Alexander Kent - The Flag Captain

The doors opened and Broughton, followed by Draffen and the flag-lieutenant, entered the cabin.

Broughton nodded curtly. “Be seated, gentlemen.” He shook his head as the servant offered him a glass. “Wait outside until I have finished.”

Bolitho noticed that Draffen had gone to the stern windows, either disinterested in what was happening or placing himself where he could see their faces without being observed himself.

Broughton cleared his throat and glanced at Draffen’s squat figure, almost black against the sunlit windows.

“As you are well aware, our fleet has been excluded from the Mediterranean since the close of last year. Bonaparte’s advances and conquests in Italy and Genoa closed all harbours against us, and it was found necessary to withdraw.”

Draffen crossed from the window. It was a quick, agile movement, and his words matched his obvious impatience.

“If I may interrupt, Sir Lucius?” He turned his back on Broughton without awaiting a reply. “We will cut this short. I have little use for the Navy’s indulgence in its own affairs.” He smiled, the wrinkles around his eyes pulling together like crow’s-feet. “England is alone in a war against a dedicated and, if you will pardon the expression, a professional adversary. With the fleets of France and Spain combining at Brest for one great attack, and then invasion of England, the withdrawal of ships to reinforce the Channel and Atlantic fleets seemed not only prudent but greatly urgent.”

Bolitho eyed Broughton narrowly, expecting some sign of anger or resentment, but his face was like stone.

Draffen continued briskly, “Jervis’s victory over that combined fleet at St Vincent has postponed, maybe smashed altogether, any chance of a military invasion across the English Channel, and has also proved the poorness of co-operation between the Franco- Spanish Alliance at sea. So it would seem sensible to assume that Bonaparte will spread his influence elsewhere, and soon.”

Broughton said suddenly, “Shall I continue?”

“If you wish.” Draffen took out a watch. “But please be quick.”

Broughton swallowed hard. “This squadron will be the first force of any size to re-enter the Mediterranean.” He got no further.

“Look at this chart, gentlemen.” Draffen snatched it from Lieutenant Calvert’s hand and opened it on the table.

As the others crowded closer Bolitho darted another glance at Broughton. He looked pale, and for a few seconds he saw his eyes gleaming with anger across Draffen’s broad back.

“Here, two hundred and fifty miles along the Spanish coast is Cartagena, where many of their ships were based prior to sailing for Brest.” Bolitho followed the man’s spatulate finger as it crossed southward over the Mediterranean to the craggy outline of the Algerian coast. “South-east from Spain, a mere one hundred and fifty miles, lies Djafou.”

Bolitho realised with a start that Draffen was looking up at him, his eyes very still and intent.

“Do you know it, Captain?”

“By reputation, sir. Once the lair of Barbary pirates, I believe. A good natural harbour, and little else.”

Draffen smiled, but his eyes were still unblinking. “The Dons seized it some years ago to protect their own coast trade. Now that they are allied to the French its harbour may be seen in another light entirely.”

Rattray asked gruffly, “As a base, sir?”

“Maybe.” Draffen straightened his back. “But my agents have reported some comings and goings from Cartagena. It would be well if our re-entry to the Mediterranean was given a purpose, something positive.” He tapped the chart again. “Your admiral knows what is expected of him, but I will tell you now that I intend to see our flag over Djafou, and without too much delay.”

In the sudden silence Broughton said stiffly, “My squadron is under strength, sir.” He glanced away and added, “However, if you think…”

Draffen nodded firmly. “Indeed I do think, Sir Lucius. I have made arrangements for bomb vessels from Lisbon. They will be here within a day or so.” His tone hardened. “If the fleet at Spithead and the Nore had been less concerned with their own domestic affairs I daresay your squadron would be fifteen or even twenty sail-of-the-line instead of four.” He shrugged. “And having only one frigate now…” He shrugged again, dismissing it. “But that remains your own concern.” He snapped his fingers.

“Now, I suggest a toast, so get that servant in here.” He grinned at their mixed expressions. “After that, there will be plenty to do.”

He looked again at Bolitho. “You say very little, Captain.”

Broughton snapped, “I will instruct my flag captain in my own way, if you please, Sir Hugo.”

“As it should be.” Draffen remained smiling. “However, I will be joining the squadron for some of the time.” He took a glass from the servant, adding, “Just to ensure that your way is also mine, eh?”

Bolitho turned away, his mind already busy with Draffen’s brisk but extremely sparse information.

It was good news indeed to know that British ships would be attacking the southern approaches of Bonaparte’s growing empire once again. To take and hold a new and strategically placed base for the fleet was a plan of both skill and imagination.

But if on the other hand Broughton’s squadron was being used merely as a cat’s-paw, a means to make the enemy withdraw forces back to the Mediterranean on a large scale, things might go badly for all of them.

There was no doubting Draffen’s authority, although what his exact status was remained a mystery. Maybe the news had already reached him of a worsening situation at the Nore. The sacrifice of this small squadron to ease enemy pressure around the Channel ports would seem no worse than Taylor’s death had measured with Broughton himself.

Whatever had been already decided, Bolitho knew that he would be directly involved in each part of it. The outlook should have cheered him, but the thought of having Broughton and Draffen in overall control was another prospect entirely.

Broughton had moved away to talk with Furneaux, and Draffen crossed to Bolitho’s side, obviously about to take his leave.

He said, “Glad to have met you, Captain. I think we are going to get on very well together.” He signalled to Calvert and then

added calmly, “As a matter of fact, I used to know your brother.” Then he swung on his heel and made his way to Broughton and the others.

Bolitho did not see Sir Hugo Draffen again for three days. But he was kept too busy with affairs aboard the Euryalus and the other ships of the squadron to find much time for speculation over his parting remarks.

The fact that he had known Hugh implied that Draffen had lived or worked in the West Indies or even America during the Revolution there. Otherwise there seemed little point in being so secretive about the meeting. Draffen had the mark of a trader, one of the sort who helped create colonies merely by finding a personal reason for making money. He was shrewd and, Bolitho imagined, not a little ruthless when it suited him.

Bolitho knew there might be nothing more in Draffen’s remarks than a first move in making contact between them. If they were going to work in harmony over the next weeks or months, it was a natural thing to expect of him. But the caution built up in Bolitho over the years since his brother’s change of allegiance had made him sensitive to a point of being over-cautious whenever Hugh’s name was mentioned.

There was much to do. Taking on extra stocks of food and water for the coming voyage and gathering any additional equipment which could be begged, borrowed or bribed from the Rock. Once abroad in the Mediterranean they would be without base or supplies, other than that which they might seize for themselves.