Alexander Kent - The Flag Captain

Here and there a man would fall out of sight to be ground between the two massive bilges, or a solitary figure would find himself isolated on his enemy’s deck to be hacked down with neither thought nor mercy.

A marine officer dropped screaming, his white crossbelt already soaked in blood, and Giffard snarled, “Cox is gone!” Then with an oath he was charging along the gangway, soon to be lost in the packed mass of figures.

The two hulls were grinding closer and closer, and with a violent jerk Euryalus ’s bowsprit splintered and tore free, the jib flapping uselessly above the confusion like a banner.

More men were clambering across from the other ship, and Bolitho saw some of them fighting their way steadily aft towards the quarterdeck. A young lieutenant appeared as if by magic on

the ladder, his sword swinging as he hurled himself across the deck. Bolitho tried to parry him to one side, but saw the French officer’s eyes wild with triumph as he knocked the blade away and turned on his heels for the fatal blow.

Calvert thrust Bolitho aside, his face calm as he snapped, “This one is mine sir!” His blade moved so fast that Bolitho did not see it. Only the Frenchman’s face slashed from eye to chin as he reeled gasping against the rail. Calvert’s wrist turned deftly and then he lunged, taking the Frenchman in the heart.

He said, “Amateur!” Then he was down amongst more of the attackers, his hair flying as he sought out another officer and fought him back against the ladder.

Keverne staggered through the smoke, blood dripping from his forehead. “Sir!” He ducked beneath a swinging cutlass and fired his pistol into the man’s groin, the force of the shot hurling him bodily amongst the others. “We must get clear!”

His voice was very loud, and Bolitho realised dazedly that the guns had ceased firing. Through open ports on both ships men jabbed at one another with pikes or fired pistols in a madness of hatred and despair.

Bolitho gripped Keverne’s arm, his sword hanging from his wrist on its lanyard. “What is it, man?”

“I-I’m not sure, but…”

Keverne pulled Bolitho against him and thrust at a yelling seaman with his sword. The man faltered, and Bolitho saw Allday run from aft, his cutlass driving forward and down with such force that the cutlass’s point appeared through his stomach.

Keverne retched and gasped, “The Frenchman’s afire, sir!”

Bolitho saw the admiral slip to his knees, groping for his sword, and watched helplessly as a French petty officer charged towards him with a bayoneted musket.

A slim figure blocked his path and Bolitho heard himself yell, “Adam! Get back! ”

But Pascoe stood his ground, armed only with a dirk, his face a mask of stricken determination.

The bayonet lunged, but at the last second another figure jumped through the smoke, his sword dark with blood as he parried the blade up and clear of the boy’s chest. The musket exploded, and Pascoe stood back, horrified as Calvert crumpled at his feet, his face blown away. With a sob he struck at the petty officer with his dirk, hurting him sufficiently to make him recoil. Allday’s cutlass finished it.

Bolitho tore his eyes away and hurried to the side. Beyond the enemy’s mainmast he could see a steady plume of black smoke. Figures darted down the hatchway, and he heard sudden cries of alarm, the urgent clatter of pumps.

Perhaps in the confusion a lantern had been upended, or a blazing wad from one of the guns had found its way through an open port. But there was no mistaking the signs of fire, nor the desperate urgency now needed to get clear.

He shouted, “Pass the word. Lower battery reload. Fire on the order!”

He stared round at the shattered planking, the sprawled corpses and sobbing wounded. It was a faint hope, but it was all he had. Unless they got away from Le Glorieux ’s embrace they would become one inferno together.

A midshipman yelled, “Ready, sir!” It was Ashton.

“Fire!”

Seconds later the lower battery erupted in a great, blasting roar. It felt as if the ship would fall apart, and as smoke and pieces of wreckage flew high above the nettings Bolitho saw the other ship reel drunkenly under the full weight of the lower battery’s broadside.

The French flagship’s sails were still drawing and quivering in the wind, and as she idled clear she began to move slowly towards the Euryalus ’s bows. The smoke was rising thickly from her main

hatch, and Bolitho felt himself shaking uncontrollably as the first tip of flame licked above the coaming like a forked tongue.

All resistance had ceased on Euryalus ’s deck, and the French boarders left behind by their ship watched in silence, their hands in the air, as Le Glorieux continued to draw away.

Broughton said hoarsely, “They’re finished!” There was neither pride nor satisfaction in his voice. Like the others, he sounded completely crushed by the ferocity of the battle.

Tothill limped to the rail. “ Zeus is signalling, sir.”

When Bolitho looked down at him he saw the midshipman was grinning even though uncontrollable tears were cutting sharp lines through the grime on his face.

He asked quietly, “Well, Mr Tothill?”

“Two of the enemy have struck to us, sir. One has sunk, and the rest are breaking off the action.”

Bolitho sighed and watched with silent relief as the enemy flagship began to drift more swiftly downwind. As the smoke of battle faded reluctantly away he saw the other ships scattered across the sea’s face, scarred and blackened from conflict. Of Impulsive there was no sign, and he saw the sloop Restless, which must have arrived unseen in the battle, drifting above her shadow, her boats in the water searching for survivors.

He felt a sudden heat on his cheek, and when he turned saw the French three-decker’s sails and rigging ablaze like torches. The lower gunports were also glowing bright red, and before a man could speak the air was torn apart with one deafening explosion.

The smoke surrounded the destruction, changing to steam as with a jubilant roar the sea surged into the shattered hull, dragging it down in a welter of bubbles and terrible sounds. Guns crashed from their tackles, and men trapped below in total darkness ran in madness until caught by either sea or fire.

When the smoke finally cleared there was only a great, slow-moving whirlpool, around which the flotsam and human

fragments joined in one last horrible dance. Then there was nothing.

Broughton cleared his throat. “A victory.” He watched the wounded being carried or dragged below. Then he looked at Calvert and added, “But the bill is greater.”

Bolitho said dully, “We will commence repairs, sir. The wind has eased slightly…” He paused and rubbed his knuckles into his eyes, trying to think. “ Valorous looks in a bad way. I think Tanais can take her in tow.”

He heard distant cheering and saw the men on the Zeus ’s battered forecastle waving and yelling as they edged past. They could still cheer after all that. He turned to watch as some of his own company scrambled into the shrouds to return the cheers.

He said quietly, “With men like these, Sir Lucius, you never need fear again.”

But Broughton had not heard him. He was unbuckling his beautiful sword, and with a small hesitation handed it to Pascoe.

“Here, take it. When I needed it, I dropped it.” He added gruffly, “Any damn midshipman who tackles the enemy with a dirk deserves it!” He watched the astonishment on the boy’s dark features. “Besides, a lieutenant must look the part, eh?”

Pascoe held the sword and turned it over in his hands. Then he looked at Bolitho, but he was standing rigidly by the rail, his fingers gripping it so tightly that they were white.