The Flag Captain

by Alexander Kent

  Calvert looked at the floor. ‘Thank you, Sir Lucius.’

  Broughton turned to Bolitho. ‘Now, seeing that you seem able and strong enough to conduct my affairs, it appears I must come to you, eh?’ He glared round the room. ‘Get these people out of my sight.’ He relented slightly. ‘Except you of course, dear lady, for I have learned that but for your, er, ministrations I would now be without my flag captain.’ He smiled coolly as he ran his eye over her. ‘Which would never do.’

  She met his eyes unflinchingly. ‘I agree, Sir Lucius. It would appear you have great need of him.’

  Broughton frowned and then gave a small shrug. ‘That was a fair match of words, ma’am.’

  To Bolitho he said, ‘This is what I intend.’

  There was no hint of shock or anger at the manner of Draffen’s death. As in the past, Broughton had already discarded him. A memory, and nothing more. Later, in England, he might find it less easy to ignore.

  He said, ‘It seems almost certain the French will try and drive us from here.’ He paused as if expecting an argument. ‘Sighting those ships and then losing them because of Rattray’s stupidity over my signal makes me more inclined to accept your earlier remarks.’ He nodded. ‘You certainly left Gillmor a good report before you sailed on that fool errand against the pirates.’ He sighed. ‘Really, Bolitho, you must learn to accept that you are already out of reach of those more lighthearted events!’

  ‘It seemed advisable to remove one threat before we took on another, sir.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He sounded cautious. ‘But by now the Franco/Spanish alliance will know that the squadron which left Gibtaltar is here on their porchway. Urgency to complete their plan will become even more apparent.’ He nodded as if to confirm his thoughts. ‘I am not waiting for them. I propose to take the squadron towards Cartagena. For if only half the reports are true, that is where the enemy has been concentrating his transports and war vessels. What could be more likely? A further attempt to strengthen the relationship between the two countries after their defeat at St. Vincent.’

  Bolitho nodded. It was obvious the admiral had given the matter a great deal of thought during the past day or so. As well he might. For to return to Gibraltar and report that Djafou had been found useless, and Draffen had been killed by one of his own officers, would be asking for certain retribution. Broughton had already incurred the Admiralty’s displeasure over his part in the Spithead mutiny and the loss of the Auriga, and he more than anyone needed to obtain some credit, which the capture of the Navarra and a small brig hardly represented.

  He replied, ‘It is very likely, sir. It is equally possible we may meet with the enemy in open water.’

  ‘That is what I pray for.’ Broughton paced to the window, showing some signs of agitation. ‘If we can bring them to grips we will have shown them that we are not merely a cat’s-paw. And that others will follow us in even greater strength.’

  ‘And if we discover nothing at Cartagena, sir, what then?’

  Broughton turned and looked at him calmly. ‘Then, Bolitho, I am a ruined man.’ He seemed to realise he had shown too much of a confidence and added abruptly, ‘We will weigh tomorrow morning. Commander Inch will return to Gibraltar with the brig and Navarra. He will also carry all the garrison and other, er, people we have gathered. I have no doubt the governor there will be pleased to use them for exchange with British prisoners of war.’

  ‘I have ordered charges to be laid in the fortress magazine, sir.’

  ‘Good. We will fire them as we leave.’ He sighed. ‘So be it.’

  As he made as if to depart Bolitho asked quickly, ‘I am hoping you may recommend Mr. Keverne for command of the brig, sir?’

  The admiral turned his eyes instead on the woman. ‘I am afraid not. You already have shortages, and we will need every experienced officer. I will tell Furneaux to supply a prize officer.’

  He nodded to Angus as he came into the room wiping his hands.

  The surgeon said, He was dead, sir.’

  The admiral said indifferently, ‘As I expected. Now, Mr. Angus, Captain Bolitho will remain here until half an hour before sailing tomorrow. Make all arrangements. Then send someone to find Calvert and tell him I wish some orders to be drafted for the squadron immediately.’ He smiled suddenly, so that he looked years younger.

