The Flag Captain

victory!”

Bolitho thought back over that one brief insight. Broughton

was actually jealous. Senior to Nelson, an officer he did not even know except by reputation, with influence and breeding to support his every move, and yet he was jealous for all that.

It did not add much to Bolitho’s knowledge of his superior, but it did make him seem more human.

Broughton had never mentioned Taylor’s death or the savage flogging since weighing anchor. Even at the hasty conference after the punishment he had made little comment, but for one about maintaining discipline at all times.

In fact, as the wine had been passed around the assembled captains in the same cabin where Taylor had heard his terrible fate, Broughton had been completely at ease, even jocular as he had told the others of the sailing orders for Gibraltar.

Bolitho could recall seeing the Auriga’s longboat grounding on a sandbar, the marines digging a hasty grave for Taylor’s corpse, working fast in the sunlight to beat a rising tide. Taylor would rot in an unmarked grave. A martyr, or a victim of circumstances, it was hard to know which.

Once at sea again Bolitho had watched his own ship’s company for any sign of unrest, but the daily routine had kept them too busy perhaps for recriminations or argument. The squadron had sailed without further incident and with no fresh news of the troubles at the Nore.

He shaded his eyes to peer at the glittering horizon line. Somewhere out there, far to windward and visible only to the masthead lookouts, was the ship in question, the Auriga, once again under the command of her original captain, Brice. Bolitho had made it his business to summon him aboard just prior to sailing and had given him a warning as to his behaviour. He had known it to be useless even as he was speaking to him.

Brice had stood quite still in his cabin, his hat beneath his arm, his pale eyes avoiding Bolitho’s until he had finished.

Then he had said softly, “Vice-Admiral Broughton does not

accept that there was a mutiny. Neither, sir, did you when you came aboard my ship. The fact that I am being returned to my rightful command surely proves that whatever wrongs were committed were by others.” He had smiled slightly. “One who escaped, and the other who was treated with more leniency than might be expected in these dangerous times.”

Bolitho had walked around the table, feeling the other man’s hate behind the mask of quiet amusement, knowing his own feelings were little better.

“Now hear my words, Brice, and remember them. We are going on a special mission, maybe an important one for England. You will do well to change your ways if you wish to see your homeland again.”

Brice had stiffened. “There’ll be no more uprisings in my ship, sir!”

Bolitho had forced a smile. “I was not referring to your own people. If you betray your trust once more, I will personally see that you are brought to a court-martial, and that you receive the justice you so obviously enjoy imposing on others!”

Bolitho walked to the nettings and glanced down at the water leaping against the tall side. The squadron was about one hundred miles north-west of Cape Ortegal, the very corner of Spain. If ships had minds of their own, would Euryalus be remembering it too? he wondered. It was here that she fought under the French flag against Bolitho’s old Hyperion. Where her decks ran scarlet and the battle raged without let-up until its grisly conclusion. But maybe ships did not care after all. Men died, crying for half- remembered wives and children, for mothers, or for their comrades in hell. Others lived on in a maimed existence ashore, forgotten by the sea and avoided by many of those who could have helped them.

But the ships sailed on, impatient perhaps with the fools who manned them.

“Sir! Zeus is signalling!” The midshipman of the watch was suddenly galvanised into action. He jumped into the shrouds, his big telescope already to his eye. “Zeus to Flag. Strange sail bearing nor’ west.” He looked down at Bolitho, his face shining with excitement.

Bolitho nodded. “Excellent, Mr Tothill. That was quickly done.” He glanced round and saw Keverne hurrying towards him. The signal probably meant nothing, but after drills and dragging uncertainty any sort of change was welcome. It had swept his other thoughts away like cobwebs.

“Sir?” Keverne eyed him intently.

“Dismiss the hands from drills and prepare to set the t’gallants on her.” He looked aloft, his eyes watering in the crisp breeze. “The royals too if the wind gets no worse.”

As he hurried away Broughton reappeared on the quarterdeck, his face very calm.

Bolitho said, “Sail to the nor’ west, sir.” He saw the brightness in the admiral’s eyes and guessed how hard it was for him to appear so controlled.

Broughton pursed his lips. “Signal the Auriga to intercept.”

“Aye, sir.”

Bolitho beckoned to the signal midshipman and could almost feel Broughton’s impatience at his back. Only the previous day he had sent the other frigate, Coquette, on ahead at full speed to reach Gibraltar with his despatches, and to make sure there was no change in plans for his squadron. With Auriga to windward and the little sloop Restless sweeping downwind in the hopes of snatching a French or Spanish fisherman for information, it had left his resources very strained.

The boy reported, “Auriga has acknowledged, sir.”

Bolitho could picture the scene on the frigate’s deck as the distant flags had been studied, probably from some swaying yard far above the sea, by another midshipman like Tothill.

He could well imagine Brice’s feelings at this moment too. A chance to further his position with the admiral and before the whole squadron would not be taken lightly. And heaven help any poor wretch who displeased him at such a time.

He took the big glass and climbed up beside the midshipman in the weather shrouds, and trained it towards the horizon. The frigate leapt into view, her topsails already filling as she went about and dashed towards the newcomer. He could imagine the sounds of spray cascading over her bowsprit, the scream of blocks and rigging as more, and more canvas thundered out from her yards to contain and hold the wind for her own power.

It was easy to forget men like Brice at such times, he thought vaguely. Auriga was a beautiful little ship, a living, vital thing as she heeled to the wind and buried her lee gunports in foam.

He returned to the deck and said, “Permission to give chase, sir?”

For another small moment he shared a common understanding and excitement with Broughton. Saw his jaw tighten, the gleam in his eyes.

“Yes.” He stood aside as Bolitho raised his hand to Keverne. Then he added, “All ships will, however, retain their stations. See to it.”

As the signal soared up the yards and broke to the wind Bolitho saw the other ships hoist their acknowledgements as one. Every captain must have been waiting for this. Praying for something to break the monotony and the uncertain watchfulness which had dogged them since Falmouth.

Overhead the growing spread of canvas cracked and boomed, the great yards bending like bows until they looked as if they would tear free from the masts. The hull tilted still further, so that men hastening about the upper deck seemed to be leaning at strange and unreal angles, while more, and still more, canvas bellied out to the wind.

On the lower gundeck the ports would be completely submerged, and Bolitho could hear the pumps already clanking as the hull took the strain and accepted it.

But they were overhauling the nearest seventy-four, and through the straining criss-cross of rigging and shrouds he could see the officers on the Tanais’s quarterdeck peering astern at the flagship as she begin to creep up on them.

Broughton said testily, “Signal Tanais to make more sail, dammit!”

As he walked away to the opposite side Bolitho heard Partridge mutter, “Her’ll ’ave the sticks out of ’er if she does, by God!”

Bolitho snapped, “Mr Tothill, get to the masthead and double quick! I need some good eyes up there