The Flag Captain

by Alexander Kent

  ‘She’s a bomb vessel, sir!’

  When Allday looked at Bolitho again he was stunned to see his eyes were blurred with emotion.

  Bolitho said quietly, ‘Thank God.’ He reached out and seized Allday’s thick forearm. ‘Then there’s still time.’ He turned away to hide his face and added, ‘Call the master. Tell him to lay off a course for the squadron to intercept and then,’ he ran his fingers through his hair, ‘then we shall see.’

  Later, as the Euryalus swung heavily across the wind and started on a new tack towards the small sliver of sail, Bolitho stood very still at the quarterdeck rail, while every other officer stayed at a respectful distance on the opposite side, their voices murmuring with busy speculation.

  Broughton came on deck and walked to Bolitho’s side. His voice was offhand and remote.

  ‘What is she?’

  Bolitho saw Tothill’s men with their next hoist of flags and said, ‘There is only the one, sir, but she will suffice.’

  Broughton stared at him, confused by his vague reply.

  Then Tothill shouted, ‘Signal, sir. ‘Hekla to Flag. Request instructions.’

  Once again Bolitho felt his throat quivering with suppressed strain and emotion. The Hekla had arrived. Somehow Inch had managed to join them with neither escort nor another bomb for company.

  Without awaiting the admiral’s comments he said, ‘Signal her captain to repair on board forthwith.’

  Then he turned and looked at the admiral, his eyes calm again. ‘With your permission, sir, I would like to attempt what we came to do.’ He paused, seeing the flush mounting to Broughton’s cheeks. ‘Unless you would still prefer to ally yourself with pirates?’

  Broughton swallowed hard and then replied, ‘Report to me when Hekla’s captain is come aboard.’ Then he turned and walked stiffly towards the poop.

  Bolitho looked down at his hands. They were shaking, yet quite normal in appearance. His whole body seemed to be quivering, and for a brief instant he imagined his old fever was returning.

  But it was not the fever. It was something far more powerful.

  Keverne crossed the deck and touched his hat. ‘Strange-looking craft, sir.’ He faltered under Bolitho’s gaze. ‘The bomb, I meant, sir.’

  Bolitho smiled, feeling the tension draining out of him like blood.

  ‘Just now she is the most welcome sight I have seen for a long, long while, Mr. Keverne.’ He plucked at his shirt and added, ‘I will go aft and change. Call me when the Hekla’s boat is near. I want to greet her captain myself.’ Then he strode away.

  Keverne’said, ‘You know, I think I may never understand our captain.’

  Weigall swung round from the rail. ‘What? What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Keverne walked to the oppositeside. ‘Return to your dreams, Mr. Weigall.’

  He glanced up at Broughton’s flag flapping from the foremast and found himself wondering at the swift change in Bolitho’s mood. But it did appear as if the waiting was done, and that at least was something.

  * * * * *

  After the furnace heat of the day the night air was almost icy. Bolitho stood up in the sternsheets of his barge and signalled to Allday with his arm.

  Allday barked, ‘Easy all!’ and as one the oars rose dripping from the water and remained still, so that the dying bow wave gurgling around the stem seemed suddenly very loud.

  Bolitho turned and strained his eyes into the darkness astern. They were following, and he could see the dancing phosphorescence around the two leading boats like bright clinging weed and occasional white feathers from the muffled oars.

  The first boat loomed from the darkness and hands reached out to seize the gunwales to prevent further sound from any sort of collision. It was Lieutenant Bickford, his voice serious and quite normal, as if he were reporting his division for inspection.

  ‘The rest are close astern of me, sir. How much further, do you think?’

  Bolitho felt the two hulls rising and falling on the deep inshore swells and wondered where the squadron had reached when the wind had at last decided to fade to a light breeze. All day, as he and the others had worked to put his plan of attack into motion, he had expected it to drop, a kind of inbuilt instinct which he could never properly explain. If it had done so before he was ready the plan would have had to be postponed, perhaps cancelled altogether.

  He replied, ‘About three cables, I believe. We will carry on now, Mr. Bickford, so keep a good lookout.’

