The Flag Captain

10. Survival

“Not 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 waterspout 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 larboard 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!”

Bolitho pushed towards the windows and stared with amazement at the leading boat which seconds before had made such a picture of grace and purpose. The massive thirty-two-pound ball must have ploughed right amongst one bank of oars, for many appeared missing, and beneath the pall of smoke he could see the slim hull broaching to, the remaining bank of oars hacking and slashing at the water in a wild attempt to hold it steady.

Meheux roared, “Stop your vent! Sponge out!” To Bolitho he shouted, “Double-shotted this time, sir?”

“If you can be quick, Mr Meheux! Bolitho’s ears were still cringing from the explosion, but he could feel his sudden desperate excitement rising to match the lieutenant’s as he added, “And grape for good measure if you have any!”

To the seamen who worked so eagerly in the shattered cabin the gun was as familiar as those which shared their daily lives. The strain and tension of waiting helplessly and watching the enemy shoot into the battered hull without being able to hit back was past in an instant. Yelling and whooping they rammed home the charges, watched closely by McEwen, who was too experienced a gun-captain to allow anything to alter his sense of vigilance. He even fondled each ball before allowing it to be rammed into the muzzle, making quite sure it was as perfect as could be hoped for in a Spanish ship.

Bolitho saw the damaged chebeck begin to edge painfully towards the starboard quarter and managed not to watch the seamen frantically trying to reload before she was gone from view. But a Long Nine normally had a crew of fifteen men to attend to its needs. Meheux had half that number.

“Run out!” He had done it in two minutes.

The other two chebecks were reversing their swoops and backing away from the Navarra’s sudden challenge. One of them fired,

but the shot must have passed well clear for none of them saw where it fell.

Meheux yelled hoarsely, “Left traverse!” He dashed to the side of the cabin, squinting his eyes as he tried to gauge the enemy’s speed.

Bolitho heard more crashes and shouts from the upper deck and said, “I must leave you.”

Meheux did not even hear him. “Left, left, left!” He snatched up a handspike and threw his own weight to the gun. He was still peering and squinting over the breech as Bolitho tore himself away and ran back to the poop.

He had just reached the sunlight again when Meheux fired. As he ran to the starboard side he saw the double-shot smash into the chebeck’s hull, watched with fixed fascination as the narrow deck began to tilt over, the packed mass of figures surging towards the shattered side like sheep stampeding down a steep hill. The two massive balls must have smashed the hull close on the water-line. The strain and impetus of the oars would have done the rest. Even now the hull was settling down, the milling figures of her crew spilling over the gunwale or running in confusion towards the bows. Neither of the other chebecks was making any attempt to draw near to save life or pursue the attack, and he wondered momentarily whether the stricken boat contained their leader.

He felt Grindle tugging his arm. “One of ’em’s turnin’, sir! She’s comin’ straight for the bows!”

Bolitho stared along the deck and saw a chebeck’s slim masts bearing down at full speed, her furled sails appearing to be within feet of the Navarra’s jib boom. At the last possible moment it changed course and swept purposefully towards the ship’s larboard bow, the oars swinging back against her hull like some great seabird folding its wings as it glided in for a closer embrace.

Bolitho yelled, “Larboard battery! Fire!”

As Ashton staggered along the line of guns each one lurched

inboard, the smoke billowing across the enemy craft, the balls doing little damage but cut her foremast in two like a young sapling under an axe.

Bolitho felt the grinding shudder, saw grapnels thudding over the gangway, and dragged out his sword.

“Repel boarders!” He saw the Frenchman snatch up his pistols and push some of the dazed seamen towards the side. “Mr Ashton! The swivel gun!”

He saw Allday charging along the deck towards him, his cutlass already drawn and shining dully in the smokey sunlight.

He snapped, “I told you to stay with Mr Ashton!” But knew it was useless. Allday would never leave his side in a fight, no matter what he said.

Heads were already coming up and over the bulwark, which having no boarding nets was protected only by its gangway. Bolitho watched the seamen hacking and slashing with pikes and cutlasses alike, heard the yells and cries rising to a deafening crescendo as more and more dark-skinned attackers fought their way up the ship’s side. Some were already on the forecastle, only to vanish like blown paper as the swivel gun belched fire and swept them away in a hail of canister.

