The Flag Captain

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 wishes 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, seсor, 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, Seсor 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, seсor?”

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, Seсor 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 highborn 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, seсora.”

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, Seсora 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.

Allday whispered, “If we cut back to the cabin we can hold ’em off with muskets, Captain.”

The voice called, “I am waiting, Capitaine! Throw down your weapons now!”

Meheux asked, “Would he fire? He could kill half of those women and children down there.”

Bolitho began to unbuckle his sword. “We are no good to anyone dead. Do as he says.”

Something like a great sigh came from the motionless passengers as Bolitho and his companions placed their weapons on the deck. Two armed Spaniards ran along the starboard gangway, pistols trained, until they had climbed the poop ladder behind Bolitho, at a distance they could not possibly miss.

Witrand handed over the swivel gun’s lanyard to the other man and then walked slowly along the same gangway. Reaching the quarterdeck he gave a short bow.

“Paul Witrand, Capitaine. At your service.”

He was of medium height, square jawed, with the look of a soldier about him. There was recklessness too, something Bolitho recognised, and which he might have discovered in time but for the arrival of Pareja’s wife. Maybe she had come aft deliberately.

He said coldly, “I have submitted to save life. But in due course we will meet with my ship again. Even keeping me as hostage will not help you then.”

“Just one ship, Capitaine? Interesting. What could her mission be in waters dominated by France, I wonder?” He shook his head. “You are a brave officer, and I respect you for that. But you must accept this fate, as I accepted your sudden arrival aboard here. It would have been better for both of us had we never met.” He gave an expressive shrug. “But war is war.” He studied Bolitho for several seconds, his eyes almost yellow in the glare. “I do not doubt you would refuse to sail this ship for me.” He smiled gently. “But you will give me your word, as a King’s officer, not to try and retake her.” He picked up Bolitho’s sword. “Then you may keep this. As a token of my trust in that honour, eh?”

Bolitho shook his head. “I can give no such assurance.”

Meheux said thickly, “Nor I.”

“Loyalty too?” He seemed quite composed. “Then you will be taken below and put in irons. I am sorry of course, but I have much to do. Apart from myself there are just three French companions. The rest,” he shrugged with obvious contempt, “Spanish rubbish. I will be hard put to keep them away from the passengers, I think.”

He beckoned to the armed seamen and then asked, “Your ship, she is French built, yes?”

“She was the Tornade.” Bolitho kept his voice level, but his mind was almost bursting as he tried to think of a scheme, no matter how weak, which might give him back control. But there was nothing.

Witrand’s yellow eyes widened. “Tornade? Admiral Lequiller’s flagship!” He banged his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I was foolish not to realise it. You with your unpronounceable name. The man who took the Tor nade in a mere seventy-four!” He nodded, suddenly serious. “You will be quite a prize yourself, if and when we ever see France again.”

The seamen jabbed them with their pistols and Witrand said sharply, “Go with them.” He looked at Allday, standing with his fists clenching and unclenching, his face still shocked at what was happening. “Is he one of your officers?”

Bolitho looked at him. This was a moment when life might end. Also he might never see Allday again if they became separated.

He replied quietly, “He is a friend, m’sieu.”

Witrand sighed. “And that is something rare.” He smiled sadly. “He may stay with you. But any trick, and you will be killed.” He shot Pareja a scathing glance. “Like traitors, there is only one true solution.”

Bolitho turned towards the companion ladder, seeing the faces

of the nearby passengers, and Pareja’s wife by the poop. She was standing very still, only the quick movement of her breast displaying any sort of emotion. Something squeaked, and when he turned his head he saw the white ensign was already fluttering down from the mainmast.

Like the loss of his sword, it seemed to symbolise the completeness of his defeat.

Bolitho rested his back against a massive cask of salt beef, listening to the muffled sounds beyond the door and conscious of his companions’ silence. But for a tiny circular port in the door, through which he could see the feeble light of a lantern, the place where he and the others were imprisoned was in total darkness. He was thankful for that. He did not want them to see his face or his despair.

