Cross of St George
Page 32
Catherine looked across the water, her face like ice in the wind off Falmouth Bay and here in Carrick Roads.
The coastguard said, “’Tis the Pickle. Quite right an’ proper.”
For my benefit?
She watched the little schooner moving between some moored lighters, distinguished from her merchant sisters only by a large, new White Ensign streaming from her peak.
HM Schooner Pickle. Right and proper. Her eyes pricked with sudden emotion, but she was determined to miss nothing. Pickle was a fairly regular visitor here, as she was at every port and naval station between Plymouth and Spithead. Carrying despatches and mail, and sometimes passengers, to the port admirals, or to the ships resting from their arduous blockade duties, sheltering in Torbay and protected from the gales by Berry Head.
But here, Pickle would always be remembered for her part in a single, greater event. She had run into Falmouth, and from here her commander, Lieutenant John Lapenotiere, had taken a post-chaise non-stop to the Admiralty, a journey of some 37 hours. And all the way the cry had gone with him, of England’s greatest victory at Trafalgar, to raise the heart of the nation. And to numb it just as quickly, with the news that Nelson, the people’s hero, was dead.
She wondered if Richard had made any comparison, but knew he would not. His memories would be with James Tyacke and the others.
She touched her throat. And his hopes with me.
She saw the sails being brought under control, heaving lines snaking ashore to seamen and onlookers alike. Pickle had come alongside, her ensign very clear against the grey stones. Lieutenant Avery and Yovell would come by road with Richard’s possessions …She was filling her mind with irrelevant thoughts to control her emotion.
The chair, the wine cooler which she had had made when the other had been lost with his ship. If it had survived the last action …She walked to the end of the jetty, unfastening her cloak so that he should see her, and his fan-shaped pendant resting at her breast.
She saw the blue and white of uniforms, heard people on the jetty raising a cheer, not merely for the hero, but for Falmouth’s own son.
The baker’s wife was here with her small daughter, the child looking pleased but rather puzzled by the bunch of wild daffodils which she had been given to present as their own welcome.
Then she saw him, straight-backed and tall in his fine gold-laced coat, the old family sword at his side. And close on his heels, turning only to wave to the men on the schooner, was All-day, as she had known he would be.
She stood and watched him, oblivious to the cold. It was so important, too important to ruin in the presence of all these smiling, cheering faces. There were tears, too: there would be many who were not so lucky today. But the tears would not be hers.
The baker’s wife gave her little girl a gentle push, and she trotted forward with her daffodils.
Catherine clenched one fist until she felt her nails break the skin, as Richard brushed against the child with his knee.
Allday was there in an instant: she had heard that he was good with children. The puckered face which had been about to burst into tears was all smiles again. The moment was past.
Catherine held out her arms. Richard had not seen the child. He could not.
Afterwards, she did not recall speaking, although she must have said something. Allday had grinned, and had made light of it.
Only in the carriage did she hold him, take his hands and press them against her to disperse his uncertainty, and his despair.
It was not a dream, and the ache would be gone until the next time, if it had to be.
Once he’d kissed her neck and said, “Don’t leave me.”
She had answered strongly, for both of them, “Never.”
Beyond the harbour, the sea was quieter now. Waiting.