Sword of Honour

4. The Longest Day

Catherine carefully raised the window catch, and paused to glance over her shoulder at their bed. The curtain around it was partly drawn to shield his face from the first light; he was asleep, one arm flung out toward her pillow, at peace, perhaps his only refuge.

She opened the window and looked down at the garden, the rich colours of her first roses. The sun was warm on her skin even so early in the morning, the air clean, and bearing only a hint of salt from the sea.

If she had leaned out, she would have seen the blue-grey water of Falmouth Bay beyond the headland. But she did not lean out. Today, of all days, the sea was an enemy.

Her gown had fallen open and she felt the breath of that sea on her skin. There was no one to see her. The estate workers were in the fields, and she could hear the faint sound of hammers chipping on slate. She had once believed she would never get used to this place, or call it home, and now it was a part of herself.

She touched her breast as he had done, could still feel the depth of his embrace and his desire. As if he had only just withdrawn from her.

How quickly time had passed since their return from London. Riding, walking, and being alone with each other.

Now the house was so quiet, as if it was holding its breath. George Avery had visited them several times, and with Richard had gone through the canvas pouches which arrived regularly from their lordships. She had listened to them, trying to share it, to make it last. Like Richard's new flagship, Frobisher. They discussed the ship like the professional sailors they were, as a she were human, a living creature.

Avery had stayed at the inn at Fallowfield, perhaps to allow them as much time as possible alone together, and also to ponder over his rejection by Susanna Mildmay. She knew it had saddened Richard; he had blamed himself, because Avery had put loyalty before his own personal happiness. If she was really the woman for him…… She watched a pair of wagtails darting amongst the flowers. Is that not what society said about me?

She pressed her hand to her side, feeling the ache, the heaviness, the pain which today would bring.

They had dined alone last night, although neither of them remembered the meal which had been so carefully prepared.

She had told him she wanted to ride with him all the way to Portsmouth, where Frobisher lay waiting to receive him. Like the other times, like the last time when she had climbed up Indomitable's side. It was not to be. Richard had said that he wanted to take his leave of her in this house. Where I always think of you.

How could she do it? How could she let him go like this, so soon? She knew he hated the idea of her making the long journey, some one hundred and fifty miles, back from Portsmouth. Even with the roads in good condition and the coming of better weather, there was always the risk of footpads, or deserters from the army or navy who robbed or even killed if resisted. He would not be alone. He would be among friends when he saw his flag hoisted above his new flagship. Avery, Allday, Yovell, and of course Ozzard, who had given no hint of what he thought about leaving yet again. And perhaps the strongest of all, James Tyacke, who had cast aside his idea of returning to Africa. Or perhaps he had decided that there would be no escape and no solace even there.

Yes, Richard would have friends, but he needed memories also. Like last night. It had not been a last, desperate passion, an act which if missed would haunt them as something lost. It had been a need; she had felt it when they had come to this room, when he had turned her towards the finely carved cheval glass, and had undressed her while she had watched his hands, knowing they explored her, and yet sensing that it was happening to someone else. A stranger.

He had taken her to the bed and had said, "Do nothing."

He had kissed her from her throat to her thigh, from her breast to her knees and then, very slowly, back again. She could not believe that she had been able to contain her desire for him, and when she tried to pull him down to her, he had gripped her wrists and held them while he had looked down at her, wanting her, but needing it to last. Lovers, as if for the first time.

And then he had smiled at her. Even though the light had been from a single candle only, she thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

He had entered her without hesitation, and she had cried out his name while she had arched her body to receive him.

She felt a tear fall on her breast, and wiped her skin angrily with the lace of her gown.

Not now. Not now, of all times.

She walked to the bed and pulled the curtain aside. His face was relaxed, even youthful. More like Adam than most of the other faces in those ever-watchful portraits. His hair still black across the crumpled pillow, except for the one rebellious lock above his right eye. It was almost completely white, and she knew he hated it. It concealed the savage scar which ran deeply into his hairline… so close to death even then.

She sat on the bed and realised he was awake, watching her. She did not resist as he released the gown from her shoulders, nor flinch when he touched what he had kissed and teased so often. She understood. It was another memory. When he was able to be alone sometimes, to be free from the demands of duty, when he might perhaps be reading the leather-bound sonnets she had given him, he would remember, and would be with her, as she was with him.

She said, "It is a lovely day, Richard."

He caressed her hair, which hung loosely over her bare shoulders.

