Flag Captain

by Kent, Alexander

  For the great three-decker was a force to be reckoned with. Built at Brest by one of the best French yards, she had all the modern refinements and improvements to hull design and sail plan that any captain could wish.

  From figurehead to taffrail she measured two hundred and twenty-five feet, and within her two thousand ton bulk she carried not only a hundred guns, including a lower battery of massive thirty-two-pounders, but a company of some eight hundred officers, seamen and marines. She could, when handled properly, act and speak with authority and devastating effect.

  When she had commissioned, Bolitho had been made to take every man he could get to crew her constant demands and requirements. Pale-skinned debtors and petty thieves from the jails, a few trained men from other ships laid up for repairs, as well as the usual mixture of characters brought in by the dreaded press-gangs. For they had been hard times, and an ever-demanding fleet had already sifted and poached through every port and village in search of men, and with growing fears of a French invasion no captain could allow himself the luxury of choice when it came to gathering hands to fight his ship.

  There had been volunteers too, mostly Cornishmen, who knew Bolitho’s name and reputation even, although many of them had never laid eyes on him in their lives.

  It should have been a great step forward for Bolitho, as he had told himself often enough. The Euryalus was a fine ship, and a new one. Not only that, she represented an open acknowledgement of his past record as well as the obvious stepping stone to advancement. It was something dreamed about by every ambitious sea officer, and in a Service where promotion often depended on the death of an officer’s superior, the Euryalus must have been watched with both admiration and envy by those less fortunate.

  But to Bolitho she meant something more, something very personal. While he had been searching the Caribbean and then driving back again to the last embrace in the Bay of Biscay he had been tortured by the memory of his wife, Cheney, who had died in Cornwall, without him, when she most needed him. In his heart he knew he could have done nothing. The coach had overturned and she had been killed, and their unborn child also. His being there would have made no difference. And yet it still haunted him, had made him withdraw from his officers and seamen to a point when he had been tormented by loneliness and loss.

  And now he was back again in Falmouth. The big grey stone house would be there waiting for him as always. As it had for all the others before him, and yet it would now seem even more empty than ever.

  A marine sentry stamped to attention outside the cabin door, his eyes fixed on some point above Bolitho’s shoulder. Like a toy soldier with his blank expression and scarlet coat.

  Sunlight lanced through the great stern windows, throwing countless reflections across the deckhead and dark furniture, and he saw the admiral’s grey-haired secretary checking papers and documents before stowing them in a long metal box. He made to rise from his seat but Bolitho shook his head and walked slowly to the opposite side of the cabin. He could hear the admiral moving about his sleeping cabin, and imagined him contemplating these last hours of his presence aboard his own flagship.

  A mirror hung on the bulkhead and Bolitho paused to study himself, tugging his coat into position as if under the critical stare of a senior officer at an inspection.

  He still could not get used to the new-style uniform, the additional encumbrance of gold epaulettes to denote his rank of post-captain. It seemed wrong that in a country struggling in the worst war of her history men could create and design new forms of personal adornment when their minds would have been better used in thinking up ideas for fighting and winning battles.

  He reached up and touched the rebellious lock of hair which hung down above his right eye. Beneath it, and running up into his hairline, was the familiar cruel scar, the constant reminder of his closest meeting with death. But the hair was still black, without even a strand of grey to mark his forty years, twenty-eight of which had been spent at sea. He smiled slightly, his mouth softening and giving his tanned features a youthful recklessness once again as he turned away, dismissing what he saw as he would a satisfactory subordinate.

  The door of the sleeping cabin opened and the little admiral walked unsteadily into a swaying patch of sunlight.

  Bolitho said, “We will be anchoring within the hour, Sir Charles. I have made arrangements for you to go ashore whenever is convenient.” He thought suddenly of the many miles of rutted roads, the pain and discomfort, before the admiral could reach his home in Norfolk. “My own house is of course at your disposal for as long as you wish.”

