The Flag Captain

by Alexander Kent

Overview

April 1797, Falmouth Bay. As France continues her bitter struggle for supremacy on land and sea, the Royal Navy receives a crippling blow at home: the Great Mutiny.

Returning home after eighteen months' service, Flag Captain Richard Bolitho finds himself at the center of the crisis. And his new commander, it seems, is a man who will brook no interference...

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781590133262
Publisher:	McBooks Press
Publication date:	10/01/1999
Series:	The Bolitho Novels , #11
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	384
File size:	581 KB

About the Author

Douglas Reeman (Alexander Kent) did convoy duty in the Atlantic, the Arctic and the North Sea. He has written over thirty novels under his own name and more than twenty bestselling historical novels featuring Richard Bolitho under the pseudonym Alexander Kent.

First Chapter

Chapter 1 Landfall

As six bells of the morning watch chimed out from the forecastle belfry, Captain Richard Bolitho walked from beneath the poop and paused momentarily beside the compass. A master's mate who was standing close to the great double wheel said quickly, "Nor' west by north, sir," and then dropped his eyes as Bolitho glanced at him.

It was as if they could all sense his tension, he thought briefly, and although they might not understand its cause, wanted to break him from it.

He strode out on to the broad quarterdeck and crossed to the weather side. Around him, without looking, he could see his officers watching him, gauging his mood, waiting to begin this new day.

But the ship had been in continuous commission for eighteen months, and most of her company, excluding those killed by combat or injury at sea, were the same men who had sailed with him from Plymouth on an October morning in 1795. It was more than enough time for them to realise that he needed to be left alone for these first precious moments of each successive day.

The wet sea mist which had dogged them for most of the night while they had edged slowly up the Channel was still with them, thicker than ever. It swirled around the black criss-cross of shrouds and rigging and seemed to cling to the hull like dew. Beyond the nettings with their neatly stowed hammocks the sea was heaving in a deep offshore swell, but was quite unbroken in the low breeze. It was dull. The colour of lead.

Bolitho shivered slightly and clasped his hands behind him beneath his coat-tails and looked up, beyond the great braced yards to where a rear-admiral's flag flapped wetly from the mizzen masthead. It was hard to believe that up there somewhere the sky would be bright blue, warm and comforting, and on this May morning the sun should already be touching the approaching land. His land. Cornwall. He turned and saw Keverne, the first lieutenant, watching him, waiting for the right moment.

Bolitho forced a smile. "Good morning, Mr Keverne. Not much of a welcome, it appears."

Keverne relaxed slightly. "Good morning, sir. The wind remains sou' west, but there is little of it." He fidgeted with his coat buttons and added, "The master thinks we might anchor awhile. The mist should clear shortly."

Bolitho glanced towards the short, rotund shape of the ship's sailing master. His worn, heavy coat was buttoned up to his several chins, so that in the strange light he looked like a round blue ball. He was prematurely grey, even white haired, and had it tied at the nape of his neck in an old fashioned queue, giving it the appearance of a quaint powdered wig of a country squire.

"Well, Mr Partridge." Bolitho tried again to put some warmth into his tone. "It is not like you to show such reluctance for the shore?" Partridge shuffled his feet. "Never sailed into Falmouth afore, Cap'n. Not in a three-decker, that is."

Bolitho shifted his gaze to the master's mate. "Go forrard and see there are two good leadsmen in the chains. Make sure the leads are well armed with tallow. I want no false reports from them."

The man hurried away without a word. Bolitho knew that like the others he would know what to do without being told, just as he was aware he was only giving himself more time to think and consider his motives. Why should he not take the master's advice and anchor? Was it recklessness or conceit which made him continue closer and closer towards the invisible shore?

Mournfully a leadsman's voice echoed from forward. "By th' mark seven!" Above the deck the sails stirred restlessly and shone in the mist like oiled silk. Like everything else they were dripping with moisture, and hardly moved by the sluggish breeze from across the larboard quarter. Falmouth. Perhaps that was the answer to his uncertainty and apprehension. For eighteen months they had been employed on blockade and later the watch over the southern approaches of Ireland. A French attempt to invade Ireland and start an uprising had been expected weekly, yet when it had come just five months ago the British blockade had been caught unready. The invasion attempt had failed more because of bad weather and the French fleet being scattered than any real pressure from the overworked patrols.

