Second to None

9. Luckier Than Most

UNIS ALLDAY paused and brushed a stray hair from her eyes and listened to some of the customers in the “long room,” as her brother called it, laughing and banging their tankards on the scrubbed tables. The Old Hyperion had been busy today, busier than she could remember for some months.

She scraped the slices of apple into a dish and stared out of the kitchen window. Flowers everywhere, bees tapping against the glass, the sun warm across her bare arms. The news of the great battle “over there” had been brought to Falmouth by courier brig and had gone through the port and surrounding villages like wildfire, eventually reaching this little inn which nestled on the Helford River at Fallowfield.

It was not a rumour this time; it was far beyond that. The people who worked on the farms and estates in the area could only speak of victory, and no longer when or if. Men could go about their affairs without fear of being called to the Colours or snatched up by the hated press-gangs. The war had levied a heavy toll; there were still very few young men to be seen in the lanes or around the harbours, unless they held the precious Protection. Even then, they could never be certain how some zealous lieutenant, desperate for recruits and fearful of what his captain might say if he returned to his ship empty-handed, might interpret his duty if the chance offered itself. And there were cripples a-plenty to remind anyone who might believe that the war had kept its distance from Cornwall.

She thought of her brother John, who had lost a leg when he had been serving with the Thirty-First regiment of foot. She could not have managed without him, when she had taken this inn and had made it prosper. Then her other John, Allday, had come into her life, and they had been wed here in Fallowfield.

Her brother had said very little since the news of the French collapse had been shouted around the villages, and had seemed to distance himself from the customers. Perhaps he despised the lively banter and the steady sale of cider and ale which kept it close company, remembering now more than ever what the war had cost him, and all those who had stood shoulder to shoulder with him on the right of the line.

Maybe he would get over it, she thought. He was a kindly man, and had been so good with little Kate when she had been born, with John away at sea. She inspected a pot on its hook without seeing it, and then turned to look at the model of the Hyperion which John Allday had made for her. The old ship which had changed and directed the lives of so many, hers among them. Her first husband had served in Hyperion as a master’s mate and had been killed in battle. John Allday had been pressed in Falmouth and put aboard a frigate commanded by Captain Richard Bolitho; Hyperion had later become their ship. She would always think of them together, although she knew little of men-of-war, except those which came and left on the tide. It had seemed only right that this inn should now bear Hyperion’s name.

John Allday was not very good at hiding things from her, neither his love for her and their child, nor his grief.

People who did not understand always wanted to know, were always asking him, despite her warnings, about Sir Richard Bolitho. What he was like, truly like as a man. And always asking about his death.

Allday had tried, and was still trying, to fill every day, as if that was the only way he could come to terms with it. As his best friend Bryan Ferguson had confided, “Like the old dog losing his master. No point any more.”

And Unis knew that the old wound was troubling him, although if she had asked him he would have denied it. Ferguson had said that he should have quit the sea long ago, even as he had known, better than anyone, that John Allday would never leave the side of his admiral, his friend, while they were both still needed.

Unis saw the pain in his face more frequently now, as he made himself useful about the inn, especially when he was lifting barrels of ale on to their trestles. She would get some of the other men to do it in future, if she could manage it without Allday finding out.

She knew that he went occasionally across to Falmouth, and this was something she could not share, nor attempt to. The ships, the sailors, and the memories. Missing being a part of it, not wanting to become just another old Jack, “swinging the lamp,” as he put it.

Unis often thought of the ones who had become close to her. George Avery, who had stayed here several times, and who wrote her husband’s letters at sea for him, and read hers to him. John had told her that Avery never received any letters himself, and it had saddened her in some way.

And Catherine, who had called here when she had needed to be with friends. Unis had never forgotten that, nor would she.

Nothing was the same, even at the big grey house below Pendennis Castle. Ferguson had said little about it, but she knew he was deeply concerned. Lawyers had been to the house from London, pursuing the matter of a settlement, he had said. The estate had been left to Captain Adam Bolitho; it had been signed and sealed. But there were complications. Sir Richard’s widow and his daughter Elizabeth had to be considered. No matter what Sir Richard had wanted, nor what Catherine had meant to him.

