Darkening Sea (36 page)

There had been a ripple of laughter and a frown of disapproval from the preacher. Bolitho had guessed that but for his bronzed face Allday would have been seen to blush.

And then it was done, and Allday with his smiling bride were towed in style in a carriage, not by seamen and marines, but by the men employed on the Bolitho estate. Many of them had been thrown on the beach after being disabled or crippled in one of Bolitho's own ships. There could have been no escort more fitting, and Allday's face was a pleasure to see.

Bolitho had used Ferguson's little trap for the journey to the church. He had wanted it to be a day for Allday, one he would always remember.
Their day.
Young Matthew and the Bolitho carriage had been put at the disposal of the bride and groom.

Catherine had said quietly, “It is so typical, Richard, and you do not even notice. To step down, to avoid the bows and the curtsies . . . nobody else would do it.”

They went to the barn to share in a toast to the bride and her man of the sea.

Bolitho thought now of the cheerful simplicity of the wedding, and wondered if Catherine resented that they could never be married.

As was so often the case she seemed to read his thoughts, just as she had known he was coming into Falmouth in that unfamiliar carriage.

She pulled off her glove and laid her hand on his cuff so that the rubies and diamonds he had given her in the church after Keen's marriage flashed in the filtered sunlight. “This is
my
wedding ring, Richard. I am your woman, no matter who or what may try to come between us. And you are mine. It will always be so.”

Bolitho saw the men preparing to serve the food and drink, a group of fiddlers waiting to strike up for the dancing. It was time to leave. His presence here was like that of a senior officer visiting a wardroom: they were polite, friendly, curious, but unable to be themselves until after the great man had gone.

It was a moment he knew he would remember, and he could feel Catherine watching as he said his farewell to Allday and his wife. But Catherine knew that he was speaking only to his coxswain, the man she had grown to know and respect, even to love for his care and his qualities of courage and loyalty, which he had given her man for over twenty years.

“Good-bye, old friend. Don't be a stranger from now on.”

Allday gripped his hand, his eyes suddenly troubled. “But you'll be
needing
me soon, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho nodded slowly. All those lost faces. Battles and ships he would never be allowed to forget. He had tried not to become too closely involved, to guard against the pain of loss when in his heart he knew there was no such defence. Like the midshipman Dunwoody, whom Adam had wanted to help, and who had died with all the others.

“I shall always do that, old friend. Be certain of it.” The hand-clasp broke. It was done.

Outside in the keen air Catherine said, “Now we are alone.” She allowed him to help her into the little trap. Then she shook the reins and waved to some people who were still walking down from the church.

She said, “I am so
happy,
Richard. When you left, the parting almost broke my heart. An eternity, and yet I had expected far worse. Now you are with me. I am yours, and soon it will be Christmas. I remember you once told me when you shared Christmas with me that it was the first you had had ashore since you were a midshipman. And the New Year—we can face that together too. The country still at war, the King insane . . . nothing makes any reason or sense but ourselves.”

He put his arm around her and felt his longing for her, as in the dreams he had shared with her even though they had been apart.

She threw back her head and allowed her long dark hair to be free. When she looked towards the sea beyond Rosemullion Point she said softly, “All our friends are out there somewhere. Val, poor Adam, James Tyacke and the rest, and others who will never come back.” She looked at him, her eyes flashing. “But we can remember them!”

The mood changed, and she pulled at the reins to turn the pony on to a narrow side-track.

She said, “I have visited Unis Polin several times. She is a good woman, right for him. He needs love as much as we do.”

Bolitho held her arm. “You are all mystery, Kate!”

She tossed her head but did not look at him. “But for this icy wind I would take you to our private cove. And I would give you mystery which would shock you!”

They turned a corner where the small inn stood, strangely deserted, and Bolitho guessed that most of the local folk were celebrating in Roxby's barn.

The Stag's Head would be waiting for Allday from now on.

He stared at the inn sign moving very gently in the breeze. Except that it was no longer called the Stag's Head. It was a perfect painting of a ship of the line in half a gale, her gunports almost awash, and he knew Catherine must have arranged it. The inn's name had become The Old Hyperion.

She said, “I heard John Allday speak of your old ship so often. She was, after all, a very special one for some of us. She brought you to me at Antigua when I thought I had lost you.” All the time she was watching his face. “Through her, Unis met her previous husband, and because of her Allday discovered the love of his life.”

Bolitho watched the swaying sign, as if the old ship were really alive.

He said, “The ship that refused to die, they used to say.”

She nodded, satisfied. “Now she never will.” She handed him the reins and nestled against him. “Now take us home, please. Where we belong.”

A
FTERWORD

THE REGIMENT OF THE SEA

E
VEN TODAY
in the modern nuclear Navy the marines are something of a mystery to many people who cannot understand the presence of apparent soldiers serving in carriers and frigates.

In the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, when the Corps really came into its own as a major fighting force with, but not of, the Navy, the contrast must have been all the more apparent.

During the American War of Independence the marines were needed everywhere. Not for the first time in her long history, England was forced into fighting on several fronts at once, and while America struggled to free herself from the Crown, England faced the combined might of France, Spain and Holland, to say nothing of the growing strength of the rebels.

Many of the troops employed on the American mainland were British only in purpose and uniform. Their background was often foreign; their strength recruited from Germany and elsewhere, men who could barely understand the orders of their commanders in the field.

So as the British fleet struggled to maintain trade and supply routes around the world, and sought out enemies of every size and power, the marines were used for more purposes than Charles II had ever envisaged when he granted the formation of the Lord High Admiral's Regiment in
1664.

