Alexander Kent - The Flag Captain

Faintly above the wind and the dying echo of cannon fire came the sound of cheering, distorted and vague, as if the ships themselves were calling the tune. As word was shouted from gun to gun and deck to deck the Euryalus ’s seamen joined in, their voices suddenly loud and engulfing. Some stood back from the main deck twelve-pounders and waved to Broughton, who still stood like a statue, his face as stiff as his shoulders.

Bolitho said quietly, “You see, sir? They don’t ask for much.”

He turned away as Broughton muttered, “God help me!”

More ships were firing now, and some of the balls were flicking across the water close by, and he saw several holes in the Zeus ’s sails as she continued purposefully into the smoke.

He turned as Broughton said firmly, “I am ready. Signal the squadron to engage.” Before he hurried back to the rail he saw that Broughton’s eyes were bright with shock or surprise at hearing the cheers. Cheers for a short, trite signal which at the threshold of death could mean so much.

Bolitho shouted, “Make the signal, Mr Tothill!” To Keverne, “Man the braces. We will endeavour to keep station on Zeus until the last moment.”

More crashes echoed across the shrinking arrowhead of water, and he felt the deck shudder as some hit home. He saw Meheux walking behind the forward guns, his sword bared as he spoke to some of the crews, his round face completely absorbed.

“Ready, sir!”

Bolitho raised his hand very slowly. “ Steady, Mr Partridge!” He felt the pain throbbing in his shoulder to mark the rising tension in his blood. His hand sliced down. “Now!”

The flags vanished from Euryalus ’s yards, and while men threw themselves on the braces and the wheel squealed against the rudder lines he saw the French line changing as if on a great gate,

swinging across the bowsprit until Euryalus was pointing directly towards it at right-angles.

A quick glance told him Zeus was leading her own division in obedience to the signal, her sails flapping violently as more balls screamed through them from the enemy guns. But instead of a converging bunch of ships, the French gunners now had the more slender targets to compete with. End on, their gundecks still silent, the two British lines moved steadily towards them, although because of the gentle turn to starboard Euryalus was a good ship’s length ahead of Zeus.

Bolitho gripped the rail as smoke rolled down from the flashing guns. Iron shrieked above the quarterdeck, and here and there a severed line or block fell unheeded on the taut nets.

“Steady!”

He wiped his eyes as more smoke swirled above the deck and watched the nearest set of topmasts standing, as if detached, fine on the larboard bow. He felt the deck jerk again as more shots smashed into the hull, and recalled suddenly the time he had described the superiority of her French build to Draffen. It was macabre to think of him down in the undisturbed darkness of a lower hold in his cask of spirits while the rest of them waited to fight and die.

He strode to the nettings as a small patch of colour showed itself above the smoke. The Spanish flag was flapping from her gaff, and he knew he had not mistimed his approach.

“Stand by on the gundecks!”

He saw the midshipmen scamper to the hatchways and imagined Weigall and Sawle down there in their world of semi-darkness, the great muzzles glinting perhaps in the open ports.

Meheux was facing aft, his eyes fixed on the quarterdeck, and Bolitho noticed that he had his sword sloped across his shoulder as if on parade.

With sudden alarm he clapped his hand to his hip and said, “My sword!”

Allday ran forward. “But, Captain, you can’t use it yet!”

“Get it!” Bolitho touched his side and marvelled at the stupid value he had given to wearing the sword. And yet it was important to him, although he could not put words to it.

He waited as Allday slipped the belt around his waist and said, “Left-handed or not, I may need it today.”

The coxswain took up his position by the nettings and watched him fixedly. While he had his cutlass the captain would not need his arm, he would lay an oath on that.

A new sound made several faces turn upwards. Screaming and sobbing, like some crazed spirit, it passed overhead and faded into the drifting smoke.

Bolitho said shortly, “Chain shot.”

The French usually tried to dismast or cripple an enemy if at all possible, whereas the British gunnery was normally directed at the hulls, to do as much damage and create sufficient carnage to encourage surrender.

The smoke glowed red and orange, and he heard cries from the forecastle as more chain shot scythed past the carronades to cut away shrouds and rigging like grass.

A strong down-eddy of wind thrust the smoke to one side, and while gunfire continued up and down the enemy line Bolitho saw the nearest Spanish seventy-four less than half a cable from the larboard bow. Just before the smoke billowed down again she stood there on the glittering water, clear and bright, her gold scrollwork and elegant counter throwing back reflections, while on her tall poop there were already flashes of musket fire.

To starboard the second Spanish ship was wallowing slightly out of line, her jib and fore topsail in torment as her captain tried to avoid the oncoming three-decker.

When he looked at Broughton he found him as before. Standing motionless with his hands hanging at his sides as if too stricken to move.

“Sir! Walk about!” He pointed at the nearest ship. “There are sharpshooters there this morning!”

As if to verify his warning several splinters rose like feathers from the planking, and a man beside a gun screamed in agony as a ball smashed into his breast. He was dragged away gasping and protesting, knowing in spite of his pain what awaited him on the orlop.

Broughton came out of his trance and began to pace up and down. He did not even flinch as a corpse bounced down from the main yard and rolled across the nets before pitching overboard. He seemed beyond fear or feeling. A man already dead.

More crashes and thuds against the hull, and then as the smoke cleared once again Bolitho saw the Spanish ship’s stern swinging level with the foremast. They were passing through the line, and the realisation almost unnerved him. He gripped the rail and tried to make himself heard above the din.

“Both batteries, Mr Meheux! Pass the word!” Fumbling and cursing, he tried to draw his sword with his left hand. It was hopeless.

A voice said, “Here, let me, sir.” It was Pascoe.

Bolitho took the worn hilt in his hand and smiled at him. “Thank you, Adam.” Was he thinking the same in that small fragment of time? That this old sword would be his too one day?

He held it above his head, seeing the hazed sunlight touch the keen blade before the smoke rolled inboard again.

“As you bear!” He counted the seconds. “Fire!”

The ship gave a terrible lurch as deck by deck, gun by gun, the deadly broadsides flashed and bellowed from either beam. He heard the groan of falling spars, the sudden screams in the smoke, and knew that the nearest ship had been badly mauled. And it

had not even begun. The lower batteries of thirty-two-pounders were roaring above all else, their recoil shaking the hull, to its very keel as their double-shotted bombardment raked the two ships with merciless accuracy. The one to starboard had lost both her fore and main topmasts, and charred canvas dropped alongside like so much rubbish. The nearest two-decker was idling downwind, her steering gone and her stern gaping to the sunlight like a great black cave. What the broadside had done within her gundecks was past speculation.