The Flag Captain

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.