Flag Captain (21 page)

“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
S
URVIVAL

“N
OT LONG
now, sir.” Grindle tucked his thumbs into his belt and watched the oncoming craft without emotion.

In the last thirty minutes they had formed into line, the manoeuvre 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 stern 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.

Meheux wiped his streaming face and forced a grin. “She should do well, sir.” He patted the fat breech. “She's an English thirty-two-pounder. I wonder where these thieving buggers got her from?”

Bolitho nodded and strode to the gaping windows. By craning over the sill he could see the leading boat, her oars like gold in the sunlight. Most of the
Navarra
's cannon were old and little use. They were carried more to deter any would-be pirate than for firing in deadly earnest. She had depended more on her agility than her prowess in combat, as did most merchant vessels the world over.

This cannon was certainly the one true discovery of any worth. Similar to those which made up
Euryalus
's lower gundeck, it was recognised as a powerful and devastating weapon, when in the right hands. Nicknamed a Long Nine by the seamen, being nine feet in length, it could throw a ball with fair accuracy over one and a half miles, and still be able to penetrate three feet of oak.

And accuracy was more important than anything else at this moment.

Bolitho turned his back on the sea and said, “We will fire as soon as the leading chebeck is end on to us.”

McEwen, who was a gun-captain aboard his own ship, asked, “Double-shotted, sir?”

He shook his head. “No. That is well enough for a ship-to-ship engagement, when there is nothing opposite you but another broadside. But today we cannot afford to be erratic.” He smiled at their shining, grimy faces. “So watch your charges, and make sure each ball is a good one.

He took Meheux aside and dropped his voice. “I believe they will try and attack from ahead and astern simultaneously. It will divide our resources and give the enemy some idea of our ability!

The lieutenant nodded. “I am wishing we had not seen this damned ship, sir.” He grinned ruefully. “Or that we had sunk her with a full broadside!”

Bolitho smiled, remembering Witrand's own words.
Better for both of us had we never met.
Well, it was too late for regrets now.

He paused in the doorway, his eyes passing over the busy seamen, the cabin's air of dejection at being so badly used.

“If I fall today, Mr Meheux,” he saw the sudden alarm in the lieutenant's eyes and added quietly, “you will carry on with the fight. This enemy will offer no quarter, so bear that well in mind!” He forced a smile. “You were the one who was pleading for battle yesterday. You should be well satisfied!”

He walked swiftly towards the sunlight again, past the unattended wheel, to where Grindle stood watching the approaching craft as if he had never moved.

Along both bulwarks of the upper deck the Spanish sailors stood or crouched beside their guns, the largest of which were twelve-pounders. Here and there, wherever they could find some sort of cover, he could see some of the passengers, hastily provided with muskets from the arms chest, while others had appeared carrying elaborate sporting guns from their own baggage to add their weight to the defences.

He shut his ears to the distant drums and tried to visualise the ship's firepower as it would display itself within the next few minutes. Several of the larboard guns were useless, upended and smashed by the
Euryalus
's brief onslaught. Much depended on what the enemy would do first.

The pumps were still working steadily enough, and he wondered whether Pareja's translation had brought home to those trying to control the intake of water the true value of their work. Or whether at the first crash of gunfire they would run from the pumps and give the sea its own victory.

There had been a good few peasant women amongst the passengers. Tough, sun-dried creatures, who had not shown either resentment or fear when he had suggested they might help by assisting on the pumps, For, as he had wanted to explain, there were no longer any passengers in the
Navarra.
It was a ship's company upon whose determination and strength depended survival and life itself.

Grindle called, “Them's splittin' up, sir!”

The two rearmost vessels were already swinging steeply from the line and pulling parallel with the drifting
Navarra,
their long stems cutting the water apart like scythes as they glided purposefully towards the bows.

Bolitho looked along the upper deck to where Witrand was standing by the foremast, a pistol in his belt and another laid nearby on a hatch cover. Ashton was with him, his pale face screwed up with determination and pain as he waited for his orders from the poop.

Bolitho called, “You may run out, Mr Ashton.”

He bit his lip as the guns squeaked protestingly towards the open ports. Now the gaps in the defences were all the more apparent, especially on the larboard side and quarter where the damage was most severe.

He beckoned to Pareja who had been standing as if mesmerised below the poop ladder.

“Tell them to fire on the order. No random shots, nor do I want them to waste time and energy by aiming at empty sea.”

He narrowed his eyes against the glare and watched the two graceful craft turning slowly as if to cross the
Navarra
's bows. They were about two cables clear. Biding their time.