He smiled, searching her face. "You lie. It is an awful day!"

"I know."

He raised himself on one elbow and looked at the clock, but said nothing.

There was no need. She thought of their walks by the sea, following a receding tide, their foot marks spread in the sand like molten silver. Holding this day at bay. They had visited his sister, and had found her strangely calm, able and willing to talk about her late husband, Lewis, 'the King of Cornwall'.

She had been very definite about one thing. "I'll not let the estate go. The people always depended on Lewis. He'd expect it of me." She had glanced around the huge, empty house, and had said, "He's still here, you know."

She realised that she had taken his hand. "I'm sorry, Richard… it becomes more difficult to accept."

They heard the discreet clatter of dishes, the soft murmur of voices beyond the door.

"Not for so long this time, Kate."

She smiled, and wondered how it was possible. "I shall come to Malta and torment you. Remember what Prinny said about that?"

Grace Ferguson, the housekeeper, nodded to the maid. "Give a knock." She smiled. "Sounds all right."

She thought of the barely touched meal of the previous night, the unopened champagne, which always seemed to take their fancy for some reason. But you could never be sure, especially with her ladyship. She had never forgotten when her husband had told her about that terrible day when the girl Zenoria had jumped to her death from Trystan's Leap. He had described how Lady Catherine had lifted the slight, broken body and held her like a child while she had opened her clothing to find the one mark which would identify her. Where a whip had laid open her back; the mark of Satan, she had called it… The maid came out and smiled. "Good as gold, ma'am. Nothin' worries they much."

"You mind your manners, girl!" She turned away. That's all you know.

Then she walked to a window and stared down at the yard. Young Matthew, as he was still called and probably always would be, was giving the carnage a wipe with his cloth. Heads would turn when they saw the Bolitho crest on the door; people would wave, but, like the maid, they would never understand.

Another Bolitho was leaving the land. She remembered her own bitterness when Bryan had returned home after the Battle of the Saintes, with one arm gone. As she had nursed him over the months and watched him slowly restored to life, she had been almost grateful. He had lost an arm, but he was still her man, and he would never have to leave her again.

Later, when she went downstairs, she saw that Sir Richard's cocked hat lay beside his sword. Ready.

She peered up at the nearest portrait, Rear-Admiral Denziel Bolitho. He had been the only other officer in the family to attain flag rank. He had been with Wolfe at Quebec, probably near to where Sir Richard and John Allday had last been, she thought. But it was not the face or the rank she noticed; it was the sword. The artist had even caught the light on it, exactly as it was falling now. The same old sword.

For some reason, she shivered.

John Allday watched the boy lead the pony and trap around the stable yard, and tried to come to terms with his feelings. All his life he had seemed to be waiting for ships, or coming back to this place from one vessel or another. In the past he had been able to face it squarely, hope for fair winds, and what Mister Herrick had always referred to as Lady Luck.

This time it had been hard. Unis putting on a brave face, little Kate wanting to play games with him, unaware of the pain that such partings brought. The next time he saw her she would be bigger, almost a person, and he would have missed the part in between. He grimaced. Again.

So it was another ship, but that did not trouble him. He was the admiral's coxswain, as he had always believed he would be, as he had promised Bolitho when he had been the youthful captain Allday remembered so well.

He had seen the looks on other people's faces until they had grown used to it. Admiral, England 's finest, and his coxswain. But so much more. They were friends. It had even taken the flag lieutenant a while to fathom it out. And now he, too, was one of Sir Richard's little crew; he even read Unis's letters to Allday, and replied to them in a way that nobody else could do.

He saw Young Matthew, very smart in his livery, examining the baggage, ensuring it was properly stowed. From the stables Allday could hear the horses stamping their hooves, eager to go. He sighed. Like me. Wanting to get started now that the choice was made.

Bryan Ferguson came from the house and nodded to

Matthew. "You can harness up now." He joined his friend by the wall. "Got everything you need, John?"

Allday glanced at the stout black sea-chest which was lashed beside one of the admiral's. He had made it himself; it even had secret drawers in it. He wished he had had time to show them to little Kate.

"Enough, Bryan. Leastways, we should get some good weather at this time o' year."

Ferguson frowned, sensing the sadness and, at the same time, the overriding determination of this big man.

He said, "You know that sea well, of course."

Allday nodded. "Where Hyperion was lost to us."