  At a further command the boats drifted apart once more, and as the oars started to move Bolitho sat down on the thwart, his eyes trained slightly to starboard where he would first see the bay’s western headland. Provided he had not misjudged the drift or the uneasy power of the swell.

  He made himself think back over the busy afternoon, trying to discover any flaw in his hazardous plan. Yet each time he seemed to see Inch’s face, hear his voice as he had sat in the Euryalus’s stern cabin. A voice so weary and drained of life that he had seemed much older than his twenty-six years.

  It was hard to recall Inch as he had once been as a junior lieutenant, eager but bumbling, loyal but without experience, more so when Bolitho considered what he had just done on his behalf. Inch had waited fretting at Gibraltar for an escort, knowing how desperately the two bombs were needed, and realising too that no such excort might ever arrive. He had taken his courage in both hands and had confronted the local admiral for permission to sail unaided. Typically, the admiral had granted permission, on the written understanding that whatever happened as a result would be Inch’s own responsibility. The other bomb vessel, Devastation, had also up-anchored without delay, and together they had headed out from the Rock’s protection, both commanders expecting to be attacked within hours by the patrolling Spanish frigates which had been so much in evidence.

  As he had told his story Bolitho had been reminded of his own words to Draffen at Gibraltar about Inch’s luck. That luck had certainly held, for they had not sighted a single ship. Until that very morning, when out of a sea mist Inch’s lookout had reported a fast-moving Spanish frigate. There was little doubt in Bolitho’s mind that it was the one sighted by Coquette turning to dash back to Spain with the news of Broughton’s attack on Djafou. Perhaps her captain had imagined the two small and ungainly bombs were part of a trap being sprung to catch him before he could escape. Otherwise, he would hardly have been likely to have engaged them.

  Inch had sent his small company to quarters, and with his consort some half mile abeam had prepared to give battle.

  With all sail set the thirty-two-gun frigate had gone about to take advantage of the wind, her first broadside dismasting the Devastation and raking her decks with grape and chain shot. But the little bomb was sturdily built, and her guns had replied with equal vigour. Inch had seen several balls hitting the enemy’s hull on the waterline before a second savage broadside had smashed the Devastation into silence.

  Inch had expected the same treatment, but had put his ship between the frigate and the other bomb and had opened fire. Maybe the Spanish captain had counted upon Inch to turn and run after witnessing the fate of his companions, or perhaps he still expected to see the Coquette’s topgallants above the horizon in hot pursuit. But the challenge was enough. The frigate had gone about again, leaving Inch to lower boats and pick up the survivors from the other bomb, which had turned turtle and started to sink.

  It was obvious to Bolitho that Inch was torn between two real emotions. He was brooding over the loss of the Devastation and most of her company. But for his own eagerness she would still be anchored at Gibraltar, safe and unharmed.

  Yet when Bolitho had outlined what he intended to do this same night he had seen something of the old Inch, too. Pride and a light of complete trust which had made him so very important in Bolitho’s memory.

  Now, in Hekla, his first and only command, Inch was anchored beyond the opposite headland, and within a very short while would be attempting something untried in na
val history. With Bolitho and his own gunner he had climbed to the top of the beaked headland where the marines lolled like corpses in the scalding glare, and had carefully constructed a map of the fortress. Bolitho had said nothing which might have broken Inch’s concentration, and had been very aware of the deftness with which he went about his work. Ranges, bearings and measurements were added to the map, while the gunner had murmured occasional hints about charges, amounts of powder and fuses, most of which had been a foreign language to Bolitho.

  Whatever Inch might say or think about his strange command, he certainly appeared to have found his right niche. It was to be hoped his zeal was matched by his aim. Otherwise these boats and their armed seamen would all be blown to oblivion.

  If Inch could have fired his mortars in daylight he would have been quite sure his calculations were accurate. But Bolitho knew the defenders would have that much warning and make their own preparations. More time, to say nothing of lives, would be wasted, so Bolitho’s idea of a night attack was accepted without dissension, even by Broughton. Bolitho knew from experience that night attacks on shore defences were to be preferred. Sentries became tired, and there were usually so many strange noises abroad at night that one more shadow or additional squeak would excite little attention.

