Flag Captain Page 31

  Swivels cracked and banged from both forward and aft, hurling their canister amongst the white-clad figures who still crowded the chebecks’ gangways, waving their scimitars and firing muskets to add to the frightful din of battle.

  The hull shivered again, and Bolitho saw a ball smash into the bulwark, scattering seamen and leaving a trail of blood and flesh in its wake.

  A chebeck crashed below the taffrail, her helmsman either dead or too crazed by the roar of guns to gauge his approach. As she ground and bumped across the stern the swivels raked her from stem to stern, and as she fell away the larboard carronades put two balls into her so that she broke apart and began to founder.

  But two more were already alongside, and as seamen dashed to repel boarders the first yelling figures started to claw their way up and into the nets which Inch had rigged before dawn.

  Bolitho cupped his hands. “Now, lads!” And through the hatch came the rest of the extra hands, amongst them many of his own ship’s company who had already faced death in the fight for Djafou.

  Yelling and cheering they charged forward, thrusting with pikes and cutlasses at the boarders who hung kicking in the slack nets, impaled by the razor-sharp steel before they could get free.

  Somewhere in the smoke he could hear warning cries and knew that up forward at least some of the attackers had hacked their way through the nets.

  He shouted at Inch, “Stay here!” To Allday, “Follow me! We must keep these carronades firing or we are done for!”

  Sparks flew from the capstan and iron ricocheted overhead. More balls slammed into the lower hull, although the chebecks’ gunners were probably killing as many of their own men as the Hekla’s as they fired their long cannon into the dense smoke.

  He saw several seamen falling around the forward carronade, heard their cries as the first of the attackers loomed into view, scimitars and broadswords slashing and cutting in crazed fury.

  A swivel barked from the forecastle and several of them fell kicking in their blood, but others were swarming through a great gap in the nets and locking steel with the seamen.

  Bolitho seized a gun-captain’s shoulder and yelled into his face, “See if you can put a ball into this one!” He saw the man nod dazedly before turning to call to his crew to reload.

  Allday swung round and cut down a boarder who had somehow fought his way through Lieutenant Wilmot’s men in the bows. The man slithered along the deck, his teeth bared in a another wild shriek as a seaman drove a pike into his ribs.

  Bolitho waved his sword and beckoned to another group of seamen below the mainmast. He felt a pistol ball fan his cheek and turned to see Wilmot fall, blood flowing from his mouth, when seconds before he had been leading his men into the attack.

  He saw Inch yelling to some of his deck party to take up sweeps and stave off a blazing chebeck which was drifting dangerously close alongside. Above the crackle and roar of flames Bolitho heard terrible screams, and realised the oarsmen must be slaves, held captive by chains to their oars to endure the most horrible death of all.

  A man dropped from overhead, his face smashed away by musket fire, another rolled kicking from a carronade, his foot crushed by the slide as the heavy muzzle blasted out into the dense smoke.

  Bolitho saw the gun-captain waving at him, his teeth white in his blackened face, and knew he had managed to get a ball into the chebeck below the rent in the nets.

  A bearded figure ducked beneath a pike and came towards him, his heavy sword scything in line with his stomach. He stuck out with his sword, saw a spark jump from the steel as the shock darted up his arm. It was enough to turn the man in his charge, and before he could recover he was beaten to the deck by a belaying pin wielded by Broome, the gunner.

  Inch was suddenly beside him yelling, “They’re done for!” He was almost capering with wild excitement. “We’ve sunk more’n half and the others are in a bad way!”

  He waved his hat in the air, and as the smoke thinned above the sweating gun crews Bolitho saw the sea’s face littered with battered hulls and wreckage, while here and there a damaged chebeck pulled hurriedly towards the land. It would be a long time before Messadi’s name brought terror to these shores again, he thought dazedly. Broome roared, “By God, sir! There’s one across the bows!”

  Through the smoke Bolitho saw the dovetailed flag very near, and somehow knew this was the leader’s chebeck. Messadi himself trying to get past the Hekla’s fury and escape to the cove once more.

