The Flag Captain

17. Reunion

Lieutenant Charles Keverne stood by the quarterdeck rail with his arms folded while he watched the busy activity around and above him. The Euryalus had not re-entered the bay, but instead had anchored with her consorts off the beaked headland. Now, in the pale morning light, even the barren hills and skyline appeared less hostile, the fortress quiet and harmless.

He took a telescope from the midshipman of the watch and trained it towards the Tanais which was tugging at her cable in the freshening wind, her yards and decks also alive with seamen. He could see the scars on her quarter where Euryalus’s massive bulk had left evidence of the collision, and was thankful he had managed to complete repairs to spars and rigging before the captain’s return.

Like the rest of the watching officers and seamen, he had studied Bolitho’s appearance through the entry port with both relief and anxiety. The smile had been genuine, and there had been no doubting his pleasure at being back on board his own command. But the arm held stiffly in a sling, the twist of pain on his mouth as he had been assisted through the port, made Keverne wonder if Bolitho was yet fit enough for his work.

The ship had been fairly buzzing with speculation since their unhappy return after the fruitless chase, and collision with Tanais. Broughton’s temper had matched the occasion, and for that

reason too he hoped Bolitho would be able to advise his superior as well as control the teeming affairs of his own ship.

Keverne thought back over what he had done so far. The task of replacing some of the men killed and injured in the attacks on Djafou, the re-embarkation of the marines, and all the business of preparing to get under way once more. But he would have to speak with Bolitho about the officers. With Lucey and Lelean dead, and Bolitho far from fit, it left them very shorthanded when they were most needed.

Lieutenant Meheux strode aft along the larboard gangway and touched his hat.

“Anchor’s hove short, sir!” He seemed cheerful enough. “I’ll not weep to quit this hole for all time!”

Partridge said, “Flag’s comin’ down on th’ fortress, sir.”

Keverne raised the glass again. “So I see.” He watched the ensign as it disappeared below the ramparts and wondered how it would feel to be the last man to leave after the fuses had been lit.

He beckoned to a midshipman. “My respects to the captain, Mr Sandoe. Inform him that the anchor is hove short and the wind has backed to the sou’ west.”

Partridge watched him scurry away. “Bit o’ luck that. ’Twill save all the damn sweat to clear the ’eadland.”

Keverne tensed as a set of tan sails glided clear of the fortress. It was the brig, Turquoise, and in the clear morning light she looked lively and beautiful. Another chance gone. She could have been his. Momentarily he wondered if Bolitho had decided to retain him as first lieutenant merely because of his own disability. He turned his mind away just as quickly. Neither Bickford, who had been with the captain, nor even Sawle, whom he heartily disliked, had been offered the command. So it was obviously Broughton’s hand which had written the order to make a mere lieutenant from Valorous rise like a shooting star towards the first real step of promotion.

He stamped his feet with sudden irritation. What a waste it had all been. And no doubt when they reached the enemy coast they would discover some new frustration for the admiral to complain about.

“Navarra’s clear, sir!”

Keverne watched the prize ship setting her topsails as she tacked heavily below the fortress walls. Like all of the little convoy destined for Gibraltar, she was crammed with people, prisoners and civilians alike. It would be an uncomfortable passage, he decided glumly.

There was a step beside him and Bolitho said, “It looks like a good wind.” He glanced searchingly along the upper deck. “Make a signal to the squadron. Up anchor. Then get the ship under way, if you please. We will lay a course nor’ west by north as Sir Lucius has instructed.”

Keverne shouted, “Stand by the capstan!”

A midshipman was scribbling on his slate watched by the signal party who had already bent on the required flags.

Midshipman Tothill said, “Hekla’s clearing the fortress now, sir!”

Bolitho took a telescope and trained it towards the little bomb vessel. But for a cutter to retrieve the demolition party at the last possible moment, Hekla was the last to leave the bay. Leaving it with its relics of suffering and death, its memories of conquest and surrender. Perhaps one day someone else would try to reoc-cupy the place, to repair the fortress and install once more the means of slavery and oppression. But maybe by then the world would have turned once and for all against such methods, he thought.