  And why should it? The fortress had withstood siege after siege. Had seen the British squadron made to withdraw, leaving only a landing force of marines to fend for themselves amidst the rocks and scrub above the bay. They had very little to fear.

  Allday hissed, ‘There’s the headland, Captain! Fine on the starboard bow!’

  Bolitho nodded. He could see the vague necklace of white spray at the foot of the rocks, the darker blur of shadows where the land piled up into a craggy cliff beyond. Soon now.

  He tried to picture his little flotilla in his mind. His barge and Bickford’s cutter would enter the bay first. Then four more boats would follow at regular intervals. One, under the command of Lieutenant Sawle, contained a large pouch of gunpowder, and once laid between the apprehensive oarsmen had all the appearances of a giant corpse being taken for burial. Sewn in greased leather, with a handmade fuse lovingly constructed by Fittock, the Euryalus’s gunner, it was to be in position just minutes before Inch’s mortars started to fire.

  Bolitho wished he had Keverne with him. But he was better used in handling the ship during his absence. Meheux was too valuable a gunnery officer, and Weigall too deaf for night action, so that left only the more junior lieutenants for the boat attack. He frowned. What was the matter with him? A lieutenant, any lieutenant, should be capable if he was worth his commission. He smiled in spite of taut nerves, thankful the darkness was hiding his face. He was beginning to reason like Broughton, and that would never do.

  He thought too of Lieutenant Lucey, the young officer who had been so frightened before the first attack on the fort. He was astern somewhere in another cutter, waiting to lead his men into the breached wall with only the haziest idea of what was awaiting him.

  And Calvert, he wondered how he was managing, out there on the hillside. When Bolitho had explained how he wanted the marines under Giffard to play their part in the final assault across the causeway, Broughton had snapped, ‘Calvert can convey the instructions to Captain Giffard.’ He had studied the flag lieutenant without pity. ‘Do him good!’

  Poor Calvert had been terrified. With a midshipman and three armed seamen for protection he had been taken ashore at dusk to face a dangerous and painful march across the hills to carry the orders to the marines, who should by now be ready and waiting to move. Giffard must be thankful, Bolitho thought. After sweating and panting in the sun’s glare all day, with only their pack rations and water flasks to sustain them, they would be in no mood for half measures.

  The tiller squeaked and he felt the hull lift sluggishly across a fast ripple of water. They were rounding the headland now, the bay opening up beyond the bargemen’s heads in a pitch-black curtain.

  He held his breath. And there it was. The fortress, like a pale rock, unlit but for a solitary window high up in the nearest wall, and strangely threatening against the other darkness.

  ‘Very quietly, lads!’ He stood to peer above the oarsmen, very conscious of the noises of boat and water, of heavy breathing and his own heart.

  The current was carrying them to the left of the fort, and he was thankful that one calculation at least was proving correct. He saw another pin-prick of light far beyond the fortress, and guessed it was the anchored brig’s riding lantern. With any luck Broughton would have a small addition to his squadron before dawn.

  He dropped on one knee and very gently opened the shutter of a lantern. Just a fraction of an inch, yet for those brief seconds as it played across his watch it seemed like a mighty beacon.

  He stood up again. In spite of the deep swell outside the bay, the distance the men had pulled their great oars and all the other nagging delays, they were arriving at the prescribed moment.

  The fortress was much nearer now, not more than a cable away. He imagined he could see the darker shadow below the north-west corner where the sea entrance lay, protected it was said by a rusting but massive portcullis. Where Fittock’s explosive charge would soon be laid and a way blasted for their attack.

  He gritted his teeth as somewhere astern a metallic click came from one of the boats. A careless seaman must have kicked against his cutlass. But nothing happened, nor any shout of alarm from those high, forbidding walls.

  Which was just as well, he thought grimly. Broughton’s ships would be well clear of the land by now, and without any real wind to fill their sails they would be in no position to send aid.

