The Flag Captain

7. “Broadside!”

Noon the following day found the ships clawing slowly on a larboard tack with the wind almost abeam, their yards braced hard round to take maximum advantage of it. Shortly after first light they had altered course again and were now heading east-northeast, pinned down on their broken reflections by a sun which made any physical effort a torture. It was like a furnace, and even the wind, steady as ever from the north-west, seemed without any kind of freshness or relief, and stung the faces and bodies of the seamen like hot sand.

Bolitho plucked his shirt away from his chest and moved into the shadow of the hammock nettings as Keverne and Partridge lowered their sextants and began to compare notes. This usual procedure was watched and copied by several of the midshipmen, although unlike their superiors they were not involved in the importance of the situation.

Up on the poop, shaded by a small awning, he could see Draffen’s stocky figure pacing back and forth, up and down, his shoes clumping noisily on the sun-dried planking.

Keverne crossed to Bolitho and said wearily, “It matches your own calculation, sir.” Like the other officers he had discarded

coat and hat, and his shirt was clinging to his body like another skin. He sounded too tired for either admiration or surprise at his findings.

It had been an uneventful night, with the squadron sailing well and keeping their allotted stations. At dawn Broughton had come on deck, something so unusual as to give Bolitho a warning of the day’s importance.

As the signals had soared aloft for the new course, and preparations for cleaning ship and preparing breakfast had begun, Broughton had remarked sourly, “We are supposed to be contacted by one of Sir Hugo’s friends this forenoon. By God, I hate to have to rely on some damned amateur!”

He did not say if he was describing Draffen or his agent, and the look on his face decided Bolitho against even tactful questioning.

Draffen’s earlier confidence had visibly faded as the searing morning had dragged on. Any sudden shout from one of the ship’s company made him pause in his walk and stand stockstill until he had found the cry to be meaningless.

Bolitho said, “Well, Mr Keverne, there is nothing we can do at present.”

Two hours earlier the masthead lookout had hailed the deck, and as every eye had been raised to his tiny, swaying perch some two hundred feet above their heads, he had reported sighting land.

In spite of his hatred for any sort of height, Bolitho had made himself climb up the dizzy, vibrating ratlines, past the maintop, on and up until he had joined the pigtailed seaman who had made the report.

With his legs wrapped tightly around the crosstrees he had forced himself to ignore the deck far below him and had concentrated on opening his telescope, aware the whole time that the lookout was whistling between his teeth and not even bothering to hold on.

The sight was almost worth the anguish and embarrassment of the climb. There, far to the south, was a long, uneven ridge of mountains, ice blue in the harsh sunlight, disconnected from the land by sea mist, and strangely beautiful. The African coast. The mountains, he had estimated, were nearly thirty miles distant, but seemed unreachable and without reality.

Now, once again there was no sight of land, and away on either beam the sea danced and glittered in millions of blinding reflections, so that seamen working aloft and along the braced yards fumbled and groped with each precarious movement, their eyes too dulled by glare to be trusted.

The other ships had become more separated, so that the line was well stretched, the Tanais being some two miles ahead of Euryalus.

Broughton had conceded that if they were to be sighted by some small sailing vessel carrying Draffen’s agent it was prudent to extend the formation. And if seen by less friendly eyes it would be well to make the squadron appear as large as possible. Far away to leeward the sloop’s topsails shone like burnished steel as she pushed busily downwind like a terrier sniffing out a rabbit.

There was still no sign of the Coquette, nor might there be for some time yet. She could be investigating some strange sail well astern of the squadron. Equally she might be in serious trouble with an enemy.

Calvert appeared on the quarterdeck, his face screwed up with both worry and strain in the sun’s brightness.

He said, “Sir Lucius sends his compliments, sir. Will you join him in his day cabin.”

Bolitho glanced at Keverne, who turned his mouth down and said, “Perhaps there is a change of plan, sir?”

Bolitho strode after Calvert’s hurrying shape, wondering if Keverne was implying resentment at knowing so little. Like himself. When he entered the cabin it took his eyes several seconds

to get accustomed to the gloom, the comparative coolness after the unprotected quarterdeck.

Draffen was seated beside the desk, although Bolitho had not even seen him leave the poop.

“Sir?” He saw Broughton standing by an open stern window, his light brown hair glossy in the reflected glare. Far astern, the Valorous held rigidly to her tack, so that she appeared like some elaborate model, balanced on the admiral’s epaulette.

Broughton snapped, “I have asked you down here to explain further to Sir Hugo the necessity of keeping the Restless in company and within signalling distance! He breathed out hard. “Well?”

