The Flag Captain

Bolitho looked across the glittering water and saw an armed cutter moving purposefully towards the anchored three-decker. It was then that he noticed that not a single craft of any kind had made an attempt to leave harbour and follow the guardboat’s example. He felt a twinge of anxiety. What could be wrong? Some sort of terrible fever abroad in the port? It was certainly not the sight of the Euryalus this time. Otherwise the guns in the castle would have announced their own displeasure.

He took a glass from its rack and trained it on the cutter. The tan sails and intent faces of several seamen swam across the lens, and then he saw a naval captain, an empty sleeve pinned across his coat, sitting squarely in the sternsheets, his eyes fixed on the Euryalus. The sight of the uniform and empty sleeve brought a fresh pang to Bolitho’s thoughts. It could have been his dead father returned to the living.

The admiral asked testily, “What is the trouble?”

“Just some formality, Sir Charles.” Bolitho looked at Keverne. “Man the side, if you please.”

Captain Giffard of the marines drew his sword and marched importantly to the entry port, and watched as his men mustered in a tight scarlet squad to receive the ship’s first visitor. Boatswain’s mates and sideboys completed the party, and Bolitho walked down the quarterdeck ladder to join Keverne and the officer of the watch.

The cutter’s sails vanished, and as the bowman hooked on to the chains, and the calls trilled in salute, the one-armed captain clambered awkwardly through the port and doffed his cocked hat

to the quarterdeck, where the admiral watched the scene with neither emotion nor visible interest. Perhaps he already felt excluded, Bolitho thought.

“Captain James Rook, sir.” The newcomer replaced his hat and glanced rapidly around him. He was well past middle age, and must have been brought back to the Service to replace a younger man. “I am in charge of harbour patrols and impressment, sir.” He faltered, some of the sureness leaving him under Bolitho’s impassive grey eyes. “Do I have the honour of addressing Sir Charles Thelwall’s flag captain?”

“You do.”

Bolitho glanced past him and down into the cutter. There was a mounted swivel gun aboard, and several armed men beside the normal crew.

He added calmly, “Are you expecting an attack?”

The man did not reply directly. “I have brought a despatch for your admiral.” He cleared his throat, as if very aware of the watching faces all around him. “Perhaps if we might go aft, sir?”

“Of course.”

Bolitho was getting unreasonably irritated by the man’s ponderous and evasive manner. They had their orders, and nothing this captain could tell him would not keep until later.

He stopped at the top of the ladder and turned sharply. “Sir Charles has been unwell. Can this matter not wait?”

Captain Rook took a deep breath, and Bolitho caught the heavy smell of brandy before he replied softly, “Then you do not know? You have not been in contact with the fleet?”

Bolitho snapped, “For God’s sake stop beating around the bush, man! I have a ship to provision, sick men to be got ashore, and two hundred other things to do today. Surely you cannot have forgotten what it is like to command a ship?” He reached out and touched his arm. “Forgive me. That was unfair.” He had

seen the sudden hurt in the man’s eyes and was ashamed at his own impatience. His nerves must be more damaged than he had imagined, he thought bitterly.

Captain Rook dropped his eyes. “Mutiny, sir.” His single hand moved up his coat and unbuttoned it carefully to reveal a heavy, red-sealed envelope.

Bolitho stared at the busy hand, his mind still ringing with that one terrible word. Mutiny, he had said, but where? The castle looked as usual, the flag shining like coloured metal at the top of its lofty staff. The garrison would have little cause to mutiny anyway. They were mostly local volunteers or militia and knew they were far better off defending their own homes than plodding through mud or desert in some far-off campaign.

Rook said slowly, “The fleet at Spithead. It broke out last month and the ships were seized by their people until certain demands were met.” He shrugged awkwardly. “It is finished now. Lord Howe confronted the ringleaders and the Channel Fleet is at sea again.” He looked hard at Bolitho. “It is well your squadron was in ignorance. It might have gone badly with you otherwise.”

Bolitho looked past him and saw Keverne and several of his officers watching from the opposite side of the deck. They would sense something was wrong. But when they really knew… He deliberately turned away from them.

“I have often expected some isolated outbreak.” He could not hide the anger in his voice. “Some politicians and sea officers imagine that common sailors are little better than vermin and have treated them accordingly.” He stared hard at Rook. “But for the fleet to mutiny as one man! That is a terrible thing!”

Rook seemed vaguely relieved that he had at last unburdened himself. Or maybe he had been half expecting to find the Euryalus in the hands of mutineers demanding heaven knew what.

He said, “Many fear that the worst is yet to come. There has been trouble at the Nore too, though we do not hear the full truth

down here. I have patrols everywhere in case other troublemakers come this way. Some of the ringleaders are said to be Irish, and the Admiralty may expect this to be a diversion for another attempt to invade there.” He sighed worriedly. “To live and see this thing is beyond me, and that’s a fact!”

Mutiny. Bolitho looked over to where the admiral was in close conversation with his secretary. This was a bad ending to his career. Bolitho had known the full meaning, the hot, unreasoning fury which mutiny could bring in its wake. But that was in isolated ships, where conditions or climate, privation or downright brutality of an individual captain were normally the root causes. For a whole fleet to explode against the discipline and authority of its officers, and therefore King and Parliament as well, was another matter entirely. It took organisation and extreme skill as well as some driving force at the head of it to have any hope of success. And it had succeeded, there was no doubt of that.

He said, “I will speak with Sir Charles at once.” He took the envelope from Rook’s hand. “This is a bitter homecoming.”

Rook made as if to join Keverne and the others, but halted as Bolitho added sharply, “You will favour me by remaining silent until I tell you otherwise.”

The admiral did not look up or speak until Bolitho had finished telling him of Rook’s news. Then he said, “If the French come out again, England will be done for.” He looked at his hands and let them fall to his sides. “Where is Vice-Admiral Broughton? Is he not here after all?”

Bolitho held out the envelope and said gently, “Perhaps this will explain what we are to do, sir.”

He could see the emotions crossing and re-crossing the admiral’s wizened face. He had been hating the thought of striking his flag for the last time. But he had accepted it. It was like his illness, unbeatable. But now that there was a real possibility of continuing he was probably torn between two paths.

He said, “Show our visitor aft.” He made an effort to square his shoulders. “Then set the hands to work. It would be unwise for them to see their leaders in despair.”

Then followed by his secretary he walked slowly and painfully into the poop’s shadow.

When Bolitho joined him again in the great cabin the admiral was sitting at the desk, as if he had never left it.

“This despatch is from Sir Lucius Broughton.” He waved to a chair. “Euryalus will remain at Falmouth to receive his flag, but at present he is in London. It seems that a new squadron is to be formed here, although to what purpose is not explained.” He sounded very tired. “You are to ensure that our people have no contact with the shore, and those sent there because of illness or injury will not be returned.” His mouth twisted angrily. “Afraid of spreading the disease on board, no doubt.”

Bolitho was still standing, his mind grappling with all that the words entailed.

The admiral continued in the same flat voice, “You will of course tell your officers what you think fit, but under no circumstances must the people be informed of the unrest at the Nore. It is worse than I feared.” He looked at Bolitho’s grim face and added: “Captain Rook is required to assist you with all your supplies, and has instructions to bring any further stores or new spars and cordage direct to the ship.”

Bolitho said slowly, “Sir Lucius Broughton, I know little of him. It is difficult to anticipate his wishes.”

The admiral smiled briefly. “His flag was flying in one of the ships which mutinied at Spithead. I imagine his main requirement will be that it does not happen again.”