Flag Captain (8 page)

But it was not Keverne's fault, and that was something. For a while he had been tortured with the idea that Keverne might have given his secret orders willingly, to ingratiate himself with the new admiral.

He asked, “How is Sir Charles?”

Keverne shook his head. “No better, sir.”

The second lieutenant crossed the deck and touched his hat, “The vice-admiral is waiting to see you, sir.” He fidgeted with his sword hilt. “With respect, sir, he seems somewhat impatient.”

Bolitho forced a slow smile. “Very well, Mr Meheux, it is a day for urgency.”

But he did not feel like smiling. He could not blame the admiral for demanding to know of his whereabouts. After all, flag officers were not accustomed to making excuses for their own lateness, or explaining their reasons to subordinates. But to have the frigate put under the guns of his own flagship was unthinkable.

He made himself walk the last few steps to the admiral's quarters at a slower pace. To give his mind time to clear for the confrontation.

A marine corporal opened the door, his eyes blank. Even he seemed like a stranger.

Vice-Admiral Sir Lucius Broughton was standing right aft by the tall windows, a telescope trained towards the shore. He was wearing his undress blue coat and gold epaulettes, and appeared thoroughly engrossed. When he turned Bolitho saw that he was much younger than he had anticipated, about forty, the same age as himself. He was not tall, but his body was slim and upright, giving an impression of height. That again was fairly unusual. Once they had attained the coveted flag rank, admirals often tended to run to portliness. Spared the constant demands of watchkeeping, or appearing on deck at all times of day and night, they reaped rewards other than those of high command.

Broughton's face was neither angry nor impatient. In fact, it was relaxed to a point of complete calm. He had light brown hair, quite short, and tied in a small queue above his collar.

“Ah, Bolitho, so we meet at last.” He was not being sarcastic, merely matter-of-fact. As if Bolitho had just returned from some vague journey.

His voice was easy and aristocratic, and when he walked across a patch of sunlight from the stern windows Bolitho saw that his clothes were of the finest materials, his sword hilt hand-worked in gold facings.

He replied, “I am sorry I was not here to greet you, sir. There was some doubt as to your time of arrival.”

“Quite.” Broughton sat down at the desk and regarded him calmly. “I expect to be receiving news of my other ships very shortly. After that, the sooner we are at sea and working in company the better.”

Bolitho cleared his throat. “The
Auriga,
sir. With respect, I would like to explain what has happened.”

Broughton pressed his fingertips together and smiled gently. For a few moments he looked almost boyish, his eyes shining with something like amusement.

“By all means, Bolitho, although I would have thought that explanations are hardly needed. Your action to prevent the ship falling in French hands was, to say the least, unorthodox, and at no little personal risk. Your loss to me would have been a hard one, although some might say the loss of the frigate would have been even more serious.” He shifted in the chair, the smile gone. “But the frigate is here in Falmouth, and all such vessels are too short in numbers for us to be over-particular about their past records.”

“I believe her captain should be removed at once, sir. Also her first lieutenant.” Bolitho tried to relax, but for once he felt uneasy, even out of his depth with the new admiral. He added, “It took some courage for the ship's company to act as they did. But for the Spithead trouble, and the promises made to our people there, it might never have happened.”

Broughton looked at him thoughtfully. “You obviously do not believe that. You think that this Brice caused it himself, and possibly you're right.” He shrugged. “Sir Charles Thelwall told me of his great trust in your reasoning. I will of course be guided by that.”

Bolitho said, “I gave my word to them, sir. That their complaints would be properly investigated.”

“Did you? Well, of course that would be expected. No blame will attach to you now that you have retrieved the ship intact.” Again the brief smile. “To lie skilfully and in a good cause is always forgivable.”

“It was no lie, sir.” Bolitho could feel his apprehension giving way to anger. “They were brutally used—worse, they were driven beyond reason.”

He waited, watching for some sign, but Broughton's face was empty of expression.

He continued slowly, “I am sure Sir Charles would have acted with humanity, sir. Especially in view of the circumstances elsewhere.”

“Sir Charles has gone ashore.” He could have been speaking of an unwanted piece of baggage. “I will decide what is to be done. When I have examined all the facts.” He paused. “Facts, Bolitho, not supposition, then I will tell you what I desire to be done. In the meantime, Captain Brice and his officers will be quartered ashore with the garrison. You will supply a guard watch aboard
Auriga
in company with the marines.”

He stood up and walked round the desk, his movements easy, almost graceful.

“I hate any sort of unnecessary recriminations, Bolitho!” His mouth tightened. “But I have already had my fill of deputations and degradation at Spithead. I'll suffer none of it under my flag here.”

Bolitho watched him despairingly. “If I could be given permission to deal with the matter, sir? It will be a bad beginning to take severe action . . .”

