In the King`s Name

EPILOGUE

IT WAS AROUND NOON when H.M. Schooner Druid entered Falmouth and finally moored alongside, after her short passage from Plymouth.

A few hours, but to Adam Bolitho it had seemed endless. He had hoped to hire a carriage, if only to lessen the formality after leaving Onward in the dockyard, as he had on his previous return. But he had been warned that the roads might be treacherous, even impassable, as there was snow in the West Country. Snow. After the long haul from Freetown, it seemed unbelievable.

The schooner’s master had told him more than once that his command, one of the fleet’s hard-worked couriers, covered more sea-miles per year than any proud ship of the line. Especially, he added, these days.

Adam dismissed it, stepping ashore. The frozen ground seemed to move beneath his feet, and every impression seemed blurred and dreamlike. At least in a vehicle he could have slept. Or would he?

So many memories.

Freetown. But before that, the sea burials. Voices, faces he had come to know. And they him. “The bill,” as Vincent termed it. Twelve killed, most by musket fire. Two more had died later, despite Murray’s unfailing attention. Most of the other casualties should recover. But they would not soon forget that brief ferocity, or their escape from their intended fate.

Small, stark images had stayed with him, even aboard the little

Druid with her talkative master and her own sounds and busy routine. In Freetown when some extra hands had come aboard to help remove or replace damaged rigging and had been gazing around at the damage, he had heard Monteith exclaim, “We showed them!”

Midshipman Hotham had turned his back, in contempt or disgust. At any other time Monteith would have reacted very differently, but he had hurried below without a word.

And Onward was once again in the hands of the dockyard. There had been no serious damage to her hull, and most of the standing and running rigging had been put to rights at Freetown.

He stood breathing the cold air, his mind lingering on the one moment, above all, that he would never forget. Neither would Captain James Tyacke. The flag lieutenant had hardly been able to contain his excitement and delight when he had announced to both of them that Rear-Admiral Langley had sailed for England, having been suddenly recalled. Adam remembered Ballantyne’s terse summing-up at their first meeting. Promotion or oblivion.

Tyacke’s expression had become one of utter disbelief when the lieutenant had pointed to the rear-admiral’s flag. It was now Tyacke’s own.

Adam halted and looked back along the jetty. The schooner’s crew were already taking on stores, and perhaps new passengers. Napier was looking eagerly toward the town, but caught his eye and gave him a smile. Recovering. Still recalling the last moments, the handshakes, embarrassed grins, or blunt relief at being alive.

Each time, it was always different. For the survivors.

He turned back and saw her standing near the carriage he had known would be here. She was wearing a full-length cloak, her head covered by a fleecy hood, which fell back as she ran toward him.

Young Matthew turned away to calm the horses, and was able to yawn hugely without showing it. They had been waiting here since dawn, or so it felt, and his feet were frozen, but this made it all worthwhile.

Adam held her tightly, but felt her flinch as something shrieked from the harbour. Had he turned, he would have seen clouds of vapour rising like smoke from one of the new and experimental paddle-steamers.

Lowenna pressed her cold cheek against his and murmured, “A new navy, Adam?”

He knew David Napier was looking across the harbour, his face alight with interest.

“His, not mine.”

She said, “Take us home,” and saw Young Matthew open the carriage door. “If ever …”

But she stopped, and said nothing more. That was yesterday.

ALEXANDER KENT is the pen name of British author Douglas Reeman. Reeman joined the Royal Navy at sixteen, serving on destroyers and small craft during WWII. After the war, he turned to writing, publishing numerous books under his own name, and the Bolitho series under the Kent pseudonym. The immensely popular Bolitho novels have been translated into nearly two dozen languages. Reeman lives with his wife, Kim, in Surrey, England. Among his prize possessions are Horatio Nelson’s armchair from the Victory, and a replica thirty-two pounder cannon, which he keeps vigilantly pointed toward France.