The Flag Captain

4. AN EXAMPLE TO ALL

The 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.

Surprisingly, his voice was almost normal as he continued, “By God, I’m glad you got back aboard punctually.” He gestured to an open envelope on the table. “Sailing orders at last. That donkey Calvert brought them from London.”

Bolitho waited, allowing Broughton time to calm down. He said quietly, “Had you wished it, sir, I could have obtained a flag-lieutenant from the squadron…”

Broughton eyed him coldly. “Oh, to damnation with him! Some favour I received years ago has to be repaid. I promised to take that fool off his father’s hands and away from London.” He broke off and peered up at the skylight, his head on one side as if listening.

Then he said, “You have heard the news, no doubt.” His chest was moving with sudden anger again. “These miserable, treacherous scum have the impudence to mutiny, eh? The whole fleet at the Nore aflame with, with…” he groped for the word and then added harshly, “so much for your damned humanity. Conceit is what I call it, if you believe for one single moment that their sort respect leniency!”

Bolitho said, “With all deference, sir, I think there is no connection between the Auriga and the trouble at the Nore.”

“Do you not?” His voice was steady again. Too steady. “I can assure you, Captain Bolitho, I have already had my fill of treachery at Spithead. To have my own flagship taken over by a lot of crawling, sanctimonious, lying bastards. The humiliation, the very shame of it clings to me like the stench of a sewer.”

There was a discreet tap at the door and Captain Giffard of the ship’s marines peered in and reported, “All ready, sir.” He withdrew hurriedly under Broughton’s stare.

Bolitho said, “May I ask what is happening, sir?”

“You may.” Broughton dragged his coat from the chair, his face shining damply with sweat. “Because of you I went against my better judgement. Because of you I allowed the Auriga’s mutineers to stay free and untried.” He swung round, his eyes blazing. “Because of you and your damned promises, promises which you had neither the authority nor the right to offer, I must leave them untouched, if only to uphold your authority as flag captain!” He was shouting now, and Bolitho could picture the other captains beyond the closed door sympathising with him, or grateful that a superior was being cut down to their level. Bolitho did not know any of them enough to decide which. He only knew he was both angry and bitter at the admiral’s sudden attack.

He said harshly, “It was my decision, sir. There was no one else here at the time…”

Broughton yelled, “Do not interrupt me, Bolitho! By God, it might have been better if you had attacked the Auriga and blown her to pieces. If they have officers like you at the Nore, then heaven help England!”

He snatched his sword and clipped it into his belt, adding, “Well, we shall see about mutiny in this squadron.”

Bolitho controlled his voice with an effort. I am sorry you cannot accept my judgement, sir.”

“Judgement?” Broughton looked at him. “I call it surrender.” He shrugged and reached for his hat. “I cannot right a wrong, but by heaven I’ll show them I’ll have no insubordination in my ships!”

He threw open the door and strode into the great cabin.

“Be seated, gentlemen.” He took his place in the centre chair and gestured to Bolitho to sit beside him. “Now, gentlemen, I have called this summary court by the authority invested in me which has been given special powers until such time as the present emergency has been curtailed.”

Bolitho looked quickly at the others. Their faces were like masks. They were probably dazed by the swift change of events and wondering how it would affect them personally.

Broughton seemed to be speaking to the opposite bulkhead, his voice even and under control once again. “The ringleader of the Auriga’s insurrection was one Thomas Gates, captain’s clerk. He was, er, allowed to escape, and will no doubt be responsible with others for the death of the courier and seizure of my sealed despatches.”

The air in the cabin was stiff with tension, so that shipboard noises seemed suddenly loud and unreal.

Broughton continued calmly, “The master’s mate,” he glanced at a paper before him, “one John Taylor, at present under guard for conspiracy, is thereby the senior culprit available to this court.”

“May I speak, sir?” Bolitho’s voice made every head turn towards him. For just those few seconds he saw the others as individuals, the differing expressions mirrored in their eyes. Sympathy, understanding, from one even amusement.

He shut them out of his thoughts as he continued quietly, “Taylor was one of many, sir. He came to me because he trusted me.”

