Alexander Kent - The Flag Captain

Ferguson appeared again, his face set in a frown.

“Beg pardon, sir, but there’s a man to see you. He is most insistent.”

“Who is he?”

“I have never laid eyes on him before. A seafaring fellow, there’s no doubt of that, but no officer or gentleman, I’m equally sure!”

Bolitho smiled. It was hard to recall Ferguson as the man who had once been brought aboard his ship Phalarope by the press-gang, he and Allday together, poles apart it had appeared at the time. Yet they had become firm friends, and even when Ferguson had lost an arm at the Saintes he had continued to serve Bolitho here as his steward. Like Allday, he seemed to have that same protective attitude when anything uncertain or unusual was about to occur.

He said, “Show him in. He’ll not be too dangerous, I think.”

Ferguson ushered the visitor through the doors and closed them with obvious reluctance. He would be waiting within a foot of the entrance, Bolitho guessed, just in case.

“What can I do for you?”

The man was thickset and muscular, well tanned and with hair

fashioned into a pigtail. He was wearing a coat which was far too small for him, and Bolitho imagined it had been borrowed to cover up his true identity. For there was no mistaking his broad white trousers and buckled shoes. Even if he had been stark naked he would have known him to be a sailor.

“I begs yer pardon for the liberty, sir.” He knuckled his forehead while his eyes moved quickly round the room. “Me name’s Taylor, master’s mate o’ th’ Auriga, sir.”

Bolitho watched him calmly. He had a faint North Country burr, and was obviously nervous. A deserter hoping for mercy, or a place to hide in another ship? It was not unknown for such men to run back to the one and only world where they might be safe with any sort of luck. Yet there was something vaguely familiar about him.

Taylor added quickly, “I was with you in th’ Sparrow, sir. Back in seventy-nine in th’ West Indies.” He watched Bolitho anxiously. “I was maintopman then, sir.”

Bolitho nodded slowly. “Of course, I remember you now.” In the little sloop Sparrow, his first-ever command, when he had been just twenty-three, and the world had seemed a place for reckless enjoyment and unbounded ambition,

“ We ’eard you was back sir.” Taylor was speaking rapidly. “An’ because o’ me knowin’ you like, I was chosen to come.” He smiled bitterly. “I thought as I’d ’ave to borrow a boat or swim to yer ship. You comin’ ashore so soon made things easier like.” He dropped his eyes under Bolitho’s gaze.

“Are you in trouble, Taylor?”

He looked up, his eyes suddenly defensive. “That will depend on you, sir. I was chosen to speak with you, an’, an’, knowin’ you as a fair an’ just captain, sir, I thought maybe you’d listen to…”

Bolitho stood up and studied him calmly. “Your ship, where is she lying?”

Taylor jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Long the coast to

th’ east’rd, sir.” Something like pride crossed his tanned face. “Frigate, thirty-six, sir.”

“I see.” Bolitho walked slowly to the empty fireplace and back again. “And you, and men like you, have seized control, is that it? A mutineer? ” He saw the man flinch and added harshly, “If you knew me, really knew me, you’d realise I’d not parley with those who betray their trust!”

Taylor said thickly, “If you’d ’ear me out, sir, that’s all I ask. After that you can ’ave me seized an’ ’anged if you so wish it, an’ well I knows that fact.”

Bolitho bit his lip. It had taken courage to come here like this. Courage and something more. This Taylor was no freshly pressed man, no lower deck sea-lawyer. He was a professional seaman. It could not have been easy for him. At any moment during his journey to Falmouth he might have been seen anyway by someone wishing to ingratiate himself with the authorities, and a patrol might even now be marching to the gates.

He said, “Very well. I cannot promise to agree with your views, but I will listen. That is all I can say.”

Taylor relaxed slightly. “We ’ave bin attached to the Channel Fleet, sir, an’ in regular commission for two years. We’ve ’ad little rest, for the fleet is always short o’ frigates, as you well knows. We was at Spit’ead when the trouble started last month, but our cap’n put to sea afore we could show our support with the others.” He bunched his hands tightly and continued bitterly, “I must say it, sir, so’s you’ll understand. Our cap’n’s a ’ard man, an’ th’ first lieutenant’s so taken with abusin’ the people there’s ’ardly one aboard whose back ’as not bin ripped open by th’ cat!”

Bolitho gripped his hands behind him. Stop him now, before he says any more. By listening so far you have implicated yourself in God knows what.

Instead he said coldly, “We are at war, Taylor. Times are hard for officers as well as seamen.”

Taylor eyed him stubbornly. “When the trouble broke at Spit’ead it was agreed by th’ delegates of the Fleet that we would go to sea an’ fight if th’ Frogs came out. There’s not a single Jack who’d be disloyal, sir. But some o’ the ships ’ave bad officers, sir, there’s none can say otherwise. There’s some where no pay or bounty ’as bin paid for months an’ the ’ands near starvin’ on foul food! When Black Dick,” he flushed, “beg pardon, sir, I mean Lord ’Owe, spoke to our delegates it was all settled. ’E agreed to our requests as best ’e could.” He frowned. “But we was at sea by then an’ ’ad no part in the settlement. In fact, our cap’n ’as bin worse instead o’ better! An’ that’s God’s truth, on my oath!”

“So you’ve taken the ship?”

“Aye, sir. Until justice is agreed on.” He looked at the floor. “ We ’eard of the orders to join this new squadron under Vice-Admiral Broughton. It’ll maybe mean years away from England. It’s not fair that our wrongs should stay unrighted. We knew Admiral Broughton at Spit’ead, sir. ’E’s said to be a good officer, but would go ’ard with any more trouble.”

“And if I say nothing can be done, what then?”

Taylor looked him in the eyes. “There’s many aboard who swear we’ll ’ang anyway. They want to sail the ship to France an’ trade ’er for their freedom.” He hardened his jaw. “But those like me say otherwise, sir. We just want our rights like the boys at Spit’ead got.”

Bolitho eyed him narrowly. How much did Taylor know of the other unrest at the Nore? He might be genuine, or could be the tool of someone more experienced in revolt. There was little doubt that what he had said of his ship was true.

He said, “Have you harmed anyone aboard?”

“None, sir, you’ve my word.” Taylor spread his hands pleadingly. “If you could tell ’em that you’d put our case to the admiral, sir, it’d make a world o’ difference! “Something like a sad smile showed on his rough features. “I think some of the lieutenants an’

th’ master are a might glad it’s ’appened, sir. It’s bin a terrible un’appy ship.”

Bolitho’s mind moved rapidly. Vice-Admiral Broughton might be in London. He could be anywhere. Until he hoisted his flag Rear-Admiral Thelwall was still in command, and he was too sick to be involved in anything like this.

There was Captain Rook, and the officer commanding the local garrison. There were probably dragoons still at Truro, and the port admiral thirty miles away in Plymouth. And all were equally useless at this moment of time.

If a frigate was indeed handed over to the enemy it might act as a general signal to the men at the Nore, who were still hovering on the brink of mutiny. It might even be seen as the thing to do when all else had failed. A chill ran down his spine. If the French got to hear of it they would act without delay to put an invasion into force. The thought of a confused demoralised fleet being destroyed because he alone had failed to act was unthinkable, no matter what the consequences might be later.