  “Thank you.” The admiral eased his shoulders inside the heavy dress coat. “To die in battle against your country’s enemies is one thing.” He sighed and left the rest unsaid.

  Bolitho watched him gravely. He had grown very fond of him, and had come to admire his controlled dedication to others, his humanity towards the men of their small squadron.

  He said, “We will miss you. sir.” He was sincere, yet very aware of the inadequacy of his words. “I, above all, owe you a great deal, as I think you know.”

  The admiral rose to his feet and walked round the desk. Against Bolitho’s tall slim figure he seemed suddenly older and defenceless against what lay ahead of him.

  After a pause he said, “You owe me nothing. But for your mind and your integrity I would have been discarded within weeks of hoisting my flag.” He held up one hand. “No, hear what I have to say. Many flag captains would have used my weakness to enhance their own reputations, to show their indispensability before their commanders-in-chief in higher places. If you had spent less time in fighting your country’s enemies and giving your utmost to your subordinates, you would almost certainly have been given the promotion you so richly deserve. It is no shame that you have turned your back on personal advancement, but it is England’s loss. Perhaps your new admiral will appreciate as I do what sort of a man you are, and be more able to ensure . . .” He broke off in a fit of coughing, the soiled handkerchief balled against his mouth until the convulsion had passed.

  He said thickly, “See that my servant and secretary are sent ashore in good time. I will come on deck in a moment.” He looked away. “But just for a while I wish to be left alone.”

  Bolitho walked back to the quarterdeck in thoughtful silence. Overhead the sky had cleared and was bright blue, while the sea below the nearest headland was agleam with countless dazzling reflections. It would make the admiral’s departure all the harder to bear, he decided.

  He looked along the length of the upper deck, at the assembled seamen at the braces and at the topmen already strung out along the yards, dark against the clear sky. With all but her top-sails and jib clewed up the Euryalus was barely making headway, her broad hull tipping easily as if to test the depth of water beneath her keel. Those not immediately employed were watching the shore, the neat houses and green hills. The latter were dotted with minute cows, and there were sheep moving aimlessly beneath the castle walls.

  A great silence seemed to hang over the ship, broken only by the slap of water against the weather side, the regular creak of rigging and murmur of canvas aloft. Most of the men would not be allowed ashore, and they knew it. Nevertheless, it was a home-coming, something which every sailor knew, even if he could not explain it.

  Bolitho took a glass from a midshipman and studied the shoreline, feeling the familiar drag to his heart. He wondered if his housekeeper and his steward, Ferguson, knew of his coming, if they were there now watching the three-decker’s slow approach.

  “Very well, Mr Keverne. You may wear ship.”

  The first lieutenant who had been watching him intently lifted his speaking trumpet and the moment of peace was past.

  “Lee braces there! Hands wear ship!”

  Feet scurried across the planking and the air became alive with squealing blocks and the rattle of halliards.

  It was difficult to remember these well drilled men as the motley and ragged collection he had first t
aken aboard. Even the petty officers seemed to find little to grumble about as the men dashed to their stations, yet when the ship had first commissioned there had been more blows and curses than any sort of order.

  It was a good ship’s company. As good as any captain could wish for, Bolitho thought vaguely.

  “Tops’l sheets!”

  Men leapt like monkeys along the yards and he watched them with something like envy. Working up there, sometimes as much as two hundred feet above the deck, had never failed to sicken him, to his embarrassment and anger.

  “Tops’l clew lines!” Keverne’s voice was hoarse, as if he too felt the tension under the eyes of the distant town.

  Very slowly the Euryalus glided purposefully to her anchorage, her shadow preceding her on the calm water.

  “Helm a’lee!”

  As the spokes squeaked over and the ship swung reluctantly into the wind the canvas was already vanishing along her yards, as if each sail was being controlled by a single force.

  “Let go!”

