The Flag Captain

by Alexander Kent

  Meheux wiped his streaming face and forced a grin. ‘She should do well, sir.’ He patted the fat breech. ‘She’s an English thirty-two-pounder. I wonder where these thieving buggers got her from?’

  Bolitho nodded and strode to the gaping windows. By craning over the sill he could see the leading boat, her oars like gold in the sunlight. Most of the Navarra’s cannon were old and little use. They were carried more to deter any would-be pirate than for firing in deadly earnest. She had depended more on her agility than her prowess in combat, as did most merchant vessels the world over.

  This cannon was certainly the one true discovery of any worth. Similar to those which made up Euryalus’s lower gundeck, it was recognised as a powerful and devastating weapon, when in the right hands. Nicknamed a Long Nine by the seamen, being nine feet in length, it could throw a ball with fair accuracy over one and a half miles, and still be able to penetrate three feet of oak.

  And accuracy was more important than anything else at this moment.

  Bolitho turned his back on the sea and said, ‘We will fire as soon as the leading chebeck is end on to us.’

  McEwen, who was a gun-captain aboard his own ship, asked, ‘Double-shotted, sir?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. That is well enough for a ship-to-ship engagement, when there is nothing opposite you but another broadside. But today we cannot afford to be erratic.’ He smiled at their shining, grimy faces. ‘So watch your charges, and make sure each ball is a good one.’

  He took Meheux aside and dropped his voice. ‘I believe they will try and attack from ahead and astern simultaneously. It will divide our resources and give the enemy some idea of our ability.’

  The lieutenant nodded. ‘I am wishing we had not seen this damned ship, sir.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘Or that we had sunk her with a full broadside.’

  Bolitho smiled, remembering Witrand’s own words. Better for both of us had we never met. Well, it was too late for regrets now.

  He paused in the doorway, his eyes passing over the busy seamen, the cabin’s air of dejection at being so badly used.

  ‘If I fall today, Mr. Meheux,’ he saw the sudden alarm in the lieutenant’s eyes and added quietly, ‘you will carry on with the fight. This enemy will offer no quarter, so bear that well in mind.’ He forced a smile. ‘You were the one who was pleading for battle yesterday. You should be well satisfied!’

  He walked swiftly towards the sunlight again, past the unattended wheel, to where Grindle stood watching the approaching craft as if he had never moved.

  Along both bulwarks of the upper deck the Spanish sailors stood or crouched beside their guns, the largest of which were twelve-pounders. Here and there, wherever they could find some sort of cover, he could see some of the passengers, hastily provided with muskets from the arms chest, while others had appeared carrying elaborate sporting guns from their own baggage to add their weight to the defences.

  He shut his ears to the distant drums and tried to visualise the ship’s firepower as it would display itself within the next few minutes. Several of the larboard guns were useless, upended and smashed by the Euryalus’s brief onslaught. Much depended on what the enemy would do first.

  The pumps were still working steadily enough, and he wondered whether Pareja’s translation had brought home to those trying to control the intake of water the true value of their work. Or whether at the first crash of gunfire they would run from the pumps and give the sea its own victory.

  There had been a good few peasant women amongst the passengers. Tough, sun-dried creatures, who had not shown either resentment or fear when he had suggested they might help by assisting on the pumps. For, as he had wanted to explain, there were no longer any passengers in the Navarra. It was a ship’s company upon whose determination and strength depended survival and life itself.

  Grindle called, ‘Them’s splittin’ up, sir!’

  The two rearmost vessels were already swinging steeply from the line and pulling parallel with the drifting Navarra, their long stems cutting the water apart like scythes as they glided purposefully towards the bows.

  Bolitho looked along the upper deck and saw Witrand standing by the foremast, a pistol in his belt and another laid nearby on a hatch cover. Ashton was with him, his pale face screwed up with determination and pain as he waited for his orders from the poop.

  Bolitho called, ‘You may run out, Mr. Ashton.’

