7
Under the Flag
John Bowles, the cabin servant, walked to the sloping stern windows and opened the dress coat which he had just finished pressing, held it carefully in the harsh glare of reflected sunlight, and made sure that it was perfect. Beyond the screen door and beneath his feet the ship was unusually quiet. Sometimes it was hard to believe that the hull held nearly five hundred human beings. He gave a slow grin. If you could call some of them that. It had been rather different earlier in the day, since dawn when all hands had been piped to work ship, and prepare for the arrival of the great man himself. Extra care with the rigging, standing and running alike, more hands sent aloft to check each lashing, and no loose ends, ”Irish pennants’, the Jacks called them, to offend the vice-admiral’s eye. There was still a hint of cooking in the air, the heady aroma of rum, Nelson’s Blood, but the ship was ready.
He had glanced into the spacious cabin beneath this one, and watched it being transformed into something almost palatial. Rich and very costly furniture had appeared as if by magic, even a few paintings in the admiral’s sleeping quarters. If they ever had to clear for action some one would have to keep a close eye on those as everything was dragged below and the screens were torn down to strip Athena to her true identity, a fighting ship. He had seen the vice-admiral’s servant supervising every aspect of the transformation, a smart looking man, utterly unmoved by the bustle and confusion around him. Bowles had tried to make conversation, but the man, Tolan, had seemed withdrawn, disinterested in anything that might distract him from his purpose.
He gave the dress coat a final examination. First impressions. He almost smiled. It was something the previous captain, Ritchie, had often said. He had served him a long time, but looking back, it was as if he had never really known him. Now awaiting a court-martial. That, too, had surprised Bowles. It was said that Adam Bolitho had been court-martialled a year or so ago, after losing his ship to a Yankee and being taken prisoner. He gave the coat a quick shake. There was a lot he had yet to discover about his new master. Who, for instance, would gallop overland in his best uniform, as if he did not have a care in the world?
He peered across the cabin and saw him now at his desk, his chin resting on one hand, still writing. Today, of all days, when Athena was to become flagship to an admiral about whom most of them knew nothing, the captain could still find the time to put pen to paper.
In an opened shirt, dark hair dishevelled as he ran his fingers through it, as if it were an ordinary day. The small book he carried in his coat lay beside him on the desk, and the well-worn letter he always kept folded inside it. A dreamer one moment, restless and alert the next. Quick to intervene when he thought Stirling had overlooked something. Bowles nodded slowly to himself. In battle or a raging storm, Stirling was like a rock. Duty was duty; like the Articles of War, it was enough.
Adam Bolitho had been well known for his exploits as a frigate captain; a few of the ship’s company had served with him in the past, some even under his famous uncle. Perhaps Athena’?” next commission was not going to lead them to another backwater after all ... ”Boat ahoy?”
The challenge was clear and loud, and Bowles could almost feel the panic it would cause the watch keepers and, more especially, the first lieutenant. The vice-admiral had changed his mind, and was already heading out to his flagship. Catch every one unprepared. He had heard the flag lieutenant, Troubridge, discussing it with the captain. Sir Graham Bethune was to dine with the port admiral at his residence ashore; his host would have his own barge collect and bring him to Athena at four bells of the afternoon watch.
He cocked his head to listen as somebody replied to the challenge.
”Aye! Aye!” So, an officer on board, but nobody important. Probably some mail for Athena, the boat coming early to avoid involvement with the admiral.
He realized with a start that the captain had turned in his chair.
”Nervous, Bowles?”
Bowles held out the coat. ”I did wonder, sir.” He looked at the desk again. Dark blue silk, shining in the filtered sunshine. He had had little to do with the quality, but he recognized a lady’s garter. So that was where the captain had been, the sudden need for urgency.
Adam stood up. It was almost time. Pipe all hands, band and guard to man the side. The band would consist of small drummers and fifers; they had been drilling when he had returned aboard. He walked aft to the windows and rested his palms on the sill; it was warm from the deceptive sunlight. Yesterday. Was it only that? The ship had swung still further to her anchor, but he could imagine the road, the sloping hillside, the Tamar. He thought of those last minutes. Seconds. The final touch.