“Jesus! Watch your back, Captain!” Allday swung his cutlass and hacked a turbaned figure across the face, cutting the jaw away before even a scream could escape.

Bolitho saw a bearded giant wielding an axe cut down two Spanish seamen and then run crazily towards one of the hatchways. He thought of the women and children, the terrified wounded, and what could change any spark of hope into a raging defeat if this giant got amongst them. Before Allday could intervene he was across the hatch, one foot on the coaming, as the onrushing man skidded to a halt, the axe poised above his head, still bloody from its earlier victims.

The axe started to descend and Bolitho leapt to one side, his

sword darting under the man’s massive forearm, swinging him round above the hatch, his teeth bared in agony as the razor-edged blade grated against and between his ribs. Bellowing and roaring like a wounded beast he still came on, the axe making a silver arc as he slashed at Bolitho, forcing him back and back towards the poop. A seaman charged forward with a boarding pike, but the giant knocked it to one side and brought the axe across the man’s neck without even losing its precision, sending the man flailing across the deck, his head almost severed from his body.

Bolitho knew that if he was pinned against the poop the other man would cut him down just as easily.

He braced himself, and as the man raised the axe above his head, seemingly oblivious to the terrible wound left by the sword, he darted forward, the blade pointed straight for his bearded throat. But his shoe slipped on a patch of blood, and before he could recover he felt himself falling hard against one of the guns, the sword clattering from his hand and beyond his reach.

In those split seconds he saw everything like one great painting, the faces and expressions standing out as if fixed in the mind of an artist. Allday, too far away to help, parrying with a red-turbaned pirate. Grindle and some seamen grappling wildly below the larboard gangway, sword-blades flashing and ringing, eyes wide with ferocity and terror.

He saw too the man with the axe, pausing, balancing on his great bared toes as if to measure this final blow. He was actually grinning, savouring the moment.

Bolitho did not hear the shot through all the other awful sounds, but saw his attacker tilt forward, his expression changing to one of complete astonishment and then a mask of agony before he pitched forward at his feet.

Witrand’s pistol was still smoking as he lowered it from his forearm and yelled, “Are you ’urt, Capitaine?”

Bolitho groped for his sword and stood up, shaking his head.

“No, but thank you.” He grinned. “I think that we are winning this fight!”

It was true. Already the boarders were retreating along the gangway, leaving their dead and wounded to be trampled underfoot as the battle swayed back and forth above the deck.

Bolitho pushed past several yelling Spaniards and stood beside Allday, his sword parrying a scimitar and opening the shoulder of its owner in a long scarlet gash. Allday watched the man reel towards the side and slashed him down with his heavy cutlass, gasping, “That’ll speed him on his way, by God!”

Bolitho wiped his streaming face and peered down into the boat alongside. Already it was being poled clear, and he could see some of the boarders leaping back on to its narrow side deck, beneath which the hidden oarsmen were trying to free their blades from the Navarra’s side.

Several muskets were banging from below, and he felt a ball rasp against the rail by his fingers, and saw a red-robed figure pointing him out to some marksmen on the chebeck’s slender poop.

But the oars were gaining control, and as the drumbeat rose above the yelling Spanish seamen, the screaming wounded and those of her own crew who were floundering in the water, the chebeck began to move down the ship’s side.

Bolitho noticed that her consort was some mile distant, and must have stayed out of range for the whole fight.

He thought of Meheux in the cabin and shouted hoarsely, “I must tell them to use the gun!”

He turned to run aft and almost fell across a sprawled corpse, its face glaring fixedly at the lifeless sails and one hand still grasping a bloodied sword. It was Grindle, the master’s mate, his grey wisps of hair giving the impression that it was somehow managing to stay alive without him.

Bolitho said, “Take him, Allday.”

Allday sheathed his cutlass and watched Bolitho hurrying away. To the dead master’s mate he said wearily, “You were too old for this kind of thing, my friend.” Then he dragged him carefully into the shade of the bulwark, leaving a smeared trail of blood behind him.

