The Flag Captain

5. A Bad Beginning

Sharp at two bells of the forenoon watch Vice-Admiral Sir Lucius Broughton strode on to the Euryalus’s quarterdeck. After nodding briskly to Bolitho he took a glass from a midshipman and proceeded to study each ship of his squadron in turn.

Bolitho ran his eye quickly along the upper deck where gun crews were going through their drill, watched with extra attention, now that the admiral had arrived, by Meheux, his round-faced second lieutenant.

It had been three days since they had sailed from Falmouth, a long, slow three days during which they had logged a mere four hundred miles. Bolitho gripped the quarterdeck rail, his body angled against the steep tilt, as with her consorts Euryalus plunged

ponderously on a slow starboard tack, her great yards braced round, the straining topsails hard-bellied like metal in the wind.

Not that it had been bad sailing weather, quite the reverse. Skirting the Bay of Biscay, for instance, Partridge, the master, had remarked that he had rarely seen it so favourable. Now, with a freshening north-westerly ruffling the sea into an endless panorama of crisp whitecaps it seemed likely the opportunity was going. It would soon be time to reef, rather than make more sail.

Once clear of the land Broughton had decided to start putting his ships through their paces, to check the flaws and draw out the varied qualities or otherwise of his new command.

Bolitho darted another glance towards him, wondering what new complaints or suggestions would come out of his inspection.

In any flagship a captain was constantly aware of his admiral’s presence, must allow for every mood or whim and somehow work it into his own scheme for running a routine without confusion. And yet he was surprised to find that he still knew Broughton hardly at all. He seemed to run his daily life by the clock with very little deviation. Breakfast at eight, dinner at half past two and supper at nine. Exactly at nine o’clock each forenoon he would come on deck and behave just as he was doing now. If anything, he appeared too rigid, and not merely in his habits.

The first day at sea, for instance, he had put his battle tactics into immediate operation. But unlike usual practice, he had retained the Euryalus at third place in the line, with only the one remaining seventy-four, the Valorous, stationed astern.

While the ships had tacked and floundered in a quarter sea to obey his curt signals Broughton had remarked, “One must study the captains just as much as the ships they command.”

Bolitho grasped immediately what he meant and had appreciated the sense of it.

It was pointless in some actions to have the most powerful ship, the one flying the admiral’s flag in particular, crashing

headlong into the enemy’s line. She could be disabled and rendered useless when she was most needed, when the admiral had the time and information to know of the enemy’s intentions.

Without using a glass he could see the leading ships quite easily, keeping the same positions that Broughton had ordered from the outset. Leading the line, and almost hidden by the straining topsails and forecourse of the next astern, was the two-decker Zeus. She was an elderly seventy-four, a veteran of the Glorious First of June, St Vincent and several smaller actions. Her captain, Robert Rattray, had been in command for three years and was known for his aggressive behaviour in battle, a bulldog tenacity which showed clearly on his square, weathered face. Exactly the kind of captain to take the first searing crash of a broadside when testing the enemy’s line. A seasoned, professional seaman, but with little else in his head but a strong sense of duty and a desire to do battle.

Captain Falcon of the Tanais, the second seventy-four, was quite the opposite. A mournful, untidy-looking man, with hooded, thoughtful eyes, he would be one to follow without question, but would use his imagination as well as his training to explore Rattray’s first approach.

About a mile astern of the Euryalus was the last in the line, the Valorous. Commanded by Captain Rodney Furneaux, a tight-lipped and haughty autocrat, she had proved to be a fast and manoeuvrable vessel under nearly all circumstances, and provided she could maintain her station would be well placed to protect the flagship or run down to assist any of her consorts if they got into difficulties.

Bolitho heard the glass close with its customary snap and turned to touch his hat as Broughton walked towards him.

He said formally, “Wind still from the nor’ west, sir, but freshening.” He saw Broughton’s eyes move slowly along the sweating lines of seamen at the guns. “The new course is sou’ west by west.”

Broughton gave a grunt. “Good. Your gun crews appear to be adequate.”