Feet clattered in the passageway beneath the poop and he knew it was the admiral's servant going to attend his master in the great cabin. It was strange how after all that had gone before they were coming here, to Falmouth, Bolitho's home. It was as if fate had overrun everything which both duty and the Admiralty could muster.

". . . an' a quarter less seven!" The leadsman's call was like a chant. Bolitho began to pace slowly up and down the weather side, his chin lowered into his neckcloth.

Rear-Admiral Sir Charles Thelwall, whose flag flapped so limply from the masthead, had been aboard for over a year. Even when he had first hoisted his flag he had been a sick man. Old for his rank, and weighed down with the responsibility of an overworked squadron, his health had deteriorated rapidly in the fog and piercing cold of the last winter months. As his flag captain Bolitho had done what he could to ease the pressures on the tired, wizened little admiral, and it had been painful to watch as day by day he fought to overcome the illness which was destroying him.

At last the ship was returning to England to replenish stores and make good other shortages. Sir Charles Thelwall had already despatched a sloop with his reports and needs, and also made known the state of his own illness.

"By th' mark six!" So when the ship dropped anchor the admiral would go ashore for the last time. It was unlikely he would live long enough to enjoy it. And then there was the other twist of fate. Two days earlier, as the ship had tacked ponderously clear of the Wolf Rock in readiness for her passage up the Channel, they had been met by a fast moving brig with new orders for the admiral.

He had been in his cot at the time, racked by his dry, deadly cough which left his handkerchief spotted with blood after each convulsion, and had asked Bolitho to read the despatch which had been passed across in the brig's jolly boat.

The orders stated in the briefest of terms that His Britannic Majesty's Ship Euryalus would proceed with all despatch to Falmouth Bay and not to Plymouth as previously arranged. There to receive the flag of Sir Lucius Broughton, Knight of the Bath, Vice-Admiral of the White, and await further instructions.

Once the receipt of the orders had been acknowledged the brig had gone about with undue haste and sped away again. That was also strange. Two vessels meeting for the first time, and with the country in the grip of a war growing in fury and intensity, made even the smallest item of news valuable to the men who kept constant sea watch in all weathers and against any odds.

Even the brig's approach had been cautious, but Bolitho had grown used to such treatment. For the Euryalus was a prize ship, and as French in appearance as would be expected from a vessel only four years old. All the same, it was one more thing to put a finer edge on his sense of uncertainty.

"By th' mark six!" He turned and said sharply, "Bring that lead aft, Mr Keverne, and set the other to work at once."

A barefooted seaman padded on to the quarterdeck and knuckled his forehead. Then he held out the great, dripping lead and watched as Bolitho dug his fingers into the bottom of it, where the inserted plug of tallow gleamed dully with what looked like pink coral. Bolitho rubbed the small fragments on his palm and said absently, "The Six Hogs."

Behind him he heard Partridge murmur admiringly, "If I'd not seen it I'd never 'ave believed it." Bolitho said, "Alter course a point to larboard, if you please, and pipe the hands to the braces."

Keverne coughed and then asked quietly, "What are the Six Hogs, sir?" "Sandbars, Mr Keverne. We are now about two miles due south of St. Anthony Head." He smiled, suddenly ashamed for allowing the apparent miracle to continue. "They call the sandbars by that name, although I do not know why. But they are covered with these small stones, and have been so since I can remember."

He swung round and watched as a sliver of sunlight pierced the swirling mist and touched the quarterdeck with pale gold. Partridge and the others would have been less in awe of his navigation had he been wrong in his calculations. Or perhaps it was more instinct than calculations. Even before he had been bundled off to sea as a gawky twelve-year-old midshipman he had learned every cove and inlet around Falmouth and several miles in either direction as well.

Even so, memory could play tricks, and it would have been small comfort to the admiral or his own prospects if the coming day had found Euryalus aground and dismasted in sight of his home town. The big topsails flapped loudly and the deck tilted to a sudden pressure of wind, and like an army of departing ghosts the mist seeped through the shrouds and moved clear of the ship. Bolitho paused in his pacing and stared fixedly at the widening panorama of green coastline which reached away on either bow, growing and coming alive in the sunlight.

