Alexander Kent - The Flag Captain

“I believe her captain should be removed at once, sir. Also her first lieutenant.” Bolitho tried to relax, but for once he felt uneasy, even out of his depth with the new admiral. He added, “It took some courage for the ship’s company to act as they did. But for the Spithead trouble, and the promises made to our people there, it might never have happened.”

Broughton looked at him thoughtfully. “You obviously do not believe that. You think that this Brice caused it himself, and possibly you’re right.” He shrugged. “Sir Charles Thelwall told me of his great trust in your reasoning. I will of course be guided by that.”

Bolitho said, “I gave my word to them, sir. That their complaints would be properly investigated.”

“Did you? Well, of course that would be expected. No blame will attach to you now that you have retrieved the ship intact.”

Again the brief smile. “To lie skilfully and in a good cause is always forgivable.”

“It was no lie, sir.” Bolitho could feel his apprehension giving way to anger. “They were brutally used-worse, they were driven beyond reason.”

He waited, watching for some sign, but Broughton’s face was empty of expression.

He continued slowly, “I am sure Sir Charles would have acted with humanity, sir. Especially in view of the circumstances elsewhere.”

“Sir Charles has gone ashore.” He could have been speaking of an unwanted piece of baggage. “I will decide what is to be done. When I have examined all the facts.” He paused. “Facts, Bolitho, not supposition, then I will tell you what I desire to be done. In the meantime, Captain Brice and his officers will be quartered ashore with the garrison. You will supply a guard watch aboard Auriga in company with the marines.”

He stood up and walked round the desk, his movements easy, almost graceful.

“I hate any sort of unnecessary recriminations, Bolitho!” His mouth tightened. “But I have already had my fill of deputations and degradation at Spithead. I’ll suffer none of it under my flag here.”

Bolitho watched him despairingly. “If I could be given permission to deal with the matter, sir? It will be a bad beginning to take severe action…”

The admiral sighed. “You are persistent. I hope that characteristic is not confined merely to domestic matters. But if you will write a full report I will see what must be done.” He looked Bolitho steadily in the eyes. “You must know that being efficient is not the easiest way to popularity.” He seemed to become impatient. “But enough of that for the present. I will be giving dinner in my cabin tonight. I find it the best way of meeting my

officers!” The smile reappeared. “No objections to that, I trust?” Bolitho tried to hide his anger. He was more disturbed with his own inability to convince Broughton than he was with the admiral’s wishes over dinner. He had managed the interview badly, and blamed himself accordingly. The admiral only knew what he was told, could only act on facts, as he had just explained. He replied, “I am sorry, sir. I did not mean to…” Broughton raised one hand. “Do not apologise. I like a man with fire in his belly. If I had wanted a flag captain who merely said yes all the time, I could have got one of a hundred!” He nodded. “And you have been up all night. That cannot have helped. Now be so good as to send for the purser. I will tell him what I require from the town. I have just been looking at it. Small, but not too rustic, I hope.”

Bolitho smiled for the first time. “I was born here, sir.” The admiral eyed him calmly. “Now there is an admission.” Bolitho made to leave the cabin but paused and said, “May I order the guns to be secured, sir?”

“You are her captain, Bolitho, as well as mine.” He lifted an eyebrow. “You do not approve of my action?”

“It is not that exactly, sir.” It was starting again, but he could not halt the words. “I have been with this ship for eighteen months. This matter of the frigate is bad enough, without their having to fire on their own kind into the bargain.”

“Very well.” Broughton yawned. “You really do care, do you not?”

Bolitho nodded firmly. “About trust, sir? Aye, I do.” “I really must take you to London with me, Bolitho.” Broughton walked back to the windows, his face in shadow. “You would be something of a novelty there. Unique in fact.”

Bolitho reached the sunlit quarterdeck without seeing a foot of the journey.

Keverne touched his hat and asked anxiously, “Any orders, sir?”

“Yes, Mr Keverne. Pass the word for the purser and then…” He paused, still thinking of the Auriga and Broughton’s quiet amusement.

“Then, sir?”

“Then keep out of my way, Mr Keverne, until I say otherwise!”

The master watched him stride to the side and begin to pace back and forth, his brows set in a frown of concentration.

To the baffled Keverne he said quietly, “More squalls, I’m thinkin’. An’ not for the better.”

Keverne glared at him. “When I need your opinion, Mr Partridge, I’ll damn well ask for it!” Then he too hurried away towards the quarterdeck ladder.

Partridge glanced up at the new flag at the fore. Young puppy, he chuckled unfeelingly. Wrath went with rank. Things never changed in the Navy. He turned, realising that the captain had stopped his pacing and was studying him gravely.

“Sir?”

“I was just thinking, Mr Partridge, how nice it must be to have nothing to do in the whole world but stand in the sun grinning like some village idiot.”

The master swallowed hard. “Sorry, sir.”

Surprisingly, Bolitho smiled. “Continue to stand if you wish. I have a feeling that this peace is to be shortlived.” He turned on his heel and walked briskly beneath the poop towards his cabin.

Partridge sighed and mopped his chins with a red handkerchief. A flagship could often make life hard on a sailing master. Then he looked across at the anchored frigate and shook his head sadly. Still, he thought, others were worse off. A whole lot worse.

The smart, maroon-painted berlin rattled busily over a humpbacked bridge and swung left on to the main coach road for Falmouth.

Richard Bolitho put out one hand to steady himself against the swaying motion as the wheels bounced into the steep ruts and watched the dust pouring back from the horses’ hoofs and from beneath the carriage itself. He was only half aware of the passing countryside, the different shades of green and occasional clumps of sheep in the fields adjoining the narrow, twisting road. In his best dress uniform and cocked hat he was hot and uncomfortable, and the berlin’s violent motion was worse than any small boat in a choppy harbour, yet he hardly noticed any of these things.

The previous day Rear-Admiral Thelwall had died in his sleep at Bolitho’s house, at peace for the first time in many months.

When Captain Rook had conveyed the news to the anchored Euryalus Vice-Admiral Broughton had said, “I understand it was his wish to return to Norfolk. You had better make the necessary arrangements, Bolitho.” He had given one of his relaxed smiles. “Anyway, I think Sir Charles would have wished to know you were with him on the last journey.”

And so with unseemly haste, a small procession of carriages had set out for Truro, where the little admiral’s body would await collection for the long ride to the other side of England.

It was difficult to know if Broughton was being sincere about his regrets. It was true he had much to do in his new command, and yet Bolitho got the distinct impression that Broughton was a man who had little time for anything which did not work at full efficiency. Or anyone who was beyond help or further use.