Alexander Kent - The Flag Captain

souls, yet one who at this moment seemed like an old friend in an alien and despairing place.

He smiled. “I think we might prefer even this to a raft.”

As he ducked beneath the deck timbers the seaman winked at his mate. “Wot did Oi tell ’ee? Oi knew our Dick’d not leave us fer long.”

The petty officer, his hands and arms glistening with thick black grease from the rudder, appeared behind them and snarled, “Probably ’e don’t trust yew. Any more’n what I does.” But even he was surprised to learn his captain had arrived on board, and was content to leave it at that.

One deck down, Bolitho followed Ashton along a madly lurching passageway, very aware of the groaning timbers, the creak and clatter of loose gear and discarded belongings which seemed to mark each foot of the journey. He could hear the sea sluicing against the hull, the long shuddering protest as the ship lifted herself through another trough before heeling heavily away from the wind. His feet skidded, and in the swaying lantern light he saw a man’s body spreadeagled across a hatch coaming. His trunk was almost cut in half by a ball which must have come through an open port, catching him as he carried a message, or ran for his life before the merciless bombardment.

Two seamen were standing by another companionway, the top of which was sealed with a heavy hatch cover. They were both armed, and stared at Bolitho with surprise and something like guilt. They had probably been rifling some of the cabins, he thought. That could be sorted out later. Just so long as they had not yet broached a spirit store or found some wine in an officer’s sea chest. Thirty men, inflamed by drink, would be little use for saving the ship or anything else.

He asked sharply, “Are they all down there?”

“Aye, sir.” One of then thumped his musket on the hatch. “Most of ’em had been put there afore the attack, sir.”

“I see.” It was a wise precaution in spite of the terror and the thunder of cannon fire. Otherwise many more would have died with the captain and his officers.

Allday hissed, “You’re not going down there, Captain?”

Bolitho ignored him. “Open it.”

He cocked his head to listen to Meheux shouting orders, the answering patter of bare feet on the deck above. Another crisis, but Meheux would have to manage on his own. Right now he had to see the passengers, for down there below the waterline he was sure he might find the answer to one of his questions, and there was no time left for delay.

At first Bolitho could see nothing. But when the seamen flung back the hatch cover and Ashton held his lantern directly above the ladder he felt the sudden tension and fear rising to greet him like something physical.

He climbed down two of the steps, and as the lantern light fell across his body he was almost deafened by a violent chorus of cries and shouts, and saw what appeared to be hundreds of eyes shining in the yellow beam, swaying about in the pitching hull as if detached from anything human. But the voices were real enough. Rising together in shock and terror, the shriller cries of women or children making him halt on the ladder, suddenly aware that many of these people were probably quite ignorant of what had happened in the world above them.

He shouted, “Be silent, all of you! I will see that no harm comes…”

It was hopeless. Hands were already reaching from the gloom, clawing at the ladder and his legs, while the mass of glittering eyes swayed forward, pushed on by the press of figures at the rear.

Ashton said breathlessly, “Let me, sir! I speak a little Spanish.”

Bolitho pulled him down to the ladder and shouted, “Just tell them to keep quiet!”

As Ashton tried to make himself heard above the clamour

Bolitho called to the two seamen, “Get some more hands down here! Lively, or you’ll be trampled to pulp!”

Ashton was tugging at his sleeve and pointing below him. “Sir! There’s someone trying to say something!”

It was in fact a plump, frightened-looking man, whose bald head shone in the lantern like a piece of smooth marble as he cried, “I speak the English, Captain! I will tell them to obey you if you only get me out of this terrible place!” He was almost weeping with fear and exhaustion, but was managing to keep a grip on something which Bolitho now recognised as a wig.

“I’ll have you all out of there in a moment. Stay on the ladder and tell them.” He felt suddenly sorry for the unknown man, who was neither young nor very firm on his feet. But right now he was his most valuable asset, one he could not afford to lose from view.

The bald man had a surprisingly carrying voice, although he had to break off several times to regain his breath. Some of the noises had died, and the crush of figures beneath the ladder eased back in response to his pleas.

The master’s mate and three seamen came panting along the passageway and Bolitho shouted, “Ah, Mr Grindle, you were quick. Now get ready to pass the children aft, though God knows how many there are down there. Then the women…” He broke off as a terrified figure tried to push past Ashton on the ladder. He seized him by the coat and said harshly, “Tell this one that I will have him thrown overboard if he disobeys my orders!”

In a calmer tone he continued, “You may put all the fit men to work on deck under Mr Meheux.”

Grindle looked at him dubiously. “They ain’t seamen, sir.”

“I don’t care. Give ’em axes and have that wreckage hacked away. Cut loose any top hamper you can find. You may cast the poop guns over the side if you can manage it without letting them run wild.” He paused to listen to the wind whipping against the

hull, the growing chorus of groans and bangs which seemed to come from every side, above and below.

Grindle nodded. “Aye, aye, sir. But we’ll not save ’er, I’m thinkin’.”

“Just do as I say.” He halted the man before he could move away. “Look, Mr Grindle, there is something you must face. These people cannot abandon ship, for there are no boats, nor could we build a raft in this sea. Their officers are dead, and they are near giving in to their terror.” Grindle was an experienced man, he deserved an explanation, even at this late stage.

The master’s mate nodded. “Aye, sir. I’ll do what I can.” He raised his voice. “You lads there! Watch the ’atch, while we goes down to get the bairns out!”

Another seaman came staggering down the passageway. “Captain, sir! Mr Meheux sends his respects, and the Euryalus is signalling!” He gaped as Grindle reeled through the hatch carrying two screaming babies as he would a bundle of canvas.

Bolitho snapped, “Give Mr Grindle a hand.” To Ashton he called, “On deck and see what is happening.” The boy faltered and then ran as Bolitho shouted, “Well, move yourself, my lad! I may have need of your Spanish presently.”

The tide of scrambling, gasping figures was growing every minute, with the seamen occasionally reaching into it to haul out some man who was trying to remain hidden with the women.

Bolitho had vague impressions of dark hair and frightened eyes, of tear-stained faces, an atmosphere of despair and near panic.

Ashton was back again, pushing through the throng, his hat awry as he reported, “The admiral wishes to know when you are returning, sir.”

Bolitho tried to shut out the din, the clawing uncertainty of other people’s fear which hemmed him in on every side.

Then he snapped, “Signal the ship at once. I need more time. It will be pitch dark soon.”

Ashton stared at him. “It is all but dark now, sir.”

“And the wind?” He must think. Detach his mind from this throng of terrified, unreal figures.

“Strong, sir. Mr Meheux says it is still rising.”