Meheux managed to get one more shot into the enemy before the power of their oars carried them safely out of range. The chebeck which had so daringly boarded the Navarra had dropped almost three cables astern when Meheux was satisfied enough to fire. The ball smashed the other vessel on the poop, carrying away the small lateen mizzen and ripping through the carved scrollwork before plunging into the sea in a welter of spray.

The leading chebeck had sunk, leaving only a few pieces of flotsam and corpses as evidence. The rest made off to the south as fast as their oars could drive them, while the Navarra’s dazed and bleeding defenders stared after them, still unable to accept their own survival.

Bolitho returned to the poop, his legs heavy, his sword arm throbbing as if from a wound.

The Spanish seamen were already heaving the enemy’s corpses overboard, to bob alongside in a macabre dance before they drifted away like so many discarded rag dolls. There were no prisoners, for the enraged Spanish were in no mood to give quarter.

Bolitho said to Meheux, “They’ll not attack us again today, I’m thinking. We had best get the wounded below. Then I will inspect the damage to the hull before it gets dark.”

He looked round, trying to free his mind from the dragging aftermath of battle.

“Where’s Pareja?”

Allday called, “He took a musket ball in the chest, Captain. I tried to keep him from showing himself!” He sighed. “But he said that you would expect him to help. To keep the crew’s spirits up.” He gave a sad smile. “He did too. Funny little fellow.”

“Is he dead?” Bolitho recalled Pareja’s eagerness, his pathetic subservience in his wife’s presence.

“If not, Captain, then it will soon be so.” Allday ran his fingers through his thick hair. “I had him put below with the rest.”

Witrand crossed the blood-spattered deck and asked calmly, “Those pirates will return, Capitaine?” He glanced round at the limping wounded and the exhausted, lolling survivors. “And what then?”

“ We will fight again, m’sieu.”

Witrand eyed him thoughtfully. “You saved this hulk, Capitaine. I am pleased I was here to see it.” He pursed his lips. “And tomorrow, who knows, eh? What ship will come and discover us, I wonder?”

Bolitho swayed and then said tightly, “If we are met by one of your frigates, m’sieu, I will surrender the ship. There would be no point in letting these people suffer any more.” He added quietly, “But until that time, m’sieu, this ship, like her flag is mine.”

Witrand watched him go and shook his head. “Stupefiant!” was all he said.

Bolitho ducked his head beneath the low deck beams and looked gravely at the untidy lines of wounded. Most of them lay quite still, but as the ship yawed sluggishly and the lanterns spiralled from the deckhead it seemed as if every shape was writhing in agony, condemning him for their suffering.

The air was foul with a stench of cooking oil and blood, of bilge and vomit, and he had to steel himself before he could continue on his way. Allday was holding a lantern in front of him, so that some of the faces of the injured and wounded leapt into focus as he passed, only to fade into darkness again, their pain and despair mercifully hidden.

Bolitho wondered how many times he had witnessed sights like these. Men crying and weeping for forgiveness. Others

demanding assurances that they were not really dying. That by some miracle they would live to see daylight. Here, the language and intonation were different, but all else the same. He could recall the time as a frightened midshipman aboard the Manxman, an eighty-gun ship-of-the-line, seeing men fall and die for the first time and watching their agony after the fight was finished. He could remember being ashamed, disgusted with himself for feeling nothing but an overwhelming joy and relief at being whole and spared the agonies of the surgeon’s saw and knife.

But he had never been able to conquer his feelings completely. As now, compassion and helplessness, something as impossible to control as his fear of heights.

He heard Allday say, “There he is, Captain. Down by the lamp room.”

He stepped over two inert shapes, their faces already covered by scraps of canvas, and followed closely on Allday’s heels. Around and beyond the swaying lantern he could hear voices moaning and gasping and the gentler crooning assurances of women. Once when he turned his head he saw several of the Spanish peasant women resting momentarily from their work on the pumps. They were naked to the waist, their breasts and arms shining with sweat and bilge water, their hair matted in the filth and the effort they had given to their work. They made no attempt to cover their bodies, nor did they drop their eyes as he had passed, and one gave him what might have been a smile.

