Alexander Kent - The Flag Captain

“Yes. That was well done, Mr Keverne.”

A voice called, “The Valorous is on station, sir!”

“Very well.” Bolitho moved to the weather side as the parties of seamen and marines hurried across the planking and vanished to their messdecks below. A cramped, teeming world where they lived between the guns they would serve in battle, with little more than a shoulder’s breadth to swing a hammock. He wondered what some of them were thinking of their new destination.

Draffen’s face glowed momentarily as he peered at the compass. Then he moved back to Bolitho’s side and fell in step with him as he began to pace slowly up and down below the empty nettings.

“It must be a strange feeling for you, Bolitho.”

“How so, sir?” Bolitho had almost forgotten that he was not alone in his usual restless pacing.

“To command a ship like this. One which you yourself took in battle.” He hurried on, exploring a theme which had obviously given him some thought. “In your shoes I would be wondering if I could defend a vessel when I had in fact seized her in the face of great odds.”

Bolitho frowned. “Circumstances must always play a great part, sir.”

“But tell me, as I am greatly interested. What do you think of her as a ship?”

Bolitho paused by the quarterdeck rail, resting his palms on it, feeling the wood shaking under his touch as if the whole complex mass of timber and rigging was a living being.

“She is fast for her size, sir, and only four years old. She handles well, and the hull has some fine factors too.” He gestured forward. “Unlike our own ships-of-the-line, her planking is continued right around the bow, so there is no weak bulkhead to receive an enemy’s fire.”

Draffen showed his teeth. “I like your enthusiasm. It is some comfort. But I imagined you would say otherwise. A born sea officer, a man from a long line of sailing men, I’d have laid odds on your despising the work of an enemy shipyard.” He laughed softly. “I was wrong, it appears.”

Bolitho eyed him calmly. “The French are fine builders. Line for line their hulls are faster and better than our own.”

Draffen spread his hands in mock alarm. “Then how can we win? How have we been victorious against greater numbers of the enemy?”

Bolitho shook his head. “The enemy’s weakness does not lie in his ships, or in his courage either. It is leadership. Two-thirds of their trained and experienced officers were butchered in the Terror. And they’ll not regain their confidence while they are bottled up in harbour by our blockade.” He knew Draffen was deliberately drawing him out but continued, “Each time they break out and engage our squadrons they learn a little more, grow steadily more confident, even if a sea victory is denied them. Blockade is no longer the answer, in my opinion. It hurts the innocent as much as those for whom it is intended. Clearcut, decisive action is the solution. Hit the enemy whenever and wherever you can, the size of the actions is almost immaterial.”

The officer of the watch was admonishing a defaulter who had been brought aft by a bosun’s mate, his voice grating in a fierce whisper.

Bolitho moved away with Draffen falling in step beside him.

Draffen asked, “But there will be a final confrontation between the two major fleets, eventually?”

“I have no doubts, sir. But I still believe the more attacks we can make on the enemy’s communications, his bases and trade, the more likely we are of a lasting victory on land.” He smiled awkwardly. “As a sailor it hurts me to say it. But no victory can be complete until your own soldiers have hoisted a flag on the enemy’s battlements!”

Draffen smiled gravely. “Maybe you will have a chance to put your theory into action very shortly. It will largely depend on our meeting with one of my agents. I arranged for him to make a regular rendezvous. It is to be hoped he has found it possible.”

Bolitho pricked up his ears. That was the first he had heard of anything about a rendezvous. Broughton had given him the briefest of detail so far. The squadron was to patrol off Djafou, out of sight of land, while the Coquette explored inshore for further information. Normal tactics. Normal and frustratingly dull, he had thought. Now with the prospect of gaining other, more

secret news of the enemy’s deployment, the whole face of the operation had changed.

Draffen said, “I find it slightly unnerving when I think of tomorrow. We might meet with an entire enemy fleet. Does that not upset you?”

Bolitho looked at him, but his face was in deep shadow. It was hard to tell if he was testing him again or merely making light of what was a very real possibility.

“I have lived with that prospect in fear, excitement or mere bewilderment on and off since I was twelve, sir.” Bolitho kept his voice equally grave. Then he grinned. “But so far I have never had any of my reactions taken into consideration, least of all by the enemy!”

Draffen chuckled. “I will go below and sleep easily now. I have taxed you too much as it is. But please keep me informed if anything unusual occurs.”

Bolitho stood aside. “I will, sir. You and my admiral.”

Draffen walked away laughing to himself. “We will talk further.” Then he was gone.

The midshipman of the watch hurried across the deck and reported to his lieutenant that the stern light had been lit. Through the mass of rigging Bolitho could see the Tanais ’s own lantern shining like a firefly and playing across the ruffled water of her wake.

He heard the lieutenant say sharply, “It took you long enough, Mr Drury!” And then the boy’s mumbled reply.

It was not difficult to see Adam Pascoe’s shape standing there in the shadows instead of the luckless Drury.

Bolitho had tried not to worry about his young nephew, but meeting with Inch had again made the boy’s absence seem suddenly real and beyond his reach. There had been letters, of course, both from him and his captain, Bolitho’s best friend, Herrick. But, like the Euryalus, his ship, the old sixty-four Impulsive, had

little concern for the warmth and hope brought by the mail boats, or hoarded in some harbour office on the offchance the ships might one day drop anchor.

Bolitho began to walk again, trying to picture Adam as he had last seen him. But he would be different now. Perhaps a stranger? He quickened his pace, suddenly aware of his concern.

It was two years since they had parted. The boy to join Herrick’s ship and he to take command and tend to the refitting of his prize, the Euryalus. He would be seventeen, perhaps already awaiting his chance to try for promotion to lieutenant. Would two more years have changed him much? he wondered. Would he still be forming his own mould, or taking after Hugh?

He realised with a start that the midshipman was blocking his path, his eyes gleaming white in the shadows.

“Beg pardon, sir, but the officer of the watch sends his respects, and, and,” he faltered under his captain’s gaze, “and could we take in a reef. The wind appears to be getting up, sir.”

Bolitho studied him impassively. He had not even noticed the change in the wind’s sound through the shrouds. He had been more worried by his own thoughts than he had realised.

He asked sharply, “How old are you, Mr Drury?”

The boy gulped. “Thirteen, sir.”

“I see. Well, Mr Drury, you have a long and very stormy passage ahead of you before you attain your own command.”

“Yessir.” He sounded fearful of what was coming next.

“And a young officer without fingers can find the handicap a real problem. So in future I do not wish to learn of your agility with a candle as a target for swordplay, do you understand?”