That was one thing Bolitho had learned. Broughton usually opened the day with some such comment. Like a spur, or a calculated insult.

He replied calmly, “Clear for action in ten minutes or less, sir, and then three broadsides every two minutes.”

Broughton studied him thoughtfully. “That is your standard, is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have heard of some of your standards.” Broughton placed his hands on his hips and peered up at the maintop where some marines were exercising with a swivel gun. “I hope our people will remember when the times comes.”

Bolitho waited. There would be more.

The admiral said absently, “When I dined with your brother-in-law at Falmouth he was telling me something of your family background.” He turned and looked hard at Bolitho. “I knew of your brother’s, er, misfortune, of course.” He let it sink in before adding, “How he deserted from the Navy.” He paused, his head slightly on one side.

Bolitho faced him coldly. “He died in America, sir.” It was strange how easily the lie came now. But the resentment was as strong as ever, and he had a sudden mad desire to say something to shock Broughton from his safe, all-powerful pillar. What would he say, for instance, if he knew that Hugh had been killed in action, right there, where he was now standing? At least Broughton’s probing remarks had allowed him to think of Hugh’s death without so much remorse and despair. As his eye moved briefly across Broughton’s shoulder to the broad, orderly quarterdeck, the great double wheel with its attentive helmsman and master’s mate, it was hard to see it as the bloody shambles on that day Hugh had died. Using his own body as a shield to save his

son Adam, who was still completely ignorant of his father’s presence, as men had screamed and died in the din of battle.

Broughton said, “And all over a duel, I believe? Could never understand the stupid attitude of people who made duelling a crime. Do you pride yourself as a swordsman, by any chance?”

Bolitho forced a smile, “My sword has often been a comfort in battle, sir.” He could not see where this line of talk was leading.

The admiral showed his teeth. They were very small and even. “A duel is for gentlemen.” He shook his head. “But as there seem to be so many in Parliament today who are neither swordsmen nor gentlemen, I suppose we must expect this sort of obstruction.” He glanced towards the poop. “I will take a walk for half an hour.”

Bolitho watched him go up the poop ladder. The admiral’s daily walk. It never varied either.

He let his mind return to Broughton’s plan of battle. Perhaps the answer lay with him rather than the plan. Too much rigidity. But surely he would have learned from experience that in many cases ships were called to give battle when scattered and without any set order at all? At St Vincent where Broughton had actually fought, Commodore Nelson had once again confounded the critics by dashing into the attack without regard for any set stratagem. Bolitho had mentioned it to Broughton and had gained one further clue to his unwavering attitude.

He had snapped, “Nelson, Nelson, that’s all I hear! I saw him in his damned Captain, although I was busy myself at the time. More luck on his side than any sense of timing.” He had become very cool with equal suddenness. “Give your people a plan, something to learn and learn until they can act as one in total darkness or the middle of a typhoon. Keep at them without rest until they can think of nothing else. You can keep your damned heroics for my part. Give me a plan, one that is well tried, and I’ll give you a victory!”

Bolitho thought back over that one brief insight. Broughton

was actually jealous. Senior to Nelson, an officer he did not even know except by reputation, with influence and breeding to support his every move, and yet he was jealous for all that.

It did not add much to Bolitho’s knowledge of his superior, but it did make him seem more human.

Broughton had never mentioned Taylor’s death or the savage flogging since weighing anchor. Even at the hasty conference after the punishment he had made little comment, but for one about maintaining discipline at all times.

In fact, as the wine had been passed around the assembled captains in the same cabin where Taylor had heard his terrible fate, Broughton had been completely at ease, even jocular as he had told the others of the sailing orders for Gibraltar.

Bolitho could recall seeing the Auriga’s longboat grounding on a sandbar, the marines digging a hasty grave for Taylor’s corpse, working fast in the sunlight to beat a rising tide. Taylor would rot in an unmarked grave. A martyr, or a victim of circumstances, it was hard to know which.

Once at sea again Bolitho had watched his own ship’s company for any sign of unrest, but the daily routine had kept them too busy perhaps for recriminations or argument. The squadron had sailed without further incident and with no fresh news of the troubles at the Nore.

