Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

Sillitoe took a glass from the servant. “Good.” His hooded eyes gave nothing away. “Excellent.” He could have been describing the wine. “A sentiment, Sir Richard. To your Happy Few!” So he even knew about that.

Bolitho scarcely noticed. In his mind, he saw only her, the dark eyes defiant, but protective.

Don’t leave me.

BRYAN FERGUSON, the one-armed steward of the Bolitho estate, opened his tobacco jar and paused before filling his pipe. He had once believed that even the simplest task would be beyond him forever: fastening a button, shaving, eating a meal, let alone filling a pipe.

If he stopped to consider it, he was a contented man, grateful even, despite his disability. He was steward to Sir Richard Bolitho and had this, his own house near the stables. One of the smaller rooms at the rear of the house was used as his estate office, not that there was much to do at this time of the year. But the rain had stopped, and they had been spared the snow that one of the post-boys had mentioned.

He glanced around the kitchen, the very centre of things in the world he shared with Grace, his wife, who was the Bolitho housekeeper. On every hand were signs of her skills, preserves, all carefully labelled and sealed with wax, dried fruit, and at the other end of the room hanging flitches of smoked bacon. The smell could still make his mouth water. But it was no use. His mind was distracted from these gentle pleasures. He was too anxious on behalf of his closest and oldest friend, John Allday.

He looked now at the tankard of rum on the scrubbed table. Untouched.

He said, “Come along, John, have your wet. It’s just what you need on a cold January day.”

Allday remained by the window, his troubled thoughts like a yoke on his broad shoulders.

He said at length, “I should have gone to London with him. Where I belong, see?”

So that was it. “My God, John, you’ve not been home a dogwatch and you’re fretting about Sir Richard going to London without you! You’ve got Unis now, a baby girl too, and the snuggest little inn this side of the Helford River. You should be enjoying it.”

Allday turned and looked at him. “I knows it, Bryan. Course I do.”

Ferguson tamped home the tobacco, deeply troubled. It was even worse with Allday than the last time. He looked over at his friend, seeing the harsh lines at the corners of his mouth, caused, he thought, by the pain in his chest where a Spanish sword had struck him down. The thick, shaggy hair was patched with grey. But his eyes were as clear as ever.

Ferguson waited for him to sit down and put his big hands around the particular pewter tankard they kept for him. Strong, scarred hands; the ignorant might think them awkward and clumsy. But Ferguson had seen them working with razor-edged knives and tools to fashion some of the most intricate ship models he had ever known. The same hands had held his child, Kate, with the gentleness of a nursemaid.

Allday asked, “When do you reckon they’ll be back, Bryan?”

Ferguson passed him the lighted taper and watched him hold it to his long clay; the smoke floated toward the chimney, and the cat lying on the hearth asleep.

“One of the squire’s keepers came by and he said the roads are better than last week. Slow going for a coach and four, let alone the mail.” It was not doing any good. He said, “I was thinking, John. It’ll be thirty-one years this April since the Battle of the Saintes. It hardly seems possible, does it?”

Allday shrugged. “I’m surprised you can remember it.”

Ferguson glanced down at his empty sleeve. “Not a thing I could easily forget.”

Allday reached across the table and touched his arm. “Sorry, Bryan. That was not intended.”

Ferguson smiled, and Allday took a swallow of rum. “It means that I’ll be fifty-three this year.” He saw Allday’s sudden discomfort. “Well, I’ve a piece of paper to prove it.” Then he asked quietly, “How old does that make you? About the same, eh?” He knew Allday was older; he had already served at sea when they had been taken together by the press-gang on Pendower Beach.

Allday eyed him warily. “Aye, something like that.” He looked at the fire, his weathered features suddenly despairing. “I’m his cox’n, y’see. I belongs with him.”

Ferguson took the stone jug and poured another generous measure. “I know you do, John. Everyone does.” He was reminded suddenly of his cramped estate office, which he had left only an hour ago when Allday had arrived unexpectedly in a carrier’s cart. Despite the fusty ledgers, and the dampness of winter, it was as if she had been there just ahead of him. Lady Catherine had not been in his office since before Christmas, when she had left for London with the admiral, and yet her perfume was still there. Like jasmine. The old house was used to the comings and goings of Bolithos down over the years, he thought, and sooner or later one of them failed to return. The house accepted it: it waited, with all its dark portraits of dead Bolithos. Waited… But when Lady Catherine was away, it was different. An empty place.

He said, “Lady Catherine perhaps most of all.”

Something in his voice made Allday turn to look at him.

“You too, eh, Bryan?”

Ferguson said, “I’ve never known such a woman. I was with her when they found that girl.” He stared at his pipe. “All broken up, she was, but her ladyship held her like a child. I shall never forget… I know you’re all aback at the thought that maybe you’re getting old, John, too old for the hard life of a fighting Jack. It’s my guess that Sir Richard fears it, too. But why am I telling you this? You know him better than anybody, man!”

Allday smiled, for the first time. “I was that glad about Cap’n Adam keeping out of trouble at the court martial. That’ll be one thing off Sir Richard’s mind.”

Ferguson grunted, smoking. A revenue cutter had slipped into Falmouth, and had brought the news with some despatches.

Allday said bluntly, “You knew about him and that girl, Zenoria?”

“Guessed. It goes no further. Even Grace doesn’t suspect.”

Allday blew out the taper. Grace was a wonderful wife to Bryan, and had saved him after he had returned home with an arm missing. But she did enjoy a good gossip. Lucky that Bryan understood her so well.

He said, “I love my Unis more than I can say. But I’d not leave Sir Richard. Not now that it’s nearly all over.”

The door opened and Grace Ferguson came into the kitchen. “Just like two old women, you are! What about my soup?” But she looked at them fondly. “I’ve just done something about they fires. That new girl Mary’s willing enough, but she’s got the memory of a squirrel!”

Ferguson exclaimed, “Fires, Grace? Aren’t you being a bit hasty?” But his mind was not on what he was saying. He was still turning over Allday’s words. I’d not leave Sir Richard. Not now that

it’s nearly all over. He tried to brush it aside, but it would not go. What had he meant? When the war finally ended, and men paused to count the cost? Or did he fear for Sir Richard? That was nothing new. Ferguson had even heard Bolitho liken them both to a faithful dog and its master. Each fearful of leaving the other behind.

Grace looked keenly at him. “What is it, my dear?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

Allday darted a glance between them. Although separated for long periods when he was at sea, he had no closer friends.

He said, “He thinks I’m getting old, ready to be broken up like some rotten hulk!”

She laid one hand on his thick wrist. “That’s foolish talk, you with a fine wife and a bonny baby. Old indeed!” But the smile did not touch her eyes. She knew both of them too well, and could guess what had happened.