Broughton gave a grunt. “Good. Your gun crews appear to be adequate.”
That was one thing Bolitho had learned. Broughton usually opened the day with some such comment. Like a spur, or a calculated insult.
He replied calmly, “Clear for action in ten minutes or less, sir, and then three broadsides every two minutes.”
Broughton studied him thoughtfully. “That is your standard, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I have heard of some of your standards.” Broughton placed his hands on his hips and peered up at the maintop where some marines were exercising with a swivel gun. “I hope our people will remember when the times comes.”
Bolitho waited. There would be more.
The admiral said absently, “When I dined with your brother-in-law at Falmouth he was telling me something of your family background.” He turned and looked hard at Bolitho. “I knew of your brother’s, er, misfortune, of course.” He let it sink in before adding, “How he deserted from the Navy.” He paused, his head slightly on one side.
Bolitho faced him coldly. “He died in America, sir.” It was strange how easily the lie came now. But the resentment was as strong as ever, and he had a sudden mad desire to say something to shock Broughton from his safe, all-powerful pillar. What would he say, for instance, if he knew that Hugh had been killed in action, right there, where he was now standing? At least Broughton’s probing remarks had allowed him to think of Hugh’s death without so much remorse and despair. As his eye moved briefly across Broughton’s shoulder to the broad, orderly quarterdeck, the great double wheel with its attentive helmsman and master’s mate, it was hard to see it as the bloody shambles on that day Hugh had died. Using his own body as a shield to save his
son Adam, who was still completely ignorant of his father’s presence, as men had screamed and died in the din of battle.
Broughton said, “And all over a duel, I believe? Could never understand the stupid attitude of people who made duelling a crime. Do you pride yourself as a swordsman, by any chance?”
Bolitho forced a smile, “My sword has often been a comfort in battle, sir.” He could not see where this line of talk was leading.
The admiral showed his teeth. They were very small and even. “A duel is for gentlemen.” He shook his head. “But as there seem to be so many in Parliament today who are neither swordsmen nor gentlemen, I suppose we must expect this sort of obstruction.” He glanced towards the poop. “I will take a walk for half an hour.”
Bolitho watched him go up the poop ladder. The admiral’s daily walk. It never varied either.
He let his mind return to Broughton’s plan of battle. Perhaps the answer lay with him rather than the plan. Too much rigidity. But surely he would have learned from experience that in many cases ships were called to give battle when scattered and without any set order at all? At St Vincent where Broughton had actually fought, Commodore Nelson had once again confounded the critics by dashing into the attack without regard for any set stratagem. Bolitho had mentioned it to Broughton and had gained one further clue to his unwavering attitude.
He had snapped, “Nelson, Nelson, that’s all I hear! I saw him in his damned Captain, although I was busy myself at the time. More luck on his side than any sense of timing.” He had become very cool with equal suddenness. “Give your people a plan, something to learn and learn until they can act as one in total darkness or the middle of a typhoon. Keep at them without rest until they can think of nothing else. You can keep your damned heroics for my part. Give me a plan, one that is well tried, and I’ll give you a victory!”
Bolitho thought back over that one brief insight. Broughton
was actually jealous. Senior to Nelson, an officer he did not even know except by reputation, with influence and breeding to support his every move, and yet he was jealous for all that.
It did not add much to Bolitho’s knowledge of his superior, but it did make him seem more human.
Broughton had never mentioned Taylor’s death or the savage flogging since weighing anchor. Even at the hasty conference after the punishment he had made little comment, but for one about maintaining discipline at all times.
In fact, as the wine had been passed around the assembled captains in the same cabin where Taylor had heard his terrible fate, Broughton had been completely at ease, even jocular as he had told the others of the sailing orders for Gibraltar.
Bolitho could recall seeing the Auriga’s longboat grounding on a sandbar, the marines digging a hasty grave for Taylor’s corpse, working fast in the sunlight to beat a rising tide. Taylor would rot in an unmarked grave. A martyr, or a victim of circumstances, it was hard to know which.
Once at sea again Bolitho had watched his own ship’s company for any sign of unrest, but the daily routine had kept them too busy perhaps for recriminations or argument. The squadron had sailed without further incident and with no fresh news of the troubles at the Nore.
He shaded his eyes to peer at the glittering horizon line. Somewhere out there, far to windward and visible only to the masthead lookouts, was the ship in question, the Auriga, once again under the command of her original captain, Brice. Bolitho had made it his business to summon him aboard just prior to sailing and had given him a warning as to his behaviour. He had known it to be useless even as he was speaking to him.
Brice had stood quite still in his cabin, his hat beneath his arm, his pale eyes avoiding Bolitho’s until he had finished.
Then he had said softly, “Vice-Admiral Broughton does not
accept that there was a mutiny. Neither, sir, did you when you came aboard my ship. The fact that I am being returned to my rightful command surely proves that whatever wrongs were committed were by others.” He had smiled slightly. “One who escaped, and the other who was treated with more leniency than might be expected in these dangerous times.”
Bolitho had walked around the table, feeling the other man’s hate behind the mask of quiet amusement, knowing his own feelings were little better.
“Now hear my words, Brice, and remember them. We are going on a special mission, maybe an important one for England. You will do well to change your ways if you wish to see your homeland again.”
Brice had stiffened. “There’ll be no more uprisings in my ship, sir!”
Bolitho had forced a smile. “I was not referring to your own people. If you betray your trust once more, I will personally see that you are brought to a court-martial, and that you receive the justice you so obviously enjoy imposing on others!”
Bolitho walked to the nettings and glanced down at the water leaping against the tall side. The squadron was about one hundred miles north-west of Cape Ortegal, the very corner of Spain. If ships had minds of their own, would Euryalus be remembering it too? he wondered. It was here that she fought under the French flag against Bolitho’s old Hyperion. Where her decks ran scarlet and the battle raged without let-up until its grisly conclusion. But maybe ships did not care after all. Men died, crying for half-remembered wives and children, for mothers, or for their comrades in hell. Others lived on in a maimed existence ashore, forgotten by the sea and avoided by many of those who could have helped them.
But the ships sailed on, impatient perhaps with the fools who manned them.
“Sir! Zeus is signalling!” The midshipman of the watch was suddenly galvanised into action. He jumped into the shrouds, his big telescope already to his eye. “Zeus to Flag. Strange sail bearing nor’ west.” He looked down at Bolitho, his face shining with excitement.
Bolitho nodded. “Excellent, Mr Tothill. That was quickly done.” He glanced round and saw Keverne hurrying towards him. The signal probably meant nothing, but after drills and dragging uncertainty any sort of change was welcome. It had swept his other thoughts away like cobwebs.