The Flag Captain

“That I will believe, Capitaine.” Witrand eyed him curiously. “It seems that I may be expected to aid your cause. A joke, eh?”

Bolitho thought of Broughton’s growing desperation. He might have agreed with Draffen to allow Witrand’s transfer to the sloop in the hopes he would give away some secret about his own mission.

He replied quietly, “A joke. Perhaps.”

He shaded his eyes to watch the Valorous as she hoisted Broughton’s signal to her yards. Somewhere, hidden around the beaked headland the anchored sloop would see it and come hurrying to do his bidding. Witrand would probably stay aboard her and later be conveyed with despatches to Gibraltar.

Bolitho held out his hand. “Goodbye, m’sieu. And thank you for what you did on my behalf.”

The Frenchman’s grasp was firm. “I ’ope that one day we will meet again, Capitaine.” He shrugged. “But…”

He broke off as Sawle and two armed seamen appeared on the quarterdeck. He added quickly, “If anything should ’appen to me. There is a letter. For my wife in Bordeaux!” He dropped his voice. “I would be grateful!”

Bolitho nodded. “Of course.” He watched Witrand being escorted to the entry port to await a boat. “Take care.”

Witrand tossed him a casual wave. “You also, Capitaine!”

An hour later Bolitho was still pacing up and down the weather side oblivious to the searing heat which had turned his shirt into a sodden rag, or the blinding glare thrown back from the sea.

Draffen had been transferred to the sloop and had already disappeared around the out-thrust curve of the coastline, yet he had hardly been aware of anything but Witrand’s simple request.

Lieutenant Weigall was officer of the watch and was content to keep well clear of his captain. Alone with his deafness, he stayed on the lee side, his prizefighter’s face set in its usual frown as he surveyed the men working along the upper deck.

By the poop Allday watched Bolitho’s anguish and wondered why he could think of nothing to help him. He had refused to leave the deck for a meal, and had turned on him with something like blind anger when he had tried to coax him below for a brief respite from the heat.

“Deck there!” The lookout’s voice was like a croak. The seaman was probably parched dry with thirst, “Sail on th’ weather bow!”

Allday glanced at Bolitho expectantly but he was still pacing, his face grave and expressionless. A quick look towards Weigall told him that he had heard nothing at all.

Already flags were soaring aloft on the Tanais’s yards, and Allday strode quickly to a dozing midshipman and prodded him sharply in the ribs.

“Stir yourself, Mr Sandoe!” He saw the boy staring at him with fright. “There’s work to be done!”

Then he crossed to the other side and waited until Bolitho had completed another turn along the deck.

“Captain?”

Bolitho paused and swayed wearily on the tilting deck. He saw Allday’s face swimming before him, and realised that he was smiling.

Allday said firmly, “Sail on th’ weather bow, Captain.”

“What?”

He looked aloft as the voice pealed down. “One ship, sir!”

Weigall had at last realised something was happening and was moving about the deck like a caged animal.

Far above the deck the small figure of the midshipman could be seen moving up to join the lookout. Moments later his voice floated down to all the upturned faces.

“She’s a bomb vessel, sir!”

When Allday looked at Bolitho again he was stunned to see his eyes were blurred with emotion.

Bolitho said quietly, “Thank God.” He reached out and seized

Allday’s thick forearm. “Then there’s still time.” He turned away to hide his face and added, “Call the master. Tell him to lay off a course for the squadron to intercept and then,” he ran his fingers through his hair, “then we shall see.”

Later, as the Euryalus swung heavily across the wind and started on a new tack towards the small sliver of sail, Bolitho stood very still at the quarterdeck rail, while every other officer stayed at a respectful distance on the opposite side, their voices murmuring with busy speculation.

Broughton came on deck and walked to Bolitho’s side. His voice was offhand and remote.

“What is she?”

Bolitho saw Tothill’s men with their next hoist of flags and said, “There is only the one, sir, but she will suffice.”

Broughton stared at him, confused by his vague reply.

Then Tothill shouted, “Signal, sir. Hekla to Flag. Request instructions.”

Once again Bolitho felt his throat quivering with suppressed strain and emotion. The Hekla had arrived. Somehow Inch had managed to join them with neither escort nor another bomb for company.

Without awaiting the admiral’s comments he said, “Signal her captain to repair on board forthwith.”

Then he turned and looked at the admiral, his eyes calm again. “With your permission, sir, I would like to attempt what we came to do.” He paused, seeing the flush mounting to Broughton’s checks. “Unless you would still prefer to ally yourself with pirates?”

Broughton swallowed hard and then replied, “Report to me when Hekla’s captain is come aboard.” Then he turned and walked stiffly towards the poop.

Bolitho looked down at his hands. They were shaking, yet quite normal in appearance. His whole body seemed to be quivering, and for a brief instant he imagined his old fever was returning.

But it was not the fever. It was something far more powerful.

Keverne crossed the deck and touched his hat. “Strange-looking craft, sir.” He faltered under Bolitho’s gaze. “The bomb, I meant, sir.”

Bolitho smiled, the tension draining out of him like blood.

“Just now she is the most welcome sight I have seen for a long, long while, Mr Keverne.” He plucked at his shirt and added, “I will go aft and change. Call me when the Hekla’s boat is near. I want to greet her captain myself.” Then he strode away.

Keverne said, “You know, I think I may never understand our captain.”

Weigall swung round from the rail. “What? What did you say?”

“Nothing.” Keverne walked to the opposite side. “Return to your dreams, Mr Weigall.”

He glanced up at Broughton’s flag flapping from the foremast and found himself wondering at the swift change in Bolitho’s mood. But it did appear as if the waiting was done, and that at least was something.

After the furnace heat of the day the night air was almost icy. Bolitho stood up in the sternsheets of his barge and signalled to Allday with his arm.

Allday barked, “Easy all!” and as one the oars rose dripping from the water and remained still, so that the dying bow wave gurgling around the stem seemed suddenly very loud.

Bolitho turned and strained his eyes into the darkness astern. They were following, and he could see the dancing phosphorescence around the two leading boats like bright clinging weed and occasional white feathers from the muffled oars.

The first boat loomed from the darkness and hands reached out to seize the gunwales to prevent further sound from any sort of collision. It was Lieutenant Bickford, his voice serious and quite normal, as if he were reporting his division for inspection.

“The rest are close astern of me, sir. How much further, do you think?”

Bolitho felt the two hulls rising and falling on the deep inshore swell, and wondered where the squadron had reached when the wind had at last decided to fade to a light breeze. All day, as he and the others had worked to put his plan of attack into motion, he had expected it to drop, a kind of inbuilt instinct which he could never properly explain. If it had done so before he was ready the plan would have had to be postponed, perhaps cancelled altogether.