Alexander Kent - The Flag Captain

A blurred shape was edging around the other Spaniard, and Bolitho guessed it must be the French second-in-command. Euryalus ’s lower battery had already reloaded and raked the Frenchman’s bows almost before she had drawn clear of her consort. He saw her guns belching fire and smoke, and knew she was shooting with little attention to accuracy.

“Stand by to tack, Mr Partridge!”

They were through. Already the disabled seventy-four was lost in smoke and there seemed an immense gap before another ship, the third in the line, could be seen.

Yards creaking and voices yelling above the thunder and crash of gunfire, Euryalus turned slowly to follow the enemy line. The difference was startling. With the wind’s advantage on their side it was possible to watch the enemy unhindered by gunsmoke, and he breathed with relief as the deck cleared and he saw that masts and yards were still whole. The sails were pitted with holes, and there were several men lying dead and wounded. Some had been hit by marksmen in the enemy’s tops, but most had been clawed down by flying wood splinters.

Somewhere astern there was a sickening crash, and when he leaned over the nettings he stared with disbelief as Impulsive swung drunkenly in a welter of broken spars, her passage through the enemy’s line only half completed. Her foremast had gone completely, and only her mizzen topsail appeared to be intact.

There were great gaps in her tumblehome, and even as he watched he saw her main topmast fall crashing into the smoke to drag alongside and pull her still further under the guns of a French two-decker. Chain shot had all but dismasted her, and he could already see another French ship tacking across her stern to rake her, as Euryalus had just done to the Spaniard.

He made himself turn back to his own ship, but his ears refused to block out the sounds of that terrible broadside. He saw Pascoe staring through the smoke, his eyes wide with horror.

He shouted, “Cast the boats adrift!” The boy turned towards him, his reply lost in a sudden burst of firing from ahead. Then he ran aft, beckoning to some seamen to follow him.

Bolitho watched coldly as the wind pushed his ship steadily towards the next Frenchman’s quarter. He was staring at her stern, knowing that her captain would either stay and fight or try to turn downwind. In which case he was doomed, as Impulsive had been. He had to grind his teeth together to stop himself from speaking Herrick’s name aloud. Casting the boats adrift had been more to ease the boy’s pain than with any hope of saving more than a handful of survivors.

Almost savagely he shouted, “Stand by on the fo’c’sle, Mr Meheux! Carronade this one!”

“Fire!”

The first guns roared out from the larboard battery, and then the air shivered to the deeper bang of a carronade. Timber and pieces of bulwark flew from the enemy’s poop, and the mizzen, complete with tricolour, toppled into the rolling bank of smoke.

Broughton was shouting at him. “Look! God damn it!” He was all but jumping with excitement as like a great finger a jib boom and then a glaring figurehead thrust ahead of the nearest ship.

“ Zeus has broken the line!” Keverne waved his hat in the air. “God, look at her!”

Zeus came through firing from either beam, her sails in rags

and most of her side pitted and blackened with holes. Thin tendrils of scarlet ran from her scuppers, as if the ship herself was bleeding, and Bolitho knew that Rattray had fought hard and at a great price to follow the flagship’s example.

As far as he could tell the action had become general. Guns hammered from ahead and astern, and there were ships locked in combat on every hand. Gone was the prim French line, as were Broughton’s divisions. Gone too was the French admiral’s control, separated as he was downwind, blinded by smoke in a sea gone mad with battle.

Broughton shouted, “General signal! Form line ahead and astern of admiral!”

Tothill nodded violently and ran to his men. There was not much chance of anyone complying, but it would show the others that Broughton was still in command.

And there was Tanais, her mizzen gone, her forecastle a splintered shambles, but most of her guns firing as she raked the enemy and pushed after Zeus, her ensign ripped by musket fire as she passed.

More gunfire echoed through the smoke, and Bolitho knew it must be Furneaux fighting for his life in a press of disabled but nevertheless deadly ships.

“Ship on the starboard quarter, sir!”

Bolitho hurried across the deck and saw a French two-decker, unmarked, her sails showing not a single hole, thrusting towards him, her speed gaining as she set her forecourse and topgallants, so that she leaned heavily under the pressure.

While everyone else had been engaged, her captain had taken his ship out of the line to try to regain an advantage. As she turned slightly, shortening her silhouette until almost bows on, Bolitho saw the Impulsive. Dismasted, she was so settled in the water that her lower gunports were already awash. A few tiny figures moved vaguely on her listing decks and others were jumping

overboard, probably too stricken by the slaughter to know what they were doing.

Keverne asked harshly, “Do you think many will survive?”

“Not many.” Bolitho looked at him steadily. “She was a good ship.”

Keverne watched him as he walked back to the rail. To Pascoe he said, “He is taking it badly. In spite of his bluff, I know him well by now.”

Pascoe glanced astern at the sinking ship beneath her great pall of drifting smoke. “His best friend.” He looked away, his eyes blind. “Mine, too.”

“Deck there!” Maybe the masthead lookout had been calling before. Amidst all the noise his voice would have been unnoticed. Keverne looked up as the man yelled hoarsely, “Ship, sir! On the larboard bow!”

Bolitho gripped his sword in his left hand until his fingers ached. Through the shrouds and stays, just a fraction to larboard of the massive foremast, he saw her. Wreathed in the endless curtain of gunsmoke she loomed like a giant, her braced yards almost fore and aft as she edged very slowly across Euryalus ’s course.

Bolitho felt the hatred and unreasoning fury running through him like fire. Le Glorieux, the French admiral’s flagship, was coming to greet him, to repay him for the shameful destruction done to his ships and his overwhelming confidence.

He seized the sword even tighter, blinded by his hatred and sense of loss. She, above all, would be Herrick’s memorial.

“Stand by to engage!” He pointed his sword at Meheux. “Pass the word! Double-shotted and grape for good measure!” He saw Broughton staring at him and rasped, “Your contemporary lies yonder, sir.” He could feel his eyes stinging and knew Broughton was speaking to him. But he could see nothing but Herrick’s face staring up through the smoke as his ship died under him.

Broughton swung round and then strode along the starboard gangway, his epaulettes glinting in the dim sunlight.

His feet seemed to be carrying him in spite of his wishes, and as he walked above the smoke-grimed gun crews he paused to nod to them or to wish them good luck. Some watched him pass, dull-eyed and too dazed to care. Others gave him a grin and a wave. A gun-captain spat on his heated twelve-pounder and croaked, “Us’ll give ’ee a victory, Sir Lucius, don’ you fret on it!”

Broughton stopped and seized the nettings for support. Aft, above the chattering seamen and the marines who were already levelling their muskets through the smoke, he saw Bolitho. The man who had somehow given these men a faith so strong they could not weaken even if they wanted to. And in their own way they were sharing it with him.