And tomorrow, or a few days at the most, this ship would weigh and put to sea, like all those other times. But so different.
”I’d better get ready, Bowles.” He wondered how Bethune was feeling about this day. No regrets? No doubts?
He heard the sentry tap his musket on the grating outside the screen door.
”Captain’s cox’n, sir!”
Jago was exercising his privilege of coming and going as he chose, no doubt to voice his resentment that Athena’?” gig, his gig, was not being used today to collect the vice-admiral.
If we ‘ad our own barge, I’d have ‘em in shape in a week, sir!
It was the closest he would come to pride.
Jago stepped through the door, his hat in one hand, his tanned features unable to contain a grin.
”Visitor, sir.” He stepped briskly to one side. ”Special visitor!”
They stood facing one another, the captain in his shirtsleeves, with dishevelled hair, and the young midshipman, very erect, but all confidence gone now that his determination had deserted him.
”Good God, David, it is you! Come over here and let me look at you!”
Napier said, ”We anchored this morning, sir.” He gestured to the stern windows. ”The lower anchorage. I asked for permission .. .” His voice trailed away as Adam seized him by the shoulders and exclaimed, ”You’ll never know .. .” He saw the gleaming midshipman’s dirk. ”It suits you, David.” He shook him gently. ”It does indeed suit you!”
Napier nodded, his eyes very serious. ”For my fifteenth birthday. You remembered. I had no idea.”
Adam walked with him to the stern windows, his arm around his shoulders.
”Is everything all right, David? The ship? Everything?”
The youth turned and looked up at him. No words, just the look, then he said, ”I have settled in,” and forced a smile. ”The captain remembers my name now.” He could not keep it up. ”I miss looking after you, sir.”
Jago said, ”I think the boat is waitin’, sir.”
”I’ll see you over the side, David.”
Napier shook his head. ”No, sir. You know what they would say. Favouritism.”
”So my uncle taught me.” They stood by the open door, Jago, Bowles, the ship, another world.
Adam said, ”If ever you need anything, write to me. One day we’ll serve together again.”
Napier looked slowly around the great cabin, as if he wanted to forget nothing.
Jago cleared his throat. ”I’ll take you on deck, Mister Napier, sir!”
But this time it did not work.
Bowles watched it all in silence. No matter what task they were called upon to perform, and how this unknown captain would deal with it, he knew that this was the man he would always see and hear.
He realized that the door was closed, and that his captain was by the desk again, fastening his shirt.
He said, ”A fine young man, sir.”
Adam did not hear him. It had been like seeing himself.
The admiral’s barge pulled purposefully between the anchored ships, the oars rising and falling like polished bones. If any other boats or small craft appeared to be on a converging course, or about to cross her path, the sharp eyed lieutenant who remained standing beside the coxswain would merely raise one hand in the a
ir, and the tiller would stay where it was.
Seated in the stern sheets Lieutenant Francis Troubridge felt the excitement running through him, and it was all he could do to contain it, sitting as he was within a few feet of his superior. It was like nothing he had experienced before. Even the barge crew was smartly turned out, matching shirts and tarred hats, lying back on their looms, eyes astern, but never on the admiral.
Occasionally they swept past a boat which had stopped to allow them to pass unimpeded. All oars tossed, an officer standing, hat raised in salute. Some of the local craft carrying passengers or working parties from the docks also showed their respect: cheers echoed across the choppy water, and aboard one harbour boat women waved scarves and aprons, their voices lost in the timed creak of oars.
Troubridge glanced covertly at Bethune. Not to be in an office or visiting some large man-of-war in one port or another, but at sea. What he had always wanted, and this time with the status and privilege of being the admiral’s personal aide.
Bethune was sitting very upright on a cushion, one foot quietly tapping on the bottom boards, his handsome profile completely at ease, a slight smile never far away whenever another boat stood clear to allow the barge to pass.
