Flag Captain Read online

  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.

  6 SHIPS IN COMPANY

  BOLITHO did not see Sir Hugo Draffen again for three days. But he was kept too busy with affairs aboard the Euryalus and the other ships of the squadron to find much time for speculation over his parting remarks.

  The fact that he had known Hugh implied that Draffen had lived or worked in the West Indies or even America during the Revolution there. Otherwise there seemed little point in being so secretive about the meeting. Draffen had the mark of a trader, one of the sort who helped create colonies merely by finding a personal reason for making money. He was shrewd and, Bolitho imagined, not a little ruthless when it suited him.

  Bolitho kne
w there might be nothing more in Draffen’s remarks than a first move in making contact between them. If they were going to work in harmony over the next weeks or months, it was a natural thing to expect of him. But the caution built up in Bolitho over the years since his brother’s change of allegiance had made him sensitive to a point of being over-cautious whenever Hugh’s name was mentioned.

  There was much to do. Taking on extra stocks of food and water for the coming voyage and gathering any additional equipment which could be begged, borrowed or bribed from the Rock. Once abroad in the Mediterranean they would be without base or supplies, other than that which they might seize for themselves.

  And there was now an additional, more pressing need for self-dependence. Two days after anchoring Bolitho had seen a sloop of war tack busily into the bay carrying, it was said, despatches and news from England.

  Eventually Broughton had sent for him, his features grim as he had said, “The mutiny at the Nore is worse. Nearly every ship is in the hands of the delegates. ” He had spat out the word like poison. “They’re blockading the river and holding the government to ransom until their demands are met.”

  Broughton had jumped to his feet and moved restlessly about his cabin like a caged animal.

  “Admiral Duncan was blockading the Dutch coast. What can he do with most of his ships at anchor and under the flag of revolution?”

  “I will inform the other captains, sir.”

  “Yes, at once. That sloop is returning to England at once with despatches, so there is little fear of our people being inflamed.” He added slowly, “I have included in my report the details of the Auriga’s loss. It might suit the French to use her for spying, so the sooner our ships are aware of her new identity the better. We do not know yet that she did strike her colours in mutiny.” He had not looked at Bolitho. “All her officers may have been killed or disabled as she closed for boarding. In the confusion she could have been overwhelmed.” He had obviously not believed it any more than Bolitho.

  Nevertheless, there was sufficient doubt to allow Broughton to make the evasive comments in his report. The news of a British ship changing sides for any reason at a moment like this might spark off even worse troubles in the fleet, if that were possible.

  Broughton had been content to give more and more work to Bolitho while the squadron completed its preparations for sailing. The news from the Nore, coupled with the Auriga’s loss, had made a deep and noticeable impression on him. He seemed withdrawn, and, when alone with Bolitho, less composed than ever before. His experiences at Spithead aboard his own flagship had obviously scarred him deeply, as Rook had once suggested.

  He spent a good deal of his time ashore, conferring with Draffen or the Governor but always went alone, keeping his thoughts to himself.

  Lieutenant Calvert seemed unable to do anything right for his admiral, and his life was fast becoming a nightmare. Highbred he might be, but he seemed completely incapable of grasping the daily affairs of signals and directives which passed through his hands for the captains of the squadron.

  Bolitho suspected that Broughton used his flag-lieutenant to work off some of his own nagging uncertainties. If it was his idea to make Calvert’s existence a misery he was certainly succeeding.

  It was pitiful to hear Midshipman Tothill explaining respectfully but firmly the rights and wrongs of signal procedure to him, and, almost worse, Calvert’s obvious gratitude. Not that it helped him very much. Any sudden burst of anger from Broughton and Calvert’s latest hoard of knowledge seemed to dissipate to the wind forever.

  On the afternoon of the third day, as Bolitho was discussing the preparations with Keverne, the officer of the watch reported that the two bomb vessels were arriving and already dropping anchor close inshore.

  Shortly afterwards a launch grappled alongside and her coxswain passed a sealed letter aboard for Bolitho’s attention. It was from Draffen, and typically brief. Bolitho was to meet him aboard the Hekla, one of the bombs, immediately. He would come by way of the launch which had brought the letter.

  Broughton was ashore, so after giving Keverne his instructions Bolitho clambered into the boat to be rowed to the Hekla for the meeting.

  Allday watched him leave with ill-disguised annoyance. For Bolitho to use anything but his own barge was unthinkable, and as the launch pulled away from the Euryalus’s side he felt a sudden pang of anxiety. If anything ever happened to Bolitho, and he was suddenly like this, alone . . . What would he do? He was still staring after the boat as it vanished around the Zeus’s stern, his eyes unusually troubled.