Bolitho thrust his hands behind him. In the presence of the admiral and Draffen, both of whom were impeccably dressed as before, he felt suddenly unkempt and dirty. He could feel the tension between the two men, and guessed they had been arguing before his arrival.

Draffen interrupted evenly, “I must find my agent, Captain. The sloop is fast and small enough for the purpose.” He shrugged. “I can say no fairer than that, now can I?”

Bolitho tensed. They were both drawing on him, each using his opinion to make him an ally. Never before had Broughton asked for his opinion on matters of strategy. And although Draffen had displayed an easy confidence after their first meeting, he had given away little of his intentions.

Bolitho said, “May I ask, Sir Hugo, what manner of ship we are expecting to meet?”

Draffen shifted in his chair. “Oh, something small. Probably an Arab trader or suchlike.” He sounded vague. Or evasive.

Bolitho persisted. “And if we miss meeting her, what then?”

The admiral swung away from the window, his tone sharp. “I am expected to keep this squadron beating back and forth for another week!” He glared at Draffen. “A week of avoiding open battle, of countless alterations of course!

“I know all that, Sir Lucius.” Draffen remained unmoved. “But this business demands great tact and caution.” His tone hardened. “As well as the efficient running of your ships.”

Bolitho stepped forward, “I can understand your concern, Sir Hugo.” He was very conscious of being in between these two powerful and unyielding men. Outside of the Navy he had had little contact with such people, and blamed himself for failing to understand them, to appreciate their worlds, each so different from his own.

“In this small squadron we have some three thousand officers and men to provision every day we are at sea. And that does not include the two bombs. Fresh water will become a real problem in this climate. And unless we can foresee some contact with a new source of supply it will be necessary to withdraw to Gibraltar before we have completed our mission.”

Draffen nodded. “I am sorry, Captain. You make good sense. A landsman tends to see ships as ships and not as people, mouths to be fed like luckier souls ashore.”

Broughton stared at him. “But that is exactly what I have just been telling you!”

“It was not what you told me, Sir Lucius, but the way you told it!”

He stood up and eyed each of them in turn. “However, I must ask you to signal the Restless to close with the flagship. Your master assures me this wind will hold for a while.” He looked at Bolitho. “That is also your opinion, I believe?”

Bolitho nodded. “It seems likely, sir. But you cannot be certain.”

“It will have to suffice. I will transfer to the sloop and go with her to sweep closer inshore. If I cannot make contact with my agent before dusk I will rejoin the squadron.”

Broughton rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “In which case we will carry on to Djafou as arranged?”

Draffen hesitated and then said, “It would seem so.”

The admiral gave a thin smile. “So be it.” He snapped his fingers at Calvert who had been hovering on the far side of the cabin. “Make a signal to Restless to close the flagship immediately.” He moved briskly up and down across the black and white squared deck covering. “You will then make a further signal to Valorous.”

Bolitho darted a glance at the flag-lieutenant as he wrote hurriedly in his book. It was to be hoped he was getting it all down correctly.

“Er, Valorous will take over command of the squadron and continue on present course. Euryalus will head down and make contact with Restless.” He shot Draffen a brief smile. “That will save time and allow you some extra hours for your, er, search.”

He swung round towards Calvert again. “Well, what in hell’s name are you gaping at? Go and attend to those signals at once!”

As the door closed behind Calvert’s back he added, “Young fool! He may be a fine jack-a-dandy in St James’s, but he is as much use as a blind seamstress to me!”

Draffen stood up and walked towards the adjoining cabin which stood opposite the larger one used by the admiral.

“I will change out of these clothes before I leave.” He eyed Broughton calmly. “I would not wish to be placed in Calvert’s category by the sloop’s commander.”

Broughton waited until he had gone and then said vehemently, “My God, my patience is wearing thin.”

“I will go and attend to the new course, sir.”

“Yes.” Broughton watched him distantly. “I shall be glad when we are at Djafou. I am heartily sick of interference.”

Bolitho hurried back to the quarterdeck, feeling the heat striking his shoulders like embers from a fire.

As he glanced quickly aloft at the masthead pendant and then at the compass he said sharply, “Call all hands, Mr Keverne. We

will wear ship directly. Then you may get the t’gallants on her.”

He heard the squeal of pipes, the immediate rush of feet as the seamen poured up into the sunlight, pausing only to peer aft to see the cause for the sudden excitement.

Astern, the Valorous was already making more sail, her acknowledgement to Broughton’s signal vanishing from her yard as her forecourse billowed free and then filled to the wind. The signal would please her captain, Bolitho thought. Furneaux had never really appreciated his station astern of the line. This sudden order would show the others exactly where he stood in Broughton’s eyes.

