Flag Captain Page 17

  But nothing fell, nor did the helmsmen lose control of their wheel. Whoever had designed the Navarra had known a thing or two, he thought dazedly.

  “We will steer due east, Mr Grindle.” He had to repeat it to make himself heard. Or perhaps like him the others were too stunned, too battered by noise and weather, to make sense of anything any more.

  “Braces there!” Without light it was like yelling at an empty deck. A ghost ship in which he was alone and without hope. “Let go and haul!” The strain and gloom were playing tricks with his vision, and he had to count the seconds, gauging the swing of the yards rather than trusting his streaming eyes.

  Meheux came reeling aft, his figure rising and falling like a seaport drunk as he slipped, cursing obscenely, against the Spanish captain’s corpse at the foot of the ladder.

  “She’ll need take a second reef, sir.” He paused, seemingly amazed he was still alive. “Better get the Dons to do it now. You’ll not get ’em aloft again in this, no matter what you threaten ’em with!”

  Bolitho cracked his lips into a grin. The uncertainty and the fears were giving way to a kind of wild excitement. Like going into a battle. A madness all of its own, and no less gripping than real insanity. Later, it would pass, and leave a man empty. Spent, like a fox before the hounds.

  He shouted, “See to it! Then make fast and belay.” The grin was still there, fixed on his mouth. “And pray that it holds in one piece!”

  Meheux sounded equally wild, his northern accent unusually broad. “I bin praying since th’ minute I came aboard this wreck, sir!” He laughed into the dashing droplets of spray. “It’s bin a mite helpful to my way o’ thinking!”

  Bolitho swayed aft to the wheel.

  “We will reef, Mr Grindle, but the moment you feel she may broach-to then let me know. I dare not tack, so we will have to spread more sail rather than less of it.”

  The petty officer appeared at his side. “No doctor, sir. An’ there are some fierce-lookin’ rents, starboard side aft.”

  “Tell Mr Meheux to get his Dons down there as soon as he has cleared the yards. I want every bucket, anything which will hold water, put into a chain of men. It will save the pumps from being swamped, and will keep the Spaniards busy for a while.”

  The man hesitated. “Some o’ the women are willin’ to go forrard an’ tend the wounded, sir.”

  “Good. See they are escorted, McEwen.” He raised his voice. “And make sure they come to no other hurt, understood?”

  He grinned. “Aye, sir.”

  Grindle muttered, “It’d take a powerful fine Jack to manage a woman in this lot, by the Lord Jesus it would!”

  Ashton had appeared again. “Can you come, sir? I think we need some shoring up to be done in the carpenter’s walk by the aft hold. I—I’ve tried but I cannot . . .”

  His voice trailed away.

  And that was how the night was to continue. Until Bolitho’s mind found it hard to distinguish the passing hours as he applied it to one crisis after another. Faces and voices became blurred, and even Allday seemed unable to stem the constant stream of demands for help and guidance as the Navarra ploughed wildly into the leaping wave crests.

  But somehow the pumps were kept going, the relays of men having to pull their exhausted companions clear before they could take over the fight against the hull’s greedy intake. The bucket chain worked without respite, until totally exhausted the men fell like corpses, oblivious to the spurting water across their bruised bodies or the kicks and curses from the British sailors. The rudder lines grew slack and the business of steering more difficult and wearing, but they did not part, nor did the sails tear from the yards, as well they might under the wind’s onslaught.

  At the first hint of dawn, almost guiltily, like an unsuccessful attacker, the wind eased, the wave crests smoothing and settling, while the battered ship became more steady beneath her new masters.

  Bolitho never left the quarterdeck, and as the first warmth of a new day gingerly explored the horizon he saw that they had the sea to themselves.

  He rubbed his sore eyes, noting the lolling shapes of his men beneath the bulwarks, Meheux asleep on his feet, his back against the foremast trunk as if tied there.

  In one more second he would give way. Would fall asleep himself, totally spent. He could not even find the sense of satisfaction, the feeling of pride, in what he had achieved. There was nothing but an all-consuming desire to sleep.