  He followed Inch aft to where the helmsmen stood astride two of their dead comrades and gestured with his sword, his voice suddenly loud over the silent carronades. “A guinea for the gun-captain who can bring her down!”

  The realisation that they had won, the sudden understanding they had beaten an overwhelming force of a terrifying enemy, was enough. Cheering, or sobbing with exhaustion, they ran back to their tackles, while the swivels and even muskets cut the air apart in their efforts to pursue the fast-moving chebeck.

  Bolitho saw a massive carronade lurch inboard, and the flash as its ball burst close under the chebeck’s raked stem. He turned his head as a second slammed into her ornate poop, scattering the packed figures in bloody gruel.

  Everyone was yelling and shouting, and Bolitho clung to the shrouds trying to peer over the rolling bank of smoke as the enemy’s twin masts began to tilt over.

  He heard Inch calling to him, but as he swung round to listen he felt something like a blow in his right shoulder. It was not much and yet he was falling, and as he dropped to his knees he stared with dulled surprise at the blood which ran down across his white breeches and covered the deck around him. But something else was happening. He was on his side, the great mainsail high above him, and beyond it a wedge of pale cloud.

  Voices were calling, and he saw Inch running towards him, his face frozen with dismay.

  Bolitho opened his mouth to reassure him in some way, but as he did so the pain came. So great and so terrible that a merciful darkness closed over him. Then there was nothing.

  16 AN AFFAIR OF HONOUR

  SLOWLY, almost fearfully Bolitho opened his eyes. It seemed to take an age for his vision to clear, and he felt his mind bunching itself to withstand the terrible pain which must surely come. He could feel the sweat running down his face and neck like iced water, but as he waited, dreading the return of torment, he realised he could find no other sensation. He tried to move his body, straining his ears to catch the sound of sea or creaking timbers, but there was neither, and as his uncertainty changed to something like panic he realised he was surrounded by total silence, and that the light was so dim he could have been in a tomb.

  As he struggled to lift himself he felt the searing thrust of redhot agony lance through his shoulder until he thought his heart would fail under it. He gritted his teeth, shutting his eyes tightly against the pain, and felt himself slipping back again into the nightmare. How long had it lasted? Days, hours, or was it an eternity since . . . He concentrated his failing reserve of will-power to try to remember, to keep his mind from cracking under the pressure in his body.

  Figures and voices, looming faces and the vague motions of a ship were parts of the confused memories. Some episodes, although brief, stood out more than others, although they had neither order nor apparent relevance. Inch cushioning his head from the deck. And Allday’s agonised face coming down at him from every angle, again and again. And he had heard himself speaking too, and tried to listen, as if he had already become completely detached, his spirit hovering to watch the dying husk with nothing more than idle curiosity.

  There had been other faces too, unknown to him, yet somehow familiar. Serious and young, calm and sad. His voice had come and gone repeatedly, and once when Bolitho had heard himself crying out in the enclosing darkness the stranger had said quietly, “I am Angus, sir. Coquette’s surgeon.”

  Bolitho tensed, feeling the sweat flooding across him as an extension of his own rising terror. The face and the stark memory of those
quiet words brought back some of the reality like the shock of the wound.

  He had been protesting, his reeling mind fighting against the pain and the unconsciousness to make the surgeon understand. To stop him from touching him.

  With a desperate sob he tried to move his shoulder, to discover some feeling in his arm and fingers. Nothing.

  He let himself go limp again, ignoring the heated pain, and conscious only of a stinging despair which was blinding him.

  As if torn from his innermost soul he heard himself cry out, “Oh, Cheney! Cheney, help me! They’ve taken off my arm!”

  Instantly a chair scraped across stone and feet pattered towards him. He heard someone call, “He’s coming out of the coma! Pass the word!”

  A cool cloth, was laid carefully over his forehead, and as he reopened his eyes he saw Allday peering down at him, his hard hands supporting his head so that someone else could sponge away the sweat of pain and fear.

