The Flag Captain

8. The Prize

Vice-Admiral Broughton snatched a telescope from the midshipman of the watch and strode briskly to Bolitho’s side.

“What in hell’s name are they doing over there?” He trained the glass on the other ship which still drifted about half a cable under the Euryalus’s lee.

Bolitho did not answer. He too was studying her as she yawed and plunged, the newly hoisted white ensign flapping jauntily from her mainmast to prove that Lieutenant Meheux and his boarding party had at least achieved something.

He glanced up at the flapping sails and rattling shrouds. It was nearly an hour since the boats had been lowered to take Meheux and his men across to the prize, and in that time there had been a distinct and worrying change in the weather. The sky was clouding over very rapidly, so that the sea had lost its colour and warmth, and the fast-moving crests of the steep waves were dirty grey and menacing. Only the horizon appeared clear, cold and steel bright, as if being lit by power other than the setting sun. Without consulting the masthead pendant he knew the wind had backed still further, and now blew almost from the west, its strength mounting with each frustrating minute.

They were in for a blow, and, hampered by the disabled ship and very little information from Meheux, it could not have been at a worse time.

Broughton snapped, “The jolly boat’s returning. And about damn time!”

Watching the small boat under oars as it dipped and curtsied over crest and trough alike was visible evidence of the worsening weather.

The other boats had already been recalled and hoisted inboard, this one being Meheux’s only link with the flagship.

In the sternsheets Bolitho saw the intent figure of Midshipman Ashton, who with a master’s mate and reliable petty officer had been sent with Meheux to take charge of the prize.

While the little boat wallowed sickeningly below the Euryalus’s quarter Ashton cupped his hands and yelled, “She’s badly holed, sir! And the rudder lines have been shot away!”

Bolitho craned over the rail, conscious of the men nearby listening to him as he shouted, “What is she? What is taking so long?”

Ashton replied, “The Navarra, sir. Outward bound from Malaga.” He almost pitched overboard as an angry wave hurled the boat into a trough. “General cargo and, and…” He seemed aware of the admiral’s presence for the first time. “And a lot of passengers, sir.”

“For God’s sake, Bolitho! Ask the young idiot about her captain’s explanation!”

But in reply Ashton called, “He was killed in the broadside, sir. And most of his officers.” He peered up at Bolitho adding miserably, “The ship is in a terrible state, sir.”

Bolitho beckoned to Keverne. “I think you had better go across. The sea is getting up, and there seems more to our prize than we thought.”

But Broughton halted Keverne in his stride. “Belay that order!” He looked at Bolitho, his eyes cold in the strange light. “And if Keverne cannot cope with the problem, what then? More delay, with us getting caught in a squall in the middle of it. You go.” He flinched as overhead the shrouds and rigging began to hum and whine like badly tuned instruments. “Decide what must be

done, and be sharp about it. I do not want to lose her, but rather than waste hours or even days struggling back to the squadron with a lame duck for company, I’ll scuttle her, here and now.” He sensed Bolitho’s unspoken question and added, “We can take the crew and passengers aboard if need be.”

Bolitho nodded. “Very well, sir.”

He saw Keverne watching him, his face trying hard to hide his disappointment. Denied the chance to hold command of the Auriga, he was now losing yet one more opportunity to better his position. If the Navarra could be saved, but was unfit to accompany the flagship, the prize officer who sailed her back to Gibraltar might well find himself appointed as captain.

Bolitho had obtained his own first real chance of command by the same method, and could feel for Keverne’s distress and possible resentment.

He thrust it from his mind as he signalled to the jolly boat. If the wind mounted any further there might be no prize at all within the hour.

Allday had appeared at his side and helped him into his coat as he murmured, “You’ll be wanting me of course, Captain.”

Bolitho glanced at him. Saw the sudden anxiety, like the time he had gone to the bomb vessel without him.

He smiled. “As you say, Allday. Of course.”