Where would she go now? What would she do? Bryan Ferguson would not be drawn on the possibilities. He was worried about his own future; he and his wife had lived and worked at the estate for many years. How could lawyers from London know anything about such things as trust and loyalty?

She thought, too, of the memorial service at Falmouth. She had heard of the grander services at Plymouth and in the City of London, but she doubted they could match the united bond of pride and love, as well as sorrow, that day in the crowded church.

Her brother walked into the kitchen, his wooden leg thumping heavily on the flagstones.

He reached for his long clay pipe. “Just spoke with Bob, the farrier’s son.” He took a taper from the mantel and held it to the flames, careful not to look at her. “There’s a frigate in Carrick Roads. Came in this morning.” He saw her fingers bunch into her apron, and added, “Don’t fret, lass, none of her people will come this far out.”

She looked at the old clock. “He’ll be down there, then. Watching.”

He studied the smoke from his pipe, almost motionless in the warm air. Like that day when he had been struck down. All in a line, like toy soldiers. The smoke had lingered there too. For days. While men had called out, and had eventually died.

“He’s got you, and young Kate. He’s lucky. Luckier than most.”

She put her arms round him. “And we’ve got you, thank God!”

Someone banged his tankard on a table and she dabbed her face with her apron.

“There now, no rest for the wicked!”

Her brother watched her bustle out of the kitchen, and heard her call out to somebody by name.

Hold fast there, John. He did not know if he had spoken aloud, or to whom he had been speaking, himself, or the sailor home from the sea.

He heard a gust of laughter and was suddenly proud of his neat little sister, and even perhaps ashamed that he had given way to his bitter memories. It had not always been so. He squared his shoulders and tapped out his pipe in the palm of his hand, carefully, so as not to break it. Then he strode in to the adjoining room and picked up an empty tankard. Like the old Thirty-First. Stand together, and face your front.

He was back.

Lady Somervell gripped a tasselled handle and leaned forward as the carriage with its matching greys turned into the imposing gateway. The sky over the Thames was clear, but after several days of thunderstorms and heavy rain nothing seemed certain.

She was alone, and had left her companion Melwyn to pay the men who were repairing the front door of her Chelsea house.

Sillitoe had sent his carriage to collect her, and she had seen several people in the Walk turn to watch, some to smile and wave.

It was still hard to accept. To come to terms with. To understand.

Some had left flowers for her; one had even placed an expensive arrangement of roses on her doorstep with the simple message, For the Admiral’s Lady. With admiration and love.

And by contrast, last night, probably during the thunderstorm, someone had scratched the word whore on the same door. Melwyn had been outraged, the affront sitting strangely on one so young. Because she felt a part of it.

She watched the horses’ ears twitching as the carriage rolled to a halt. She could see the Thames again. The same river, but a world apart.

As speculation about the war had hardened into fact, she had wondered how the news would affect Adam. She had written to him, but she knew from bitter experience that letters took their time reaching the King’s ships.

Once, when she had been passing the Admiralty, she had realised how complete her isolation from Richard’s world had become. She knew no one in those busy corridors, or even “by way of the back stairs,” as he had called it. Bethune was in the Mediterranean, in Richard’s old command, and Valentine Keen was in Plymouth. She thought of Graham Bethune’s concern for her, and his furious estrangement from his wife. He was an attractive man, and good company. It was probably for the best that he was so far away.

A boy in a leather apron had opened the door and was lowering the step. He, at least, should be spared the suffering and the separation of war.

She climbed down and looked up at the coachman.

“Thank you, William. That was most comfortable.” She sensed his surprise, that she had remembered his name, or because she had spoken at all. She saw his eyes move to her breast and the diamond pendant there, and just as swiftly move away. Like the men painting the front door. She had seen their expressions. Their curiosity.

She thought of the blind lieutenant and the crippled sailors at the cathedral. It made the others seem lower than the dust.

A servant opened the doors for her, a man she did not know. He gave a quick bow.

“If you will wait in the library, m’ lady. Lord Sillitoe will join you presently.”

She walked into the room and saw the chair where she had sat, waiting for Sillitoe on the day of the memorial service. Only two weeks ago. A lifetime.