  There was a loud splash as the anchor dropped beneath the bow, and something like a sigh transmitted itself through the hull and shrouds as the massive cable took the strain and then steadied itself for the first time in months.

  “Very well, Mr Keverne. You may call away the barge and then have the cutter and jolly boat swayed out.”

  Bolitho turned away, knowing he could rely completely on Keverne. He was a good first lieutenant, although Bolitho knew less of him than he had of any previous officer. It was partly his own fault and because of the mounting work laid at his door due to the admiral’s illness. Perhaps it had been a good thing for them both, Bolitho thought. The added responsibility, his growing awareness of strategy and tactics, involving not just one but several vessels in company, had given him less time to brood over his own personal loss. His involvement with the admiral’s affairs had on the other hand given Keverne more responsibility and would stand him in good stead when he had a chance of his own command.

  Keverne was extremely competent, but for one failing. On several occasions during the commission he had shown himself given to short but violent fits of temper over which he appeared to have little control.

  In his late twenties, tall and straight, he had swarthy, almost gypsy, good looks. With dark flashing eyes and extremely white teeth, he was a man ladies would be quick to appreciate, Bolitho thought.

  Bolitho dismissed him from his mind as the admiral appeared beneath the poop, carrying his hat and blinking his pale eyes in the sunlight.

  He stood for several moments watching as the barge was hoisted up and outboard, the tackles squeaking while Tebbutt, the thick-armed boatswain, barked his orders from the starboard gangway.

  Bolitho watched him narrowly. The admiral was making every last moment count. Hoarding these small shipboard pictures in his mind.

  He heard a familiar voice at his elbow and turned to see Allday, his coxswain, studying him impassively.

  Allday showed his teeth. “Good, Captain.” He glanced at the admiral. “Will I take Sir Charles across now?”

  Bolitho did not reply at once. How often he had taken Allday for granted. Familiar, loyal and completely invaluable, it was hard to imagine life without him. He was broader now than the lithe topman he had once seen brought aboard his beloved frigate Phalarope as a pressed man so many years back. There were streaks of grey in his thick hair, and his homely, tanned face was more seasoned, like a ship’s timber. But he was really the same as ever, and Bolitho was suddenly grateful for it.

  “I will ask him directly, Allday.”

  He turned sharply as Keverne said, “Guardboat approaching, sir.”

  Bolitho looked across the glittering water and saw an armed cutter moving purposefully towards the anchored three-decker. It was then that he noticed that not a single craft of any kind had made an attempt to leave harbour and follow the guardboat’s example. He felt a twinge of anxiety. What could be wrong? Some sort of terrible fever abroad in the port? It was certainly not the sight of the Euryalus this time. Otherwise the guns in the castle would have announced their own displeasure.

  He took a glass from its rack and trained it on the cutter. The tan sails and intent faces of several seamen swam across the lens, and then he saw a naval captain, an empty sleeve pinned across his coat, sitting squarely in the sternsheets, his eyes fixed on the Euryalus. The sight of the uniform and empty sleeve brought a fresh pang to Bolitho’s thoughts. It could have been his dead father returned to the living.

  The admiral asked testily, “What is the trouble?”

  “Just some formality, Sir Charles.” Bolitho looked at Keverne. “Man the side, if you please.”

  Captain Giffard of the marines drew his sword and marched importantly to the entry port, and watched as his men mustered in a tight scarlet squad to receive the ship’s first visitor. Boatswain’s mates and sideboys completed the party, and Bolitho walked down the quarterdeck ladder to join Keverne and the officer of the watch.

  The cutter’s sails vanished, and as the bowman hooked on to the chains, and the calls trilled in salute, the one-armed captain clambered awkwardly through the port and doffed his cocked hat to the quarterdeck, where the admiral watched the scene with neither emotion nor visible interest. Perhaps he already felt excluded, Bolitho thought.