He forgot them as Midshipman Tothill called, “Restless has acknowledged, sir.” He glanced despairingly at Calvert’s back, who was peering at the signal book as if it was in Arabic.

Bolitho smiled. “Very well. Mr Partridge, we will see how she likes the feel of the wind again.”

He looked at the men below the gangways and mustered at the foot of each mast. “Carry on, Mr Keverne.”

“Hands aloft! Loose t’gallants!”

Keverne waited until the rush of barebacked seamen had reached the upper yards, their bodies black against the sky, like monkeys.

“Man the braces!”

He glanced round as Partridge dropped his hand and the helmsmen threw themselves on their spokes and began to heave the wheel over.

“Let go and haul!” Keverne’s voice was metallic and unreal through his trumpet. “Heave, you idle lot of old women!”

Creaking and groaning the great yards began to swing round, the hull plunging deeply in the swell as it swayed ponderously out of the line. Overhead the sails flapped about in momentary confusion, whilst above the noise Bolitho could hear the captains of the tops urging their men on with threats and curses. The top-

gallant sails were already whipping out from their yards, hardening into firm, tanned rectangles as the canvas took the strain, tugging at blocks and rigging alike and trying always to pluck an unwary topman from his perch and hurl him to the deck far below.

“Steer sou’ east by south.”

Bolitho braced his legs, feeling the deck vibrate through his shoes as the sails pushed the ship forward and down across the lip of another deep trough. Spray burst jubilantly above the figurehead and pattered across the men working busily at the headsail sheets. He watched the topmen racing each other to the deck, their bare feet thudding on the planking as once more they awaited orders.

Standing almost before the wind, the ship was already gathering way, the deck swaying easily from side to side instead of fixed at one set angle when close hauled.

Bolitho looked aloft, thinking of how she would appear to the Restless. The sloop was being made to beat into the teeth of the wind, and Broughton’s change of heart would save her and everyone else a good deal of time. Bolitho knew that Broughton’s reasons were probably different, that he really wished to get rid of Draffen, if only for a short while.

But, for a few moments he could feel content. The Euryalus was behaving magnificently, and he toyed with the idea of having Keverne set the royals as well. But that one extra layer of canvas might just be visible to some hostile craft as yet unseen below the horizon.

He turned as Draffen came on deck and said, “You wished to see her sail, sir.” He watched Draffen’s eyes hurrying about the taut, drumming shrouds, the hardbellied sails, appreciating everything he saw, if not understanding all of it.

He said, “She’s a lady, Bolitho. It makes all this trouble worthwhile.”

Bolitho noticed he was wearing a plain green coat and loose breeches. Under his coat he also saw the glint of metal. Draffen was obviously used to carrying a pistol, and seemed the sort of man who would be well able to take care of himself.

He was shading his eyes as he tried to understand what the Restless was trying to do as she reeled once again across the wind, her sails flapping and almost aback before she swung away on her new tack.

Bolitho crossed to the starboard side and looked for the squadron. Euryalus’s sudden increase of speed had left them bunched together and seemingly entangled, their silhouettes overlapping so that they looked like a single, ill-designed monster.

He called, “Mr Keverne, we’ll shorten sail in thirty minutes. Restless can lie under our lee until Sir Hugo is aboard.”

Later, while the Euryalus lay hove-to, her hull rolling sicken-ingly in a beam swell and her sails banging and useless in noisy torment, Broughton came on deck to watch as Draffen was rowed across in the sloop’s jolly boat.

He said, “Well, that is that.” He sounded satisfied.

Bolitho saw Draffen pause in his climb up the sloop’s side and turn to wave his hand.

He said, “I would like to tack to the nor’ east, sir. It will save time later when we run down and rejoin the squadron.”

Broughton turned his back on the sloop as her topsails filled to the wind and she started to pay off away from her massive consort. “Very well.” Broughton eyed him searchingly. “I suppose you cannot bear the thought of resuming your place in the line so soon after this brief freedom?” He smiled. “Well, it will do Furneaux no harm to exercise his power a little longer.”

Bolitho walked over to Keverne who was still watching the sloop. “We will steer nor’ east, Mr Keverne, lay her on the larboard tack. So call all hands again, and then they can have their meal. I imagine the activity might have given them a new

appetite.” He saw the villainous-looking chief cook, a bearded giant with one eye, peering up from the main hatchway. “Although I hate to think what he puts into it sometimes.”

He crossed to the weather side as once again the seamen swarmed up the ratlines and out along the yards. Broughton understood him better than he realised. Independence and initiative, his father had once told him, were the two most precious things to every captain. Now, commanding a flagship, and tied to the squadron’s apron strings, he knew well enough what he had meant.

