Was it imagination or did he see a quick flash of triumph in the French admiral’s eyes? Did he know his weakness? The blades glanced together and the steel hissed as each fought to retain balance and the strength to hold the other at arm’s length.
Clash—clash—clash, the blades struck, parried and parted.
Midshipman Sheaffe stared wildly at Allday. “Stop him, can’t you, man?”
Allday clutched his shirt against his burning wound and replied, “Get a marksman, lively now!”
Bolitho stepped carefully over some more rope. His arm throbbed with pain and he could barely see Jobert’s intent face. Why prove anything? He is beaten, finished. It is enough.
Jobert’s blade moved like lightning, and when Bolitho swung his own to beat it aside he felt it pass through his coat below his armpit, the searing pain as the edge cut across his skin. Bolitho smashed his hilt down on Jobert’s wrist so that they lurched together, chest to chest.
Bolitho could feel the strength going from his arm, the biting pain of the cut on his side like a branding iron. He could feel the man’s breath on his face, see the strange darkness in his eyes. Everything else was lost in mist, and even when he heard Herrick’s voice coming through the packed figures around him, it was like an intrusion.
He raised his arm and thrust at Jobert’s chest with all of his remaining strength. Jobert staggered back against a quarterdeck cannon and then stared with horrified disbelief as the old sword flashed forward and struck him in the heart.
Bolitho almost fell as the sailors surged around him, cheering and sobbing like madmen.
He handed his sword to Allday and tried to smile at him, to reassure him, like those other times.
Herrick pushed his men aside and seized his arm.
“My God, Richard, he might have killed you!” He studied him anxiously. “If I’d been here I’d have shot him down!”
Bolitho touched the hole in his coat and felt the blood wet on his fingers.
The cheering dazed him, but they had every right to give vent to their feelings. What did they know or understand of strategy, or the need to defend two unknown merchantmen? Why should they obey, when the harvest was so savage, so cruel?
He looked down at Jobert and saw a seaman prise the sword from his outflung hand. Jobert’s dark eyes were half open, as if he were still alive, listening, and watching his enemies.
“He wanted to die, Thomas. Don’t you see that?” He turned and peered across to his own ship and saw Keen shading his eyes to look at him. Bolitho raised his arm in a tired salute. He was safe. It would have been the final blow had he fallen.
He felt Herrick’s hand holding his arm as someone brought a dressing to staunch the blood.
“He lost the fight. He would not surrender his pride too.”
Bolitho made his way through his blackened and bleeding men. It did not seem real or possible. He looked up at the sky above the masts and lifeless sails.
He turned and looked at his friend and added quietly, “In his way, Jobert was a victor after all.”
Allday heard him and then put his arm around his son’s shoulders. He had not the words, not now anyway.
Bankart glanced at his father’s face and smiled.
Pride of friend or enemy did not need any words.
EPILOGUE
IT WAS six months before Richard Bolitho returned to England. The stark memories of that last desperate battle were still clear in his mind, although at home they had been overtaken if not completely forgotten amidst other events.
For Bolitho and his little squadron it had been a costly victory in life and in other suffering. His ships too had taken great punishment and had been forced into the dockyards at Malta and Gibraltar.
The results of their triumph over Jobert’s squadron had been as astonishing as they had been destructive. So badly crippled were most of the ships involved in the line of battle that two of the French seventy-fours had been able to steal away and avoid capture. None of Bolitho’s vessels had been heavy enough or in such good repair that they could capture them. An undamaged frigate had also escaped. Jobert’s big flagship, although seized, would be spared the shame of fighting again under her enemy’s colours. A fire had broken out between decks which had killed many of her wounded, and it had taken every able hand, English and French to save her from complete destruction. She would probably end her days as a hulk or stores vessel.
They had succeeded in capturing all the rest although at one time Bolitho had feared that two at least would founder on passage to shelter.
He often thought of the familiar faces he would never see again. Most of all, Captain Inch, dying on his feet, inspired by some last thought that he had had to be with his friends. Captain Montresor who had fallen at the last moment even as the French flagship’s colours had dipped into the gunsmoke. So many more. Needless to say, Houston of the Icarus had survived unscathed and complaining although his ship had been in the thick of the fighting from the first broadside. The two smallest vessels, Rapid and Firefly, had come through the onslaught with few casualties, although any one of those great French broadsides could have sunk them.
With the two brigs as her only companions, Argonaute, repaired if not recovered from the battle, sailed for England and arrived at Plymouth in June 1804.
Again, vivid pictures stood out in Bolitho’s thoughts as he relived the moments which followed their arrival. The wild excitement, the flags and the gun salutes as Argonaute finally dropped anchor. There had been little wind and their progress up-Channel had been slow. Enough it seemed for the entire population to know of their return.