The Hekla’s topsails filled to the wind as she ploughed into the first inshore troughs. Holding the telescope with one hand was not easy, and he was dismayed to discover that he was already breathless from exhaustion. But just a moment longer. He edged the glass slowly across Hekla’s forecastle where the seamen in their

checked shirts ran in orderly confusion to complete the new tack, and then saw Inch clinging to the low rail, his thin body leaning against the steep tilt as he waved his hat in the air. It was not hard to recall him on the exposed deck as the carronades kept up their savage bombardment, or his shock and grief at seeing him fall to that unknown marksman. Now, with his mixed flotilla and chattering passengers, he was taking another turn in his life, and it was to be hoped he reached Gibraltar without meeting an enemy.

He stiffened as he saw another figure moving carefully across the deck to Inch’s side. Even although the Hekla was now a good half-mile distant he could see her hair whipping out to the wind, the yellow dress very bright in the glare. She too was waving, her teeth white in her tanned face, and he imagined he could hear her voice once more, as he had listened to it in the night when all else was still and silent.

“Take the glass, Mr Tothill.”

Then, stiffly, he braced his legs and waved his own hat slowly back and forth. Some of the others watched him with surprise, but by the ladder Allday saw Bolitho’s face and gave a grateful smile.

It had been a close-run thing. And but for her… he shuddered involuntarily and turned to watch as Calvert walked moodily along the gangway and leaned against the nettings. He seemed to be more inside himself than ever, and hardly spoke, even to the other officers. That was a rare pity, Allday decided, for the flag-lieutenant was unaware how he was admiringly discussed on the crowded messdecks since his return. Allday shook his head. No doubt Calvert had a rich father who would save his neck, but maybe he no longer cared. As he stared down into the lively water alongside his face registered nothing at all.

“Ah, Calvert!” Everyone looked round as Broughton strode briskly from the poop. He raised his voice. “Come here!”

Calvert wandered aft and touched his hat, his eyes guarded. “Sir?”

“There is a lot I want done today.” Broughton watched idly as the Hekla butted her blunt bows into a lazy roller.

Then he looked at Bolitho and pursed his lips into the shadow of a smile. “So perhaps you would dine with me after we have done with the writing, eh?”

Allday saw Calvert’s jaw dropping open and felt more amazed than ever. Even Broughton, it appeared, had changed towards him.

Bolitho turned, caught unaware by the admiral’s voice. “I beg your pardon, sir. I did not see you.”

Broughton nodded. “Ah.”

“The squadron has acknowledged, sir!” Tothill was oblivious to the brief exchange. “At the dip!”

Bolitho turned and shouted, “Carry on, Mr Keverne!”

As the flagship’s signal vanished from her yards the deck became alive to the turmoil of making sail. Bolitho gripped the rail and looked up as the topmen swarmed along the yards, and with a bang and thunder of canvas the released sails exploded to the wind.

“Anchor’s aweigh, sir!” Meheux looked very small, outlined against the opposite headland as he waved his hand in the air.

With a deep surge the Euryalus sidled heavily above her reflection, her lower gunports awash as with her seamen heaving on the braces and the wheel hard over she came ponderously but with dignified obedience under control of wind and rudder.

Keverne was yelling through his trumpet, “Lee braces, there! Put those laggards to work, Mr Tebbutt! Valorous has the edge on you today!”

Bolitho leaned over the stout rail and watched the anchor, streaming yellow weed from its massive flukes as it was catted home by Meheux’s frantic seamen.

He shifted his gaze across the opposite side and saw Coquette and Restless already spreading their topgallants and bounding through fountains of spray as they drew rapidly away from the heavier ships.

Partridge called, “Nor’ west by north, sir!” He wiped his watering eyes as he peered up at the braced yards, the hardening quiver of the main topsail as it forced the ship over. “Full an’ bye, sir!”

Broughton snatched a glass and then said irritably, “General signal. Maintain proper station.” He turned easily to study the Valorous, as with her jib flapping in momentary confusion she wallowed round to follow in her admiral’s wake.

