Flag Captain (18 page)

At first Bolitho could see nothing. But when the seamen flung back the hatch cover and Ashton held his lantern directly above the ladder he felt the sudden tension and fear rising to greet him like something physical.

He climbed down two of the steps, and as the lantern light fell across his body he was almost deafened by a violent chorus of cries and shouts, and saw what appeared to be hundreds of eyes shining in the yellow beam, swaying about in the pitching hull as if detached from anything human. But the voices were real enough. Rising together in shock and terror, the shriller cries of women or children making him halt on the ladder, suddenly aware that many of these people were probably quite ignorant of what had happened in the world above them.

He shouted, “Be silent, all of you! I will see that no harm comes . . .”

It was hopeless. Hands were already reaching from the gloom, clawing at the ladder and his legs, while the mass of glittering eyes swayed forward, pushed on by the press of figures at the rear.

Ashton said breathlessly, “Let me, sir! I speak a little Spanish.”

Bolitho pulled him down to the ladder and shouted, “Just tell them to keep quiet!”

As Ashton tried to make himself heard above the clamour Bolitho called to the two seamen, “Get some more hands down here! Lively, or you'll be trampled to pulp!”

Ashton was tugging at his sleeve and pointing below him. “Sir! There's someone trying to say something!”

It was in fact a plump, frightened-looking man, whose bald head shone in the lantern like a piece of smooth marble as he cried, “I speak the English, Captain! I will tell them to obey you if you only get me out of this terrible place!” He was almost weeping with fear and exhaustion, but was managing to keep a grip on something which Bolitho now recognised as a wig.

“I'll have you all out of there in a moment. Stay on the ladder and tell them.” He felt suddenly sorry for the unknown man, who was neither young nor very firm on his feet. But right now he was his most valuable asset, one he could not afford to lose from view.

The bald man had a surprisingly carrying voice, although he had to break off several times to regain his breath. Some of the noises had died, and the crush of figures beneath the ladder eased back in response to his pleas.

The master's mate and three seamen came panting along the passageway and Bolitho shouted, “Ah, Mr Grindle, you were quick. Now get ready to pass the children aft, though God knows how many there are down there. Then the women . . .” He broke off as a terrified figure tried to push past Ashton on the ladder. He seized him by the coat and said harshly, “Tell this one that I will have him thrown overboard if he disobeys my orders!”

In a calmer tone he continued, “You may put all the fit men to work on deck under Mr Meheux.”

Grindle looked at him dubiously. “They ain't seamen, sir.”

“I don't care. Give 'em axes and have that wreckage hacked away. Cut loose any top hamper you can find. You may cast the poop guns over the side if you can manage it without letting them run wild.” He paused to listen to the wind whipping against the hull, the growing chorus of groans and bangs which seemed to come from every side, above and below.

Grindle nodded. “Aye, aye, sir. But we'll not save 'er, I'm thinkin'.”

“Just do as I say.” He halted the man before he could move away. “Look, Mr Grindle, there is something you must face. These people cannot abandon ship, for there are no boats, nor could we build a raft in this sea. Their officers are dead, and they are near giving in to their terror.” Grindle was an experienced man, he deserved an explanation, even at this late stage.

The master's mate nodded. “Aye, sir. I'll do what I can.” He raised his voice. “You lads there! Watch the 'atch, while we goes down to get the bairns out!”

Another seaman came staggering down the passageway. “Captain, sir! Mr Meheux sends his respects, and the
Euryalus
is signalling!” He gaped as Grindle reeled through the hatch carrying two screaming babies as he would a bundle of canvas.

Bolitho snapped, “Give Mr Grindle a hand.” To Ashton he called, “On deck and see what is happening.” The boy faltered and then ran as Bolitho shouted, “Well, move yourself, my lad! I may have need of your Spanish presently.”

The tide of scrambling, gasping figures was growing every minute, with the seamen occasionally reaching into it to haul out some man who was trying to remain hidden with the women.

Bolitho had vague impressions of dark hair and frightened eyes, of tear-stained faces, an atmosphere of despair and near panic.

Ashton was back again, pushing through the throng, his hat awry as he reported, “The admiral wishes to know when you are returning, sir.”

Bolitho tried to shut out the din, the clawing uncertainty of other people's fear which hemmed him in on every side.

Then he snapped, “Signal the ship at once. I need more time. It will be pitch dark soon.”

Ashton stared at him. “It is all but dark now, sir.”

“And the wind?” He must think. Detach his mind from this throng of terrified, unreal figures.

“Strong, sir. Mr Meheux says it is still rising.”

Bolitho looked away. It was settled. Perhaps there had never been any doubt.

“Go and make your signal. But inform the admiral that I will endeavour to get sail on this ship within the hour.” Ashton looked stunned. Maybe he had expected Bolitho to order them from the ship. The jolly boat could still make the crossing, at least with some of them.

Grindle panted past, his grey hair standing on end like dead grass.

Bolitho called, “How many so far?”

He scratched his head. “'Bout twenty kids. Fifty or so women!” He grinned, showing a line of uneven teeth. “Sailors' dream, annit, sir?”

Grindle's humour seemed to steady Bolitho. He knew he had been about to call back the midshipman before he could signal his ship. To make a last-minute compromise. One which Broughton might overrule with every justification and so recall him to the
Euryalus.

He dismissed it instantly. Imagining Meheux trying to manage all on his own while he hid behind his proper role was unthinkable.

Ashton returned almost immediately. He was white faced and visibly alarmed.

“Signal from
Euryalus,
sir. If you are sure you can save the prize will you confirm it now?” He swallowed hard as something crashed across the upper deck, followed by shouts and wild curses from the seamen.