He remembered it so well. The exhilaration of the cheering people on the waterfront, much of which was soon to dissolve into empty sadness when they discovered that their loved ones would never return.
Admiral Sheaffe had been there in person. Bolitho had imagined he would have challenged the man, that he in turn might have revealed the jealousy which had made him use Keen as an instrument to hurt him. Instead the admiral had made a great display of greeting his son. That was a moment Bolitho knew he would never forget.
The admiral, watched by his aides and some personal friends, had put his hands on the midshipman’s shoulders.
Bolitho had seen the youth’s face. Perhaps he had recalled Stayt’s last words, or the time when he had been almost left behind when Supreme had been in danger, and Bolitho had waited for him.
He had said in a steady voice, “I beg your pardon, sir. I do not know you!” Then, his eyes blind, he had hurried away.
Again, once ashore, when Keen had seen the girl running the last few yards along the cobbles, her long hair streaming behind her, Bolitho had felt both happiness and envy.
Oblivious to the onlookers and grinning sailors, Keen had held her against him, his face in her hair, barely able to speak.
Then she had looked at Bolitho, her eyes misty, and had said very softly, “Thank you.”
Bolitho was not sure what he had expected. For Belinda to be in Plymouth, waiting like Zenoria to learn the truth, to enjoy the reality of their survival.
The rest of the time it took to complete his affairs in Plymouth was blurred. He had taken passage in Firefly to Falmouth. One more brig arriving in Carrick Roads would excite little attention. Bolitho dreaded another hero’s welcome, the noise, the curiosity of those who had not seen the true face of war.
So on this bright June morning he stood by the bulwark with Adam while the brig swung carelessly to her anchor. Home.
On either hand the green hillsides and moored vessels, the fields of various hues and colours which stretched inland in their own patterns. Houses and fishermen’s cottages, and the grim grey bulk of Pendennis Castle which commanded the harbour entrance. Nothing had changed, and yet Bolitho had the feeling it would never be the same again.
Time to part again. Adam was under orders for Ireland with fresh despatches and no doubt more to collect. If nothing else it would make him an excellent navigato
r.
“Well, Uncle?” Adam watched him gravely, his eyes troubled. Bolitho saw Allday by the rail, peering down at the gig alongside. Allday must have guessed or felt Bolitho’s mood of uncertainty. He had sent Bankart with Ozzard by coach with their chests and bags.
Until the next time. Allday sensed that he needed to be alone on this particular day.
Bolitho said, “It will always be like this, Adam. Brief farewells, even shorter greetings.” He glanced around the neat deck. It was hard to believe that this vessel had been within a stone’s throw of a powerful seventy-four and had survived. Rapid too, although Quarrell had pleaded for the borrowed guns to be removed. Their recoil had done more damage than the enemy.
Adam said, “I wish I could step ashore with you, Uncle.” Bolitho put his arm round his shoulders. “It will keep. I am glad for you.” He looked up at the impatient masthead pendant. “Your father would have been pleased, I know that.”
Then he strode to the side where the first lieutenant, his arm in a sling, stood with the boatswain’s mates for a last farewell.
In the gig Allday watched Bolitho without speaking, saw him look astern once and wave back and forth to his nephew.
The brig was already shortening her cable and, once the gig had been hoisted, would be on her way. Allday found that he could watch her like a mere onlooker.
He thought of his son, on his way overland to the Bolitho house. Would he ever return to the sea? Surprisingly that decision no longer counted. My son, even thinking the words made him feel happy and grateful. He had saved his life, would have died for him but for the middy’s pistol.
He glanced at Bolitho’s impassive features and knew he was worried about his eyes. Lady Belinda would be up there at the house, fretting and waiting for him. That might make all the difference.
Tonight Allday would slip away to the inn. To see if the landlord’s daughter was still as smart as paint.
They climbed onto the hot stones and Bolitho thanked the boat’s coxswain and put two guineas in his hard hand.
The man gaped at him. “Us’ll drink to ’e, zur!”
They pulled away, one of them whistling cheerfully until they reached hearing distance of their ship.
Bolitho walked towards the town where he would take the narrow road to the house. He looked up and tried not to blink, to lose his balance as he had that day when he had faced Jobert for the last time.
He heard Allday’s heavy tread behind him; it was a strange feeling. There were few people about. They were either in the fields or away fishing. Falmouth existed on earth and sea alike. He saw a weary woman carrying a huge basket of vegetables as she made her way towards a narrow lane.
She stopped and straightened her back and saw him. She smiled and attempted an awkward curtsy.