  He shook himself and called, “Send for McEwen!” He faltered. His voice sounded like the croak of some disgruntled sea bird.

  “Turn the hands to, Mr Grindle, and we will see what we have at our disposal.”

  Two women appeared at the break of the forecastle and stood staring around them. One had blood on her apron, but saw him watching her and lifted her hand in greeting. Bolitho tried to smile, but nothing. Instead he waved back to her, his arm feeling like lead.

  There was so much to do. In a few more moments the questions and the demands would start all over again.

  He breathed in deeply and rested his hands on the rail. A ball had cut out a piece from it like a knife paring soft cheese. He was still staring at it when Allday said firmly, “I have placed a cot for you below the poop, Captain.” He paused, anticipating a protest, but knowing Bolitho had little strength left to make it. He added, “I will call Mr Meheux to take over the watch.”

  The next thing Bolitho knew was that he was stretched out on a small hanging cot and someone was removing his sodden shoes and torn coat. And the same realisation brought sleep. Like a black curtain, instant and complete.

  9 A NEW ENEMY

  BOLITHO sat at a makeshift table in the Navarra’s small stern cabin and stared moodily at a chart. He had slept for three hours, oblivious of everything, until some latent instinct had brought him out of the cot, his eyes and ears groping for an explanation.

  In the space of those three hours the wind had completely died, leaving not a hint of its past fury, and as he had hurried on deck he had seen the sails hanging lifeless, the sea breathing gently in a flat calm.

  While Meheux had got on with the business of burying the dead, and Grindle had tried to produce some sort of routine for counting and then feeding the passengers and Spanish crew, he had made a slow and methodical search of the dead captain’s quarters.

  He raised his eyes and looked around the cabin where a man like himself had once planned, rested and hoped. Through a great rent in the side he could see the dazzling blue water lapping against the hull as if to mock him. From the stern windows he could feel the mounting heat, for the Euryalus’s broadside had smashed every piece of glass, just as it had turned the cabin into a shattered, blackened ruin. A fire had probably started, and when he had searched for the ship’s papers and log he had found only black, sodden ashes. Nothing to give him information, nor even a sextant to help fix their approximate position. The night’s storm could have driven them many miles to the east. Land might be thirty or fifty miles distant, Spain or North Africa. He could not be sure.

  Meheux entered the cabin, his shoes crunching on broken glass. He looked tired and strained, like the rest of the boarding party.

  “We seem to have got some sort of mid-day meal cooking at last, sir.” He gestured to the chart. “Any hope of fixing our position yet?”

  “No.” There was little point in deluding the lieutenant. If anything happened to himself, it would be Meheux’s job to get the ship to safety. “To be becalmed like this is no help at all.” He studied Meheux gravely. “How are you managing with the passengers?”

  He shrugged. “They are chattering like a lot of gulls. I don’t suppose they realise yet what is happening to them.”

  Nor I, Bolitho thought. He said, “After our people have eaten we will put them to work again on the hull. The water intake is still very bad, so make sure the pumps are inspected too.”

  Allday appeared in the sagging doorway, his face set in a frown. “Pardon, Captain, but one of the Dons w
ishes to speak with you. But if you wish, I’ll send him packing so that you can have your meal in peace.”

  Meheux nodded and said, “I am sorry, I forgot to mention it. The little fat Spaniard who has been helping Ashton with the interpreting asked me earlier. With so much on my mind . . .”

  Bolitho smiled. “I doubt that it is of much importance, but have him sent in, Allday.” To Meheux he added, “I am so desperate for information I have little choice in the matter.”

  The Spaniard entered nervously, his head bowed beneath the deck beams although he had a good two feet clearance. He was wearing his wig, but Bolitho realised with surprise that it made him look older rather than more youthful.

  Bolitho had already discovered his name was Luis Pareja, on passage to Port Mahon where he apparently intended to end his years.

  “Well, señor, what can I do for you?”

  Pareja peered round at the shot holes and charred woodwork before saying timidly, “Your ship did terrible damage, Captain.”

