Alexander Kent - The Flag Captain

Allday entered the cabin carrying Bolitho’s sword. He shot a glare at Trute and said, “I’ve oiled the scabbard, Captain.” He raised the tarnished hilt a few inches and let it snap down again. “Like new, she is.”

Bolitho smiled as he slipped the belt around his waist. Allday was frowning as he readjusted the clasp, and he knew that but for Keverne’s presence he would probably be grumbling that it was the second time he had done so in a month. He would make heavy suggestions that he should eat more, for like most sailors Allday placed much value in eating and drinking to the full whenever possible.

Overhead a bell chimed the hour and Bolitho walked to the door. “I am sorry I have not been able to assist you in your promotion, Mr Keverne. But I have no doubt as to an opportunity very soon.”

Keverne smiled gravely. “Thank you, sir. For your concern.”

Bolitho walked quickly down the companion ladder to the middle deck, thinking of Keverne’s reserve, the permanent defence against showing his inner feelings. He might make a good captain one day, he thought. Especially if he could keep his temper in hand.

The marine sentries stamped to attention and a corporal opened the double doors for him.

He heard Broughton’s voice long before he had reached the stern cabin and braced himself accordingly.

“God damn your eyes, Calvert! This is appalling! You had best go to one of the midshipmen and discover how to spell!”

Bolitho entered the cabin and saw Broughton in black silhouette against the tall windows. He threw a screwed-up ball of paper at the flag-lieutenant who was sitting at the opposite side of the desk to his clerk, shouting violently, “My clerk can do twice as much in half the time!”

Bolitho looked away, embarrassed for Calvert and with himself for being here to see his humiliation. Calvert was quivering with both nervousness and resentment, while the clerk was smiling at him with obvious relish.

Broughton saw Bolitho and snapped, “Ah, here you are. Good. I will not be long.” He snatched up another sheet of paper from beneath Calvert’s fingers and turned it to the windows, his eyes darting along the scrawling writing at great speed. There were shadows beneath his eyes, and he looked extremely angry.

He glared at Calvert again. “My God, why were you born such a fool?”

Calvert half rose, his shoes scraping on the deck covering. “I did not ask to be born, sir!” he sounded almost ready to burst into tears.

Bolitho watched the admiral, expecting him to explode at the lieutenant’s rare show of defiance.

But he said indifferently, “If you had, the request would probably have been denied!” He pointed at the door. “Now get to work on those orders and see they are ready for signature in one hour.” He swung on his clerk. “And you can stop grinning like an old woman and help him!” His voice pursued him to the door. “Or I’ll have you flogged for good measure, damn you!”

The door shut and Bolitho felt the cabin closing in on him in the oppressive silence.

But Broughton said wearily, “Be seated.” He walked to the table and picked up a decanter. “Some claret, I think.” Almost to himself he added, “If I see one more snivelling subordinate before I take a drink I feel I must surely go out of my mind.” He walked to Bolitho’s chair and held out a glass. “Your health, Captain. I am surprised to see you again, and from what Gillmor of the Coquette has been babbling about, I think you too must feel some relief at being spared.” He walked to the quarter windows and stared towards the Navarra. “And you have a prisoner, they tell me?”

“Yes, sir. I believe him to be a courier. He was carrying no letters, but it seems he was to be transferred to another vessel at sea. The Navarra was well off her course, and I think he may have been intended to land in North Africa.”

Broughton grunted. “He may tell us something. These French officials are well versed in their duties. After watching their predecessors losing their heads in the Terror, they have to be. But a promise of a quick exchange with an English prisoner might help loosen his tongue.”

“My cox’n got to work on his servant, sir. A plentiful cargo of wine was very helpful. Unfortunately, the man knew little of his master’s mission or destination, other than that he is a serving officer in the French artillery. But I think we might keep our knowledge a secret until we can make better use of it.”

Broughton watched him bleakly. “That will be too late anyway.”

He crossed to the decanter again, his face set in a frown. “Draffen has obtained an excellent plan of Djafou and its defences. He must have some very remarkable friends in such a loathsome area.” He added slowly, “ Coquette brought me bad news. Apparently there has been some extra Spanish activity, especially at Algeciras. It is feared the two bomb vessels cannot sail without an escort. And with the threat of another Franco-Spanish attempt on our blockade, no such frigates can be spared.” He gripped his fingers together and snapped, “They seem to blame me for Auriga ’s desertion to the enemy, damn them!”

Bolitho waited, knowing there was more. It was very bad news indeed, for without bomb vessels this particular assault might have to be postponed. But he could appreciate the decision not to send them without escort. They were unwieldy in any sort of a sea and easy prey for a patrolling enemy frigate. The Auriga could indeed have been held at Gibraltar for the task, and the Commander-in-Chief probably thought Broughton’s inability to hold on to her a good excuse for not releasing any of his own from the blockade of Cadiz and the Strait of Gibraltar.

Or perhaps the fact was there simply were no available vessels left spare or within call. It was strange he had hardly thought of the mutiny since leaving the Rock, although it was obviously on Broughton’s mind for much of the time. Even now, as they sat drinking claret, with the bright sunlight throwing a dancing pattern of reflections across the deckhead and furniture, the French might be landing in England, or encamped around Falmouth itself. With the fleet in turmoil it was possible. He dismissed it immediately, cursing his returning drowsiness for allowing his mind to follow Broughton’s.

The admiral said, “We must act soon, or by God we’ll be fighting some French squadron before we know where we are. Without a base or anywhere to repair damage, we’ll be hard put to reach Gibraltar, let alone take Djafou.”

“May I ask what Sir Hugo advises?”

Broughton eyed him calmly. “His task is to form an administration in Djafou on our behalf, once it has been taken. He knows the place from past experience, and has been accepted by local leaders.” Some of his anger made his cheeks flush. “Bandits, the whole bunch, by the sound of ’em!”

Bolitho nodded. So Draffen had laid the foundations of the whole operation, and would manage affairs for the British government once the place had been occupied and perhaps until the fleet returned in real strength to the Mediterranean. Before and after. The piece in between was Broughton’s responsibility, and his decision could make or break not only the mission but himself as well.

He said, “Spain has been too involved in recent years in maintaining her colonies in the Americas to spare much money or help for a place like Djafou, sir. She has been beset with fighting local wars in and around the Caribbean. With privateers and pirates as well as the accepted powers, according to her shift of allegiance!” He leaned forward. “Suppose the French are also interested in Djafou, sir? Spain might easily change sides against her again in the future. Another sure foothold in the African mainland would be exactly to the French liking. It would give Djafou an additional value.”