Broughton turned to study him, his eyes distant. “Two of his companions have already laid evidence against him as the ringleader, next to Gates.” For an instant his gaze softened with something like compassion. “They could be getting even with Taylor for deposing their leader. They might equally be just and loyal seamen.” His mouth hardened. “That is no longer my concern. This squadron is, and I intend to see it fulfils whatever duty laid upon it without interference.” He let his gaze lock with Bolitho’s. “From anyone.”

Then he rapped the table with his knuckles. “Bring in the prisoner.”

Bolitho sat quite still as Taylor entered between two marines with Captain Giffard marching stiffly at his back. He looked pale

but composed, and as he saw Bolitho his face lit up with sudden recognition.

Broughton eyed him coolly. “John Taylor, you are charged with mutinous conspiracy and seizure of His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Auriga. You were accused with one other, not yet in custody, of this same act, and are called here to receive sentence.” He tapped his fingertips together and added quietly, “Your treachery, at a time when England is fighting for her very life, singles you out as a man without either pride or conscience. You, a master’s mate, trained and trusted by your superiors, have betrayed the very Service which has given you your means to live.”

Taylor seemed stunned. He replied in a small voice, “Not true, sir.” He shook his head. “Not true.”

“However,” Broughton leaned back in his chair and looked at the deckhead beams, “in view of your past record, and all that my flag captain has done and said on your behalf…” He broke off as Taylor took half a step forward, his eyes shining with sudden hope. As a marine pulled him back again Broughton added, “I have decided not to impose the maximum penalty, as your case, in my personal view, demands.”

Taylor turned his head dazedly and peered at Bolitho. In the same small voice he whispered, “Thankee, sir. God bless you.”

Broughton sounded irritated. “Instead, the punishment awarded will be that of two dozen lashes and disrating.”

Taylor nodded, his eyes swimming with emotion. “Thankee, sir!”

Broughton’s voice was like a knife. “Two dozen lashes from each ship assembled here at Falmouth.” He nodded. “Remove the prisoner.”

Taylor said nothing as the marines wheeled him round and marched him out.

Bolitho stared at the closed doors, the empty space where Taylor had stood, and felt as if the cabin was closing in on him. As if he and not Taylor had received the sentence.

Broughton rose and said briefly, “Return to your ships, gentlemen, and read my new standing orders which Mr Calvert will make available. Punishment will be carried out at eight bells tomorrow forenoon. Normal procedure.”

As they filed out past Calvert, Bolitho said quietly, “Why, sir? In the name of God, why?”

Broughton looked past him, his eyes bleak, “Because I say so.”

Bolitho picked up his hat, his mind dulled by the sudden savagery of Broughton’s justice.

“Any more orders for the present, sir?” He did not know how he was managing to keep his tone formal and devoid of feeling.

“Yes. Pass the word to Captain Brice to resume command of Auriga.” He regarded Bolitho for several seconds. “Mine is the responsibility. So too is the privilege.”

Bolitho met his gaze and replied, “If Taylor had been given a court-martial, sir…” He stopped, realising how he had stepped into the trap.

Broughton smiled gently. “A proper court-martial would have hanged him, and well you know it. The sentence would have been carried out too late to make an example and time and indulgence would have been wasted. As it is now, Taylor’s punishment will act as a warning, if not a deterrent to this squadron where we need it most. And he may live to make capital from his one moment of personal insurrection, and will have you to thank for it.”

As Bolitho turned to leave he added, “There will be a conference here immediately the punishment is completed. Make a signal for all captains to repair on board,” he took out his watch, “but I can leave that for you to arrange, I think. I have been invited to join a local magistrate for dinner. A man called Roxby, know him?”

“My brother-in-law, sir.” His voice was like stone.

“Really?” Broughton walked towards his sleeping cabin. “You people seem to be everywhere.” The door slammed behind him.

Bolitho reached the quarterdeck without seeing a foot of the journey. The shadows were more angled and the sun already dipping towards the headland. A few seamen lounged on the gangways, and from forward came the plaintive notes of a violin. The officer of the watch crossed to the opposite side to allow Bolitho his usual seclusion, and beside the boat tier two midshipmen were shrilling with laughter as they chased each other towards the main shrouds.

