Flag Captain (16 page)

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 flap-ping 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.