And now she was here again. Sillitoe had taken it upon himself to deal with the legal complications; she had seen another carriage in the drive, and somehow knew it was that of the City lawyer, Sir Wilfred Lafargue. Sillitoe seemed to know everyone of consequence, friend or enemy. Like the private article someone had shown her in the Times news-sheet, a very personal appraisal, a dedication to the one man she had loved.

Sir Richard practised total war, and inspired others to seek a total victory. To the Navy, his will remain an abiding influence. We shall never forget him, nor the woman he loved to the end.

Her name had not been mentioned. There was no need.

Sillitoe had said nothing about it. There had been no need for that, either.

The door opened and he strode into the room, his quick, keen glance taking in the dark green gown, the wide-brimmed straw hat with its matching ribbon. Perhaps surprised to see her out of mourning; the hooded eyes gave little away, but she recognised approval in them.

He kissed her hand, and half-turned as horses clattered across the drive.

“Lafargue can make even a single word into an overture.” He waited for her to sit and arrange her gown. “But I think the way has become clear.”

She felt the eyes upon her, the power of the man. An intensity which so many had found cause to fear.

She had only once seen him off guard, that day at the cathedral, when he had pushed through the silent crowd to be at her side. As if he believed he had failed her in some way, something which he was unable to conceal.

And other times. When he had arranged passage for her to Malta… For that last time. She clenched her fist around her parasol. She must not think of it. She had often found him watching her, like this moment, in this great, silent house overlooking the Thames. Perhaps remembering yet again the night he had burst into her room, and had held her, shielded her, as his men had dragged away the madman who had attempted to rape her.

He had made no secret of his feelings for her. Once, in this house, he had even mentioned marriage. But after that terrible night, how did he really regard her?

She thought of the lightning over the river last night, probably while the unknown pervert had been scratching his poison on the door. It had all come back to her. Melwyn had felt it too, and had climbed into bed with her, holding her hand, a child again, until the storm had abated.

Sillitoe said, “Lady Bolitho will have the right to visit Falmouth. A lawyer acceptable to Lafargue,” he almost smiled, “and, of course, to me, will be present. Certain items…” He broke off, suddenly tired of evasion. “It would not be advisable for you to be present. Captain Bolitho is the accepted heir, but in his absence we may have to make allowances.”

She said quietly, “I had no intention of returning to Falmouth.” She raised her chin and regarded him steadily. “There would be some who would say that the mare was hasty to change saddles!”

Sillitoe nodded. “Bravely spoken.”

“Time will pass. I shall become a stranger there.”

“Adam will ask you to visit or take up residence, whichever you choose. When he eventually returns.”

She was on her feet without knowing that she had left the chair. She looked down at the river: people working on barges, a man walking his dog. Ordinary things. She bit her lip. Beyond her reach.

She said, “I think that might be dangerous.”

She did not explain. She did not need to.

And she spoke the truth. What would she do there? Watch the ships, listen to the sailors, torture herself with memories they had shared with no one?

Sillitoe waited, watched her turn, framed against the sun-dappled window, her throat and shoulders as brown as any country lass working in the fields, the pendant glittering between her breasts. The one woman he truly wanted; he had never considered it as a need before. And the only one he could never have.

He said abruptly, “I have to leave London. Tomorrow or the next day.” He saw her hand close into a fist again. What was troubling her? “To Deptford. I was going to suggest that you stay here. You would be well taken care of, and I would feel safer.”

She looked at the river once more. “That would do your reputation injury, surely?”

“It is of no consequence.” He was standing beside her, like that day at St Paul ’s. “After this duty I shall be spending more time in the pursuit of my own affairs, unless…”

She turned towards him, unnerved by the realisation that this was the true reason for asking her here. “Unless?”

“The Prince Regent seems to feel that my work as Inspector General has run its course.” He shrugged. “He is probably right.”

She could feel the beat of her heart, like a hammer, and said again, “Unless what?”

“I think you know, Catherine.”

“Because of me. What they will say. How it would look. They would pillory you, just as they tried to destroy Richard.” She repeated, “Because of me.”

“And do you think I care what people say about me? What they have always been careful to conceal to my face?