He thought suddenly of the house at Falmouth. The two portraits opposite the window. He was strangely moved to find he could think of them without grief or bitterness. It was almost like having someone there waiting for his return home.

Keverne was back again, his face expressionless. “This afternoon there will be two hands for punishment, sir.”

“What?” Bolitho stared at him and then nodded. “Very well.”

The moment of peace had passed. But as he walked to the quarterdeck rail he found himself praying that it might return.

At six o’clock that same day Bolitho sat behind his desk looking through the stern windows, his mind busy with the affairs of his command. Trute, the cabin servant, placed a pot of fresh coffee by his elbow and padded away without a word. He had grown to accept the captain’s strange moods, his apparent need to be alone, even to pour his own coffee. Like his desire to have the desk facing aft, and whenever possible to dine off it instead of his beautiful table in the adjoining cabin. Trute had served three captains, and never met his sort before. The others had all expected to be waited on hand and foot, and at all times of day or night. Equally they had been swift and harsh when showing their displeasure. He had decided that although he liked Bolitho as a considerate and fair master, he had felt more comfortable with his previous captains.

At least it had been possible to know exactly what they were thinking for most of the time.

Bolitho sipped the scalding black coffee and wondered when it, like many other items, would become a luxury. It was never possible to feel confident, to know that a ship was not overreaching her margin of safety when it came to food and water.

He heard four bells chime out, the clatter of feet somewhere below as a warrant officer, probably caught dozing, dashed to perform his duties for the last dog watch.

It had been a busy afternoon for Bolitho, mainly because he had been trying to catch up with matters concerning his own ship rather than attending to those of the whole squadron. There had seemed an endless procession waiting to catch his ear.

Grubb, the carpenter, grey haired and always pessimistic about the enemy of all ships-rot. Not that he had found any in his daily molelike excursions in the bowels of the hull, places which had never seen, would never see, any light but that of a lantern. It was as if he wanted Bolitho to know of his tireless efforts on his behalf. And it all took time.

He had given several minutes to Clode, the cooper, concerning the purser’s earlier complaint about the state of some of the water casks. But then Nathan Buddle, the purser, quite often voiced complaints, provided they did not directly concern his own department. He was a thin, furtive-looking man, with skin like parchment, who wore an almost permanent hunted expression which Bolitho suspected hid things which did not concern rotten casks. In fairness, he had found nothing wrong with Buddle’s daily accounts, but like all his trade, the purser had to be constantly watched.

And as Keverne had reported earlier, two men were brought aft for punishment, watched as usual on such occasions by all unemployed members of the ship’s company.

Bolitho hated such spectacles, just as he knew them to be

inevitable. It always seemed to take such a long time. The gratings to be rigged, the culprits to be stripped and seized up, and his own voice reading the Articles of War above the din of wind and canvas.

The actual punishment excited little interest amongst the spectators.

The first man, awarded twelve lashes, had been caught stealing from one of his messmates. The opinion was probably that he was getting off lightly, compared with what his fellow seamen had intended and would certainly have carried out but for the timely intervention of the ship’s corporal. Bolitho had heard of cases when men who stole from their messmates had been thrown overboard at night, while one had actually been found minus the hand used for his crime. In the teeming, defenceless world of shipboard life few had much sympathy for a thief.

The second seaman had received twenty-four lashes for neglect of duty and insolence. Both latter charges had been laid by Sawle, the ship’s junior lieutenant. Bolitho blamed himself for this particular case. He had promoted Sawle to lieutenant some six months earlier, but had he not been so involved with the squadron’s affairs under the ailing Admiral Thelwall, he knew now he would have thought twice about it. Sawle had shown the makings of a good officer, but it had been mostly on the surface. He was a sulky-looking youth of eighteen, and Bolitho had told Keverne to ensure his tendency to bully subordinates did not get out of hand. Maybe Keverne had done his best, or perhaps he considered Sawle’s attitudes unimportant provided he carried out his other duties to his satisfaction.

Either way, the seaman’s bloodied back was a grim reminder to Bolitho of the constant need to supervise Sawle in the future. He was one of his officers and therefore his authority had to be upheld. Nevertheless, if Meheux, the cheerful, round-faced second lieutenant, or Weigall, the third, had been in Sawle’s place

the incident would have got no further. Meheux was popular because of his raw, north country humour. His well-founded boast that he could reef or splice as efficiently as any seaman would have prevented anything worse than a contest, man to man. Weigall, who had the build, and unfortunately the intelligence also, of a prizefighter, would have laid the culprit low with one of his massive fists and forgotten the incident completely. Weigall was not unpopular with the men of his division, but for the most part they avoided him. He was in charge of the middle gundeck, and had unfortunately been rendered very deaf during an engagement with a blockade runner. Sometimes he imagined his men were talking about him behind his back, and would have them doing extra drills in the twinkling of an eye.

