The Flag Captain

A midshipman yelled, “Ready, sir!” It was Ashton.

“Fire!”

Seconds later the lower battery erupted in a great, blasting roar. It felt as if the ship would fall apart, and as smoke and pieces of wreckage flew high above the nettings Bolitho saw the other ship reel drunkenly under the full weight of the lower battery’s broadside.

The French flagship’s sails were still drawing and quivering in the wind, and as she idled clear she began to move slowly towards the Euryalus’s bows. The smoke was rising thickly from her main

hatch, and Bolitho felt himself shaking uncontrollably as the first tip of flame licked above the coaming like a forked tongue.

All resistance had ceased on Euryalus’s deck, and the French boarders left behind by their ship watched in silence, their hands in the air, as Le Glorieux continued to draw away.

Broughton said hoarsely, “They’re finished!” There was neither pride nor satisfaction in his voice. Like the others, he sounded completely crushed by the ferocity of the battle.

Tothill limped to the rail. “Zeus is signalling, sir.”

When Bolitho looked down at him he saw the midshipman was grinning even though uncontrollable tears were cutting sharp lines through the grime on his face.

He asked quietly, “Well, Mr Tothill?”

“Two of the enemy have struck to us, sir. One has sunk, and the rest are breaking off the action.”

Bolitho sighed and watched with silent relief as the enemy flagship began to drift more swiftly downwind. As the smoke of battle faded reluctantly away he saw the other ships scattered across the sea’s face, scarred and blackened from conflict. Of Impulsive there was no sign, and he saw the sloop Restless, which must have arrived unseen in the battle, drifting above her shadow, her boats in the water searching for survivors.

He felt a sudden heat on his cheek, and when he turned saw the French three-decker’s sails and rigging ablaze like torches. The lower gunports were also glowing bright red, and before a man could speak the air was torn apart with one deafening explosion.

The smoke surrounded the destruction, changing to steam as with a jubilant roar the sea surged into the shattered hull, dragging it down in a welter of bubbles and terrible sounds. Guns crashed from their tackles, and men trapped below in total darkness ran in madness until caught by either sea or fire.

When the smoke finally cleared there was only a great, slow-moving whirlpool, around which the flotsam and human

fragments joined in one last horrible dance. Then there was nothing.

Broughton cleared his throat. “A victory.” He watched the wounded being carried or dragged below. Then he looked at Calvert and added, “But the bill is greater.”

Bolitho said dully, “We will commence repairs, sir. The wind has eased slightly…” He paused and rubbed his knuckles into his eyes, trying to think. “Valorous looks in a bad way. I think Tanais can take her in tow.”

He heard distant cheering and saw the men on the Zeus’s battered forecastle waving and yelling as they edged past. They could still cheer after all that. He turned to watch as some of his own company scrambled into the shrouds to return the cheers.

He said quietly, “With men like these, Sir Lucius, you never need fear again.”

But Broughton had not heard him. He was unbuckling his beautiful sword, and with a small hesitation handed it to Pascoe.

“Here, take it. When I needed it, I dropped it.” He added gruffly, “Any damn midshipman who tackles the enemy with a dirk deserves it!” He watched the astonishment on the boy’s dark features. “Besides, a lieutenant must look the part, eh?”

Pascoe held the sword and turned it over in his hands. Then he looked at Bolitho, but he was standing rigidly by the rail, his fingers gripping it so tightly that they were white.

“Sir?” He hurried to his side, suddenly fearful that Bolitho had been wounded again. “Look, sir!”

Bolitho released the rail and put his arm round the boy’s thin shoulders. He was desperately tired, and the pain in his wound was like a branding iron. But just a little longer.

Very slowly he said, “Adam. Tell me.” He swallowed hard. He could barely risk speaking. “That boat!”

Pascoe stared at his face and then down into the sea nearby. A longboat was pulling towards the Euryalus’s shot-scarred

side, crammed to the gunwales with dripping, exhausted men. He replied hesitantly, “Yes, Uncle. I see him, too.” Bolitho gripped his shoulder more tightly and watched the boat’s misty outline as it nudged alongside. Beside its coxswain he saw Herrick peering up at him, his strained face set in a grin while he supported a wounded marine against his chest.

Keverne came striding aft, an unspoken question on his lips, but paused as Broughton snapped, “If you are to have Auriga, Mr Keverne, I would be obliged if you would take command here until such time as a transfer is possible!” He looked at Bolitho with his arm round the boy’s shoulder. “I think my flag captain has done enough.” He saw Allday hurrying down to the entry port. “For all of us.”

epilogue

The Admiralty messenger ushered Bolitho and Herrick into a waiting room and closed the door with hardly a glance. Bolitho walked to a window and looked down at the crowded highway, his mind conscious only of sudden anticlimax. It was very quiet in the waiting room, and through the window he could feel the late September sunlight warm against his face. But down below, the people who hurried so busily about their affairs were well wrapped, and the many horses which trotted with carriages and carts in every direction gave some hint of the coming winter with their steaming breath and bright blankets.

Behind him he heard Herrick moving restlessly around the room, and wondered if like himself he was preparing for the coming interview with resignation or anxiety.

What an unnerving place London was. No wonder the messenger had treated them with such indifference, for the entrance hall and corridors had been crammed with sea officers, few of

them lowlier than captains. All intent on their own worlds of appointments, ships, or the mere necessity of appearing busy in the centre of Britain’s naval power.

Nearly three months had passed since the French flagship had blasted herself apart in one terrible explosion, during which time he had been more than fully occupied getting the battered squadron to Gibraltar without further losses, and there await orders.

As the many wounded had died or made some kind of recovery, and the ships’ companies had worked without respite to repair as much of the damage as possible under the Rock’s limited resources, Bolitho had waited for some acknowledgement of their efforts.

Eventually a brig had arrived with despatches for Broughton. Those ships ready and able to set sail would do so immediately. Not to join Lord St Vincent off Cadiz, but for England. After all they had achieved and endured together it was hard to see the small squadron scattered.

Valorous was almost beyond repair, and with Tanais, which was in not much better state, had remained at Gibraltar. With the two French seventy-fours taken as prizes the remainder had sailed, and in due course anchored at Portsmouth. There again, the necessary business of dispersal and repair was continued. But it meant bidding farewell to many more familiar faces. Keverne, who had received his just promotion to commander, had been given Auriga. Captain Rattray had been carried ashore to Haslar Hospital, where with only one leg and half blinded by splinters he would probably end his days.

Furneaux had died in the battle, and Gillmor had received separate orders to take his Coquette and join the Channel Fleet, where as always there was a shortage of frigates.