The Flag Captain

We do not know yet that she did strike her colours in mutiny.” He had not looked at Bolitho. “All her officers may have been killed or disabled as she closed for boarding. In the confusion she could have been overwhelmed.” He had obviously not believed it any more than Bolitho.

Nevertheless, there was sufficient doubt to allow Broughton to make the evasive comments in his report. The news of a British ship changing sides for any reason at a moment like this might spark off even worse troubles in the fleet, if that were possible.

Broughton had been content to give more and more work to Bolitho while the squadron completed its preparations for sailing. The news from the Nore, coupled with the Auriga’s loss, had made a deep and noticeable impression on him. He seemed withdrawn, and, when alone with Bolitho, less composed than ever

before. His experiences at Spithead aboard his own flagship had obviously scarred him deeply, as Rook had once suggested.

He spent a good deal of his time ashore, conferring with Draffen or the Governor but always went alone, keeping his thoughts to himself.

Lieutenant Calvert seemed unable to do anything right for his admiral, and his life was fast becoming a nightmare. Highbred he might be, but he seemed completely incapable of grasping the daily affairs of signals and directives which passed through his hands for the captains of the squadron.

Bolitho suspected that Broughton used his flag-lieutenant to work off some of his own nagging uncertainties. If it was his idea to make Calvert’s existence a misery he was certainly succeeding.

It was pitiful to hear Midshipman Tothill explaining respectfully but firmly the rights and wrongs of signal procedure to him, and, almost worse, Calvert’s obvious gratitude. Not that it helped him very much. Any sudden burst of anger from Broughton and Calvert’s latest hoard of knowledge seemed to dissipate to the wind forever.

On the afternoon of the third day, as Bolitho was discussing the preparations with Keverne, the officer of the watch reported that the two bomb vessels were arriving and already dropping anchor close inshore.

Shortly afterwards a launch grappled alongside and her coxswain passed a sealed letter aboard for Bolitho’s attention. It was from Draffen, and typically brief. Bolitho was to meet him aboard the Hekla, one of the bombs, immediately. He would come by way of the launch which had brought the letter.

Broughton was ashore, so after giving Keverne his instructions Bolitho clambered into the boat to be rowed to the Hekla for the meeting.

Allday watched him leave with ill-disguised annoyance. For Bolitho to use anything but his own barge was unthinkable, and

as the launch pulled away from the Euryalus’s side he felt a sudden pang of anxiety. If anything ever happened to Bolitho, and he was suddenly like this, alone… What would he do? He was still staring after the boat as it vanished around the Zeus’s stern, his eyes unusually troubled.

In all his service Bolitho had never before laid eyes on a bomb vessel, although he had heard of them often enough. The one towards which the launch was moving with such haste was much as he had expected. Two masted and about a hundred feet in length, with a very sturdy hull and low bulwarks. Her oddest characteristic was the uneven placing of her foremast. It was stepped well back from the stemhead, leaving the ship with an unbalanced appearance, as if her real foremast had been shot away level with the deck.

Almost as large as a sloop, yet with neither the grace nor the agility, a bomb was said to be the devil to handle in anything but perfect conditions.

As the boat hooked on to the chains he saw Draffen standing alone in the centre of the tiny quarterdeck shading his eyes to watch him climb aboard.

Bolitho raised his hat as the small side party shrilled a salute, and nodded to a young lieutenant who was watching him with a kind of fascination.

Draffen called, “Come up here, Bolitho. You’ll get a better view.”

Bolitho took Draffen’s proffered hand. Like the man, it was tough and hard. He said, “That lieutenant. Is he the captain?”

“No. I sent him below just before you came aboard.” He shrugged. “Sorry if I disturbed your traditional ceremonial, but I wanted my chart from his cabin.” He grinned. “Cabin indeed. My watchdog has better quarters.”

He gestured forward. “No wonder they build these bombs the way they do. Every timber is twice as thick as that in any other

vessel. The recoil and downward shock of those beauties would tear the guts out of a lesser hull.”

Bolitho followed his hand and saw the two massive mortars mounted in the centre of the foredeck. Short, black and incredibly ugly, they nevertheless had a muzzle diameter of over a foot each. He could imagine without effort the great strain they would put on the timbers, to say nothing of those at the receiving end of their bombardment.

The other vessel anchored close abeam was very similar, and aptly named Devastation.

Draffen added half to himself, “The bombs will sail at night. No sense in letting those jackals at Algeciras know too much too early, eh?”

Bolitho nodded. It made good sense. He looked sideways at the other man as Draffen turned to watch some seamen flaking down a rope with the ease of spiders constructing a web.

Draffen was older than he had imagined. Nearer sixty than fifty, his grey hair contrasting sharply with his tanned features and brisk, muscular figure.

He said, “The news from England was bad, sir. I heard it from Sir Lucius.”

Draffen sounded indifferent. “Some people never learn.” He did not explain what he meant but instead turned and said, “About your brother. I met him when he commanded that privateer. I understand you destroyed his ship eventually.” His eyes softened slightly. “I have been learning quite a lot about you lately, and that piece of information makes me especially envious. I hope I could do what you did if called.” The mood changed again as he added, “Of course. I cannot possibly believe all I’ve heard about you. No man can be that good.” He grinned at Bolitho’s uncertainty and pointed over his shoulder. “Now take what the Hekla’s commander has told me, for instance. Never heard the like!”

Bolitho swung round and then stared with astonishment. The

man facing him, his long, horse-face changing from confusion to something like wild delight, was Francis Inch, no longer a mere lieutenant, but wearing the single epaulette on his left shoulder. Commander Inch, Hyperion’s first lieutenant at that final, bloody embrace with Lequiller’s ships in the Bay of Biscay.

Inch stepped forward, bobbing awkwardly. “It’s me, sir! Inch!”

Bolitho took his hands in his, not realising until now just how much he had missed him, and the past he represented.

“I always told you that I should see you get a command of your own.” He did not know what to say, and was very conscious of Draffen’s grinning face, and Inch peering at him that familiar, eager way which had once nearly driven him mad with exasperation.

Inch beamed. “It was either a bomb or first lieutenant of a seventy-four again, sir.” He looked suddenly sad. “After the old Hyperion I didn’t want another…” He allowed his grin to break through. “Now I have this.” He looked around his small command. “And this.” He touched the epaulette.

“And you have a wife now?” Bolitho guessed that Inch would have refrained from mentioning her. He would not wish to remind him of his own loss.

Inch nodded. “Aye, sir. With some of the prize money you got for us I have purchased a modest house at Weymouth. I hope you will do us the honour…” He became his old self again, unsure and bumbling. “But then, I am sure you will be too busy for that, sir…”

Bolitho gripped his arm. “I will be delighted, Inch. It is good to see you again.”

Draffen remarked dryly, “So there is warm blood in a sea officer after all.”

Inch shuffled his feet. “I shall write to Hannah tonight. She will be pleased to hear about our meeting.”

Bolitho eyed Draffen thoughtfully. “You certainly kept this as a surprise, sir.”