Bolitho paused and then knelt down beside Luis Pareja’s body. He had been stripped of his fine clothes, and lay like a fat child staring at the gently swaying lanterns, his eyes unmoving, dark pools of pain. The great bandage around his chest was sodden with blood, the centre of which gleamed in the dim light like a bright red eye as his life continued to pump steadily away.

Bolitho said softly, “I came as soon as I could, Seсor Pareja.”

The round face turned slowly towards him, and he realised that

what he had taken for a pillow was in fact a soiled apron spread across someone’s knees to keep his head from the deck. As the lantern lifted higher he saw it was Pareja’s wife, her dark eyes not on her dying husband but staring fixedly away into the darkness. Her hair was hanging loose and disordered about her face and shoulders, and yet her breathing seemed regular, as if she was composed, or perhaps numbed by what had happened.

Pareja said thickly, “You saved these people, Captain. From those murderous Saracens.” He tried to reach up for his wife’s hand but the effort was too much and his fist dropped against the bloodied blanket like a dead bird. “My Catherine will be safe now. You will make sure.” When Bolitho did not reply he struggled violently on to one elbow, his voice suddenly strong again. “You will, Captain? You give me your word, eh?”

Bolitho nodded slowly. “You have it, seсor.”

He glanced quickly at her face, half hidden in shadow. Catherine was her name, but she seemed as distant and unreal as ever. When Pareja had spoken her name Bolitho had expected her to break, to lose her reserve and aloof poise, but instead she had continued to stare beyond the lanterns, her mouth glistening slightly in the smoky glare.

Ashton stumbled through the gloom and said, “Beg pardon, sir, but we have managed to rouse the drunken seamen at last. Shall I muster them aft for your attention?”

Bolitho snapped, “No. Put them on the pumps!” He spoke so harshly the midshipman recoiled. He continued in the same tone, “If the women see them, so much the better. They were too useless to fight, so they can work at the pumps until they drop as far as I am concerned!”

Behind his back Allday shot the midshipman a quick glance of warning, and without another word the boy hurried away.

Bolitho said to Pareja, “I could have done nothing without your assistance.”

Then he looked up as she said tonelessly, “Save your words, Captain.” She reached over and closed her husband’s eyes. “He has left us.”

The candle flame in Allday’s lantern flickered and leaned towards the glass, and beneath his knees Bolitho felt the deck’s sudden tilt, the attendant clatter of loose gear, as if the ship was awakening from a sleep.

Allday whispered, “The wind, Captain. It’s here at last.”

But Bolitho remained beside the dead man, trying to find the words, and knowing that, as ever, there were none.

Eventually he said quietly, “Seсora Pareja, if there is anything I can do to help, please say. Your husband was brave, very much so.” He paused and heard Meheux’s voice shouting orders on the poop. There was much to do. Sail to be set and a course shaped to get the ship to the squadron if at all possible. He looked at her hands resting on her lap beside Pareja’s still face. “I will send someone to assist you as soon as I have been on deck.”

Her voice seemed to come from far away. “You cannot help me. My man is dead, and I am a stranger to his people once more. I have nothing but the things I am wearing and a few pieces of jewellery. Not much for what I have suffered.” She eased Pareja’s head away and let it rest on the deck. “And it is thanks to you, Captain.” She looked up, her eyes glinting in the lights. “So get back to your duties and leave me in peace!”

Bolitho rose and walked aft towards the companion ladder without a word.

On the open poop again he made himself stand quite still for several minutes, breathing the cool evening air, watching the dull red glow of sunset along the horizon.

Allday said, “Pay no heed to that one. It was no fault of yours. Many have died, and a good few more’ll go afore this war’s done.” He grimaced. “She’s lucky to be alive tonight, as we all are.”

Meheux came aft and said, “Can I put the Dons to work, sir?

I thought we might set the tops’ls and forecourse to get the feel of her again. If the strain is too much we can reef or strip down to jib and main tops’l.” He rubbed his hands noisily. “To be moving again is a miracle!”