He shaded his eyes to peer at the glittering horizon line. Somewhere out there, far to windward and visible only to the masthead lookouts, was the ship in question, the Auriga, once again under the command of her original captain, Brice. Bolitho had made it his business to summon him aboard just prior to sailing and had given him a warning as to his behaviour. He had known it to be useless even as he was speaking to him.

Brice had stood quite still in his cabin, his hat beneath his arm, his pale eyes avoiding Bolitho’s until he had finished.

Then he had said softly, “Vice-Admiral Broughton does not

accept that there was a mutiny. Neither, sir, did you when you came aboard my ship. The fact that I am being returned to my rightful command surely proves that whatever wrongs were committed were by others.” He had smiled slightly. “One who escaped, and the other who was treated with more leniency than might be expected in these dangerous times.”

Bolitho had walked around the table, feeling the other man’s hate behind the mask of quiet amusement, knowing his own feelings were little better.

“Now hear my words, Brice, and remember them. We are going on a special mission, maybe an important one for England. You will do well to change your ways if you wish to see your homeland again.”

Brice had stiffened. “There’ll be no more uprisings in my ship, sir!”

Bolitho had forced a smile. “I was not referring to your own people. If you betray your trust once more, I will personally see that you are brought to a court-martial, and that you receive the justice you so obviously enjoy imposing on others!”

Bolitho walked to the nettings and glanced down at the water leaping against the tall side. The squadron was about one hundred miles north-west of Cape Ortegal, the very corner of Spain. If ships had minds of their own, would Euryalus be remembering it too? he wondered. It was here that she fought under the French flag against Bolitho’s old Hyperion. Where her decks ran scarlet and the battle raged without let-up until its grisly conclusion. But maybe ships did not care after all. Men died, crying for half-remembered wives and children, for mothers, or for their comrades in hell. Others lived on in a maimed existence ashore, forgotten by the sea and avoided by many of those who could have helped them.

But the ships sailed on, impatient perhaps with the fools who manned them.

“Sir! Zeus is signalling!” The midshipman of the watch was suddenly galvanised into action. He jumped into the shrouds, his big telescope already to his eye. “Zeus to Flag. Strange sail bearing nor’ west.” He looked down at Bolitho, his face shining with excitement.

Bolitho nodded. “Excellent, Mr Tothill. That was quickly done.” He glanced round and saw Keverne hurrying towards him. The signal probably meant nothing, but after drills and dragging uncertainty any sort of change was welcome. It had swept his other thoughts away like cobwebs.

“Sir?” Keverne eyed him intently.

“Dismiss the hands from drills and prepare to set the t’gallants on her.” He looked aloft, his eyes watering in the crisp breeze. “The royals too if the wind gets no worse.”

As he hurried away Broughton reappeared on the quarterdeck, his face very calm.

Bolitho said, “Sail to the nor’ west, sir.” He saw the brightness in the admiral’s eyes and guessed how hard it was for him to appear so controlled.

Broughton pursed his lips. “Signal the Auriga to intercept.”

“Aye, sir.”

Bolitho beckoned to the signal midshipman and could almost feel Broughton’s impatience at his back. Only the previous day he had sent the other frigate, Coquette, on ahead at full speed to reach Gibraltar with his despatches, and to make sure there was no change in plans for his squadron. With Auriga to windward and the little sloop Restless sweeping downwind in the hopes of snatching a French or Spanish fisherman for information, it had left his resources very strained.

The boy reported, “Auriga has acknowledged, sir.”

Bolitho could picture the scene on the frigate’s deck as the distant flags had been studied, probably from some swaying yard far above the sea, by another midshipman like Tothill.

He could well imagine Brice’s feelings at this moment too. A chance to further his position with the admiral and before the whole squadron would not be taken lightly. And heaven help any poor wretch who displeased him at such a time.

