Alexander Kent - The Flag Captain

“Sir?” He hurried to his side, suddenly fearful that Bolitho had been wounded again. “Look, sir!”

Bolitho released the rail and put his arm round the boy’s thin shoulders. He was desperately tired, and the pain in his wound was like a branding iron. But just a little longer.

Very slowly he said, “Adam. Tell me.” He swallowed hard. He could barely risk speaking. “That boat!”

Pascoe stared at his face and then down into the sea nearby. A longboat was pulling towards the Euryalus ’s shot-scarred

side, crammed to the gunwales with dripping, exhausted men. He replied hesitantly, “Yes, Uncle. I see him, too.” Bolitho gripped his shoulder more tightly and watched the boat’s misty outline as it nudged alongside. Beside its coxswain he saw Herrick peering up at him, his strained face set in a grin while he supported a wounded marine against his chest.

Keverne came striding aft, an unspoken question on his lips, but paused as Broughton snapped, “If you are to have Auriga, Mr Keverne, I would be obliged if you would take command here until such time as a transfer is possible!” He looked at Bolitho with his arm round the boy’s shoulder. “I think my flag captain has done enough.” He saw Allday hurrying down to the entry port. “For all of us.”

The Admiralty messenger ushered Bolitho and Herrick into a waiting room and closed the door with hardly a glance. Bolitho walked to a window and looked down at the crowded highway, his mind conscious only of sudden anticlimax. It was very quiet in the waiting room, and through the window he could feel the late September sunlight warm against his face. But down below, the people who hurried so busily about their affairs were well wrapped, and the many horses which trotted with carriages and carts in every direction gave some hint of the coming winter with their steaming breath and bright blankets.

Behind him he heard Herrick moving restlessly around the room, and wondered if like himself he was preparing for the coming interview with resignation or anxiety.

What an unnerving place London was. No wonder the messenger had treated them with such indifference, for the entrance hall and corridors had been crammed with sea officers, few of

them lowlier than captains. All intent on their own worlds of appointments, ships, or the mere necessity of appearing busy in the centre of Britain’s naval power.

Nearly three months had passed since the French flagship had blasted herself apart in one terrible explosion, during which time he had been more than fully occupied getting the battered squadron to Gibraltar without further losses, and there await orders.

As the many wounded had died or made some kind of recovery, and the ships’ companies had worked without respite to repair as much of the damage as possible under the Rock’s limited resources, Bolitho had waited for some acknowledgement of their efforts.

Eventually a brig had arrived with despatches for Broughton. Those ships ready and able to set sail would do so immediately. Not to join Lord St Vincent off Cadiz, but for England. After all they had achieved and endured together it was hard to see the small squadron scattered.

Valorous was almost beyond repair, and with Tanais, which was in not much better state, had remained at Gibraltar. With the two French seventy-fours taken as prizes the remainder had sailed, and in due course anchored at Portsmouth. There again, the necessary business of dispersal and repair was continued. But it meant bidding farewell to many more familiar faces. Keverne, who had received his just promotion to commander, had been given Auriga. Captain Rattray had been carried ashore to Haslar Hospital, where with only one leg and half blinded by splinters he would probably end his days.

Furneaux had died in the battle, and Gillmor had received separate orders to take his Coquette and join the Channel Fleet, where as always there was a shortage of frigates.

As day had followed day in Portsmouth harbour Bolitho had found time to wonder how Broughton’s report had been received at the Admiralty.

With the span of time behind him, their findings and hardships at Djafou, the last desperate battle with twice their number of the enemy seemed to fade and become less real. Broughton had appeared to feel much as he did, for most of the time he had remained aloof in his quarters or paced alone on the poop resisting every contact but the requirements of duty.

Then, just two days ago, the summons had arrived. Broughton and his flag captain were to report to the Admiralty. One unexpected addition had been for Herrick. He too was to accompany them. He had already confided that it was probably to explain more fully the loss of his Impulsive, but Bolitho thought otherwise. It was more likely that Herrick, being the only captain not completely involved in the squadron’s previous affairs, was being called as an impartial witness and to give his own assessment. It was to be hoped he would not allow blind loyalty to damage his own position with his superiors.

But whatever happened, Adam’s step on the first real rung of the ladder was secure. He had received his commission with an ease which had apparently surprised him, and even now was aboard Euryalus, probably fretting about his uncle’s future, or lack of it.

A door opened and Broughton walked through the room towards the corridor. Bolitho had not seen him since he had left the ship, and said quickly, “I hope all went well, Sir Lucius?”

Broughton seemed only then aware of his presence. He eyed him flatly. “I have been appointed to New South Wales. To manage the vessels and affairs of our naval administration there.”

Bolitho tried to disguise his dismay. “That would appear to be quite a task, sir.”

The admiral’s eyes flickered to Herrick. “Oblivion.” He turned away. “I hope you fare better.” Then with a curt nod he was gone.

Herrick exploded, “By God, I know little of Broughton, but that is damned cruel! He’ll rot out there while some of these pow-

dered poppinjays in London grow fat on the efforts of such men!”

Bolitho smiled sadly. “Easy, Thomas. I think Sir Lucius expected it.”

He turned back to the window. Oblivion. How well it described such an appointment. Yet Broughton had a name and power. A man of influence.

He thought with sudden bitterness of the Auriga ’s chief mutineer, Tom Gates. He could see him sitting across the table in the little inn at Veryan Bay, and again confronting Captain Brice in his cabin.

Almost the first sight he had witnessed at Portsmouth Point had been the weathered remains of Gates swinging from a gibbet as a grisly reminder of the price of revolt. How strange was fate. Auriga ’s second lieutenant had been released by the French in exchange for one of their own officers. His appointment had taken him to another frigate, where hiding under a false name he had discovered Gates. All hopes and ambition gone, and left only with the need to hide amongst his own sort, Gates had ended on a halter like so many others after the mutiny.

The door opened again and a lieutenant said, “Sir George will see you now.” When Herrick hung back he added, “Both of you, please.”

It was a fine room, with many pictures and a large bust of Raleigh above a lively log fire.

Admiral Sir George Beauchamp did not rise from his desk but gestured briefly to two chairs.

Bolitho watched him as he leafed through some papers. Beauchamp, distinguished for his work on reorganisation at the Admiralty since the outbreak of war. A man noted for his wisdom and humour. And his severity.

He was thin and rather stooped, as if bowed down by the weight of his resplendent gold-laced coat.