Allday said quietly, 'When that Frenchman crossed our quarter, Captain, a ball came in through the chartroom.' He dropped his eyes under Bolitho's stare. 'It killed poor Gimlett, and a splinter struck the admiral.' He hung his head miserably. 'He made me swear not to tell you. He forced me to dress him in his best uniform. I'm sorry, Captain, I should've told you.'
Bolitho looked past him. 'It was not your fault, Allday.' So Pomfret would not receive the reward of the battle after all. But he must have understood that it was for him. In his broken mind he had found the strength and the will to show his appreciation the only way he knew.
Herrick said thickly, 'He had courage, I'll say that for him!'
Bolitho looked at the two bodies side by side on the broken deck. The admiral and the midshipman.
He said harshly, 'He is in gallant company, Thomas!'
The smoke was drifting clear of the ships to lay bare the destruction to victors and vanquished alike. The last two Frenchmen were already under full sail. Not that their captains need to fear now, Bolitho thought emptily. Apart from the distant Chanticleer, there was hardly enough undamaged sail to equip one ship amongst the battered survivors, let alone give chase.
If only the men would stop their cheering. He saw Inch walking unsteadily along the.upper deck. He stopped and stared down at Rooke's body and then gave what might have been a shrug. He was still alive. For today that was miracle enough for any man.
Seton called, 'Masthead has reported ships to the nor’east, sir!’
Bolitho looked at him blankly. His ears were so stunned by the gunfire that he had heard nothing.
Seton said, 'This time they are our ships, sir!' Then he looked down at Piper's body and began to shake.
Herrick watched him sadly. 'Had they been here earlier…’
He left it unfinished.
Bolitho rested one hand on his arm and replied quietly, 'Bend on another flag, Thomas. This is still Pomfret's ship.' Then ' he looked away, his eyes suddenly pricking with emotion. 'And make this signal.' He faltered, seeing again all those faces. Caswell and Shanks, Rooke and little Piper. Like so many more they were just part of the past now.
In a firmer voice he said, 'Hyperion to Flag. "We are rejoining the squadron."'
Herrick touched his hat and walked past the cheering marines.
A moment later the flags jerked up the remaining yards to replace the signal which Piper had somehow managed to keep flying throughout the battle.
Herrick had taken the telescope from Seton's nerveless hands, and as he trained it on the distant ships his lips moved as if talking to himself.
He turned and looked at Bolitho. Very quietly he said, 'Victory to Hyperion. Welcome. England is proud of you.' Then he turned away, unable to watch the distress in Bolitho's eyes.
Gossett walked between the jubilant seamen and reported, 'The steerin' gear is rigged, sir!'
Bolitho swung round and wiped his face with the edge of his sleeve. He said quietly, 'Thank you. Be so good as to get under way, Mr. Gossett.' He ran his fingers along the splintered rail, feeling the old ship's pain like his own.
'There is still a long way to go yet.’
Gossett made to reply, but Herrick shook his head. He more than any other knew that Bolitho was speaking to his ship. Arid that was something he would share with no one.
EPILOGUE
The return of summer brought all things to all people. It was the second so far in a war which now seemed as if it would last for ever. In the towns and cities it was greeted with relief by those who had imagined that their island might already have been under the enemy's heel. By others, separated from loved ones, widowed or orphaned by the war's endless demands, it marked just one more milestone of loneliness or despair.
But in Cornwall, and in the seaport of Falmouth in particular, it was hailed as a time of thanksgiving, a just reward for the hardships and dangers of darker days. Inland, the patchwork of lush fields and red hedgerows, the rolling hills with their scattered sheep and contented cattle, all were visible evidence of survival, a sure belief in the future.
In the town itself the atmosphere was almost one of celebration, for although Falmouth was small, it drew its heritage, from the sea and the ships and men who came, and went on the tides. The long generations of sailors, who had been St. Anthony's Beacon not as a mere welcome but as a first sight of-home, had a true understanding of wider affairs and had done much to influence them.
Even the news was better, as if the coming warmth and the clear skies had at last brought a promise, if not a sight, of victory. Only that week the couriers had shouted the tidings in the narrow streets and along the busy waterfront. It was not just a rumour, but something to fire the most doubting heart.
Lord Howe had fought and defeated a French fleet in the Atlantic in a battle already known as 'The Glorious First of June'. It had been like a tonic. After the setbacks and reverses born of unpreparedness and over-confidence in high places, it was exactly what was needed. Even Hood's failure to hold Toulon six months earlier seemed to shrink in importance, as if it too was just one of winter's forgotten hazards.
Whatever had gone before was history as far as the people of Falmouth were concerned. England was ready, and if necessary would fight until the end of time to break the French tyrant once and for all.
New names and fresh ideas were springing up every day to sweep away the old and the hidebound. Names like Saumarez and Hardy, Collingwood and the young Captain Nelson whose deeds had already gripped the imagination of a nation.
But Falmouth did not have to look beyond its own limits to find a name to applaud. And on this particular day many had ridden in from outlying villages and farms, and even some of the small coastal craft had stayed in port instead of earning their keep, so that their masters could join the crowd outside the old grey church of King Charles the Martyr.
It was not just another sea officer, but one of their own sons who was getting married, a man whose family name was as much a part of Falmouth as the stones of the church or the sea at the foot of Pendennis Point. The Bolitho family had always been good for an exciting yam during the dark winter months, and this much-discussed marriage was as unusual and exciting as anything from their past exploits.
The girl was very beautiful, and had arrived in Falmouth in the middle of a snowstorm. Few had actually seen her, but it was said she regularly walked above the wall of the Bolitho house watching the sea and searching for the one ship which never seemed to come.
Now the waiting was over, and Richard Bolitho was back. Even the taverns emptied as he walked to the church, and people cheered and called his name, although many had never laid eyes on him before.
But he was a symbol, and he ivas one of their own. That was more than enough.
To the man in question that particular day passed in a whirl of vague pictures and excited voices. Of last-minute instructions and conflicting advice. Only certain instances stood out with any sort of clarity, and they seemed to be happening to someone else, as if he was just one more of the onlookers.
Like the first moment of real peace when he had sat stiffly in the front pew, knowing that every person in the crowded church was watching him, yet unable to turn. and face them.
He had felt like a child, lost and confused, and the next second older than time itself. Everything seemed different, and even Herrick had looked like a stranger in his new captain's uniform.
He had wanted to peer at his watch, but had seen Walmsley, the old rector, looking at him severely, and had decided against it.
Poor Herrick. He seemed as surprised at his promotion to captain as he was confused by the new relationship it had presented. Bolitho had seen him glancing nervously at the line of wall plaques near the pulpit, and the record of Bolitho's ancestors stretching back in time. The last one was small and plain. It merely stated, `Lieutenant Hugh Bolitho. Born 1742. Died 1782.' And he found time to wonder what Herrick would say if he knew the truth about his brother. Somewhere on the other side of the world Hugh might be thinking about it, too, even smiling at the macabre joke which life had played on him.