The Flag Captain

to his sides. Through the thick glass windows he could see the distant town swinging gently as wind and tide took the Euryalus under control. He was again aware of the silence which had fallen over the whole ship since Keverne had come down to report that the lower decks were cleared and that it was close on eight bells.

He picked up his hat and glanced briefly around the cabin. It should have been a good day for quitting the land. A fair breeze had sprung up from the south-west overnight and the air was clean and crisp.

He sighed and walked from the cabin, past the table and its untouched breakfast, through the door with the rigid sentry and towards the bright rectangle of sunlight and the open quarterdeck beyond.

Keverne was waiting, his dark features inscrutable as he touched his hat and said formally, “Two minutes, sir.”

Bolitho studied the lieutenant gravely. If Keverne was brooding about his sudden removal from possible command he did not show it. If he was thinking about his captain’s feelings he concealed that too.

Bolitho nodded and walked slowly to the weather side of the deck where the ship’s lieutenants were already mustered. Slightly to leeward the senior warrant officers and midshipmen stood in neat lines, their bodies swaying easily to the ship’s motion.

A glance aft told him that Giffard’s marines were fallen in across the poop, their tunics very bright in the fresh sunlight, the white cross-belts and polished boots making their usual impeccable array.

He turned and walked to the quarterdeck rail, letting his eyes move over the great press of seamen who were crowded along the gangways, in the tiered boats and clinging to the shrouds, as if eager to watch the coming drama. But he could tell from the

silence, the air of grim expectancy, that hardened to discipline and swift punishment though they were, there was no acceptance there.

Eight bells chimed from the forecastle and he saw the officers stiffen as Broughton, accompanied by Lieutenant Calvert, walked briskly on to the quarterdeck.

Bolitho touched his hat but said nothing.

Across the anchorage the air shivered as a solitary gun boomed out, and then came the doleful sound of drumming. He saw the surgeon below the break in the poop whispering to Tebbutt, the boatswain, and his two mates, one of whom carried the familiar red baize bag. The latter dropped his eyes as he realised his captain was looking at him.

Broughton’s fingers were tapping the hilt of his beautiful sword, seemingly in time with the distant drum. He appeared relaxed, and as fresh as ever.

Bolitho tensed as one of the young midshipmen wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a quick nervous gesture which brought back a sudden memory like the feel of an old wound.

He had been only fourteen himself when he had witnessed his first flogging through the fleet. He had seen most of it in a mist of tears and nausea, and the nightmare had never completely left him. In a service where flogging was commonplace and an accepted punishment, and in many cases more than justified, this final spectacle was still the worst, where onlookers felt degraded almost as much as the victim.

Broughton remarked, “We will be weighing this afternoon, Bolitho. Our destination is Gibraltar, where I will receive further orders and news of developments.” He looked up at his flag at the fore and added, “A fine day for it.”

Bolitho looked away, trying to shut the persistent drumming from his ears.

“All the ships are fully provisioned, sir.” He stopped. Broughton

knew that as well as he did. It was just something to say. Why should this one event mar everything? He should have realised by now that the days when he had been a young frigate captain were gone for good. Then, faces and people were real individuals. When one suffered it was felt throughout the cramped confines of the ship. Now he had to realise that men were no longer individuals. They were necessities, like the artillery and the rigging, the fresh water supply and the very planking upon which he now stood.

He felt Broughton watching and deliberately turned away. But it did matter, and he did care, and he knew he could not change. Not for Broughton, or to further his own chances of promotion in the Service he loved and now needed more than ever before.

He heard Keverne clear his throat and then something like a sigh from the watching seamen on the gangways.

Around the bows of the Zeus, the nearest seventy-four, came a slow procession of longboats, one from each ship in the squadron, the oars rising and falling with the “Rogue’s March” of the drum. He could see Euryalus’s boat second in the line, dark green like those now lashed in their tier and crowded with silent men. Each one in the procession carried marines, the lethal glitter of their bayonets and gleam of scarlet bringing colour to the grim spectacle as the boats turned slightly and headed for the flagship.

Broughton said softly, “This should not take too long, I think.”

“Way ’nough!”

The Auriga’s longboat glided alongside and hooked on to the main chains, while the others swayed above their reflections to witness punishment.

Bolitho took the Articles of War from Keverne and walked quickly to the entry port. Spargo, the surgeon, was already down in the boat accompanied by the boatswain’s mates, and he glanced up as Bolitho’s shadow fell across the rigid oarsmen.

He said, “Fit for punishment, sir.”

Bolitho made himself look at the figure in the forepart of the frigate’s longboat. Bent almost double, his arms lashed out on a capstan bar as if crucified, it was hard to believe it was Taylor. The man who had come to ask for help. For forgiveness and… He removed his hat, opened the book and begin to read the Articles, the sentence and punishment.

Below in the boat, Taylor stirred slightly, and Bolitho paused to look once again.

The thwarts and planking of the boat were covered with blood. Not the blood of battle, but black. Like the remnants of torn skin which hung from his mangled back. Black and ripped, so that the exposed bones shone in the sunlight like polished marble.

The boatswain’s mate glanced up and asked thickly, “Two dozen, zur?”

“Do your duty.”

Bolitho replaced his hat and kept his eyes on the nearest two-decker as the man drew back his arm and then brought the lash down with terrible force.

A step sounded beside him and Broughton said quietly, “He seems to be taking it well enough.” No concern or real interest. Just a casual comment.

Just as suddenly it was over, and as the boat cast off again to continue its way to the next ship Bolitho saw Taylor trying to turn his head to look up at him. But he did not have the strength.

Bolitho turned away, sickened by the sight of the contorted face, the broken lips, the thing which had once been John Taylor.

He said harshly, “Dismiss the hands, Mr Keverne.” He glanced involuntarily back again at the re-formed procession. Two more ships to go. He would never live through it. A younger man possibly, but not Taylor.

He heard Broughton’s voice again, very near. “If he had not been one of your old ship’s company-er, the Sparrow was it?”-

he sighed-“you would not have felt so involved, so vulnerable.”

When Bolitho did not reply he added curtly, “An example had to be made. They’ll not forget it, I think.”

Bolitho straightened his back and faced him, his voice steady as he replied, “Neither will I, sir.”

For just a few more seconds their eyes held, and then the shutter seemed to fall as Broughton said, “I am going below. Make the signal for all captains as soon as possible.” Then he was gone.

Bolitho took a grip of his thoughts, his anger and disgust.

“Mr Keverne, you will instruct the midshipmen of the watch to bend the signal for all captains to repair on board.”

Keverne watched him curiously. “When shall it be hoisted, sir?”

A voice called, “Signal from Valorous, sir. Prisoner has died under punishment.”

Bolitho kept his eyes on Keverne. “You may hoist it now.” Then he turned on his heel and strode aft to his cabin.