  Meheux muttered harshly, “Had we given you a full broadside you would be down on the sea bed with those others, so mind your manners!”

  Pareja flinched. “I did not mean to imply that you . . .”

  He shifted his feet and tried again. “Many of the others are worried. They do not know what is to happen, or if we will reach our homes again.”

  Bolitho eyed him thoughtfully. “This ship is now a British prize. You must understand it is not possible in war to know exactly how such matters will proceed. But there is ample food aboard, and I expect to meet with our ship soon.” He imagined he saw a flash of doubt in the man’s eyes and added firmly, “Very soon now.”

  “I shall tell them.” Pareja sounded less sure than ever. “If I can help in any way, then please tell me, Captain. You saved our lives by staying with the ship, that I do know. We would certainly have perished otherwise.”

  “Tell me, Señor Pareja.” Bolitho dropped his eyes. To show extra confidence might be taken by Pareja as uncertainty in his own ability. He continued, “Do you know of any reason why the captain came so far to the south?”

  Pareja pouted. “There was some talk. But in the haste of departure I did not take so much notice. My wife needed to leave Spain. Since the alliance with France things have become very bad at home. I hoped to take her to my estate in Minorca. It is not vast, but . . .”

  Meheux asked, “Tell us about the talk?”

  “Easy, Mr Meheux.” Bolitho shot him a warning glance. “He has his troubles too, eh?” He turned and asked easily, “You were saying something, señor?”

  Pareja spread his plump hands. “I heard one of the officers, alas now dead, saying that they were to meet with some vessel. To allow a passenger to be transferred. Something of that nature.”

  Bolitho tried to hide his sudden interest. “You speak good English. A great help.”

  Pareja smiled modestly. “My wife speaks it well. And I have done much business with London.” He faltered. “In happier days.”

  Bolitho made himself sit very still, conscious of Meheux’s impatience, of the ship’s sluggish movement beneath him.

  He asked calmly, “Do you remember where this meeting was to take place?”

  “I think not.” He screwed up his face so that he looked like a plump child playing make-believe in an old wig.

  Bolitho pushed the chart gently towards him. “Look at this. The names along that coastline.” He watched intently as Pareja’s eyes moved emptily over the well-worn chart.

  “No.”

  Meheux moved away, biting his lip. “Blast him!”

  Bolitho turned in his chair to mask his disappointment. “If you remember anything, Señor Pareja, be so good as to tell one of my men.”

  Pareja bowed gravely and made as if to leave. Then he halted, one hand raised as if demanding silence. He said excitedly, “But the officer did say something more.” Again the quaint frown. “That . . . that it felt strange to do business with the French again.” He peered at Bolitho’s grim features and added, “But that is all. I am sorry.”

  “Mr Meheux. Are there any Frenchmen aboard?” He held his breath.

  Before the lieutenant could reply Pareja said quickly, “But yes. There is such a man. He is called Witrand and came aboard so late at Malaga that he had no cabin.” He looked startled. “Yet he was allowed to share these quarters with the captain? Very strange.”

  Bolitho stood up slowly, his mind hardly daring to hold any hope. And yet it was just possible. Someone important enough to share with the captain might well be able to arrange an unorthodox transfer at sea. It would only mean a few days more aboard for the rest of the passengers, and power, like wealth, was very insistent. This man Witrand could be a smuggler or a high-born criminal on the run. A traitor or a merchant trying to outwit his competitors. But he might have information, anything which could throw some light on events in these waters.

  There was a sudden commotion in the passageway and he heard Allday say angrily, “It is no use! You cannot go in there!” And then in a strange, heavy accent, “Eet ees no bloody good, See-nora!”

  But the door rocked back on its broken hinges and a woman stormed into the cabin, her eyes blazing as she said, “Ah, there you are, Luis! Everyone is waiting to hear what is happening! And you stand here making gossip like some fishwife!”

  Bolitho looked at her with surprise. She was tall and had long hair, as dark as his own, and was wearing what must be a very costly blue gown. But it was smeared with salt stains, and there were darker patches near her waist which he guessed were blood.

