were part of the Bolitho heritage; she had even managed to get him to reveal how much larger the estate had originally been in the days of Bolitho's father, Captain James. Much of it had been sold to clear the debts amassed by his other son Hugh, who had deserted the navy and joined the Americans in their fight against the Crown.
Ferguson glanced down at his empty sleeve. Like Allday he'd been pressed not far from here and taken to the frigate Phalarope, Bolitho's own command. Ferguson 's arm had been taken off at the Saintes. He gave a wry smile. And yet they were still together.
At other times, like today, she had walked with him, asking about crops, the price of seed, ploughing, and the areas where grain and vegetables from the estate were sold. No, she was like nobody Ferguson had ever met.
He had come to understand her during her first days here, when he had been taking her around the old house, showing and naming the grave-faced portraits of Bolitho's ancestors. From old Captain Julius who had died right in Falmouth trying to break the Roundhead blockade of PendennisCastle, to the recent past. In a small bedroom, covered by a sheet, she had discovered the portrait of Cheney She had asked him to put it by the window so that she could see it. In that silent room Ferguson had heard her breathing, watched the quick movement of her breasts while she had studied it before asking, "Why here?" He had tried to explain but she had interrupted him with quiet emphasis. "Her Ladyship insisted, no doubt." It had not been a question.