Bolitho leaned back in his chair and watched the Euryalus’s wake bubbling astern as the wind pushed her over, holding her steady while she thrust onward to the north-east.

He poured some more coffee and grimaced. It would soon be time to wear ship and spread more sail for the uncomplicated run before the wind to find the squadron again. This one afternoon and evening of comparative freedom had given him time to think and reconsider, to examine those closest to him, yet as ever separated by rank and station. Broughton had left him entirely alone, and Calvert had implied that he was for the most part going over his charts and re-reading his sealed orders as if to find something previously missed.

There was a tap at the door and the marine sentry bawled, “Midshipman o’ the watch, sir!”

It was Drury. Doing an extra watch because of his earlier troubles with his lieutenant over the lantern.

“Mr Bickford’s respects, sir, and would you come up, please.”

Bolitho smiled as he saw the boy’s eyes exploring the cabin, noting everything for future description in the more meagre quarters of the gunroom.

“And why, Mr Drury? You seem to have forgotten the best part.”

Drury looked confused. “A sail, sir. To the nor’ west.”

Bolitho jumped up. “Thank you.” He hurried for the door. “I might arrange for Trute to show you over my cabin later, Mr Drury, but for now we have work to do.”

Drury blushed and dashed after him, so that they arrived on the tilting quarterdeck together.

Bickford was the fourth lieutenant, one who took his duties very seriously, but appeared totally lacking in humour.

He said, “Masthead has just reported a sail, sir. To the nor’ west.”

Bolitho walked up the deck to the weather side and peered towards the horizon. It was hard and silver bright, like the edge of a sword. But the wind was steady, and that was something. But it might rise to a squall before another dawn. It would then take time to rejoin the squadron, to contact Draffen in the Restless.

Bickford took his silence for uncertainty.

“It is my belief, sir, that she is the Coquette.” He raised his voice slightly to impress Drury and another midshipman nearby. “It would be the most likely explanation.”

Bolitho lifted his head and stared up at the bulging topsails, the cracking vehemence of the masthead pendant. Like a giant whip. He thought of the dizzy climb, the dreadful shaking in those shrouds.

“I see, Mr Bickford, thank you.”

The lieutenant nodded firmly. “That is why she comes alone and with such confidence, sir.”

Keverne climbed the companion ladder to the quarterdeck and hurried towards him.

Bolitho was still looking up at the straining yards. “Mr Keverne, get aloft with a glass. As fast as you can climb. There is a ship to larboard. Maybe alone.” He glanced at Bickford. “Maybe not.”

He saw Bickford and the others stiffen and draw back and knew that Broughton had arrived on deck.

“Ah, Bolitho, what is all this scampering and excitement?”

“A sail, sir.” He gestured above the nettings towards the horizon.

“Hmm.” Broughton turned to watch as Keverne swarmed easily up the weather shrouds. “What is she, I wonder?”

Bickford said quickly, “I think her to be the Coquette, sir.”

Broughton’s eyes did not blink as he said to Bolitho, “Would you remind that officer that if I am in such dire distress as to require an opinion of no value, he will be the first to be told.”

Bolitho smiled as Bickford melted into the others by the rail. “I believe he understands, sir.”

It was strange how they could stay outwardly calm, he thought. In spite of Broughton’s mild show of interest, he knew his mind was alive with questions and calculations. It would be interesting to see if he would ask for an opinion of his flag captain this time.

Keverne arrived, thudding to the deck by means of a backstay, and hurried across, his dark features working with excitement.

“Merchantman, sir. But well armed, fifty guns, I’d say. Standing right before the wind, but carrying no royal yards.” He realised Broughton was glaring at him and added, “Spaniard, sir. No doubt of it.”

Broughton bit his lip. “Damn his eyes.”

“Even without royals she could still give us a merry chase, sir.” Bolitho was thinking aloud. “But if we can take her we might get information.” He paused, studying the set of Broughton’s tense shoulders. “Information which would be yours to share as you thought fit.”

He had not misjudged the moment. Broughton swung round, his eyes shining.

“By God, I can see Sir Hugo’s face when he arrives back empty handed and we tell him of our news.” He sighed. “But what is

the use? By the time you put this great elephant about that Don’ll be flying for home. I cannot afford a long chase, one to take me away from the squadron.”