Keverne asked, “May I set the topgallants, sir?”

Bolitho nodded. “Make the most of the wind!”

Even as Keverne hurried back to the rail there was a low, menacing rumble. Every spare glass flashed in the sunlight as they turned to watch the distant fortress. The rumble erupted with terrible suddenness into several towering walls of flame and black smoke. They seemed endless and indestructible, hiding completely what was happening beneath.

Then as the wind pushed the smoke reluctantly across the headland Bolitho saw the ruins of the fortress. The inner tower had fallen completely like the shattered chimney of an old kiln, and the rest of the walls and ramparts were blasted into rubble. More inner explosions followed in slow succession, like a controlled broadside, and he imagined Inch’s gunner, Mr Broome, lovingly placing his charges of destruction. He caught his breath as a tiny dark sliver edged out through the smoke, the boat carrying Broome and his men to a hairbreadth safety.

Giffard said, “A lot has happened in that place, by God!”

Broughton watched the set of Bolitho’s shoulders and smiled briefly. “There is certainly no denying that, Captain Giffard!”

When eight bells chimed out, and the forenoon watch started to go about its affairs above and below decks, the small squadron was already seven miles from the land.

In his stern cabin Bolitho rested on the bench seat and watched the Valorous outlined against the fading shoreline. It was little more than a blur, a rolling bank of purple, above which the darker smoke of Djafou stained the blue sky in one great sprawling pall.

He thought of Lucey and Lelean, of Witrand and so many others who had been left there forever. Only Draffen had sailed with the squadron, his corpse carefully sealed in a cask of spirits for a more fitting burial whenever the ship might touch England again.

He leaned against the sill, his ears catching the familiar strains of rigging and shrouds, his aching shoulder positioned to avoid the slow plunge and quiver of the hull around him.

Once again he had avoided the fate of others. He touched his shoulder and winced. It would soon be time to have the dressing changed, when he would again hold his breath for fear the wound had worsened.

Then he thought of Catherine Pareja and that last night together in the tower. The simplicity and desperate need as they had lain quite still listening to the murmur of waves on the rocks below the walls. Had he not been so badly wounded would he still have behaved like that? Would he have allowed it to happen? Even as he remembered their quiet embrace, he knew the answer, and was ashamed.

Spargo, the Euryalus’s surgeon, proffered one of his square, hairy hands and said, “Here, sir, take a good grip.”

Bolitho stood up from his desk and glanced at Keverne. “He is a hard taskmaster.” He smiled to hide his anxiety. “I fear we are not giving him enough to do.”

Then he took Spargo’s hand in his own, feeling the cramp tugging at his arm as he exerted all the grip he could muster.

It had been three days since the squadron had left Djafou, and every few hours during that time Spargo had come to attend to the dressings, to probe and examine the wound until Bolitho had imagined he would never be free of its torment.

Spargo released his fingers. “Not too bad, sir.” He spoke with grudging satisfaction, which Bolitho had discovered earlier to be true praise for another man’s work. “But we shall have to see.” As ever, his sheet anchor was a warning. Just in case.

Keverne relaxed slightly. “I will leave you now, sir. That concludes the ship’s affairs for today.”

Bolitho eased his arm back into the sling and walked to the windows. A good half-mile astern he watched Valorous taking in her royals, the seamen like black dots on her yards as they fought with the salt-hardened canvas. It was nearly noon. Three days of battling with unusually perverse winds and every eye watching the dazzling horizon for a sail. Any sail.

The squadron’s position was now about forty miles south-south-west of Cartagena, and had there been an enemy of any sort in view, Broughton’s ships would have been ready and well placed to intercept. As he glanced briefly across the papers on his desk which Keverne had been discussing, he heard the crisp tap of shoes overhead where Broughton paced the poop in solitary detachment, fretting over the failure to find an enemy, or to throw any light on his movements. Bolitho could pity him, for he knew there were already other pressures mounting which could not be postponed much longer.

Buddle, the purser, had been to see him this forenoon, his face gloomy as he had told of falling water supplies and several rancid casks of meat. Throughout the squadron it was the same. You could not expect this many men to be without replenishment for so long, especially as there was still no certainty of obtaining more water and provisions.