Bolitho leaned his hands on the bulwark and stared unblink-ingly at the orange sun. He did not feel like pacing this evening, and wherever he turned he seemed to see Taylor’s face, the pathetic gratitude at receiving two dozen lashes, changing to horror at the final sentence. He would be down below now, hearing the midshipmen laughing and the fiddler’s sad lament. Maybe it was for him. If so, Broughton’s cruel example had already misfired, he thought bitterly.

He shifted his gaze to the Auriga as she swung gently at her cable. Some would say that Taylor’s punishment was a worthwhile sacrifice of one man against so many. But for Bolitho’s action every man aboard might have been flogged or worse, or the ship could indeed have been lost to the enemy.

But there were others who would say that whatever the outcome, the course of naval justice would never be found by flogging scapegoats. And Bolitho knew Taylor was one of these, and was ashamed because of it.

Bolitho was staring emptily through the great stern windows of his cabin when Allday entered and said, “All ready, Captain.”

Without waiting for a reply he took down the old sword from its rack on the panelled bulkhead and turned it over in his hands, pausing to rub the tarnished hilt across the sleeve of his jacket.

Then he said quietly, “You did your best, Captain. There’s no value in blaming yourself.”

Bolitho held up his arms to allow the big coxswain to buckle the sword around his waist and then let them fall to his sides. Through the thick glass windows he could see the distant town swinging gently as wind and tide took the Euryalus under control. He was again aware of the silence which had fallen over the whole ship since Keverne had come down to report that the lower decks were cleared and that it was close on eight bells.

He picked up his hat and glanced briefly around the cabin. It should have been a good day for quitting the land. A fair breeze had sprung up from the south-west overnight and the air was clean and crisp.

He sighed and walked from the cabin, past the table and its untouched breakfast, through the door with the rigid sentry and towards the bright rectangle of sunlight and the open quarterdeck beyond.

Keverne was waiting, his dark features inscrutable as he touched his hat and said formally, “Two minutes, sir.”

Bolitho studied the lieutenant gravely. If Keverne was brooding about his sudden removal from possible command he did not show it. If he was thinking about his captain’s feelings he concealed that too.

Bolitho nodded and walked slowly to the weather side of the deck where the ship’s lieutenants were already mustered. Slightly to leeward the senior warrant officers and midshipmen stood in neat lines, their bodies swaying easily to the ship’s motion.

A glance aft told him that Giffard’s marines were fallen in across the poop, their tunics very bright in the fresh sunlight, the white cross-belts and polished boots making their usual impeccable array.

He turned and walked to the quarterdeck rail, letting his eyes move over the great press of seamen who were crowded along the gangways, in the tiered boats and clinging to the shrouds, as if eager to watch the coming drama. But he could tell from the

silence, the air of grim expectancy, that hardened to discipline and swift punishment though they were, there was no acceptance there.

Eight bells chimed from the forecastle and he saw the officers stiffen as Broughton, accompanied by Lieutenant Calvert, walked briskly on to the quarterdeck.

Bolitho touched his hat but said nothing.

Across the anchorage the air shivered as a solitary gun boomed out, and then came the doleful sound of drumming. He saw the surgeon below the break in the poop whispering to Tebbutt, the boatswain, and his two mates, one of whom carried the familiar red baize bag. The latter dropped his eyes as he realised his captain was looking at him.

Broughton’s fingers were tapping the hilt of his beautiful sword, seemingly in time with the distant drum. He appeared relaxed, and as fresh as ever.

Bolitho tensed as one of the young midshipmen wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a quick nervous gesture which brought back a sudden memory like the feel of an old wound.

He had been only fourteen himself when he had witnessed his first flogging through the fleet. He had seen most of it in a mist of tears and nausea, and the nightmare had never completely left him. In a service where flogging was commonplace and an accepted punishment, and in many cases more than justified, this final spectacle was still the worst, where onlookers felt degraded almost as much as the victim.

Broughton remarked, “We will be weighing this afternoon, Bolitho. Our destination is Gibraltar, where I will receive further orders and news of developments.” He looked up at his flag at the fore and added, “A fine day for it.”

