The Flag Captain

battery to bear we could have given them a lesson in manners.”

Several unemployed officers joined in the discussion, and Allday, who had been standing below the poop in case he was needed, glared at them with disgust.

He saw Bolitho pacing slowly back and forth on the weather side, his head lowered in thought. All the rest of them were pre-

tending to console him and themselves, but really they wanted to be reassured and had no idea what the captain was thinking.

But Allday knew, had seen the pain in his grey eyes at the first sight of that hated tricolour. He would be recalling the time he had been made to fight another British ship under an enemy flag, with his own brother in command.

He was feeling Auriga’s shame like his own, and all these empty-headed puppies could talk about was their own blameless part in it.

Allday strode towards Bolitho, hardly realising that his feet had started to move. He saw Bolitho halt, the swift anger in his eyes at being disturbed.

“What is it?” The voice was cold, but Allday was undeterred.

“I was just thinking, Captain.” He paused, gauging the moment. “The Frogs have just got a British frigate, but not by force of arms.”

“Well?” He sounded dangerously calm.

Allday grinned. “I was just looking around while all that was going on.” The grin got wider. “Now this three- decker, for instance. I seem to remember we took her together without too much difficulty in the face of some very angry Frogs.”

Bolitho glared at him. “That is a damn stupid comparison to make! If you can think of nothing more useful to say then be good enough to get out of my sight!” His voice was loud enough to make several heads turn in their direction.

Allday walked slowly away, hopeful and at the same time afraid that he had for once mistimed his attempt to help.

Bolitho’s voice halted him.

“Now that you mention it, Allday.” Bolitho dropped his eyes as the other man turned towards him. “It was a fine prize. And still is. Thank you for reminding me. It was wrong I should forget what British seamen can do.”

Allday glanced at the silent lieutenants and smiled gently

before sauntering back to his place by the poop ladder.

Bolitho’s voice broke the silence again.

“Very well, Mr Keverne, you may pipe the lower battery to quarters and exercise the crews now that the ports are no longer awash.”

He paused and looked over the nettings so that Keverne had to hurry forward to hear the rest of his words. Even then he was not sure if he was meant to listen.

Bolitho said quietly, “We will meet again, my friend. And things may be a little different.”

Eighteen days after seeing the Auriga strike her colours to the enemy, Broughton’s squadron dropped anchor at Gibraltar. Due to the loss of time incurred at the start of the voyage while the admiral had exercised the ships in his plan of battle, the arrival beneath the Rock’s great shadow was even later than Bolitho had anticipated. They had been beset by constantly shifting winds, and once when some ninety miles west of Lisbon had been forced to ride out a storm of such swift and savage intensity that the Zeus had lost six men overboard. And yet the very next day had found all the ships floating helplessly in a dead calm, their sails flat and devoid of any movement while the sun made the daily routine almost unbearable.

Now, with awnings rigged and gunports open to a lazy offshore breeze, the squadron rested beneath the afternoon glare, their boats plying back and forth to the land like busy water-beetles.

Bolitho entered his cabin where all the other captains had been summoned within an hour of anchoring. They looked tired and strained after the voyage, and the swift pattern of events which had followed their arrival at Gibraltar had left none of them much time for rest.

Needless to say, it was Rattray of the Zeus who was the first to speak.

“Who is this fellow with the admiral? Does anyone know him, eh?”

Captain Furneaux of the Valorous took a glass of wine from the cabin servant and eyed it critically.

“Don’t look much of a diplomat, if you ask me.” He turned his haughty face towards Bolitho. “In war we seem to attract the oddest sort of advisers, what?”

Bolitho smiled and nodded to the others and then walked to the open stern windows. On the far side of the bay, quivering and misty in haze, was Algeciras, where already many telescopes would be trained on the British squadron, and messengers riding to carry the news inland to the garrisons.

The visitor aboard the flagship, the man whose sudden and unheralded appearance was causing such speculation, was certainly unusual. He had come offshore in the Governor’s launch and had swarmed up through the entry port almost before the side party had got into position to receive him.

Dressed in well cut and expensive coat and breeches, he had snapped, “No need for all this sort of thing. No damn time to waste!”

His name was Sir Hugo Draffen, and in spite of his dress and title he looked like a man who was more accustomed to hard activity and physical effort rather than one of more leisurely pursuits. Thickset, even squat, his face was very tanned, his eyes surrounded with tiny wrinkles as if well used to the sun and more severe climates than Whitehall.

Broughton, called hastily from his quarters where he had spent most of the remainder of the voyage, had been strangely quiet, even subservient towards his guest, and Bolitho imagined there was far more to Draffen than anyone of them yet realised.

Captain Gillmor of the frigate Coquette, sent on ahead of the squadron in search of fresh information, said gloomily, “He came aboard my ship when I anchored.” He was a lanky, even ungainly

young man, and his long face was frowning as he relived the meeting with Draffen. “When I suggested I should return and contact the squadron he told me not to bother.” He shuddered. “And when I asked him why, he told me to mind my own damn business!”

Falcon of the Tanais put down his glass and said grimly, “At least you were spared seeing Auriga’s disgrace.”

The others looked at him and at each other. It was the first time it had been mentioned.

Bolitho said, “I doubt that we will be in suspense much longer.” He wondered briefly if the others had noticed his exclusion from the talk now going on in Broughton’s cabin beneath his feet. It was unusual, but then, so it appeared, was Draffen.

Gillmor said sharply, “Had I been there, I’d have sunk both of ’em rather than let such a thing occur.”

Furneaux drawled, “But you were not there, young fellow, so you are conveniently spared any of the blame, eh?”

“That will do, gentlemen.” Bolitho stepped between them, aware of the sudden tension. “What happened, happened. Recriminations will help no one, unless they are used to act as a guard and a warning.” He looked at each of them in turn. “We will have plenty of work to do before long, so save your energy for that.”

The doors opened and Broughton, followed by Draffen and the flag-lieutenant, entered the cabin.

Broughton nodded curtly. “Be seated, gentlemen.” He shook his head as the servant offered him a glass. “Wait outside until I have finished.”

Bolitho noticed that Draffen had gone to the stern windows, either disinterested in what was happening or placing himself where he could see their faces without being observed himself.

Broughton cleared his throat and glanced at Draffen’s squat figure, almost black against the sunlit windows.

“As you are well aware, our fleet has been excluded from the Mediterranean since the close of last year. Bonaparte’s advances and conquests in Italy and Genoa closed all harbours against us, and it was found necessary to withdraw.”

Draffen crossed from the window. It was a quick, agile movement, and his words matched his obvious