The Flag Captain

own disability. He turned his mind away just as quickly. Neither Bickford, who had been with the captain, nor even Sawle, whom he heartily disliked, had been offered the command. So it was obviously Broughton’s hand which had written the order to make a mere lieutenant from Valorous rise like a shooting star towards the first real step of promotion.

He stamped his feet with sudden irritation. What a waste it had all been. And no doubt when they reached the enemy coast they would discover some new frustration for the admiral to complain about.

“Navarra’s clear, sir!”

Keverne watched the prize ship setting her topsails as she tacked heavily below the fortress walls. Like all of the little convoy destined for Gibraltar, she was crammed with people, prisoners and civilians alike. It would be an uncomfortable passage, he decided glumly.

There was a step beside him and Bolitho said, “It looks like a good wind.” He glanced searchingly along the upper deck. “Make a signal to the squadron. Up anchor. Then get the ship under way, if you please. We will lay a course nor’ west by north as Sir Lucius has instructed.”

Keverne shouted, “Stand by the capstan!”

A midshipman was scribbling on his slate watched by the signal party who had already bent on the required flags.

Midshipman Tothill said, “Hekla’s clearing the fortress now, sir!”

Bolitho took a telescope and trained it towards the little bomb vessel. But for a cutter to retrieve the demolition party at the last possible moment, Hekla was the last to leave the bay. Leaving it with its relics of suffering and death, its memories of conquest and surrender. Perhaps one day someone else would try to reoc-cupy the place, to repair the fortress and install once more the means of slavery and oppression. But maybe by then the world would have turned once and for all against such methods, he thought.

The Hekla’s topsails filled to the wind as she ploughed into the first inshore troughs. Holding the telescope with one hand was not easy, and he was dismayed to discover that he was already breathless from exhaustion. But just a moment longer. He edged the glass slowly across Hekla’s forecastle where the seamen in their

checked shirts ran in orderly confusion to complete the new tack, and then saw Inch clinging to the low rail, his thin body leaning against the steep tilt as he waved his hat in the air. It was not hard to recall him on the exposed deck as the carronades kept up their savage bombardment, or his shock and grief at seeing him fall to that unknown marksman. Now, with his mixed flotilla and chattering passengers, he was taking another turn in his life, and it was to be hoped he reached Gibraltar without meeting an enemy.

He stiffened as he saw another figure moving carefully across the deck to Inch’s side. Even although the Hekla was now a good half-mile distant he could see her hair whipping out to the wind, the yellow dress very bright in the glare. She too was waving, her teeth white in her tanned face, and he imagined he could hear her voice once more, as he had listened to it in the night when all else was still and silent.

“Take the glass, Mr Tothill.”

Then, stiffly, he braced his legs and waved his own hat slowly back and forth. Some of the others watched him with surprise, but by the ladder Allday saw Bolitho’s face and gave a grateful smile.

It had been a close-run thing. And but for her… he shuddered involuntarily and turned to watch as Calvert walked moodily along the gangway and leaned against the nettings. He seemed to be more inside himself than ever, and hardly spoke, even to the other officers. That was a rare pity, Allday decided, for the flag-lieutenant was unaware how he was admiringly discussed on the crowded messdecks since his return. Allday shook his head. No doubt Calvert had a rich father who would save his neck, but maybe he no longer cared. As he stared down into the lively water alongside his face registered nothing at all.

“Ah, Calvert!” Everyone looked round as Broughton strode briskly from the poop. He raised his voice. “Come here!”

Calvert wandered aft and touched his hat, his eyes guarded. “Sir?”

“There is a lot I want done today.” Broughton watched idly as the Hekla butted her blunt bows into a lazy roller.

Then he looked at Bolitho and pursed his lips into the shadow of a smile. “So perhaps you would dine with me after we have done with the writing, eh?”

Allday saw Calvert’s jaw dropping open and felt more amazed than ever. Even Broughton, it appeared, had changed towards him.

Bolitho turned, caught unaware by the admiral’s voice. “I beg your pardon, sir. I did not see you.”

Broughton nodded. “Ah.”

“The squadron has acknowledged, sir!” Tothill was oblivious to the brief exchange. “At the dip!”

Bolitho turned and shouted, “Carry on, Mr Keverne!”

As the flagship’s signal vanished from her yards the deck became alive to the turmoil of making sail. Bolitho gripped the rail and looked up as the topmen swarmed along the yards, and with a bang and thunder of canvas the released sails exploded to the wind.

“Anchor’s aweigh, sir!” Meheux looked very small, outlined against the opposite headland as he waved his hand in the air.

With a deep surge the Euryalus sidled heavily above her reflection, her lower gunports awash as with her seamen heaving on the braces and the wheel hard over she came ponderously but with dignified obedience under control of wind and rudder.

Keverne was yelling through his trumpet, “Lee braces, there! Put those laggards to work, Mr Tebbutt! Valorous has the edge on you today!”

Bolitho leaned over the stout rail and watched the anchor, streaming yellow weed from its massive flukes as it was catted home by Meheux’s frantic seamen.

He shifted his gaze across the opposite side and saw Coquette and Restless already spreading their topgallants and bounding through fountains of spray as they drew rapidly away from the heavier ships.

Partridge called, “Nor’ west by north, sir!” He wiped his watering eyes as he peered up at the braced yards, the hardening quiver of the main topsail as it forced the ship over. “Full an’ bye, sir!”

Broughton snatched a glass and then said irritably, “General signal. Maintain proper station.” He turned easily to study the Valorous, as with her jib flapping in momentary confusion she wallowed round to follow in her admiral’s wake.

Keverne asked, “May I set the topgallants, sir?”

Bolitho nodded. “Make the most of the wind!”

Even as Keverne hurried back to the rail there was a low, menacing rumble. Every spare glass flashed in the sunlight as they turned to watch the distant fortress. The rumble erupted with terrible suddenness into several towering walls of flame and black smoke. They seemed endless and indestructible, hiding completely what was happening beneath.

Then as the wind pushed the smoke reluctantly across the headland Bolitho saw the ruins of the fortress. The inner tower had fallen completely like the shattered chimney of an old kiln, and the rest of the walls and ramparts were blasted into rubble. More inner explosions followed in slow succession, like a controlled broadside, and he imagined Inch’s gunner, Mr Broome, lovingly placing his charges of destruction. He caught his breath as a tiny dark sliver edged out through the smoke, the boat carrying Broome and his men to a hairbreadth safety.

Giffard said, “A lot has happened in that place, by God!”

Broughton watched the set of Bolitho’s shoulders and smiled briefly. “There is certainly no denying that, Captain Giffard!”

When eight bells chimed out, and the forenoon watch started to go about its affairs above and below decks, the small squadron was already seven miles from the land.

In his stern cabin Bolitho rested on the bench seat and watched the Valorous outlined against the fading shoreline. It was little more than a blur, a rolling bank of purple, above which the darker smoke of Djafou stained the blue sky in one great sprawling pall.

He thought of Lucey and Lelean, of Witrand and so many others who had been left there forever. Only Draffen had sailed with the squadron, his corpse carefully sealed in a cask of spirits for a more fitting burial whenever the ship might touch England again.