“Carry on, Mr Meheux.” Bolitho walked to the rail and stared up at the first pale stars. “We will lay her on the larboard tack and steer east sou’ east.” He glanced towards the helmsman, almost expecting to see Grindle watching him. “But at the first sign of strain call all hands and shorten sail immediately.”

As the lieutenant hurried away to rouse the weary seamen Allday asked, “Shall I go and find the cook, Captain? ’Tis my belief that a hot meal can work wonders when all else has failed.” He stiffened as Witrand’s figure moved below the poop. “And him, will I clap him in irons as he deserves?”

Bolitho studied him impassively. “He’ll be no more trouble, Allday. While there is a fear of pirates hereabouts, I think our authority will stand.” He turned away. “Yes, you may put the cook to work.” As Allday walked to the companion he added, “And thank you.”

Allday paused with one foot hanging in space. “Captain?”

But Bolitho did not say any more, and after a further hesitation Allday clattered down the ladder, his mind grappling with this new and strangely disturbing mood.

At midnight, as the Navarra sailed slowly into a deepening darkness Bolitho stood by the lee gangway, his hair stirring in the cool wind, while more of the dead were buried. He had no prayer book, and there was no Spanish priest amongst the passengers to read over those who had died in or after the fighting.

In a way, he thought, the silence was more moving and sincere, and he was conscious of the other sounds: of sea and canvas, of shrouds and the creak of the tiller. A more fitting epitaph for men who had once lived off the sea which was now to receive them forever.

Grindle and Pareja had been buried together, and Bolitho had seen Ashton rubbing his eyes as the master’s mate had splashed down alongside.

Meheux called, “That’s the lot, sir.”

His voice was hushed, and Bolitho was thankful to have him here. Meheux understood without being told that the dead were being buried at night to make it as easy as possible for those who remained alive. There was absolutely no sense in adding to their grief, and there would be more dead tomorrow, he was certain of that.

He replied, “Very well. I suggest you trim the main yard, and then dismiss the watch below. You and I will stand watch and watch, though I doubt anyone will want to usurp our doubtful privilege.”

Meheux said simply, “I am proud to share it with you, sir.”

Bolitho turned and walked up the tilting deck until he had reached the taffrail. The western horizon was very dark, and even the ship’s lively wake was difficult to see.

Below his feet, in the gutted stern cabin he could hear McEwen whistling softly as he fussed over his thirty-two-pounder. It was strange how safe they all seemed to feel. How assured.

He turned his head as the Spanish seamen finished trimming the main yard and noisily secured the braces to their belaying pins. Even they-who because of the stroke of some politician’s or monarch’s pen were deemed to be enemies-appeared content under his command.

He smiled wearily at his grotesque thoughts, the ramblings of his mind, and began to pace slowly back and forth across the poop. Once, as his eye fell on the nearest hatchway, he recalled the bearded giant with his axe, and wondered what would have happened but for Witrand’s quick action. With his second pistol he could just as easily have killed him too. In the grim business of hurling the boarders back over the side no one would have

noticed an additional shot. Perhaps even Witrand felt safer with him alive.

Bolitho shook himself with sudden irritation. His fatigue was playing tricks on him. Tomorrow might find their roles changed once more, with himself a prisoner and Witrand going about his mysterious affairs again, and this a mere interlude. Part of the pattern for the whole.

And that was how war must be faced. To give an enemy personality was too dangerous. To allow him to share your own hopes and fears was asking for self-destruction.

He wondered what Broughton would have done under similar circumstances, and was still thinking about it when Meheux came to relieve him.

And so, under a light wind and her sparse sails drawing well, the Navarra continued on her journey. The only sounds to mark her passing were those of the pumps, the occasional cry of a wounded man between decks and to Bolitho as he lay sleepless in his makeshift cot they seemed to sum up completely what together they had achieved.

He was shaving in the stern cabin, a broken mirror propped against a sagging bookshelf, when Meheux hurried in to announce that a sail had been sighted, almost dead astern, and moving very fast.

Bolitho looked at his torn and blackened shirt and then reluctantly pulled it over his head once more. Maybe the shave was a waste of time, but he felt better for it, even if he did still look like a ragged scarecrow in the mirror.

