Ferguson watched his friend's uncertainty, a nervousness he had not seen in Allday since he had first visited the Stag after saving the life of the woman who now owned it: Unis Polin, the comely widow of a master's mate in the old Hyperion. She had been attacked by two footpads even as she had driven her few belongings down to this very place.
Ferguson considered it. With his face tanned like leather, and in his fine blue coat and nankeen breeches, to most people Allday would seem the perfect example of Jack Tar, the sure shield against the French or any other enemy who dared to come against His Britannic Majesty's navy. He had seen and done almost everything. To a privileged few he was also known as more than just Vice-Admiral Sir Richard Bolitho's coxswain. He was his true friend. For some it was hard to picture one without the other.
But on this evening it was difficult for Ferguson to see him as that same confident man. He ventured, "Losing your nerve, John?"
Allday licked his lips. "To you an' none other I'll confess that I'm all aback. I've thought of the moment and of her, right enough. When Anemone showed her copper as we tacked past Rosemullion Head yonder, my head was packed so full of notions I could barely see straight. But now…"
"Afraid of making a fool of yourself?"
"Something like that. Tom Ozzard thinks as much."
Ferguson shook his head. "Oh, him! What does he know about women?"
Allday glanced at him. "Not too sure o' that either."
Ferguson laid his hand on Allday's arm. It felt like a piece of timber.
"She's a fine woman. Just what you need when you settle down. This damned war can't last much longer."
"What about Sir Richard?"
Ferguson looked at the darkening river. So that was it. He had guessed as much. The old dog worried about his master. As ever.
Allday took his silence for doubt. "I'd not leave him. You knows that! "
Ferguson shook the reins very gently and the pony started down the slope. "You dropped anchor only yesterday, and you've been like a bear with a sore head ever since. You couldn't think of anything else." He smiled. "So let's go and see, eh?"
It was St. John's Eve, the twenty-third of the month, a feast that dated from pagan times although it was bound up with Christian traditions. Old folk could remember when the celebration was held after sunset and marked by a chain of bonfires right across the county. The fires were blessed with wild flowers and herbs and when all was well alight young couples would often jump hand-in-hand through the flames to ensure good luck, and the blessing was spoken in the old Cornish tongue. A good deal of eating and drinking had accompanied the ceremony, and some doubters maintained that witchcraft rather than religion was paramount.
But this evening was quiet, although they had seen one fire beyond the hamlet, where some farmer or landowner was celebrating with his workers. The chain of bonfires had ceased when the King of France's head had been hacked from his shoulders and the Terror had ripped through that country like a fast fuse. If anyone was indiscreet enough to start up the old custom again here every countryman and the local militia would be drummed to arms, because such a chain of fires would cry invasion.
Ferguson played with the reins. It was almost time. He had to discover something. He had heard all about Allday's old chest wound cutting him down as surely as any enemy ball when he had rescued the woman from the two robbers. Allday could cross blades with anybody, and was like a lion just so long as the wound held its peace. But it was a long walk from the inn to the Bolitho house at Falmouth. A dark track: anything might happen.
He asked bluntly, "If she takes kindly to you, John what I mean is…"
Surprisingly Allday grinned. "I'm not staying the night, if that's what you think. It would damage her name hereabouts. She'll still be a foreigner to most."
Ferguson exclaimed with relief. "From Devon, you mean! " He looked at him gravely as they turned into the yard. "I've got to go over and visit old Josiah the mason. He was injured on our land a few days back, so her ladyship bid me take some things to cheer his hours away."
Allday chuckled. "Rum, is it?" He became serious again. "By God, you should have seen Lady Catherine when we were in that bloody longboat, Bryan." He shook his shaggy head. "But for her, I don't reckon we'd have come through it alive."
The little trap swayed over as Allday climbed down. "I'll see you when you returns, then." He was still standing staring at the inn door when Ferguson guided the trap on to the road again.
Allday took the heavy iron handle as if he was about to release some raging beast and pushed open the door.
His immediate impression was that it had changed since his last visit. The woman's hand, perhaps?
An old farmer sat beside the empty fireplace with his tankard of ale, and a pipe which appeared to have gone out some time ago; a sheep dog lay by the man's chair, only his eyes moving as Allday closed the door behind him. Two well-dressed merchants looked up with sudden alarm at the sight of the blue jacket and buttons, probably imagining he was part of a press gang making a last-minute search for recruits. It was not so common now for innocent traders to be snatched up by the press in their never-ending hunt for men to feed the demands of the fleet: Allday had even heard of a young groom who had been taken from his bride's arms as he had been leaving the church door. Ferguson had been right; most of the local people must be at the St. John's celebrations elsewhere. These men were probably on their way to the Falmouth stock sale, and would lodge here overnight.
Everything shone like an individual welcome. A smell of flowers, a table of fine cheeses and the sturdy pints of ale balanced on their trestles completed the picture every countryman cherished when far away from home, the men of the blockading squadrons or in the fast frigates like Anemone, who might not set foot ashore for months, or even years.
"And what'll your pleasure be?"
Allday swung round and saw a tall, level-eyed man wearing a green apron watching him from beyond the ale barrels. No doubt he thought him to be a member of the hated press. They were rarely welcome at any inn, where custom would soon become scarce if they visited regularly. There was something vaguely familiar about the man, but all Allday could feel was disappointment, a sense of loss. He was being stupid. He should have known. Perhaps even the secretive Ozzard had been trying to save him from the hurt of it.
"There's some good ale from Truro. Fetched it myself." The man folded his arms and Allday saw the vivid tattoo: crossed flags and the number '31st'. The pain went deeper. Not even a sailor, then.
Almost to himself he said, The Thirty-First Foot, the Old Huntingdonshires."
The man stared at him. "Fancy you knowing that."
He made to move around the barrels, and Allday heard the thud of a wooden leg.
He reached out and clasped Allday's hand in his, his face completely changed.
"I'm a fool I should have guessed! You're John Allday, the one who saved my sister from those bloody hounds."
Allday studied him. Sister. Of course, he should have seen it. The same eyes.
He was saying, "My name's John too. One-time butcher in the old Thirty-First, 'til I lost this."
Allday watched the memories flooding across his face. Like Bryan Ferguson and all the other poor Jacks he had seen in every port, and the others he had watched go over the side, stitched up in their hammocks like so much rubbish.
"There's a cottage here, so when she wrote an' asked me…" He turned and said quietly, "An' here she be, God bless her! "
"Welcome back, John Allday." She was looking very neat and pretty in a new dress, her hair set carefully above her ears.
He said awkwardly, "You're a real picture er, Unis."
She was still watching him. "I dressed like this for you when I heard Sir Richard was back home. I'd never have spoken to you again if…"