There, almost balanced on the jib-boom, or so it appeared, was St. Anthony's beacon, usually the first sight of home to a returning sailor. Slightly to larboard, hunched on the headland, its grey bulk defying the sun and its warmth, was Pendennis Castle, guarding the harbour entrance and Carrick Road as it had down the centuries. Bolitho licked his lips. They were dry, and not merely from salt air. "Lay a course to the anchorage, Mr Partridge. I am going to pay my respects to the admiral."

Partridge stared at him and then touched his battered hat. "Aye, aye, sir." Below the poop it was cool and dark after the quarterdeck, and as he strode aft towards the companion which led to the admiral's day cabin Bolitho was still pondering over what might lie in store for him and his command.

As he ran lightly down the companion to the middle deck and past two small ship's boys who were busily polishing brass hinges on some of the cabin doors, he recalled with sudden clarity how mixed his feelings had once been about assuming command of the Euryalus. It was common enough to take prize ships and put them to work against their old masters, it was more common still to let them keep their original names. Sailors often said it was bad luck to change a ship's title, but then seafaring people said a lot of things more from habit than known fact. She had once been named Tornade, flagship of the French admiral Lequiller who had broken the British blockade to cross the Atlantic as far west as the Caribbean, there to cause havoc and destruction until finally run to earth by an inferior British squadron in the Bay of Biscay. She had struck her colours to Bolitho's own ship, the old Hyperion, but not before she had pounded the worn two-decker almost into a floating wreck.

The Lords of the Admiralty had decided to rename Bolitho's great prize, mostly it seemed because Lequiller had outwitted them on more than one occasion. It was strange, Bolitho had thought, that those who controlled His Majesty's Navy from the heights of Admiralty seemed to know so little of ships and men that such changes were thought necessary.

Only the Euryalus's new figurehead was English. It had been carved with great care by Jethro Miller at St. Austell in Cornwall, as a gift from the people of Falmouth to one of their most popular sons. Miller had been Hyperion's carpenter and had lost a leg in that last terrible battle. But he still retained his skill, and the figurehead which stared with cold blue eyes from the bows with shield and upraised sword had somehow given the Euryalus a small change of personality. It bore little resemblance perhaps to the hero of the Siege of Troy, but it was enough to strike fear into the heart of any enemy who might see it and know what was about to follow.

For the great three-decker was a force to be reckoned with. Built at Brest by one of the best French yards, she had all the modern refinements and improvements to hull design and sail plan that any captain could wish.

From figurehead to taffrail she measured two hundred and twenty-five feet, and within her two thousand ton bulk she carried not only a hundred guns, including a lower battery of massive thirty-two pounders, but a company of some eight hundred officers, seamen and marines. She could, when handled properly, act and speak with authority and devastating effect.

When she had commissioned, Bolitho had been made to take every man he could get to crew her constant demands and requirements. Pale-skinned debtors and petty thieves from the jails, a few trained men from other ships laid up for repairs, as well as the usual mixture of characters brought in by the dreaded pressgangs. For they had been hard times, and an ever-demanding fleet had already sifted and poached through every port and village in search of men, and with growing fears of a French invasion no captain could allow himself the luxury of choice when it came to gathering hands to fight his ship.

There had been volunteers too, mostly Cornishmen, who knew Bolitho's name and reputation even although many of them had never laid eyes on him in their lives.

It should have been a great step forward for Bolitho, as he had told himself often enough. The Euryalus was a fine ship, and a new one. Not only that, she represented an open acknowledgement of his past record as well as the obvious stepping stone to advancement. It was something dreamed about by every ambitious sea officer, and in a Service where promotion often depended on the death of an officer's superior, the Euryalus must have been watched with both admiration and envy by those less fortunate.

But to Bolitho she meant something more, something very personal. While he had been searching the Caribbean and then driving back again to the last embrace in the Bay of Biscay he had been tortured by the memory of his wife, Cheney, who had died in Cornwall, without him, when she most needed him. In his heart he knew he could have done nothing. The coach had overturned and she had been killed, and their unborn child also. His being there would have made no difference. And yet it still haunted him, had made him withdraw from his officers and seamen to a point when he had been tormented by loneliness and loss.

