Bolitho smiled for the first time. “I was born here, sir.” The admiral eyed him calmly. “Now there is an admission.” Bolitho made to leave the cabin but paused and said, “May I order the guns to be secured, sir?”
“You are her captain, Bolitho, as well as mine.” He lifted an eyebrow. “You do not approve of my action?”
“It is not that exactly, sir.” It was starting again, but he could not halt the words. “I have been with this ship for eighteen months. This matter of the frigate is bad enough, without their having to fire on their own kind into the bargain.”
“Very well.” Broughton yawned. “You really do care, do you not?”
Bolitho nodded firmly. “About trust, sir? Aye, I do.” “I really must take you to London with me, Bolitho.” Broughton walked back to the windows, his face in shadow. “You would be something of a novelty there. Unique in fact.”
Bolitho reached the sunlit quarterdeck without seeing a foot of the journey.
Keverne touched his hat and asked anxiously, “Any orders, sir?”
“Yes, Mr Keverne. Pass the word for the purser and then…” He paused, still thinking of the Auriga and Broughton’s quiet amusement.
“Then, sir?”
“Then keep out of my way, Mr Keverne, until I say otherwise!”
The master watched him stride to the side and begin to pace back and forth, his brows set in a frown of concentration.
To the baffled Keverne he said quietly, “More squalls, I’m thinkin’. An’ not for the better.”
Keverne glared at him. “When I need your opinion, Mr Partridge, I’ll damn well ask for it!” Then he too hurried away towards the quarterdeck ladder.
Partridge glanced up at the new flag at the fore. Young puppy, he chuckled unfeelingly. Wrath went with rank. Things never changed in the Navy. He turned, realising that the captain had stopped his pacing and was studying him gravely.
“Sir?”
“I was just thinking, Mr Partridge, how nice it must be to have nothing to do in the whole world but stand in the sun grinning like some village idiot.”
The master swallowed hard. “Sorry, sir.”
Surprisingly, Bolitho smiled. “Continue to stand if you wish. I have a feeling that this peace is to be shortlived.” He turned on his heel and walked briskly beneath the poop towards his cabin.
Partridge sighed and mopped his chins with a red handkerchief. A flagship could often make life hard on a sailing master. Then he looked across at the anchored frigate and shook his head sadly. Still, he thought, others were worse off. A whole lot worse.
4. AN EXAMPLE TO ALL
The smart, maroon-painted berlin rattled busily over a humpbacked bridge and swung left on to the main coach road for Falmouth.
Richard Bolitho put out one hand to steady himself against the swaying motion as the wheels bounced into the steep ruts and watched the dust pouring back from the horses’ hoofs and from beneath the carriage itself. He was only half aware of the passing countryside, the different shades of green and occasional clumps of sheep in the fields adjoining the narrow, twisting road. In his best dress uniform and cocked hat he was hot and uncomfortable, and the berlin’s violent motion was worse than any small boat in a choppy harbour, yet he hardly noticed any of these things.
The previous day Rear-Admiral Thelwall had died in his sleep at Bolitho’s house, at peace for the first time in many months.
When Captain Rook had conveyed the news to the anchored Euryalus Vice-Admiral Broughton had said, “I understand it was his wish to return to Norfolk. You had better make the necessary arrangements, Bolitho.” He had given one of his relaxed smiles. “Anyway, I think Sir Charles would have wished to know you were with him on the last journey.”
And so with unseemly haste, a small procession of carriages had set out for Truro, where the little admiral’s body would await collection for the long ride to the other side of England.
It was difficult to know if Broughton was being sincere about his regrets. It was true he had much to do in his new command, and yet Bolitho got the distinct impression that Broughton was a man who had little time for anything which did not work at full efficiency. Or anyone who was beyond help or further use.
The berlin swerved and he heard the coachman yelling curses at a small carrier’s cart drawn by one sleepy-looking pony. The
cart was laden with chickens and farm produce, and the red-faced driver returned the barrage with equal vigour and vulgarity.
Bolitho smiled. It was probably one of his brother-in-law’s farm workers, and he realised with a start that in the four busy days since his bringing the Auriga into Falmouth he had not laid an eye either on him or any of his relatives.
The coach settled down on a firmer piece of road for the last three-mile run to the sea, and he found himself thinking back over the hectic and demanding days following on his arrival and that of his new admiral.
He could not recall anyone quite like Broughton. He usually seemed so relaxed, yet he had a mind like quicksilver and never seemed to tire.
Bolitho could remember how at his dinner party in the great cabin he kept the conversation moving amongst the assembled ship’s officers, never monopolising it, yet making everyone present very aware of his overall control.
He was still not sure he really understood the man behind the charm and the easy refinement which Broughton displayed on most occasions.
Broughton seemed to be unreachable, yet Bolitho knew he was only excusing his own dislike and mistrust for many of the things which the admiral represented. Privilege and an undisputed pattern of power, another world which Bolitho had had little part of, and wanted still less.
When Broughton spoke of his house in London, the constant comings and goings of names and personalities, it was no mere boasting. It was his natural way of life. Something he took as his right.
Listening to him as the wine was passed and the three-decker rolled easily at her anchor, it was excusable to think that all important decisions in the war against France and her growing allies were made not in Admiralty but around the coffee
tables of London, or at receptions in houses such as his own.
In spite of this, however, Bolitho had no doubt as to Broughton’s understanding of wider affairs and the internal politics of the Navy. Broughton had fought at the battle of Cape St Vincent some three months earlier, and his grasp of the tactics, his ability to paint a visual picture for Bolitho’s benefit, was impressive.
Bolitho could recall his own envy and bitterness when news of Jervis’s great victory had reached him as he had carried out the wretched routine of blockade off southern Ireland. Had the enemy made a real attempt to invade Ireland, and had the Euryalus and her few consorts managed to call them to battle, he might have felt differently. As he had eagerly scanned the reports of Jervis’s victory he had been aware yet again how much luck there seemed to be in drawing two forces together for a convulsive action.
Old Admiral Jervis had been made Earl St Vincent because of it, and another name, that of Commodore Nelson, had brought a ring of new hope for the future.
Bolitho could recall seeing the young Nelson briefly during the ill-fated venture at Toulon. He was two years younger than himself, yet already a commodore, and provided he could stay alive would soon reach further heights in the chain of command.
Bolitho did not grudge such a sea officer his just rewards, but at the same time was fully aware of his own backwater, or that was how it appeared.
Euryalus had been joined by three more ships-of-the-line, all seventy-fours, two frigates, including Auriga, and a small sloop. Anchored in fine array in Falmouth Bay they made an impressive sight, but he knew from bitter experience that once at sea and spread out in an empty, tossing desert they would appear not so vast or invincible. It was unlikely that Broughton’s small squadron was to be entrusted with anything but the fringe of more important affairs.