Getting into the boat was as dangerous as it was uncomfortable. One moment it was driving hard against the ship’s side, the next plummeting into a trough, the oarsmen fighting and cursing to stop its timbers from being stove in.

Bolitho jumped outwards and down, knowing that if he misjudged it he was likely to be sucked bodily beneath his ship’s great bilge, or be ground into the side by the careering jolly boat.

Breathlessly he crouched in the sternsheets, blinded by spray, and knocked almost senseless by his jump, which had been more like a fall.

Allday grinned into the flying spray as the oarsmen turned the boat away from the ship and started to fight back downwind.

“Nasty blow, Captain!”

Bolitho said, “These squalls can go in minutes. Or they can drive a ship to despair.” It was amazing how Allday had regained his usual good spirits now he was with him again, he thought.

When he peered astern he saw the Euryalus plunging heavily, her close-reefed topsails just giving steerage way as she edged carefully clear of the other vessel. In the steel-grey light she looked huge and formidable, and he was thankful to see Keverne had already ordered the lower gunports to be closed. The ship was rolling badly, and open ports would invite unnecessary work for the pumps, as well as adding to the discomfort of the men who had to live there.

Even in the poor light it was easy to see the Spanish ship’s savage scars. The poop and lower hull beneath it had been smashed into gaping holes in several places, the blackened timbers protruding like broken teeth as testimony of that one, reduced broadside.

Midshipman Ashton shouted, “Mr Meheux has rigged some swivel guns, sir. But the crew appear too dazed to try and retake the ship.”

Allday growled, “There’ll be nothing to retake in a moment!”

After three attempts the boat managed to get under the Navarra’s lee and eventually hooked on to her main chains. Bolitho took his dignity in his hands and jumped wildly for the entry port ladder, feeling his hat whisked from his head and his body soaked to the waist as a lazy breaker swirled up and along the hull as if to drag him away.

Hands reached down to haul him unceremoniously to the deck where Meheux and the master’s mate were waiting to meet him, their faces showing their surprise at his sudden and undignified arrival.

Allday clambered after him, and Bolitho saw that somehow he had managed to retrieve his hat from the sea, although it was unlikely it would ever be the same again.

He took it from the coxswain’s hands, examining it critically as he gave his breathing time to return to normal, his eyes giving the swaying deck a brief glance as the extent of the damage became more apparent.

The severed mizzen mast, the tangle of fallen rigging and charred canvas, while on the deck nearby lay several gaping corpses, their blood paling in the blown spray and seeping away like life itself.

He said, “Well, Mr Meheux, I would be obliged if you will give me your observations and conclusions.” He turned as a block fell from somewhere overhead and crashed amongst a pile of shattered planks, which had once been some of the ship’s boats. “But be brief.”

The Euryalus’s second lieutenant glanced around the disordered deck and said, “She is badly holed, sir. There are several rents close to the waterline also. If this gets any worse she will take in more than the pumps can manage.” He paused as if to allow Bolitho to hear the measured clank of pumps. “The real problem is the great mass of people below, sir. Quite apart from her ship’s company, this ship is carrying about one hundred passengers. Women, even children, are jammed down there. If they get out of hand there will be too great a panic to control.” He gestured to the shattered boat tier. “And there’s no hope for them there either, sir.”

Bolitho rubbed his chin. All those passengers. So why did her captain risk their lives by trying to fight a three-decker? It did not make sense. Nor did it match a Spaniard’s normal attitude when it came to self-preservation.

“You have thirty seamen in your party, Mr Meheux.” He tried not to think of those terrified people battened down below. “Send

some to put extra members of the Navarra’s crew on the pumps. By working in relays we can keep it in check. Then the rudder. Have you done anything there?”

“My petty officer, McEwen, is attending to the lines, sir.” Meheux shook his head, obviously thinking it all a waste of time. “But the tiller head is damaged too, and will come adrift in anything like a heavy sea.”