  He bit his lip as the guns squeaked protestingly towards the open ports. Now the gaps in the defences were all the more apparent, especially on the larboard side and quarter where the damage was most severe.

  He beckoned to Pareja who had been standing as if mesmerised below the poop ladder.

  ‘Tell them to fire on the order. No random shots, nor do I want them to waste time and energy by aiming at empty sea.’

  He narrowed his eyes against the glare and watched the two graceful craft turning slowly as if to cross the Navarra’s bows. They were about two cables clear. Biding their time.

  Astern it was much the same, with the three boats moving in perfect unison towards the larboard quarter, and at a similar distance.

  He could hear Meheux rapping out orders, and wondered if he had any faith in his ability to hold off the attackers.

  He stiffened, realising that one bank of oars on the leading boat had halted, poised above the sea, so that even as he watched the hull seemed to shorten until it was pointing directly towards him. Only then did the motionless bank of oars begin to move again, but at a slower pace, the water creaming back from her stem in a fine white arrowhead.

  There was a sudden puff of dark smoke from her bows, followed instantly by a loud bang. He saw the water quiver as the invisible ball hurled itself just a few feet above the surface to smash hard into the Navarra’s side directly below where he was standing. He heard sharp cries of alarm from below, a momentary pause in the pumping, and saw several figures leaping up and down on the enemy’s forecastle as if in a frenzy of excitement.

  Another bang, from ahead this time, and he saw a tall waterspout leap skyward some three cables abeam. The other chebeck had fired and missed, but the plume of spray gave a good hint of the size of her gun.

  Helplessly the Spanish seamen waited by their ports, staring at the mocking squares of empty water and tensing their bodies for the next ball.

  They did not have to wait long. The boat closest to the larboard quarter fired, and the ball smashed hard into the poop, hurling wood splinters across the sea alongside and making the deck quiver violently.

  Bolitho snapped, ‘I am going aft, Mr. Grindle.’

  He trusted Meheux to obey his orders more than he did his own ability to remain inactive under this searching, merciless bombardment. Yet that was how it must be if they were to have even a shred of hope.

  He found Meheux leaning against the gun, his eyes wary as he watched the oared hull gliding easily towards the quarter, now a cable away.

  Bolitho tensed as the chebeck’s bow gun belched smoke and fire, and felt the ball crash into the transom below him. Probably dose to the damage already made worse by the storm.

  Meheux said between his teeth, ‘By God, she’ll come apart with much more of this, sir!’

  Bolitho looked along the gun barrel, noting the stiffness in the naked backs and shoulders of the seamen, who like Meheux were expecting the next shot to be amongst them.

  Bang. The muffled explosion was followed by the telltale shiver as a heavy ball struck the Navarra’s hull right forward. But he could not be up there as well as here. And this was the ship’s vital and most sensitive part.

  The next shot from astern cleaved through the empty gunport on the transom, and Bolitho gritted his teeth as he listened to it smashing deep into the hull, the attendant cries and screams which told him it had found more than mere timber this time.

  Meheux snarled, ‘What is he waiting for, damn him?’

  Bolitho realised that the enemy had not fired again, although his previous timing be
tween shots had been regular and extremely quick. He watched, hardly daring to hope, as with sudden determination the chebeck began to edge across the Navarra’s stem. For a moment longer he tortured himself that it was just an illusion. That the Navarra was really moving slightly in some additional undertow.

  Meheux said breathlessly, ‘He’s coming in for the kill, sir I’ He darted Bolitho a quick glance, his eyes wild with admiration. ‘By God, he thinks we are undefended here!’

  Bolitho nodded grimly. The chebeck’s commander has tested their ability to hold him off and was certainly moving closer for a direct shot into the Navarra’s stern. Seeing the damage, the two ports left empty in the transom, he might well believe her to be helpless.

  Meheux said sharply,. ‘Right, my boys.’ The men seemed to come alive around the gun. ‘Now we shall see!’ He stooped behind the breech, his eyes glittering above it in the sunlight like two matched stones as he watched the enemy’s slender masts edging into direct line astern.

