Flag Captain (24 page)

“I am sorry, sir.” Meheux seemed stunned. “We used it to cover Mr Grindle before he was buried.”

“Yes.” Bolitho twisted round so that they should not see his expression. “Well, run it up now, if you please.”

Meheux hurried away, calling the seamen from the gangways and ratlines where they had been clinging to watch the newcomer.

Minutes later, with her ensign flapping against the dear sky, the
Navarra
rounded into the wind, her loose canvas banging in protest, her decks crowded with figures who had swarmed up from below to see what was happening.

Bolitho steadied himself against the uneven motion and walked slowly to Witrand's side.

“Your offer, m'sieu. Was it genuine?” Bolitho moved his fingers around the buckle of the sword-belt, his eyes hidden as he said, “There is someone. I . . .”

He broke off and swung round as a great burst of cheering floated across the water.

The frigate was sweeping down to run across their quarter, and as she tacked violently in the wind he saw a flag breaking from her gaff. It was the same as his own, and he had to look away once more, unable to hide his emotion.

Ashton was dancing up and down yelling, “She's
Coquette,
sir!”

Meheux's face was split in half with a huge grin, and he slapped Allday's shoulder as he shouted wildly, “Well then!” Another slap. “Well then, eh?” It was all he could find to say.

Bolitho looked across at the Frenchman. Then he said, “It will not be necessary, m'sieu.” He saw the understanding in the man's yellow eyes. “But thank you.”

Witrand moved his gaze to the frigate and said quietly, “It would seem that the English have returned.”

11 AN END TO THE
W
AITING

I
T TOOK
a further two days to find the squadron, and during that time Bolitho often wondered what might have occurred but for
Coquette
's timely arrival. The
Navarra
's chronometer was smashed, and she was without either sextant or reliable compass. Even if she had been spared the additional battering of the storm, Bolitho knew he would have been hard put to it to estimate his position, let alone shape a course to the squadron's area of rendezvous.

Gillmor, the
Coquette
's tall and gangling captain, had called it the devil's luck, and there seemed much to suggest it was so. For had he kept to his original station, scouting and patrolling across the squadron's wake, he would certainly never have found the battered and partly disabled
Navarra.
But instead he had sighted a sail and had altered course to investigate, only to lose it during the night of the storm. The next day he had found it again, to discover it was a British sloop from Gibraltar. Further, the sloop was in fact searching for him. She had arrived at the Rock within twenty-four hours of the squadron's departure with a despatch for Broughton, and having passed it to Gillmor had made off again in great haste, no doubt very aware of her own vulnerability in such hostile waters.

Gillmor knew nothing of the contents of his sealed envelope, and could speak of little but his amazement at sighting the
Navarra
and then her flag flying above so much damage. His astonishment was considerably increased when he found the stained and ragged figure who greeted his arrival on board to be his own flag captain.

With so many women displayed on the ship's decks it was no surprise to Bolitho that the
Coquette
's company offered plenty of volunteers when it came to selecting men for work on the repairs. Even the frigate's first lieutenant, well known it seemed for keeping a cold eye on his ship's supply of spare spars and cordage, allowed a jury-mast to be sent across to replace the broken mizzen.

Several times during working hours Bolitho had heard shrill laughter and discreet giggles from between decks, and guessed that some of the
Coquette
's seamen were making their presence felt.

And on the morning of the second day, while he stood by the
Navarra
's weather rail, he felt something like pride as he watched the sun shining on the familiar topsails of the squadron, the speedier shape of the sloop
Restless
as she dashed away from her consorts to investigate the new arrivals.

Meheux said quietly, “They look fine, sir.” He too seemed touched by the occasion. “I'll not be sorry to quit this floating ruin.”

Then, while the
Coquette
made more sail and hurried ahead of her battered companion, her yards already alive with signal flags, Bolitho watched his own ship, shining brightly in the glare, her tan sails quivering in haze as she moved slowly on the starboard tack. Like the other three ships-of-the-line, she appeared motionless above her reflection, with only the smallest crust of white around her stem to indicate her steady approach.

Bolitho said, “She will be sending a boat directly. You will retain command here, Mr Meheux, until the
Navarra
's future is decided. I doubt you will have long to wait.”