He took the big glass and climbed up beside the midshipman in the weather shrouds, and trained it towards the horizon. The frigate leapt into view, her topsails already filling as she went about and dashed towards the newcomer. He could imagine the sounds of spray cascading over her bowsprit, the scream of blocks and rigging as more, and more canvas thundered out from her yards to contain and hold the wind for her own power.

It was easy to forget men like Brice at such times, he thought vaguely. Auriga was a beautiful little ship, a living, vital thing as she heeled to the wind and buried her lee gunports in foam.

He returned to the deck and said, “Permission to give chase, sir?”

For another small moment he shared a common understanding and excitement with Broughton. Saw his jaw tighten, the gleam in his eyes.

“Yes.” He stood aside as Bolitho raised his hand to Keverne. Then he added, “All ships will, however, retain their stations. See to it.”

As the signal soared up the yards and broke to the wind Bolitho saw the other ships hoist their acknowledgements as one. Every captain must have been waiting for this. Praying for something to break the monotony and the uncertain watchfulness which had dogged them since Falmouth.

Overhead the growing spread of canvas cracked and boomed, the great yards bending like bows until they looked as if they would tear free from the masts. The hull tilted still further, so that men hastening about the upper deck seemed to be leaning at strange and unreal angles, while more, and still more, canvas bellied out to the wind.

On the lower gundeck the ports would be completely submerged, and Bolitho could hear the pumps already clanking as the hull took the strain and accepted it.

But they were overhauling the nearest seventy-four, and through the straining criss-cross of rigging and shrouds he could see the officers on the Tanais’s quarterdeck peering astern at the flagship as she begin to creep up on them.

Broughton said testily, “Signal Tanais to make more sail, dammit!”

As he walked away to the opposite side Bolitho heard Partridge mutter, “Her’ll ’ave the sticks out of ’er if she does, by God!”

Bolitho snapped, “Mr Tothill, get to the masthead and double quick! I need some good eyes up there today.”

He made himself walk slowly back and forth on the weather side, hating the slow pace of the squadron as he tried to picture what the other ship was doing.

“Deck there! Zeus is signalling, sir! Enemy in sight!” His voice was shrill with excitement. “A frigate, steering due east!”

Keverne rubbed his hands. “Running for Vigo, I shouldn’t wonder.”

He looked unusually tense, and Bolitho guessed he was probably picturing what might have been with himself commanding Auriga instead of Brice.

He replied, “There’s a good chance we can head her off, Mr Keverne.”

Brice had the wind almost under his coat-tails and was fairly flying across the path of his slow and ponderous consorts. The Frenchman could either try to outpace him or go about and lose valuable time trying to beat out to sea again. If he chose the latter course, one of the ships in the line might even get an opportunity…

He jerked round as Broughton rapped, “God damn the Valorous!” He threw his telescope to a seaman. “Now she’s falling back.”

The signal soared aloft immediately to Euryalus’s yards. Make more sail. But even as the acknowledgement broke from the two-decker Bolitho saw her fore topgallant sail disintegrate like ashes as it tore itself to fragments in the wind.

Bolitho said, “Shall I signal Zeus to chase independently, sir? She’s got a good lead.” He knew the answer already, saw Broughton’s mouth tightening as he added, “The Frenchman might still slip away from Auriga.”

“No.” One word, with nothing to show disappointment or anger.

Bolitho looked away. The Frenchman would be surprised that there was no change in the squadron’s line of advance. He was somewhere right ahead of the column, hidden by Zeus’s tall pyramid of sails, and moving very fast. But Auriga had crossed over now, and he could see her speeding downwind, every sail set and drawing its full as she tore towards the enemy. As she lifted and smashed down across the serried lines of whitecaps he could see the sunlight playing on her bared copper, and her sleek hull which shone in the glare like glass.

Zeus edged slightly out of line and Bolitho held his breath as he watched the French frigate sway momentarily into view. About five miles away. It did not seem possible that they had converged on her so quickly.

