Alexander Kent - The Flag Captain

Allday said quietly, “So he’s arrived, Captain?” While the Auriga moved slowly towards the anchorage, the salute banging out at regular five-second intervals, Bolitho made himself walk back and forth along the weather side of the quarterdeck. Glasses would be trained on the frigate, he must be seen to be both safe and in control. It seemed to take an age for those last moments to drag by. Moments in which he wondered what had happened to Rear-Admiral Thelwall, and what Broughton would think of his actions. When he looked again he saw the Euryalus swinging across the bowsprit as the frigate went about, and with canvas cracking and slapping against the yards turned easily into the wind. The anchor had barely dropped into the water when Bolitho heard another sound, growing in the clear air like a roll of great drums. As he swung round and ran to the side he saw, with something like sick horror, the three rows of gun ports along the Euryalus ’s side opening together, and as if guided by a single hand, the whole triple array of black muzzles running out into the sunlight.

The lieutenant murmured, “My God!” Taylor ran aft, pointing dazedly. “Boats comin’, sir!” There were nearly a dozen of them. Cutters and launches, all crammed with marines, their coats shining like blood as they sat motionless between the busy oars.

Some of the seamen seemed unable to drag their eyes from the Euryalus ’s massive armament, as if they expected every gun to open fire. A few remained staring at the quarterdeck, watching Bolitho, perhaps hoping to read their own fate on his face.

The leading boat rounded the frigate’s quarter, shielded from the flagship’s guns, and headed towards the entry port. Captain Rook was in the sternsheets, and as he drew alongside he looked up and shouted, “Are you safe, sir?”

Allday muttered, “Bloody fool!” But Bolitho did not hear.

He looked down at Rook’s red face and replied, “Of course.” He hoped the seamen nearby would hear him. They would need all their trust in the next few moments.

Rook clambered up to the deck and touched his hat.

“ We were worried, sir, very worried indeed.” He saw the two lieutenants watching him and shouted, “Hand your swords to the lieutenant of marines immediately!”

Bolitho snapped, “By whose order?”

“I beg pardon, sir,” Rook looked uncomfortable. “By order of Vice-Admiral Sir Lucius Broughton.” He turned as more boats grappled alongside and the gangway suddenly came alive with grimfaced marines, their muskets and fixed bayonets trained on the crowded main deck.

Bolitho crossed over to the lieutenants. “Rest assured, I will see that you are not abused.” He looked at Rook. “I am making you responsible.”

The one-armed officer wiped his forehead worriedly. “As you say, sir.”

Bolitho walked back to the quarterdeck rail and looked along the crowded mass of silent seamen.

“I gave you my word. Keep your peace and obey orders. I shall go across and meet the admiral without delay.”

He saw Taylor make as if to come aft and then stop when a marine jerked a bayonet in his direction.

Bolitho called, “I have not forgotten, Taylor.”

Then he turned and made his way to the port. A boat was coming from the Euryalus. No doubt for him, and an explanation.

He glanced back at the silent, watching men. They were

dreading what would happen next. No, they were terrified, he could almost smell their fear, and wanted to reassure them.

He thought suddenly of Brice who had caused it all, and of the clerk Gates who had used the captain’s cruelty for his own ends. Now Gates was free somewhere, and Brice might just as easily escape without dishonour. He tightened his jaw and waited impatiently for the boat to get alongside.

We shall see, he thought coldly.

Bolitho raised his hat to the quarterdeck and asked quietly, “Well, Mr Keverne? I think I need an explanation, and quickly.”

Keverne replied just as quietly, “I could not help it sir. Vice-Admiral Broughton arrived during the last dog watch yesterday. He came overland by way of Truro.” He shrugged helplessly, his face worried. “I had to tell him of your sealed orders, and he required me to open them.”

Bolitho paused by the poop and looked down at the larboard battery of twelve-pounders, still run out and pointing at the Auriga. Most of their crews, however, were looking aft at him, their expressions torn between surprise and anxiety. As well they might, he thought bitterly.

But it was not Keverne’s fault, and that was something. For a while he had been tortured with the idea that Keverne might have given his secret orders willingly, to ingratiate himself with the new admiral.

He asked, “How is Sir Charles?”

Keverne shook his head. “No better, sir.”

The second lieutenant crossed the deck and touched his hat, “The vice-admiral is waiting to see you, sir.” He fidgeted with his sword hilt. “With respect, sir, he seems somewhat impatient.”

Bolitho forced a slow smile. “Very well, Mr Meheux, it is a day for urgency.”

But he did not feel like smiling. He could not blame the admi-

ral for demanding to know of his whereabouts. After all, flag officers were not accustomed to making excuses for their own lateness, or explaining their reasons to subordinates. But to have the frigate put under the guns of his own flagship was unthinkable.

He made himself walk the last few steps to the admiral’s quarters at a slower pace. To give his mind time to clear for the confrontation.

A marine corporal opened the door, his eyes blank. Even he seemed like a stranger.

Vice-Admiral Sir Lucius Broughton was standing right aft by the tall windows, a telescope trained towards the shore. He was wearing his undress blue coat and gold epaulettes, and appeared thoroughly engrossed. When he turned Bolitho saw that he was much younger than he had anticipated, about forty, the same age as himself. He was not tall, but his body was slim and upright, giving an impression of height. That again was fairly unusual. Once they had attained the coveted flag rank, admirals often tended to run to portliness. Spared the constant demands of watchkeeping, or appearing on deck at all times of day and night, they reaped rewards other than those of high command.

Broughton’s face was neither angry nor impatient. In fact, it was relaxed to a point of complete calm. He had light brown hair, quite short, and tied in a small queue above his collar.

“Ah, Bolitho, so we meet at last.” He was not being sarcastic, merely matter-of-fact. As if Bolitho had just returned from some vague journey.

His voice was easy and aristocratic, and when he walked across a patch of sunlight from the stern windows Bolitho saw that his clothes were of the finest materials, his sword hilt hand-worked in gold facings.

He replied, “I am sorry I was not here to greet you, sir. There was some doubt as to your time of arrival.”

“Quite.” Broughton sat down at the desk and regarded him calmly. “I expect to be receiving news of my other ships very shortly. After that, the sooner we are at sea and working in company the better.”

Bolitho cleared his throat. “The Auriga, sir. With respect, I would like to explain what has happened.”

Broughton pressed his fingertips together and smiled gently. For a few moments he looked almost boyish, his eyes shining with something like amusement.

“By all means, Bolitho, although I would have thought that explanations are hardly needed. Your action to prevent the ship falling in French hands was, to say the least, unorthodox, and at no little personal risk. Your loss to me would have been a hard one, although some might say the loss of the frigate would have been even more serious.” He shifted in the chair, the smile gone. “But the frigate is here in Falmouth, and all such vessels are too short in numbers for us to be over-particular about their past records.”