Ferguson bit his lip. "I shall visit Unis as often as I can. She knows we're always here and ready if she needs anything." He ran his eye over his friend again. The landsman's idea of the true sailor, he thought, in his smart blue jacket with the buttons bearing the Bolitho crest and his nankeen breeches and silver-buckled shoes. God alone knew the people owed everything to men like him. It still did not seem possible that the fear of war and invasion were past.

He saw Allday turn as Catherine Somervell came from the house and stood for a moment in the bright sunshine. Her long, dark hair hung straight down her spine, and she wore a gown the colour of fresh cream. She shaded her eyes while she turned to speak with one of the stable-boys, her ready smile revealing nothing of her emotions.

Allday watched her and waited for her to notice him. She made a beautiful picture, he thought, and he guessed she had taken great care of her appearance. The sun glinted on the pendant Bolitho had given her, the diamond fan hung low on her breast, like pride, like defiance, like the sailor's woman she was.

When he had last visited the house he had seen them together, in her own garden by the wall. They had been holding one another, and had not seen him. Allday had left without a word. It had been too private, a moment which he could not share.

Afterwards, he had recalled the words he had used to describe Captain Adam Bolitho and the girl who had thrown herself from the cliffs. They looked so right together. He could have been speaking of Sir Richard and his lady.

He realised that she was looking at him and felt strangely guilty.

She came to him and took his big hands in hers.

Take good care, John." For the merest instant, he had seen her mouth quiver. "And look after my man for me, will you?" She was in control again.

Then she turned and saw the horses being backed into position, Young Matthew speaking to them, careful not to catch her eye. In his quiet way, he too would know how she felt; he had driven them before when they were to be parted, just as he had driven her to the harbour when Bolitho had returned home after leaving Indomitable at Plymouth.

She stepped among the roses and chose one, then held it to her face. A perfect red rose, one of the earliest. There would be many more before long, when he was far away from here.

She saw him on the steps now, the house at his back, as he might remember it. He looked rested, his face showing no sign of strain or uncertainty. Her man, youthful again. No wonder people thought he and Adam were brothers, although Richard himself would dispute any such foolish notion.

He came down the steps, carrying his hat, the old sword hanging against his hip, where she had been, where her head had lain. He saw the rose, and took it from her.

"So much a part of you, Kate." He hesitated, as if suddenly aware of the silent figures nearby. "It is better this way."

She touched his shirt, and felt her locket underneath.

"I shall remove it when we lie together again, dearest of men."

Gently, he placed the rose in her gown, above her breasts.

He said, "It is time." He glanced around, but Allday had already climbed into the carriage, leaving them alone but sharing it, as always.

She saw him press his fingers to his eye as he faced into the sunlight, but he shook his head as he sensed her concern. "It is nothing." Then he held her hands tightly. "Compared with this, nothing else signifies."

She caressed his face and smiled at him. "I am so proud of you, Richard. And these people too, they all love you and will miss you." Then she said, "Kiss me, Richard. Here. We are alone in every other sense."

Then she stepped back and gave him another smile. "Now, Richard."

It took an age, an eternity, until at last the carriage moved through the gates. Somebody gave a cheer, and Catherine heard someone else sobbing quietly. Grace Ferguson, who had been a part of it all from the beginning.

She clutched the rose against her skin and waved with her free hand. She could scarcely see now, and yet she was determined that he would remember her like this and feel no despair and no guilt for his departure. When she looked again, the road was empty. She stared blindly at the stables and saw her big mare Tamara tossing her head over the door. She felt her resolve weakening; she would ride after him, hold him again once more.

She heard Grace Ferguson exclaim, "My lady! My lady, you've cut yourself!"

Catherine glanced down at her breast where she had been pressing the rose; she had felt nothing. She touched the skin with her fingers and looked at the blood.

"No, Grace, it is my heart which bleeds." Then and only then did she give in, to bury her face against the other woman's shoulder.

Ferguson waited and watched in silence. When the others had all drifted away the two women remained standing together in the sunlight. Only their shadow moved, when quite suddenly Catherine touched his wife's arm without speaking and walked slowly away towards the house, the bloodied rose still held against her breast like a talisman.

James Tyacke opened a window slightly and stared down at the busy street. Portsmouth, called by some the heart of the British Navy, and a place which had been so familiar to him as a young lieutenant, seemed completely different. He knew, in truth, that he was the one who had changed.