That was something Troubridge had soon learned about his admiral. Unlike so many he had seen at the Admiralty or on ceremonial occasions, he had never allowed himself to be visibly drunk. He had seen the port admiral stagger as he had waited on the stone stairs, while Bethune stepped almost casually into the waiting barge. Self-discipline, or something even stronger.
”Ah, there she is!” Bethune had pulled out his beautiful watch. ”Right on time, eh, Flags?”
Troubridge flushed. He had intended to point out Athena for the admiral’s benefit. Bethune had beaten him to it.
”She looks well, Sir Graham.” He saw the slight smile again. Like a rebuke.
Athena seemed to tower over them, as if they had covered the last cable in seconds. Rigging blacked down, each yard and spar perfectly set, White Ensign curling from her poop and the Union flag in the bows, her new paintwork shining in the sunlight like glass.
Troubridge thought suddenly of his father, how proud he would be of his youngest son, and felt some of the tension draining away. This was what he wanted.
”Boat ahoy?”
He smiled despite the solemnity of the occasion. Everybody in Plymouth would know this barge, and its purpose here today. The navy never changed.
The big coxswain looked swiftly at Bethune’s shoulders and cupped his hands.
”Flag! Athena!”
Troubridge watched the scarlet line of Royal Marines, the blues and whites of the assembled officers and lesser ranks, warrant officers and the rest. The mass of the ship’s company was crammed into the main deck and between the gangways, others on the forecastle and aloft on the fighting tops where a man could find space to stand.
He saw faces duck down out of sight at one of the gun ports as the barge altered course and headed for the main chains and the freshly gilded entry port.
The lieutenant in charge gave his orders, but Troubridge heard none of it, staring at the black and white hull rising above him. The bowmen had shipped their oars and were facing ahead, their boat hooks held in readiness. Side-boys were already positioned on the bottom stairs, to take the lines, or fend off the barge to avoid an unseamanlike collision.
There was a bosun’s chair just in sight above the nettings. The anchorage was choppy, and it was not unknown for a senior officer to escape falling overboard by that less dignified route.
Another order, and the oars were tossed and held steady in two dripping ranks; the barge had been made fast.
But Troubridge was remembering the tales he had heard as a boy, from his father or some of his friends. Of Nelson, ”Our Nel’, leaving England in Victory for the last time; walking the deck of his flagship with his young flag lieutenant, Pasco, while the enemy had spread and filled the horizon, and together they had composed the signal every true Englishman still knew by heart.
”Are you ready, Mister Troubridge?” Bethune was standing upright, holding out his expensive boat cloak not even using a seaman’s shoulder to steady himself against the motion. ”They are waiting for us, as you see!” He was actually laughing.
Then he reached out, pausing only to add, ”You did as I asked?”
Troubridge swallowed. ”Aye, Sir Graham.” He should not have been staring aimlessly around. In a moment he would be sick.
Then the air quivered to the bark of commands, the crack and slap of muskets being brought to the present, pipe clay drifting above and around the twin ranks of gleaming bayonets.
Calls trilled, and to another shouted command the small section of fifers and drummers broke into Heart of Oak.
Troubridge scrambled up and over the steep tumble home and almost pitched headlong through the finely carved entry port.
He recovered himself and dragged off his hat in salute. The din of fifes and drums stopped, and a solitary call shrilled loudly in the silence as Bethune’s flag lifted and broke free at the mainmast truck.
He saw the captain step forward from among the other officers, the formality broken by a sudden handshake, and Bolitho’s smile, which he felt he had come to know better than anything else about him.
Bethune had been about to receive the usual introductions before he was released to the peace and privacy of his new quarters, when he stopped and pointed at some seamen below the boat tier.
That man! You!”
People swung round and stared, and a lieutenant almost ran to seize the offender who had caught the admiral’s eye.