  Pareja was embarrassed and said, “This is my wife, Captain. Like yourself, she is English.”

  Bolitho moved the remaining chair towards her. “Please be seated, señora.”

  She was nearly a head taller than her husband, and at a guess some twenty or so years younger. Striking rather than beautiful, her features were dominated by very dark eyes, and a mouth which was now set in a line of stubborn determination and anger.

  “I will not be staying.” She looked at him for the first time. “All the others have been talking of my husband’s new importance in your eyes. I merely came to see that he did not make a fool of himself.”

  “Now, my dove!” Pareja stepped back as she swung to face him.

  She said, “Do not dove me! You promised to take me away from the war, and from fear of war! And as soon as we are at sea what happens?” She gestured with something like contempt towards Bolitho, “This one seizes our ship, and nearly kills us all in doing it!”

  Meheux snapped, “Hold your tongue, madam! Captain Bolitho is a King’s officer and you’ll do well to remember it!”

  “ Captain, is he?” She gave a mock curtsy. “We are honoured indeed.”

  Allday made as if to seize her from behind but Bolitho shook his head.

  “I am sorry you have been inconvenienced, Señora Pareja. I will do what I can to ensure you are all returned to Malaga just as soon as I can arrange it.”

  She had her hands on her hips, and he could see her supple body trembling with her anger.

  “You know that is unlikely, Captain. We will more likely be pushed from ship to ship, suffering indignities at the hands of your sailors, until we are left stranded in some port. I have heard of such things before, believe me!”

  She had a strong voice, like her limbs, and she appeared to be well able to take care of herself. Yet as she stood in the scarred cabin, her dress still showing the marks left from the storm and from tending the wounded, Bolitho could hear her voice giving away something more. Desperation, but not fear. Disappointment, rather than any horror at her predicament.

  He said, “I will see that you and your husband are moved to an officer’s cabin. I understand your own was destroyed?”

  “Yes. And all my trunks!” She glared at her husband. “But his were safe, of course!”

  “But, my dove!” Pareja was almost kneeling to her. “I will take care of you!”

 
Bolitho looked away. Embarrassed and sickened.

  To Meheux he said, “Have them taken to the cabin now. I must find out . . .” He broke off as a startled shout was followed instantly by a shot.

  He snatched up his sword and pushed Pareja aside as he ran through the door, Meheux and Allday pounding behind him.

  The sun was so bright and blinding that for a few seconds he could see nothing unusual. Several passengers were still standing by the main hatch where they had been told to wait for the issue of food. Others were caught in various attitudes of surprise or fright as they peered up at the forecastle, where two men stood behind a mounted swivel gun, training it aft, towards the quarterdeck. Beside it, one of Meheux’s seamen lay moaning quietly with blood seeping from a pistol ball in his shoulder.

  Pareja called nervously, “That is the man! Witrand!”

  Bolitho stood very still. One jerk of the lanyard and a blast of canister would sweep the deck from forward to aft. It would not only cut him down but most of the people in between as well.

  He called, “Stand clear of that gun! You can do nothing!”

  “Do not speak so foolishly, Capitaine!” The man’s voice was smooth but surprisingly loud. “Some of your men had the, er, misfortune,” he smiled, “the misfortune to discover some very fine brandy below. I fear they will be of little help to your cause.” The muzzle moved slightly. “Throw down your weapons. The Spanish seamen will be resuming their duties. I have no doubt that even they can sail the ship when required.” He was smiling broadly, his teeth very white in his tanned face. “Your own ship has gone away. There is no point in sacrificing yourself,” his tone hardened, “or others, for your own pride!”

  Bolitho’s mind grappled with the problem which he was now facing. Even if he and the others still sober controlled the poop, they could not work the ship. Whereas Witrand’s swivel gun would ensure that he remained master of the upper deck, as well as all the food and water. There might be no Spanish officers left alive, but Witrand was right. The crew could manage to set sail, and it would not be long before some enemy ship appeared to investigate their behaviour.