He had chosen this small boarding house on Portsmouth Point partly because he had stayed here before, and because he knew it would afford him some peace over the next few days, before he went to the dockyard to take command of Frobisher. He could still scarcely believe he had abandoned his decision to return to the slave coast with so little hesitation.

He watched the jostling crowds of sailors and marines, the trusted men who were unlikely to desert, and had been allowed ashore. In peace or war, it was every captain's main concern that he might be left too short of hands to work his ship out of harbour.

He had seen for himself the mass of shipping at Spithead, the misty hump of the Isle of Wight beyond. Familiar, and yet so alien. He sighed. When would he accept it? He had no past, and his future was only today and tomorrow. It had to be enough.

The owner of the boarding house had obviously been surprised to number a post- captain among his guests, and had done everything he could to make Tyacke welcome. He was a small goblin of a man, completely bald, who wore an outdated and shabby wig, usually somewhat awry and, Tyacke thought, not properly athwart ships There was an unspoken etiquette in naval circles as to where sea officers should lodge. Senior officers stayed at the George in the High Street, where a room had already been reserved for Sir Richard Bolitho when he arrived from Cornwall. Lieutenants and the like used the Fountain further down the street, and the 'young roosters', the midshipmen of the fleet, frequented the Blue Posts, famous for its rabbit pie, if rabbit it was.

Here, too, on the Point, separated only from the respectable properties by the same rules which governed the teeming world of a ship of the line, were lodging houses, some so squalid that it was a wonder they had not been burned down; tailors, pawnbrokers and moneylenders; and narrow lanes where the ladies of the town paraded their wares, and were rarely lacking in customers. It was so often the last place a sailor would see or snatch a moment to enjoy himself, before weighing anchor and sailing perhaps to the other side of the world, often never to return.

He thought of Lieutenant George Avery; he would be arriving soon in Portsmouth if he was not already here. Another who had chosen uncertainty instead of a life ashore. For some reason, Tyacke was pleased that Avery had made the decision to join them.

And there was the ship. He had studied her details, which the Admiralty had made available to him in their weighty folder of orders and sailing instructions. A strange ship, without familiar faces, so he would start from the beginning once more. Indomitable had taught him that he could do it, and much more besides.

All the way to Portsmouth, he had gone through the folder. He had travelled alone. It was still difficult to accept that he was wealthy, by his own standards, as the result of slave bounty still trickling through the Admiralty channels, and prize money which he had gained under Bolitho. He touched his burned face. His own coach. And, had he wanted it, he could have taken a room at the George.

He closed the window and sat down. The ship. If he could get through the next two days, he knew he could take the next all-important step. From a commander of a schooner and a lowly brig to Indomitable, and now Frobisher, a ship of the line. And all because of one man. I would serve no other.

He thought of Bolitho's Catherine, and wondered how she would deal with this new appointment so soon after Bolitho's return from Halifax. He was certain that Bolitho would not bring her to Portsmouth. Crowds, cheers and mindless well-wishers. What would they know of the cost of separation?

Tyacke looked at his open chest. Another journey. This time, how might it end?

He touched his leg, where a splinter had torn into it. It had been Indomitable's last battle; she would never fight again, according to the dockyard people at Plymouth.

It was like recalling someone else. He had taken a boarding-pike and driven it into the deck and had supported himself, despite the pain and the blood, until the guns had fallen silent. Were we really like that?

And Bolitho leading the boarding party over to the enemy's deck, that old sword dangling from his wrist, with Allday at his side.

The sounds from the street intruded again. It would be worse at night; he should have considered it. No private places to walk, to travel with his thoughts alone for company That he did remember about the Point. Somebody had once proclaimed that it was crowded with a class of low and abandoned beings who seem to have declared open war against every habit of decency. Obviously not a sailor, he thought.

Then he would spend his last few days here in this room. Perhaps he might read The Gazette, and any news sheet that might tell him how the war with the Americans was progressing.

He looked round as the door opened an inch.

"I am sorry to intrude, Captain Tyacke, I know you insisted on privacy. We have to be careful, of course, with so many sea officers waiting for ships."

Tyacke nodded. Praying for them, more likely.

The shabby wig was awry again, but his eyes were busily going around the room. Probably wondering why a post-captain, soon to assume command of a flagship, should choose such a humble place to stay.

Tyacke said patiently, "I am all attention, Mr. Tidy."

"There is a lady come hence to see you, sir. Say the word, and I will make the necessary excuses. I would not like people to think…"

"What is her name?"