Troubridge relaxed, muscle by muscle. He had been through the muster book and ship’s records and had discovered one man who had actually served with Bethune when he had been a captain. The man in question was standing exactly where he had been told, still unaware of the reason.
Bethune swung round and exclaimed, ”Grundy? Tom Grundy, isn’t it? In the old Skirmisher, remember?”
The man was grinning, as others craned forward to witness this extraordinary encounter.
”Yes sir, that’s me! God bless you, sir!”
Bethune patted his arm. ”Good to see you again, Grundy!” He strode on, smiling and nodding to the assembled officers.
Troubridge watched the ranks breaking up, crowding around the astonished Grundy to slap him on the back, or share a grin or a joke with the one seaman who had been recognized by the admiral.
Troubridge gazed up at the new flag whipping out at the fore.
There was a lot they all had to learn about the man who flew it.
Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune leaned back in his chair, his fingers interlocked behind his head while he surveyed the broad expanse of his day cabin. His secretary, Edward Paget, sat opposite him behind a little table, his pen poised by the pile of letters already completed.
Bethune said, The last is for the First Lord’s eyes only, Paget. You know what to do.” He frowned as something clattered across the deck, accompanied by the squeal of a block as the unknown object was hauled away. It seemed to take a long time. He would have to get used to it. He glanced over his shoulder at the hazy green of the land, a sail passing between it and the anchored flagship like the fin of a shark.
His servant Tolan had entered by another door, a list in one hand.
”All the wine is stowed, Sir Graham. Separate from the special delivery which came aboard in Portsmouth.”
Paget looked up severely.
”All checked? Good wine can easily walk in a ship this size, you know!”
Tolan ignored him. Paget was good at his work; he would not still be serving Bethune otherwise. He was short and had a low forehead, and an unusually wide mouth; Tolan had long ago decided that he must have been a frog in a previous life.
He said, The captain is coming aft to see you, Sir Graham.”
”I know. I’m ready,” and to his secretary, ”I want all those sent ashore today, no
matter what time you’ve finished them.”
Paget’s wide mouth opened and closed without comment. He was used to it.
Bethune sighed and rubbed his stomach.
”Well, Tolan, any regrets?” He did not expect an answer. ”We sail tomorrow, come what may. The Indies again. Antigua.” Seeing it in his mind. No more walks in the park, or riding his favourite mount down to the river. Where he had last seen Catherine Somervell. Where he had felt like a conspirator. But he must be careful. Very careful.
The screen door was open and Captain Adam Bolitho was standing by an empty gun port where an eighteen-pounder had once been positioned. Much had changed during Athena’s last refit, less armament giving more room for storage. And additional space for an admiral’s quarters.
”Ah, Adam. I trust you satisifed the curiosity of the wardroom? We shall weigh at high water. Your sailing master Impatiently, he snapped his fingers.
Adam said, ”Fraser, Sir Graham.”
”Of course.” He grinned at his flag lieutenant. ”Another Grundy, eh?”
Adam said, ”I just heard about Captain Ritchie. The verdict at his court-martial
”I intended to mention it, Adam. But things have been moving quickly since I came aboard yesterday.” He pressed his fingertips together, his head slightly on one side. ”Does it disturb you?”
”The verdict was not proven, Sir Graham. That means he may be entirely innocent of the charges.”
He saw Troubridge half raise a hand, as if to warn him. Bethune smiled.
”Equally, it might mean he was guilty as charged.”
Adam persisted, ”But he would still be in command of this ship!”
”While you, Adam, would be on the beach, with no ship at all.”
That is not what I meant, Sir Graham.”
Bethune stood up without effort, his hair almost brushing the deck head
”When I was given this mission, for that is what it is fast becoming, I wanted a good flag captain. I can think of another one or two, but / wanted you, do you understand? Your record is enough, but there are other reasons, too. I will not insult you by parading them for inspection.” He had raised his voice slightly, but appeared calm, even relaxed. ”As far as I am concerned, Captain Ritchie can ‘
Alexander Kent - Bolitho 26 Page 12