And now he was back again in Falmouth. The big grey stone house would be there waiting for him as always. As it had for all the others before him, and yet it would now seem even more empty than ever. A marine sentry stamped to attention outside the cabin door, his eyes fixed on some point above Bolitho's shoulder. Like a toy soldier with his blank expression and scarlet coat.

Sunlight lanced through the great stern windows, throwing countless reflections across the deckhead and dark furniture, and he saw the admiral's grey-haired secretary checking papers and documents before stowing them in a long metal box. He made to rise from his seat but Bolitho shook his head and walked slowly to the opposite side of the cabin. He could hear the admiral moving about his sleeping cabin, and imagined him contemplating these last hours of his presence aboard his own flagship.

A mirror hung on the bulkhead and Bolitho paused to study himself, tugging his coat into position as if under the critical stare of a senior officer at an inspection.

He still could not get used to the new-style uniform, the additional encumbrance of gold epaulettes to denote his rank of post-captain. It seemed wrong that in a country struggling in the worst war of her history men could create and design new forms of personal adornment when their minds would have been better used in thinking up ideas for fighting and winning battles.

He reached up and touched the rebellious lock of hair which hung down above his right eye. Beneath it, and running up into his hairline, was the familiar cruel scar, the constant reminder of his closest meeting with death. But the hair was still black, without even a strand of grey to mark his forty years, twenty-eight of which had been spent at sea. He smiled slightly, his mouth softening and giving his tanned features a youthful recklessness once again as he turned away, dismissing what he saw as he would a satisfactory subordinate.

The door of the sleeping cabin opened and the little admiral walked unsteadily into a swaying patch of sunlight. Bolitho said, "We will be anchoring within the hour, Sir Charles. I have made arrangements for you to go ashore whenever is convenient." He thought suddenly of the many miles of rutted roads, the pain and discomfort, before the admiral could reach his home in Norfolk. "My own house is of course at your disposal for as long as you wish." "Thank you." The admiral eased his shoulders inside the heavy dress coat. "To die in battle against your country's enemies is one thing." He sighed and left the rest unsaid.

Bolitho watched him gravely. He had grown very fond of him, and had come to admire his controlled dedication to others, his humanity towards the men of their small squadron.

He said, "We will miss you. sir." He was sincere, yet very aware of the inadequacy of his words. "I, above all, owe you a great deal, as I think you know."

The admiral rose to his feet and walked round the desk. Against Bolitho's tall slim figure he seemed suddenly older and defenceless against what lay ahead of him.

After a pause he said, "You owe me nothing. But for your mind and your integrity I would have been discarded within weeks of hoisting my flag." He held up one hand. "No, hear what I have to say. Many flag captains would have used my weakness to enhance their own reputations, to show their indispensability before their commanders-in-chief in higher places. If you had spent less time in fighting your country's enemies and giving your utmost to your subordinates, you would almost certainly have been given the promotion you so richly deserve. It is no shame that you have turned your back on personal advancement, but it is England's loss. Perhaps your new admiral will appreciate as I do what sort of a man you are, and be more able to ensure . . ." He broke off in a fit of coughing, the soiled handkerchief balled against his mouth until the convulsion had passed.

He said thickly, "See that my servant and secretary are sent ashore in good time. I will come on deck in a moment." He looked away. "But just for a while I wish to be left alone."

Bolitho walked back to the quarterdeck in thoughtful silence. Overhead the sky had cleared and was bright blue, while the sea below the nearest headland was agleam with countless dazzling reflections. It would make the admiral's departure all the harder to bear, he decided. He looked along the length of the upper deck, at the assembled seamen at the braces and at the topmen already strung out along the yards, dark against the clear sky. With all but her topsails and jib clewed up the Euryalus was barely making headway, her broad hull tipping easily as if to test the depth of water beneath her keel. Those not immediately employed were watching the shore, the neat houses and green hills. The latter were dotted with minute cows, and there were sheep moving aimlessly beneath the castle walls.

