The Flag Captain

The frigate in question was sweeping some fifteen miles astern of the column, a wise precaution to ensure they were not already being shadowed by some curious enemy patrol.

The little sloop Restless was only just visible to windward of the Zeus, and Bolitho imagined that her young and newly appointed commander would be considering the sudden importance of his role. The sloop was the only vessel present and fast enough should a suspicious sail need investigating.

It was always the same. Never enough frigates, and now that

the Auriga was denied them they must be even more sparing in long-range operations.

Tothill called, “Signal bent on, sir.”

“Good.” Bolitho nodded to Keverne. “Carry on. I must inform the admiral.”

He found Broughton and Draffen sitting at opposite ends of the long table in the admiral’s dining cabin, and sensed the complete silence stretching between then.

“Well?” Broughton leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping slowly against an untouched glass of claret.

“Ready to alter course, Sir Lucius.” He saw Draffen watching him, his eyes gleaming in the light from the overhead lanterns and the pink glow through the windows.

“Very good.” Broughton tugged out his watch. “No sign of pursuit?”

“None, sir.”

Broughton grunted. “Carry on then, if you please. I may come up later.”

Draffen rose to his feet and steadied himself against the table as Euryalus tilted her massive bilge into another lazy trough.

“I would like to join you if I may, Captain.” He nodded equably to Broughton. “Never get weary of watching ships under command, y’know.”

Broughton snapped, “Er, just a moment!” But when Bolitho turned back from the door he shook his head. “Nothing. Attend to your duties.”

On the quarterdeck Draffen remarked calmly, “Sharing the admiral’s quarters is not the easiest way of travelling.”

Bolitho smiled. “You can have my own quarters with pleasure, sir. I spend more time in my chartroom than I do in a cot.”

The other man shook his head, his eyes already seeking out the various parties of seamen mustered at their stations in readiness for the next order from aft.

“Sir Lucius and I come from different poles, Bolitho. But it would be well to forget social differences for the present at least.”

Bolitho forgot Draffen and the tensions in the great cabin and turned towards Keverne.

“Make the signal.” And as the flags darted up the halliards and broke impatiently to the wind he added sharply, “Be ready, Mr Partridge.”

“Zeus has acknowledged, sir!”

The leading ship was in fact already swinging importantly on her new course, her topsails and driver flapping for a few more moments until brought under control. Tanais followed, one curved side glowing in the dying sunlight as she laboured too readily in response to canvas and rudder.

Keverne raised his speaking trumpet, his lithe figure poised against the rail as if to test the agility of the great ship beneath him.

“Braces there!” He pointed into the purple shadows below the mainmast trunk. “Mr Collins, take that man’s name! He’s stumbling about like a whore at a wedding!”

Unknown voices mumbled out of the gloom, while from aft the wheel creaked obediently, Partridge’s white hair changing to yellow as he squinted at the lighted compass bowl.

“Heave! Lively with it!”

The men leaned back, angling their bodies to take the strain of the ship’s massive yards, while the marines clumped noisily and in perfect time on the mizzen brace. The hull tilted still further, the sails shivering and booming to the change of pressure.

Bolitho leaned over the rail, searching along the length of his command, his ears interpreting the varying groans from shrouds and rigging, the action automatic yet ever watchful.

“Lay her on the larboard tack, Mr Partridge.” He looked aloft, watching as Broughton’s flag and the masthead pendant licked out lazily and then pointed almost directly across the starboard bow.

“East by south, sir!” Partridge rolled to the other side of the compass as Bolitho came aft to stare down at the swaying card.

“Steady as you go.” He felt the ship responding, saw the huge, dark rectangles of canvas stiffening to the wind as she settled obediently on her new tack.

The light was going fast now. As it always did hereabouts. One minute a bright and seemingly everlasting sunset, and then nothing but the cream of spray beneath the counter, an occasional whitecap as the wind explored the edge of a deep trough in the sea’s face.

He heard Keverne bark, “The weather forebrace! In God’s name take in that slack, man! Mr Weigall, your people must do better than this!”

Voices echoed above the thrumming din of rigging and canvas, and he imagined the third lieutenant cursing Keverne’s uncanny eyesight, or shrewd guesswork, as the case may be.

Draffen had been watching in silence, and as the hands mustered once again at their various divisions he murmured, “I hope I will be aboard when you get a chance to show her real paces under sail.” He sounded as if he was enjoying himself.

Bolitho smiled. “There’ll be no such opportunity at night, sir. We may well have to reef tops’ls as it is. There is always a risk of collision when moving in close company.”

Keverne came aft again and touched his hat. “Permission to dismiss the watch below, sir.”

“Yes. That was well done, Mr Keverne.”

A voice called, “The Valorous is on station, sir!”

“Very well.” Bolitho moved to the weather side as the parties of seamen and marines hurried across the planking and vanished to their messdecks below. A cramped, teeming world where they lived between the guns they would serve in battle, with little more than a shoulder’s breadth to swing a hammock. He wondered what some of them were thinking of their new destination.

Draffen’s face glowed momentarily as he peered at the compass. Then he moved back to Bolitho’s side and fell in step with him as he began to pace slowly up and down below the empty nettings.

“It must be a strange feeling for you, Bolitho.”

“How so, sir?” Bolitho had almost forgotten that he was not alone in his usual restless pacing.

“To command a ship like this. One which you yourself took in battle.” He hurried on, exploring a theme which had obviously given him some thought. “In your shoes I would be wondering if I could defend a vessel when I had in fact seized her in the face of great odds.”

Bolitho frowned. “Circumstances must always play a great part, sir.”

“But tell me, as I am greatly interested. What do you think of her as a ship?”

Bolitho paused by the quarterdeck rail, resting his palms on it, feeling the wood shaking under his touch as if the whole complex mass of timber and rigging was a living being.

“She is fast for her size, sir, and only four years old. She handles well, and the hull has some fine factors too.” He gestured forward. “Unlike our own ships-of-the-line, her planking is continued right around the bow, so there is no weak bulkhead to receive an enemy’s fire.”

Draffen showed his teeth. “I like your enthusiasm. It is some comfort. But I imagined you would say otherwise. A born sea officer, a man from a long line of sailing men, I’d have laid odds on your despising the work of an enemy shipyard.” He laughed softly. “I was wrong, it appears.”

Bolitho eyed him calmly. “The French are fine builders. Line for line their hulls are faster and better than our own.”

Draffen spread his hands in mock alarm. “Then how can we win? How have we been victorious against greater numbers of the enemy?”

Bolitho shook his head. “The enemy’s weakness does not lie in his ships, or in his courage either. It is