Midshipman Ashton had climbed in through the entry port and was shaking himself like a half-drowned terrier.

Bolitho took a hasty glance at the sky. The fading light made the scudding clouds appear faster and lower. Either way they were in for a bad night, he thought grimly.

He saw Meheux watching him worriedly, no doubt wondering how he was going to cope with an impossible task. He slapped the lieutenant on the shoulder and said with a confidence he certainly did not feel, “Come, Mr Meheux, your face is like a thunderstorm to a bowl of fresh milk! Now get our people to work, and I will let Mr Ashton show me the passengers.”

He followed Ashton beneath the poop where a corpse in a gold-laced coat lay where it had fallen from a fire-scorched ladder. It must be the captain, he thought. The man’s face had been almost blown away, yet there was hardly a speck of blood on the immaculate coat.

Two pigtailed seamen were standing by the wheel gingerly moving the spokes in response to a muffled voice from below a companion ladder as the petty officer bawled his instructions. They saw Bolitho and one of them grinned with obvious relief. “ We leavin’ ’er, zur? ’Er’ll never steer proper with this ’un.”

Perhaps seeing his own captain again after seemingly being abandoned on this shattered, listing vessel had momentarily made him forget his normal respect when addressing his officers. But Bolitho only saw the man’s homely face split into a grin. A man he had hardly noticed before amidst the Euryalus’s eight hundred

souls, yet one who at this moment seemed like an old friend in an alien and despairing place.

He smiled. “I think we might prefer even this to a raft.”

As he ducked beneath the deck timbers the seaman winked at his mate. “Wot did Oi tell ’ee? Oi knew our Dick’d not leave us fer long.”

The petty officer, his hands and arms glistening with thick black grease from the rudder, appeared behind them and snarled, “Probably ’e don’t trust yew. Any more’n what I does.” But even he was surprised to learn his captain had arrived on board, and was content to leave it at that.

One deck down, Bolitho followed Ashton along a madly lurching passageway, very aware of the groaning timbers, the creak and clatter of loose gear and discarded belongings which seemed to mark each foot of the journey. He could hear the sea sluicing against the hull, the long shuddering protest as the ship lifted herself through another trough before heeling heavily away from the wind. His feet skidded, and in the swaying lantern light he saw a man’s body spreadeagled across a hatch coaming. His trunk was almost cut in half by a ball which must have come through an open port, catching him as he carried a message, or ran for his life before the merciless bombardment.

Two seamen were standing by another companionway, the top of which was sealed with a heavy hatch cover. They were both armed, and stared at Bolitho with surprise and something like guilt. They had probably been rifling some of the cabins, he thought. That could be sorted out later. Just so long as they had not yet broached a spirit store or found some wine in an officer’s sea chest. Thirty men, inflamed by drink, would be little use for saving the ship or anything else.

He asked sharply, “Are they all down there?”

“Aye, sir.” One of then thumped his musket on the hatch. “Most of ’em had been put there afore the attack, sir.”

“I see.” It was a wise precaution in spite of the terror and the thunder of cannon fire. Otherwise many more would have died with the captain and his officers.

Allday hissed, “You’re not going down there, Captain?”

Bolitho ignored him. “Open it.”

He cocked his head to listen to Meheux shouting orders, the answering patter of bare feet on the deck above. Another crisis, but Meheux would have to manage on his own. Right now he had to see the passengers, for down there below the waterline he was sure he might find the answer to one of his questions, and there was no time left for delay.

At first Bolitho could see nothing. But when the seamen flung back the hatch cover and Ashton held his lantern directly above the ladder he felt the sudden tension and fear rising to greet him like something physical.

He climbed down two of the steps, and as the lantern light fell across his body he was almost deafened by a violent chorus of cries and shouts, and saw what appeared to be hundreds of eyes shining in the yellow beam, swaying about in the pitching hull as if detached from anything human. But the voices were real enough. Rising together in shock and terror, the shriller cries of women or children making him halt on the ladder, suddenly aware that many of these people were probably quite ignorant of what had happened in the world above them.