  He remembered the hands now. They had held him, pressing into his head as if to shut out the first pressure of Angus’s knife.

  From a great distance he heard him ask, “How is it, Captain?”

  Bolitho stared up at him, so astonished at seeing tears in Allday’s eyes that he momentarily forgot his own suffering.

  He replied, “Easy, Allday. Rest easy.” How hoarse his voice sounded.

  More faces swayed over him and he saw Angus thrust the others aside as he removed the sheet from his chest, felt his fingers probing before the pain struck at him again, making him gasp aloud.

  He managed to say, “My arm. Tell me.”

  Angus glanced at him calmly. “Believe me, sir, it is still there.” He did not smile. “However, these are early days. It is well to be prepared.”

  He moved out of Bolitho’s vision and said, “New dressing at once. And he must eat something. Broth maybe, and a little brandy.”

  Bolitho strained his eyes up to Allday’s face. “Where am I?”

  “The fortress, Captain. Hekla brought you in two days back.”

  Two days. He persisted, “And before?”

  “Hekla took two days to reach here, Captain. The wind went against us.” He sounded desperate. “I thought we’d never reach this damned place.”

  A total of four days then. Time enough for the wound to worsen. Why should he not face the truth as Angus was doing? God knew, he had seen it happen often enough to others.

  He said quietly, “Tell me, and no lies for my sake, is my arm to come off?”

  Again he saw the wretched helplessness in Allday’s eyes.

  “No, Captain, I am sure of it.” He tried to smile, the effort only adding to his misery. “We’ve been through worse than this before. So let’s have no more such talk.”

  “That is enough talking.” Angus’s face swam above him once more. “You will rest until the dressing is changed. Then I want you to take some food.” He held something against the light, dull-coloured and half flattened by the force of impact. “Some of these Arab muskets have great accuracy. This ball would have certainly killed you had you not turned your body at the time of delivery.” He smiled severely. “So we must be thankful for that at least, eh?”

  A door grated and he added, “But then you have an excellent nurse.” He nodded curtly. “Over here, Mrs. Pareja. The captain will be ready in a moment.”

  Bolitho watched as she moved down the side of the bed. Perhaps after all he was still drifting in unreality, or maybe even dead.

  She paused and looked down at him, her face very pale against the long black hair, grave and unsmiling. And beautiful. It was hard to picture her aboard the Navarra, nursing her dead husband against her bloodied dress and watching him with such anger and bitter despair.

  She said, “You look a lot better.”

  “Thank you for all you have done.” He felt suddenly helpless and empty under her calm stare and could not continue.

  She smiled, showing her strong white teeth. “Now I know you are getting well. Your language has been a challenge for the past two days.”

  She was still smiling as Angus cut away the dressing and replaced it methodically with a new one.

  Bolitho studied her in silence. She had been here with him all the time. Seeing his fight against pain, tending to his body’s wants when he could do nothing to help himself or know what he was doing. He was conscious of his nakedness under the sheet, the hair matted over his forehead in sweat, and was ashamed.

  She added quietly, “It seems you are a hard man to kill.”

  As Angus removed his bowl of bloodstained rags she looked at Allday and said, “Go and rest.” When he hesitated she added sharply, “Away with you, man! God knows you have not rested since your return, and from what I have heard, not since our charge here fell wounded!”

  Bolitho shifted his left arm beneath the sheet and said hoarsely, “My hand!”

  Allday lifted the sheet and seized Bolitho’s fingers with his own. Bolitho felt the sweat running across his bared chest as he used his failing strength to grip the hand tightly.

  “You do as she asks, Allday!” He tried not to watch his face. “I’ll rest easier if I know you’re fit and ready when I need you.” He forced himself to smile. “True friends are hard to come by!”

  Allday moved away and Bolitho heard the door close.

  “He’s gone.”

  When Bolitho looked at her again he saw that her eyes were gleaming with tears.