A great silence seemed to hang over the ship, broken only by the slap of water against the weather side, the regular creak of rigging and murmur of canvas aloft. Most of the men would not be allowed ashore, and they knew it. Nevertheless, it was a homecoming, something which every sailor knew, even if he could not explain it.

Bolitho took a glass from a midshipman and studied the shoreline, feeling the familiar drag to his heart. He wondered if his housekeeper and his steward, Ferguson, knew of his coming, if they were there now watching the three-decker's slow approach.

"Very well, Mr Keverne. You may wear ship." The first lieutenant who had been watching him intently lifted his speaking trumpet and the moment of peace was past. "Lee braces there! Hands wear ship!" Feet scurried across the planking and the air became alive with squealing blocks and the rattle of halliards.

It was difficult to remember these well drilled men as the motley and ragged collection he had first taken aboard. Even the petty officers seemed to find little to grumble about as the men dashed to their stations, yet when the ship had first commissioned there had been more blows and curses than any sort of order. It was a good ship's company. As good as any captain could wish for, Bolitho thought vaguely.

"Tops'l sheets!" Men leapt like monkeys along the yards and he watched them with something like envy. Working up there, sometimes as much as two hundred feet above the deck, had never failed to sicken him, to his embarrassment and anger.

"Tops'l clew lines!" Keverne's voice was hoarse, as if he too felt the tension under the eyes of the distant town. Very slowly the Euryalus glided purposefully to her anchorage, her shadow preceding her on the calm water.

"Helm a'lee!" As the spokes squeaked over and the ship swung reluctantly into the wind the canvas was already vanishing along her yards, as if each sail was being controlled by a single force.

"Let go!" There was a loud splash as the anchor dropped beneath the bow, and something like a sigh transmitted itself through the hull and shrouds as the massive cable took the strain and then steadied itself for the first time in months.

"Very well, Mr Keverne. You may call away the barge and then have the cutter and jolly boat swayed out."

Bolitho turned away, knowing he could rely completely on Keverne. He was a good first lieutenant, although Bolitho knew less of him than he had of any previous officer. It was partly his own fault and because of the mounting work laid at his door due to the admiral's illness. Perhaps it had been a good thing for them both, Bolitho thought. The added responsibility, his growing awareness of strategy and tactics, involving not just one but several vessels in company, had given him less time to brood over his own personal loss. His involvement with the admiral's affairs had on the other hand given Keverne more responsibility and would stand him in good stead when he had a chance of his own command.

Keverne was extremely competent, but for one failing. On several occasions during the commission he had shown himself given to short but violent fits of temper over which he appeared to have little control. In his late twenties, tall and straight, he had a swarthy, almost gypsy, good looks. With dark flashing eyes and extremely white teeth, he was a man ladies would be quick to appreciate, Bolitho thought. Bolitho dismissed him from his mind as the admiral appeared beneath the poop, carrying his hat and blinking his pale eyes in the sunlight. He stood for several moments watching as the barge was hoisted up and outboard, the tackles squeaking while Tebbutt, the thick-armed boatswain, barked his orders from the starboard gangway. Bolitho watched him narrowly. The admiral was making every last moment count. Hoarding these small shipboard pictures in his mind. He heard a familiar voice at his elbow and turned to see Allday, his coxswain, studying him impassively.

Allday showed his teeth. "Good, Captain." He glanced at the admiral. "Will I take Sir Charles across now?" Bolitho did not reply at once. How often he had taken Allday for granted. Familiar, loyal and completely invaluable, it was hard to imagine life without him. He was broader now than the lithe topman he had once seen brought aboard his beloved frigate Phalarope as a pressed man so many years back. There were streaks of grey in his thick hair, and his homely, tanned face was more seasoned, like a ship's timber. But he was really the same as ever, and Bolitho was suddenly grateful for it.

"I will ask him directly, Allday." He turned sharply as Keverne said, "Guardboat approaching, sir." Bolitho looked across the glittering water and saw an armed cutter moving purposefully towards the anchored three-decker. It was then that he noticed that not a single craft of any kind had made an attempt to leave harbour and follow the guardboat's example. He felt a twinge of anxiety. What could be wrong? Some sort of terrible fever abroad in the port? It was certainly not the sight of the Euryalus this time. Otherwise the guns in the castle would have announced their own displeasure.

