Alexander Kent - A Tradition of Victory

“What is happening, Thomas?”

Herrick shrugged unhelpfully. “Probably market day.”

Allday nodded, hiding a grin. “That might well be it, sir.

Bolitho paused on the steps and smiled at the expectant faces.

Some he knew, people he had played with as a child and had grown up with. Others he did not, for they had come from outlying villages, and some all the way from Plymouth where they had seen the squadron arrive and anchor.

For although the politicians and the lords of Admiralty could say and do as they pleased, to these ordinary people today was something important.

Once again a Bolitho had come home to the big grey house below Pendennis Castle. Not a stranger, but one of their own sons.

A clock chimed and Bolitho whispered, “Let us enter, Thomas.”

Herrick smiled at Browne. He had rarely seen Bolitho at a loss before.

The doors opened, and one more surprise waited to disturb Bolitho’s emotions.

The church was packed from end to end, and as Bolitho walked to meet the rector, he realized that many of them were officers and sailors from the squadron. One whole line was taken up by his captains and their wives, even their children. Inch, with his arm in a sling and his pretty wife. Veriker, his head to one side in case he misheard something. Valentine Keen whose Nicator had chased the last French ship under the guns of a coastal battery before he had decided to give the enemy best. Duncan and Lapish, and Lockhart of the Ganymede, obviously enjoying the twist of fate which had made him one of Bolitho’s captains. Nancy, Bolitho’s younger sister, was there beside her husband, the squire. She was already dabbing her eyes and smiling at the same time, and even her husband looked unusually pleased with himself.

Some would be remembering that other time seven years ago when Richard Bolitho, then a captain himself, had waited here for his bride.

Bolitho looked at Herrick. Allday had melted into the mass of watching sailors and marines, and Browne stood beside Dulcie Herrick, her hand resting on his cuff.

“Well, old friend, we are alone again it seems.”

Herrick smiled. “Not for long.”

He too was remembering. In this place it was hard to forget. The line of plaques on the wall near the pulpit, all Bolithos, from Captain Julius Bolitho who had died right here in Falmouth in 1646 trying to lift the Roundhead blockade on Pendennis Castle. At the bottom there was one plain plaque. “Lieutenant Hugh Bolitho. Born 1752… Died 1782.” Nearby was another, and Herrick guessed it had been placed there only recently. It stated, “To the memory of Mr Selby, Master’s Mate in His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Hyperion, 1795.”

Yes, it was very hard to forget.

He saw Bolitho straighten his back and turned to face the aisle as the doors reopened.

The organ played, and a rustle of expectancy transmitted itself through the building as Lieutenant Adam Pascoe, with Bolitho’s bride on his arm, walked slowly towards the altar.