Alexander Kent - The Flag Captain

The berlin swerved and he heard the coachman yelling curses at a small carrier’s cart drawn by one sleepy-looking pony. The

cart was laden with chickens and farm produce, and the red-faced driver returned the barrage with equal vigour and vulgarity.

Bolitho smiled. It was probably one of his brother-in-law’s farm workers, and he realised with a start that in the four busy days since his bringing the Auriga into Falmouth he had not laid an eye either on him or any of his relatives.

The coach settled down on a firmer piece of road for the last three-mile run to the sea, and he found himself thinking back over the hectic and demanding days following on his arrival and that of his new admiral.

He could not recall anyone quite like Broughton. He usually seemed so relaxed, yet he had a mind like quicksilver and never seemed to tire.

Bolitho could remember how at his dinner party in the great cabin he kept the conversation moving amongst the assembled ship’s officers, never monopolising it, yet making everyone present very aware of his overall control.

He was still not sure he really understood the man behind the charm and the easy refinement which Broughton displayed on most occasions.

Broughton seemed to be unreachable, yet Bolitho knew he was only excusing his own dislike and mistrust for many of the things which the admiral represented. Privilege and an undisputed pattern of power, another world which Bolitho had had little part of, and wanted still less.

When Broughton spoke of his house in London, the constant comings and goings of names and personalities, it was no mere boasting. It was his natural way of life. Something he took as his right.

Listening to him as the wine was passed and the three-decker rolled easily at her anchor, it was excusable to think that all important decisions in the war against France and her growing allies were made not in Admiralty but around the coffee

tables of London, or at receptions in houses such as his own.

In spite of this, however, Bolitho had no doubt as to Broughton’s understanding of wider affairs and the internal politics of the Navy. Broughton had fought at the battle of Cape St Vincent some three months earlier, and his grasp of the tactics, his ability to paint a visual picture for Bolitho’s benefit, was impressive.

Bolitho could recall his own envy and bitterness when news of Jervis’s great victory had reached him as he had carried out the wretched routine of blockade off southern Ireland. Had the enemy made a real attempt to invade Ireland, and had the Euryalus and her few consorts managed to call them to battle, he might have felt differently. As he had eagerly scanned the reports of Jervis’s victory he had been aware yet again how much luck there seemed to be in drawing two forces together for a convulsive action.

Old Admiral Jervis had been made Earl St Vincent because of it, and another name, that of Commodore Nelson, had brought a ring of new hope for the future.

Bolitho could recall seeing the young Nelson briefly during the ill-fated venture at Toulon. He was two years younger than himself, yet already a commodore, and provided he could stay alive would soon reach further heights in the chain of command.

Bolitho did not grudge such a sea officer his just rewards, but at the same time was fully aware of his own backwater, or that was how it appeared.

Euryalus had been joined by three more ships-of-the-line, all seventy-fours, two frigates, including Auriga, and a small sloop. Anchored in fine array in Falmouth Bay they made an impressive sight, but he knew from bitter experience that once at sea and spread out in an empty, tossing desert they would appear not so vast or invincible. It was unlikely that Broughton’s small squadron was to be entrusted with anything but the fringe of more important affairs.

The one bright light in the busy four days of Broughton’s

command had been his final acceptance of Bolitho’s suggestions and pleas on behalf of the Auriga ’s ship’s company.

The master’s mate, Taylor, was in custody and would no doubt be disrated. Captain Brice and his first lieutenant were still ashore with the garrison, and the frigate’s daily life had shown an amazing improvement. Apart from her own newly arrived marines there were no additional guards aboard, and Bolitho had sent Lieutenant Keverne to take temporary command until a new captain was appointed. The fact that Broughton had agreed to all this, and Keverne was seen to be the chosen officer aboard, made the lieutenant’s chance of promotion and permanent command very likely. Bolitho would be sorry to lose him, but glad to see him get such an unexpected chance.

The horses slowed and topped the last rise, so that he could see the harbour and the sea beyond spread like a colourful map below him. The anchored squadron, the busy comings and goings of Captain Rook’s shore boats, showed both purpose and readiness. Once at sea, it should not take too long to get each captain used to the other’s ways, for the ships to work as one through the mind of their admiral.

But where they would eventually sail, or what their final role entailed, was still a mystery. Broughton knew a lot more than he confided and had said several times, “You prepare my ships, Bolitho. I will settle the rest once I hear from London.”

Broughton certainly appeared confident that everything was working out to his satisfaction. As the ships laboured from sunrise to sunset, restoring and watering, replenishing cordage and sharing out whatever human harvest collected by Rook’s press-gangs, he spent most of his time in his cabin or dining ashore with the local officials who might help speed the refitting of his command.

All the gloom and most of the apprehension which the Auriga ’s arrival had brought to Falmouth had disappeared, and Bolitho was

grateful that Broughton had shown humanity and such leniency over the matter. What had occurred at Spithead must never occur again, and he would have to watch not only the Auriga but each ship of the squadron to make doubly certain of it.

He picked up his sword from the seat and watched while the berlin rolled across the worn cobbles and squeaked to a halt outside the familiar coaching inn by the jetty, the horses steaming and tossing their heads, impatient for their rest and feed.

A few townspeople moved around the square, but he was instantly aware of the redcoated soldiers and an air of tension which had been lacking when he had left with Thelwall’s body for Truro.

He saw Rook hurrying towards him, his face working with relief and concern.

“What is it?” Bolitho took his arm and led him into the inn’s long shadow.

Rook glanced around him. “The Nore. The mutiny has not only spread, but the whole of the fleet there is in the hands of mutineers and under arms!” He dropped his voice. “A brig from Plymouth brought the news today. Your admiral is in a savage mood because of it.”

Bolitho fell in step beside him, keeping his face calm although his mind was racing at this latest news.

“But how can it be that we have only just heard?”

Rook rugged at his neckcloth as if it was choking him.

“A patrol found the London courier dead in a hedgerow. His throat cut and his pouch empty. Someone knew he was riding here and made sure Admiral Broughton would stay in ignorance for as long as possible.” He signalled towards a seaman by the jetty. “Call a boat alongside, man!”

Bolitho walked to the edge of the warm stonework and looked towards the ships. Euryalus shimmered in a heat haze and there seemed to be plenty of work going on both aloft and around her

decks. Was it possible that things could change so quickly? That order and training would give way to mutiny and distrust?