Broughton said softly, “This should not take too long, I think.”
“Way ’nough!”
The Auriga’s longboat glided alongside and hooked on to the main chains, while the others swayed above their reflections to witness punishment.
Bolitho took the Articles of War from Keverne and walked quickly to the entry port. Spargo, the surgeon, was already down in the boat accompanied by the boatswain’s mates, and he glanced up as Bolitho’s shadow fell across the rigid oarsmen.
He said, “Fit for punishment, sir.”
Bolitho made himself look at the figure in the forepart of the frigate’s longboat. Bent almost double, his arms lashed out on a capstan bar as if crucified, it was hard to believe it was Taylor. The man who had come to ask for help. For forgiveness and… He removed his hat, opened the book and begin to read the Articles, the sentence and punishment.
Below in the boat, Taylor stirred slightly, and Bolitho paused to look once again.
The thwarts and planking of the boat were covered with blood. Not the blood of battle, but black. Like the remnants of torn skin which hung from his mangled back. Black and ripped, so that the exposed bones shone in the sunlight like polished marble.
The boatswain’s mate glanced up and asked thickly, “Two dozen, zur?”
“Do your duty.”
Bolitho replaced his hat and kept his eyes on the nearest two-decker as the man drew back his arm and then brought the lash down with terrible force.
A step sounded beside him and Broughton said quietly, “He seems to be taking it well enough.” No concern or real interest. Just a casual comment.
Just as suddenly it was over, and as the boat cast off again to continue its way to the next ship Bolitho saw Taylor trying to turn his head to look up at him. But he did not have the strength.
Bolitho turned away, sickened by the sight of the contorted face, the broken lips, the thing which had once been John Taylor.
He said harshly, “Dismiss the hands, Mr Keverne.” He glanced involuntarily back again at the re-formed procession. Two more ships to go. He would never live through it. A younger man possibly, but not Taylor.
He heard Broughton’s voice again, very near. “If he had not been one of your old ship’s company-er, the Sparrow was it?”-
he sighed-“you would not have felt so involved, so vulnerable.”
When Bolitho did not reply he added curtly, “An example had to be made. They’ll not forget it, I think.”
Bolitho straightened his back and faced him, his voice steady as he replied, “Neither will I, sir.”
For just a few more seconds their eyes held, and then the shutter seemed to fall as Broughton said, “I am going below. Make the signal for all captains as soon as possible.” Then he was gone.
Bolitho took a grip of his thoughts, his anger and disgust.
“Mr Keverne, you will instruct the midshipmen of the watch to bend the signal for all captains to repair on board.”
Keverne watched him curiously. “When shall it be hoisted, sir?”
A voice called, “Signal from Valorous, sir. Prisoner has died under punishment.”
Bolitho kept his eyes on Keverne. “You may hoist it now.” Then he turned on his heel and strode aft to his cabin.
5. A Bad Beginning
Sharp at two bells of the forenoon watch Vice-Admiral Sir Lucius Broughton strode on to the Euryalus’s quarterdeck. After nodding briskly to Bolitho he took a glass from a midshipman and proceeded to study each ship of his squadron in turn.
Bolitho ran his eye quickly along the upper deck where gun crews were going through their drill, watched with extra attention, now that the admiral had arrived, by Meheux, his round-faced second lieutenant.
It had been three days since they had sailed from Falmouth, a long, slow three days during which they had logged a mere four hundred miles. Bolitho gripped the quarterdeck rail, his body angled against the steep tilt, as with her consorts Euryalus plunged
ponderously on a slow starboard tack, her great yards braced round, the straining topsails hard-bellied like metal in the wind.
Not that it had been bad sailing weather, quite the reverse. Skirting the Bay of Biscay, for instance, Partridge, the master, had remarked that he had rarely seen it so favourable. Now, with a freshening north-westerly ruffling the sea into an endless panorama of crisp whitecaps it seemed likely the opportunity was going. It would soon be time to reef, rather than make more sail.
Once clear of the land Broughton had decided to start putting his ships through their paces, to check the flaws and draw out the varied qualities or otherwise of his new command.
Bolitho darted another glance towards him, wondering what new complaints or suggestions would come out of his inspection.
In any flagship a captain was constantly aware of his admiral’s presence, must allow for every mood or whim and somehow work it into his own scheme for running a routine without confusion. And yet he was surprised to find that he still knew Broughton hardly at all. He seemed to run his daily life by the clock with very little deviation. Breakfast at eight, dinner at half past two and supper at nine. Exactly at nine o’clock each forenoon he would come on deck and behave just as he was doing now. If anything, he appeared too rigid, and not merely in his habits.
The first day at sea, for instance, he had put his battle tactics into immediate operation. But unlike usual practice, he had retained the Euryalus at third place in the line, with only the one remaining seventy-four, the Valorous, stationed astern.
While the ships had tacked and floundered in a quarter sea to obey his curt signals Broughton had remarked, “One must study the captains just as much as the ships they command.”
Bolitho grasped immediately what he meant and had appreciated the sense of it.
It was pointless in some actions to have the most powerful ship, the one flying the admiral’s flag in particular, crashing
headlong into the enemy’s line. She could be disabled and rendered useless when she was most needed, when the admiral had the time and information to know of the enemy’s intentions.
Without using a glass he could see the leading ships quite easily, keeping the same positions that Broughton had ordered from the outset. Leading the line, and almost hidden by the straining topsails and forecourse of the next astern, was the two-decker Zeus. She was an elderly seventy-four, a veteran of the Glorious First of June, St Vincent and several smaller actions. Her captain, Robert Rattray, had been in command for three years and was known for his aggressive behaviour in battle, a bulldog tenacity which showed clearly on his square, weathered face. Exactly the kind of captain to take the first searing crash of a broadside when testing the enemy’s line. A seasoned, professional seaman, but with little else in his head but a strong sense of duty and a desire to do battle.
Captain Falcon of the Tanais, the second seventy-four, was quite the opposite. A mournful, untidy-looking man, with hooded, thoughtful eyes, he would be one to follow without question, but would use his imagination as well as his training to explore Rattray’s first approach.
About a mile astern of the Euryalus was the last in the line, the Valorous. Commanded by Captain Rodney Furneaux, a tight-lipped and haughty autocrat, she had proved to be a fast and manoeuvrable vessel under nearly all circumstances, and provided she could maintain her station would be well placed to protect the flagship or run down to assist any of her consorts if they got into difficulties.
Bolitho heard the glass close with its customary snap and turned to touch his hat as Broughton walked towards him.
He said formally, “Wind still from the nor’ west, sir, but freshening.” He saw Broughton’s eyes move slowly along the sweating lines of seamen at the guns. “The new course is sou’ west by west.”