The Flag Captain

in to announce that a sail had been sighted, almost dead astern, and moving very fast.

Bolitho looked at his torn and blackened shirt and then reluctantly pulled it over his head once more. Maybe the shave was a waste of time, but he felt better for it, even if he did still look like a ragged scarecrow in the mirror.

Meheux was watching him with silent fascination. Bolitho could feel his eyes on the razor as he wiped it on a scrap of cloth before dropping it into a bulkhead locker where he had found it.

He said slowly, “Well, Mr Meheux, there is not much we can do about it this time.”

He picked up his sword and fastened it around his waist before following Meheux on to the poop. It was early morning, and the air still fresh before the heat which would come later. He noticed the shrouds were hung with clothing, mostly women’s garments, and Meheux’ muttered apologetically, “They asked to be allowed to wash ’em, sir. But I’ll have the lot hauled down now that you are on deck.”

“No.”

Bolitho took the telescope and raised it to his eye. Then he tossed it to a seaman saying, “The glass is smashed. We will just have to wait and see.”

He walked to the taffrail and shaded his eyes against the growing glare to search for the other vessel. He saw the telltale pyramid of sails on the fine horizon line almost immediately, shining in the sunlight and very clear. A step on the deck made him turn and he saw Witrand watching him.

“You are an early riser, m’sieu.”

Witrand shrugged. “And you are very calm, Capitaine.” He looked at the sea. “Even though your freedom may be short.”

Bolitho smiled. “Tell me, Witrand, what were you doing in this ship? Where were you bound?”

The Frenchman smiled broadly. “I have lost my memory!”

The masthead lookout yelled, “She’s a frigate, sir!”

Meheux asked quietly, “What do you think, sir? Shall we alter course and make a run for it?” Then he smiled sheepishly as Bolitho pointed at the reefed topsail and listing deck. “I agree, sir. There is little point.”

Bolitho thrust his hands behind him, trying not to show his disappointment. A frigate could mean only one thing. An enemy.

Witrand said quietly, “I understand your feelings, Capitaine. Can I do something to assist you? A letter per’aps to a loved one? It might take months otherwise…” His eyes fell to the sword as Bolitho’s fingers touched the hilt. “I could send the sword to

England.” He added gently, “Better that than to let some dock-side dealer get his claws around it, eh?”

Bolitho turned to watch the other ship which was so rapidly overhauling the crippled Navarra it made him feel as if they were on converging courses. He could see her bulging topsails and topgallants, the bright tongue of her masthead pendant as she pushed and plunged across the dancing water in full pursuit.

There was a puff of brown smoke, gone instantly in the wind, and then a bang. Seconds later a tall waterspout shot skywards within fifty feet of the larboard quarter.

Muffled cries floated through the open hatches, and Bolitho said dully, “Heave to, Mr Meheux.” He glanced up at the mainmast and asked, “Where is the flag?”

“I am sorry, sir.” Meheux seemed stunned. “We used it to cover Mr Grindle before he was buried.”

“Yes.” Bolitho twisted round so that they should not see his expression. “Well, run it up now, if you please.”

Meheux hurried away, calling the seamen from the gangways and ratlines where they had been clinging to watch the newcomer.

Minutes later, with her ensign flapping against the dear sky, the Navarra rounded into the wind, her loose canvas banging in protest, her decks crowded with figures who had swarmed up from below to see what was happening.

Bolitho steadied himself against the uneven motion and walked slowly to Witrand’s side.

“Your offer, m’sieu. Was it genuine?” Bolitho moved his fingers around the buckle of the sword-belt, his eyes hidden as he said, “There is someone. I…”

He broke off and swung round as a great burst of cheering floated across the water.

The frigate was sweeping down to run across their quarter, and as she tacked violently in the wind he saw a flag breaking from her gaff. It was the same as his own, and he had to look

away once more, unable to hide his emotion.

Ashton was dancing up and down yelling, “She’s Coquette, sir!”

Meheux’s face was split in half with a huge grin, and he slapped Allday’s shoulder as he shouted wildly, “Well then!” Another slap. “Well then, eh?” It was all he could find to say.

Bolitho looked across at the Frenchman. Then he said, “It will not be necessary, m’sieu.” He saw the understanding in the man’s yellow eyes. “But thank you.”

Witrand moved his gaze to the frigate and said quietly, “It would seem that the English have returned.”

11. an end to the Waiting

It took a further two days to find the squadron, and during that time Bolitho often wondered what might have occurred but for Coquette’s timely arrival. The Navarra’s chronometer was smashed, and she was without either sextant or reliable compass. Even if she had been spared the additional battering of the storm, Bolitho knew he would have been hard put to it to estimate his position, let alone shape a course to the squadron’s area of rendezvous.

Gillmor, the Coquette’s tall and gangling captain, had called it the devil’s luck, and there seemed much to suggest it was so. For had he kept to his original station, scouting and patrolling across the squadron’s wake, he would certainly never have found the battered and partly disabled Navarra. But instead he had sighted a sail and had altered course to investigate, only to lose it during the night of the storm. The next day he had found it again, to discover it was a British sloop from Gibraltar. Further, the sloop was in fact searching for him. She had arrived at the Rock within twenty-four hours of the squadron’s departure with a despatch for Broughton, and having passed it to Gillmor had made off again

in great haste, no doubt very aware of her own vulnerability in such hostile waters.

Gillmor knew nothing of the contents of his sealed envelope, and could speak of little but his amazement at sighting the Navarra and then her flag flying above so much damage. His astonishment was considerably increased when he found the stained and ragged figure who greeted his arrival on board to be his own flag captain.

With so many women displayed on the ship’s decks it was no surprise to Bolitho that the Coquette’s company offered plenty of volunteers when it came to selecting men for work on the repairs. Even the frigate’s first lieutenant, well known it seemed for keeping a cold eye on his ship’s supply of spare spars and cordage, allowed a jury-mast to be sent across to replace the broken mizzen.

Several times during working hours Bolitho had heard shrill laughter and discreet giggles from between decks, and guessed that some of the Coquette’s seamen were making their presence felt.

And on the morning of the second day, while he stood by the Navarra’s weather rail, he felt something like pride as he watched the sun shining on the familiar topsails of the squadron, the speedier shape of the sloop Restless as she dashed away from her consorts to investigate the new arrivals.

Meheux said quietly, “They look fine, sir.” He too seemed touched by the occasion. “I’ll not be sorry to quit this floating ruin.”

Then, while the Coquette made more sail and hurried ahead of her battered companion, her yards already alive with signal flags, Bolitho watched his own ship, shining brightly in the glare, her tan sails quivering in haze as she moved slowly on the starboard tack. Like the other three ships-of-the-line, she appeared motionless above her reflection, with only the smallest crust of white around her stem to indicate her steady approach.