Meheux was watching him with silent fascination. Bolitho could feel his eyes on the razor as he wiped it on a scrap of cloth before dropping it into a bulkhead locker where he had found it.

He said slowly, “Well, Mr Meheux, there is not much we can do about it this time.”

He picked up his sword and fastened it around his waist before following Meheux on to the poop. It was early morning, and the air still fresh before the heat which would come later. He noticed the shrouds were hung with clothing, mostly women’s garments, and Meheux’ muttered apologetically, “They asked to be allowed to wash ’em, sir. But I’ll have the lot hauled down now that you are on deck.”

“No.”

Bolitho took the telescope and raised it to his eye. Then he tossed it to a seaman saying, “The glass is smashed. We will just have to wait and see.”

He walked to the taffrail and shaded his eyes against the growing glare to search for the other vessel. He saw the telltale pyramid of sails on the fine horizon line almost immediately, shining in the sunlight and very clear. A step on the deck made him turn and he saw Witrand watching him.

“You are an early riser, m’sieu.”

Witrand shrugged. “And you are very calm, Capitaine.” He looked at the sea. “Even though your freedom may be short.”

Bolitho smiled. “Tell me, Witrand, what were you doing in this ship? Where were you bound?”

The Frenchman smiled broadly. “I have lost my memory!”

The masthead lookout yelled, “She’s a frigate, sir!”

Meheux asked quietly, “What do you think, sir? Shall we alter course and make a run for it?” Then he smiled sheepishly as Bolitho pointed at the reefed topsail and listing deck. “I agree, sir. There is little point.”

Bolitho thrust his hands behind him, trying not to show his disappointment. A frigate could mean only one thing. An enemy.

Witrand said quietly, “I understand your feelings, Capitaine. Can I do something to assist you? A letter per’aps to a loved one? It might take months otherwise…” His eyes fell to the sword as Bolitho’s fingers touched the hilt. “I could send the sword to

England.” He added gently, “Better that than to let some dock-side dealer get his claws around it, eh?”

Bolitho turned to watch the other ship which was so rapidly overhauling the crippled Navarra it made him feel as if they were on converging courses. He could see her bulging topsails and topgallants, the bright tongue of her masthead pendant as she pushed and plunged across the dancing water in full pursuit.

There was a puff of brown smoke, gone instantly in the wind, and then a bang. Seconds later a tall waterspout shot skywards within fifty feet of the larboard quarter.

Muffled cries floated through the open hatches, and Bolitho said dully, “Heave to, Mr Meheux.” He glanced up at the mainmast and asked, “Where is the flag?”

“I am sorry, sir.” Meheux seemed stunned. “We used it to cover Mr Grindle before he was buried.”

“Yes.” Bolitho twisted round so that they should not see his expression. “Well, run it up now, if you please.”

Meheux hurried away, calling the seamen from the gangways and ratlines where they had been clinging to watch the newcomer.

Minutes later, with her ensign flapping against the dear sky, the Navarra rounded into the wind, her loose canvas banging in protest, her decks crowded with figures who had swarmed up from below to see what was happening.

Bolitho steadied himself against the uneven motion and walked slowly to Witrand’s side.

“Your offer, m’sieu. Was it genuine?” Bolitho moved his fingers around the buckle of the sword-belt, his eyes hidden as he said, “There is someone. I…”

He broke off and swung round as a great burst of cheering floated across the water.

The frigate was sweeping down to run across their quarter, and as she tacked violently in the wind he saw a flag breaking from her gaff. It was the same as his own, and he had to look

away once more, unable to hide his emotion.

Ashton was dancing up and down yelling, “She’s Coquette, sir!”

Meheux’s face was split in half with a huge grin, and he slapped Allday’s shoulder as he shouted wildly, “Well then!” Another slap. “Well then, eh?” It was all he could find to say.

Bolitho looked across at the Frenchman. Then he said, “It will not be necessary, m’sieu.” He saw the understanding in the man’s yellow eyes. “But thank you.”

Witrand moved his gaze to the frigate and said quietly, “It would seem that the English have returned.”