The Flag Captain

by Alexander Kent

  Something like a great sigh came from the motionless passengers as Bolitho and his companions placed their weapons on the deck. Two armed Spaniards ran along the starboard gangway, pistols trained, until they had climbed the poop ladder behind Bolitho, at a distance they could not possibly miss.

  Witrand handed over the swivel gun’s lanyard to the other man and then walked slowly along the same gangway. Reaching the quarterdeck he gave a short bow.

  ‘Paul Witrand, Capitaine. At your service.’

  He was of medium height, square jawed, with the look of a soldier about him. There was recklessness too, something Bolitho recognised, and which he might have discovered in time but for the arrival of Pareja’s wife. Maybe she had come aft deliberately.

  He said coldly, ‘I have submitted to save life. But in due course we will meet with my ship again. Even keeping me as hostage will not help you then.’

  ‘Just one ship, Capitaine? Interesting. What could her mission be in waters dominated by France, I wonder?’ He shook his head. ‘You are a brave officer, and I respect you for that. But you must accept this fate, as I accepted your sudden arrival aboard here. It would have been better for both of us had we never met.’ He gave an expressive shrug. ‘But war is war.’ He studied Bolitho for several seconds, his eyes almost yellow in the glare. ‘I do not doubt you would refuse to sail this ship for me.’ He smiled gently. ‘But you will give me your word, as a King’s officer, not to try and retake her.’ He picked up Bolitho’s sword. ‘Then you may keep this. As a token of my trust in that honour, eh?’

  Bolitho shook his head. ‘I can give no such assurance.’

  Meheux said thickly, ‘Nor I.’

  ‘Loyalty too?’ He seemed quite composed. ‘Then you will be taken below and put in irons. I am sorry of course, but I have much to do. Apart from myself there are just three French companions. The rest,’ he shrugged with obvious contempt, ‘Spanish rubbish. I will be hard put to keep them away from the passengers, I think.’

  He beckoned to the armed seamen and then asked, ‘Your ship, she is French built, yes?’

  ‘She was the Tornade.’ Bolitho kept his voice level, but his mind was almost bursting as he tried to think of a scheme, no matter how weak, which might give him back control. But there was nothing.

  Witrand’s yellow eyes widened. ‘Tornade? Admiral Lequiller’s flagship!’ He banged his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘I was foolish not to realise it. You with your unpronounceable name. The man who took the Tornade in a mere seventy-four!’ He nodded, suddenly serious. ‘You will be quite a prize yourself, if and when we ever see France again.’

  The seamen jabbed them with their pistols and Witrand said sharply, ‘Go with them.’ He looked at Allday, standing with his fists clenching and unclenching, his face still shocked at what was happening. ‘Is he one of your officers?’

  Bolitho looked at him. This was a moment when life might end. Also he might never see Allday again if they became separated.

  He replied quietly, ‘He is a friend, m’sieu.’

  Witrand sighed. ‘And that is something rare.’ He smiled sadly. ‘He may stay with you. But any trick, and you will be killed.’ He shot Pareja a scathing glance. ‘Like traitors, there is only one true solution.’

  Bolitho turned towards the companion ladder, seeing the faces of the nearby passengers, and Pareja’s wife by the poop. She was standing very still, only the quick movement of her breast displaying any sort of emotion. Something squeaked, and when he turned his head he saw the white ensign was already fluttering down from the mainmast.

  Like the loss of his sword, it seemed to symbolise the completeness of his defeat.

  * * * * *

  Bolitho rested his back against a massive cask of salt beef, listening to the muffled sounds beyond the door and conscious of his companions’ silence. But for a tiny circular port in the door, through which he could see the feeble light of a lantern, the place where he and the others were imprisoned was in total darkness. He was thankful for that. He did not want them to see his face or his despair.

  He heard the chain move, felt the irons about his ankles jerk slightly as Meheux or one of the others changed his position. Allday was sitting next to him, sharing the same cask to rest his back, and Grindle was on the opposite side of the tiny storeroom shackled to Ashton. Each wrapped in his own thoughts. Brooding perhaps on the twist of fate which had brought them here.