He shouted, “Be silent, all of you! I will see that no harm comes…”

It was hopeless. Hands were already reaching from the gloom, clawing at the ladder and his legs, while the mass of glittering eyes swayed forward, pushed on by the press of figures at the rear.

Ashton said breathlessly, “Let me, sir! I speak a little Spanish.”

Bolitho pulled him down to the ladder and shouted, “Just tell them to keep quiet!”

As Ashton tried to make himself heard above the clamour

Bolitho called to the two seamen, “Get some more hands down here! Lively, or you’ll be trampled to pulp!”

Ashton was tugging at his sleeve and pointing below him. “Sir! There’s someone trying to say something!”

It was in fact a plump, frightened-looking man, whose bald head shone in the lantern like a piece of smooth marble as he cried, “I speak the English, Captain! I will tell them to obey you if you only get me out of this terrible place!” He was almost weeping with fear and exhaustion, but was managing to keep a grip on something which Bolitho now recognised as a wig.

“I’ll have you all out of there in a moment. Stay on the ladder and tell them.” He felt suddenly sorry for the unknown man, who was neither young nor very firm on his feet. But right now he was his most valuable asset, one he could not afford to lose from view.

The bald man had a surprisingly carrying voice, although he had to break off several times to regain his breath. Some of the noises had died, and the crush of figures beneath the ladder eased back in response to his pleas.

The master’s mate and three seamen came panting along the passageway and Bolitho shouted, “Ah, Mr Grindle, you were quick. Now get ready to pass the children aft, though God knows how many there are down there. Then the women…” He broke off as a terrified figure tried to push past Ashton on the ladder. He seized him by the coat and said harshly, “Tell this one that I will have him thrown overboard if he disobeys my orders!”

In a calmer tone he continued, “You may put all the fit men to work on deck under Mr Meheux.”

Grindle looked at him dubiously. “They ain’t seamen, sir.”

“I don’t care. Give ’em axes and have that wreckage hacked away. Cut loose any top hamper you can find. You may cast the poop guns over the side if you can manage it without letting them run wild.” He paused to listen to the wind whipping against the

hull, the growing chorus of groans and bangs which seemed to come from every side, above and below.

Grindle nodded. “Aye, aye, sir. But we’ll not save ’er, I’m thinkin’.”

“Just do as I say.” He halted the man before he could move away. “Look, Mr Grindle, there is something you must face. These people cannot abandon ship, for there are no boats, nor could we build a raft in this sea. Their officers are dead, and they are near giving in to their terror.” Grindle was an experienced man, he deserved an explanation, even at this late stage.

The master’s mate nodded. “Aye, sir. I’ll do what I can.” He raised his voice. “You lads there! Watch the ’atch, while we goes down to get the bairns out!”

Another seaman came staggering down the passageway. “Captain, sir! Mr Meheux sends his respects, and the Euryalus is signalling!” He gaped as Grindle reeled through the hatch carrying two screaming babies as he would a bundle of canvas.

Bolitho snapped, “Give Mr Grindle a hand.” To Ashton he called, “On deck and see what is happening.” The boy faltered and then ran as Bolitho shouted, “Well, move yourself, my lad! I may have need of your Spanish presently.”

The tide of scrambling, gasping figures was growing every minute, with the seamen occasionally reaching into it to haul out some man who was trying to remain hidden with the women.

Bolitho had vague impressions of dark hair and frightened eyes, of tear-stained faces, an atmosphere of despair and near panic.

Ashton was back again, pushing through the throng, his hat awry as he reported, “The admiral wishes to know when you are returning, sir.”

Bolitho tried to shut out the din, the clawing uncertainty of other people’s fear which hemmed him in on every side.

Then he snapped, “Signal the ship at once. I need more time. It will be pitch dark soon.”

Ashton stared at him. “It is all but dark now, sir.”

