The Flag Captain

Spring of 1797 ... Richard Bolitho brings the 100-gun Euryalus home to Falmouth to be flagship of the hastily formed squadron which has been chosen to make the first British re-entry to the Mediterranean for nearly a year. As flag captain, Bolitho is made to contend with the unyielding attitudes of his new admiral, as well as the devious requirements of the squadron's civilian advisor. England is still stunned by the naval mutiny at Spithead, in which Bolitho's admiral was personally involved, and as the squadron sets sail the air is already alive with rumour of an even greater uprising in the ships at the Nore. Only when the squadron is drawn to a bloody embrace with the enemy does the admiral see the strength in Bolitho's trust and care for his men—but by then it is almost too late for any of them.

Alexander Kent

The Flag Captain

Richard Bolitho (EN) - 11

ePub r1.0

Titivillus 15.01.2019

Original title: The Flag Captain

Alexander Kent, 1971

Cover painting by Geoffrey Huband

ISBN 9780935526660

Digital editor: Titivillus

ePub base r2.0

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave;

For the deck it was their field of fame,

And ocean was their grave.

THOMAS CAMPBELL

1

LANDFALL

AS SIX BELLS of the morning watch chimed out from the forecastle belfry, Captain Richard Bolitho walked from beneath the poop and paused momentarily beside the compass. A master’s mate who was standing close to the great double wheel said quickly, “Nor’ west by north, sir,” and then dropped his eyes as Bolitho glanced at him.

It was as if they could all sense his tension, he thought briefly, and although they might not understand its cause, wanted to break him from it.

He strode out on to the broad quarterdeck and crossed to the weather side. Around him, without looking, he could see his officers watching him, gauging his mood, waiting to begin this new day.

But the ship had been in continuous commission for eighteen months, and most of her company, excluding those killed by combat or injury at sea, were the same men who had sailed with him from Plymouth on an October morning in 1795. It was more than enough time for them to realise that he needed to be left alone for these first precious moments of each successive day.

The wet sea mist which had dogged them for most of the night while they had edged slowly up the Channel was still with them, thicker than ever. It swirled around the black criss-cross of shrouds and rigging and seemed to cling to the hull like dew. Beyond the nettings with their neatly stowed hammocks the sea was heaving in a deep offshore swell, but was quite unbroken in the low breeze. It was dull. The colour of lead.

Bolitho shivered slightly and clasped his hands behind him beneath his coat-tails and looked up, beyond the great braced yards to where a rear-admiral’s flag flapped wetly from the mizzen masthead. It was hard to believe that up there somewhere the sky would be bright blue, warm and comforting, and on this May morning the sun should already be touching the approaching land. His land. Cornwall.