The admiral sighed. “You are persistent. I hope that characteristic is not confined merely to domestic matters. But if you will write a full report I will see what must be done.” He looked Bolitho steadily in the eyes. “You must know that being efficient is not the easiest way to popularity.” He seemed to become impatient. “But enough of that for the present. I will be giving dinner in my cabin tonight. I find it the best way of meeting my officers!” The smile reappeared. “No objections to that, I trust?”

Bolitho tried to hide his anger. He was more disturbed with his own inability to convince Broughton than he was with the admiral's wishes over dinner. He had managed the interview badly, and blamed himself accordingly. The admiral only knew what he was told, could only act on facts, as he had just explained.

He replied, “I am sorry, sir. I did not mean to . . .”

Broughton raised one hand. “Do not apologise. I like a man with fire in his belly. If I had wanted a flag captain who merely said yes all the time, I could have got one of a hundred!” He nodded. “And you have been up all night. That cannot have helped. Now be so good as to send for the purser. I will tell him what I require from the town. I have just been looking at it. Small, but not too rustic, I hope.”

Bolitho smiled for the first time. “I was born here, sir.”

The admiral eyed him calmly. “Now
there
is an admission.”

Bolitho made to leave the cabin but paused and said, “May I order the guns to be secured, sir?”

“You are her captain, Bolitho, as well as mine.” He lifted an eyebrow. “You do not approve of my action?”

“It is not that exactly, sir.” It was starting again, but he could not halt the words. “I have been with this ship for eighteen months. This matter of the frigate is bad enough, without their having to fire on their own kind into the bargain.”

“Very well.” Broughton yawned. “You really do care, do you not?”

Bolitho nodded firmly. “About trust, sir? Aye, I do.”

“I really must take you to London with me, Bolitho.” Broughton walked back to the windows, his face in shadow. “You would be something of a novelty there. Unique in fact.”

Bolitho reached the sunlit quarterdeck without seeing a foot of the journey.

Keverne touched his hat and asked anxiously, “Any orders, sir?”

“Yes, Mr Keverne. Pass the word for the purser and then . . .” He paused, still thinking of the
Auriga
and Broughton's quiet amusement.

“Then, sir?”

“Then keep out of my way, Mr Keverne, until I say otherwise!”

The master watched him stride to the side and begin to pace back and forth, his brows set in a frown of concentration.

To the baffled Keverne he said quietly, “More squalls, I'm thinkin'. An' not for the better.”

Keverne glared at him. “When I need your opinion, Mr Partridge, I'll damn well ask for it!” Then he too hurried away towards the quarterdeck ladder.

Partridge glanced up at the new flag at the fore. Young puppy, he chuckled unfeelingly. Wrath went with rank. Things never changed in the Navy. He turned, realising that the captain had stopped his pacing and was studying him gravely.

“Sir?”

“I was just thinking, Mr Partridge, how nice it must be to have nothing to do in the whole world but stand in the sun grinning like some village idiot.”

The master swallowed hard. “Sorry, sir.”

Surprisingly, Bolitho smiled. “Continue to stand if you wish. I have a feeling that this peace is to be shortlived.” He turned on his heel and walked briskly beneath the poop towards his cabin.

Partridge sighed and mopped his chins with a red handkerchief. A flagship could often make life hard on a sailing master. Then he looked across at the anchored frigate and shook his head sadly. Still, he thought, others were worse off. A whole lot worse.

4
A
N EXAMPLE TO ALL

T
HE SMART
, maroon-painted berlin rattled busily over a humpbacked bridge and swung left on to the main coach road for Falmouth.

Richard Bolitho put out one hand to steady himself against the swaying motion as the wheels bounced into the steep ruts and watched the dust pouring back from the horses' hoofs and from beneath the carriage itself. He was only half aware of the passing countryside, the different shades of green and occasional clumps of sheep in the fields adjoining the narrow, twisting road. In his best dress uniform and cocked hat he was hot and uncomfortable, and the berlin's violent motion was worse than any small boat in a choppy harbour, yet he hardly noticed any of these things.

The previous day Rear-Admiral Thelwall had died in his sleep at Bolitho's house, at peace for the first time in many months.

When Captain Rook had conveyed the news to the anchored
Euryalus
Vice-Admiral Broughton had said, “I understand it was his wish to return to Norfolk. You had better make the necessary arrangements, Bolitho.” He had given one of his relaxed smiles. “Anyway, I think Sir Charles would have wished to know you were with him on the last journey.”

And so with unseemly haste, a small procession of carriages had set out for Truro, where the little admiral's body would await collection for the long ride to the other side of England.

It was difficult to know if Broughton was being sincere about his regrets. It was true he had much to do in his new command, and yet Bolitho got the distinct impression that Broughton was a man who had little time for anything which did not work at full efficiency. Or anyone who was beyond help or further use.

