The Flag Captain

As day had followed day in Portsmouth harbour Bolitho had found time to wonder how Broughton’s report had been received at the Admiralty.

With the span of time behind him, their findings and hardships at Djafou, the last desperate battle with twice their number of the enemy seemed to fade and become less real. Broughton had appeared to feel much as he did, for most of the time he had remained aloof in his quarters or paced alone on the poop resisting every contact but the requirements of duty.

Then, just two days ago, the summons had arrived. Broughton and his flag captain were to report to the Admiralty. One unexpected addition had been for Herrick. He too was to accompany them. He had already confided that it was probably to explain more fully the loss of his Impulsive, but Bolitho thought otherwise. It was more likely that Herrick, being the only captain not completely involved in the squadron’s previous affairs, was being called as an impartial witness and to give his own assessment. It was to be hoped he would not allow blind loyalty to damage his own position with his superiors.

But whatever happened, Adam’s step on the first real rung of the ladder was secure. He had received his commission with an ease which had apparently surprised him, and even now was aboard Euryalus, probably fretting about his uncle’s future, or lack of it.

A door opened and Broughton walked through the room towards the corridor. Bolitho had not seen him since he had left the ship, and said quickly, “I hope all went well, Sir Lucius?”

Broughton seemed only then aware of his presence. He eyed him flatly. “I have been appointed to New South Wales. To manage the vessels and affairs of our naval administration there.”

Bolitho tried to disguise his dismay. “That would appear to be quite a task, sir.”

The admiral’s eyes flickered to Herrick. “Oblivion.” He turned away. “I hope you fare better.” Then with a curt nod he was gone.

Herrick exploded, “By God, I know little of Broughton, but that is damned cruel! He’ll rot out there while some of these pow-

dered poppinjays in London grow fat on the efforts of such men!”

Bolitho smiled sadly. “Easy, Thomas. I think Sir Lucius expected it.”

He turned back to the window. Oblivion. How well it described such an appointment. Yet Broughton had a name and power. A man of influence.

He thought with sudden bitterness of the Auriga’s chief mutineer, Tom Gates. He could see him sitting across the table in the little inn at Veryan Bay, and again confronting Captain Brice in his cabin.

Almost the first sight he had witnessed at Portsmouth Point had been the weathered remains of Gates swinging from a gibbet as a grisly reminder of the price of revolt. How strange was fate. Auriga’s second lieutenant had been released by the French in exchange for one of their own officers. His appointment had taken him to another frigate, where hiding under a false name he had discovered Gates. All hopes and ambition gone, and left only with the need to hide amongst his own sort, Gates had ended on a halter like so many others after the mutiny.

The door opened again and a lieutenant said, “Sir George will see you now.” When Herrick hung back he added, “Both of you, please.”

It was a fine room, with many pictures and a large bust of Raleigh above a lively log fire.

Admiral Sir George Beauchamp did not rise from his desk but gestured briefly to two chairs.

Bolitho watched him as he leafed through some papers. Beauchamp, distinguished for his work on reorganisation at the Admiralty since the outbreak of war. A man noted for his wisdom and humour. And his severity.

He was thin and rather stooped, as if bowed down by the weight of his resplendent gold-laced coat.

“Ah, Bolitho.” He looked up, his eyes very cold and steady. “I

have been studying the reports and your findings. It makes interesting reading!”

Bolitho heard Herrick breathing heavily beside him and wondered what Beauchamp would say next.

“I knew Sir Charles Thelwall, your previous admiral.” Beau-champ eyed him calmly. “A fine man.” He turned back to the papers again.

Still no mention of Broughton. It was almost unnerving.

The admiral asked, “Do you still believe what you did and that which you discovered was worthwhile?”

Bolitho replied quietly, “Yes, sir.” The question had been casually put, yet he believed it summed up all that had gone before. He added, “The French will keep trying. They must be held. And stopped.”

“Your action at Djafou and handling of what must have appeared a hopeless situation was good. Sir Lucius said as much in his report.” He frowned. “As well he might.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The admiral ignored him. “New tactics and ideas, fresh objectives, all are necessary if we are to survive, let alone win this war. But the knowledge and understanding of the people who have to fight and die for our cause is vital!” He shrugged wearily. “You have that understanding. Whereas…” He left the rest unsaid, but in Bolitho’s brain the word returned. Oblivion.

Beauchamp peered at a gilt dock. “You will remain in London for a day or so while I arrange your new orders, understood?”

Bolitho nodded, “Yes, sir.”

The admiral walked to a window and studied the passing carriages and townspeople with apparent disdain. “Captain Herrick will leave for Portsmouth immediately!”

Herrick asked thickly, “May I ask the reason, sir?”

Beauchamp faced them again, his mouth set in a thin smile. “Commodore Bolitho will be hoisting his broad pendant in Euryalus

as soon as he returns to Portsmouth!” He looked hard at Herrick’s amazed face. “I knew he would ask for you as his flag captain, so I thought we would try and waste less time than is customary under this roof!”

He stepped forward, his hand outstretched. Seeing Bolitho’s arm strapped inside his coat he offered the other hand, saying sharply, “Our bodies too often become charts of our misfortunes, eh?” He smiled. “I am giving you a squadron, Bolitho. Just a small one, but enough for you to put your ideas to best advantage.” His grip was firm. “Good luck to you. I hope I’ve not made a mistake.”

Bolitho looked away. “Thank you, sir.” The room seemed to be spinning. “And for giving me Captain Herrick.”

The admiral was back at his desk. “Oh, nonsense!” But as they left the room together he was smiling with quiet enjoyment.

Out on the highway, amidst the hurrying figures and blowing leaves, Bolitho said, “I think maybe I am dreaming, Thomas.”

Herrick was grinning hugely, “I can’t wait to see your nephew’s face when I tell him!” He shook his head. “A broad pendant. God damn them, I thought they would never give you your proper reward!”

Bolitho smiled, his emotions pulling in two directions. Broughton had warned him what it would be like if he ever attained flag rank. A superior being, unreachable and beyond personal touch. It was a challenge, something he had always wanted. And yet, when the watch turned out on deck to shorten sail or to up anchor, how would it feel? Another in command of the same ship, while he remained an onlooker.

He said, “You had best return to the inn, Thomas. If you catch the Portsmouth Flyer you can be aboard Euryalus tomorrow night!”

Herrick watched him, his face suddenly grave. “I’ll tell Allday to prepare things for you, sir.”

“Yes.” He touched his arm. “We have come a long way, Thomas. And I would not have wished for a better companion, or friend.”

He watched Herrick’s sturdy figure until he had vanished into a side street and then turned to stare at the busy scene around him.

He made to cross the road but paused to allow a fine pair of greys drawing an emerald green carriage to pass. But the coachman was reining them back and had his brightly polished boot hard on the brake.

Bolitho waited, still dazed by all that had happened and the speed of life in this great city.

The carriage window opened and a voice said, “I heard you were at the Admiralty, Captain.”