  It was impossible to tell what was happening elsewhere in the ship. The pumps had not stopped, but occasionally they had heard other sounds. Shouts and curses, and a woman sobbing and screaming. Once there had been another pistol shot, and Bolitho imagined that Witrand was having difficulty in controlling the Spanish crew. After the Euryalus’s deadly cannon fire, the storm and the humiliation of being seized as a prize, it was easy to picture the scene between decks. Without their own familiar officers and sense of purpose, any discipline might soon give way to a drunken disorganised chaos.

  The wind had not returned. Just feeling the ship’s slow, uneasy motion, the useless clatter of loose gear, told him that much.

  Meheux said savagely, ‘If ever I live to get my hands on those drunkards I’ll have them flogged to ribbons, the useless buggers!’

  Bolitho replied, ‘The brandy was a clever ruse on Witrand’s part.’ He added with sudden bitterness, ‘I should have made a thorough search.’

  Grindle said worriedly, ‘You was too busy savin’ their lives for that, sir. No use in blamin’ yerself.’

  ‘I’ll agree with that.’ Allday stirred restlessly. ‘Should have left ’em to rot!’

  Bolitho called, ‘Are you feeling better, Mr. Ashton?’ He was worried about the midshipman. When he had been dragged into the storeroom he had seen the bloody bandage around his head, and how pale he had appeared. It seemed that Ashton had tried to hold off the attackers on his own, calling for his men, who unknown to him were already too drunk to help even themselves. Someone had clubbed him brutally with a musket, and he had not spoken more than a few words since.

  But he answered readily, ‘I am all right, sir. It will soon pass.’

  ‘You acted well.’

  Bolitho guessed that Ashton was probably thinking too of his future. He was only seventeen, and had already shown promise and no little ability. Now his prospects might seem dark and empty. Prison, or even death by fever in some forgotten enemy garrison. He was too junior and unimportant to be considered for exchange, even if the proper authorities ever gave it a thought.

  Bolitho tried to picture his own ship, where she now lay and what Broughton might be doing. The admiral had probably dismissed them all from his thoughts. The storm, the likelihood of the Navarra’s foundering, would soon make him look on them as memories and little more.

  He stirred against the cask, hating the iron around his ankles. He had been a prisoner before, but could find no solace in the memory. Then there had been a chance, although very slight, of-escape and turning the tables on his captors. And always the real possibility of other British ships arriving to assist him. A slight chance could always offer hope. But now there was nothing like that. Euryalus would not return to look for him. How could she when the very mission they had come to do still lay untouched?

  His stomach contracted, and he realised he had not eaten since yesterday. It seemed like a week ago. The ordered world of his own ship, a sense of being and belonging.

  He pictured Pareja’s wife, probably retelling Witrand how easy it had been to delay him from seeking him out from amongst the other passengers. Or maybe she was up there weeping, watching her elderly husband kicking out his breath at the mainyard on the end of a rope. Where had she come from? And what would bring a woman like her to this part of the world? Another puzzle, and one which would now stay unanswered.

  Feet scraped beyond the door and Allday said hotly, ‘Come to gloat no doubt! The bastards!’

  The bolt was withdrawn and Bolitho saw Witrand squinting into the storeroom, two
armed men at his back.

  The Frenchman said, ‘I would like you to come on deck, Capitaine.’

  He sounded calm enough, yet there was something about him which made Bolitho stiffen with interest. Maybe a wind was returning at last and Witrand had less confidence in the crew than he pretended. But the deck felt as sluggish as before, the mournful clank of pumps just as regular.

  He asked coldly, ‘Why must I come? I am content to stay here.’

  Witrand gestured to one of his men, who stepped cautiously inside with a key for the leg irons. He snapped, ‘Prisoners have no choice! You will do as I order!’

  Bolitho watched the seaman unlocking the irons, his mind grappling with Witrand’s sudden change of manner. He was worried.

  Meheux helped him to his feet and said, ‘Take care, sir.’ He sounded just that much too bright, Bolitho reflected, and was probably imagining his captain was about to be interrogated, or worse.

  He followed Witrand along the passageway, aware of the silence all about him. Apart from the pumps and the gentle creak of timbers, he could hear no voices at all. And that in a ship crowded with apprehensive passengers.