He heard the chain move, felt the irons about his ankles jerk slightly as Meheux or one of the others changed his position. Allday was sitting next to him, sharing the same cask to rest his back, and Grindle was on the opposite side of the tiny storeroom shackled to Ashton. Each wrapped in his own thoughts. Brooding perhaps on the twist of fate which had brought them here.

It was impossible to tell what was happening elsewhere in the ship. The pumps had not stopped, but occasionally they had heard other sounds. Shouts and curses, and a woman sobbing and screaming. Once there had been another pistol shot, and Bolitho imagined that Witrand was having difficulty in controlling the Spanish crew. After the Euryalus’s deadly cannon fire, the storm and the humiliation of being seized as a prize, it was easy to picture the scene between decks. Without their own familiar officers and sense of purpose, any discipline might soon give way to a drunken disorganised chaos.

The wind had not returned. Just feeling the ship’s slow, uneasy motion, the useless clatter of loose gear, told him that much.

Meheux said savagely, “If ever I live to get my hands on those drunkards I’ll have them flogged to ribbons, the useless buggers!”

Bolitho replied, “The brandy was a clever ruse on Witrand’s part.” He added with sudden bitterness, “I should have made a thorough search.”

Grindle said worriedly, “You was too busy savin’ their lives for that, sir. No use in blamin’ yerself.”

“I’ll agree with that.” Allday stirred restlessly. “Should have left ’em to rot!”

Bolitho called, “Are you feeling better, Mr Ashton?” He was worried about the midshipman. When he had been dragged into the storeroom he had seen the bloody bandage around his head, and how pale he had appeared. It seemed that Ashton had tried to hold off the attackers on his own, calling for his men, who unknown to him were already too drunk to help even themselves. Someone had clubbed him brutally with a musket, and he had not spoken more than a few words since.

But he answered readily, “I am all right, sir. It will soon pass.”

“You acted well.”

Bolitho guessed that Ashton was probably thinking too of his future. He was only seventeen, and had already shown promise and no little ability. Now his prospects might seem dark and empty. Prison, or even death by fever in some forgotten enemy garrison. He was too junior and unimportant to be considered for exchange, even if the proper authorities ever gave it a thought.

Bolitho tried to picture his own ship, where she now lay and what Broughton might be doing. The admiral had probably dismissed them all from his thoughts. The storm, the likelihood of the Navarra’s foundering, would soon make him look on them as memories and little more.

He stirred against the cask, hating the iron around his ankles. He had been a prisoner before, but could find no solace in the memory. Then there had been a chance, although very slight, of

escape and turning the tables on his captors. And always the real possibility of other British ships arriving to assist him. A slight chance could always offer hope. But now there was nothing like that. Euryalus would not return to look for him. How could she when the very mission they had come to do still lay untouched?

His stomach contracted, and he realised he had not eaten since yesterday. It seemed like a week ago. The ordered world of his own ship, a sense of being and belonging.

He pictured Pareja’s wife, probably retelling Witrand how easy it had been to delay him from seeking him out from amongst the other passengers. Or maybe she was up there weeping, watching her elderly husband kicking out his breath at the mainyard on the end of a rope. Where had she come from? And what would bring a woman like her to this part of the world? Another puzzle, and one which would now stay unanswered.

Feet scraped beyond the door and Allday said hotly, “Come to gloat no doubt! The bastards!”

The bolt was withdrawn and Bolitho saw Witrand squinting into the storeroom, two armed men at his back.

The Frenchman said, “I would like you to come on deck, Capitaine.”

He sounded calm enough, yet there was something about him which made Bolitho stiffen with interest. Maybe a wind was returning at last and Witrand had less confidence in the crew than he pretended. But the deck felt as sluggish as before, the mournful clank of pumps just as regular.

