The Flag Captain

His own shirt was still open and he saw the locket swinging slowly to the ship’s motion, the dark lock of hair hanging rebelliously above his eye. Involuntarily he reached up and touched the deep scar beneath the lock of hair gently with one finger. It was automatic, yet he always expected to feel heat there, or pain, like the actual memory of the time he had been cut down and left for dead.

Behind him Allday smiled and relaxed slightly. The familiar action, the apparent surprise Bolitho always seemed to show when he touched the scar, were always reassuring. He watched as Bolitho tied his neckcloth carelessly around his throat and then stepped forward with coat and sword.

“Ready, Captain?”

Bolitho paused with one hand in a sleeve and turned to study him, his grey eyes calm again.

“As I will ever be.” He smiled. “I hope God is merciful today.”

Allday grinned and extinguished the lanterns. “Amen to that, I say.”

Together they went out into the cool darkness.

“Deck there! Land ho!” The masthead lookout’s voice sounded very loud in the clear air. “Fine on the starboard bow!”

Bolitho paused in his pacing and peered through the black

lines of rigging. Beyond the gently spiralling bowsprit and flapping jib he could see the first flush of pink dawn spreading down from the horizon. A little to starboard there was what appeared to be a sharp sliver of cloud, but he knew it was the crest of some far-off mountain, tipping itself in colour from the hidden sun.

He tugged out his watch and held it close to his eyes. It was already getting lighter, and with luck Valorous would now be hove-to while she unloaded her cargo of marines into the boats, casting them adrift to make their own way ashore. Euryalus’s Captain Giffard was in command of that landing party, and Bolitho could pity him. It was bad enough to lead some two hundred marines with their heavy boots and weapons across rough, unknown territory, but when the sun found them it would become torture. Marines were disciplined and drilled like soldiers, but there the similarity ended. They were used to their strange shipboard life. But because of it and its cramped lack of space and exercise they were no match for the hard slogging required in a forced march.

Keverne said, “I can see Tanais, sir.”

Bolitho nodded. The pink glow was etched along the seventy-four’s main yard like fairy fire in a Cornish wood, he thought. Her stern light already appeared fainter, and when he glanced up at the masthead pendant he saw the main topsail was shining with moisture and gaining colour with every slow minute.

There was a scrape of feet and Keverne whispered, “The admiral, sir.”

Broughton strode on to the quarterdeck and stared towards the distant mountain as Bolitho made his formal report.

“Cleared for action, sir. Chain slings rigged to the yards and nets spread.” Broughton could hardly not know of these things with all the noise they made. Screens torn down, guns released from their lashings; and the patter of many feet as the seamen prepared their ship and themselves to do battle. But it had to be said.

Broughton grunted. “Are we in sight of the squadron yet?” “Tanais, sir. We will be able to signal the rest directly.” The admiral walked to the lee side and peered towards the land. It was not much more than a darker shadow, above which the crested mountain seemed suspended in space.

He said, “I’ll be pleased when we can put the squadron about. I hate being on a lee shore and unable to see where I am.”

He fell silent again, and Bolitho heard the regular clump of shoes back and forth along the starboard gangway, like someone hitting a tree with a hammer.

Broughton snapped, “Tell that officer to stay still, damn him!” Keverne relayed his sudden burst of irritation and Bolitho heard Meheux call, “I beg your pardon, Sir Lucius!” But he sounded cheerful for all that. Bolitho had recalled him from the Navarra to resume charge of his beloved upper battery of twelve-pounders, and Meheux had hardly stopped smiling since his return.

Nevertheless, it did reveal something of Broughton’s uneasiness.

Bolitho said, “I had the prisoner taken below to the orlop, sir.” The admiral sniffed. “Damn Witrand! It would do him good to stay up here with us.”

Bolitho smiled. “One thing seems certain. He knows more of this place than I first suspected. When Mr Keverne went to escort him below he was dressed and ready. No surprise, sir, not what you would expect at all from a man innocent of military affairs.” Broughton said, “That was shrewd of Keverne.” But it was only a passing interest, and Bolitho guessed his mind was still firmly fixed on what lay behind the shadows.

More feet clattered on the deck and Broughton swung round as Calvert stepped awkwardly over a gun- tackle.

“Mind your feet! You make more noise than a blind cripple!”

Calvert mumbled something in the gloom, and Bolitho saw

some of the nearby gun crews grinning knowingly at each other.

It must be over the whole ship about Calvert’s conflict with his admiral.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” Draffen came from beneath the poop, dressed in a frilled white shirt and dark breeches. He had a pistol in his belt, and sounded very refreshed, as if he had just emerged from a dreamless sleep.

Midshipman Tothill called, “Zeus in sight, sir!”

Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and stared along the length of his ship. The Tanais was growing steadily from the shadows, and beyond her, a little to larboard, he could just make out the leading seventy-four, her upper yards already shining in the reflected glow.

The sun’s rim lifted over the horizon, the warm light reaching away on either bow, touching the lively wave crests, spreading still further, until Tothill exclaimed, “There’s the land, sir!”

It was hardly a proper sighting report, but in the sudden excitement no one else seemed to notice. Which was just as well, Bolitho thought, in view of Broughton’s edginess.

“Thank you, Mr Tothill,” he replied coldly. “That was very prompt.”

The strengthening sunlight made the midshipman’s face glow like one enormous blush, but he had the sense to remain silent.

Bolitho turned to watch the land gaining personality as the shadows were pushed aside. Long rolling hills, grey and purple for the moment, but already showing their barren slopes with the deeper patches of darkness where gullies and other steep clefts remained hidden to the watching eyes.

“Valorous is in sight, sir.” Lucey, the fifth lieutenant, who was also in charge of the quarterdeck nine-pounders, kept his voice low. “She has set her t’gallants.”

Bolitho walked up the tilting deck to the weather side and stared across the hammock nettings. The rearmost seventy-four made a fine picture as she forged after her slower-moving

consorts, topsails and topgallants shining like polished shells, while her hull remained in shadow as if unwilling to show itself. Soon now a lookout would sight the frigate standing well out to seaward, and then the little Restless, creeping closer inshore, and the last to be freed from the night’s darkness. The prize, Navarra, would remain within visual signalling distance but no nearer. It would do no harm for the defenders of Djafou to think Broughton had at least one other ship-of-war at his disposal. Bolitho had even advised the master’s mate sent across to relieve Meheux to make as many signals as he liked to give the impression he was in contact with more ships below the horizon.

So much depended on the first attack. The enemy, especially Spaniards, might feel less willing to fight against a growing force of ships if the early assault went against them.

Bolitho made himself walk slowly up and down the weather side, leaving the admiral standing motionless by the foot of the mainmast.

The poop and nettings seemed strangely bare without the customary reassuring scarlet lines of marines. But for the rest, his ship appeared to be ready. He could see both ranks of guns on the upper deck now, their crews stripped to near nakedness, with coloured neckerchiefs tied around their ears as protection against the cannons’ roar. Above, through the spread nets he saw the swivel guns manned in the tops, while more seamen waited at braces and halliards momentarily unemployed and watching the quarterdeck.

Partridge blew his nose violently into a green handkerchief, and then froze as Broughton shot him a savage glance. But the admiral said nothing, and the white-haired master thrust the offending handkerchief into his coat,