Meheux smiled. “I am relieved to hear it, sir.” He gestured towards an open hatch whence came the unending groan and clank of pumps. “What about our men down there? Shall I send 'em over under guard, sir?”

Bolitho shook his head. “They have worked well enough, and I suspect they'll think twice in future before they take on a free cargo of brandy.”

Ashton called, “The flagship has signalled the squadron to heave to, sir.” He looked stronger again, although his eyes were squinting as if he was suffering from a headache.

Bolitho heard Allday growl, “My God, here comes your barge, Captain! I'll kill that cox'n for the way he steers her!”

He said, “Fetch Witrand up here. We will take him to
Euryalus
with us.”

The next moments were unreal and not a little moving for Bolitho. As the barge came alongside, the tossed oars shining like twin rows of polished bones, and Meheux followed him to the gangway, he realised that most of the
Navarra
's passengers were crowding the side to see him depart. Some were waving to him, and several of the women were laughing and weeping at the same time.

He thought he saw Pareja's widow watching from the poop, but could not be sure, and wondered what he should do to help her.

Witrand stood beside him and shook his head. “They are sorry to lose you, Capitaine. Our common suffering of the past days has united us, eh?” Then he glanced at the
Euryalus
and added soberly, “'Owever, that was yesterday. Tomorrow all is different again.”

Bolitho followed Ashton and the Frenchman down into the barge where Allday was hissing threats at a rigid-faced seaman by the tiller. For a moment longer he glanced up at the rows of faces, the shot holes and the many scars where the dark-skinned attackers had hurled their grapnels to swarm aboard in a yelling horde. As Witrand had said, that was yesterday.

The return to his own command was no less overwhelming. The seamen who clung to the shrouds or swayed precariously on the yards were openly grinning and cheering, and as he clambered through the entry port, his ears almost deafened by the shrill of fifes and drums from the small marine band, he found time to notice that the normally wooden-faced marines in the guard were far from still.

Keverne stepped forward, trying not to let his gaze wander across Bolitho's tattered clothing. “Welcome back, sir.” Then he smiled. “I have won my wager with the master.”

Bolitho tried to keep his mouth under control. He saw Partridge craning forward to see him between the swaying lines of marines and called, “You thought I would never return, eh?”

Keverne said hastily, “No, sir. He thought you would be here yesterday.”

Bolitho looked around at the massed faces. They had all come a long way together. Once, during the wretched
Auriga
affair, he had imagined he had seen hostility. A sense of disappointment in what he had done or tried to do. The fact that they had known him better than he had perhaps realised stirred him deeply.

He said, “I must report to the admiral.” He studied Keverne's dark features, but even he appeared genuinely pleased to see him return to the ship. He could not have blamed him for showing opposite feelings, especially after his earlier setbacks.

Keverne said, “Sir Lucius instructed me to tell you he will be reading the despatches brought by
Coquette.
” He gave a wry smile. “He intimated, sir, that you might wish to take an half hour to, er, refresh yourself.” He let his eyes move to Bolitho's torn coat. “He was watching your return from his quarter gallery.”

At that moment Witrand was assisted through the port, and Bolitho said, “This is M'sieu Paul Witrand. He is a prisoner, but will be treated with all humanity.”

Keverne looked at the Frenchman doubtfully and then said, “I will attend to it, sir.”

Witrand gave a stiff bow. “Thank you, Capitaine.” He glanced aloft at the great yards and loosely flapping sails. “A prisoner per'aps, but to me this ship must still be like a part of France.”

Lieutenant Cox of the marines, a sleek young man whose immaculate uniform fitted so tightly that Bolitho imagined it impossible to stoop in it, marched forward and touched Witrand's arm. Together they walked towards the head of the companion.

Bolitho said, “Come aft, Mr Keverne. Tell me all the news while I change.”

Keverne followed him past the watching seamen and marines. “I would think that you have it all, sir. Sir Hugo Draffen rejoined the squadron, but I have heard little beyond that he met his agent and obtained some information about Djafou's defences.”

Inside the cabin it was cool after the quarterdeck and the day's mounting heat. He stared with surprise at several pieces of furniture which had not been present before.