Bolitho said, “I think we have all missed the one important detail, sir.” He slapped one fist into his palm. “In a way Mr Bickford made some sense.” He looked at the others, his mouth lifting in a grin. Bickford was hanging back, as if afraid of receiving another rebuff.

Bolitho continued, “That Don thinks the Euryalus is French!” He looked at Broughton, at the doubts and disappointment giving way to cautious hope. “And why not, sir? After all this time they’ll not be expecting one solitary British ship in the Mediterranean. And there’s been no time for news to reach them of our leaving the Rock.”

Broughton walked to the nettings and climbed lightly on to a bollard. He stared fixedly at the horizon as if willing the ship to show herself to him.

The masthead lookout called, “Ship still runnin’ afore the wind, sir!”

Broughton returned to the deck, rubbing his chin. “She must have seen us. Even the Dons are not that blind.”

Bolitho replied, “But the moment we shorten sail or begin to tack he’ll know well enough what we are about.”

“Hell, Bolitho! You raise my hopes and then dash ’em again!”

“I can see her, sir! Two points before the beam!” Drury was clinging to the quivering shrouds, a telescope jammed to one eye.

Bolitho took a glass from the rack and steadied it against the deck’s plunging movements. Then he saw it, a pale wedge on the horizon. Running free with all sails set, her master was making the most of the fresh wind.

“She’s coming up fast, sir.”

Again he considered the idea of climbing to the masthead. Instead he asked, “Fifty guns, you think, Mr Keverne?”

“Aye, sir. I’ve seen her sort before. Well armed to fight off pirates and the like. Mile for mile we could outpace her, but I doubt match her agility.”

Broughton snapped, “I can see this getting us nowhere!”

“ We must draw her to close quarters, sir.” Bolitho walked quickly to the wheel and back without even being aware of it. “But keep the advantage. Without holding the wind gage we’ll soon be left astern.”

Partridge suggested, “’Oist a Frog flag, sir?”

The admiral banged his hips with impatience. “Too bloody obvious!”

He saw Captain Giffard and his marine lieutenant at the poop rail training telescopes on the newcomer. “Get those officers out of my sight! Red coats in a French man-o’-war, what are you doing, Giffard?”

The two marines vanished like magic.

Bolitho said slowly, “Man overboard, sir.”

“What was that?” Broughton stared at him as if he had taken leave of his sanity. “Man overboard?”

“The one thing at sea to make a ship heave to without warning.”

Broughton opened his mouth and shut it again. He could hardly contain his sudden flood of uncertainty and doubts.

Bolitho persisted gently, “We’ll need a good swimmer. A crew standing by for the quarter boat. We can pick ’em up later.” He nodded. “It’s worth it, sir.”

Broughton considered in silence. “It might just work. Give us the time to…” He stamped one foot on the deck. “By God, yes! We will try it!”

Bolitho took a deep breath. “Mr Keverne, take in the fore-course. We will remain under tops’ls and jib. It is common enough on this tack and should excite little attention.” He watched Keverne dashing away and sought out Partridge. “Taking in the

forecourse will cut her speed a little. We do not want to cross her bows too much.”

Partridge smiled and bobbed his head, his chins wobbling against his neckcloth. He had been wounded at Broughton’s scathing attack on his earlier suggestion, but seemed in good spirits again.

The great forecourse was already flapping and curling inwards as seamen scampered to sheets and halliards, urged on by Keverne’s speaking trumpet.

When the first lieutenant came to report it had been brailed up and secured against its yard, Bolitho said, “Send an experienced petty officer aloft to watch the Spaniard and report any sign of alarm. Then you may pipe the hands to quarters. We will not be able to clear for action on the upper deck, so this will have to be done quickly, and well. We do not want our people injured by boat splinters and falling spars to no good purpose.”

As Keverne dashed away again Broughton asked sharply, “How long?”

“An hour at the most, sir. I’ll bring her up a point to the wind. That should help.”

“It will be too dark to see in three hours.” Broughton nodded grimly. “So be it then.”

The admiral was about to walk to the poop and then stopped to add softly, “But you disable my flagship, Bolitho, and I cannot promise any hope for you.”

Bolitho looked at the master. “Bring her round a point to wind’rd.”

Then he made himself walk slowly along the weather side, his hands clasped behind him. If the Euryalus was disabled, there would be little hope for any of them, he decided.

Bolitho trained his glass on the other ship. Since she had first appeared above the horizon and the Euryalus had cleared for

action, he had expected some sign of alarm or recognition, but the oncoming vessel maintained her set course and now lay less than two miles distant. If Euryalus continued on her present tack the Spaniard would cross her stern with about a mile between them.