He sighed and looked at the door as it closed behind the surgeon.

“So we have Sawle promoted to fifth lieutenant to replace Lucey. That still leaves a vacancy in the wardroom.” He was thinking aloud. “Midshipman Tothill might be able to take it, but…”

Keverne said shortly, “He is only seventeen and has had little experience of gunnery. In any case, he is too useful with his signals to be spared as yet.” He grinned. “In my opinion, sir.”

“I am afraid I agree.” He listened to the shoes pacing back and forth. “We will have to see what we can do.”

Keverne gathered up the papers and asked, “What are our chances of finding the enemy, sir?”

He shrugged. “In all truth, I do not know.” He wanted Keverne to leave so that he could try to exercise his arm and shoulder. “Coquette and Restless should be cruising off Cartagena by now. Maybe they will return soon with new intelligence.”

There was a rap on the door and Midshipman Ashton stepped into the cabin. He no longer wore a bandage around his head and seemed to have recovered from his tough handling better than anyone had expected.

“Sir. Mr Weigall’s respects, and a sail has been sighted to the nor’ east.”

Bolitho looked at Keverne and smiled. “Sooner than I thought. I will go on deck.”

On the quarterdeck it was blazing hot, and although the sails were drawing well to a steady north-westerly, there was little freshness to ease the demands of watchkeeping.

Weigall was watching the poop, as if afraid he would not hear Bolitho’s approach.

“Masthead reports that she looks like a frigate, sir.”

To confirm his words the voice pealed down again, “Deck there! She’s Coquette!”

Broughton came down from the poop with unusual haste. “Well?”

Ashton was already swarming into the shrouds with a big telescope, and Bolitho said quietly, “What would we do without frigates?”

Minutes ticked past, and by the compass a ship’s boy upended the half-hour glass under Partridge’s watchful eye.

Then Ashton yelled, “From Coquette, sir!” The merest pause. “Negative.”

Broughton swung away, his voice harsh. “Nothing there. The ships have sailed.” He turned to Bolitho, his eyes squinting

against the glare. “We must have missed them! God, we’ll not see them again!”

Bolitho watched the frigate swinging round on her new tack, the big black and white flag still streaming from her yard. One flag, yet to Broughton and perhaps many more it meant so much. The enemy ships had quit the harbour and by now could be almost anywhere. While the squadron had floundered around Djafou, and had exhausted their resources in the fruitless business of capture and demolition, the enemy had vanished.

Broughton murmured in a tired voice, “Damn them all to hell!”

Bolitho looked up sharply as the masthead lookout shouted, “Valorous is signalling, sir!”

The admiral said bitterly, “Furneaux will be dreaming of his own future already!”

They all turned as Tothill shouted, “From Valorous, sir! Strange sail bearing west!”

“Must be almost astern of us, sir.” Bolitho looked at Keverne. “Inform the squadron.”

Broughton was almost beside himself with impatience. “She’ll put about the moment she sights us!” He peered towards Coquette. “But it’s useless to send Gillmor. He’d never be able to beat into the wind in time to engage her.”

Bolitho felt his arm throbbing, perhaps from his own excitement. The stranger could be another lone merchantman, or an enemy scout. She might even be the van of some great force of ships. He dismissed the latter idea. If the newcomer was part of the force from Cartagena he was well out of station, and the enemy would have no wish to waste any time if they were after Broughton.

He took a telescope and climbed swiftly on to the poop. It was getting less painful to manage the glass with one hand, and as he trained it past Valorous he saw a small square of sail, seemingly resting on the horizon line.

But far above the deck Ashton with his powerful telescope already had a much better view.

“Two-decker, sir!” His voice was shrill against the sounds of rigging and canvas. “Still closing!”

Bolitho hurried back to the quarterdeck. “It would be better if we shorten sail, sir. At least we will know for sure then.”

Broughton nodded. “Very well. Make the signal.”

Time dragged by, with the hands going for their midday meal, and the air becoming heavy with the odour of rum. There was, after all, no point in disrupting the daily routine when there was plenty of time to decide on a course of action, if any.