“And the wind?” He must think. Detach his mind from this throng of terrified, unreal figures.

“Strong, sir. Mr Meheux says it is still rising.”

Bolitho looked away. It was settled. Perhaps there had never been any doubt.

“Go and make your signal. But inform the admiral that I will endeavour to get sail on this ship within the hour.” Ashton looked stunned. Maybe he had expected Bolitho to order them from the ship. The jolly boat could still make the crossing, at least with some of them.

Grindle panted past, his grey hair standing on end like dead grass.

Bolitho called, “How many so far?”

He scratched his head. “’Bout twenty kids. Fifty or so women!” He grinned, showing a line of uneven teeth. “Sailors’ dream, annit, sir?”

Grindle’s humour seemed to steady Bolitho. He knew he had been about to call back the midshipman before he could signal his ship. To make a last-minute compromise. One which Broughton might overrule with every justification and so recall him to the Euryalus.

He dismissed it instantly. Imagining Meheux trying to manage all on his own while he hid behind his proper role was unthinkable.

Ashton returned almost immediately. He was white faced and visibly alarmed.

“Signal from Euryalus, sir. If you are sure you can save the prize will you confirm it now?” He swallowed hard as something crashed across the upper deck, followed by shouts and wild curses from the seamen.

“Then confirm it, Mr Ashton.”

The midshipman added, “In which case you are ordered to

proceed independently to the squadron rendezvous. The flagship is making sail.”

Bolitho tried to hide his feelings. No doubt Broughton was more afraid of losing control of his squadron than anything. It was, after all, his first responsibility. If he allowed himself to be caught in a bad storm it might take him days to find his ships, to learn if Draffen had discovered anything useful.

He weighed his own reactions against their true value. Keverne could manage well enough, he had already proved that. Whereas here… He broke out of his thoughts and clapped Ashton on the shoulder. “Now be off with you.” As Ashton ran back along the passageway he called after him, “Walk. It does no harm to appear calm, no matter what your feelings may be!”

The midshipman glanced back at him and then forced a smile, before continuing on his way. Walking.

Allday called above the noise, “Can you come on deck, Captain?” He peered at some male passengers who were being herded in the opposite direction by two armed seamen. “Blow me, Captain, ’tis like the gates of hell opening!”

Grindle asked, “What’ll I do, sir?”

“Keep the passengers quiet until I can send the petty officer to relieve you. Then try and find some charts, and together we’ll decide what to do next.”

He followed Allday up the ladder and then said, “Get that corpse cleared away. It is no sight for children at first light.”

Allday watched him and gave a grim smile. Earlier it seemed they must abandon. Now he was speaking of first light. Things might get better after all.

On deck the wind and sea greeted Bolitho like forces gone mad. The light had almost disappeared, except for slivers of grey sky left darting between the clouds. Just enough for him to see the men reeling about the scarred decks, the bare space where the broken mizzen had lain trapped in its attendant rigging.

He rapped out his orders and then said to Meheux, “You have made a fine start.”

He turned to watch as Meheux raised one arm to point across the rail. The Euryalus was a mere shadow already, with the paler patches growing above her as her topsails filled to the wind and she began to go about. For a moment longer he saw her side glistening in spray, the checkered lines of her sealed ports, and pictured Keverne at his place on the quarterdeck, perhaps already imagining this to be yet another chance for him.

“We will have to stand before the wind, Mr Meheux. Any attempt to tack and we would lose the rudder and worse.”

The master’s mate came stumbling out of the darkness, a chart clutched against his chest.

“She was ’eadin’ for Port Mahon, sir. Most o’ the passengers are traders an’ their families, as far as I can make out.”

Bolitho frowned. The Navarra was much further south than need be when they had intercepted her. Another mystery, yet still no answers.

He said, “We will try and set the tops’ls, Mr Meheux. Put two good men on the wheel. Mr Ashton can translate your requirements to the Spanish hands.”

