The Flag Captain

He leaned against the sill, his ears catching the familiar strains of rigging and shrouds, his aching shoulder positioned to avoid the slow plunge and quiver of the hull around him.

Once again he had avoided the fate of others. He touched his shoulder and winced. It would soon be time to have the dressing changed, when he would again hold his breath for fear the wound had worsened.

Then he thought of Catherine Pareja and that last night together in the tower. The simplicity and desperate need as they had lain quite still listening to the murmur of waves on the rocks below the walls. Had he not been so badly wounded would he still have behaved like that? Would he have allowed it to happen? Even as he remembered their quiet embrace, he knew the answer, and was ashamed.

Spargo, the Euryalus’s surgeon, proffered one of his square, hairy hands and said, “Here, sir, take a good grip.”

Bolitho stood up from his desk and glanced at Keverne. “He is a hard taskmaster.” He smiled to hide his anxiety. “I fear we are not giving him enough to do.”

Then he took Spargo’s hand in his own, feeling the cramp tugging at his arm as he exerted all the grip he could muster.

It had been three days since the squadron had left Djafou, and every few hours during that time Spargo had come to attend to the dressings, to probe and examine the wound until Bolitho had imagined he would never be free of its torment.

Spargo released his fingers. “Not too bad, sir.” He spoke with grudging satisfaction, which Bolitho had discovered earlier to be true praise for another man’s work. “But we shall have to see.” As ever, his sheet anchor was a warning. Just in case.

Keverne relaxed slightly. “I will leave you now, sir. That concludes the ship’s affairs for today.”

Bolitho eased his arm back into the sling and walked to the windows. A good half-mile astern he watched Valorous taking in her royals, the seamen like black dots on her yards as they fought with the salt-hardened canvas. It was nearly noon. Three days of battling with unusually perverse winds and every eye watching the dazzling horizon for a sail. Any sail.

The squadron’s position was now about forty miles south-south-west of Cartagena, and had there been an enemy of any sort in view, Broughton’s ships would have been ready and well placed to intercept. As he glanced briefly across the papers on his desk which Keverne had been discussing, he heard the crisp tap of shoes overhead where Broughton paced the poop in solitary detachment, fretting over the failure to find an enemy, or to throw any light on his movements. Bolitho could pity him, for he knew there were already other pressures mounting which could not be postponed much longer.

Buddle, the purser, had been to see him this forenoon, his face gloomy as he had told of falling water supplies and several rancid casks of meat. Throughout the squadron it was the same. You could not expect this many men to be without replenishment for so long, especially as there was still no certainty of obtaining more water and provisions.

He sighed and looked at the door as it closed behind the surgeon.

“So we have Sawle promoted to fifth lieutenant to replace Lucey. That still leaves a vacancy in the wardroom.” He was thinking aloud. “Midshipman Tothill might be able to take it, but…”

Keverne said shortly, “He is only seventeen and has had little experience of gunnery. In any case, he is too useful with his signals to be spared as yet.” He grinned. “In my opinion, sir.”

“I am afraid I agree.” He listened to the shoes pacing back and forth. “We will have to see what we can do.”

Keverne gathered up the papers and asked, “What are our chances of finding the enemy, sir?”

He shrugged. “In all truth, I do not know.” He wanted Keverne to leave so that he could try to exercise his arm and shoulder. “Coquette and Restless should be cruising off Cartagena by now. Maybe they will return soon with new intelligence.”

There was a rap on the door and Midshipman Ashton stepped into the cabin. He no longer wore a bandage around his head and seemed to have recovered from his tough handling better than anyone had expected.

“Sir. Mr Weigall’s respects, and a sail has been sighted to the nor’ east.”

Bolitho looked at Keverne and smiled. “Sooner than I thought. I will go on deck.”

On the quarterdeck it was blazing hot, and although the sails were drawing well to a steady north-westerly, there was little freshness to ease the demands of watchkeeping.

Weigall was watching the poop, as if afraid he would not hear Bolitho’s approach.

“Masthead reports that she looks like a frigate, sir.”

To confirm his words the voice pealed down again, “Deck there! She’s Coquette! ”

Broughton came down from the poop with unusual haste. “Well?”

Ashton was already swarming into the shrouds with a big telescope, and Bolitho said quietly, “What would we do without frigates?”

Minutes ticked past, and by the compass a ship’s boy upended the half-hour glass under Partridge’s watchful eye.

Then Ashton yelled, “From Coquette, sir!” The merest pause. “Negative.”

Broughton swung away, his voice harsh. “Nothing there. The ships have sailed.” He turned to Bolitho, his eyes squinting

against the glare. “We must have missed them! God, we’ll not see them again!”

Bolitho watched the frigate swinging round on her new tack, the big black and white flag still streaming from her yard. One flag, yet to Broughton and perhaps many more it meant so much. The enemy ships had quit the harbour and by now could be almost anywhere. While the squadron had floundered around Djafou, and had exhausted their resources in the fruitless business of capture and demolition, the enemy had vanished.

Broughton murmured in a tired voice, “Damn them all to hell!”

Bolitho looked up sharply as the masthead lookout shouted, “Valorous is signalling, sir!”

The admiral said bitterly, “Furneaux will be dreaming of his own future already!”

They all turned as Tothill shouted, “From Valorous, sir! Strange sail bearing west!”

“Must be almost astern of us, sir.” Bolitho looked at Keverne. “Inform the squadron.”

Broughton was almost beside himself with impatience. “She’ll put about the moment she sights us!” He peered towards Coquette. “But it’s useless to send Gillmor. He’d never be able to beat into the wind in time to engage her.”

Bolitho felt his arm throbbing, perhaps from his own excitement. The stranger could be another lone merchantman, or an enemy scout. She might even be the van of some great force of ships. He dismissed the latter idea. If the newcomer was part of the force from Cartagena he was well out of station, and the enemy would have no wish to waste any time if they were after Broughton.

He took a telescope and climbed swiftly on to the poop. It was getting less painful to manage the glass with one hand, and as he trained it past Valorous he saw a small square of sail, seemingly resting on the horizon line.

But far above the deck Ashton with his powerful telescope already had a much better view.

“Two-decker, sir!” His voice was shrill against the sounds of rigging and canvas. “Still closing!”

Bolitho hurried back to the quarterdeck. “It would be better if we shorten sail, sir. At least we will know for sure then.”

Broughton nodded. “Very well. Make the signal.”

Time dragged by, with the hands going for their midday meal, and the air becoming heavy with the odour of rum. There was, after all, no point in disrupting the daily routine when there was plenty of time to decide on a course of action, if any.

The other ship was coming up very fast, especially for a two-decker. It was easy to see her great spread of canvas as she plunged in pursuit. Her captain had even set her studding sails, so that the hull seemed weighed down by the towering pyramid of hard-bellied canvas.

Ashton yelled excitedly, “She’s signalling, sir!”