She was exactly as Keverne had described. Two-decked and carrying every available sail, she was making a fair display of speed, spray bursting above her scarlet and blue figurehead as high as the bellying forecourse. He could just distinguish the old-fashioned, triangular mizzen sail above her ornately carved poop, the flash of sunlight on trained telescopes as her officers examined the Euryalus, no doubt wondering at her purpose and destination.

Keverne said grimly, “Getting close, sir.”

Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and saw a burly seaman standing amongst a chattering group of onlookers.

“Ready, Williams?”

The man squinted up at him and grinned awkwardly. “Aye, sir.”

Bolitho nodded. The man had no doubt been well primed with rum by well-wishers. Not too much, he hoped, or the ruse might develop into a sudden sea burial.

He said, “Pass the word to the middle and lower gundecks, Mr Keverne.” He walked back to the weather side again and trained his glass on the other ship. “Starboard side to load with double shot. Make sure they do not run out until the order. One sight of a gun muzzle sniffing the wind and our friends will be off and away.”

As Keverne beckoned to a midshipman Bolitho called to Lieutenant Meheux who commanded the upper gundeck. He was staring at his own batteries, his round face unusually glum.

“Never fear, Mr Meheux, your crews will have work enough soon. But a view of them loading and casting off the lashings and our trick will misfire!”

Meheux touched his hat and then resumed his stance of gloomy disappointment.

Allday hurried across the quarterdeck and held out Bolitho’s sword. As Bolitho raised his hands and he swiftly buckled it around his waist, he said, “I’ve told the coxswain of the quarter boat what you want, Captain!” He grinned. “And what he’ll get if he makes a mess of it!”

Bolitho frowned. The Spaniard was going to pass further astern than he had gauged. He would have to act now, or never.

“Right, Williams, over you go!”

The big seaman clambered on to the larboard gangway, and with his face set in a mask of determination began to lean over the rail.

Keverne muttered harshly, “God, he is making the most of his performance.”

“There ’e goes!” Partridge hurried back to his place near the wheel as with a violent thrashing of arms Williams pitched over the rail and vanished.

Bolitho ran to the nettings as the cry “Man overboard!” brought the crew of the quarterboat dashing from their various attitudes of unlikely concentration. He breathed out more easily as the seaman’s head appeared bobbing and spluttering close to the side, and snapped, “Back the mizzen tops’l, Mr Keverne! Get that boat away!” He had feared that Williams’s enthusiasm would make him mistime his fall. The steep tumblehome of the three-decker’s side could easily have broken an arm or skull had he been careless.

He tore his eyes from the orderly confusion as the boat’s crew swarmed down into the tethered craft below the quarter, while overhead the mizzen topsail banged and flapped against the mast and yard, acting like a brake on some runaway juggernaut, just long enough to peer towards the Spanish ship. She was about two cables from the point where she would cross Euryalus’s wake, and he could see figures scampering along her forecastle, as if to get a better view of the drama.

Bolitho raised his hand. “Now! Stand by to go about!” Already

the mizzen yard was squeaking back to its original position, while from their hiding places beneath the gangways the seamen ran to their stations, encouraged by derisive cheers from the unemployed gun crews.

Partridge called, “Ready, sir!”

“Put the helm down!” Bolitho trained his glass on the Spaniard. There was still no sign of alarm as far as he could see.

“Helm a’lee, sir!”

Up forward the headsail sheets had already been let go, and as the wheel went over and the great hull began to swing very slowly into the wind, Keverne urged the men at the braces to even greater efforts as they strained back, panting and cursing, their eyes on the yards above them.

Sails boomed and swelled, and as the ship continued to swing Bolitho saw sudden activity on the other vessel’s poop, an officer waving wildly and pointing to his men who were still grouped around the bows.

“Off tacks and sheets!”

Bolitho shaded his eyes to peer aloft through the tangle of flapping sails and jerking shrouds to where the topmen were already fighting their way to the topgallant yards in readiness for the next part of the attack. For a moment longer he hardly dared to draw breath. The wind was still quite strong, and at worst might bring down the topmasts, or leave the heavy ship thrashing helplessly and all aback.

But the pendant was swinging, the ship was still responding, wheeling across the eye of the wind like a well-disciplined mammoth.

“Let go and haul!” Keverne had not raised his eyes from the men on deck. “Heave there!”

Slowly but steadily the great yards began to respond to the braces, until with a sound of hill thunder the sails billowed out,

full and bulging to the wind, while the deck heeled over to the opposite tack.

Bolitho watched fixedly as the other ship appeared to swim backwards through the mass of rigging around the foremast, until she lay not safely across the larboard quarter, but there, fine on the starboard bow.