He already knew. Had he merely been trying to avoid a decision, like tearing the letter to fragments?

"Mrs. Spiers, sir." Encouraged, he added, "A very pleasant lady, I would say."

"I'll come down."

"Please use my parlour." He paused. "Or this room, if you prefer."

Tyacke stood up. "No." How many women had been ushered into these rooms? And how often?

As he followed the small goblin figure down the creaking stairs, Tyacke was aware of something almost unknown to him. Fear. But of what?

She was facing the door when he entered the parlour, hands folded, the ribbons of a wide-brimmed straw hat dangling from her fingers. She must have changed over the years, had been married, borne two children, been widowed. But she was the same. Brown hair curled above her ears; the level, open gaze he had believed gone for ever, lost in that other darkness.

She spoke first. "Don't turn away, James… I did that once to you. I have thought of it so many times. I wrote to you."

"I wrote to you." His mouth could not form her name. "But you would have seen it only if I had fallen. I said… I said…" He imagined the little man in his wig listening outside the door. But there was nothing outside, nothing beyond this room or this place. He saw her move towards him, and said, "Don't, Marion. Not now. Not like this. I've tried so hard…"

She was very close, looking up at him; the same curved lashes. She reached up deliberately and touched his scarred face, without revulsion, without obvious emotion. Like her letter. Understanding, not asking forgiveness.

He heard himself ask, his voice that of a stranger, "How did you know? Who told you?"

She glanced at his epaulettes. "I read about Sir Richard Bolitho, and I knew you would be here as his captain again. The rest was easy, but you know what Portsmouth is like. A village, if you let it become one."

"I take command the day after tomorrow. After that, who can say…" He looked away and asked abruptly, "Are you well, Marion? Provided for?"

She nodded, her eyes never leaving him. "My husband was a good man. It was very sudden."

He glanced around the small, untidy parlour, with its smells of tobacco and wet soot.

"And the children… two, you said."

"Caroline is quite grown now." Then she did lower her eyes. "James is twelve. He hopes to enter the navy one day."

Tyacke said quietly, "They are not my children."

She smiled. It made her look vulnerable, and suddenly defeated.

"They could be, James. If you wanted. If you wanted enough."

He heard the landlord say loudly, "No, Bob, I've got somebody in there."

Tyacke turned into the light and said gently, "Look at me, Marion. Not at the captain, but at me, the survivor. Could you lie with me, search for a future, when we had no past?"

He had put his fingers to his face, where she had touched him. He could still feel the touch, and wanted to curse himself for his stupidity, for the hope which would betray him, if he allowed it.

He had not seen her move, but she was at the door, one hand on the catch.

"I had to come, James. I was very young… at that time.

Young, and transparent like gossamer. But I loved you then. I never forgot."

She played with her hat, and shrugged. "I'm glad I came. I had hoped we might be friends again."

"Nothing more?"

She watched him, perhaps trying to rediscover. "Write to me, James. I know you will be busy with your affairs, but please try to write, if you want to."

He was reminded sharply, vividly, of Catherine and Bolitho, as if he had just seen them. What they had overcome, what it had cost them, and how they had triumphed. As he had seen that day in Falmouth, when she climbed up the ship's side to the delight of his men… Of the yellow gown he had carried in his chest over the years, which Catherine had worn to cover her nakedness when Lame had found the open boat, when all hope of their survival had been abandoned. Except by me……

He replied, "I'm not much of a hand with writing, Marion."

She smiled, for the first time.

"If you want to."

She had put a small card in his hand. "If you have time, James. It is not so far."

He stared at the card, his mind, usually so cool and accurate, now like a ship taken all aback.

Where was the anger, the condemnation which had been his companions for so many years? Perhaps, like the pity, it had been something shared.

"I shall leave now." When he did not move, she came to him again, and said, "You are still that man, James." She felt him hold her, carefully, as if she might break, and wanted to cry when she saw how he turned the terrible scars away as she kissed his cheek. It was a small beginning.

When Tyacke looked again, she was gone, and the landlord was in the doorway beaming at him. As if it had all been only in his mind.

"All done, sir?"

Tyacke did not answer, but climbed the stairs to his room. He propped the card on a table, and opened a bottle of cognac.

Tomorrow Avery might come, so that they could begin their preparations. Everything else would fall into place……

But he knew it would not, as he should have realised when he had torn his letter into pieces.

He lay down and stared at the ceiling.

The longest day. For all of us.