The Flag Captain

the squadron to make doubly certain of it.

He picked up his sword from the seat and watched while the berlin rolled across the worn cobbles and squeaked to a halt outside the familiar coaching inn by the jetty, the horses steaming and tossing their heads, impatient for their rest and feed.

A few townspeople moved around the square, but he was instantly aware of the redcoated soldiers and an air of tension which had been lacking when he had left with Thelwall’s body for Truro.

He saw Rook hurrying towards him, his face working with relief and concern.

“What is it?” Bolitho took his arm and led him into the inn’s long shadow.

Rook glanced around him. “The Nore. The mutiny has not only spread, but the whole of the fleet there is in the hands of mutineers and under arms!” He dropped his voice. “A brig from Plymouth brought the news today. Your admiral is in a savage mood because of it.”

Bolitho fell in step beside him, keeping his face calm although his mind was racing at this latest news.

“But how can it be that we have only just heard?”

Rook rugged at his neckcloth as if it was choking him.

“A patrol found the London courier dead in a hedgerow. His throat cut and his pouch empty. Someone knew he was riding here and made sure Admiral Broughton would stay in ignorance for as long as possible.” He signalled towards a seaman by the jetty. “Call a boat alongside, man!”

Bolitho walked to the edge of the warm stonework and looked towards the ships. Euryalus shimmered in a heat haze and there seemed to be plenty of work going on both aloft and around her

decks. Was it possible that things could change so quickly? That order and training would give way to mutiny and distrust?

Rook added haltingly, “I do not know if it is my place to say it, but I believe Sir Lucius Broughton was deeply scarred by his experience at Spithead. It will go hard with anyone who tries to disobey him in the future.”

The boat jarred against the jetty and Bolitho followed him into it. Rook remained standing until Bolitho had settled himself in the sternsheets and then gestured to the coxswain to head for the flagship.

Bolitho said slowly, “Let us hope we can get to sea without any more delay. There is room to think and plan once the land is well astern.” He was thinking aloud and Rook said nothing.

It seemed to take an age to reach the three-decker’s side, and as the boat drew closer he saw that the boarding nets had been rigged and there were marines pacing the gangways and standing at both poop and forecastle.

He climbed quickly up the side and through the entry port, removing his hat as the salutes shrilled once more and the guard presented arms.

Weigall, the third lieutenant, said quickly, “The admiral is expecting you, sir.” He looked uneasy. “I am sorry your barge was not waiting at the jetty, but all boats are recalled, sir.”

Bolitho nodded. “Thank you.” He masked his sudden apprehension and walked aft into the poop’s shadow. He had to appear calm and normal even though he felt very much the reverse.

At the cabin bulkhead he saw there were three armed marines instead of the usual solitary guard and that their bayonets were fixed.

He tightened his jaw and opened the door, conscious of Rook’s heavy breathing behind him, of his own dry throat as he saw the other officers already assembled there.

A table had been arranged athwartships, backed by chairs, so

that the cabin had taken on the appearance of a court of enquiry. He saw too that the officers who were standing watching him in silence were the other captains from the squadron, even the young commander from the sloop Restless.

A lieutenant, quite unknown to Bolitho, hurried towards him, his face set in a tight smile which could be either welcome or sheer relief at his arrival.

“Welcome back, sir.” He gestured towards the closed door of Broughton’s small chart cabin. “Sir Lucius is expecting you, sir.”

He seemed to realise that Bolitho was still unmoving and added apologetically, “I’m Calvert, sir. The admiral’s new flag-lieutenant.”

He spoke in the same refined drawl as Broughton, but there was no other similarity. He looked harassed and confused, and Bolitho felt a note of warning in his mind. In the short while he had been at Truro, shaking hands with officials, listening to sonorous condolences, all this had happened. He heard himself say curtly, “Then lead the way, Mr Calvert, we will no doubt get acquainted in due course.”

It was very hot in the small cabin, and Bolitho saw that the deckhead skylight was shut, so that there was hardly any air left to breathe.

Broughton was standing beside the table, his arms folded, and staring at the door, as if he had been frozen in the same attitude for some time. His dress coat lay on a chair, and in the filtered sunlight his gleaming white shirt showed darker patches of sweat.

He was very calm, his face quite devoid of expression as he nodded to Bolitho and then snapped to the lieutenant, “Wait outside, Calvert.”

The lieutenant fidgeted with his coat and muttered, “The letters, sir, I thought…”

“God, man, are you deaf as well as stupid!” He leaned on the table and shouted, “I said get out! ”

As the door banged shut behind the wretched Calvert, Bolitho waited for Broughton’s rage to expand. It was just as if he had kept it contained to the last possible second. Until his return on board to receive the full brunt of it.

Surprisingly, his voice was almost normal as he continued, “By God, I’m glad you got back aboard punctually.” He gestured to an open envelope on the table. “Sailing orders at last. That donkey Calvert brought them from London.”

Bolitho waited, allowing Broughton time to calm down. He said quietly, “Had you wished it, sir, I could have obtained a flag-lieutenant from the squadron…”

Broughton eyed him coldly. “Oh, to damnation with him! Some favour I received years ago has to be repaid. I promised to take that fool off his father’s hands and away from London.” He broke off and peered up at the skylight, his head on one side as if listening.

Then he said, “You have heard the news, no doubt.” His chest was moving with sudden anger again. “These miserable, treacherous scum have the impudence to mutiny, eh? The whole fleet at the Nore aflame with, with…” he groped for the word and then added harshly, “so much for your damned humanity. Conceit is what I call it, if you believe for one single moment that their sort respect leniency!”

Bolitho said, “With all deference, sir, I think there is no connection between the Auriga and the trouble at the Nore.”

“Do you not?” His voice was steady again. Too steady. “I can assure you, Captain Bolitho, I have already had my fill of treachery at Spithead. To have my own flagship taken over by a lot of crawling, sanctimonious, lying bastards. The humiliation, the very shame of it clings to me like the stench of a sewer.”

There was a discreet tap at the door and Captain Giffard of the ship’s marines peered in and reported, “All ready, sir.” He withdrew hurriedly under Broughton’s stare.

Bolitho said, “May I ask what is happening, sir?”

“You may.” Broughton dragged his coat from the chair, his face shining damply with sweat. “Because of you I went against my better judgement. Because of you I allowed the Auriga’s mutineers to stay free and untried.” He swung round, his eyes blazing. “Because of you and your damned promises, promises which you had neither the authority nor the right to offer, I must leave them untouched, if only to uphold your authority as flag captain!” He was shouting now, and Bolitho could picture the other captains beyond the closed door sympathising with him, or grateful that a superior was being cut down to their level. Bolitho did not know any of them enough to decide which. He only knew he was both angry and bitter at the admiral’s sudden attack.

He said harshly, “It was my decision, sir. There was no one else here at the time…”

Broughton yelled, “Do not interrupt me, Bolitho! By God, it might have been better if you had attacked the