FORM LINE OF BATTLE!

EPILOGUE

The return of summer brought all things to all people. It was the second so far in a war which now seemed as if it would last for ever. In the towns and cities it was greeted with relief by those who had imagined that their island might already have been under the enemy's heel. By others, separated from loved ones, widowed or orphaned by the war's endless demands, it marked just one more milestone of loneliness or despair.

But in Cornwall, and in the seaport of Falmouth in particular, it was hailed as a time of thanksgiving, a just reward for the hardships and dangers of darker days. Inland, the patchwork of lush fields and red hedgerows, the rolling hills with their scattered sheep and contented cattle, all were visible evidence of survival, a sure belief in the future.

In the town itself the atmosphere was almost one of celebration, for although Falmouth was small, it drew its heritage, from the sea and the ships and men who came, and went on the tides. The long generations of sailors, who had been St. Anthony's Beacon not as a mere welcome but as a first sight of-home, had a true understanding of wider affairs and had done much to influence them.

Even the news was better, as if the coming warmth and the clear skies had at last brought a promise, if not a sight, of victory. Only that week the couriers had shouted the tidings in the narrow streets and along the busy waterfront. It was not just a rumour, but something to fire the most doubting heart.

Lord Howe had fought and defeated a French fleet in the Atlantic in a battle already known as 'The Glorious First of June'. It had been like a tonic. After the setbacks and reverses born of unpreparedness and over-confidence in high places, it was exactly what was needed. Even Hood's failure to hold Toulon six months earlier seemed to shrink in importance, as if it too was just one of winter's forgotten hazards.

Whatever had gone before was history as far as the people of Falmouth were concerned. England was ready, and if necessary would fight until the end of time to break the French tyrant once and for all.

New names and fresh ideas were springing up every day to sweep away the old and the hidebound. Names like Saumarez and Hardy, Collingwood and the young Captain Nelson whose deeds had already gripped the imagination of a nation.

But Falmouth did not have to look beyond its own limits to find a name to applaud. And on this particular day many had ridden in from outlying villages and farms, and even some of the small coastal craft had stayed in port instead of earning their keep, so that their masters could join the crowd outside the old grey church of King Charles the Martyr.

It was not just another sea officer, but one of their own sons who was getting married, a man whose family name was as much a part of Falmouth as the stones of the church or the sea at the foot of Pendennis Point. The Bolitho family had always been good for an exciting yam during the dark winter months, and this much-discussed marriage was as unusual and exciting as anything from their past exploits.

The girl was very beautiful, and had arrived in Falmouth in the middle of a snowstorm. Few had actually seen her, but it was said she regularly walked above the wall of the Bolitho house watching the sea and searching for the one ship which never seemed to come.

Now the waiting was over, and Richard Bolitho was back. Even the taverns emptied as he walked to the church, and people cheered and called his name, although many had never laid eyes on him before.

But he was a symbol, and he ivas one of their own. That was more than enough.

To the man in question that particular day passed in a whirl of vague pictures and excited voices. Of last-minute instructions and conflicting advice. Only certain instances stood out with any sort of clarity, and they seemed to be happening to someone else, as if he was just one more of the onlookers.

Like the first moment of real peace when he had sat stiffly in the front pew, knowing that every person in the crowded church was watching him, yet unable to turn. and face them.

He had felt like a child, lost and confused, and the next second older than time itself. Everything seemed different, and even Herrick had looked like a stranger in his new captain's uniform.

He had wanted to peer at his watch, but had seen Walmsley, the old rector, looking at him severely, and had decided against it.

Poor Herrick. He seemed as surprised at his promotion to captain as he was confused by the new relationship it had presented. Bolitho had seen him glancing nervously at the line of wall plaques near the pulpit, and the record of Bolitho's ancestors stretching back in time. The last one was small and plain. It merely stated, `Lieutenant Hugh Bolitho. Born 1742. Died 1782.' And he found time to wonder what Herrick would say if he knew the truth about his brother. Somewhere on the other side of the world Hugh might be thinking about it, too, even smiling at the macabre joke which life had played on him.

Then Bolitho's thoughts had been scattered by the sudden boom of the organ and the immediate ripple of excitement at his back. When he had turned he had seen many familiar faces amongst the congregation, some of which brought back memories too painful to dwell on. Hyperion was lying at Plymouth, still undergoing repairs to the damage of battle and the long voyage home'. But Inch was here, and Gossett, even Captain Ashby, who should have known better. He had lost an arm, but nothing, it seemed,, could keep him away. In a month or so he would be taking Hyperion back to sea, but he would have to rejoin her long before that. There would be new officers and a whole world of fresh, untrained faces to mould into the old ship's way of life. But no Hetrick this time,, and very few of the others either. He knew Herrick was angry that he had not been promoted also. But it had been Pomfret's victory. It started. so in the Gazette, even though every man-jack in the fleet knew better.

Bolitho had forgotten everything as the girl had appeared in the church entrance, her figure outlined against the sunlight,. one hand resting on the arm of her brother.

It was strange to see the boy in civilian dress. Stranger still to realise that he was now a man of property and substance. Pomfret's will had made it plain that he wanted him to have everything. His land and his house, and a considerable amount of money to go with them. The only condition was that he should leave the sea. Young Seton had protested, but Bolitho had made him agree. There were men who fought battles and gave all for their country without counting the odds. Bolitho and Herrick were such men. But if England were to survive the war's growing harvest it needed men like Seton to work from within. Men of loyalty and sensitivity, of gentleness and vision. They would build on the ruins when there was no more need to die for a cause.

Bolitho's recollections after that moment became more confused as she reached his side and the actual service commenced. The touch of her hand, the grave understanding of those eyes which shone like the sea. The rector's reedy voice, and-Herrick's acknowledgement as he produced the ring. Too loud, and somewhat out of place, his `Aye, aye, sirl' had brought titters from the watching choristers.

Now it was done, and the waters below the headland were deep in purple shadow. The toasting and the back-slapping, the speeches and his sister's tears, all had gone with the closing of the heavy door.

Behind him in the high-ceilinged room he heard her stirring on the bed. She called quietly, `What is it, Richard?'

He was watching a ship, anchored far out and ready for the morning tide. A man-of-war. Probably a frigate, he thought. It was easy to picture the officers drowsing over their pipes and tankards, the sound of a violin from the forecastle, and the moan of wind through the shrouds as she tugged impatiently at her cable. Sailors often bemoaned leaving the land, but ships rejoiced at it.

He replied, `All my' family have been sailors. I am the same. There will always be ships, out there, waiting.'

Bolitho turned and watched her as she lifted her arms, pale in the darkness.

`I know that, my darling Richard. And each time you return here to Falmouth I will be waiting, too!'

Down in the deserted dining room Aliday stared at the litter of empty glasses and discarded plates. After a moment he picked up an unused goblet and poured a full measure of brandy. Then he walked to the other room and stood looking at the sword above the great stone fireplace. Somehow it looked at peace, he thought. He downed the brandy in one gulp and walked slowly out of the door whistling an old tune, the name of which he had long forgotten.

End