Alexander Kent - The Flag Captain

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!” 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 water-line. 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.