Bolitho stared at him. Stockdale dead. And he had not even seen him fall.
Farquhar pushed forward, his features wildly excited. “Captain, sir! The lookouts report that our fleet has broken the enemy’s line in two places!” He stared round the stained, watching faces. “Rodney has broken the French line, do you hear?”
Bolitho felt the breeze across his cheek, feeling its way through the battle’s stench like an awed stranger. So de Grasse was beaten. He stared at the listing frigate below him, feeling the prick of emotion behind his eyes. Was all this sacrifice for nothing after all?
Herrick took his arm and said thickly, “Look, sir! Over yonder!”
As the freshening wind pushed away the curtain of smoke from the embattled and shattered ships, Bolitho saw the tall outline of the big three-decker. Her guns were still run out, and her paint-work was gleaming and unscarred by any cannon. Throughout the fighting she had lain impotent or unwilling to face the holocaust of close combat, and no British blood had been given to her massive armament.
Yet in spite of all these things there was another flag flying above her own. The same that flew on the dismasted Cassius and aboard the Ondine. The same as the Phalarope’s own ensign and the victorious Volcano which now pushed her way through the last rolling bank of smoke.
Herrick asked soberly, “Do you need more than that, sir? She’s struck to you!”
Bolitho nodded and then climbed over the bulwark. “We will get the ship under way, Mr Herrick. Though I fear she may never fight again!”
Herrick said quietly, “There’ll be other ships, sir.”
Bolitho stepped down on to the Phalarope’s gangway and walked slowly above the spent and sweating gunners.
“Other ships?” He touched the splintered rail and smiled sadly. “Not like this one, Mr Herrick.” He tilted his head and looked up at the flag.
“Not like the Phalarope!”
EPILOGUE
LIEUTENANT Thomas Herrick pulled his boatcloak closer around his shoulders and picked up his small travelling bag. The houses around the cobbled square were thickly covered in snow, and the wind which blew strongly inland from Falmouth Bay and seemed to pierce his bones to the marrow, told him that there was more to come. For a moment longer he watched the ostlers guiding the steaming horses into the inn yard, leaving the slush-stained coach which Herrick had just vacated isolated and empty. Through the inn windows he could see a cheerful fire and hear voices raised in laughter and busy conversation.
He was suddenly tempted to go inside and join these unknown people. After the long journey from Plymouth, and four days on the road before that, he felt drained and weary, but as he looked up at the mist-shrouded hump of Pendennis Castle and the bleak hillside beyond he knew he was only deluding himself. He turned his back on the inn and started up the narrow lane from the square. Everything seemed smaller than he remembered it. Even the church with its low wall and the leaning stones within the graveyard appeared to have shrunk since that last and only visit. He stepped sideways into a mound of muddy snow as two shouting children dashed past him dragging a homemade sledge. Neither gave Herrick a glance. That too was different from the last time.