The other ship was coming up very fast, especially for a two-decker. It was easy to see her great spread of canvas as she plunged in pursuit. Her captain had even set her studding sails, so that the hull seemed weighed down by the towering pyramid of hard-bellied canvas.

Ashton yelled excitedly, “She’s signalling, sir!”

“For God’s sake!” Broughton was gnawing at his lip as he stared up at the midshipman on the crosstrees.

Tothill had swarmed aloft to join Ashton, and together they were already peering at their signal book, seemingly indifferent to the deck so far below their dangling legs.

Bolitho said, “A friend, sir. A reinforcement perhaps. But at least we might glean some news.”

He stared up at the masthead, unable to believe his ears as Tothill yelled, “She’s Impulsive, sir, sixty-four! Cap’n Herrick!”

Broughton turned sharply and looked at Bolitho. “Know him?”

He did not know how to answer. Thomas Herrick. How often he had thought of him and Adam, had wondered at their destinations and experiences. Now he was here. Here.

He replied, “For years, sir. He was my first lieutenant. He is my friend also.”

Broughton eyed him warily and then snapped, “Signal the

squadron to heave to. Make to Impulsive. Captain, repair on board.” He watched the flags breaking into the wind and added, “I hope he’ll be of some use.”

Bolitho smiled and said simply, “Without him, sir, this ship would still be under French colours!”

The admiral grunted. “Well, we shall see. I will be aft when he comes aboard!”

Keverne waited until Broughton had gone and then asked, “Did he really help take this ship, sir? In a small fourth-rate like that?”

Bolitho eyed him pensively. “My own ship was almost done for. Captain Herrick in his little sixty-four, which is a good deal older than you are, came to grips without hesitation!” He waved his hand across the busy quarterdeck. “Just there it was, by Mr Partridge. The French admiral surrendered.”

Keverne smiled. “I never knew.” He stared at the orderly deck as if expecting to see some sign of the bloody battle which had swayed back and forth across it.

Tothill slid down a backstay shouting, “All acknowledgements hoisted, sir! Close up!”

Bolitho looked at Keverne. “Execute. And have the side manned to receive our guest.”

Bolitho guided his friend below the poop, out of the glare and the din of flapping canvas, and then faced him by the compan-ionway.

“Oh, Thomas, it is good to see you!”

Herrick’s face, which had been tight with concern at seeing Bolitho’s wounded arm, split into a wide grin.

“I don’t have to say how I felt when I heard my orders to join your squadron.”

Bolitho steadied himself against the sickening motion as Euryalus floundered in a beam sea and studied him eagerly.

Rounder in the face, with a few grey hairs showing beneath his gold-laced hat, but still the same. The same eyes, of the brightest blue Bolitho had ever seen.

“Tell me about Adam. Is he with you?”

“Aye.” Herrick looked at the marines below the ladder which led to Broughton’s quarters. “Burning himself to ashes in eagerness to see you again.”

Bolitho smiled. “After you have spoken with Sir Lucius we will talk.”

Herrick gripped his good arm. “We will that!”

As he stood aside to allow Herrick on to the ladder he saw the twin gold epaulettes on his shoulders. A post-captain now. In spite of everything, Herrick, like himself, had endured.

Broughton half rose from his desk as they entered the spacious cabin. “You have despatches for me, Captain?” He was very formal. “I was not expecting another ship.”

Herrick laid a sealed envelope on the desk. “From Sir John Jervis, sir.” He grimaced. “I beg pardon, I meant Lord St Vincent, as he is now titled.”

Broughton tossed the envelope to Calvert who was hovering nearby and snapped, “Tell me the news. What of the damned mutiny?”

Herrick watched him guardedly. “There was some bloodshed, and more than a few tears, but after Their Lordships made certain concessions the people agreed to return to duty.”

“Agreed?” Broughton glared at him. “Is that all that happened?”

Herrick looked past him, his eyes suddenly sad. “They hanged the ringleaders, sir, but not before some of the officers were removed from the ships as unsuitable to hold authority!”