  ‘Right traverse!’ He stamped with impatience as the men threw themselves on their handspikes. ‘Well!’ He was sweating badly, and had to dash it from his eyes with his torn sleeve. ‘Point!’

  McEwen stepped clear, pulling his trigger lanyard until it was bar taut.

  ‘Ready!’ Meheux swore obscenely as the chebeck swung momentarily out of line before the drum brought the oars back under control.

  In the sudden stillness Bolitho’s voice was like a pistol shot. ‘Now, Mr. Meheux!’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  The seconds felt like hours as Meheux stayed crouched behind the gun like a carved figure.

  Then with a suddenness that caught Bolitho unprepared even though he had been expecting it, Meheux leapt aside and yelled, ‘Fire!’

  In the close confines of the cabin the noise was like a thunderclap, and as the men reeled about coughing and choking in the dense smoke, Bolitho saw the gun hurl itself inboard on its tackles, felt the planking shaking wildly beneath him, and wondered dazedly if it would tear itself free and smash him to pulp against the bulkhead. But the tackles held, and as the billowing smoke funnelled clear of the windows he heard Meheux yelling like a maniac, ‘Look at the bastard! Just see him now, lads!’

  Bolitho pushed towards the windows and stared with amazement at the leading boat which seconds before had made such a picture of grace and purpose. The massive thirty-two-pound ball must have ploughed right amongst one bank of oars, for many appeared missing, and beneath the pall of smoke he could see the slim hull broaching to, the remaining bank of oars hacking and slashing at the water in a wild attempt to hold it steady.

  Meheux roared, ‘Stop your vent! Sponge out!’ To Bolitho he shouted, ‘Double-shotted this time, sir?’

  ‘If you can be quick, Mr. Meheux.’ Bolitho’s ears were still cringing from the explosion, but he could feel his sudden desperate excitement rising to match the lieutenant’s as he added, ‘And grape for good measure if you have any!’

  To the seamen who worked so eagerly in the shattered cabin the gun was as familiar as those which shared their daily lives. The strain and tension of waiting helplessly and watching the enemy shoot into the battered hull without being able to hit back was past in an instant. Yelling and whooping they rammed home the charges, watched closely by McEwen, who was too experienced a gun-captain to allow anything to alter his sense of vigilance. He even fondled each ball before allowing it to be rammed into the muzzle, making quite sure it was as perfect as could be hoped for in a Spanish ship.

  Bolitho saw the damaged chebeck begin to edge painfully towards the starboard quarter and managed not to watch the seamen frantically trying to reload before she was gone from view. But a Long Nine normally had a crew of fifteen men to attend to its needs. Meheux had half that number.

  ‘Run out!’ He had done it in two minutes.

  The other two chebecks were reversing their swoops and backing away from the Navarra’s sudden challenge. One of them fired, but the shot must have passed well clear for none of them saw where it fell.

  Meheux yelled hoarsely, ‘Left traverse I’ He dashed to the side of the cabin, squinting his eyes as he tried to gauge the enemy’s speed.

  Bolitho heard more crashes and shouts from the upper deck and said, ‘I must leave you.’

  Meheux did not even hear him. ‘Left, left, left!’ He snatched up a handspike and threw his own weight to the gun. He was still peering and squinting over the breech as Bolitho tore himself away and ran back to the poop.

  He had just reached the sunlight again when Meheux fired. As he ran to the starboard side he saw the double-shot smash into the chebeck’s hull, watched with fixed fascination as the narrow deck began to tilt over, the packed mass of figures surging towards the shattered side like sheep stampeding down a steep hill. The two massive balls must have smashed the hull close on the waterline. The strain and impetus of the oars would have done the rest. Even now the hull was settling down, the milling figures of her crew spilling over the gunwale or running in confusion towards the bows. Neither of the other chebecks was making any attempt to draw near to save life or pursue the attack, and he wondered momentarily whether the stricken boat contained their leader.

  He felt Grindle tugging his arm. ‘One of ’em’s turnin’, sir! She’s comin’ straight for the bows!’