He took a glass from its rack and trained it on the cutter. The tan sails and intent faces of several seamen swam across the lens, and then he saw a naval captain, an empty sleeve pinned across his coat, sitting squarely in the sternsheets, his eyes fixed on the Euryalus. The sight of the uniform and empty sleeve brought a fresh pang to Bolitho's thoughts. It could have been his dead father returned to the living. The admiral asked testily, "What is the trouble?" "Just some formality, Sir Charles." Bolitho looked at Keverne. "Man the side, if you please."

Captain Giffard of the marines drew his sword and marched importantly to the entry port, and watched as his men mustered in a tight scarlet squad to receive the ship's first visitor. Boatswain's mates and sideboys completed the party, and Bolitho walked down the quarterdeck ladder to join Keverne and the officer of the watch.

The cutter's sails vanished, and as the bowman hooked on to the chains, and the calls trilled in salute, the one-armed captain clambered awkwardly through the port and doffed his cocked hat to the quarterdeck, where the admiral watched the scene with neither emotion nor visible interest. Perhaps he already felt excluded, Bolitho thought.

"Captain James Rook, sir." The newcomer replaced his hat and glanced rapidly around him. He was well past middle age, and must have been brought back to the Service to replace a younger man. "I am in charge of harbour patrols and impressment, sir." He faltered, some of the sureness leaving him under Bolitho's impassive grey eyes. "Do I have the honour of addressing Sir Charles Thelwall's flag captain?" "You do."

Bolitho glanced past him and down into the cutter. There was a mounted swivel gun aboard, and several armed men beside the normal crew. He added calmly, "Are you expecting an attack?" The man did not reply directly. "I have brought a despatch for your admiral." He cleared his throat, as if very aware of the watching faces all around him. "Perhaps if we might go aft, sir?" "Of course."

Bolitho was getting unreasonably irritated by the man's ponderous and evasive manner. They had their orders, and nothing this captain could tell him would not keep until later.

He stopped at the top of the ladder and turned sharply. "Sir Charles has been unwell. Can this matter not wait?"

Captain Rook took a deep breath, and Bolitho caught the heavy smell of brandy before he replied softly, "Then you do not know? You have not been in contact with the fleet?"

Bolitho snapped, "For God's sake stop beating around the bush, man! I have a ship to provision, sick men to be got ashore, and two hundred other things to do today. Surely you cannot have forgotten what it is like to command a ship?" He reached out and touched his arm. "Forgive me. That was unfair." He had seen the sudden hurt in the man's eyes and was ashamed at his own impatience. His nerves must be more damaged than he had imagined, he thought bitterly.

Captain Rook dropped his eyes. "Mutiny, sir." His single hand moved up his coat and unbuttoned it carefully to reveal a heavy, red-sealed envelope.

Bolitho stared at the busy hand, his mind still ringing with that one terrible word. Mutiny, he had said, but where? The castle looked as usual, the flag shining like coloured metal at the top of its lofty staff. The garrison would have little cause to mutiny anyway. They were mostly local volunteers or militia and knew they were far better off defending their own homes than plodding through mud or desert in some far-off campaign.

Rook said slowly, "The fleet at Spithead. It broke out last month and the ships were seized by their people until certain demands were met." He shrugged awkwardly. "It is finished now. Lord Howe confronted the ringleaders and the Channel Fleet is at sea again." He looked hard at Bolitho. "It is well your squadron was in ignorance. It might have gone badly with you otherwise."

Bolitho looked past him and saw Keverne and several of his officers watching from the opposite side of the deck. They would sense something was wrong. But when they really knew . . . He deliberately turned away from them.

"I have often expected some isolated outbreak." He could not hide the anger in his voice. "Some politicians and sea officers imagine that common sailors are little better than vermin and have treated them accordingly." He stared hard at Rook. "But for the fleet to mutiny as one man! That is a terrible thing!"

Rook seemed vaguely relieved that he had at last unburdened himself. Or maybe he had been half expecting to find the Euryalus in the hands of mutineers demanding heaven knew what.