There was no sign of the boat or the swimmer, and he found time to hope someone was watching out for them.

“Pass the word. Mr Keverne! Lower batteries run out!”

As the port lids lifted and he heard the familiar squeak and groan of gun trucks, he could imagine the cursing men far below his feet as they hauled their massive charges up the tilting decks towards the sunlight.

“Run up the colours. Mr Tothill!”

Broughton’s voice made him turn. “That was a fierce turn, Bolitho. I thought you would have the sticks out of her.” He had appeared on deck in his gold-laced coat, wearing the beautiful sword, as if for another of his inspections.

There was a dull bang and a puff of smoke drifted across the Spaniard’s poop. A gun must have been kept loaded and ready, Bolitho thought, although he did not see where the ball went.

“Get the t’gallants on her, Mr Keverne! This one intends to run for it!”

The two ships were on parallel courses, with the Euryalus now some two cables’ length astern.

There was another bang and someone gasped with alarm as a ball smacked through the fore topsail and splashed down far to windward.

The Spanish ship had a very curved stern, and Bolitho guessed she had some powerful guns mounted there to protect herself from a pursuer.

Broughton snapped, “No sense in delaying things.”

Bolitho nodded. Any minute now and a ball might bring down

a vital spar. “Middle battery, Mr Keverne. Fire in succession!”

To Partridge he snapped, “Bring her up a point to wind’rd!”

While the Euryalus swung slightly away from her intended victim the middle gundeck erupted in a cloud of brown smoke. From forward to aft, cannon after cannon crashed out at regular two-second intervals, each massive twenty-four-pounder hurling itself inboard as the savage orange tongue left its muzzle.

Bolitho watched the leaping waterspouts bursting near and beyond the Spaniard’s quarter, saw splintered woodwork fly from her bulwark as some of the balls smashed home.

From below he could hear the gunners cheering, the squeak of trucks as they raced each other up the canting deck towards the ports.

Keverne was watching him, his eyes dark with tension. “They have not struck, sir.”

Bolitho bit his lip. The red and orange flag of Spain still floated above the poop, and even as he watched another gun banged across the water and a ball screamed close overhead like a tortured spirit in hell.

He had expected the Spaniard to strike at the first sight of the flag. There was about a cable between them, and with her topgallant sails drawing well the Euryalus was beginning to pare the range away with each minute.

Something caught his eye, and he saw the quarter boat, black against the glittering water, while its crew, and presumably Williams, stood to cheer the one-sided battle.

The Spaniard’s quarter battery belched orange tongues again; this time three, perhaps four, had fired, and before the smoke had blown clear Bolitho felt the deck jump as a ball slammed into the Euryalus’s hull like a hammer.

“Bring her up a point again, Mr Partridge.” What was that fool of a Spaniard doing? It was sheer madness to risk any more fighting. If he continued to run before the wind Euryalus would

overhaul him. If he stood away, she would rake his stern and dismast him in seconds.

More flashes, and this time a ball ploughed into the starboard gangway, and two seamen rolled screaming and kicking on the deck below, cut down by the flying splinters.

Bolitho said, “Lower batteries, Mr Keverne.” He held on, watching the defiant flag. Hoping. Then he snapped, “Broadside!”

The two lower gundecks had been given plenty of time. It had been almost a leisurely business as gun-captains had checked their crews, and the lieutenants had paced up and down, ducking beneath the massive deck beams to peer through the open ports, as with tired dignity the Euryalus turned slightly away from her enemy, showing the double line of guns like black teeth. The next instant, as lieutenants blew on their whistles and captains jerked their lanyards, every gun roared out as one, the whole ship quaking as if grinding across a submerged reef.

On the quarterdeck Bolitho watched the smoke billowing down towards the Spaniard, while above it he saw her mizzen tilt forward before plunging down over her poop, the crash audible even above the broadside’s echo, which still reverberated across the sea like thunder.

As the smoke drifted beyond the other ship he saw the gaping holes in her exposed bilge and along her quarter, the trail of rigging and broken spars alongside as she swung drunkenly downwind, exposing her tall stern as if for the final, devastating blow.

But a voice yelled, “’E’s struck!” And the cheer was taken up below where the crews were already sponging out and reloading for the next broadside.

Bolitho said, “A brave captain.”

“But stupid.” Broughton was peering towards the Spaniard as she continued to drift helplessly with her smoke, so pitiful after her original appearance of vitality and life.

“ We will shorten sail at once, Mr Keverne, and keep her under

our lee.” He waited until Keverne had passed his orders before adding, “Now we might discover what was important to him that needed defending so desperately.”