  ‘Do you know, Bolitho, I was once tempted to match rapiers with Calvert, just to teach him a lesson! If I had, you would now be in command here, and your head instead of mine would be on the block!’ It seemed to amuse him, for he was still smiling as he strode out of the room.

  Bolitho leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, feeling the energy and tension draining from him, leaving him spent.

  Half to himself he said, ‘One more night.’

  She touched his hair with her hand, her voice husky. ‘Yes. One more night.’ She hesitated. ‘Together.’

  17

  Reunion

  LIEUTENANT CHARLES KEVERNE stood by the quarterdeck rail with his arms folded while he watched the busy activity around and above him. The Euryalus had not re-entered the bay, but instead had anchored with her consorts off the beaked headland. Now, in the pale morning light, even the barren hills and skyline appeared less hostile, the fortress quiet and harmless.

  He took a telescope from the midshipman of the watch and trained it towards the Tanais which was tugging at her cable in the freshening wind, her yards and decks also alive with seamen. He could see the scars on her quarter where Euryalus’s massive bulk had left evidence of the collision, and was thankful he had managed to complete repairs to spars and rigging before the captain’s return.

  Like the rest of the watching officers and seamen, he had studied Bolitho’s appearance through the entry port with both relief and anxiety. The smile had been genuine, and there had been no doubting his pleasure at being back on board his own command. But the arm held stiffly in a sling, the twist of pain on his mouth as he had been assisted through the port, made Keverne wonder if Bolitho was yet fit enough for his work.

  The ship had been fairly buzzing with speculation since their unhappy return after the fruitless chase, and collision with Tanais. Broughton’s temper had matched the occasion, and for that reason too he hoped Bolitho would be able to advise his superior as well as control the teeming affairs of his own ship.

  Keverne thought back over what he had done so far. The task of replacing some of the men killed and injured in the attacks on Djafou, the re-embarkation of the marines, and all the business of preparing to get under way once more. But he would have to speak with Bolitho about the officers. With Lucey and Lelean dead, and Bolitho far from fit, it left them very shorthanded when they were most needed.

  Lieutenant Meheux strode aft along the larboard gangway and touched his hat.

  ‘Anchor’s hove short, sir!’ He seemed cheerful enough. ‘I’ll not weep to quit this hole for all time!’

  Partridge said, ‘Flag’s comin’ down on th’ fortress, sir.’

  Keverne raised the glass again. ‘So I see.’ He watched the ensign as it disappeared below the ramparts and wondered how it would feel to be the last man to leave after the fuses had been lit.

  He beckoned to a midshipman. ‘My respects to the captain, Mr. Sandoe. Inform him that the anchor is hove short and the wind has backed to the sou’ west.’

  Partridge watched him scurry away. ‘Bit o’ luck that. ’Twill save all the damn sweat to clear the ’eadland.’

  Keverne tensed as a set of tan sails glided clear of the fortress. It was the brig, Turquoise, and in the clear morning light she looked lively and beautiful. Another chance gone. She could have been his. Momentarily he wondered if Bolitho had decided to retain him as first lieutenant merely because of his own disability. He turned his mind away just as quickly. Neither Bickford, who had been with the captain, nor even Sawle, whom he heartily disliked, had been offered the command. So it was obviously Broughton’s hand which had written the order to make a mere lieutenan
t from Valorous rise like a shooting star towards the first real step of promotion.

  He stamped his feet with sudden irritation. What a waste it had all been. And no doubt when they reached the enemy coast they would discover some new frustration for the admiral to complain about.

  ‘Navarra’s clear, sir!’

  Keverne watched the prize ship setting her topsails as she tacked heavily below the fortress walls. Like all of the little convoy destined for Gibraltar, she was crammed with people, prisoners and civilians alike. It would be an uncomfortable passage, he decided glumly.

  There was a step beside him and Bolitho said, ‘It looks like a good wind.’ He glanced searchingly along the upper deck. ‘Make a signal to the squadron. Up anchor. Then get the ship under way, if you please. We will lay a course nor’ west by north as Sir Lucius has instructed.’

  Keverne shouted, ‘Stand by the capstan!’

  A midshipman was scribbing on his slate watched by the signal party who had already bent on the required flags.