Power is like a fine blade-you must always use it with care, and for the right purpose!”

A bell was ringing somewhere, another visitor. But she could not move.

It had been wrong, stupid, to allow herself to become dependent on this hard, remote man. And yet she had known it was there. As at St Paul ’s, when he had risked the stares and the condemnation.

She said softly, “You should have married someone suitable.”

He smiled. “I did. Or I thought she suited. But she went with another. Greener pastures, I believe it is called.”

He said it without anger or emotion, as though it were something forgotten. Or was that, too, another form of defence? There were voices now, probably the secretary Marlow or one of his burly servants.

He put his hand on her arm and held it, and she watched, detached, as if she were watching someone else.

She said, “Would you have me as your mistress, my lord?”

She lifted her eyes and looked at him. Angry, wanting to hurt this unreachable man.

He took her other arm and turned her towards him, holding her only inches away.

“As I said before, Catherine. As my wife. I can give you the security you need and deserve. I loved you at a distance, and sometimes I fought against it. So now it is said.”

She did not resist as he pulled her against him, did not even flinch when he touched her hair and her skin. A voice was screaming, what is the matter with you? But all she could see was the damaged door. Whore.

She whispered, “No. Please don’t.”

He held her away and studied her face, feature by feature.

“Come with me on this last duty, Catherine. Then I will know.” He tried to smile. “And so will the Prince Regent!”

Again it came to her. When she had met Richard at Antigua, so long ago, it seemed, she had told him that he needed love, as the desert craves for rain. She had been describing herself.

She thought of all the rare, precious times they had spent together. As one. And the endless waiting in between. And the finality.

Don’t leave me.

But there was no reply.

John Allday rested against the iron railings at the top of the jetty, so well-worn throughout the years that they were quite smooth, and stared across the crowded anchorage. One of the local carriers had given him a ride into Falmouth; he would doubtless be calling at the inn later on for some free ale.

Allday was glad he had come. It was something he could not explain to Unis, to anybody. It was probably bad for him, holding on to the past. Was it that?…

She was a frigate of some thirty-eight guns, although he had noticed that some of her ports were empty, as if her main armament had been cut down for some reason. She was named Kestrel, and even without a glass he had seen her figurehead, the spread wings and curved beak. As if it were alive. He did not know the ship, and that troubled him. Before long, there would be many more ships coming and leaving which were strangers to him, in name and reputation. No reminders.

He studied the frigate with a critical eye. A fine-looking vessel, freshly painted, and her furled or brailed-up canvas all new from the sailmakers. There were few local craft around her, so she was not in Falmouth to take on stores. He had heard someone say that Kestrel was already armed and provisioned, in readiness for a long voyage. Not Biscay or the Mediterranean this time; somewhere far away, perhaps. There were scarlet uniforms at the gangways and forecastle; her captain was taking no chances on last-minute desertions. A change of heart caused by the news of more advances across the Channel, the end finally in sight. But the navy would still be needed. And there would always be deserters.

He heard some old sailors discussing the ship, their voices

loud, as if they wanted to be noticed. In a moment they would

try to draw him into it.

He moved a few paces along the jetty, and looked down at the water lapping over the stone stairs which had seen so many thousands arrive and depart. It was as if his life had begun here, when he had been taken aboard Bolitho’s frigate Phalarope. With Bryan Ferguson, and some others who had not been quick enough to avoid a landing party. An unlikely way to begin something so strong. It was not as if he had been a green recruit; he had served in the fleet before. He frowned and glanced down at his good blue coat with the buttons which Bolitho had had made for him. The Bolitho crest, for an admiral’s coxswain. He sighed. And friend. Unis was doing all she could to make his life comfortable. She gave him encouragement, and she gave him love. And there was little Kate. He recalled how pleased Lady Catherine had been when she had heard their decision to name her Kate. The same name Sir Richard used for her.

And now she was gone from the old grey house. It seemed so empty without her; even his best friend Bryan had said as much. He went there when he could, if only to share a wet with him, or to yarn about old times.

There was talk that Sir Richard’s widow might return. No one seemed to know anything for certain. Lawyers and snotty clerks, what did they understand about this place and its people? Even the smell of it. Paint and tar, fishing nets hung to dry in the June sunshine, and the sounds. Winches and hammers, local dealers haggling with some of the fishing skippers who had come into the harbour earlier than usual. And always the sea.