Astern it was much the same, with the three boats moving in perfect unison towards the larboard quarter, and at a similar distance.

He could hear Meheux rapping out orders, and wondered if he had any faith in his ability to hold off the attackers.

He stiffened, realising that one bank of oars on the leading boat had halted, poised above the sea, so that even as he watched the hull seemed to shorten until it was pointing directly towards him. Only then did the motionless bank of oars begin to move again, but at a slower pace, the water creaming back from her stem in a fine white arrowhead.

There was a sudden puff of dark smoke from her bows, followed instantly by a loud bang. He saw the water quiver as the invisible ball hurled itself just a few feet above the surface to smash hard into the
Navarra
's side directly below where he was standing. He heard sharp cries of alarm from below, a momentary pause in the pumping, and saw several figures leaping up and down on the enemy's forecastle as if in a frenzy of excitement.

Another bang, from ahead this time, and he saw a tall water-spout leap skyward some three cables abeam. The other chebeck had fired and missed, but the plume of spray gave a good hint of the size of her gun.

Helplessly the Spanish seamen waited by their ports, staring at the mocking squares of empty water and tensing their bodies for the next ball.

They did not have to wait long. The boat closest to the lar-board quarter fired, and the ball smashed hard into the poop, hurling wood splinters across the sea alongside and making the deck quiver violently.

Bolitho snapped, “I am going aft, Mr Grindle.”

He trusted Meheux to obey his orders more than he did his own ability to remain inactive under this searching, merciless bombardment. Yet that was how it must be if they were to have even a shred of hope.

He found Meheux leaning against the gun, his eyes wary as he watched the oared hull gliding easily towards the quarter, now a cable away.

Bolitho tensed as the chebeck's bow gun belched smoke and fire, and felt the ball crash into the transom below him. Probably close to the damage already made worse by the storm.

Meheux said between his teeth, “My God, she'll come apart with much more of this, sir!”

Bolitho looked along the gun barrel, noting the stiffness in the naked backs and shoulders of the seamen, who like Meheux were expecting the next shot to be amongst them.

Bang. The muffled explosion was followed by the telltale shiver as a heavy ball struck the
Navarra
's hull right forward. But he could not be up there as well as here. And this was the ship's vital and most sensitive part.

The next shot from astern cleaved through the empty gunport on the transom, and Bolitho gritted his teeth as he listened to it smashing deep into the hull, the attendant cries and screams which told him it had found more than mere timber this time.

Meheux snarled, “What is he waiting for, damn him?”

Bolitho realised that the enemy had not fired again, although his previous timing between shots had been regular and extremely quick. He watched, hardly daring to hope, as with sudden determination the chebeck began to edge across the
Navarra
's stern. For a moment longer he tortured himself that it was just an illusion. That the
Navarra
was really moving slightly in some additional undertow.

Meheux said breathlessly, “He's coming in for the kill, sir!” He darted Bolitho a quick glance, his eyes wild with admiration. “By God, he thinks we are undefended here!”

Bolitho nodded grimly. The chebeck's commander had tested their ability to hold him off and was certainly moving closer for a direct shot into the
Navarra
's stern. Seeing the damage, the two ports left empty in the transom, he might well believe her to be helpless.

Meheux said sharply, “Right, my boys.” The men seemed to come alive around the gun. “Now we shall see!” He stooped behind the breech, his eyes glittering above it in the sunlight like two matched stones as he watched the enemy's slender masts edging into direct line astern. “Right traverse!” He stamped with impatience as the men threw themselves on their handspikes. “Well!” He was sweating badly, and had to dash it from his eyes with his torn sleeve. “Point!”

McEwen stepped clear, pulling his trigger lanyard until it was bar taut.

“Ready!” Meheux swore obscenely as the chebeck swung momentarily out of line before the drum brought the oars back under control.

In the sudden stillness Bolitho's voice was like a pistol shot. “Now, Mr Meheux!”

“Aye, sir.”

The seconds felt like hours as Meheux stayed crouched behind the gun like a carved figure.

Then with a suddenness that caught Bolitho unprepared even though he had been expecting it, Meheux leapt aside and yelled,
“Fire!”

In the close confines of the cabin the noise was like a thunderclap, and as the men reeled about coughing and choking in the dense smoke, Bolitho saw the gun hurl itself inboard on its tackles, felt the planking shaking wildly beneath him, and wondered dazedly if it would tear itself free and smash him to pulp against the bulkhead. But the tackles held, and as the billowing smoke funnelled clear of the windows he heard Meheux yelling like a maniac, “Look at the bastard! Just see him now, lads!”