Auriga would be about three miles distant, and she had already overreached the other frigate. Bolitho tried to clear his mind, to think what he would do in the enemy’s place. Go about, or try to continue towards the land hidden below that mocking horizon? There was certainly no chance of beating the Auriga on her present course. Yet, if he made a dash for it he was almost sure to run into the arms of a British patrol along the Portuguese coast. Vigo was the last safe refuge, unless he was prepared to turn and fight.

Broughton said, “Make a general signal. Shorten sail and

re-form correct stations.” He eyed Bolitho bleakly. “Auriga can handle the Frog now.”

As the signal was passed and repeated up and down the line Bolitho could almost sense the frustration around him. Four powerful ships, yet because of Broughton’s inflexible rules as impotent as merchantmen.

A dull bang echoed across the water and Bolitho saw a puff of brown smoke drifting towards the French ship. Brice had fired a ranging shot, although it was not possible to see where it fell.

Every glass came up as Keverne said hoarsely, “The Frog’s wearing ship! By God, look at him!”

The French captain had mistimed it badly. Bolitho could almost pity him as he put his ship round in an effort to cross the Auriga’s bows. He could see her bared bilge, the sun dancing on her straining sails as the yards swung still further until she was heeling right over in her own spray. A solid thunder of gunfire echoed and re-echoed across the tossing water, and Bolitho imagined Brice’s first broadside smashing into the exposed bilge as he used his advantage of wind and position to follow her round.

Somebody in the Euryalus’s foretop raised a cheer, but otherwise there was complete silence as seamen and marines watched the frigates overlapping, clawing closer and closer to each other, the smoke already whipped free in the wind.

Another ripple of flashes, this time from the Frenchman, but the Auriga’s masts and yards remained intact, whereas the enemy’s canvas was pitted with holes, her main topsail tearing itself to ribbons after the first barrage.

Keverne whispered, “A good prize, I’m thinking. We can do with another frigate anyway.”

It was hard to distinguish what was happening now. The two ships could only be half a cable apart, and getting nearer each minute. More cannon fire, and then the enemy’s mizzen top-

gallant pitched down into the rolling smoke, the ripped canvas and rigging following it into the bedlam below.

Broughton said, “She’ll strike soon.”

“The wind’s droppin’, sir.” Partridge kept his voice hushed, as if fearful of breaking the concentration.

Broughton replied. “It does not matter now.” He was smiling.

A new silence had fallen, and across the last three miles which separated the Zeus from the two frigates they could see that the gunfire had ceased and both ships lay locked together. It was over.

Broughton said softly, “Well, well, Bolitho. What do you have to say about that?”

Some marines on the forecastle removed their shakos and began to cheer, the cry taken up aboard the Tanais directly ahead.

Bolitho brushed past the admiral and snatched a telescope from its rack as the cheering began to falter and die almost as soon as it was begun. He felt his skin chill as he watched the flag fluttering down from the Auriga’s peak like a wounded bird, to be replaced instantly by another. The same flag which still lifted jauntily above the tattered sails of her adversary. The tricolour of France.

Keverne gasped, “By God, those bastards have struck to the Frogs! They never even tried to fight ’em!” He sounded stunned with disbelief.

The Auriga was already drifting clear of the Frenchman, and there was fresh activity on her deck and yards as she swung slowly downwind and away from the helpless squadron. Through the glass Bolitho could see her marines, their red coats making a patch of colour as they were disarmed and herded below by a French boarding party. Not that a boarding party was necessary, he thought bitterly. The whole of the ship’s company, which seconds before had been fighting so well, had surrendered. Gone

over to the enemy. He replaced the glass, unable to hold it because his hand was shaking with both anger and despair.

Without effort he could see the delegates gathered in the little inn at Veryan Bay. Allday and his hidden pistol. The man called Gates. And John Taylor, crucified and maimed because he had tried to help.

Partridge said in a small voice, “No chance of catchin’ ’em now. They’ll be in Vigo afore dusk.” He looked away, his shoulders slumped. “To see it ’appen like that!”

Broughton was still staring at the two frigates, which were already pulling away and spreading more sail.

“You may signal Restless to take station to windward!” He sounded remote, like a stranger. “Then make a general signal to resume original course! He looked at Bolitho. “So there’s an end to your talk of loyalty.” His tone was like a whip.

