Alexander Kent - The Flag Captain

Bolitho looked at Keverne. “You may run out now. Pass the word to Mr Bickford on the lower gundeck to gauge each shot well. His are the heaviest pieces we have today.”

Keverne touched his hat and beckoned to three midshipmen who were messengers for the gundecks. As he leaned over the rail, speaking in a sharp, urgent whisper, Bolitho watched their faces. Ashton, still pale, with his bandage around his head. Little Drury, the inevitable smudge on his round face, and Lelean of the lower gundeck, whose extreme youth was badly marred by the most pimply skin Bolitho had ever seen.

When they scurried away Keverne yelled, “Run out!” And as the order was piped from deck to deck the hull shook inwardly to the sudden rumble of trucks, the shouts of gun-captains to their crews to take charge as the massive weapons trundled down the tilting decks and through the open ports.

The air quivered suddenly to a slow and measured bombardment, the sound dragging itself out and rolling back against the headland until it seemed as if every ship had fired. In the van Zeus was wreathed in her own smoke, her black muzzles gone from view as her men sponged out frantically for another broadside.

Bolitho watched the smoke rolling inshore and being sucked into the bay by some freak down eddy. If the Spanish garrison were in any doubt earlier, they knew now, he thought grimly.

Another broadside, again perfectly timed, the guns shooting out their long orange tongues, the ship’s reefed main topsail jerking violently in the upthrust of heated air.

Every glass was trained on the dancing lines of white-horses around and beyond the leading seventy-four. But there was still no sign of a falling shot, or any intimation that the enemy had returned fire.

Broughton said harshly, “Fair. Very fair.”

Bolitho glanced at him. Perhaps Broughton was still testing his flag captain. Feeling him out for suggestions which he might accept or scornfully reject. But he could add nothing for Brough-ton’s benefit. It was still too early.

He lifted his glass again as a voice yelled, “There’s a ball! Fine on Zeus ’s larboard quarter!”

Bolitho watched the ball’s progress, counting seconds as the feather of white spray slashed viciously from wave to wave, throwing up a waterspout a good mile beyond the Zeus like a sliver of ice.

He heard Lieutenant Lucey whisper to Partridge, “By God, that was a long shot!”

There was another, almost exactly along the same line as before, and no less powerful.

Broughton remarked, “One gun, Bolitho. If that is all they have we need not wait much longer.”

“Signal from Zeus, sir.” Tothill was clinging to the lee shrouds

to watch the leading ship. “Disengaging.”

Bolitho looked at Partridge. “How long was that?”

The master examined his slate. “Ten minutes, sir.”

Ten minutes to cross the fort’s arc of fire, during which time they had only got off two balls.

“ Tanais is closing the range, sir.” Keverne steadied his glass against his forearm. “She’ll be ready to fire in a minute or so.”

Bolitho did not reply, holding his breath until the big red and black flag broke from Tanais ’s topsail yard to show she was within sight of the enemy.

Falcon did not wait as long as Rattray, and his guns started belching fire and smoke almost immediately. The gunnery was impeccable, with the forward ones firing their second balls almost before the aft sections had run in for reloading.

Broughton rubbed his hands. “That weight of metal’ll give the Dons sore heads, eh?”

But the enemy remained silent as before, and Bolitho said quickly, “I think the Spaniards are using a fixed battery, sir. They were sighting shots used on Zeus, but this time…” He broke off as the reverberating crash of gunfire welled out of the bay, followed by a terrible sound of splintering wood.

As he strode to the rail he saw the smoke spurting from the Tanais ’s poop, and a black tangle of broken rigging pitching overboard as the shots slammed into her. Two, maybe more, he thought, with another which had missed, whipping the wave crests apart like an enraged dolphin.

Something like a sigh came from the watching men as more shots hammered into the Tanais ’s hull and pieces of wood whirled high into the air before splashing into the sea on either side of her.

Falcon’s men fired again, but the rhythm was gone, and here and there along her tumblehome Bolitho could see an angled muzzle to show a gun was unmanned, or an empty port which told its own story better than words.

Keverne said, “Four guns at a time, I’d say, sir.” He sounded cool and detached. An onlooker.

Lucey remarked, “Quite big too, by the look of them.”

Bolitho glanced at him. Lucey was only twenty and had been terrified. Bolitho knew all the signs, the constant swallowing, the inability to find anything for the hands to occupy themselves with, all the little things which told of a man’s mounting terror. Now Lucey was swopping comments with Keverne like an old campaigner. He hoped the pretence would last, for his sake.

Broughton said, “I can’t see for the damn smoke! What is Falcon doing?”

The smoke was funnelling through the Tanais ’s stern windows, but whether from a fire or the exertions of the guns it was hard to tell. She was still managing to shoot, but she looked in a bad way. Her braced sails were easy targets and were pitted with holes, the latter from her own wood splinters as much as the enemy’s gunfire. Long trailers of severed rigging hung over her gangways, and Bolitho could see men already hacking it away with axes, the distance making their efforts all the more frantic.

Partridge cleared his throat. “She’s dipped ’er flag, sir.” He squinted at his big turnip watch. “Nigh on fifteen minutes that time.”

Broughton said, “I hope your thirty-two-pounders earn their keep, eh?” He was smiling, the skin drawn back tightly from his even teeth to make his efforts a lie.

But Bolitho was thinking of other things. Fifteen minutes, during which time his ship would be subjected to another merciless bombardment. The Spanish gun crews did not even have to alter their elevation. They merely waited and fired, as ship after ship the squadron sailed across that strip of open water. Sun in their eyes or not, it was as easy as shooting birds off a branch.

“I suggest you signal the squadron to discontinue the action, sir.” He kept his voice low, but saw the words affecting Broughton as if he had cursed him. He added quickly, “Independent action

in support of the landing parties would…” He got no further.

“ Never! Do you imagine I’ll let a few bloody Dons make me withdraw?” He glared at him with something like contempt. “By God, I thought you were made of sterner stuff!”

Bolitho looked past him and called, “Shake out the forecourse, Mr Keverne! Then hands aloft and get the t’gallants on her!” He held the lieutenant’s eyes with his own. “As quick as you can!”

As the men swarmed up the ratlines in response to the order he made himself walk slowly to the quarterdeck rail. He knew Broughton was staring after him but shut him from his mind. Broughton had made his decision, and the order had to be obeyed. But the Euryalus was his ship, and he would fight her to the best of his ability, and Broughton could think what he liked.

The big forecourse billowed out with a clap like thunder, the seamen scampering wildly as the wind momentarily took charge. Bolitho felt the deck tilting still further as the fore topgallant was released and hardened its belly to the wind, the additional thrust making the spray fly above the figurehead and jib boom.