  Bolitho stared along the deck and saw a chebeck’s slim masts bearing down at full speed, her furled sails appearing to be within feet of the Navarra’s jib boom. At the last possible moment it changed course and swept purposefully towards the ship’s larboard bow, the oars swinging back against her hull like some great seabird folding its wings as it glided in for a closer embrace.

  Bolitho yelled, ‘Larboard battery! Fire!’

  As Ashton staggered along the line of guns each one lurched inboard, the smoke billowing across the enemy craft, the balls doing little damage but cut her foremast in two like a young sapling under an axe.

  Bolitho felt the grinding shudder, saw grapnels thudding over the gangway, and dragged out his sword.

  ‘Repel boarders!’ He saw the Frenchman snatch up his pistols and push some of the dazed seamen towards the side. ‘Mr. Ashton! The swivel gun!’

  He saw Allday charging along the deck towards him, his cutlass already drawn and shining dully in the smokey sunlight.

  He snapped, I told you to stay with Mr. Ashton!’ But knew it was useless. Allday would never leave his side in a fight, no matter what he said.

  Heads were already coming up and over the bulwark, which having no boarding nets was protected only by its gangway. Bolitho watched the seamen hacking and slashing with pikes and cutlasses alike, heard the yells and cries rising to a deafening crescendo as more and more dark-skinned attackers fought their way up the ship’s side. Some were already on the forecastle, only to vanish like blown paper as the swivel gun belched fire and swept them away in a hail of canister.

  ‘Jesus! Watch your back, Captain!’ Allday swung his cutlass and hacked a turbaned figure across the face, cutting the jaw away before even a scream could escape.

  Bolitho saw a bearded giant wielding an axe cut down two Spanish seamen and then run crazily towards one of the hatchways. He thought of the women and children, the terrified wounded, and what could change any spark of hope into a raging defeat if this giant got amongst them. Before Allday could intervene he was across the hatch, one foot on the coaming, as the onrushing man skidded to a halt, the axe poised above his head, still bloody from its earlier victims.

  The axe started to descend and Bolitho leapt to one side, his sword darting under the man’s massive forearm, swinging him round above the hatch, his teeth bared in agony as the razor-edged blade grated against and between his ribs. Bellowing and roaring like a wounded beast he still came on, the axe making a silver arc as he slashed at Bolitho, forcing him back and back towards the poop. A seaman charged forward with a boarding pike, but the giant knocked it to one side and brought the axe across the man’s neck without even losing
its precision, sending the man flailing across the deck, his head almost severed from his body.

  Bolitho knew that if he was pinned against the poop the other man would cut him down just as easily.

  He braced himself, and as the man raised the axe above his head, seemingly oblivious to the terrible wound left by the sword, he darted forward, the blade pointed straight for his bearded throat. But his shoe slipped on a patch of blood, and before he could recover he felt himself falling hard against one of the guns, the sword clattering from his hand and beyond his reach.

  In those split seconds he saw everything like one great painting, the faces and expressions standing out as if fixed in the mind of an artist. Allday, too far away to help, parrying with a red-turbaned pirate. Grindle and some seamen grappling widly below the larboard gangway, sword-blades flashing and ringing, eyes wide with ferocity and terror.

  He saw too the man with the axe, pausing, balancing on his great bared toes as if to measure this final blow. He was actually grinning, savouring the moment.

  Bolitho did not hear the shot through all the other awful sounds, but saw his attacker tilt forward, his expression changing to one of complete astonishment and then a mask of agony before he pitched forward at his feet.

  Witrand’s pistol was still smoking as he lowered it from his forearm and yelled, ‘Are you ’urt, Capitaine?’

  Bolitho groped for his sword and stood up, shaking his head. ‘No, but thank you.’ He grinned. ‘I think that we are winning this fight.’

  It was true. Already the boarders were retreating along the gangway, leaving their dead and wounded to be trampled underfoot as the battle swayed back and forth above the deck.