Bolitho shook his head. “You told me you must understand a captain as much as the ship he commands. I believe you, sir.” He moved his gaze towards the distant Auriga. She seemed to have grown smaller under the alien flag. “Just as I believe that while men like Brice are permitted their authority, such things as we have witnessed today may continue.”

Broughton stepped back, as if Bolitho had uttered some terrible obscenity. Then he said, “Captain Brice may have fallen in battle.” He walked aft. “For his sake, I trust that is the case.” Then he vanished into the gloom below the poop.

Lieutenant Meheux said loudly, “Well, there was nothing we could do to stop it. Now, if I could have got my battery to bear we could have given them a lesson in manners.”

Several unemployed officers joined in the discussion, and Allday, who had been standing below the poop in case he was needed, glared at them with disgust.

He saw Bolitho pacing slowly back and forth on the weather side, his head lowered in thought. All the rest of them were pre-

tending to console him and themselves, but really they wanted to be reassured and had no idea what the captain was thinking.

But Allday knew, had seen the pain in his grey eyes at the first sight of that hated tricolour. He would be recalling the time he had been made to fight another British ship under an enemy flag, with his own brother in command.

He was feeling Auriga’s shame like his own, and all these empty-headed puppies could talk about was their own blameless part in it.

Allday strode towards Bolitho, hardly realising that his feet had started to move. He saw Bolitho halt, the swift anger in his eyes at being disturbed.

“What is it?” The voice was cold, but Allday was undeterred.

“I was just thinking, Captain.” He paused, gauging the moment. “The Frogs have just got a British frigate, but not by force of arms.”

“Well?” He sounded dangerously calm.

Allday grinned. “I was just looking around while all that was going on.” The grin got wider. “Now this three-decker, for instance. I seem to remember we took her together without too much difficulty in the face of some very angry Frogs.”

Bolitho glared at him. “That is a damn stupid comparison to make! If you can think of nothing more useful to say then be good enough to get out of my sight!” His voice was loud enough to make several heads turn in their direction.

Allday walked slowly away, hopeful and at the same time afraid that he had for once mistimed his attempt to help.

Bolitho’s voice halted him.

“Now that you mention it, Allday.” Bolitho dropped his eyes as the other man turned towards him. “It was a fine prize. And still is. Thank you for reminding me. It was wrong I should forget what British seamen can do.”

Allday glanced at the silent lieutenants and smiled gently

before sauntering back to his place by the poop ladder.

Bolitho’s voice broke the silence again.

“Very well, Mr Keverne, you may pipe the lower battery to quarters and exercise the crews now that the ports are no longer awash.”

He paused and looked over the nettings so that Keverne had to hurry forward to hear the rest of his words. Even then he was not sure if he was meant to listen.

Bolitho said quietly, “We will meet again, my friend. And things may be a little different.”

Eighteen days after seeing the Auriga strike her colours to the enemy, Broughton’s squadron dropped anchor at Gibraltar. Due to the loss of time incurred at the start of the voyage while the admiral had exercised the ships in his plan of battle, the arrival beneath the Rock’s great shadow was even later than Bolitho had anticipated. They had been beset by constantly shifting winds, and once when some ninety miles west of Lisbon had been forced to ride out a storm of such swift and savage intensity that the Zeus had lost six men overboard. And yet the very next day had found all the ships floating helplessly in a dead calm, their sails flat and devoid of any movement while the sun made the daily routine almost unbearable.

Now, with awnings rigged and gunports open to a lazy offshore breeze, the squadron rested beneath the afternoon glare, their boats plying back and forth to the land like busy water-beetles.

Bolitho entered his cabin where all the other captains had been summoned within an hour of anchoring. They looked tired and strained after the voyage, and the swift pattern of events which had followed their arrival at Gibraltar had left none of them much time for rest.

Needless to say, it was Rattray of the Zeus who was the first to speak.

“Who is this fellow with the admiral? Does anyone know him, eh?”