He touched his chest, but the pain hesitated, like a warning at the door. Fallowfield was quiet, and usually peaceful. He knew that Unis got worried when sailors came so far out to the Old Hyperion. He had seen her watching, caring.

“Oars!”

The order rang out sharply, but a little too shrill for the occasion. Allday turned as a jolly-boat thrust around the jetty, the bowman scrambling to his feet to seize a boat-hook. There was a smart-looking midshipman by the tiller, his hat tilted against the sunlight.

“Up!”

The oars rose as one, like white bones, while the midshipman brought the hull against the wooden piles with barely a shudder.

Allday nodded. Rakishly done. So far. You never knew with the young gentlemen, ready to listen and learn one minute, tyrants the next.

One of the old sailors on the jetty cackled, “Look at ’im! Proper little ’ero, eh, lads?”

Allday frowned. The speaker would not be saying that if he was back in the perfect navy he was usually describing in one of the local taverns.

The midshipman was clattering up the stone steps, a shining new dirk pressed against his side. Allday made to move aside, but the boy, and he was little more than that, blocked his way.

“Mister Allday, sir?” He was gazing at him anxiously, while the boat’s crew looked on with interest.

Very new and very young. Calling him “mister” and “sir.” He would have to learn quickly, otherwise… It hit him like the pain in his chest. His was a different world now. He did not belong any more.

“That’s me.” The midshipman reminded him of someone… A face formed in his mind. Midshipman Neale of the Phalarope, who had eventually become captain of a frigate himself. Neale had died after being taken prisoner of war. With Richard Bolitho. He felt it again. And me.

The midshipman breathed out with relief. “My captain saw you, sir.” It was as if he were afraid to turn towards the anchored ship, in case he was being watched.

“He sends his respects, sir.”

Allday shook his head, and corrected roughly, “Compliments!”

The midshipman was equally firm. “Respects, sir. And would you come aboard, if you have the time?”

Allday touched his arm. “Lead on.” It was worth it just to see the idlers on the jetty staring down at them. The loud-mouthed one could put that in his pipe and smoke it!

He threw his leg over the gunwale and said, “So long as I’m not being pressed!”

Some of the oarsmen grinned. Because they think I’m too bloody old.

“Bear off forrard! Out oars! Give way together!”

Then the midshipman turned to stare at him, and said, “Never fear, sir, they’ll be up to your standard soon!” And he was proud of it.

Allday looked around, avoiding the eyes as the seamen lay back on their looms, unable to accept it. The midshipman knew who he was. Knew him.

Eventually he managed to ask, “And who is your captain?”

The boy looked surprised, and almost misjudged the tug of the tiller-bar.

“Why, Captain Tyacke, sir! Sir Richard Bolitho’s flag captain!”

Allday looked up at the fierce kestrel with its spread wings, at a seaman using a marlin spike but pausing in the middle of a splice to peer down at him. Captain James Tyacke. A face from yesterday. Or half a face, with that terrible disfigurement, his legacy from the Nile.

And the midshipman stood and removed his hat as the boat hooked on to the main chains, and Allday climbed up the “stairs” to the entry port. His mind was too crowded to record that he did it with ease and without pain.

It was like one of those things you think about, in a dream or a part-remembered story from someone else. A lieutenant greeted him, older than most for his rank, so probably from the lower deck. Come up the hard way. He had heard Tyacke speak of others like that. From him, with his qualities of seamanship and professional skill, there was no higher praise.

Beneath the quarterdeck, his mind trying to take in everything. Neat stands of pikes, and smartly flaked lines. The smell of fresh paint and new cordage. Just months since he had seen Bolitho fall, had caught and held him to the last. Tyacke had been there, too, but because of the close action he had been prevented from leaving his men. He nodded to himself, as if someone had spoken. Yesterday.

A Royal Marine sentry drew his boots together as the lieutenant tapped on the screen door. She could have been any ship… He almost expected Ozzard to open the door.