He said, "Many fear that the worst is yet to come. There has been trouble at the Nore too, though we do not hear the full truth down here. I have patrols everywhere in case other troublemakers come this way. Some of the ringleaders are said to be Irish, and the Admiralty may expect this to be a diversion for another attempt to invade there." He sighed worriedly. "To live and see this thing is beyond me, and that's a fact!"

Mutiny. Bolitho looked over to where the admiral was in close conversation with his secretary. This was a bad ending to his career. Bolitho had known the full meaning, the hot, unreasoning fury which mutiny could bring in its wake. But that was in isolated ships, where conditions or climate, privation or downright brutality of an individual captain were normally the root causes. For a whole fleet to explode against the discipline and authority of its officers, and therefore King and Parliament as well, was another matter entirely. It took organisation and extreme skill as well as some driving force at the head of it to have any hope of success. And it had succeeded, there was no doubt of that.

He said, "I will speak with Sir Charles at once." He took the envelope from Rook's hand. "This is a bitter homecoming." Rook made as if to join Keverne and the others, but halted as Bolitho added sharply, "You will favour me by remaining silent until I tell you otherwise."

The admiral did not look up or speak until Bolitho had finished telling him of Rook's news. Then he said, "If the French come out again, England will be done for." He looked at his hands and let them fall to his sides. "Where is Vice-Admiral Broughton? Is he not here after all?" Bolitho held out the envelope and said gently, "Perhaps this will explain what we are to do, sir."

He could see the emotions crossing and re-crossing the admiral's wizened face. He had been hating the thought of striking his flag for the last time. But he had accepted it. It was like his illness, unbeatable. But now that there was a real possibility of continuing he was probably torn between two paths.

He said, "Show our visitor aft." He made an effort to square his shoulders. "Then set the hands to work. It would be unwise for them to see their leaders in despair."

Then followed by his secretary he walked slowly and painfully into the poop's shadow.

When Bolitho joined him again in the great cabin the admiral was sitting at the desk, as if he had never left it. "This despatch is from Sir Lucius Broughton." He waved to a chair. "Euryalus will remain at Falmouth to receive his flag, but at present he is in London. It seems that a new squadron is to be formed here, although to what purpose is not explained." He sounded very tired. "You are to ensure that our people have no contact with the shore, and those sent there because of illness or injury will not be returned." His mouth twisted angrily. "Afraid of spreading the disease on board, no doubt."

Bolitho was still standing, his mind grappling with all that the words entailed. The admiral continued in the same flat voice, "You will of course tell your officers what you think fit, but under no circumstances must the people be informed of the unrest at the Nore. It is worse than I feared." He looked at Bolitho's grim face and added: "Captain Rook is required to assist you with all your supplies, and has instructions to bring any further stores or new spars and cordage direct to the ship." Bolitho said slowly, "Sir Lucius Broughton, I know little of him. It is difficult to anticipate his wishes."

The admiral smiled briefly. "His flag was flying in one of the ships which mutinied at Spithead. I imagine his main requirement will be that it does not happen again."

He groped for his handkerchief and gripped the edge of the desk. "I must rest awhile and think of what has to be done. It would be better if you went ashore in my place. You may find that things are less dangerous than we imagine." He met Bolitho's eyes. "But I would inform Captain Giffard first, so that his marines may be in readiness for trouble." He looked away and added, "I have seen the way our people look up to you, Bolitho. Sailors are simple folk who ask little more than justice in exchange for their lot afloat. But . . ." the word hung in the air, "they are only human. And our first duty is to retain control, no matter at what cost."

Bolitho picked up his hat. "I know, sir." He thought suddenly of the crowded world beyond the panelled bulkhead. At sea or in battle they would fight and die without question. The constant demands of harsh discipline and danger left little room for outside ideals and hopes. But once the spark touched off the latent power of these same men anything might happen, and it would be no use pleading ignorance or isolation then.

On the quarterdeck again he was conscious of the change around him. How could you expect something like this to remain a secret? News travelled like wildfire in an overcrowded ship, though none could explain how it happened.

