The Flag Captain

5. A Bad Beginning

Sharp at two bells of the forenoon watch Vice-Admiral Sir Lucius Broughton strode on to the Euryalus’s quarterdeck. After nodding briskly to Bolitho he took a glass from a midshipman and proceeded to study each ship of his squadron in turn.

Bolitho ran his eye quickly along the upper deck where gun crews were going through their drill, watched with extra attention, now that the admiral had arrived, by Meheux, his round-faced second lieutenant.

It had been three days since they had sailed from Falmouth, a long, slow three days during which they had logged a mere four hundred miles. Bolitho gripped the quarterdeck rail, his body angled against the steep tilt, as with her consorts Euryalus plunged

ponderously on a slow starboard tack, her great yards braced round, the straining topsails hard-bellied like metal in the wind.

Not that it had been bad sailing weather, quite the reverse. Skirting the Bay of Biscay, for instance, Partridge, the master, had remarked that he had rarely seen it so favourable. Now, with a freshening north-westerly ruffling the sea into an endless panorama of crisp whitecaps it seemed likely the opportunity was going. It would soon be time to reef, rather than make more sail.

Once clear of the land Broughton had decided to start putting his ships through their paces, to check the flaws and draw out the varied qualities or otherwise of his new command.

Bolitho darted another glance towards him, wondering what new complaints or suggestions would come out of his inspection.

In any flagship a captain was constantly aware of his admiral’s presence, must allow for every mood or whim and somehow work it into his own scheme for running a routine without confusion. And yet he was surprised to find that he still knew Broughton hardly at all. He seemed to run his daily life by the clock with very little deviation. Breakfast at eight, dinner at half past two and supper at nine. Exactly at nine o’clock each forenoon he would come on deck and behave just as he was doing now. If anything, he appeared too rigid, and not merely in his habits.

The first day at sea, for instance, he had put his battle tactics into immediate operation. But unlike usual practice, he had retained the Euryalus at third place in the line, with only the one remaining seventy-four, the Valorous, stationed astern.

While the ships had tacked and floundered in a quarter sea to obey his curt signals Broughton had remarked, “One must study the captains just as much as the ships they command.”

Bolitho grasped immediately what he meant and had appreciated the sense of it.

It was pointless in some actions to have the most powerful ship, the one flying the admiral’s flag in particular, crashing

headlong into the enemy’s line. She could be disabled and rendered useless when she was most needed, when the admiral had the time and information to know of the enemy’s intentions.

Without using a glass he could see the leading ships quite easily, keeping the same positions that Broughton had ordered from the outset. Leading the line, and almost hidden by the straining topsails and forecourse of the next astern, was the two-decker Zeus. She was an elderly seventy-four, a veteran of the Glorious First of June, St Vincent and several smaller actions. Her captain, Robert Rattray, had been in command for three years and was known for his aggressive behaviour in battle, a bulldog tenacity which showed clearly on his square, weathered face. Exactly the kind of captain to take the first searing crash of a broadside when testing the enemy’s line. A seasoned, professional seaman, but with little else in his head but a strong sense of duty and a desire to do battle.

Captain Falcon of the Tanais, the second seventy-four, was quite the opposite. A mournful, untidy-looking man, with hooded, thoughtful eyes, he would be one to follow without question, but would use his imagination as well as his training to explore Rattray’s first approach.

About a mile astern of the Euryalus was the last in the line, the Valorous. Commanded by Captain Rodney Furneaux, a tight-lipped and haughty autocrat, she had proved to be a fast and manoeuvrable vessel under nearly all circumstances, and provided she could maintain her station would be well placed to protect the flagship or run down to assist any of her consorts if they got into difficulties.

Bolitho heard the glass close with its customary snap and turned to touch his hat as Broughton walked towards him.

He said formally, “Wind still from the nor’ west, sir, but freshening.” He saw Broughton’s eyes move slowly along the sweating lines of seamen at the guns. “The new course is sou’ west by west.”

Broughton gave a grunt. “Good. Your gun crews appear to be adequate.”

That was one thing Bolitho had learned. Broughton usually opened the day with some such comment. Like a spur, or a calculated insult.

He replied calmly, “Clear for action in ten minutes or less, sir, and then three broadsides every two minutes.”

Broughton studied him thoughtfully. “That is your standard, is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have heard of some of your standards.” Broughton placed his hands on his hips and peered up at the maintop where some marines were exercising with a swivel gun. “I hope our people will remember when the times comes.”

Bolitho waited. There would be more.

The admiral said absently, “When I dined with your brother-in-law at Falmouth he was telling me something of your family background.” He turned and looked hard at Bolitho. “I knew of your brother’s, er, misfortune, of course.” He let it sink in before adding, “How he deserted from the Navy.” He paused, his head slightly on one side.

Bolitho faced him coldly. “He died in America, sir.” It was strange how easily the lie came now. But the resentment was as strong as ever, and he had a sudden mad desire to say something to shock Broughton from his safe, all-powerful pillar. What would he say, for instance, if he knew that Hugh had been killed in action, right there, where he was now standing? At least Broughton’s probing remarks had allowed him to think of Hugh’s death without so much remorse and despair. As his eye moved briefly across Broughton’s shoulder to the broad, orderly quarterdeck, the great double wheel with its attentive helmsman and master’s mate, it was hard to see it as the bloody shambles on that day Hugh had died. Using his own body as a shield to save his

son Adam, who was still completely ignorant of his father’s presence, as men had screamed and died in the din of battle.

Broughton said, “And all over a duel, I believe? Could never understand the stupid attitude of people who made duelling a crime. Do you pride yourself as a swordsman, by any chance?”

Bolitho forced a smile, “My sword has often been a comfort in battle, sir.” He could not see where this line of talk was leading.

The admiral showed his teeth. They were very small and even. “A duel is for gentlemen.” He shook his head. “But as there seem to be so many in Parliament today who are neither swordsmen nor gentlemen, I suppose we must expect this sort of obstruction.” He glanced towards the poop. “I will take a walk for half an hour.”

Bolitho watched him go up the poop ladder. The admiral’s daily walk. It never varied either.

He let his mind return to Broughton’s plan of battle. Perhaps the answer lay with him rather than the plan. Too much rigidity. But surely he would have learned from experience that in many cases ships were called to give battle when scattered and without any set order at all? At St Vincent where Broughton had actually fought, Commodore Nelson had once again confounded the critics by dashing into the attack without regard for any set stratagem. Bolitho had mentioned it to Broughton and had gained one further clue to his unwavering attitude.

He had snapped, “Nelson, Nelson, that’s all I hear! I saw him in his damned Captain, although I was busy myself at the time. More luck on his side than any sense of timing.” He had become very cool with equal suddenness. “Give your people a plan, something to learn and learn until they can act as one in total darkness or the middle of a typhoon. Keep at them without rest until they can think of nothing else. You can keep your damned heroics for my part. Give me a plan, one that is well tried, and I’ll give you a