Landing parties and shore patrols, guarding trouble spots from the Caribbean to the East Indies, they never forgot their primary duty, to their own ship.

The Corps, they were not given the title of Royal Marines until
1802,
were recruited and trained in three separate divisions— Plymouth, Portsmouth and the Nore. Once aboard ship, and they were carried in almost every class of rated vessel from three-decker, ship of the line to fourth- and fifth-rate frigates, they were held apart from the great mass of the company.

By the average seaman a marine was regarded with a mixture of amusement and tolerance. While the marines went about their own affairs, drilling and training at their weapons, the seamen worked the ship, aloft or below, and in every sort of weather.

Because their training was largely military, the marines' part in handling the ship was minimal. When required they would move aft to the mizzen-mast, the least complicated in any square-rigged ship as far as sail plan and rigging was concerned, and work with the rest of the after-guard. That title too represented something else to the rest of the ship's company. The marines, through their officers and N.C.O.'s, stood between the quarter-deck and forecastle in a loyal red block. If a hint of mutiny lingered in the air, or some hot-headed lower deck lawyer thought the moment was ripe to rouse some protest against a captain's authority, there was always the scarlet-coated marine, the
bullock,
to make a change of heart more acceptable.

But in battle, which was often in those troubled times, the marines really emerged as a vital part of the Service, and earned the respect and no little awe of all who served alongside them.

As the young marine drummer boys beat to quarters and the ship prepared to fight whatever enemy had been sighted on the horizon, the red coats fanned out throughout the vessel like parts of an intricate pattern.

They climbed aloft to the three fighting-tops, on fore, main and mizzen, where their best marksmen or sharpshooters made ready to fire on the enemy's quarterdeck and mark down as many of her officers as possible in the shortest time. Some of their companions manned the deadly swivel-guns, small pieces loaded with tightly-packed canister, which at the right moment would rake the other vessel's decks with a murderous hail. These weapons were nervously nicknamed “daisy-cutters,” and badly handled could kill as many friends as enemies.

Once cleared for action a ship of the line, with one deck above the other, was open from forward to aft. But provided an enemy was prevented from crossing the stern and pouring a full broadside through the poop and smashing down guns and crews from end to end, the men who worked the heavier weapons on the middle or lower decks were protected by the massive hull timbers. On the upper deck, and particularly aft where the bulk of marines took up their stations, there was no such protection. On quarterdeck and poop alike the marines got what cover they could from the bulwarks and the packed piles of hammocks in the nettings.

It was at close quarters, with an enemy almost alongside, that the true value of drills and tough discipline came to the fore. With the sergeant calling out the timing, or beating it on the deck with a half-pike, the marines went through the lethal business of aiming, loading and firing their long muskets through the smoke and din of battle. No matter what was happening about them they were never expected to break. As old friends fell dying they closed the ranks, as the cannon roared and spars and severed rigging crashed amongst them they aimed and fired, reloaded and stood up to the nettings for the next fusillade.

A less admirable job was that of hatchway sentry. At every hatch and companion a marine was posted to prevent terrified men from running below in the midst of a battle. It is easy today to understand the fears of men, many facing gunfire for the first time, being driven from their stations by the sounds and sights around them. We can imagine their terror changing to hatred at the sight of a red coat and levelled bayonet, but did anyone ever consider that sentry's feelings as he stood alone, a red target for every enemy marksman?

When two ships eventually ground together, and the grapnels were thrown across to hold them fast until a victory was settled one way or the other, the gory business of hand to hand fighting began. There again was a marked contrast between seamen and marines.

While the former, led and urged on by their lieutenants and midshipmen, hacked and slashed their way across the narrow strip of water and through the boarding nets to leap on to the enemy's deck, the marines stayed as a unit. As cutlasses and hangers rang and clanged, and the air was rent by curses and screams, the marines would cross to the other ship and form a tight square, sorting and dividing the enemy's defences so that their companions from the main boarding party could quell them into submission. If, on the other hand, the tide of battle turned against them and a retreat was sounded, the marines would be the last to leave, not out of pride, but to allow the seamen to work their ship free of the enemy's embrace to fight another day.

One of the remarkable features concerning the marine's daily life was the way he managed to keep up the standard and smartness of his kit, and all in the cramped confines of his mess.

Apart from his weapons, he had to look after his red coat and white breeches, cross-belts and gaiters, so that at all times he would stand out as what he was. Keeping watch over the captain's quarters, attending to the irksome duties of ship's police, all went to form part of his everyday routine.

There was little change in the uniform until
1802,
when the title of Royal Marines was given to the Corps. Then the silver buttons and facings changed over to gold, and the “round hat” of glazed leather completely replaced the old style cocked hat.

At the Battle of Trafalgar the Royal Marines were praised for their stubborn gallantry, not least by their French adversaries. On board the flagship, H. M. S.
Victory,
Captain Adair of the marines had already fallen when a French marksman felled Vice-Admiral Nelson. The marines had suffered terrible losses throughout the battle, so it was somehow fitting that under Captain Hardy's orders it was they who carried the little admiral below.

There have been countless stories told of their deeds and achievements, so many exploits to add to their battle honours that it is impossible to know where their legend begins.

I think that Rudyard Kipling summed them up better than most in his lines:

There isn't a job on top o' the earth the beggar don't know, or do,

You can leave 'im at night on a bald man's 'ead to paddle 'is own canoe;

'E's a sort of bloomin' cosmopolouse—soldier an' sailor too.