  She shook her head angrily. “Damn you, Captain, it is true what they say! You bewitch all those who come near! It must be the Cornish magic in you!”

  “I fear the magic, as you call it, comes from others, Mrs. Pareja.”

  She sat down on the bed and stirred some broth in a bowl. “My name is Catherine.” She smiled, and for an instant he saw some of the same boldness he had noticed aboard the Navarra. “But you call me Kate. I was known by that name before I married Luis.”

  She lifted his head to arrange a pillow carefully and then dipped a spoon into the bowl.

  He said quietly, “I am sorry about your husband.”

  The spoon did not waver, and he allowed the thick soup to explore his throat, reviving him in spite of the pain.

  She said, “You called out several times for Cheney. Your wife?”

  He looked at her. “She is dead.”

  “I know. One of your officers told me.” She wiped his lips with a clean cloth before adding, “You talked a lot, although much of it I didn’t understand. Sometimes you spoke of home and some portraits on a wall.” She studied him gravely. “But we will not speak of such things just now. You are very weak and must rest.”

  Bolitho struggled to move his arm. “No. I do not want to be left.” Almost desperately he added, “Tell me of yourself!”

  She sat back and smiled as if recalling some event long past. “My home was London. Do you know much of it?”

  He shook his head slightly. “I have visited there.”

  Surprisingly, she lifted her chin and laughed. It was a throaty, uninhibited sound, as if he had said something hilarious.

  “I can see by your face you do not like London, my dear Captain. But I suspect that your London was different from mine. Where ladies danced the quadrille and hid their blushes in bouquets while the young blades made fine postures to excite their attention.” She tossed her head, so that the hair fell loosely around her throat. “It is a way of life I have tried to learn. But it now seems that my efforts were wasted.” For a moment her eyes became wistful, and then she said shortly, “Life can be cruel.”

  She stood up and placed the bowl on a table, and Bolitho saw that she was wearing a different gown, of yellow silk, low cut and painstakingly embroidered around the waist. She saw his eyes and remarked, “One of the Spanish ladies here gave it to me.”

  He asked, “Did you meet your husband in London?” He did not wish to disturb her memories, but somehow he needed to know.

  “The first one.” She watched his puzzled expression and ga
ve another bubbling laugh. “Oh yes, I have buried two husbands, in a manner of speaking.” She moved swiftly to the bed and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Do not look so worried. It is history. The first was a real dashing person. Together we were going to set the world ablaze. He was a soldier of fortune, a mercenary, if you like. After we were wed he took me to Spain to fight against the Frogs. But all the battles he fought were in taverns, over some woman or other. One day he must have met his match, for he was discovered dead in a ditch outside Sevilla. That was where I met Luis. He was twice my age, but seemed to need me.” She sighed. “He was a widower and had nothing but his work to sustain him.” In a quieter tone she said, “I think he was happy.”

  “Of that I am certain.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” She turned her face away. “You did not need to say that.”

  Once again the door scraped open but this time it was Gillmor. He bobbed his head politely to her before crossing to the bed.

  “I am sincerely glad to know you are recovering your health, sir.”

  Bolitho saw the strain on his face and guessed Coquette’s captain had had more than his share of worry because of his own incapacity.

  Gillmor hurried on, “The lookouts have just sighted the squadron returning, sir.” He breathed out slowly. “At last.”

  “What are you hiding?” Bolitho felt a sudden touch of apprehension. “Something is wrong.”

  “ Euryalus is under tow, sir. She appears to have lost her bowsprit and fore topgallant mast. I have sent Mr Bickford in a cutter to meet the admiral.”

  “I must get up!” Bolitho tried to free himself from the sheet. “Take me to my ship, for God’s sake!”

  Gillmor stood aside and allowed the woman to press Bolitho back against the bed. “I am sorry, sir, but we have decided against it.”

  Bolitho clenched his teeth against the pain. “ We have decided?”

  Gillmor swallowed but stood his ground. “Commander Inch and I, sir. There is no sense in having you die now that the worst is past.”