Bolitho looked away, trying to shut the persistent drumming from his ears.

“All the ships are fully provisioned, sir.” He stopped. Broughton

knew that as well as he did. It was just something to say. Why should this one event mar everything? He should have realised by now that the days when he had been a young frigate captain were gone for good. Then, faces and people were real individuals. When one suffered it was felt throughout the cramped confines of the ship. Now he had to realise that men were no longer individuals. They were necessities, like the artillery and the rigging, the fresh water supply and the very planking upon which he now stood.

He felt Broughton watching and deliberately turned away. But it did matter, and he did care, and he knew he could not change. Not for Broughton, or to further his own chances of promotion in the Service he loved and now needed more than ever before.

He heard Keverne clear his throat and then something like a sigh from the watching seamen on the gangways.

Around the bows of the Zeus, the nearest seventy-four, came a slow procession of longboats, one from each ship in the squadron, the oars rising and falling with the “Rogue’s March” of the drum. He could see Euryalus’s boat second in the line, dark green like those now lashed in their tier and crowded with silent men. Each one in the procession carried marines, the lethal glitter of their bayonets and gleam of scarlet bringing colour to the grim spectacle as the boats turned slightly and headed for the flagship.

Broughton said softly, “This should not take too long, I think.”

“Way ’nough!”

The Auriga’s longboat glided alongside and hooked on to the main chains, while the others swayed above their reflections to witness punishment.

Bolitho took the Articles of War from Keverne and walked quickly to the entry port. Spargo, the surgeon, was already down in the boat accompanied by the boatswain’s mates, and he glanced up as Bolitho’s shadow fell across the rigid oarsmen.

He said, “Fit for punishment, sir.”

Bolitho made himself look at the figure in the forepart of the frigate’s longboat. Bent almost double, his arms lashed out on a capstan bar as if crucified, it was hard to believe it was Taylor. The man who had come to ask for help. For forgiveness and… He removed his hat, opened the book and begin to read the Articles, the sentence and punishment.

Below in the boat, Taylor stirred slightly, and Bolitho paused to look once again.

The thwarts and planking of the boat were covered with blood. Not the blood of battle, but black. Like the remnants of torn skin which hung from his mangled back. Black and ripped, so that the exposed bones shone in the sunlight like polished marble.

The boatswain’s mate glanced up and asked thickly, “Two dozen, zur?”

“Do your duty.”

Bolitho replaced his hat and kept his eyes on the nearest two-decker as the man drew back his arm and then brought the lash down with terrible force.

A step sounded beside him and Broughton said quietly, “He seems to be taking it well enough.” No concern or real interest. Just a casual comment.

Just as suddenly it was over, and as the boat cast off again to continue its way to the next ship Bolitho saw Taylor trying to turn his head to look up at him. But he did not have the strength.

Bolitho turned away, sickened by the sight of the contorted face, the broken lips, the thing which had once been John Taylor.

He said harshly, “Dismiss the hands, Mr Keverne.” He glanced involuntarily back again at the re-formed procession. Two more ships to go. He would never live through it. A younger man possibly, but not Taylor.

He heard Broughton’s voice again, very near. “If he had not been one of your old ship’s company-er, the Sparrow was it?”-

he sighed-“you would not have felt so involved, so vulnerable.”

When Bolitho did not reply he added curtly, “An example had to be made. They’ll not forget it, I think.”

Bolitho straightened his back and faced him, his voice steady as he replied, “Neither will I, sir.”

For just a few more seconds their eyes held, and then the shutter seemed to fall as Broughton said, “I am going below. Make the signal for all captains as soon as possible.” Then he was gone.

Bolitho took a grip of his thoughts, his anger and disgust.

“Mr Keverne, you will instruct the midshipmen of the watch to bend the signal for all captains to repair on board.”

Keverne watched him curiously. “When shall it be hoisted, sir?”

A voice called, “Signal from Valorous, sir. Prisoner has died under punishment.”

Bolitho kept his eyes on Keverne. “You may hoist it now.” Then he turned on his heel and strode aft to his cabin.