The Flag Captain

It was never possible to feel confident, to know that a ship was not overreaching her margin of safety when it came to food and water.

He heard four bells chime out, the clatter of feet somewhere below as a warrant officer, probably caught dozing, dashed to perform his duties for the last dog watch.

It had been a busy afternoon for Bolitho, mainly because he had been trying to catch up with matters concerning his own ship rather than attending to those of the whole squadron. There had seemed an endless procession waiting to catch his ear.

Grubb, the carpenter, grey haired and always pessimistic about the enemy of all ships-rot. Not that he had found any in his daily molelike excursions in the bowels of the hull, places which had never seen, would never see, any light but that of a lantern. It was as if he wanted Bolitho to know of his tireless efforts on his behalf. And it all took time.

He had given several minutes to Clode, the cooper, concerning the purser’s earlier complaint about the state of some of the water casks. But then Nathan Buddle, the purser, quite often voiced complaints, provided they did not directly concern his own department. He was a thin, furtive-looking man, with skin like parchment, who wore an almost permanent hunted expression which Bolitho suspected hid things which did not concern rotten casks. In fairness, he had found nothing wrong with Buddle’s daily accounts, but like all his trade, the purser had to be constantly watched.

And as Keverne had reported earlier, two men were brought aft for punishment, watched as usual on such occasions by all unemployed members of the ship’s company.

Bolitho hated such spectacles, just as he knew them to be

inevitable. It always seemed to take such a long time. The gratings to be rigged, the culprits to be stripped and seized up, and his own voice reading the Articles of War above the din of wind and canvas.

The actual punishment excited little interest amongst the spectators.

The first man, awarded twelve lashes, had been caught stealing from one of his messmates. The opinion was probably that he was getting off lightly, compared with what his fellow seamen had intended and would certainly have carried out but for the timely intervention of the ship’s corporal. Bolitho had heard of cases when men who stole from their messmates had been thrown overboard at night, while one had actually been found minus the hand used for his crime. In the teeming, defenceless world of shipboard life few had much sympathy for a thief.

The second seaman had received twenty-four lashes for neglect of duty and insolence. Both latter charges had been laid by Sawle, the ship’s junior lieutenant. Bolitho blamed himself for this particular case. He had promoted Sawle to lieutenant some six months earlier, but had he not been so involved with the squadron’s affairs under the ailing Admiral Thelwall, he knew now he would have thought twice about it. Sawle had shown the makings of a good officer, but it had been mostly on the surface. He was a sulky-looking youth of eighteen, and Bolitho had told Keverne to ensure his tendency to bully subordinates did not get out of hand. Maybe Keverne had done his best, or perhaps he considered Sawle’s attitudes unimportant provided he carried out his other duties to his satisfaction.

Either way, the seaman’s bloodied back was a grim reminder to Bolitho of the constant need to supervise Sawle in the future. He was one of his officers and therefore his authority had to be upheld. Nevertheless, if Meheux, the cheerful, round-faced second lieutenant, or Weigall, the third, had been in Sawle’s place

the incident would have got no further. Meheux was popular because of his raw, north country humour. His well-founded boast that he could reef or splice as efficiently as any seaman would have prevented anything worse than a contest, man to man. Weigall, who had the build, and unfortunately the intelligence also, of a prizefighter, would have laid the culprit low with one of his massive fists and forgotten the incident completely. Weigall was not unpopular with the men of his division, but for the most part they avoided him. He was in charge of the middle gundeck, and had unfortunately been rendered very deaf during an engagement with a blockade runner. Sometimes he imagined his men were talking about him behind his back, and would have them doing extra drills in the twinkling of an eye.

Bolitho leaned back in his chair and watched the Euryalus’s wake bubbling astern as the wind pushed her over, holding her steady while she thrust onward to the north-east.

He poured some more coffee and grimaced. It would soon be time to wear ship and spread more sail for the uncomplicated run before the wind to find the squadron again. This one afternoon and evening of comparative freedom had given him time to think and reconsider, to examine those closest to him, yet as ever separated by rank and station. Broughton had left him entirely alone, and Calvert had implied that he was for the most part going over his charts and re-reading his sealed orders as if to find something previously missed.

There was a tap at the door and the marine sentry bawled, “Midshipman o’ the watch, sir!”

It was Drury. Doing an extra watch because of his earlier troubles with his lieutenant over the lantern.

“Mr Bickford’s respects, sir, and would you come up, please.”

Bolitho smiled as he saw the boy’s eyes exploring the cabin, noting everything for future description in the more meagre quarters of the gunroom.

“And why, Mr Drury? You seem to have forgotten the best part.”

Drury looked confused. “A sail, sir. To the nor’ west.”

Bolitho jumped up. “Thank you.” He hurried for the door. “I might arrange for Trute to show you over my cabin later, Mr Drury, but for now we have work to do.”

Drury blushed and dashed after him, so that they arrived on the tilting quarterdeck together.

Bickford was the fourth lieutenant, one who took his duties very seriously, but appeared totally lacking in humour.

He said, “Masthead has just reported a sail, sir. To the nor’ west.”

Bolitho walked up the deck to the weather side and peered towards the horizon. It was hard and silver bright, like the edge of a sword. But the wind was steady, and that was something. But it might rise to a squall before another dawn. It would then take time to rejoin the squadron, to contact Draffen in the Restless.

Bickford took his silence for uncertainty.

“It is my belief, sir, that she is the Coquette.” He raised his voice slightly to impress Drury and another midshipman nearby. “It would be the most likely explanation.”

Bolitho lifted his head and stared up at the bulging topsails, the cracking vehemence of the masthead pendant. Like a giant whip. He thought of the dizzy climb, the dreadful shaking in those shrouds.

“I see, Mr Bickford, thank you.”

The lieutenant nodded firmly. “That is why she comes alone and with such confidence, sir.”

Keverne climbed the companion ladder to the quarterdeck and hurried towards him.

Bolitho was still looking up at the straining yards. “Mr Keverne, get aloft with a glass. As fast as you can climb. There is a ship to larboard. Maybe alone.” He glanced at Bickford. “Maybe not.”

He saw Bickford and the others stiffen and draw back and knew that Broughton had arrived on deck.

“Ah, Bolitho, what is all this scampering and excitement?”

“A sail, sir.” He gestured above the nettings towards the horizon.

“Hmm.” Broughton turned to watch as Keverne swarmed easily up the weather shrouds. “What is she, I wonder?”

Bickford said quickly, “I think her to be the Coquette, sir.”

Broughton’s eyes did not blink as he said to Bolitho, “Would you remind that officer that if I am in such dire distress as to require an opinion of no value, he will be the first to be told.”

Bolitho smiled as Bickford melted into the others by the rail. “I believe he understands, sir.”

It was strange how they could stay outwardly calm, he thought. In spite of Broughton’s mild show of interest, he knew his mind was alive with questions and calculations. It would be interesting to see if he would ask for an opinion of his flag captain this time.

Keverne arrived, thudding to the deck by means of a backstay, and hurried across, his dark features working with excitement.

“Merchantman, sir. But well armed, fifty guns, I’d say. Standing right before the wind, but carrying no royal yards.” He realised Broughton was glaring at him and added, “Spaniard, sir. No doubt of it.”

Broughton bit his lip. “Damn his eyes.”

“Even without royals she could still give us a merry chase, sir.” Bolitho was thinking aloud. “But if we can take