Alexander Kent - The Flag Captain

Broughton’s voice made him turn. “That was a fierce turn, Bolitho. I thought you would have the sticks out of her.” He had appeared on deck in his gold-laced coat, wearing the beautiful sword, as if for another of his inspections.

There was a dull bang and a puff of smoke drifted across the Spaniard’s poop. A gun must have been kept loaded and ready, Bolitho thought, although he did not see where the ball went.

“Get the t’gallants on her, Mr Keverne! This one intends to run for it!”

The two ships were on parallel courses, with the Euryalus now some two cables’ length astern.

There was another bang and someone gasped with alarm as a ball smacked through the fore topsail and splashed down far to windward.

The Spanish ship had a very curved stern, and Bolitho guessed she had some powerful guns mounted there to protect herself from a pursuer.

Broughton snapped, “No sense in delaying things.”

Bolitho nodded. Any minute now and a ball might bring down

a vital spar. “Middle battery, Mr Keverne. Fire in succession!”

To Partridge he snapped, “Bring her up a point to wind’rd!”

While the Euryalus swung slightly away from her intended victim the middle gundeck erupted in a cloud of brown smoke. From forward to aft, cannon after cannon crashed out at regular two-second intervals, each massive twenty-four-pounder hurling itself inboard as the savage orange tongue left its muzzle.

Bolitho watched the leaping waterspouts bursting near and beyond the Spaniard’s quarter, saw splintered woodwork fly from her bulwark as some of the balls smashed home.

From below he could hear the gunners cheering, the squeak of trucks as they raced each other up the canting deck towards the ports.

Keverne was watching him, his eyes dark with tension. “They have not struck, sir.”

Bolitho bit his lip. The red and orange flag of Spain still floated above the poop, and even as he watched another gun banged across the water and a ball screamed close overhead like a tortured spirit in hell.

He had expected the Spaniard to strike at the first sight of the flag. There was about a cable between them, and with her topgallant sails drawing well the Euryalus was beginning to pare the range away with each minute.

Something caught his eye, and he saw the quarter boat, black against the glittering water, while its crew, and presumably Williams, stood to cheer the one-sided battle.

The Spaniard’s quarter battery belched orange tongues again; this time three, perhaps four, had fired, and before the smoke had blown clear Bolitho felt the deck jump as a ball slammed into the Euryalus ’s hull like a hammer.

“Bring her up a point again, Mr Partridge.” What was that fool of a Spaniard doing? It was sheer madness to risk any more fighting. If he continued to run before the wind Euryalus would

overhaul him. If he stood away, she would rake his stern and dismast him in seconds.

More flashes, and this time a ball ploughed into the starboard gangway, and two seamen rolled screaming and kicking on the deck below, cut down by the flying splinters.

Bolitho said, “Lower batteries, Mr Keverne.” He held on, watching the defiant flag. Hoping. Then he snapped, “Broadside!”

The two lower gundecks had been given plenty of time. It had been almost a leisurely business as gun-captains had checked their crews, and the lieutenants had paced up and down, ducking beneath the massive deck beams to peer through the open ports, as with tired dignity the Euryalus turned slightly away from her enemy, showing the double line of guns like black teeth. The next instant, as lieutenants blew on their whistles and captains jerked their lanyards, every gun roared out as one, the whole ship quaking as if grinding across a submerged reef.

On the quarterdeck Bolitho watched the smoke billowing down towards the Spaniard, while above it he saw her mizzen tilt forward before plunging down over her poop, the crash audible even above the broadside’s echo, which still reverberated across the sea like thunder.

As the smoke drifted beyond the other ship he saw the gaping holes in her exposed bilge and along her quarter, the trail of rigging and broken spars alongside as she swung drunkenly downwind, exposing her tall stern as if for the final, devastating blow.

But a voice yelled, “’E’s struck!” And the cheer was taken up below where the crews were already sponging out and reloading for the next broadside.

Bolitho said, “A brave captain.”

“But stupid.” Broughton was peering towards the Spaniard as she continued to drift helplessly with her smoke, so pitiful after her original appearance of vitality and life.

“ We will shorten sail at once, Mr Keverne, and keep her under

our lee.” He waited until Keverne had passed his orders before adding, “Now we might discover what was important to him that needed defending so desperately.”

Vice-Admiral Broughton snatched a telescope from the midshipman of the watch and strode briskly to Bolitho’s side.

“What in hell’s name are they doing over there?” He trained the glass on the other ship which still drifted about half a cable under the Euryalus ’s lee.

Bolitho did not answer. He too was studying her as she yawed and plunged, the newly hoisted white ensign flapping jauntily from her mainmast to prove that Lieutenant Meheux and his boarding party had at least achieved something.

He glanced up at the flapping sails and rattling shrouds. It was nearly an hour since the boats had been lowered to take Meheux and his men across to the prize, and in that time there had been a distinct and worrying change in the weather. The sky was clouding over very rapidly, so that the sea had lost its colour and warmth, and the fast-moving crests of the steep waves were dirty grey and menacing. Only the horizon appeared clear, cold and steel bright, as if being lit by power other than the setting sun. Without consulting the masthead pendant he knew the wind had backed still further, and now blew almost from the west, its strength mounting with each frustrating minute.

They were in for a blow, and, hampered by the disabled ship and very little information from Meheux, it could not have been at a worse time.

Broughton snapped, “The jolly boat’s returning. And about damn time!”

Watching the small boat under oars as it dipped and curtsied over crest and trough alike was visible evidence of the worsening weather.

The other boats had already been recalled and hoisted inboard, this one being Meheux’s only link with the flagship.

In the sternsheets Bolitho saw the intent figure of Midshipman Ashton, who with a master’s mate and reliable petty officer had been sent with Meheux to take charge of the prize.

While the little boat wallowed sickeningly below the Euryalus ’s quarter Ashton cupped his hands and yelled, “She’s badly holed, sir! And the rudder lines have been shot away!”

Bolitho craned over the rail, conscious of the men nearby listening to him as he shouted, “What is she? What is taking so long?”

Ashton replied, “The Navarra, sir. Outward bound from Malaga.” He almost pitched overboard as an angry wave hurled the boat into a trough. “General cargo and, and…” He seemed aware of the admiral’s presence for the first time. “And a lot of passengers, sir.”

“For God’s sake, Bolitho! Ask the young idiot about her captain’s explanation!”

But in reply Ashton called, “He was killed in the broadside, sir. And most of his officers.” He peered up at Bolitho adding miserably, “The ship is in a terrible state, sir.”

Bolitho beckoned to Keverne. “I think you had better go across. The sea is getting up, and there seems more to our prize than we thought.”