The Flag Captain

by Alexander Kent

  Bolitho turned to watch Draffen, but he had already gone below, content, it appeared, to leave it all to the professionals. He walked slowly to the weather side again. In war, as he had learned from experience, there was no such creature. You never stopped learning. Unless you were killed.

  * * * * *

  ‘Zeus is drawing abeam th’ headland, sir!’

  Bolitho walked to the lee side of the quarterdeck. ‘Thank you, Mr. Tothill.’

  It was all he could do to keep his voice even and unruffled. The final manœuvre of reassembling the squadron and then wearing ship in succession to return along the same stretch of barren coastline had taken far longer than expected. Rattray had got all of his boats away quickly enough, but once inshore it was obvious the oarsmen were having great difficulty in getting their overloaded craft to the proposed landing places. There were half-submerged rocks as well as a hitherto unsuspected current which swung the boats around like leaves on a millrace, their oars flailing in confusion until finally brought under control.

  Even Broughton had conceded they should have allowed extra time, and as the Zeus made more sail again to resume station at the head of the line he could barely hide his anxiety.

  The sloop had anchored as close as she dared to the great beaked headland, her masts spiralling uncomfortably in the swell, the slim hull made to seem puny by the mass of dark rock behind her.

  But now they were approaching the bay once more, with Zeus passing the anchored Restless so close he appeared to be heading straight for disaster on the point of the great beaked headland. All the ships were close hauled on the starboard tack, their yards braced tightly to give them maximum advantage from the fresh wind. The two leading ships had already run out their larboard guns, and as he trained his telescope over the nettings Bolitho saw Zeus’s lower battery was lifted to what must be maximum elevation, the double line of black muzzles appearing to scrape against the headland as she forged past. It was of course yet another illusion brought about by distance. She was a good two cables clear, and he hoped Rattray had some good helmsmen who would be ready to act very smartly when required.

  Tothill shouted, ‘Signal from Restless, sir! The marines have reached the top of the headland!’

  Bolitho turned and saw the big blue flag rippling from the sloop’s main yard, and as he moved his glass slightly beyond her he saw some of the marines scurrying around the lip of the hillside, shining in the fierce sunlight like a horde of bright red insects.

  Broughton snapped, ‘Good. If they hold that hill nobody can shoot down on us from it.’ He moved to the quarterdeck rail and watched Meheux walking slowly along the larboard line of guns.

  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 Broughton’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.

  Keveme 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 ho
les, 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 was squinting 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.

  To Partridge he snapped, ‘Steady as you go!’

  ‘Steady she be, sir. West by north.’

  The dark headland was slipping past more rapidly as the ship spread her canvas tautly in the sunlight. High above the decks the topmen worked like demons, and when he raised his glass Bolitho saw some marines dancing up and down on the headland and waving their muskets as the flagship plunged level with the out-thrust beak of land.

  There was the opposite side of the bay now, misty with haze, or perhaps still foggy from Tanais’s own smoke. How blue the water looked below that far headland. Blue and unreachable. He touched his lips with his tongue but they were bone dry.

  He heard Lucey whisper shakily, ‘My God. My God.’ He probably imagined he was speaking to himself, or not at all.

  Up forward, with one foot resting casually on a carronade slide, Meheux was peering into the bay. He had drawn his sword, and as Bolitho watched he lifted it very slowly above his head. He stood motionless in the sunlight, and Bolitho was reminded of an old heroic statue he had once seen on a visit to Exeter.

  The sword moved slightly and he heard Meheux shout, ‘Target in sight, sir!’

  Bolitho cupped his hands, aware of the stiff, gripping tension all around him.

  ‘Fire as you bear!’ He saw some of the crouching seamen peering up at him, their faces like masks. He twisted his mouth into a grin and yelled, ‘A cheer, lads! Show ’em we’re coming!’

  For an instant longer nothing happened, and while the ship forged steadily past the last piece of cliff Bolitho thought they were too stricken to respond. Then a seaman jumped up beside a twelve-pounder and shouted, ‘Huzza for the Euryalus! An’ another huzza for our Dick!’

  Bolitho waved his hat as the wild cheering swept along the upper deck and was taken up by the men in the crowded batteries below. The madness was beginning, nor would it stop until the next time. And the time after that.

  Meheux’s voice was almost drowned as he bellowed, ‘Fire as you bear!’

  Bolitho gripped the rail as the first trio of guns roared out from forward. The harsh bark of the upper deck battery swallowed completely by the deafening thunder of the thirty-two-pounders. He wiped his streaming eyes as the smoke lifted above the larboard gangway and swirled and plunged around him, watching the distant fort, the waterspouts below and beyond as the ship’s first attack smashed home. What looked like white powder was drifting from the fortress wall, the only sign that they were hitting it also.