  Midshipman Tothill said. ‘Hekla’s clearing the fortress now, sir.’

  Bolitho took a telescope and trained it towards the little bomb vessel. But for a cutter to retrieve the demolition party at the last possible moment, Hekla was the last to leave the bay. Leaving it with its relics of suffering and death, its memories of conquest and surrender. Perhaps one day someone else would try to reoccupy the place, to repair the fortress and install once more the means of slavery and oppression. But maybe by then the world would have turned once and for all against such methods, he thought.

  The Hekla’s topsails filled to the wind as she ploughed into the first inshore troughs. Holding the telescope with one hand was not easy, and he was dismayed to discover that he was already breathless from exhaustion. But just a moment longer. He edged the glass slowly across Hekla’s forecastle where the seamen in their checked shirts ran in orderly confusion to complete the new tack, and then saw Inch clinging to the low rail, his thin body leaning against the steep tilt as he waved his hat in the air. It was not hard to recall him on the exposed deck as the carronades kept up their savage bombardment, or his shock and grief at seeing him fall to that unknown marksman. Now, with his mixed flotilla and chattering passengers, he was taking another turn in his life, and it was to be hoped he reached Gibraltar without meeting an enemy.

  He stiffened as he saw another figure moving carefully across the deck to Inch’s side. Even although the Hekla was now a good half-mile distant he could see her hair whipping out to the wind, the yellow dess very bright in the glare. She too was waving, her teeth white in her tanned face, and he imagined he could hear her voice once more, as he had listened to it in the night when all else was still and silent.

  ‘Take the glass, Mr. Tothill.’

  Then, stiffly, he braced his legs and waved his own hat slowly back and forth. Some of the others watched him with surprise, but by the ladder Allday saw Bolitho’s face and gave a grateful smile.

  It had been a close-run thing. And but for her… he shuddered involuntarily and turned to watch as Calvert walked moodily along the gangway and leaned against the nettings. He seemed to be more inside himself than ever, and hardly spoke, even to the other officers. That was a rare pity, Allday decided, for the flag-lieutenant was unaware how he was admiringly discussed on the crowded messdecks since his return. Allday shook his head. No doubt Calvert had a rich father who would save his neck, but maybe he no longer cared. As he stared down into the lively water alongside his face registered nothing at all.

  ‘Ah, Calvert!’ Everyone looked round as Broughton strode briskly from the poop. He raised his voice. ‘Come here!’

  Calvert wandered aft and touched his hat, his eyes guarded. ‘Sir?’

  ‘There is a lot I want done today.’ Broughton watched idly as the Hekla butted her blunt bows into a lazy roller. Then he looked at Bolitho and pursed his lips into the shadow of a smile. ‘So perhaps you would dine with me after we have done with the writing, eh?’

  Allday saw Calyert’s jaw dropping open and felt more amazed than ever. Even Broughton, it appeared, had changed towards him.

  Bolitho turned, caught unaware by the admiral’s voice. ‘I beg your pardon, sir. I did not see you.’

  Broughton nodded. ‘Ah.’

  ‘The squadron has acknowledged, sir!’ Tothill was oblivious to the brief exchange. ‘At the dip!’

  Bolitho turned and shouted, ‘Carry on, Mr. Keverne!’

  As the flagship’s signal vanished from her yards the deck became alive to the turmoil of making sail. Bolitho gripped the rail and looked up as the topmen swarmed along the yards, and with a bang and thunder of canvas the released sails exploded to the wind.

  ‘Anchor’s aweigh, sir!’ Meheux looked very small, outlined against the opposite headland as he waved his hand in the air.

  With a deep surge the Euryalus sidled heavily above her reflection, her lower gunports awash as with her seamen heaving on the braces and the wheel hard over she came ponderously but with dignified obedience under control of wind and rudder.

  Keverne was yelling through his trumpet, ‘Lee braces, there! Put those laggards to work, Mr. Tebbutt! Valorous has the edge on you today!’

  Bolitho leaned over the stout rail and watched the anchor, streaming yellow weed from its massive flukes as it was catted home by Meheux’s frantic seamen.

