Alexander Kent - The Flag Captain

Bolitho held out the envelope and said gently, “Perhaps this will explain what we are to do, sir.”

He could see the emotions crossing and re-crossing the admiral’s wizened face. He had been hating the thought of striking his flag for the last time. But he had accepted it. It was like his illness, unbeatable. But now that there was a real possibility of continuing he was probably torn between two paths.

He said, “Show our visitor aft.” He made an effort to square his shoulders. “Then set the hands to work. It would be unwise for them to see their leaders in despair.”

Then followed by his secretary he walked slowly and painfully into the poop’s shadow.

When Bolitho joined him again in the great cabin the admiral was sitting at the desk, as if he had never left it.

“This despatch is from Sir Lucius Broughton.” He waved to a chair. “ Euryalus will remain at Falmouth to receive his flag, but at present he is in London. It seems that a new squadron is to be formed here, although to what purpose is not explained.” He sounded very tired. “You are to ensure that our people have no contact with the shore, and those sent there because of illness or injury will not be returned.” His mouth twisted angrily. “Afraid of spreading the disease on board, no doubt.”

Bolitho was still standing, his mind grappling with all that the words entailed.

The admiral continued in the same flat voice, “You will of course tell your officers what you think fit, but under no circumstances must the people be informed of the unrest at the Nore. It is worse than I feared.” He looked at Bolitho’s grim face and added: “Captain Rook is required to assist you with all your supplies, and has instructions to bring any further stores or new spars and cordage direct to the ship.”

Bolitho said slowly, “Sir Lucius Broughton, I know little of him. It is difficult to anticipate his wishes.”

The admiral smiled briefly. “His flag was flying in one of the ships which mutinied at Spithead. I imagine his main requirement will be that it does not happen again.”

He groped for his handkerchief and gripped the edge of the desk. “I must rest awhile and think of what has to be done. It would be better if you went ashore in my place. You may find that things are less dangerous than we imagine.” He met Bolitho’s

eyes. “But I would inform Captain Giffard first, so that his marines may be in readiness for trouble.” He looked away and added, “I have seen the way our people look up to you, Bolitho. Sailors are simple folk who ask little more than justice in exchange for their lot afloat. But…” the word hung in the air, “they are only human. And our first duty is to retain control, no matter at what cost.”

Bolitho picked up his hat. “I know, sir.”

He thought suddenly of the crowded world beyond the panelled bulkhead. At sea or in battle they would fight and die without question. The constant demands of harsh discipline and danger left little room for outside ideals and hopes. But once the spark touched off the latent power of these same men anything might happen, and it would be no use pleading ignorance or isolation then.

On the quarterdeck again he was conscious of the change around him. How could you expect something like this to remain a secret? News travelled like wildfire in an overcrowded ship, though none could explain how it happened.

He beckoned to Keverne and said flatly, “You will please go aft and report to Captain Rook.” He saw Keverne’s dark features settle into a mask of anticipation. “You will then inform the ship’s lieutenants and senior warrant officers of the general position. I will hold you responsible until my return. You will arrange to have the sick and injured taken ashore, but not in our boats, understood?”

Keverne opened his mouth and then closed it again. He nodded firmly.

Bolitho said, “I will tell you now. There has been rumour of mutiny at the Nore. If any stranger attempts to approach or board this ship he will be deterred at once. If that cannot be done then he will be arrested and put in isolation immediately.”

Keverne rested one hand on his sword. “If I catch a damned

sea-lawyer I’ll teach him a thing or two, sir!” His eyes blazed dangerously.

Bolitho faced him impassively. “You will obey my orders, Mr Keverne. Nothing more or less.” He turned and sought out Allday’s thickset figure by the nettings. “Call away my barge crew immediately.”

Keverne said, “You are taking your own boat, sir?”

Bolitho replied coldly, “If I cannot trust them, after what we have borne and suffered together, then I can find no hope or solution for anything!”

Without another word he strode down the ladder where the side party still waited above the swaying cutter at the entry port.

Just a moment longer he stood and looked back at his ship and at the seamen who were already busy rigging awnings and assisting the sick men through the hatchways. As was his custom he had seen that every man aboard was issued with new clothing from the slop chest. Unlike some miserly captains who allowed their men to stay in the rags worn when they were pressed in town or village alike. But right now he could find no comfort at the sight of the wide trousers and checked shirts, the healthy faces and busy preparations. Clothing, and proper food when it was at all possible to obtain it, should be their right, not the privilege handed out by some godlike commander. It was little enough for what these same men gave in return.

He shut the thought from his mind and touched his hat to the quarterdeck and side party before lowering himself down into the barge which Allday had steered purposefully between the cutter and the ship’s towering side.

“Shove off forrard!” Allday squinted into the sunlight and watched as the barge edged clear of the other boat. “Out oars, give way together!”

Then as the barge gathered speed, the oars dipping and rising as one, he looked down at Bolitho’s back and pursed his lips. He

knew most of Bolitho’s moods better than his own, and could well imagine what he must be thinking now. Mutiny in the Service he loved, and to which he had given everything. Allday had discovered all about it from the coxswain of the guardboat, a man he had served with many years back. How could a secret like that be kept for more than minutes?

He ran his eye across Bolitho’s squared shoulders with their new and strangely alien gold epaulettes and at the jet black hair beneath his cocked hat. He had hardly changed, he thought. Even though he carried them all through one hazard after another.

He glared at the bow oarsman who had let his eye wander to watch a gull diving for fish close abeam and then thought of what should have been waiting for Bolitho at Falmouth. That lovely girl and a child to welcome him home. Instead he had nothing but trouble, and once more was expected to do another’s work as well as his own.

Allday saw Bolitho’s fingers playing a little tattoo on the worn hilt of his sword and relaxed slightly. Between them they had seen and done much together. The sword seemed to sum it all up better than words or actual thought.

The barge swung round and glided into the shadow of the jetty, and as the bowman hooked on and Allday removed his hat Bolitho rose and climbed over the gunwale and on to the worn, familiar steps.

He would have liked Allday with him just now, but it would not be right to leave the barge unattended.

“You may return to the ship, Allday.” He saw the flash of anxiety in the big coxswain’s eyes and added quietly, “I will know where you are when I need you.”

Allday remained standing and watched Bolitho stride between two saluting militiamen at the top of the jetty.