  Something white flashed in the darkness, and for an instant he thought it was an oar blade cutting through the water. But it was a fish jumping, falling with a flat slap within feet of the boat.

  When he looked for the fort again he saw it was very close. He could distinguish the individual slits cut in the walls for the guns, the paler patches to show where some of the squadron’s guns had made their mark.

  ‘Easy all’ He saw Bickford’s boat gliding slowly abeam and the others fanning out within easy hailing distance. It was time.

  The one boat which was still moving under oars pulled steadily past, and he saw Lieutenant Sawle’s figure upright in the stern, and another, probably Mr. Fittock the gunner, stooping below him. This was the vital part of the whole attack, and it was also Sawle’s chance to distinguish himself to such a degree that, bully or not his future in the Navy would be assured and profitable. He had an equally good chance of being blown to pieces if the fuse was mishandled. He was a competent officer, but if he were to die tonight, Bolitho was aware he would not be mourned aboard the Euryalus.

  Allday muttered, ‘We’ve seen a few, eh, Captain?’

  Bolitho did not know if he was speaking of the lieutenant or the actual attack. Either could be true, but he had other things on his mind.

  He snapped, ‘We have five minutes or thereabouts.’

  Oars moved restlessly abeam and he saw Bickford’s men back-paddling to stop their boat from being broached sideways on the swirling current.

  He thought of Inch again and pictured him aboard the Hekla making final preparations for firing his squat mortars high over the beaked headland. He would have no problems with secrecy now. He could use all the lights he required, knowing there were marines on the hillside above his ship waiting to signal the fall of shot as well as to protect him from unwanted intruders.

  A strange craft, Keverne had said. Hekla was little more than a floating battery, with just enough sail power to carry her from one theatre of operations to another. Once in position she was anchored firmly at bow and stern. By slackening or hauling on either cable Inch could move the hull and therefore the twin mortars to the desired bearing with very little effort.

  ‘Mr. Sawle’s boat is below the wall, Captain.’ Allday sounded tense.

  ‘Good.’ He accepted Allday’s word, for there
was nothing but the slash of black shadow at the foot of the fortress to distinguish boat from entrance.

  A midshipman squatting by his feet yawned silently, and Bolitho guessed he was probably fighting his own sort of fear. Yawning was one of the signs.

  He said quietly, ‘Not long now, Mr. Margery. You will take charge of the boat once the attack is begun.’

  The midshipman nodded, not trusting himself to reply.

  Allday stiffened. ‘Look, Captain! There’s a boat to the felt of the wall!’

  Bolitho saw the telltale froth of oars and guessed the garrison had taken the precaution of having a guardboat patrolling around the bay. Probably it was intended to prevent any attempt at cutting out the anchored brig, but it was just as deadly as an army of sentries.

  Up and down, the oars dipped and rose with tired regularity, the green phosphorescence around the stem marking the boat’s progress better than daylight.

  The movements halted, and he guessed they were resting on their oars, letting the current carry them along before starting on the next leg of the patrol.

  Allday muttered between his teeth, ‘Mr. Sawle should have the charge laid by now.’

  As if in response to his words there was a brief, spurting gleam of light like a bright red eye below the wall, and Bolitho knew Fittock had fired the fuse. The light would be hidden from the guardboat by the wall’s curve, but once Sawle’s men pulled clear the alarm would be sounded.

  Bolitho bit his lip, imagining Sawle and his men clinging against the great iron portcullis, listening for the guard-boat moving again and hearing the steady hiss of the lighted fuse.

  Almost to himself he said, ‘Come on, man, get away from it!’ But nothing happened to break the dark patch beneath the wall.

  There was a sudden jarring thud and he saw the eyes of the nearest oarsman light up with an orange glow, as if the sailor was staring directly at a freak sunrise. He knew it was the reflected glow from one of Inch’s mortars beyond the opposite headland, and as he swung round in the boat he heard a sharp, abbreviated whistle, like a marsh-bird disturbed suddenly by a wildfowler. The crash of the explosion was deafening. He saw the far side of the fort light up violently, the billowing smoke very pale before darkness closed in again, leaving him momentarily blinded.