the fleet: Allday had even heard of a young groom who had been taken from his brideâs arms as he had been leaving the church door. Ferguson had been right; most of the local people must be at the St Johnâs celebrations elsewhere. These men were probably on their way to the Falmouth stock sale, and would lodge here overnight.
Everything shone like an individual welcome. A smell of flowers, a table of fine cheeses and the sturdy pints of ale balanced on their trestles completed the picture every countryman cherished when far away from home, the men of the blockading squadrons or in the fast frigates like Anemone, who might not set foot ashore for months, or even years.
âAnd whatâll your pleasure be?â
Allday swung round and saw a tall, level-eyed man wearing a green apron watching him from beyond the ale barrels. No doubt he thought him to be a member of the hated press. They were rarely welcome at any inn, where custom would soon become scarce if they visited regularly. There was something vaguely familiar about the man, but all Allday could feel was disappointment, a sense of loss. He was being stupid. He should have known. Perhaps even the secretive Ozzard had been trying to save him from the hurt of it.
âThereâs some good ale from Truro. Fetched it myself.â The man folded his arms and Allday saw the vivid tattoo: crossed flags and the number â 31 st.â The pain went deeper. Not even a sailor, then.
Almost to himself he said, âThe Thirty-First Foot, the Old Huntingdonshires.â
The man stared at him. âFancy you knowing that.â
He made to move around the barrels, and Allday heard the thud of a wooden leg.
He reached out and clasped Alldayâs hand in his, his face completely changed.
âIâm a foolâI should have guessed! Youâre John Allday, the one who saved my sister from those bloody hounds.â
Allday studied him. Sister. Of course, he should have seen it. The same eyes.
He was saying, âMy nameâs John too. One-time butcher in the old Thirty-First, âtil I lost this.â
Allday watched the memories flooding across his face. Like Bryan Ferguson and all the other poor Jacks he had seen in every port, and the others he had watched go over the side, stitched up in their hammocks like so much rubbish.
âThereâs a cottage here, so when she wrote anâ asked me . . .â He turned and said quietly, âAnâ here she be, God bless her!â
âWelcome back, John Allday.â She was looking very neat and pretty in a new dress, her hair set carefully above her ears.
He said awkwardly, âYouâre a real pictureâer, Unis.â
She was still watching him. âI dressed like this for you when I heard Sir Richard was back home. Iâd never have spoken to you again if . . .â
Then she ran across the floor and hugged him until he was breathless, although she barely came up to his shoulder. Beyond her he could see the same little parlour, and the model of the old Hyperion he had given her.
Two more travellers came in, and she took Alldayâs arm and guided him into the parlour. Her brother, the other John, grinned and shut the door behind them.
She almost pushed him into a chair and said, âI want to hear all about you, what youâve been doing. Iâve got some good tobacco for your pipeâone of the revenue officers brought it for me. I thought better than to ask where he got it.â She knelt down and looked at him searchingly. âIâve been so worried about you. The war comes ashore here with every packet ship. I prayed for you, you see . . .â
He was shocked to see the tears drop on to her breast, which the footpads had tried to uncover that day.
He said, âWhen I came in just now, I thought you was tired oâ waiting.â
She sniffed and wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. âAnd I wanted to look so right for you!â She