The Flag Captain

came aboard so late at Malaga that he had no cabin.” He looked startled. “Yet he was allowed to share these quarters with the captain? Very strange.”

Bolitho stood up slowly, his mind hardly daring to hold any hope. And yet it was just possible. Someone important enough to share with the captain might well be able to arrange an unorthodox transfer at sea. It would only mean a few days more aboard for the rest of the passengers, and power, like wealth, was

very insistent. This man Witrand could be a smuggler or a highborn criminal on the run. A traitor or a merchant trying to outwit his competitors. But he might have information, anything which could throw some light on events in these waters.

There was a sudden commotion in the passageway and he heard Allday say angrily, “It is no use! You cannot go in there!” And then in a strange, heavy accent, “Eet ees no bloody good, See- nora!”

But the door rocked back on its broken hinges and a woman stormed into the cabin, her eyes blazing as she said, “Ah, there you are, Luis! Everyone is waiting to hear what is happening! And you stand here making gossip like some fishwife!”

Bolitho looked at her with surprise. She was tall and had long hair, as dark as his own, and was wearing what must be a very costly blue gown. But it was smeared with salt stains, and there were darker patches near her waist which he guessed were blood.

Pareja was embarrassed and said, “This is my wife, Captain. Like yourself, she is English.”

Bolitho moved the remaining chair towards her. “Please be seated, seсora.”

She was nearly a head taller than her husband, and at a guess some twenty or so years younger. Striking rather than beautiful, her features were dominated by very dark eyes, and a mouth which was now set in a line of stubborn determination and anger.

“I will not be staying.” She looked at him for the first time. “All the others have been talking of my husband’s new importance in your eyes. I merely came to see that he did not make a fool of himself.”

“Now, my dove!” Pareja stepped back as she swung to face him.

She said, “Do not dove me! You promised to take me away from the war, and from fear of war! And as soon as we are at sea what happens?” She gestured with something like contempt towards Bolitho, “This one seizes our ship, and nearly kills us all in doing it!”

Meheux snapped, “Hold your tongue, madam! Captain Bolitho is a King’s officer and you’ll do well to remember it!”

“Captain, is he?” She gave a mock curtsy. “We are honoured indeed.”

Allday made as if to seize her from behind but Bolitho shook his head.

“I am sorry you have been inconvenienced, Seсora Pareja. I will do what I can to ensure you are all returned to Malaga just as soon as I can arrange it.”

She had her hands on her hips, and he could see her supple body trembling with her anger.

“You know that is unlikely, Captain. We will more likely be pushed from ship to ship, suffering indignities at the hands of your sailors, until we are left stranded in some port. I have heard of such things before, believe me!”

She had a strong voice, like her limbs, and she appeared to be well able to take care of herself. Yet as she stood in the scarred cabin, her dress still showing the marks left from the storm and from tending the wounded, Bolitho could hear her voice giving away something more. Desperation, but not fear. Disappointment, rather than any horror at her predicament.

He said, “I will see that you and your husband are moved to an officer’s cabin. I understand your own was destroyed?”

“Yes. And all my trunks!” She glared at her husband. “But his were safe, of course!”

“But, my dove!” Pareja was almost kneeling to her. “I will take care of you!”

Bolitho looked away. Embarrassed and sickened.

To Meheux he said, “Have them taken to the cabin now. I must find out…” He broke off as a startled shout was followed instantly by a shot.

He snatched up his sword and pushed Pareja aside as he ran through the door, Meheux and Allday pounding behind him.

The sun was so bright and blinding that for a few seconds he could see nothing unusual. Several passengers were still standing by the main hatch where they had been told to wait for the issue of food. Others were caught in various attitudes of surprise or fright as they peered up at the forecastle, where two men stood behind a mounted swivel gun, training it aft, towards the quarterdeck. Beside it, one of Meheux’s seamen lay moaning quietly with blood seeping from a pistol ball in his shoulder.

Pareja called nervously, “That is the man! Witrand!”

Bolitho stood very still. One jerk of the lanyard and a blast of canister would sweep the deck from forward to aft. It would not only cut him down but most of the people in between as well.

He called, “Stand clear of that gun! You can do nothing!”

“Do not speak so foolishly, Capitaine!” The man’s voice was smooth but surprisingly loud. “Some of your men had the, er, misfortune,” he smiled, “the misfortune to discover some very fine brandy below. I fear they will be of little help to your cause.” The muzzle moved slightly. “Throw down your weapons. The Spanish seamen will be resuming their duties. I have no doubt that even they can sail the ship when required.” He was smiling broadly, his teeth very white in his tanned face. “Your own ship has gone away. There is no point in sacrificing yourself,” his tone hardened, “or others, for your own pride!”

Bolitho’s mind grappled with the problem which he was now facing. Even if he and the others still sober controlled the poop, they could not work the ship. Whereas Witrand’s swivel gun would ensure that he remained master of the upper deck, as well as all the food and water. There might be no Spanish officers left alive, but Witrand was right. The crew could manage to set sail, and it would not be long before some enemy ship appeared to investigate their behaviour.

Allday whispered, “If we cut back to the cabin we can hold ’em off with muskets, Captain.”

The voice called, “I am waiting, Capitaine! Throw down your weapons now!”

Meheux asked, “Would he fire? He could kill half of those women and children down there.”

Bolitho began to unbuckle his sword. “We are no good to anyone dead. Do as he says.”

Something like a great sigh came from the motionless passengers as Bolitho and his companions placed their weapons on the deck. Two armed Spaniards ran along the starboard gangway, pistols trained, until they had climbed the poop ladder behind Bolitho, at a distance they could not possibly miss.

Witrand handed over the swivel gun’s lanyard to the other man and then walked slowly along the same gangway. Reaching the quarterdeck he gave a short bow.

“Paul Witrand, Capitaine. At your service.”

He was of medium height, square jawed, with the look of a soldier about him. There was recklessness too, something Bolitho recognised, and which he might have discovered in time but for the arrival of Pareja’s wife. Maybe she had come aft deliberately.

He said coldly, “I have submitted to save life. But in due course we will meet with my ship again. Even keeping me as hostage will not help you then.”

“Just one ship, Capitaine? Interesting. What could her mission be in waters dominated by France, I wonder?” He shook his head. “You are a brave officer, and I respect you for that. But you must accept this fate, as I accepted your sudden arrival aboard here. It would have been better for both of us had we never met.” He gave an expressive shrug. “But war is war.” He studied Bolitho for several seconds, his eyes almost yellow in the glare. “I do not doubt you would refuse to sail this ship for me.” He smiled gently. “But you will give me your word, as a King’s officer, not to try and retake her.” He picked up Bolitho’s sword. “Then you may keep this. As a token of my trust in that honour, eh?”

Bolitho shook his head. “I can give no such assurance.”

Meheux said thickly, “Nor I.”

“Loyalty too?” He seemed quite composed. “Then you will be taken below and put in irons. I am sorry of course, but I have much to do. Apart from myself there are just three French companions. The rest,” he shrugged with obvious contempt, “Spanish rubbish. I will be hard put to keep them away from the passengers, I think.”

He beckoned to the armed seamen and then asked, “Your ship, she is French built, yes?”

“She was the Tornade.” Bolitho kept his voice level, but his mind was almost bursting