Bolitho called, “A fine morning, Mrs Noonan.”
She watched them until they turned the corner.
Poor woman, Bolitho thought. He recalled seeing her husband die violently aboard his Lysander, it seemed a thousand years back, and yet like yesterday.
A long shadow crossed the square and Bolitho looked up at the tower of the Church of King Charles the Martyr, where twice he had been married. He wanted to walk past, but felt unable to move. It was as if he was being held, then guided towards those familiar old doors. Allday followed him with something like relief. In his heart he had known this was why Bolitho had not taken the coach from Plymouth.
Bolitho walked uncertainly into the cool shadows of the church. It was empty, and yet so full of memories, and of hopes. He paused and looked at the fine windows beyond the altar and remembered that first time, the sunlight streaming through the door.
He felt his heart pound until he thought he would hear it. He must go, discover his feelings, explain to Belinda, learn to put right his mistakes.
Instead he walked to the wall where the Bolitho tablets stood out from all the others.
He reached up and touched the one which was slightly apart from the men. Cheney Bolitho.
He knew Allday was in the main aisle, watching him, wanting to help when there was none to give.
Bolitho moved back very slowly to the altar and stood looking at it for several minutes.
This was the day of their marriage, when they had joined hands here. He spoke her name aloud, very quietly. Then he turned on his heel and walked down to where Allday waited for him.
Allday asked, “Home now, Sir Richard?”
Bolitho hesitated and then looked back at the small tablet.
“Aye, old friend. It will always be that.”
Night of Flames
by Douglas W. Jacobson
WHAT PRICE WOULD YOU PAY TO KEEP YOUR SOUL?
In 1939 the Germans invade Poland, setting off a rising storm of violence and destruction. For Anna and Jan Kopernik the loss is unimaginable. She is an assistant professor at a university in Krakow; he, an offi cer in the Polish cavalry. Separated by the war, they must fi nd their own way in a world where everything they ever knew is gone.
When Anna’s father is deported to a death camp, she must fl ee to Belgium where she joins the Resistance. Meanwhile, Jan escapes with the battered remnants of the Polish army to Britain. He returns to Poland in an undercover mission to contact the Resistance and seizes the chance to search for his missing wife. Through the long night of Nazi occupation, ordinary people across Europe fi ght a covert war of resistance against the overwhelming might of the German war machine. The struggle seems hopeless, but they are determined to take back what is theirs.
ISBN 978-1-59013-136-7 • Hardcover • $23.95
“Suspenseful, rich in convincingly detailed incidents, and impeccably researched.”
—Library Journal
“Well researched and skillfully executed . . . a highly readable work which is both informative and imaginative.”
—The Historical Novels Review
“A taut and twisting thriller with memorable flesh and blood characters.”
—James Conroyd Martin,
author of Push Not the River
This and all McBooks titles are available at bookstores, or call toll free 1-888-BOOKS11 (1-888-266-5711). Order on-line at www.mcbooks.com.
The Matty Graves Novels
by Broos Campbell
1. No Quarter
In 1799, the young U.S. Navy faces France in
an undeclared Quasi-War for the Caribbean. Midshipman Matty Graves is caught up in escalating violence as he serves aboard the Rattle-Snake under his drunken cousin, Billy. Matty already knows how to handle the sails and fi ght a ship. Now, with the sarcastic Lieutenant Peter Wickett as his mentor and nemesis, he faces the ironies of a war where telling friend from foe is no mean trick.
ISBN 978-1-59013-139-8 • Trade Paperback • $16.95
“[Campbell’s] characters are sharp, genuine and fascinating, his plotting fast-paced and authentic.”
—James L. Nelson
author of The Only Life That Mattered
2. The War of Knives
Matty Graves, acting lieutenant in the newly formed U.S. Navy, becomes a spy in the French colony of Saint-Dómingue and plunges headlong into a brutal world of betrayal. At fi rst the bloody civil war between former slaves and their mixedrace overseers simply offers a way to test himself, but soon Matty is drawn into the heart of the conflict when he meets the fl amboyant Juge and the mysterious Grandfather Chatterbox—and faces an interrogation by the brutal colonel known as “The Whip.”
ISBN 978-1-59013-104-6 • Hardcover • $23.95
“Entertaining . . . a colorful cast of shady characters . . . an elaborate swashbuckling tale.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Don’t start this one at bedtime; you’ll be up all night!”
—William H. White
author of the Oliver Baldwin Novels
This and all McBooks titles are available at bookstores, or call toll free 1-888-BOOKS11 (1-888-266-5711). Order on-line at www.mcbooks.com.
Colours Aloft! Page 29