He beckoned to Keverne and said flatly, "You will please go aft and report to Captain Rook." He saw Keverne's dark features settle into a mask of anticipation. "You will then inform the ship's lieutenants and senior warrant officers of the general position. I will hold you responsible until my return. You will arrange to have the sick and injured taken ashore, but not in our boats, understood?" Keverne opened his mouth and then closed it again. He nodded firmly. Bolitho said, "I will tell you now. There has been rumour of mutiny at the Nore. If any stranger attempts to approach or board this ship he will be deterred at once. If that cannot be done then he will be arrested and put in isolation immediately."

Keverne rested one hand on his sword. "If I catch a damned sea-lawyer I'll teach him a thing or two, sir!" His eyes blazed dangerously. Bolitho faced him impassively. "You will obey my orders, Mr Keverne. Nothing more or less." He turned and sought out Allday's thickset figure by the nettings. "Call away my barge crew immediately." Keverne said, "You are taking your own boat, sir?" Bolitho replied coldly, "If I cannot trust them, after what we have borne and suffered together, then I can find no hope or solution for anything!"

Without another word he strode down the ladder where the side party still waited above the swaying cutter at the entry port. Just a moment longer he stood and looked back at his ship and at the seamen who were already busy rigging awnings and assisting the sick men through the hatchways. As was his custom he had seen that every man aboard was issued with new clothing from the slop chest. Unlike some miserly captains who allowed their men to stay in the rags worn when they were pressed in town or village alike. But right now he could find no comfort at the sight of the wide trousers and checked shirts, the healthy faces and busy preparations. Clothing, and proper food when it was at all possible to obtain it, should be their right, not the privilege handed out by some godlike commander. It was little enough for what these same men gave in return.

He shut the thought from his mind and touched his hat to the quarterdeck and side party before lowering himself down into the barge which Allday had steered purposefully between the cutter and the ship's towering side.

"Shove off forrard!" Allday squinted into the sunlight and watched as the barge edged clear of the other boat. "Out oars, give way together!" Then as the barge gathered speed, the oars dipping and rising as one, he looked down at Bolitho's back and pursed his lips. He knew most of Bolitho's moods better than his own, and could well imagine what he must be thinking now. Mutiny in the Service he loved, and to which he had given everything. Allday had discovered all about it from the coxswain of the guardboat, a man he had served with many years back. How could a secret like that be kept for more than minutes? He ran his eye across Bolitho's squared shoulders with their new and strangely alien gold epaulettes and at the jet black hair beneath his cocked hat. He had hardly changed, he thought. Even though he carried them all through one hazard after another.

He glared at the bow oarsman who had let his eye wander to watch a gull diving for fish close abeam and then thought of what should have been waiting for Bolitho at Falmouth. That lovely girl and a child to welcome him home. Instead he had nothing but trouble, and once more was expected to do another's work as well as his own.

Allday saw Bolitho's fingers playing a little tattoo on the worn hilt of his sword and relaxed slightly. Between them they had seen and done much together. The sword seemed to sum it all up better than words or actual thought.

The barge swung round and glided into the shadow of the jetty, and as the bowman hooked on and Allday removed his hat Bolitho rose and climbed over the gunwale and on to the worn, familiar steps. He would have liked Allday with him just now, but it would not be right to leave the barge unattended.

"You may return to the ship, Allday." He saw the flash of anxiety in the big coxswain's eyes and added quietly, "I will know where you are when I need you."

Allday remained standing and watched Bolitho stride between two saluting militiamen at the top of the jetty. Under his breath he muttered, "By God, Captain, we are going to need you!"

Then he looked down at the lolling bargemen and growled, "Now, you idle buggers, let me see you make this boat move!" The stroke oar, a grizzled seaman with thick red hair, said between his teeth, "Do yewm reckon the word o' the troubles will reach us 'ere?" Allday eyed him bleakly. So they all knew already.

He grinned. "Word is like dung, matey, it must be spread about to be any use!" He dropped his voice. "So it's up to us to make sure it doesn't happen, eh?"

When he looked astern again Bolitho had already vanished, and he wondered what would be waiting for him on his return home.

Editorial Reviews

One of our foremost writers of naval fiction.”
–Sunday Times

From the Publisher