Keverne said, “Captain Furneaux was aboard during your absence, sir. He was acting flag captain, but returned to
Valorous
when we received
Coquette
's signals.”

Bolitho glanced at him, but Keverne's face was devoid of amusement. Furneaux had obviously expected his new and coveted role to be permanent.

He said, “Have them sent back to him when convenient.”

Keverne leaned against the quarter windows and watched as Bolitho stripped and sluiced his weary body with cold water. Trute, his servant, took the filthy shirt, and after the smallest hesitation dropped it from an open window. Bolitho's appearance as he had entered his cabin had made a deep and obvious impression on Trute, and he could hardly drag his eyes from him.

Bolitho pulled on a clean shirt and then sat in a chair while Trute deftly fashioned his hair into a short queue at the nape of his neck.

“Then there has been no change since my leaving the ship?”

Keverne shrugged. “We sighted a few sail, sir, but
Restless
was unable to close with them. So it is unlikely they saw us either.” He added, “I spoke with the sloop's commander, but he saw nothing of Sir Hugo's agent. He was in an Arab fishing boat, and Sir Hugo went across to her alone. He insisted.”

Bolitho waited impatiently for Trute to finish tying his neck-cloth and then stood up. The wash and change of clothing had wiped away the dragging tiredness, and the familiar faces and voices around had done much to restore him.

Nevertheless, Keverne's news, or lack of it, was very worrying. Unless something was achieved quickly they would be in serious trouble. Word of their presence would soon reach Spain or France, and even now there might be a powerful force on its way to seek them out.

Allday entered the cabin carrying Bolitho's sword. He shot a glare at Trute and said, “I've oiled the scabbard, Captain.” He raised the tarnished hilt a few inches and let it snap down again. “Like new, she is.”

Bolitho smiled as he slipped the belt around his waist. Allday was frowning as he readjusted the clasp, and he knew that but for Keverne's presence he would probably be grumbling that it was the second time he had done so in a month. He would make heavy suggestions that he should eat more, for like most sailors Allday placed much value in eating and drinking to the full whenever possible.

Overhead a bell chimed the hour and Bolitho walked to the door. “I am sorry I have not been able to assist you in your promotion, Mr Keverne. But I have no doubt as to an opportunity very soon.”

Keverne smiled gravely. “Thank you, sir. For your concern.”

Bolitho walked quickly down the companion ladder to the middle deck, thinking of Keverne's reserve, the permanent defence against showing his inner feelings. He might make a good captain one day, he thought. Especially if he could keep his temper in hand.

The marine sentries stamped to attention and a corporal opened the double doors for him.

He heard Broughton's voice long before he had reached the stern cabin and braced himself accordingly.

“God damn your eyes, Calvert! This is appalling! You had best go to one of the midshipmen and discover how to spell!”

Bolitho entered the cabin and saw Broughton in black silhouette against the tall windows. He threw a screwed-up ball of paper at the flag-lieutenant who was sitting at the opposite side of the desk to his clerk, shouting violently, “My clerk can do twice as much in half the time!”

Bolitho looked away, embarrassed for Calvert and with himself for being here to see his humiliation. Calvert was quivering with both nervousness and resentment, while the clerk was smiling at him with obvious relish.

Broughton saw Bolitho and snapped, “Ah, here you are. Good. I will not be long.” He snatched up another sheet of paper from beneath Calvert's fingers and turned it to the windows, his eyes darting along the scrawling writing at great speed. There were shadows beneath his eyes, and he looked extremely angry.

He glared at Calvert again. “My God, why were you born such a fool?”

Calvert half rose, his shoes scraping on the deck covering. “I did not ask to be born, sir!” he sounded almost ready to burst into tears.

Bolitho watched the admiral, expecting him to explode at the lieutenant's rare show of defiance.

But he said indifferently, “If you had, the request would probably have been denied!” He pointed at the door. “Now get to work on those orders and see they are ready for signature in one hour.” He swung on his clerk. “And you can stop grinning like an old woman and help him!” His voice pursued him to the door. “Or I'll have you flogged for good measure, damn you!”

The door shut and Bolitho felt the cabin closing in on him in the oppressive silence.