Alexander Kent - The Flag Captain

As well he might, he thought grimly. Five ships in two unequal divisions approaching that unwavering line like huntsmen trotting towards some unbreakable barrier.

He looked once more at his own ship. Keverne had cleared for action in eight minutes in spite of everything else. From the moment the drummer boys had started their nerve-jarring tattoo the seamen and marines had gone to quarters with the intentness of men under sentence of death. Now there was only silence. Only here and there was there any movement. A ship’s boy scampering with sand to give the gun crews better grip on the deck. Fittock, the gunner, in his felt slippers making his way once again down to the threatening gloom of the magazine.

Nets were rigged above the decks and chain slings on each yard, and at every hatch an armed marine had been posted to prevent those terrified by the sights of battle from fleeing below to illusionary safety.

How clean and open it all seemed. The boats were either cast adrift or being towed astern, and below the gangways he could see the gun crews, naked to the waist, as they stared at their open ports and waited for bedlam to begin.

And it would not be long. He raised a glass and steadied it upon the leading enemy ship. She was less than two miles away on the larboard bow and therefore almost directly across Zeus ’s line of advance.

She was strangely familiar, but it had taken Partridge to explain the reason. He had said with professional interest, “I knows ’er, sir. Le Glorieux, Vice-Admiral Duplay’s flagship. Met up with ’er once off Toulon.”

Of course he should have seen it. It was like the one additional twist of fate, for Le Glorieux came from the same yard as Euryalus, to the same specifications down to the last keel bolt. But for her colouring, the broad scarlet stripes between her gunports, she was an exact twin of his own command.

He shifted the glass slowly to starboard and then held it on the two vessels in the middle of the line. Unlike the rest, they wore the red and yellow colours of Spain, placed for security’s sake in the centre where they could follow their admiral without having to display too much initiative. Initiative which had already cost their French allies dearly at St Vincent.

He heard Calvert murmuring to Midshipman Tothill, and when he lowered the glass saw him poring over the signal book, as if giving one last effort to make himself useful. Poor Calvert. If he survived this day, arrest and trial awaited him in England. Draffen’s friends would see to that.

Bolitho turned and saw Pascoe standing by the quarterdeck nine-pounders, a hand resting on his hip, and one foot on a bollard. The boy did not see him and was staring towards the enemy line.

He said to Keverne, “If possible we will break through by the Spanish ships. It will be the weakest point, if I am any judge.”

Keverne was watching Zeus. “And Captain Rattray, sir?”

Bolitho looked at him gravely. “He will act as he sees fit.” He thought of Rattray’s heavy, bulldog face and guessed he would need no urging to close with the enemy. Only one thing counted now, that they could separate the French flagship from her consorts long enough to break the line and obtain the advantage of the wind. After that it would be every man for himself.

Vice-Admiral Broughton strode out into the sunlight and nodded curtly to the officers on the quarterdeck.

For a moment longer he looked at the lee division of ships, his eyes clouded with doubt and anxiety. Then he said, “The din of battle I can endure. But the waiting is torture.”

Bolitho watched him thoughtfully. He appeared calmer again. Or was it resignation? The admiral was wearing his beautiful sword, and beneath his coat the scarlet ribbon of the Bath. Was he so despairing that he was even offering himself as target to some French marksman? All at once he felt sorry for Broughton.

Recriminations and accusations were pointless now. He was watching his squadron and his proud hopes sailing towards what must seem certain destruction.

He asked, “Will you walk a while, Sir Lucius? I find it helps ease the tension!”

Broughton fell in step beside him without protest, and as they strode slowly up and down Bolitho added quietly, “The centre of the line is the best choice, sir. Two Spanish seventy-fours.”

Broughton nodded. “Yes, I saw them. Astern of them is the second-in-command.” He halted suddenly and snapped, “Where the hell is Coquette? ”

“She is making good some repairs, sir. Auriga too has suffered damage to foremast and mizzen.” He added quietly, “They will not be of much use yet.”

Broughton looked at him for several seconds, his eyes very still. Then he asked, “Will our people fight?” He held up his hand urgently. “I mean really fight?”

Bolitho turned away. “Have no fear on that score. I know them, and…”

Broughton interrupted, “And they know you. ”

“Yes, sir.”

When he looked forward again the enemy line had extended itself across either bow, so that it seemed to hide all of the horizon with a wall of sails. At any moment now the French admiral might guess what was happening, in which case they were beaten before they had made even the smallest impression on him. Had they been given more time, or better still the fluidity and independence denied to them by Broughton’s rigid demands, they could have sent some meaningless signal to Rattray and the others. It would have made the enemy believe that at any moment now they would tack and engage his line in the same hidebound traditional style still approved by so many. But without previous experiments of that sort, any false signal would throw their meagre resources into terrible and fatal confusion.

Unless… He looked at Broughton’s strained profile.

“May I suggest a general signal before the one to engage, sir?” He saw a nerve jumping in Broughton’s throat, but his eyes were unblinking as he stared at the oncoming ships. He persisted. “From you, sir.”

“Me?” Broughton turned and looked at him with surprise.

“You said earlier that our people know me, sir. But this is my ship, and they understand my ways, as I have tried to appreciate theirs.” He gestured towards Zeus. “But all these ships are yours, and they are depending on you today.”

Broughton shook his head. “I cannot do it.”

“May I speak, sir?” It was Calvert. “The signal should read ‘My trust is in you.’” He flushed as Keverne strode towards him and clapped him on the shoulder.

“By God, Mr Calvert, I never thought you had the imagination!”

Broughton licked his lips. “If you really believe…”

Bolitho nodded to Tothill. “I do, sir. Now get that bent on and hoisted immediately. We have little time left.”

He saw the sunlight flashing on glass as several officers on Zeus ’s poop watched the sudden array of flags streaming from Euryalus ’s yards.

But he turned swiftly as the air quaked and shook to a sudden roar of gunfire. The French flagship had fired, the orange flame spurting from gun after gun as she discharged a slow broadside towards the oncoming squadron. With the approach being diagonal, most of the balls were blind, and he saw them ripping through the short wave crests and throwing up water spouts far beyond the lee division. The smoke rolled down from the enemy in a steep brown fog, until only Zeus ’s topmasts were visible.

Broughton was gripping his sword-hilt, his face tight with fixed concentration as another French ship fired and a ball slapped through the fore topsail and shrieked away over the water.

Bolitho said tersely, “ Listen, sir!” He strode to the admiral’s side. “Hear them?”