Sword of Honour

Epilogue

The carriage wheeled into the stable yard and came to a halt with practised ease, and a stable boy ran to take the horses' heads. To pacify them, perhaps, after so short a journey from the harbour.

Adam Bolitho opened the door without hesitation. This was the only way he knew, to go through with it.

He climbed down and stood on the worn cobbles and stared at the old grey house with a certain defiance.

Young Matthew had remained on the carriage, his face grim and downcast, almost a stranger, like the stable boy.

It had been Bryan Ferguson's idea to send the carriage, as soon as he had received word that the frigate Unrivalled had anchored in Carrick Roads.

Adam glanced around now, at the carpets of daffodils and bluebells amongst the trees, seeing none of it.

This was the place where he had come for help, for sanctuary, when his mother had died. Then, from midshipman to post-captain, a life full of excitement, elation and pain; and he owed it all to one man, his uncle. And now he, too, was dead. It was still stark and unreal, and yet, in some strange way, he had sensed it.

When Unrivalled had entered Plymouth after her first weeks under his command, he had known it then. The port admiral, Vice-Admiral Valentine Keen, had put off in his barge to meet him personally. To tell him. We Happy Few.

Napoleon had escaped from Elba, and a few days later had landed near Cannes, to be greeted not with hostility or fear but like a conquering hero, especially by his marshals and Old Guard, who had never lost their faith in him.

He had walked the streets of Plymouth, grappling with it, fighting it. His uncle had fallen on the very day that Napoleon had stepped ashore.

Even through his grief, he had sensed the mood in that seaport which had seen so much. Anger, frustration, a sense of betrayal. He understood their bitterness; there was hardly a village in England which had not lost someone in a war against the old enemy. And in seaports like Plymouth and in garrison towns, there were too many cripples in evidence to allow them to forget.

In Falmouth, it had been much worse. Falmouth was no city but lived off the sea, and the ships of every size and flag which came and went on the tides. Bad news rides a fast horse, Ferguson had said. Enemies were nothing new to these people; like the sea, the dangers were always there. But this was different, close, personal. Falmouth had lost her most beloved son. The flag above the church of King Charles the Martyr was at half-mast, and idlers had dropped their eyes when he had climbed from his gig, as if they were unable to face him. During the short journey from the town square, past familiar fields where he had seen men and women working together in the warm spring sunlight, some had looked up as the coach with its familiar crest rattled past, as if they still believed, dared to hope, then, as quickly, they had looked away.

The pleasure of his new command seemed unimportant; there was no one with whom to share it now. Even the names and faces of his ship's company were blurred, a part of something else, irrelevant.

He himself had remained composed, withdrawn; he had seen too many men die in battle to be unprepared, or to reveal the distress which was now tearing him apart.

He saw Ferguson climb down from the carriage, using his solitary arm as if he had never known anything different. He was a good man, a reliable one, and a friend. Ferguson understood him well enough to ensure that he was spared the agony of being greeted by the people who worked here and on the estate, especially his wife Grace, who would have been unable to contain her tears.

How quiet it seemed, the windows in shadow, watching.

Ferguson said, "We got the news two days back. A cutter came into port. I told Lady Catherine myself. She left for London immediately."

Adam turned and looked back at the stables, at the big mare Tamara, tossing her head up and down.

Ferguson saw his glance, and said, "Lady Catherine will come back. She'd not leave Tamara." He hesitated, his hand twisting at his belt. "John Allday. D'you happen to know

"Safe." Bethune had sent a full report to Keen, probably quite a different kind from that which he would write for the Admiralty. But until the others came home, they would not know the full story.

Keen had tried to explain to him, and Adam had guessed much of it. Frobisher had returned to Malta to land her dead and wounded, although there had been few of either. Bethune, Tyacke, A very; someone close to Sir Richard must have suggested a sea burial. To avoid the splendid ritual which had attended Nelson's death, the ostentatious displays of grief and mourning from people who had hated England's hero in life. To spare Catherine the agony of seeing the same mockery made of her lover's sacrifice.

They had buried him at sea. Adam had seen it as vividly as if he had been there. Wrapped in his flag, an admiral of England, at a place marked on a chart of which few would know. Surely no better resting-place, by his old ship Hyperion, and so many of her company whom he had never forgotten.

He found that he was on the stone steps, and knew Ferguson had stopped by the tall, double doors to allow him the time and the solitude for this reunion.

It was all exactly as he remembered it, the grave portraits, the great hearth where he had lain with Zenoria, some fresh flowers on a table, the door to the library partly open, as if somebody might appear there; he could even imagine the smell of jasmine.

He clenched his fists as he saw the sword, lying on a table in a patch of sunshine. Bethune must have sent it with his courier, perhaps not knowing what he should do with it. And Keen had sent a cutter to Falmouth with his own letter of condolence to Catherine. It was strange that he had not mentioned it in Plymouth.

He picked up the old sword very slowly, and saw the sheet of paper which had been folded beneath it.

It was Catherine's writing. What it must have cost her to sit here in anguish, and yet be able to think of him.

Dearest Adam,

The sword outwore its scabbard. Wear it with pride, as he always wanted. God bless you.

Ferguson stepped quietly into the room and watched, holding his breath, as Adam Bolitho unfastened his own sword and clipped the old blade in its place.

In this room, and in this light, it was not Adam but Richard standing there, all those years ago, and he was deeply moved by it.

When he looked again, Adam was smiling, and holding out both hands to him.

It needed no words.

The last Bolitho had come home.