  “Captain James Rook, sir.” The newcomer replaced his hat and glanced rapidly around him. He was well past middle age, and must have been brought back to the Service to replace a younger man. “I am in charge of harbour patrols and impressment, sir.” He faltered, some of the sureness leaving him under Bolitho’s impassive grey eyes. “Do I have the honour of addressing Sir Charles Thelwall’s flag captain?”

  “You do.”

  Bolitho glanced past him and down into the cutter. There was a mounted swivel gun aboard, and several armed men beside the normal crew.

  He added calmly, “Are you expecting an attack?”

  The man did not reply directly. “I have brought a despatch for your admiral.” He cleared his throat, as if very aware of the watching faces all around him. “Perhaps if we might go aft, sir?”

  “Of course.”

  Bolitho was getting unreasonably irritated by the man’s ponderous and evasive manner. They had their orders, and nothing this captain could tell him would not keep until later.

  He stopped at the top of the ladder and turned sharply. “Sir Charles has been unwell. Can this matter not wait?”

  Captain Rook took a deep breath, and Bolitho caught the heavy smell of brandy before he replied softly, “Then you do not know? You have not been in contact with the fleet?”

  Bolitho snapped, “For God’s sake stop beating around the bush, man! I have a ship to provision, sick men to be got ashore, and two hundred other things to do today. Surely you cannot have forgotten what it is like to command a ship?” He reached out and touched his arm. “Forgive me. That was unfair.” He had seen the sudden hurt in the man’s eyes and was ashamed at his own impatience. His nerves must be more damaged than he had imagined, he thought bitterly.

  Captain Rook dropped his eyes. “ Mutiny, sir.” His single hand moved up his coat and unbuttoned it carefully to reveal a heavy, red-sealed envelope.

  Bolitho stared at the busy hand, his mind still ringing with that one terrible word. Mutiny, he had said, but where? The castle looked as usual, the flag shining like coloured metal at the top of its lofty staff. The garrison would have little cause to mutiny anyway. They were mostly local volunteers or militia and knew they were far better off defending their own homes than plodding through mud or desert in some far-off campaign.

  Rook said slowly, “The fleet at Spithead. It broke out last month and the ships were seized by their people until certain demands were met.” He shrugged awkwardly. “It is finished now. Lord Howe confronted the ringleaders and the Channel Fleet is at sea again.” He looked hard at Bolitho. “It is well your squadron was in ignorance. It might have gone badly with you otherwise.�
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  Bolitho looked past him and saw Keverne and several of his officers watching from the opposite side of the deck. They would sense something was wrong. But when they really knew . . . He deliberately turned away from them.

  “I have often expected some isolated outbreak.” He could not hide the anger in his voice. “Some politicians and sea officers imagine that common sailors are little better than vermin and have treated them accordingly.” He stared hard at Rook. “But for the fleet to mutiny as one man! That is a terrible thing!”

  Rook seemed vaguely relieved that he had at last unburdened himself. Or maybe he had been half expecting to find the Euryalus in the hands of mutineers demanding heaven knew what.

  He said, “Many fear that the worst is yet to come. There has been trouble at the Nore too, though we do not hear the full truth down here. I have patrols everywhere in case other troublemakers come this way. Some of the ringleaders are said to be Irish, and the Admiralty may expect this to be a diversion for another attempt to invade there.” He sighed worriedly. “To live and see this thing is beyond me, and that’s a fact!”

  Mutiny. Bolitho looked over to where the admiral was in close conversation with his secretary. This was a bad ending to his career. Bolitho had known the full meaning, the hot, unreasoning fury which mutiny could bring in its wake. But that was in isolated ships, where conditions or climate, privation or downright brutality of an individual captain were normally the root causes. For a whole fleet to explode against the discipline and authority of its officers, and therefore King and Parliament as well, was another matter entirely. It took organisation and extreme skill as well as some driving force at the head of it to have any hope of success. And it had succeeded, there was no doubt of that.