Bolitho looked round for the Euryalus, but she had completely vanished. He said, “I would rather have the Navarra’s men aloft for the present, where we can keep our eyes on them.”

Meheux grimaced. “They’ll be unhappy to go up in this wind, sir.”

“If they refuse, tell ’em there’s only one other place they can go.” He gestured between his straddled feet. “About a thousand fathoms straight down hereabouts!”

Another seaman sought him out and shouted, “There’s some fifty wounded in the fo’c’sle, sir! Blood all over the place! ’Tis a fearful sight!”

Bolitho watched the shadowy figures climbing gingerly up the

ratlines, urged on by Meheux with angry gestures and his own idea of Spanish.

“Go below and tell McEwen to discover if we have a doctor amongst the passengers. If so, have him brought on deck.”

Meheux was calling again. “There’s a good few severed lines on the main topmast, sir! It could carry away as soon as we get sail on her!”

Bolitho shivered, aware for the first time that he was soaked to the skin.

“Man the braces, Mr Meheux. Put some of the passengers on them too. I want every damned ounce of muscle you can find!” To Grindle he yelled, “Ready on the helm there!” His voice was almost drowned by the wailing wind, the leaping curtains of spray against the weather side, like spirits trying to drag her over and down.

He looked for a speaking trumpet, but could see nothing but the faces of the helmsmen glowing in the compass light like wax masks.

Was he doing the correct thing? The squall might blow itself out in minutes, in which case he would be better to lie-to under a close-reefed main topsail. But if it did not pass as quickly as it had come upon them, he must drive ahead of it. It was their only chance. Even then, the rudder might carry away, or the pumps might be unable to contain the steady intake of water. And until daylight it was impossible to learn the extent of the damage, or their true plight.

Meheux bellowed, “Ready, sir!”

Bolitho recalled Broughton’s comment. So be it. How long ago that seemed now. But he knew it could be little more than three hours since their flag had shown itself above the Navarra’s deck.

From forward he heard the jib cracking wildly, the impatient rattle of blocks, and imagined the men on the yards, strung out like limpets on driftwood, and just as helpless.

“Loose fore tops’l!” He saw Meheux swing away to relay his order. “Put the helm up, Mr Grindle!” He waved his arm urgently. “Easy there! Take the strain on those new rudder lines!”

Ahead, through the darkness he heard the sudden clamour of billowing canvas, the muffled cries from far above the heeling deck.

“Lee braces!” He slipped on the unfamiliar deck as he strained his eyes forward. “Loose the main tops’l!”

Grindle yelled excitedly, “She’s answerin’, sir!”

Reeling and fighting back against the thrust of rudder and braced topsails the Navarra was sliding drunkenly in a steep beam sea, her masts leaning over further and still further to the unwavering pressure.

“Hard over, Mr Grindle!” Bolitho ran back to the rail to watch as the main topsail showed faintly in the darkness, holding the ship over.

The wheel continued to turn, while Bolitho shouted to the invisible men below him at the braces until his throat felt like raw flesh.

But she was coming round. Slowly and painfully, her sails thundering and booming like live things, the solitary jib a pale crescent through the black lines of shrouds and stays.

He dashed the spray from his eyes and ran to the weather side. Already the angle of the waves had altered, and the angry, broken crests were now coming straight for the larboard quarter. All about him he could hear the protesting groan of wood and hemp, the clatter of broken gear, and waited for something to come tearing down from aloft to signal his failure.

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

“ We will steer due east, Mr Grindle.” He had to repeat it to make himself heard. Or perhaps like him the others were too

stunned, too battered by noise and weather, to make sense of anything any more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bolitho swayed aft to the wheel.

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

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

“Tell Mr Meheux to get his Dons down there as soon as he

has cleared the yards. I want every bucket, anything which will hold water, put into a chain of men. It will save the pumps from being swamped, and will keep the Spaniards busy for a while.”

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

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

He grinned. “Aye, sir.”

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

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

His voice trailed away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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