The Flag Captain

her we might get information.” He paused, studying the set of Broughton’s tense shoulders. “Information which would be yours to share as you thought fit.”

He had not misjudged the moment. Broughton swung round, his eyes shining.

“By God, I can see Sir Hugo’s face when he arrives back empty handed and we tell him of our news.” He sighed. “But what is

the use? By the time you put this great elephant about that Don’ll be flying for home. I cannot afford a long chase, one to take me away from the squadron.”

Bolitho said, “I think we have all missed the one important detail, sir.” He slapped one fist into his palm. “In a way Mr Bickford made some sense.” He looked at the others, his mouth lifting in a grin. Bickford was hanging back, as if afraid of receiving another rebuff.

Bolitho continued, “That Don thinks the Euryalus is French!” He looked at Broughton, at the doubts and disappointment giving way to cautious hope. “And why not, sir? After all this time they’ll not be expecting one solitary British ship in the Mediterranean. And there’s been no time for news to reach them of our leaving the Rock.”

Broughton walked to the nettings and climbed lightly on to a bollard. He stared fixedly at the horizon as if willing the ship to show herself to him.

The masthead lookout called, “Ship still runnin’ afore the wind, sir!”

Broughton returned to the deck, rubbing his chin. “She must have seen us. Even the Dons are not that blind.”

Bolitho replied, “But the moment we shorten sail or begin to tack he’ll know well enough what we are about.”

“Hell, Bolitho! You raise my hopes and then dash ’em again!”

“I can see her, sir! Two points before the beam!” Drury was clinging to the quivering shrouds, a telescope jammed to one eye.

Bolitho took a glass from the rack and steadied it against the deck’s plunging movements. Then he saw it, a pale wedge on the horizon. Running free with all sails set, her master was making the most of the fresh wind.

“She’s coming up fast, sir.”

Again he considered the idea of climbing to the masthead. Instead he asked, “Fifty guns, you think, Mr Keverne?”

“Aye, sir. I’ve seen her sort before. Well armed to fight off pirates and the like. Mile for mile we could outpace her, but I doubt match her agility.”

Broughton snapped, “I can see this getting us nowhere!”

“ We must draw her to close quarters, sir.” Bolitho walked quickly to the wheel and back without even being aware of it. “But keep the advantage. Without holding the wind gage we’ll soon be left astern.”

Partridge suggested, “’Oist a Frog flag, sir?”

The admiral banged his hips with impatience. “Too bloody obvious!”

He saw Captain Giffard and his marine lieutenant at the poop rail training telescopes on the newcomer. “Get those officers out of my sight! Red coats in a French man-o’-war, what are you doing, Giffard?”

The two marines vanished like magic.

Bolitho said slowly, “Man overboard, sir.”

“What was that?” Broughton stared at him as if he had taken leave of his sanity. “Man overboard?”

“The one thing at sea to make a ship heave to without warning.”

Broughton opened his mouth and shut it again. He could hardly contain his sudden flood of uncertainty and doubts.

Bolitho persisted gently, “We’ll need a good swimmer. A crew standing by for the quarter boat. We can pick ’em up later.” He nodded. “It’s worth it, sir.”

Broughton considered in silence. “It might just work. Give us the time to…” He stamped one foot on the deck. “By God, yes! We will try it!”

Bolitho took a deep breath. “Mr Keverne, take in the fore-course. We will remain under tops’ls and jib. It is common enough on this tack and should excite little attention.” He watched Keverne dashing away and sought out Partridge. “Taking in the

forecourse will cut her speed a little. We do not want to cross her bows too much.”

Partridge smiled and bobbed his head, his chins wobbling against his neckcloth. He had been wounded at Broughton’s scathing attack on his earlier suggestion, but seemed in good spirits again.

The great forecourse was already flapping and curling inwards as seamen scampered to sheets and halliards, urged on by Keverne’s speaking trumpet.

When the first lieutenant came to report it had been brailed up and secured against its yard, Bolitho said, “Send an experienced petty officer aloft to watch the Spaniard and report any sign of alarm. Then you may pipe the hands to quarters. We will not be able to clear for action on the upper deck, so this will have to be done quickly, and well. We do not want our people injured by boat splinters and falling spars to no good purpose.”

As Keverne dashed away again Broughton asked sharply, “How long?”

“An hour at the most, sir. I’ll bring her up a point to the wind. That should help.”

“It will be too dark to see in three hours.” Broughton nodded grimly. “So be it then.”

The admiral was about to walk to the poop and then stopped to add softly, “But you disable my flagship, Bolitho, and I cannot promise any hope for you.”

Bolitho looked at the master. “Bring her round a point to wind’rd.”

Then he made himself walk slowly along the weather side, his hands clasped behind him. If the Euryalus was disabled, there would be little hope for any of them, he decided.

Bolitho trained his glass on the other ship. Since she had first appeared above the horizon and the Euryalus had cleared for

action, he had expected some sign of alarm or recognition, but the oncoming vessel maintained her set course and now lay less than two miles distant. If Euryalus continued on her present tack the Spaniard would cross her stern with about a mile between them.

She was exactly as Keverne had described. Two-decked and carrying every available sail, she was making a fair display of speed, spray bursting above her scarlet and blue figurehead as high as the bellying forecourse. He could just distinguish the old-fashioned, triangular mizzen sail above her ornately carved poop, the flash of sunlight on trained telescopes as her officers examined the Euryalus, no doubt wondering at her purpose and destination.

Keverne said grimly, “Getting close, sir.”

Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and saw a burly seaman standing amongst a chattering group of onlookers.

“Ready, Williams?”

The man squinted up at him and grinned awkwardly. “Aye, sir.”

Bolitho nodded. The man had no doubt been well primed with rum by well-wishers. Not too much, he hoped, or the ruse might develop into a sudden sea burial.

He said, “Pass the word to the middle and lower gundecks, Mr Keverne.” He walked back to the weather side again and trained his glass on the other ship. “Starboard side to load with double shot. Make sure they do not run out until the order. One sight of a gun muzzle sniffing the wind and our friends will be off and away.”

As Keverne beckoned to a midshipman Bolitho called to Lieutenant Meheux who commanded the upper gundeck. He was staring at his own batteries, his round face unusually glum.

“Never fear, Mr Meheux, your crews will have work enough soon. But a view of them loading and casting off the lashings and our trick will misfire!”

Meheux touched his hat and then resumed his stance of gloomy disappointment.

Allday hurried across the quarterdeck and held out Bolitho’s sword. As Bolitho raised his hands and he swiftly buckled it around his waist, he said, “I’ve told the coxswain of the quarter boat what you want, Captain!” He grinned. “And what he’ll get if he makes a mess of it!”

Bolitho frowned. The Spaniard was going to pass further astern than he had gauged. He would have to act now, or never.