The Flag Captain

ships already sailing from Toulon or Marseilles to ensure the trap is not short of teeth!”

The admiral took a grip on himself. It was almost a physical thing to watch as he screwed up his eyes and spoke in short, staccato sentences.

“Make a general signal. We will put the squadron about and approach the enemy on an opposite tack. Ship to ship we can…” He saw Bolitho’s expression and said desperately, “For God’s sake, it will be two against one!”

Bolitho turned away, unable to watch Broughton’s apparent helplessness.

“Deck there! Sail in sight to wind’rd!”

Bolitho nodded. So they were already visible, and coming in fast for the kill.

Ten ships-of-the-line. He gripped his hand against his side, willing himself to think instead of allowing his mind to grow numb before such odds. Two to one, Broughton had said, but Impulsive was not much more than a large frigate. Old too, her hull rotten from rough usage over the years. He smiled sadly. Ripe, as Herrick had described it.

He swung round, his mind suddenly steady again.

“With your permission, sir, I believe we should re-form in two divisions.” He spoke fast, seeing the plan of battle like counters on a map. “The French have a liking for fighting in a set line of battle. Too much time in port has left them little scope to exercise much else.” Like you, he thought, as he watched Broughton’s uncertainty. “We can take the weather division, with just Impulsive astern of us. Rattray can lead the lee division with the same order as before. If we can break the enemy’s line in two places we might still give a good account of ourselves.” Broughton was still wavering, so he added harshly, “But ship to ship and line to line you will witness your squadron dismasted within one half-hour of close action!”

Lieutenant Bickford said quietly, “I can see Auriga, sir.” He lowered a big signal telescope. “She has struck to Coquette.” It was like a final taunt at Broughton’s unbending determination to recover her.

Broughton looked at Bolitho and said, “I am going below for a moment. You have my authority to put your plan to the test.” He seemed about to add a rider but said savagely, “I wish Draffen was up here to see for himself what his deceit has cost us.”

Bolitho watched him go and then beckoned to Keverne and Tothill. “General signal. Squadron will tack in succession and steer due west.”

Keverne hurried to the rail yelling at the watching seamen.

As pipes shrilled and the men ran to their stations Bolitho watched the signal flags soaring aloft, the colours very bright against the pale sky.

As one acknowledgement after another was reported he said, “Another general, Mr Tothill. Prepare for battle.” He made himself smile at the midshipman’s intent expression. “Yes, it seems we will fight this fine morning, so keep a good eye on your people.”

Order had settled over the decks as petty officers checked their watch-bills, and Partridge stood close to the helmsmen in

readiness to follow the Tanais round and across the wind.

Tothill called, “Acknowledgements close up, sir!”

They were ready. “Execute!”

As Keverne waited, balanced on his toes to watch first Zeus and then Tanais labouring round with all their sails in confusion, Bolitho said to him, “Lay her on the starboard tack while I prepare instructions for the other captains.”

“And then, sir?” Keverne kept his eyes on Tanais.

“You may beat to quarters and clear for action.” He smiled. “And this time you will do it in eight minutes!”

Keverne yelled, “Stand by on the quarterdeck! Man the braces there!”

“Ready aft, sir!”

Bolitho turned at the sound of that voice and saw Pascoe standing by the afterguard at the mizzen braces, his hat pulled over his unruly hair as he squinted into the bright sunlight.

For an instant their eyes met, and Bolitho made to lift his hand to him. But the sudden stab of pain reminded him of his wound and he saw the dismay on the boy’s face, as if he too was sharing it with him.

“Helm a’lee! Let go and haul!”

Figures darted in every direction, and groaning under the thrust of wind and tiller the Euryalus began to turn, until like a giant tusk her jib boom pointed once again at an enemy.

19. a ship of War

“A LTER COURSE a point to larboard, Mr Partridge.”

Bolitho walked to the lee side to watch the Zeus which was almost directly abeam at the head of the other seventy-fours. It had taken less than an hour to put the squadron about and for

individual captains to form up in their present divisions, and he was grateful they had had sufficient time for getting to know each other’s ways.

“West by south, sir!” Partridge sounded grim.

“Steady as you go.”

Bolitho walked forward to the quarterdeck rail and ran his eye along his command. How much more space and vision to see and think now that Euryalus was in the van. With her great courses clewed up and topsails braced round to hold her on a steady starboard tack he could see the enemy like some painted panorama of battle. The ten ships were sailing in an almost perfect line, their approach diagonal to that of the British squadron. To an untrained eye it would appear as if the way ahead was completely sealed by this great line of ships, and even to the experienced onlooker the sight was enough to chill the imagination.

He made himself walk a few paces athwart the silent quarterdeck, darting an occasional glance towards Zeus to ensure she was still keeping on station to leeward. Astern of her, Tanais and Valorous followed at regular intervals, their double lines of guns glinting in the hard sunlight like rows of black teeth.

The Euryalus’s high poop hid most of the Impulsive from view, but he could see her furled topgallants and whipping masthead pendant, and just as easily picture Herrick standing stolidly on his deck, feet apart, with those bright blue eyes watching the flagship.

Keverne asked quietly, “Do you think the Frogs have guessed what we are about, sir?”

Bolitho gauged the distance for the tenth time between the two small divisions. Captain Rattray’s Zeus was about three cables distant, and he saw a gleam of scarlet as her marines began to climb up to the fighting tops. The best marksmen would be in dire need today.

He replied, “Our divisions are so ill-matched that I hope the French admiral imagines us to be unprepared.”

As well he might, he thought grimly. Five ships in two unequal divisions approaching that unwavering line like huntsmen trotting towards some unbreakable barrier.

He looked once more at his own ship. Keverne had cleared for action in eight minutes in spite of everything else. From the moment the drummer boys had started their nerve-jarring tattoo the seamen and marines had gone to quarters with the intentness of men under sentence of death. Now there was only silence. Only here and there was there any movement. A ship’s boy scampering with sand to give the gun crews better grip on the deck. Fittock, the gunner, in his felt slippers making his way once again down to the threatening gloom of the magazine.

Nets were rigged above the decks and chain slings on each yard, and at every hatch an armed marine had been posted to prevent those terrified by the sights of battle from fleeing below to illusionary safety.

How clean and open it all seemed. The boats were either cast adrift or being towed astern, and below the gangways he could see the gun crews, naked to the waist, as they stared at their open ports and waited for bedlam to begin.

And it would not be long. He raised a glass and steadied it upon the leading enemy ship. She was less than two miles away on the larboard bow and therefore almost directly across Zeus’s line of advance.