  It was late afternoon, and on deck the sun was blinding hot, the seams sticking to Bolitho’s shoes as he followed Witrand up a ladder and on to the poop. The glare from the glittering blue water was so intense that he almost fell across some of the splintered planking, so that Witrand put out his hand to steady him.

  ‘Well, what is it?’ Bolitho shaded his eyes and looked at the other man. ‘I have not changed my mind. About anything.’

  Witrand did not seem to hear. He took Bolitho by the arm and pulled him round towards the rail, his voice suddenly urgent. ‘Look yonder. What do you understand about them?’

  Bolitho was suddenly aware that the ship’s main deck and forecastle were crammed with silent, watching figures. Some men had climbed into the shrouds, their intent figures dark against the limp sails as they peered towards the horizon.

  Witrand held out a telescope. ‘Please, Capitaine. Tell me.’

  Bolitho steadied the glass on his forearm and trained it across the rail. Most of the people-on deck had turned to watch him, and even Witrand was studying his profile with something like anxiety.

  Bolitho moved the glass very slowly, catching his breath as the small brightly coloured lateen sails swam hesitantly into the lens. Three, four, maybe five of them, each making its own gay reflection on the sea’s face, like the wings of gaudy moths, he thought.

  He lowered the glass and looked at Witrand. ‘They are chebecks.’ He watched the uncertainty on Witrand’s face. ‘Perhaps five of them.’

  Witrand stared at him and then waved at the Navarra’s lifeless sails. ‘But they are moving, and approaching fast! How can that be?’

  ‘Like galleys, m’sieu, they can travel speedily under oars as well as sail.’ He added very quietly, ‘It is my belief that they are Barbary pirates.’

  Witrand stepped back. ‘Mon Dieu, Le Corsair!’ He snatched the glass from Bolitho and trained it towards the tiny sails for several seconds. Then he said in a more controlled tone, ‘This is bad. What do you know of such people?’

  Bolitho looked away. ‘They are savage, barbarous fighters. If they get aboard this ship they will kill every man before they carry off the cargo.’ He paused. ‘And the women.’

  Witrand sounded short of breath. ‘But our guns are good, yes? My God, they answered your ship well enough. Surely we can smash those puny craft before they draw close?’

  Bolitho eyed him gravely. ‘You do not begin to understand. These chebecks can manœuvre quickly, while we lie becalmed. That is why they have survived so long, and so successfully. Once within range they will use their sweeps to get under our stem. Then they will pound us to submission. Each one will no doubt carry a heavy cannon in her bows. That is their way.’ He let it sink in. ‘It has proved very effective. I have heard of ships-of-war lying becalmed and helpless, unable to do anything but watch as these galleys cut out one merchantman after another from the very heart of a convoy.’

  He looked again towards the horizon. The sails were already much closer, and he could see the shining banks of long oars rising and falling in perfect rhythm. Above them, the bright lateen sails gave a new menace to their appearance, and he could picture their crews’ excitement at the prospect of so easy a capture.

  Witrand asked, ‘What must we do?’ He spread his hands. ‘They will kill you too, Captain, so we must work together.’

  Bolitho shrugged. ‘Normally I would get the ship’s boats into the water and try to warp her round. We could then present a broadside. But we have no boats, apart from the small one which brought me here.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘But in any case, it would be asking a lot.’

  ‘In the name of God, man! Are you going to stand there and do nothing?’ He waved towards the silent onlookers, who were beginning to realise the new threat as the little hulls glided nearer and nearer. ‘And what of them, eh? You will let them die? Suffer torture and rape? Surely you can do something?’

  Bolitho smiled grimly. ‘Your concern for their lives is touching. You have changed in several ways since our first meeting.’ Before the Frenchman could reply he snapped, ‘Have my officers released at once, and give them their weapons.’ He saw the flicker of a challenge in Witrand’s eyes fade as he added harshly, ‘You have no choice, m’sieu. And if we are to die today I would rather do it with my sword in my hand.’

  Witrand nodded and gave a brief smile. ‘That is so. I agree.’

  ‘Then have Señor Pareja brought aft. He can interpret my orders for me.’

  Witrand was already beckoning to a messenger as he asked, ‘The wind? Will it come?’