Captain Furneaux of the Valorous took a glass of wine from the cabin servant and eyed it critically.

“Don’t look much of a diplomat, if you ask me.” He turned his haughty face towards Bolitho. “In war we seem to attract the oddest sort of advisers, what?”

Bolitho smiled and nodded to the others and then walked to the open stern windows. On the far side of the bay, quivering and misty in haze, was Algeciras, where already many telescopes would be trained on the British squadron, and messengers riding to carry the news inland to the garrisons.

The visitor aboard the flagship, the man whose sudden and unheralded appearance was causing such speculation, was certainly unusual. He had come offshore in the Governor’s launch and had swarmed up through the entry port almost before the side party had got into position to receive him.

Dressed in well cut and expensive coat and breeches, he had snapped, “No need for all this sort of thing. No damn time to waste!”

His name was Sir Hugo Draffen, and in spite of his dress and title he looked like a man who was more accustomed to hard activity and physical effort rather than one of more leisurely pursuits. Thickset, even squat, his face was very tanned, his eyes surrounded with tiny wrinkles as if well used to the sun and more severe climates than Whitehall.

Broughton, called hastily from his quarters where he had spent most of the remainder of the voyage, had been strangely quiet, even subservient towards his guest, and Bolitho imagined there was far more to Draffen than anyone of them yet realised.

Captain Gillmor of the frigate Coquette, sent on ahead of the squadron in search of fresh information, said gloomily, “He came aboard my ship when I anchored.” He was a lanky, even ungainly

young man, and his long face was frowning as he relived the meeting with Draffen. “When I suggested I should return and contact the squadron he told me not to bother.” He shuddered. “And when I asked him why, he told me to mind my own damn business!”

Falcon of the Tanais put down his glass and said grimly, “At least you were spared seeing Auriga’s disgrace.”

The others looked at him and at each other. It was the first time it had been mentioned.

Bolitho said, “I doubt that we will be in suspense much longer.” He wondered briefly if the others had noticed his exclusion from the talk now going on in Broughton’s cabin beneath his feet. It was unusual, but then, so it appeared, was Draffen.

Gillmor said sharply, “Had I been there, I’d have sunk both of ’em rather than let such a thing occur.”

Furneaux drawled, “But you were not there, young fellow, so you are conveniently spared any of the blame, eh?”

“That will do, gentlemen.” Bolitho stepped between them, aware of the sudden tension. “What happened, happened. Recriminations will help no one, unless they are used to act as a guard and a warning.” He looked at each of them in turn. “We will have plenty of work to do before long, so save your energy for that.”

The doors opened and Broughton, followed by Draffen and the flag-lieutenant, entered the cabin.

Broughton nodded curtly. “Be seated, gentlemen.” He shook his head as the servant offered him a glass. “Wait outside until I have finished.”

Bolitho noticed that Draffen had gone to the stern windows, either disinterested in what was happening or placing himself where he could see their faces without being observed himself.

Broughton cleared his throat and glanced at Draffen’s squat figure, almost black against the sunlit windows.

“As you are well aware, our fleet has been excluded from the Mediterranean since the close of last year. Bonaparte’s advances and conquests in Italy and Genoa closed all harbours against us, and it was found necessary to withdraw.”

Draffen crossed from the window. It was a quick, agile movement, and his words matched his obvious impatience.

“If I may interrupt, Sir Lucius?” He turned his back on Broughton without awaiting a reply. “We will cut this short. I have little use for the Navy’s indulgence in its own affairs.” He smiled, the wrinkles around his eyes pulling together like crow’s-feet. “England is alone in a war against a dedicated and, if you will pardon the expression, a professional adversary. With the fleets of France and Spain combining at Brest for one great attack, and then invasion of England, the withdrawal of ships to reinforce the Channel and Atlantic fleets seemed not only prudent but greatly urgent.”

Bolitho eyed Broughton narrowly, expecting some sign of anger or resentment, but his face was like stone.

