She walked on, towards the moored vessels in the harbour, the swaying masts and spars which were now so familiar to her. The smells, too, were a far cry from the slums of her childhood, or the elegant London she had shared with Richard. Fresh bread and fish, tar and oakum, and the salt of the ever-present sea.
She saw people glance at her, some with curiosity, some familiarity, but without hostility. She would always be a stranger here, but never an intruder, and she was grateful for that.
She saw one of the coastguards with his companion, the same pair who had been on the beach as the tide had receded, and she had taken Zenoria’s slight, broken body in her arms.
He nodded and removed his hat to her. ‘Fine day, m’lady.’
‘I hope so, Tom.’
She walked on, until she stood on the very edge of the jetty. And the war in North America? It took second place to most of these people, for whom France had been the enemy for so long. Too long.
Samuel Whitbread, the wealthy and influential brewer, had thundered out in the House of Commons that the war with America should be ended without delay. He had reminded the honourable members of that other occasion when peace had been grudgingly signed after the War of Independence, and Pitt had then remarked, A defensive war can only end in inevitable defeat. She lifted her chin. So be it, then.
She heard laughter and noisy voices, and turned to see a group of discharged sailors loitering, watching the harbour. The ones she had heard Allday scornfully denounce as old Jacks who refought their battles every day in the inns and ale-houses, until the parlour lanterns were swinging like those of a ship in Biscay.
But they belonged here today: they were members of what Richard would call the family. One or two of them waved in acknowledgement, privileged to be part of his homecoming. She turned away. There was not one whole man amongst them.
Someone exclaimed, ‘There she be, lads!’
Catherine looked across the water, her face like ice in the wind off Falmouth Bay and here in Carrick Roads.
Tom 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.
H.M. 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 dispatches 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 thirty-seven 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 Allday, 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 kissed her neck, and she heard him say, ‘Don’t leave me.’
She had answered strongly, for both of them, ‘Never.’
Beyond the harbour, the sea was quieter now. Waiting.
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First published by Arrow Books in 1997
This edition published by Arrow Books in 2006
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Copyright © Bolitho Maritime Productions 1996
Alexander Kent has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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First published in the United Kingdom in 1996 by William Heinemann
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