Broughton snapped, “I will instruct my flag captain in my own way, if you please, Sir Hugo.”
“As it should be.” Draffen remained smiling. “However, I will be joining the squadron for some of the time.” He took a glass from the servant, adding, “Just to ensure that your way is also mine, eh?”
Bolitho turned away, his mind already busy with Draffen’s brisk but extremely sparse information.
It was good news indeed to know that British ships would be attacking the southern approaches of Bonaparte’s growing empire once again. To take and hold a new and strategically placed base for the fleet was a plan of both skill and imagination.
But if on the other hand Broughton’s squadron was being used merely as a cat’s-paw, a means to make the enemy withdraw forces back to the Mediterranean on a large scale, things might go badly for all of them.
There was no doubting Draffen’s authority, although what his exact status was remained a mystery. Maybe the news had already reached him of a worsening situation at the Nore. The sacrifice of this small squadron to ease enemy pressure around the Channel ports would seem no worse than Taylor’s death had measured with Broughton himself.
Whatever had been already decided, Bolitho knew that he would be directly involved in each part of it. The outlook should have cheered him, but the thought of having Broughton and Draffen in overall control was another prospect entirely.
Broughton had moved away to talk with Furneaux, and Draffen crossed to Bolitho’s side, obviously about to take his leave.
He said, “Glad to have met you, Captain. I think we are going to get on very well together.” He signalled to Calvert and then
added calmly, “As a matter of fact, I used to know your brother.” Then he swung on his heel and made his way to Broughton and the others.
6. Ships In Company
Bolitho did not see Sir Hugo Draffen again for three days. But he was kept too busy with affairs aboard the Euryalus and the other ships of the squadron to find much time for speculation over his parting remarks.
The fact that he had known Hugh implied that Draffen had lived or worked in the West Indies or even America during the Revolution there. Otherwise there seemed little point in being so secretive about the meeting. Draffen had the mark of a trader, one of the sort who helped create colonies merely by finding a personal reason for making money. He was shrewd and, Bolitho imagined, not a little ruthless when it suited him.
Bolitho knew there might be nothing more in Draffen’s remarks than a first move in making contact between them. If they were going to work in harmony over the next weeks or months, it was a natural thing to expect of him. But the caution built up in Bolitho over the years since his brother’s change of allegiance had made him sensitive to a point of being over-cautious whenever Hugh’s name was mentioned.
There was much to do. Taking on extra stocks of food and water for the coming voyage and gathering any additional equipment which could be begged, borrowed or bribed from the Rock. Once abroad in the Mediterranean they would be without base or supplies, other than that which they might seize for themselves.
And there was now an additional, more pressing need for self-
dependence. Two days after anchoring Bolitho had seen a sloop of war tack busily into the bay carrying, it was said, despatches and news from England.
Eventually Broughton had sent for him, his features grim as he had said, “The mutiny at the Nore is worse. Nearly every ship is in the hands of the delegates.” He had spat out the word like poison. “They’re blockading the river and holding the government to ransom until their demands are met.”
Broughton had jumped to his feet and moved restlessly about his cabin like a caged animal.
“Admiral Duncan was blockading the Dutch coast. What can he do with most of his ships at anchor and under the flag of revolution?”
“I will inform the other captains, sir.”
“Yes, at once. That sloop is returning to England at once with despatches, so there is little fear of our people being inflamed.” He added slowly, “I have included in my report the details of the Auriga’s loss. It might suit the French to use her for spying, so the sooner our ships are aware of her new identity the better. We do not know yet that she did strike her colours in mutiny.” He had not looked at Bolitho. “All her officers may have been killed or disabled as she closed for boarding. In the confusion she could have been overwhelmed.” He had obviously not believed it any more than Bolitho.
Nevertheless, there was sufficient doubt to allow Broughton to make the evasive comments in his report. The news of a British ship changing sides for any reason at a moment like this might spark off even worse troubles in the fleet, if that were possible.
Broughton had been content to give more and more work to Bolitho while the squadron completed its preparations for sailing. The news from the Nore, coupled with the Auriga’s loss, had made a deep and noticeable impression on him. He seemed withdrawn, and, when alone with Bolitho, less composed than ever
before. His experiences at Spithead aboard his own flagship had obviously scarred him deeply, as Rook had once suggested.
He spent a good deal of his time ashore, conferring with Draffen or the Governor but always went alone, keeping his thoughts to himself.
Lieutenant Calvert seemed unable to do anything right for his admiral, and his life was fast becoming a nightmare. Highbred he might be, but he seemed completely incapable of grasping the daily affairs of signals and directives which passed through his hands for the captains of the squadron.
Bolitho suspected that Broughton used his flag-lieutenant to work off some of his own nagging uncertainties. If it was his idea to make Calvert’s existence a misery he was certainly succeeding.
It was pitiful to hear Midshipman Tothill explaining respectfully but firmly the rights and wrongs of signal procedure to him, and, almost worse, Calvert’s obvious gratitude. Not that it helped him very much. Any sudden burst of anger from Broughton and Calvert’s latest hoard of knowledge seemed to dissipate to the wind forever.
On the afternoon of the third day, as Bolitho was discussing the preparations with Keverne, the officer of the watch reported that the two bomb vessels were arriving and already dropping anchor close inshore.
Shortly afterwards a launch grappled alongside and her coxswain passed a sealed letter aboard for Bolitho’s attention. It was from Draffen, and typically brief. Bolitho was to meet him aboard the Hekla, one of the bombs, immediately. He would come by way of the launch which had brought the letter.
Broughton was ashore, so after giving Keverne his instructions Bolitho clambered into the boat to be rowed to the Hekla for the meeting.
Allday watched him leave with ill-disguised annoyance. For Bolitho to use anything but his own barge was unthinkable, and
as the launch pulled away from the Euryalus’s side he felt a sudden pang of anxiety. If anything ever happened to Bolitho, and he was suddenly like this, alone… What would he do? He was still staring after the boat as it vanished around the Zeus’s stern, his eyes unusually troubled.
In all his service Bolitho had never before laid eyes on a bomb vessel, although he had heard of them often enough. The one towards which the launch was moving with such haste was much as he had expected. Two masted and about a hundred feet in length, with a very sturdy hull and low bulwarks. Her oddest characteristic was the uneven placing of her foremast. It was stepped well back from the stemhead, leaving the ship with an unbalanced appearance, as if her real foremast had been shot away level with the deck.
Almost as large as a sloop, yet with neither the grace nor the agility, a bomb was said to be the devil to handle in anything but perfect conditions.