The Flag Captain

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.”

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