  He shifted his gaze across the opposite side and saw Coquette and Restless already spreading their topgallants and bounding through fountains of spray as they drew rapidly away from the heavier ships.

  Partridge called, ‘Nor’ west by north, sir!’ He wiped his watering eyes as he peered up at the braced yards, the hardening quiver of the main topsail as it forced the ship over. ‘Full an’ bye, sir!’

  Broughton snatched a glass and then said irritably, ‘General signal. Maintain proper station.’ He turned easily to study the Valorous, as with her jib flapping in momentary confusion she wallowed round to follow in her admiral’s wake.

  Keveme asked, ‘May I set the topgallants, sir?’

  Bolitho nodded. ‘Make the most of the wind.’

  Even as Keverne hurried back to the rail there was a low, menacing rumble. Every spare glass flashed in the sunlight as they turned to watch the distant fortress. The rumble erupted with terrible suddenness into several towering walls of flame and black smoke. They seemed endless and indestructible, hiding completely what was happening beneath.

  Then as the wind pushed the smoke reluctantly across the headland Bolitho saw the ruins of the fortress. The Inner tower had fallen completely like the shattered chimney of an old kiln, and the rest of the walls and ramparts were blasted into rubble. More inner explosions followed in slow succession, like a controlled broadside, and he imagined Inch’s gunner, Mr. Broome, lovingly placing his charges of destruction. He caught his breath as a tiny dark sliver edged out through the smoke, the boat carrying Broome and his men to a hairbreadth safety.

  Giffard said, ‘A lot has happened in that place, by God.’

  Broughton watched the set of Bolitho’s shoulders and smiled briefly. ‘There is certainly no denying that, Captain Giffard!’

  When eight bells chimed out, and the forenoon watch started to go about its affairs above and below decks, the small squadron was already seven miles from the land.

  In his stern cabin Bolitho rested on the bench seat and watched the Valorous outlined against the fading shoreline. It was little more than a blur, a rolling bank of purple, above which the darker smoke of Djafou stained the blue sky in one great sprawling pall.

  He thought of Lucey and Lelean, of Witrand and so many others who had been left there forever. Only Draffen had sailed with the squadron, his corpse carefully sealed in a cask of spirits for a more fitting burial whenever the ship might touch England again.

  He leaned against the sill, his ears catching the familiar strains of rigging and shrouds, his aching shoulder positioned to avoid the slow plunge and quiver of the hull a
round him.

  Once again he had avoided the fate of others. He touched his shoulder and winced. It would soon be time to have the dressing changed, when he would again hold his breath for fear the wound had worsened.

  Then he thought of Catherine Pareja and that last night together in the tower. The simplicity and desperate need as they had lain quite still listening to the murmur of waves on the rocks below the walls. Had he not been so badly wounded would he still have behaved like that? Would he have allowed it to happen? Even as he remembered their quiet embrace, he knew the answer, and was ashamed.

  * * * * *

  Spargo, the Euryalus’s surgeon, proffered one of his square, hairy hands and said, ‘Here, sir, take a good grip.’

  Bolitho stood up from his desk and glanced at Keverne. ‘He is a hard taskmaster.’ He smiled to hide his anxiety. ‘I fear we are not giving him enough to do.’

  Then he took Spargo’s hand in his own, feeling the cramp tugging at his arm as he exerted all the grip he could muster.

  It had been three days since the squadron had left Djafou, and every few hours during that time Spargo had come to attend to the dressings, to probe and examine the wound until Bolitho had imagined he would never be free of its torment.

  Spargo released his fingers. ‘Not too bad, sir.’ He spoke with grudging satisfaction, which Bolitho had discovered earlier to be true praise for another man’s work. ‘But we shall have to see.’ As ever, his sheet anchor was a warning. Just in case.

  Keverne relaxed slightly. ‘I will leave you now, sir. That concludes the ship’s affairs for today.’

  Bolitho eased his arm back into the sling and walked to the windows. A good half-mile astern he watched Valorous taking in her royals, the seamen like black dots on her yards as they fought with the salt-hardened canvas. It was nearly noon. Three days of battling with unusually perverse winds and every eye watching the dazzling horizon for a sail. Any sail.