He glared at the bow oarsman who had let his eye wander to watch a gull diving for fish close abeam and then thought of what should have been waiting for Bolitho at Falmouth. That lovely girl and a child to welcome him home. Instead he had nothing but trouble, and once more was expected to do another’s work as well as his own.
Allday saw Bolitho’s fingers playing a little tattoo on the worn hilt of his sword and relaxed slightly. Between them they had seen and done much together. The sword seemed to sum it all up better than words or actual thought.
The barge swung round and glided into the shadow of the jetty, and as the bowman hooked on and Allday removed his hat Bolitho rose and climbed over the gunwale and on to the worn, familiar steps.
He would have liked Allday with him just now, but it would not be right to leave the barge unattended.
“You may return to the ship, Allday.” He saw the flash of anxiety in the big coxswain’s eyes and added quietly, “I will know where you are when I need you.”
Allday remained standing and watched Bolitho stride between two saluting militiamen at the top of the jetty.
Under his breath he muttered, “By God, Captain, we are going to need you!”
Then he looked down at the lolling bargemen and growled, “Now, you idle buggers, let me see you make this boat move!”
The stroke oar, a grizzled seaman with thick red hair, said between his teeth, “Do yewm reckon the word o’ the troubles will reach us ’ere?”
Allday eyed him bleakly. So they all knew already.
He grinned. “Word is like dung, matey, it must be spread about to be any use!” He dropped his voice. “So it’s up to us to make sure it doesn’t happen, eh?”
When he looked astern again Bolitho had already vanished, and he wondered what would be waiting for him on his return home.
2
THE VISITOR
BOLITHO made himself stand quite still for several minutes as he stared towards the house. He had avoided the road through the town and had used instead the narrow twisting lane with its green hedgerows and sweet smells of the countryside. As he stood in the bright sunlight he was conscious of stillness, the hard pressure of the land through his shoes. It was all so different from the constant movement and sounds of shipboard life, and the realisation was one which never failed to surprise and please him. Except that this time it was not the same. He half listened to the gentle murmur of bees, the distant bark of some farm dog as it scurried around the sheep, while his eyes rested on the house, square and uncompromising against the sky and the sloping hill around which led towards the headland.
With a sigh he strode forward again, his shoes disturbing the dust, his eyes squinting against the glare. Once through the broad gates in the grey stone wall he paused, unsure of himself and wishing that he had not come.