A Tradition of Victory

Epilogue

RICHARD BOLITHO studied his reflection in a wall mirror with the same scrutiny he would offer a junior officer who had applied for promotion.

He said over his shoulder, “It was good of you to stay with me, Thomas.” He turned and looked fondly at Herrick who was sitting on the edge of a chair, a half-empty goblet clutched in one hand. “Although in your present state of nerves I fear we will be of little use to one another!”

It was still difficult to believe he was home in Falmouth. After all that had happened, the squadron’s slow return to Plymouth, the work involved in caring for the battle-scarred ships, the goodbyes, and the memories of those who would never set foot in England again.

How quiet the house was, so still he could hear the birds beyond the windows which were closed against the first October chill, so very quiet, like a ship before a fight or after a storm.

Herrick shifted uncomfortably in his chair and looked down at his new uniform.

“Acting-commodore, they said!” He sounded incredulous. “But I’d lose even that when peace was signed!”

Bolitho smiled at Herrick’s discomfort. Whatever the Admiralty’s official attitude was to be about the French invasion fleet’s destruction, their lordships had shown honest sense where Herrick was concerned.

Bolitho said quietly, “It has the right ring to it. Thomas Herrick, Rear-Admiral of the Red. I’m truly proud of you, and for you.”

Herrick stuck out his jaw, “And what about you? Nothing for what you achieved?” He held up his hand. “You can’t shut me up any more! We’re equal now, you said so yourself, so I’ll say my piece and there’s an end to it!”

“Yes, Thomas.”

Herrick nodded, satisfied. “Right then. It’s all over the West Country, everyone knows that peace is everything but signed, that fighting has ceased, and all because the French are the ones eager for an armistice! And why, do I ask?”

“Tell me, Thomas.”

Bolitho looked at himself in the mirror again. He felt worried and unsettled now that the moment had arrived. Within the hour he would be married to Belinda. What he had wanted more than anything, what he had clung to even in the worst moments in France and at sea.

But suppose she had inwardly changed her mind. She would still marry him, he had no doubt about that, but it would be on his terms and not hers. Herrick’s anger at the Admiralty’s attitude on his future seemed unimportant.

Herrick said, “It is because of what you did, make no mistake on that! Without those damned invasion vessels the French can only make a noise. They could no more invade England than, than…” He groped for some suitable insult. He ended by saying, “I think it’s petty and unfair. I’m promoted, when God’s teeth I’d rather remain a captain, while you stay where you are!”

Bolitho looked at him gravely. “Was it hard for you at Plymouth?”

Herrick nodded. “Aye. Saying farewell to Benbow. It was hard. I wanted to explain so much to the new captain, tell him what the ship could do…” He shrugged heavily. “But there it is. We paid our formal respects, and I came here to Falmouth.”

“Like that other time, eh, Thomas?”

“Aye.”

Herrick stood up and placed the goblet firmly on the table.

He said, “But today is a special day. Let’s make the most of it. I’m glad we’re walking down to the church.” He looked steadily into Bolitho’s eyes. “She’s lucky. So are you.” He grinned. “Sir.”

Allday opened the door, their hats in his hands. He looked very smart in his new gilt-buttoned jacket and nankeen breeches, a far cry from the man with a cutlass on the French flagship’s quarterdeck.

“There’s a visitor, gentlemen.”

Herrick groaned. “Send him or her packing, Allday. What a time to arrive!”

A tall shadow moved through the door and gave a stiff bow.

“With respect, sir, no admiral attends his wedding without his flag-lieutenant.”

Bolitho strode across the room and grasped both his hands.

“Oliver! Of all miracles!”

Browne gave his gentle smile. “A long story, sir. We escaped by boat and were picked up by a Yankee trader. Unfortunately, he was unwilling to put us ashore until we reached Morocco!” He studied Bolitho for several seconds. “Everywhere I’ve been I have heard nothing but praise for your victory. I did warn you that authority might take a different view if you succeeded with Admiral Beauchamp’s plan.” He glanced at Herrick’s new epaulettes and added, “But some rightful reward has been made, sir.”

Herrick said, “You’ve come at the right time, young fellow!”

Browne stepped back and then patted Bolitho’s coat and neckcloth into shape.

“There, sir, fit for the day.”

Bolitho walked through the open doors and looked at the empty grounds. The wedding was to be a quiet, personal thing, but it seemed as if every servant, Ferguson his steward, the gardeners and even the stable-boy had gone on ahead of him.

He said softly, “Your safe arrival has done more good than I can say, Oliver. It is like having a weight lifted from my heart.” He turned and looked at his three friends and knew he meant it. “Now we shall walk down together.”

As they arrived in the square and moved towards the old church of King Charles the Martyr, Bolitho was surprised to see a great crowd of townspeople waiting to see him.

As the three sea-officers, followed cheerfully by Allday, approached the church, many of the people began to cheer and wave their hats, and one man, obviously an old sailor, cupped his hands and yelled, “Good luck to ye! A cheer for Equality Dick!”

“What is happening, Thomas?”

Herrick shrugged unhelpfully. “Probably market day.”

Allday nodded, hiding a grin. “That might well be it, sir.

Bolitho paused on the steps and smiled at the expectant faces.

Some he knew, people he had played with as a child and had grown up with. Others he did not, for they had come from outlying villages, and some all the way from Plymouth where they had seen the squadron arrive and anchor.

For although the politicians and the lords of Admiralty could say and do as they pleased, to these ordinary people today was something important.

Once again a Bolitho had come home to the big grey house below Pendennis Castle. Not a stranger, but one of their own sons.

A clock chimed and Bolitho whispered, “Let us enter, Thomas.”

Herrick smiled at Browne. He had rarely seen Bolitho at a loss before.

The doors opened, and one more surprise waited to disturb Bolitho’s emotions.

The church was packed from end to end, and as Bolitho walked to meet the rector, he realized that many of them were officers and sailors from the squadron. One whole line was taken up by his captains and their wives, even their children. Inch, with his arm in a sling and his pretty wife. Veriker, his head to one side in case he misheard something. Valentine Keen whose Nicator had chased the last French ship under the guns of a coastal battery before he had decided to give the enemy best. Duncan and Lapish, and Lockhart of the Ganymede, obviously enjoying the twist of fate which had made him one of Bolitho’s captains. Nancy, Bolitho’s younger sister, was there beside her husband, the squire. She was already dabbing her eyes and smiling at the same time, and even her husband looked unusually pleased with himself.

Some would be remembering that other time seven years ago when Richard Bolitho, then a captain himself, had waited here for his bride.

Bolitho looked at Herrick. Allday had melted into the mass of watching sailors and marines, and Browne stood beside Dulcie Herrick, her hand resting on his cuff.

“Well, old friend, we are alone again it seems.”

Herrick smiled. “Not for long.”

He too was remembering. In this place it was hard to forget. The line of plaques on the wall near the pulpit, all Bolithos, from Captain Julius Bolitho who had died right here in Falmouth in 1646 trying to lift the Roundhead blockade on Pendennis Castle. At the bottom there was one plain plaque. “Lieutenant Hugh Bolitho. Born 1752… Died 1782.” Nearby was another, and Herrick guessed it had been placed there only recently. It stated, “To the memory of Mr Selby, Master’s Mate in His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Hyperion, 1795.”

Yes, it was very hard to forget.

He saw Bolitho straighten his back and turned to face the aisle as the doors reopened.

The organ played, and a rustle of expectancy transmitted itself through the building as Lieutenant Adam Pascoe, with Bolitho’s bride on his arm, walked slowly towards the altar.