“Then confirm it, Mr Ashton.”

The midshipman added, “In which case you are ordered to proceed independently to the squadron rendezvous. The flagship is making sail.”

Bolitho tried to hide his feelings. No doubt Broughton was more afraid of losing control of his squadron than anything. It was, after all, his first responsibility. If he allowed himself to be caught in a bad storm it might take him days to find his ships, to learn if Draffen had discovered anything useful.

He weighed his own reactions against their true value. Keverne could manage well enough, he had already proved that. Whereas here . . . He broke out of his thoughts and clapped Ashton on the shoulder. “Now be off with you.” As Ashton ran back along the passageway he called after him, “Walk. It does no harm to appear calm, no matter what your feelings may be!”

The midshipman glanced back at him and then forced a smile, before continuing on his way. Walking.

Allday called above the noise, “Can you come on deck, Captain?” He peered at some male passengers who were being herded in the opposite direction by two armed seamen. “Blow me, Captain, 'tis like the gates of hell opening!”

Grindle asked, “What'll
I
do, sir?”

“Keep the passengers quiet until I can send the petty officer to relieve you. Then try and find some charts, and together we'll decide what to do next.”

He followed Allday up the ladder and then said, “Get that corpse cleared away. It is no sight for children at first light.”

Allday watched him and gave a grim smile. Earlier it seemed they must abandon. Now he was speaking of first light. Things might get better after all.

On deck the wind and sea greeted Bolitho like forces gone mad. The light had almost disappeared, except for slivers of grey sky left darting between the clouds. Just enough for him to see the men reeling about the scarred decks, the bare space where the broken mizzen had lain trapped in its attendant rigging.

He rapped out his orders and then said to Meheux, “You have made a fine start.”

He turned to watch as Meheux raised one arm to point across the rail. The
Euryalus
was a mere shadow already, with the paler patches growing above her as her topsails filled to the wind and she began to go about. For a moment longer he saw her side glistening in spray, the checkered lines of her sealed ports, and pictured Keverne at his place on the quarterdeck, perhaps already imagining this to be yet another chance for him.

“We will have to stand before the wind, Mr Meheux. Any attempt to tack and we would lose the rudder and worse.”

The master's mate came stumbling out of the darkness, a chart clutched against his chest.

“She was 'eadin' for Port Mahon, sir. Most o' the passengers are traders an' their families, as far as I can make out.”

Bolitho frowned. The
Navarra
was much further south than need be when they had intercepted her. Another mystery, yet still no answers.

He said, “We will try and set the tops'ls, Mr Meheux. Put two good men on the wheel. Mr Ashton can translate your requirements to the Spanish hands.”

Bolitho looked round for the
Euryalus,
but she had completely vanished. He said, “I would rather have the
Navarra
's men aloft for the present, where we can keep our eyes on them.”

Meheux grimaced. “They'll be unhappy to go up in this wind, sir.”

“If they refuse, tell 'em there's only one other place they can go.” He gestured between his straddled feet. “About a thousand fathoms straight down hereabouts!”

Another seaman sought him out and shouted, “There's some fifty wounded in the fo'c'sle, sir! Blood all over the place! 'Tis a fearful sight!”

Bolitho watched the shadowy figures climbing gingerly up the ratlines, urged on by Meheux with angry gestures and his own idea of Spanish.

“Go below and tell McEwen to discover if we have a doctor amongst the passengers. If so, have him brought on deck.”

Meheux was calling again. “There's a good few severed lines on the main topmast, sir! It could carry away as soon as we get sail on her!”

Bolitho shivered, aware for the first time that he was soaked to the skin.

“Man the braces, Mr Meheux. Put some of the passengers on them too. I want every damned ounce of muscle you can find!” To Grindle he yelled, “Ready on the helm there!” His voice was almost drowned by the wailing wind, the leaping curtains of spray against the weather side, like spirits trying to drag her over and down.

He looked for a speaking trumpet, but could see nothing but the faces of the helmsmen glowing in the compass light like wax masks.

Was he doing the correct thing? The squall might blow itself out in minutes, in which case he would be better to lie-to under a close-reefed main topsail. But if it did not pass as quickly as it had come upon them, he must drive ahead of it. It was their only chance. Even then, the rudder might carry away, or the pumps might be unable to contain the steady intake of water. And until daylight it was impossible to learn the extent of the damage, or their true plight.

Meheux bellowed, “Ready, sir!”

Bolitho recalled Broughton's comment.
So be it.
How long ago that seemed now. But he knew it could be little more than three hours since their flag had shown itself above the
Navarra
's deck.

From forward he heard the jib cracking wildly, the impatient rattle of blocks, and imagined the men on the yards, strung out like limpets on driftwood, and just as helpless.

“Loose fore tops'l!” He saw Meheux swing away to relay his order. “Put the helm up, Mr Grindle!” He waved his arm urgently. “
Easy
there! Take the strain on those new rudder lines!”

Ahead, through the darkness he heard the sudden clamour of billowing canvas, the muffled cries from far above the heeling deck.

“Lee braces!” He slipped on the unfamiliar deck as he strained his eyes forward. “Loose the main tops'l!”

Grindle yelled excitedly, “She's answerin', sir!”

Reeling and fighting back against the thrust of rudder and braced topsails the
Navarra
was sliding drunkenly in a steep beam sea, her masts leaning over further and still further to the unwavering pressure.

“Hard over, Mr Grindle!” Bolitho ran back to the rail to watch as the main topsail showed faintly in the darkness, holding the ship over.