  He heard Keverne rasp, ‘God, ’tis like trying to fell an oak with a toothpick!’

  Still the firing continued, three by three, with the guns hurling themselves inboard where they were seized and reloaded by men already dazed beyond reason. Beyond anything but the need to load and run out. To keep on firing no matter what was happening.

  Meheux was walking behind the guns now, his sword tapping a breech or pointing towards the fort for another captain’s benefit, his face frowning with concentration.

  Broughton asked, ‘Where are the other marines? Your Captain Giffard should be at the causeway by now.’

  Bolitho did not reply. His mind was rocking to the crash of guns, his eyes almost raw with smoke and strain as he concentrated everything on watching the fort. He could see the dark smudge below its circular wall where the sea entrance was situated. The double line of square windows, like gunports, which appeared to circle the whole building.

  Two of them suddenly flashed with fire, and he imagined he saw the line of the nearest ball streaking across the sea towards him. The thud against the lower hull was muffled, and he saw the other ball throwing up a burst of spray far abeam.

  He glanced astern. The ship was almost halfway across the bay, and with all sails drawing well would reach the opposite headland in about five minutes.

  Again the telltale tongues of fire, and this time both balls smashed into the Euryalus’s side with the force of hammers striking a wooden box.

  Three hits, and he did not yet know how serious. Yet the fortress was outwardly unmarked, with just a few patches of fallen chippings to show for their efforts.

  Astern he could see the Valorous’s topmasts rounding the headland, and knew what Furneaux must be thinking as he watched the flagship under the onslaught of those great guns.

  He turned to the admiral, who was standing with his hands on his hips, his eyes fixed on the fort as if mesmerised.

  ‘May I signal Valorous to stand off, sir?’

  ‘Stand off?’ Broughton’s eyes moved slightly to fix him with an unmoving stare. ‘Is that what you said?’ A muscle jumped in his cheek as the lower battery roared out again, the smoke driven downwind by the darting tongues of flame.

  Bolitho studied him for several seconds. Perhaps Broughton was caught off balance by the squadron’s inability to hurt the fort, or maybe he was dazed by the continuous crash of cannon fire.

  He said bluntly, ‘Ships are being damaged to no purpose, sir.’ He winced as the planking beneath his shoes gave a violent jerk. Another hit somewhere below the quarterdeck.

  All at once, as the wind whipped the smoke clear of the deck, he saw Broughton’s face clearly in the sunlight and knew what was wrong. Broughton had not been testing him in the past, or trying to gauge the extent of his capability. The realisation was like a dash of icy water on his spine. Broughton did not know what to do next! His plan of battle was too rigid, and, found wanting, had left him with nothing to replace it.

  He said, ‘It is all we can do at present, sir.’

  Partridge called, ‘Eight minutes, sir!’

  Suddenly Broughton nodded. ‘Very well. If you think so.’

  Bolitho shouted, ‘Cease firing! Mr. Tothill, signal Valorous to stand off and discontinue action immediately!’

  The fortress fell silent as soon as Euryalus, and he guessed the
garrison had to keep a careful watch on supplies of powder and shot. Not that they need have much fear of being beaten, he thought bitterly. Almost every ball fired from the fortress had hit home.

  ‘Valorous has acknowledged, sir.’

  Bolitho watched the two-decker’s shape lengthening as she began to tack, her sails almost aback as she swung heavily into the wind.

  He called, ‘Report casualties and damage, Mr. Keverne. To Broughton he said quietly, ‘We will have to support the marines, sir. They will be waiting for help.’

  The admiral was studying the passing shoreline with something like resignation. Below a man was screaming and whimpering, and Bolitho felt the growing need to tend to his men and his ship.

  But he persisted, ‘What instructions, sir?’

  Broughton seemed to shake himself, and when he replied his voice was stronger again, but without conviction.

  ‘Signal the squadron to close around the flagship.’ His lips moved as if trying to form an order which would not come.

  Bolitho looked at Tothill. ‘Make that signal at once.’

  ‘Then I think we might land a second force, of seamen.’ Broughton was pouting his lower lip. ‘Some guns too, if we can discover a favourable beach.’

  Bolitho looked away. ‘Very well, sir.’ Already he could visualise the tremendous effort and strain of getting even one thirty-two-pounder ashore and hauled up the hillside. And nothing but a gun of that size would do any good against the fortress. It would take a hundred men, maybe more, and others to be nearby to ward off any sudden attack by enemy skirmishers. A Long Nine weighed over three tons, and one such weapon would not be enough.

  But it was better than having the squadron pounded to fragments in a senseless procession back and forth across the bay’s entrance.