The berlin swerved and he heard the coachman yelling curses at a small carrier's cart drawn by one sleepy-looking pony. The cart was laden with chickens and farm produce, and the red-faced driver returned the barrage with equal vigour and vulgarity.

Bolitho smiled. It was probably one of his brother-in-law's farm workers, and he realised with a start that in the four busy days since his bringing the
Auriga
into Falmouth he had not laid an eye either on him or any of his relatives.

The coach settled down on a firmer piece of road for the last three-mile run to the sea, and he found himself thinking back over the hectic and demanding days following on his arrival and that of his new admiral.

He could not recall anyone quite like Broughton. He usually seemed so relaxed, yet he had a mind like quicksilver and never seemed to tire.

Bolitho could remember how at his dinner party in the great cabin he kept the conversation moving amongst the assembled ship's officers, never monopolising it, yet making everyone present very aware of his overall control.

He was still not sure he really understood the man behind the charm and the easy refinement which Broughton displayed on most occasions.

Broughton seemed to be unreachable, yet Bolitho knew he was only excusing his own dislike and mistrust for many of the things which the admiral represented. Privilege and an undisputed pattern of power, another world which Bolitho had had little part of, and wanted still less.

When Broughton spoke of his house in London, the constant comings and goings of names and personalities, it was no mere boasting. It was his natural way of life. Something he took as his right.

Listening to him as the wine was passed and the three-decker rolled easily at her anchor, it was excusable to think that all important decisions in the war against France and her growing allies were made not in Admiralty but around the coffee tables of London, or at receptions in houses such as his own.

In spite of this, however, Bolitho had no doubt as to Broughton's understanding of wider affairs and the internal politics of the Navy. Broughton had fought at the battle of Cape St Vincent some three months earlier, and his grasp of the tactics, his ability to paint a visual picture for Bolitho's benefit, was impressive.

Bolitho could recall his own envy and bitterness when news of Jervis's great victory had reached him as he had carried out the wretched routine of blockade off southern Ireland. Had the enemy made a real attempt to invade Ireland, and had the
Euryalus
and her few consorts managed to call them to battle, he might have felt differently. As he had eagerly scanned the reports of Jervis's victory he had been aware yet again how much luck there seemed to be in drawing two forces together for a convulsive action.

Old Admiral Jervis had been made Earl St Vincent because of it, and another name, that of Commodore Nelson, had brought a ring of new hope for the future.

Bolitho could recall seeing the young Nelson briefly during the ill-fated venture at Toulon. He was two years younger than himself, yet already a commodore, and provided he could stay alive would soon reach further heights in the chain of command.

Bolitho did not grudge such a sea officer his just rewards, but at the same time was fully aware of his own backwater, or that was how it appeared.

Euryalus
had been joined by three more ships-of-the-line, all seventy-fours, two frigates, including
Auriga,
and a small sloop. Anchored in fine array in Falmouth Bay they made an impressive sight, but he knew from bitter experience that once at sea and spread out in an empty, tossing desert they would appear not so vast or invincible. It was unlikely that Broughton's small squadron was to be entrusted with anything but the fringe of more important affairs.

The one bright light in the busy four days of Broughton's command had been his final acceptance of Bolitho's suggestions and pleas on behalf of the
Auriga
's ship's company.

The master's mate, Taylor, was in custody and would no doubt be disrated. Captain Brice and his first lieutenant were still ashore with the garrison, and the frigate's daily life had shown an amazing improvement. Apart from her own newly arrived marines there were no additional guards aboard, and Bolitho had sent Lieutenant Keverne to take temporary command until a new captain was appointed. The fact that Broughton had agreed to all this, and Keverne was seen to be the chosen officer aboard, made the lieutenant's chance of promotion and permanent command very likely. Bolitho would be sorry to lose him, but glad to see him get such an unexpected chance.

The horses slowed and topped the last rise, so that he could see the harbour and the sea beyond spread like a colourful map below him. The anchored squadron, the busy comings and goings of Captain Rook's shore boats, showed both purpose and readiness. Once at sea, it should not take too long to get each captain used to the other's ways, for the ships to work as one through the mind of their admiral.

But where they would eventually sail, or what their final role entailed, was still a mystery. Broughton knew a lot more than he confided and had said several times, “You prepare my ships, Bolitho. I will settle the rest once I hear from London.”

Broughton certainly appeared confident that everything was working out to his satisfaction. As the ships laboured from sunrise to sunset, restoring and watering, replenishing cordage and sharing out whatever human harvest collected by Rook's press-gangs, he spent most of his time in his cabin or dining ashore with the local officials who might help speed the refitting of his command.