Draffen continued briskly, “Jervis’s victory over that combined fleet at St Vincent has postponed, maybe smashed altogether, any chance of a military invasion across the English Channel, and has also proved the poorness of co-operation between the Franco- Spanish Alliance at sea. So it would seem sensible to assume that Bonaparte will spread his influence elsewhere, and soon.”

Broughton said suddenly, “Shall I continue?”

“If you wish.” Draffen took out a watch. “But please be quick.”

Broughton swallowed hard. “This squadron will be the first force of any size to re-enter the Mediterranean.” He got no further.

“Look at this chart, gentlemen.” Draffen snatched it from Lieutenant Calvert’s hand and opened it on the table.

As the others crowded closer Bolitho darted another glance at Broughton. He looked pale, and for a few seconds he saw his eyes gleaming with anger across Draffen’s broad back.

“Here, two hundred and fifty miles along the Spanish coast is Cartagena, where many of their ships were based prior to sailing for Brest.” Bolitho followed the man’s spatulate finger as it crossed southward over the Mediterranean to the craggy outline of the Algerian coast. “South-east from Spain, a mere one hundred and fifty miles, lies Djafou.”

Bolitho realised with a start that Draffen was looking up at him, his eyes very still and intent.

“Do you know it, Captain?”

“By reputation, sir. Once the lair of Barbary pirates, I believe. A good natural harbour, and little else.”

Draffen smiled, but his eyes were still unblinking. “The Dons seized it some years ago to protect their own coast trade. Now that they are allied to the French its harbour may be seen in another light entirely.”

Rattray asked gruffly, “As a base, sir?”

“Maybe.” Draffen straightened his back. “But my agents have reported some comings and goings from Cartagena. It would be well if our re-entry to the Mediterranean was given a purpose, something positive.” He tapped the chart again. “Your admiral knows what is expected of him, but I will tell you now that I intend to see our flag over Djafou, and without too much delay.”

In the sudden silence Broughton said stiffly, “My squadron is under strength, sir.” He glanced away and added, “However, if you think…”

Draffen nodded firmly. “Indeed I do think, Sir Lucius. I have made arrangements for bomb vessels from Lisbon. They will be here within a day or so.” His tone hardened. “If the fleet at Spithead and the Nore had been less concerned with their own domestic affairs I daresay your squadron would be fifteen or even twenty sail-of-the-line instead of four.” He shrugged. “And having only one frigate now…” He shrugged again, dismissing it. “But that remains your own concern.” He snapped his fingers.

“Now, I suggest a toast, so get that servant in here.” He grinned at their mixed expressions. “After that, there will be plenty to do.”

He looked again at Bolitho. “You say very little, Captain.”

Broughton snapped, “I will instruct my flag captain in my own way, if you please, Sir Hugo.”

“As it should be.” Draffen remained smiling. “However, I will be joining the squadron for some of the time.” He took a glass from the servant, adding, “Just to ensure that your way is also mine, eh?”

Bolitho turned away, his mind already busy with Draffen’s brisk but extremely sparse information.

It was good news indeed to know that British ships would be attacking the southern approaches of Bonaparte’s growing empire once again. To take and hold a new and strategically placed base for the fleet was a plan of both skill and imagination.

But if on the other hand Broughton’s squadron was being used merely as a cat’s-paw, a means to make the enemy withdraw forces back to the Mediterranean on a large scale, things might go badly for all of them.

There was no doubting Draffen’s authority, although what his exact status was remained a mystery. Maybe the news had already reached him of a worsening situation at the Nore. The sacrifice of this small squadron to ease enemy pressure around the Channel ports would seem no worse than Taylor’s death had measured with Broughton himself.

Whatever had been already decided, Bolitho knew that he would be directly involved in each part of it. The outlook should have cheered him, but the thought of having Broughton and Draffen in overall control was another prospect entirely.

Broughton had moved away to talk with Furneaux, and Draffen crossed to Bolitho’s side, obviously about to take his leave.

He said, “Glad to have met you, Captain. I think we are going to get on very well together.” He signalled to Calvert and then

added calmly, “As a matter of fact, I used to know your brother.” Then he swung on his heel and made his way to Broughton and the others.