Flag Captain (39 page)

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 companionway.

“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 rear-most ship.”

Broughton said dryly, “
Very
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.