Alexander Kent - The Flag Captain

He looked again towards the horizon. The sails were already much closer, and he could see the shining banks of long oars rising and falling in perfect rhythm. Above them, the bright lateen sails gave a new menace to their appearance, and he could picture their crews’ excitement at the prospect of so easy a capture.

Witrand asked, “What must we do?” He spread his hands. “They will kill you too, Capitaine, so we must work together.”

Bolitho shrugged. “Normally I would get the ship’s boats into the water and try to warp her round. We could then present a broadside. But we have no boats, apart from the small one which brought me here.” He rubbed his chin. “But in any case, it would be asking a lot.”

“In the name of God, man! Are you going to stand there and do nothing?” He waved towards the silent onlookers, who were beginning to realise the new threat as the little hulls glided nearer and nearer. “And what of them, eh? You will let them die? Suffer torture and rape? Surely you can do something? ”

Bolitho smiled grimly. “Your concern for their lives is touching. You have changed in several ways since our first meeting.” Before the Frenchman could reply he snapped, “Have my officers released at once, and give them their weapons.” He saw the flicker of a challenge in Witrand’s eyes fade as he added harshly, “You have no choice, m’sieu. And if we are to die today I would rather do it with my sword in my hand.”

Witrand nodded and gave a brief smile. “That is so. I agree.”

“Then have Seсor Pareja brought aft. He can interpret my orders for me.”

Witrand was already beckoning to a messenger as he asked, “The wind? Will it come?”

“In the cool of late evening perhaps.” He eyed him steadily. “By then it will not concern us if we fail.”

Minutes later, Meheux and the others joined him on the poop, Ashton staggering painfully and supported on the lieutenant’s arm.

On the main deck Bolitho saw the released petty officer, McEwen, and six seamen also being allowed to walk aft, the remainder of them presumably still too drunk to be roused. The latter might die in complete ignorance. Bolitho thought absently, and be better for it.

“You need me, Captain?” It was Luis Pareja, looking fearful and timid at the same time.

Bolitho smiled at him. Pareja had been under guard, which showed that he had no private arrangements with the Frenchman.

He said, “I want you to tell everyone what I need to be done.” He saw him darting a frightened glance over the rail. “A lot will depend on you, seсor. How you sound and the way you look.” He smiled again. “So let us go down to the quarterdeck together, eh?”

Pareja blinked up at him. “Together, Captain?” Then he nodded, the sudden determination pathetic on his round face.

Meheux whispered fiercely, “How can we fight ’em off, sir?”

“Get our own men and form a single gun crew. I want the best cannon taken to the stern cabin. You will have to work fast to rig tackles for it, but it must be done. These craft will be within range in an hour. Maybe less.” He touched the lieutenant’s torn coat and added, “And run up the colours again, Mr Meheux.” He saw Witrand open his mouth as if to protest and then turn away to the rail. He added, “If we must fight, then it will be under our flag!”

Allday watched the flag jerking up the halliards and observed cheerfully, “I’ll lay a fine wager that those bloody pirates have never seen a King’s ship like this lady afore.”

Bolitho looked at Pareja. “And now, seсor, come with me. Together we will try and make some naval history today, eh?”

But as he looked down at all the upturned faces, the women pulling their children against their dresses, the air of despondency and growing fear, it was all he could do to conceal his true feelings from them.

“Not long now, sir.” Grindle tucked his thumbs into his belt and watched the oncoming craft without emotion.

In the last thirty minutes they had formed into line, the manoeuvre completed without hurry or effort, as if they had all the time in the world.

Now, curving steadily towards the Navarra ’s larboard quarter, they looked like some historic procession or oared galleys, an impression increased by the dull booming of drums, the latter essential if the men toiling at the long oars were to keep perfect timing.

The leading chebeck was about a mile away, but already Bolitho could see the cluster of dark-skinned figures gathered above her long beak head, and guessed they were preparing the bow gun for the first attack. The sails, as on the other craft, had been furled, and he could see a blue forked burgee flapping from her foremast displaying the emblem of the crescent moon.

He tore his eyes from the slow, purposeful approach and said to Grindle, “I am going below for a moment. Keep an eye open here until I return.”

As he hurried beneath the poop he tried to concentrate his thoughts on what he had done so far, to find any loophole in his flimsy plan of defence. When Pareja had interpreted his orders he had watched the faces of crew and passengers alike. To them, any plan would seem better than standing like dumb beasts for the slaughter. But now, as they crouched throughout the hull and listened to those steady, confident drumbeats, that first hope might soon disperse in panic.

If only they had had more time. But Euryalus ’s broadside had left the ship in too sad a state for quick repairs. She was down by the bows, and even if a wind got up she would sail badly without her mizzen. It had been necessary to rid the poop of its guns in order to lighten her aft where the damage had been worst. But the thought of the guns lying on the sea bed at a time when they were really needed did nothing to help ease his mind.

In the stern cabin he found Meheux and his seamen working

feverishly to complete their part of the plan. The Navarra had mounted two powerful stern chasers, one of which had been smashed by a ball from the Euryalus. But the remaining one had been hauled and raised from its restricted port on the starboard side of the transom and now stood in the centre of the cabin, its muzzle pointing towards the windows. Not that there were any windows left now. Meheux had cut them all away, leaving the gun with a wide arc of fire from quarter to quarter. Hastily rigged tackles were being checked by McEwen, while the other seamen were busily stacking powder and shot against the cabin bulkhead.

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.”