  ‘In the cool of late evening perhaps.’ He eyed him steadily. ‘By then it will not concern us if we fail.’

  Minutes later, Meheux and the others joined him on the poop, Ashton staggering painfully and supported on the lieutenant’s arm.

  On the main deck Bolitho saw the released petty officer, McEwen, and six seamen also being allowed to walk aft, the remainder of them presumably still too drunk to be roused. The latter might die in complete ignorance. Bolitho thought absently, and be better for it.

  ‘You need me, Captain?’ It was Luis Pareja, looking fearful and timid at the same time.

  Bolitho smiled at him. Pareja had been under guard, which showed that he had no private arrangements with the Frenchman.

  He said, ‘I want you to tell everyone what I need to be done.’ He saw him darting a frightened glance over the rail. ‘A lot will depend on you, señor. How you sound and the way you look.’ He smiled again. ‘So let us go down to the quarterdeck together, eh?’

  Pareja blinked up at him. ‘Together, Captain?’ Then he nodded, the sudden determination pathetic on his round face.

  Meheux whispered fiercely, ‘How can we fight ’em off, sir?’

  ‘Get our own men and form a single gun crew. I want the best cannon taken to the stern cabin. You will have to work fast to rig tackles for it, but it must be done. These craft will be within range in an hour. Maybe less.’ He touched the lieutenant’s torn coat and added, ‘And run up the colours again, Mr. Meheux.’ He saw Witrand open his mouth as if to protest and then turn away to the rail. He added, ‘If we must fight, then it will be under our flag!’

  Allday watched the flag jerking up the halliards and observed cheerfully, ‘I’ll lay a fine wager that those bloody pirates have never seen a King’s ship like this lady afore.’

  Bolitho looked at Pareja. ‘And now, señor, come with me. Together we will try and make some naval history today, eh?’

  But as he looked down at all the upturned faces, the women pulling their children against their dresses, the air of despondency and growing fear, it was all he could do to conceal his true feelings from them.

  10

  Survival

  ‘NOT LONG NOW, sir.’ Grindle tucked his thumbs into his belt and watched the oncoming craft without emo
tion.

  In the last thirty minutes they had formed into line, the manœuvre completed without hurry or effort, as if they had all the time in the world.

  Now, curving steadily towards the Navarra’s larboard quarter, they looked like some historic procession or oared galleys, an impression increased by the dull booming of drums, the latter essential if the men toiling at the long oars were to keep perfect timing.

  The leading chebeck was about a mile away, but already Bolitho could see the cluster of dark-skinned figures gathered above her long beak head, and guessed they were preparing the bow gun for the first attack. The sails, as on the other craft, had been furled, and he could see a blue forked burgee flapping from her foremast displaying the emblem of the crescent moon.

  He tore his eyes from the slow, purposeful approach and said to Grindle, ‘I am going below for a moment. Keep an eye open here until I return.’

  As he hurried beneath the poop he tried to concentrate his thoughts on what he had done so far, to find any loophole in his flimsy plan of defence. When Pareja had interpreted his orders he had watched the faces of crew and passengers alike. To them, any plan would seem better than standing like dumb beasts for the slaughter. But now, as they crouched throughout the hull and listened to those steady, confident drumbeats, that first hope might soon disperse in panic.

  If only they had had more time. But Euryalus’s broadside had left the ship in too sad a state for quick repairs. She was down by the bows, and even if a wind got up she would sail badly without her mizzen. It had been necessary to rid the poop of its guns in order to lighten her aft where the damage had been worst. But the thought of the guns lying on the sea bed at a time when they were really needed did nothing to help ease his mind.

  In the stern cabin he found Meheux and his seamen working feverishly to complete their part of the plan. The Navarra had mounted two powerful stem chasers, one of which had been smashed by a ball from the Euryalus. But the remaining one had been hauled and raised from its restricted port on the starboard side of the transom and now stood in the centre of the cabin, its muzzle pointing towards the windows. Not that there were any windows left now. Meheux had cut them all away, leaving the gun with a wide arc of fire from quarter to quarter. Hastily rigged tackles were being checked by McEwen, while the other seamen were busily stacking powder and shot against the cabin bulkhead.