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 unblink-ingly 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.
Eight bells chimed from the forecastle and he saw the officers stiffen as Broughton, accompanied by Lieutenant Calvert, walked briskly on to the quarterdeck.
Bolitho touched his hat but said nothing.
Across the anchorage the air shivered as a solitary gun boomed out, and then came the doleful sound of drumming. He saw the surgeon below the break in the poop whispering to Tebbutt, the boatswain, and his two mates, one of whom carried the familiar red baize bag. The latter dropped his eyes as he realised his captain was looking at him.
Broughton’s fingers were tapping the hilt of his beautiful sword, seemingly in time with the distant drum. He appeared relaxed, and as fresh as ever.
Bolitho tensed as one of the young midshipmen wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a quick nervous gesture which brought back a sudden memory like the feel of an old wound.
He had been only fourteen himself when he had witnessed his first flogging through the fleet. He had seen most of it in a mist of tears and nausea, and the nightmare had never completely left him. In a service where flogging was commonplace and an accepted punishment, and in many cases more than justified, this final spectacle was still the worst, where onlookers felt degraded almost as much as the victim.
Broughton remarked, “We will be weighing this afternoon, Bolitho. Our destination is Gibraltar, where I will receive further orders and news of developments.” He looked up at his flag at the fore and added, “A fine day for it.”
Bolitho looked away, trying to shut the persistent drumming from his ears.
“All the ships are fully provisioned, sir.” He stopped. Broughton
knew that as well as he did. It was just something to say. Why should this one event mar everything? He should have realised by now that the days when he had been a young frigate captain were gone for good. Then, faces and people were real individuals. When one suffered it was felt throughout the cramped confines of the ship. Now he had to realise that men were no longer individuals. They were necessities, like the artillery and the rigging, the fresh water supply and the very planking upon which he now stood.
He felt Broughton watching and deliberately turned away. But it did matter, and he did care, and he knew he could not change. Not for Broughton, or to further his own chances of promotion in the Service he loved and now needed more than ever before.
He heard Keverne clear his throat and then something like a sigh from the watching seamen on the gangways.
Around the bows of the Zeus, the nearest seventy-four, came a slow procession of longboats, one from each ship in the squadron, the oars rising and falling with the “Rogue’s March” of the drum. He could see Euryalus’s boat second in the line, dark green like those now lashed in their tier and crowded with silent men. Each one in the procession carried marines, the lethal glitter of their bayonets and gleam of scarlet bringing colour to the grim spectacle as the boats turned slightly and headed for the flagship.