All the gloom and most of the apprehension which the
Auriga
's arrival had brought to Falmouth had disappeared, and Bolitho was grateful that Broughton had shown humanity and such leniency over the matter. What had occurred at Spithead must never occur again, and he would have to watch not only the
Auriga
but each ship of the squadron to make doubly certain of it.

He picked up his sword from the seat and watched while the berlin rolled across the worn cobbles and squeaked to a halt outside the familiar coaching inn by the jetty, the horses steaming and tossing their heads, impatient for their rest and feed.

A few townspeople moved around the square, but he was instantly aware of the redcoated soldiers and an air of tension which had been lacking when he had left with Thelwall's body for Truro.

He saw Rook hurrying towards him, his face working with relief and concern.

“What is it?” Bolitho took his arm and led him into the inn's long shadow.

Rook glanced around him. “The Nore. The mutiny has not only spread, but the whole of the fleet there is in the hands of mutineers and under arms!” He dropped his voice. “A brig from Plymouth brought the news today. Your admiral is in a savage mood because of it.”

Bolitho fell in step beside him, keeping his face calm although his mind was racing at this latest news.

“But how can it be that we have only just heard?”

Rook rugged at his neckcloth as if it was choking him.

“A patrol found the London courier dead in a hedgerow. His throat cut and his pouch empty. Someone knew he was riding here and made sure Admiral Broughton would stay in ignorance for as long as possible.” He signalled towards a seaman by the jetty. “Call a boat alongside, man!”

Bolitho walked to the edge of the warm stonework and looked towards the ships.
Euryalus
shimmered in a heat haze and there seemed to be plenty of work going on both aloft and around her decks. Was it possible that things could change so quickly? That order and training would give way to mutiny and distrust?

Rook added haltingly, “I do not know if it is my place to say it, but I believe Sir Lucius Broughton was deeply scarred by his experience at Spithead. It will go hard with anyone who tries to disobey him in the future.”

The boat jarred against the jetty and Bolitho followed him into it. Rook remained standing until Bolitho had settled himself in the sternsheets and then gestured to the coxswain to head for the flagship.

Bolitho said slowly, “Let us hope we can get to sea without any more delay. There is room to think and plan once the land is well astern.” He was thinking aloud and Rook said nothing.

It seemed to take an age to reach the three-decker's side, and as the boat drew closer he saw that the boarding nets had been rigged and there were marines pacing the gangways and standing at both poop and forecastle.

He climbed quickly up the side and through the entry port, removing his hat as the salutes shrilled once more and the guard presented arms.

Weigall, the third lieutenant, said quickly, “The admiral is expecting you, sir.” He looked uneasy. “I am sorry your barge was not waiting at the jetty, but all boats are recalled, sir.”

Bolitho nodded. “Thank you.” He masked his sudden apprehension and walked aft into the poop's shadow. He had to appear calm and normal even though he felt very much the reverse.

At the cabin bulkhead he saw there were three armed marines instead of the usual solitary guard and that their bayonets were fixed.

He tightened his jaw and opened the door, conscious of Rook's heavy breathing behind him, of his own dry throat as he saw the other officers already assembled there.

A table had been arranged athwartships, backed by chairs, so that the cabin had taken on the appearance of a court of enquiry. He saw too that the officers who were standing watching him in silence were the other captains from the squadron, even the young commander from the sloop
Restless.

A lieutenant, quite unknown to Bolitho, hurried towards him, his face set in a tight smile which could be either welcome or sheer relief at his arrival.

“Welcome back, sir.” He gestured towards the closed door of Broughton's small chart cabin. “Sir Lucius is expecting you, sir.”

He seemed to realise that Bolitho was still unmoving and added apologetically, “I'm Calvert, sir. The admiral's new flag-lieutenant.”

He spoke in the same refined drawl as Broughton, but there was no other similarity. He looked harassed and confused, and Bolitho felt a note of warning in his mind. In the short while he had been at Truro, shaking hands with officials, listening to sonorous condolences, all this had happened. He heard himself say curtly, “Then lead the way, Mr Calvert, we will no doubt get acquainted in due course.”

It was very hot in the small cabin, and Bolitho saw that the deckhead skylight was shut, so that there was hardly any air left to breathe.

Broughton was standing beside the table, his arms folded, and staring at the door, as if he had been frozen in the same attitude for some time. His dress coat lay on a chair, and in the filtered sunlight his gleaming white shirt showed darker patches of sweat.

He was very calm, his face quite devoid of expression as he nodded to Bolitho and then snapped to the lieutenant, “Wait outside, Calvert.”

The lieutenant fidgeted with his coat and muttered, “The letters, sir, I thought . . .”

“God, man, are you deaf as well as stupid!” He leaned on the table and shouted, “I said
get out!
”

As the door banged shut behind the wretched Calvert, Bolitho waited for Broughton's rage to expand. It was just as if he had kept it contained to the last possible second. Until his return on board to receive the full brunt of it.