  In all his service Bolitho had never before laid eyes on a bomb vessel, although he had heard of them often enough. The one towards which the launch was moving with such haste was much as he had expected. Two masted and about a hundred feet in length, with a very sturdy hull and low bulwarks. Her oddest characteristic was the uneven placing of her foremast. It was stepped well back from the stemhead, leaving the ship with an unbalanced appearance, as if her real foremast had been shot away level with the deck.

  Almost as large as a sloop, yet with neither the grace nor the agility, a bomb was said to be the devil to handle in anything but perfect conditions.

  As the boat hooked on to the chains he saw Draffen standing alone in the centre of the tiny quarterdeck shading his eyes to watch him climb aboard.

  Bolitho raised his hat as the small side party shrilled a salute, and nodded to a young lieutenant who was watching him with a kind of fascination.

  Draffen called, “Come up here, Bolitho. You’ll get a better view.”

  Bolitho took Draffen’s proffered hand. Like the man, it was tough and hard. He said, “That lieutenant. Is he the captain?”

  “No. I sent him below just before you came aboard.” He shrugged. “Sorry if I disturbed your traditional ceremonial, but I wanted my chart from his cabin.” He grinned. “Cabin indeed. My watchdog has better quarters.”

  He gestured forward. “No wonder they build these bombs the way they do. Every timber is twice as thick as that in any other vessel. The recoil and downward shock of those beauties would tear the guts out of a lesser hull.”

  Bolitho followed his hand and saw the two massive mortars mounted in the centre of the foredeck. Short, black and incredibly ugly, they nevertheless had a muzzle diameter of over a foot each. He could imagine without effort the great strain they would put on the timbers, to say nothing of those at the receiving end of their bombardment.

  The other vessel anchored close abeam was very similar, and aptly named Devastation.

  Draffen added half to himself, “The bombs will sail at night. No sense in letting those jackals at Algeciras know too much too early, eh?”

  Bolitho nodded. It made good sense. He looked sideways at the other man as Draffen turned to watch some seamen flaking down a rope with the ease of spiders constructing a web.

  Draffen was older than he had imagined. Nearer sixty than fifty, his grey hair contrasting sharply with his tanned features and brisk, muscular figure.

  He said, “The news from England was bad, sir. I heard it from Sir Lucius.”

  Draffen sounded indifferent. “Some people never learn.” He did not explain what he meant but instead turned and said, “About your brother. I met him when he commanded that privateer. I understand you destroyed his ship eventually.” His eyes softened slightly. “I have been learning quite a lot about you lately, and that piece of information makes me especially envious. I hope I could do what you did if called.” The mood changed again as he added, “Of course. I cannot possibly believe all I’ve heard about you. No man can be that good.” He grinned at Bolitho’s uncertainty and pointed over his shoulder. “Now take what the Hekla’s commander has told me, for instance. Never heard the like!”

  Bolitho swung round and then stared with astonishment. The man facing him, his long, horse-face changing from confusion to something like wild delight, was Francis Inch, no longer a mere lieutenant, but wearing the single epaulette on
his left shoulder. Commander Inch, Hyperion’s first lieutenant at that final, bloody embrace with Lequiller’s ships in the Bay of Biscay.

  Inch stepped forward, bobbing awkwardly. “It’s me, sir! Inch! ”

  Bolitho took his hands in his, not realising until now just how much he had missed him, and the past he represented.

  “I always told you that I should see you get a command of your own.” He did not know what to say, and was very conscious of Draffen’s grinning face, and Inch peering at him that familiar, eager way which had once nearly driven him mad with exasperation.

  Inch beamed. “It was either a bomb or first lieutenant of a seventy-four again, sir.” He looked suddenly sad. “After the old Hyperion I didn’t want another . . .” He allowed his grin to break through. “Now I have this.” He looked around his small command. “And this.” He touched the epaulette.

  “And you have a wife now?” Bolitho guessed that Inch would have refrained from mentioning her. He would not wish to remind him of his own loss.

  Inch nodded. “Aye, sir. With some of the prize money you got for us I have purchased a modest house at Weymouth. I hope you will do us the honour . . .” He became his old self again, unsure and bumbling. “But then, I am sure you will be too busy for that, sir . . .”

  Bolitho gripped his arm. “I will be delighted, Inch. It is good to see you again.”

  Draffen remarked dryly, “So there is warm blood in a sea officer after all.”

  Inch shuffled his feet. “I shall write to Hannah tonight. She will be pleased to hear about our meeting.”

  Bolitho eyed Draffen thoughtfully. “You certainly kept this as a surprise, sir.”