The Flag Captain

The morning watch still had an hour to run when Bolitho strode on to the quarterdeck. Although he had been up and about several times during the night, he felt remarkably fresh, and his shoulder was sore rather than painful. He paused to peer at the swinging compass card. North-east, as it had remained since his last inspection before dawn.

The sky was very clear, with a washed-out look, and in a fresh north-westerly wind the sea stretched in an endless display of small white-horses from horizon to horizon.

As he had sat toying with his breakfast and lingering over his last supply of good coffee he had waited for the call from a lookout or the scamper of feet as someone came to bring a message that Coquette had been sighted. But as daylight strengthened and the deck above his head had echoed to the sluice of water and swabs, with all the usual chatter between the seamen, he had known there was no ship to see.

Now, as he walked towards the quarterdeck rail, his face impassive to shield his sudden uncertainty, he knew too that he must dissuade Broughton from continuing the chase.

For over seventeen hours since Broughton had sent Coquette in hot pursuit of the captured frigate the squadron had pressed on with every sail set to maximum advantage.

During the night when they had altered course to this present tack there had been several breath-stopping moments as Valorous had surged out of the gloom like a phantom ship bent on smashing into Euryalus’s stern.

He had examined his chart while he had finished the coffee in the private world beyond his cabin bulkhead. They were now some sixty miles due south of Ibiza and still pushing further and further into the Mediterranean. Ironically, Broughton’s

determination to recapture the Auriga had taken them back across the same waters as before, and the ships were now less than eighty miles north by east from Djafou.

Keverne gauged it was time to speak. “Good morning, sir.” He smiled. “Again.”

Bolitho looked past him and saw the Impulsive’s bulging topgallants far out on the lee quarter, pale yellow in the sunlight. Broughton had decreed that she should play a lone role on the squadron’s flank. She was faster than the others, and without a frigate at his disposal, and only the little Restless away on the horizon, Broughton had little choice in his deployment.

He said, “Signal Tanais to make more sail, if you please. She is out of station again.”

Keverne frowned and touched his hat. “Aye, aye, sir.”

Bolitho walked to the weather side and commenced his morning pacing. Tanais was a little to leeward of the line, but hardly sufficient to warrant a signal under their peculiar circumstances. Every ship was doing her best, and the squadron had logged in almost regular seven knots since the last alteration of course. Keverne was probably thinking he had mentioned it merely to remind him of the earlier collision with the two- decker. Imagined perhaps that Bolitho was making an offhand criticism.

His feet moved faster in time with his thoughts. Keverne could think what he liked. There was more than his comfort at stake this morning. On the face of it Broughton’s insistence was fair enough. Coquette and Restless had been off the Spanish coast when the captured frigate had somehow passed between the separated groups of vessels. It was equally possible that Auriga could not regain the Spanish coast without losing her lead and exposing herself to a clash with the pursuers. The prevailing north-west wind, which was so favourable to Broughton’s ships, would soon make short work of Auriga’s advantage. He frowned. It was getting him nowhere. Anyway, that was yesterday, when there had still been some real hope of a capture. But Auriga’s captain may

have had no intention of turning towards Spain or France. Majorca or Port Mahon, further east even to some secret mission all of her own, she might be heading on and on with all the speed her sails could muster.

Perhaps if he had not been so concerned with his own personal affairs, his pleasure at seeing the boy again he might have confronted Broughton earlier. He frowned angrily. Always the perhaps and the maybe.

“Good morning, sir.”

He halted and saw Pascoe watching him from the top of the starboard gangway.

Bolitho relaxed slightly. “How are you settling in?”

The boy nodded. “I have been all over the ship, sir.” He looked suddenly grave. “It is hard to realise that it was here where the French surrendered.” He walked a few paces aft and stared at the damp. “I was thinking of Mr Selby, the master’s mate, who died to save me. I often think about him.”

Bolitho clenched his hand behind him. Would it never end? Always Hugh seemed to be at his shoulder, making mock of his efforts to forget. What would Adam say now, this second, if he knew Selby had been his own father? Perhaps their blood had been so strong that even the deception had been only temporary.

He knew too that the boy’s words had made him realise something else. He was jealous. Jealous because he still remembered a father he had not knowingly seen, and because it was something which could not be shared. Suppose he did discover the truth about Hugh and learn that his identity even at the moment of death had been denied him? At the time it had been vital for his own safety, as it was now for the boy’s future. But would those things seem important to him if he found the truth?

He realised Adam was studying him anxiously. “Is something wrong, sir? Your shoulder?”

Bolitho shook his head. “I am bad company today.” He smiled. “I am glad you still remember Mr Selby.” A lie, or was he being

genuine? “I often find it hard to accept that this is the same ship which cost us so dearly to win.”

Pascoe said quickly, “The admiral is coming, sir.” He walked away as Broughton crossed the deck and gazed bleakly at the horizon.

Bolitho made his customary report and then said, “I think we should put about, sir.” There seemed to be no reaction. “Maybe Gillmor will call her to give battle, but I think we have little to gain by continuing.”

Broughton’s eyes swivelled towards him. “Do you?”

“Yes, sir. Coquette should be able to take the enemy well enough, for all the French company will be new to their ship. Gillmor has already proved himself very capable in ship-to-ship actions.”

“ We will continue!” Broughton’s jaw tightened. “Auriga may try and retrace her course soon, and I want her!”

Bolitho said quietly, “It is like taking a hammer to crack an egg, sir.”

Broughton swung on him violently, his face suddenly livid. “My new orders state that unless I have secured a base to my satisfaction I am to return to the fleet off Cadiz! Do you know what will be said?” He raised his voice. “Do you?” He did not wait for a reply. “It will be put to me that I failed to complete any part of my mission. That I lost contact with the enemy because I allowed Auriga to be taken. My fault, my damned ruin, it is as simple as that!” He saw Meheux watching from the opposite side of the deck and barked, “Tell that officer to find himself some work, or I’ll make him sorry he was born!”

Bolitho said evenly, “Impulsive’s first report of sighting the frigate…”

The admiral interrupted, “Impulsive? In God’s name how do we even know she tried to catch that bloody ship? She was in the Nore mutiny, her captain seems almost proud of the experience, so is it not likely his company hindered the chase? Maybe they saw Auriga as a symbol of their own damn treachery at the Nore!”

“That is unfair, sir!”

“Unfair, is it?” Broughton’s reserve had completely gone and he was oblivious to some seamen working at the guns nearby, their faces screwed tight with expectancy. “I’ll tell you what I think.” He stuck out his chin, his face barely inches from Bolitho’s. “I believe that you have not learned even the first thing about senior command. I know you are popular! Oh yes, I’ve seen the way people like you.” He stared suddenly across the nettings, his eyes empty. “Do you imagine that I never wanted to be admired as well as obeyed? By God, if you ever attain flag rank you will learn there is no middle road to follow!”

Bolitho watched him in silence. He was still angry at Brough-ton’s slanderous attack on Herrick, but at the same time he could guess the full extent of his disappointment and despair. Auriga was