Broughton stood up violently. “How did you hear all this?”

“My ship was in the mutiny at the Nore, sir.”

The admiral stared at him as if he had misheard. “Your ship? Do you mean you just stood by and let them seize her from you?”

Herrick replied evenly, “There was no choice, sir.” Bolitho saw

a gleam of the same old stubbornness in his eyes as he continued, “Anyway, I agreed with most of their demands. I was allowed to remain aboard because they knew I understood, like many other captains!”

Bolitho interrupted swiftly, “That is interesting, Captain Herrick.” He hoped Herrick would feel the warning in his voice. “Sir Lucius too had much the same experience at Spithead.” He smiled at Broughton. “Is that not so, sir?”

Broughton opened his mouth and then said, “Ah. Up to a point.”

Herrick stepped forward. “But, sir, I have not yet told you my own news.” He glanced at Bolitho. “I met with St Vincent at Cadiz and was ordered to find your squadron. He requires the bomb vessels for an attack on Teneriffe, I believe. Rear-Admiral Nelson is to lead it.”

Broughton commented harshly, “Rear-Admiral now, is he?”

Herrick hid a smile. “But two days back we sighted a strange sail off Malaga. I laid my ship between it and the shore and gave chase. It was a frigate, sir, and although my sixty-four is fast, she’s no match for that. But I kept up the pursuit, and only lost her this very morning. I imagined it was her when I sighted your rearmost ship.”

Broughton said dryly, “Ve r y exciting. Well, you lost her, so where’s the cause for glee?”

Herrick watched him calmly. “I heard of what happened, sir. I’d know that ship anywhere. She was Auriga.”

Bolitho said, “Are you certain, Thomas?”

He nodded firmly. “No doubt about it. Served with her for some months. Auriga, quite certain.”

Calvert laid the opened despatches on the desk but Broughton swept them aside as he groped for his chart.

“Here! Show me, Herrick. Mark it on the chart!”

Herrick glanced enquiringly at Bolitho and then stooped over the desk.

“She was heading almost due east, sir.”

“And you nearly overhauled her? In a two-decker?” Broughton sounded desperate.

“Aye, sir. Impulsive may be old, and her hull is so ripe that I fear it would fall apart but for the copper, but she’s the fastest ship in the fleet.” There was real pride in his voice. “Auriga might have gone into Cartagena, sir. In which case…”

Broughton shook his head. “Never. My patrols would have seen and engaged her.” He rubbed his chin vigorously. “Due east, you say? By heaven, we might still run her to earth!” He looked at Herrick. “And by God I’d not have hung a few miserable mutineers! I would have hanged the lot of them!”

Herrick said respectfully, “I can well believe it, Sir Lucius.”

Broughton did not seem to hear, “Signal Gillmor to give chase at once. He can do anything he likes to hold or delay Auriga. Restless can maintain watch to the windward of us.” He glanced at Herrick. “You will close to visual distance with Restless,” he gave a short smile, “as your ship is so swift, and relay my instructions to her without delay.” He nodded curtly. “Carry on.”

Outside the cabin Herrick asked, “Is he always like that?”

“Usually.” Bolitho paused by the quarterdeck ladder. “Is Adam doing well? I mean, could you…”

Herrick grinned. “He is ready to sit his exam for lieutenant, if that is what you mean.” He watched Bolitho and then added, “Shall I send him across to you?”

“Thank you. I am short of officers.” He smiled, unable to hide his eagerness. “I would appreciate it.”

Herrick touched his arm. “I have taught him all I know.”

“Then he will be ready.”

Herrick’s grin was huge. “I had a good teacher, remember?”

Almost before Herrick’s boat had cast off from the chains the Euryalus’s yards were alive with flags. Coquette went about with the ease of a thoroughbred, as if a string had been severed to free her from the other ships, and as the seamen poured up from the

gangways Bolitho felt as if he was being given a new strength. Partridge muttered, “Cap’n seems ’appy ’bout somethin’!” Keverne nodded. “So it would appear.” Then he snatched his

speaking trumpet and hurried towards the rail.