Flag Captain (9 page)

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 ring-leader, 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 unblinkingly 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.