But it was Captain Tyacke. He shook his hand, waved aside all formality and guided him into the great cabin. Through the broad, sloping stern windows Allday was aware of Carrick Roads, stationary masts and moving patches of sails. But, in truth, he saw none of it.

Tyacke seated him by a table, and said, “I called at Falmouth in the hope that I might see Lady Somervell. But when I sent word to the house I was told that she is in London.” He looked at the skylight, and made no attempt, as he had used to do, to turn aside to hide the hideous scars.

Allday said, “She would have wanted to see you, sir.”

Tyacke held up his hand. “No rank here. I shall write to her. I am under orders for the West African station. But when I saw you through the glass just now, I had to speak with you. Chance, like happiness, does not come so easily.”

Allday said, awkwardly, “But we thought…” He tried again. “My wife Unis was certain that you were to be married, if and when Frobisher was paid off. I thought you might spend some time ashore.” He tried to grin. “You’ve earned it more’n most!”

Tyacke glanced at the adjoining sleeping cabin, glad that his big sea-chest had at last been taken below. His companion for so many years. Thousands and thousands of miles logged, icy gales and blistering heat. Guns and death. The chest had been standing near the door of Marion ’s house, waiting for men to come and take it to his new command. This ship.

He said, “I always thought I’d like to return to Africa. Their lordships were good to me, and granted my request.” He looked up at the skylight again; maybe he could see the mainmast truck from there. No admiral’s flag any more. A private ship. His own.

Allday heard someone bringing glasses. He thought of Unis, how lucky he was to have her.

Tyacke was speaking again, with no discernible emotion in his voice.

“It would not have worked, you see. The two children…” He touched his scarred face, reliving it. “I can understand how they felt about it.”

Allday watched him sadly. No, you don’t.

Tyacke gestured to the unknown servant.

“Nelson’s blood, am I right?”

Allday saw the servant give him a quick glance, and was glad he had put on his best coat today. As if he had known.

“It will do me good to get away from all of it. There’s nothing for me here. Not any more.” Tyacke took a full goblet. “It’s something we shared, were a part of. Nothing can alter that.” He swallowed some of his drink, his blue eyes very clear.

Then he said, after a silence, “He gave me back my pride, my hope, when I had thought them gone forever. I’ll never forget him, and what he gave to me.” He smiled briefly. “It’s all we can do now. Remember.”

He poured another generous measure of the rum and thought of Marion, her face when he had left the neat house, the children hiding in another room. Another man’s home, another man’s children.

Then he stared around the cabin and knew it was what he wanted. It was the only life he knew, or could expect.

Back to the anti-slavery patrols where he had been serving when he had first met Richard Bolitho. The trade was more extensive and more lucrative than ever despite all the treaties and promises; the slavers would have the pick of the ships as soon as this war was finally ended. Like the ones which had been there that day. When he had seen him fall, and this big, shambling man with the goblet almost lost in one of his hands had held him with a tenderness which few could imagine. Unless they had shared it. Been there. With us.

He smiled suddenly. And he never had told Marion about the yellow gown which he had always carried in that old sea-chest.

Later in the afternoon they went on deck. There was a hint of mist below Pendennis Castle, but the glass was steady and the wind was fair. Kestrel would clear harbour before most good people were awake and about their business.

Allday stood by the entry port, feeling the ship stir slightly beneath his fine shoes. He was surprised that he could accept it, without pain and without pity. He would never lose it, any more than the tall captain with the burned and melted face would forget.

The jolly-boat was already coming alongside, and the same midshipman was at the tiller. For some reason Allday was glad of it.

They faced one another and shook hands, each somehow knowing they would not meet again. As was the way with most sailors.

Tyacke waved to the boat, and asked, “Where to now, old friend?”

Allday smiled. “Goin’ home, Cap’n.”

Then he walked to the entry port, and paused and touched his forehead to the quarterdeck, and to the great ensign curling lazily from aft. For John Allday, admiral’s coxswain, it would never end.

He climbed down into the boat and grinned at the young midshipman. The worst part was behind him.

The midshipman eased over the tiller-bar and said shyly, “Will you, sir?”

Allday nodded, and waited for the bowman to cast off.

“Bear off forrard! Out oars! Give way together!”

It would never end.