Alexander Kent - The Flag Captain

Partridge smiled and bobbed his head, his chins wobbling against his neckcloth. He had been wounded at Broughton’s scathing attack on his earlier suggestion, but seemed in good spirits again.

The great forecourse was already flapping and curling inwards as seamen scampered to sheets and halliards, urged on by Keverne’s speaking trumpet.

When the first lieutenant came to report it had been brailed up and secured against its yard, Bolitho said, “Send an experienced petty officer aloft to watch the Spaniard and report any sign of alarm. Then you may pipe the hands to quarters. We will not be able to clear for action on the upper deck, so this will have to be done quickly, and well. We do not want our people injured by boat splinters and falling spars to no good purpose.”

As Keverne dashed away again Broughton asked sharply, “How long?”

“An hour at the most, sir. I’ll bring her up a point to the wind. That should help.”

“It will be too dark to see in three hours.” Broughton nodded grimly. “So be it then.”

The admiral was about to walk to the poop and then stopped to add softly, “But you disable my flagship, Bolitho, and I cannot promise any hope for you.”

Bolitho looked at the master. “Bring her round a point to wind’rd.”

Then he made himself walk slowly along the weather side, his hands clasped behind him. If the Euryalus was disabled, there would be little hope for any of them, he decided.

Bolitho trained his glass on the other ship. Since she had first appeared above the horizon and the Euryalus had cleared for

action, he had expected some sign of alarm or recognition, but the oncoming vessel maintained her set course and now lay less than two miles distant. If Euryalus continued on her present tack the Spaniard would cross her stern with about a mile between them.

She was exactly as Keverne had described. Two-decked and carrying every available sail, she was making a fair display of speed, spray bursting above her scarlet and blue figurehead as high as the bellying forecourse. He could just distinguish the old-fashioned, triangular mizzen sail above her ornately carved poop, the flash of sunlight on trained telescopes as her officers examined the Euryalus, no doubt wondering at her purpose and destination.

Keverne said grimly, “Getting close, sir.”

Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and saw a burly seaman standing amongst a chattering group of onlookers.

“Ready, Williams?”

The man squinted up at him and grinned awkwardly. “Aye, sir.”

Bolitho nodded. The man had no doubt been well primed with rum by well-wishers. Not too much, he hoped, or the ruse might develop into a sudden sea burial.

He said, “Pass the word to the middle and lower gundecks, Mr Keverne.” He walked back to the weather side again and trained his glass on the other ship. “Starboard side to load with double shot. Make sure they do not run out until the order. One sight of a gun muzzle sniffing the wind and our friends will be off and away.”

As Keverne beckoned to a midshipman Bolitho called to Lieutenant Meheux who commanded the upper gundeck. He was staring at his own batteries, his round face unusually glum.

“Never fear, Mr Meheux, your crews will have work enough soon. But a view of them loading and casting off the lashings and our trick will misfire!”

Meheux touched his hat and then resumed his stance of gloomy disappointment.

Allday hurried across the quarterdeck and held out Bolitho’s sword. As Bolitho raised his hands and he swiftly buckled it around his waist, he said, “I’ve told the coxswain of the quarter boat what you want, Captain!” He grinned. “And what he’ll get if he makes a mess of it!”

Bolitho frowned. The Spaniard was going to pass further astern than he had gauged. He would have to act now, or never.

“Right, Williams, over you go!”

The big seaman clambered on to the larboard gangway, and with his face set in a mask of determination began to lean over the rail.

Keverne muttered harshly, “God, he is making the most of his performance.”

“There ’e goes!” Partridge hurried back to his place near the wheel as with a violent thrashing of arms Williams pitched over the rail and vanished.

Bolitho ran to the nettings as the cry “Man overboard!” brought the crew of the quarterboat dashing from their various attitudes of unlikely concentration. He breathed out more easily as the seaman’s head appeared bobbing and spluttering close to the side, and snapped, “Back the mizzen tops’l, Mr Keverne! Get that boat away!” He had feared that Williams’s enthusiasm would make him mistime his fall. The steep tumblehome of the three-decker’s side could easily have broken an arm or skull had he been careless.

He tore his eyes from the orderly confusion as the boat’s crew swarmed down into the tethered craft below the quarter, while overhead the mizzen topsail banged and flapped against the mast and yard, acting like a brake on some runaway juggernaut, just long enough to peer towards the Spanish ship. She was about two cables from the point where she would cross Euryalus ’s wake, and he could see figures scampering along her forecastle, as if to get a better view of the drama.

Bolitho raised his hand. “Now! Stand by to go about!” Already

the mizzen yard was squeaking back to its original position, while from their hiding places beneath the gangways the seamen ran to their stations, encouraged by derisive cheers from the unemployed gun crews.

Partridge called, “Ready, sir!”

“Put the helm down!” Bolitho trained his glass on the Spaniard. There was still no sign of alarm as far as he could see.

“Helm a’lee, sir!”

Up forward the headsail sheets had already been let go, and as the wheel went over and the great hull began to swing very slowly into the wind, Keverne urged the men at the braces to even greater efforts as they strained back, panting and cursing, their eyes on the yards above them.

Sails boomed and swelled, and as the ship continued to swing Bolitho saw sudden activity on the other vessel’s poop, an officer waving wildly and pointing to his men who were still grouped around the bows.

“Off tacks and sheets!”

Bolitho shaded his eyes to peer aloft through the tangle of flapping sails and jerking shrouds to where the topmen were already fighting their way to the topgallant yards in readiness for the next part of the attack. For a moment longer he hardly dared to draw breath. The wind was still quite strong, and at worst might bring down the topmasts, or leave the heavy ship thrashing helplessly and all aback.

But the pendant was swinging, the ship was still responding, wheeling across the eye of the wind like a well-disciplined mammoth.

“Let go and haul!” Keverne had not raised his eyes from the men on deck. “ Heave there!”

Slowly but steadily the great yards began to respond to the braces, until with a sound of hill thunder the sails billowed out,

full and bulging to the wind, while the deck heeled over to the opposite tack.

Bolitho watched fixedly as the other ship appeared to swim backwards through the mass of rigging around the foremast, until she lay not safely across the larboard quarter, but there, fine on the starboard bow.

There was no sign of the boat or the swimmer, and he found time to hope someone was watching out for them.

“Pass the word. Mr Keverne! Lower batteries run out!”

As the port lids lifted and he heard the familiar squeak and groan of gun trucks, he could imagine the cursing men far below his feet as they hauled their massive charges up the tilting decks towards the sunlight.

“Run up the colours. Mr Tothill!”