He asked coldly, “Why must I come? I am content to stay here.”

Witrand gestured to one of his men, who stepped cautiously inside with a key for the leg irons. He snapped, “Prisoners have no choice! You will do as I order!”

Bolitho watched the seaman unlocking the irons, his mind grappling with Witrand’s sudden change of manner. He was worried.

Meheux helped him to his feet and said, “Take care, sir.” He

sounded just that much too bright, Bolitho reflected, and was probably imagining his captain was about to be interrogated, or worse.

He followed Witrand along the passageway, aware of the silence all about him. Apart from the pumps and the gentle creak of timbers, he could hear no voices at all. And that in a ship crowded with apprehensive passengers.

It was late afternoon, and on deck the sun was blinding hot, the seams sticking to Bolitho’s shoes as he followed Witrand up a ladder and on to the poop. The glare from the glittering blue water was so intense that he almost fell across some of the splintered planking, so that Witrand put out his hand to steady him.

“Well, what is it?” Bolitho shaded his eyes and looked at the other man. “I have not changed my mind. About anything.”

Witrand did not seem to hear. He took Bolitho by the arm and pulled him round towards the rail, his voice suddenly urgent. “Look yonder. What do you understand about them?”

Bolitho was suddenly aware that the ship’s main deck and forecastle were crammed with silent, watching figures. Some men had climbed into the shrouds, their intent figures dark against the limp sails as they peered towards the horizon.

Witrand held out a telescope. “Please, Capitaine. Tell me.”

Bolitho steadied the glass on his forearm and trained it across the rail. Most of the people on deck had turned to watch him, and even Witrand was studying his profile with something like anxiety.

Bolitho moved the glass very slowly, catching his breath as the small brightly coloured lateen sails swam hesitantly into the lens. Three, four, maybe five of them, each making its own gay reflection on the sea’s face, like the wings of gaudy moths, he thought.

He lowered the glass and looked at Witrand. “They are chebecks.” He watched the uncertainty on Witrand’s face. “Perhaps five of them.”

Witrand stared at him and then waved at the Navarra’s lifeless sails. “But they are moving, and approaching fast! How can that be?”

“Like galleys, m’sieu, they can travel speedily under oars as well as sail.” He added very quietly, “It is my belief that they are Barbary pirates.”

Witrand stepped back. “Mon Dieu, Le Corsair!” He snatched the glass from Bolitho and trained it towards the tiny sails for several seconds. Then he said in a more controlled tone, “This is bad. What do you know of such people?”

Bolitho looked away. “They are savage, barbarous fighters. If they get aboard this ship they will kill every man before they carry off the cargo.” He paused. “And the women.”

Witrand sounded short of breath. “But our guns are good, yes? My God, they answered your ship well enough. Surely we can smash those puny craft before they draw close?”

Bolitho eyed him gravely. “You do not begin to understand. These chebecks can manoeuvre quickly, while we lie becalmed. That is why they have survived so long, and so successfully. Once within range they will use their sweeps to get under our stern. Then they will pound us to submission. Each one will no doubt carry a heavy cannon in her bows. That is their way.” He let it sink in. “It has proved very effective. I have heard of ships-of-war lying becalmed and helpless, unable to do anything but watch as these galleys cut out one merchantman after another from the very heart of a convoy.”

He looked again towards the horizon. The sails were already much closer, and he could see the shining banks of long oars rising and falling in perfect rhythm. Above them, the bright lateen sails gave a new menace to their appearance, and he could picture their crews’ excitement at the prospect of so easy a capture.

Witrand asked, “What must we do?” He spread his hands. “They will kill you too, Capitaine, so we must work together.”

Bolitho shrugged. “Normally I would get the ship’s boats into the water and try to warp her round. We could then present a broadside. But we have no boats, apart from the small one which brought me here.” He rubbed his chin. “But in any case, it would be asking a lot.”

“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 Seсor 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, seсor. 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, seсor, 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.