The Flag Captain

as he tried to think of a scheme, no matter how weak, which might give him back control. But there was nothing.

Witrand’s yellow eyes widened. “Tornade? Admiral Lequiller’s flagship!” He banged his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I was foolish not to realise it. You with your unpronounceable name. The man who took the Tor nade in a mere seventy-four!” He nodded, suddenly serious. “You will be quite a prize yourself, if and when we ever see France again.”

The seamen jabbed them with their pistols and Witrand said sharply, “Go with them.” He looked at Allday, standing with his fists clenching and unclenching, his face still shocked at what was happening. “Is he one of your officers?”

Bolitho looked at him. This was a moment when life might end. Also he might never see Allday again if they became separated.

He replied quietly, “He is a friend, m’sieu.”

Witrand sighed. “And that is something rare.” He smiled sadly. “He may stay with you. But any trick, and you will be killed.” He shot Pareja a scathing glance. “Like traitors, there is only one true solution.”

Bolitho turned towards the companion ladder, seeing the faces

of the nearby passengers, and Pareja’s wife by the poop. She was standing very still, only the quick movement of her breast displaying any sort of emotion. Something squeaked, and when he turned his head he saw the white ensign was already fluttering down from the mainmast.

Like the loss of his sword, it seemed to symbolise the completeness of his defeat.

Bolitho rested his back against a massive cask of salt beef, listening to the muffled sounds beyond the door and conscious of his companions’ silence. But for a tiny circular port in the door, through which he could see the feeble light of a lantern, the place where he and the others were imprisoned was in total darkness. He was thankful for that. He did not want them to see his face or his despair.

He heard the chain move, felt the irons about his ankles jerk slightly as Meheux or one of the others changed his position. Allday was sitting next to him, sharing the same cask to rest his back, and Grindle was on the opposite side of the tiny storeroom shackled to Ashton. Each wrapped in his own thoughts. Brooding perhaps on the twist of fate which had brought them here.

It was impossible to tell what was happening elsewhere in the ship. The pumps had not stopped, but occasionally they had heard other sounds. Shouts and curses, and a woman sobbing and screaming. Once there had been another pistol shot, and Bolitho imagined that Witrand was having difficulty in controlling the Spanish crew. After the Euryalus’s deadly cannon fire, the storm and the humiliation of being seized as a prize, it was easy to picture the scene between decks. Without their own familiar officers and sense of purpose, any discipline might soon give way to a drunken disorganised chaos.

The wind had not returned. Just feeling the ship’s slow, uneasy motion, the useless clatter of loose gear, told him that much.

Meheux said savagely, “If ever I live to get my hands on those drunkards I’ll have them flogged to ribbons, the useless buggers!”

Bolitho replied, “The brandy was a clever ruse on Witrand’s part.” He added with sudden bitterness, “I should have made a thorough search.”

Grindle said worriedly, “You was too busy savin’ their lives for that, sir. No use in blamin’ yerself.”

“I’ll agree with that.” Allday stirred restlessly. “Should have left ’em to rot!”

Bolitho called, “Are you feeling better, Mr Ashton?” He was worried about the midshipman. When he had been dragged into the storeroom he had seen the bloody bandage around his head, and how pale he had appeared. It seemed that Ashton had tried to hold off the attackers on his own, calling for his men, who unknown to him were already too drunk to help even themselves. Someone had clubbed him brutally with a musket, and he had not spoken more than a few words since.

But he answered readily, “I am all right, sir. It will soon pass.”

“You acted well.”

Bolitho guessed that Ashton was probably thinking too of his future. He was only seventeen, and had already shown promise and no little ability. Now his prospects might seem dark and empty. Prison, or even death by fever in some forgotten enemy garrison. He was too junior and unimportant to be considered for exchange, even if the proper authorities ever gave it a thought.

Bolitho tried to picture his own ship, where she now lay and what Broughton might be doing. The admiral had probably dismissed them all from his thoughts. The storm, the likelihood of the Navarra’s foundering, would soon make him look on them as memories and little more.

He stirred against the cask, hating the iron around his ankles. He had been a prisoner before, but could find no solace in the memory. Then there had been a chance, although very slight, of

escape and turning the tables on his captors. And always the real possibility of other British ships arriving to assist him. A slight chance could always offer hope. But now there was nothing like that. Euryalus would not return to look for him. How could she when the very mission they had come to do still lay untouched?

His stomach contracted, and he realised he had not eaten since yesterday. It seemed like a week ago. The ordered world of his own ship, a sense of being and belonging.

He pictured Pareja’s wife, probably retelling Witrand how easy it had been to delay him from seeking him out from amongst the other passengers. Or maybe she was up there weeping, watching her elderly husband kicking out his breath at the mainyard on the end of a rope. Where had she come from? And what would bring a woman like her to this part of the world? Another puzzle, and one which would now stay unanswered.

Feet scraped beyond the door and Allday said hotly, “Come to gloat no doubt! The bastards!”

The bolt was withdrawn and Bolitho saw Witrand squinting into the storeroom, two armed men at his back.

The Frenchman said, “I would like you to come on deck, Capitaine.”

He sounded calm enough, yet there was something about him which made Bolitho stiffen with interest. Maybe a wind was returning at last and Witrand had less confidence in the crew than he pretended. But the deck felt as sluggish as before, the mournful clank of pumps just as regular.

He asked coldly, “Why must I come? I am content to stay here.”

Witrand gestured to one of his men, who stepped cautiously inside with a key for the leg irons. He snapped, “Prisoners have no choice! You will do as I order!”

Bolitho watched the seaman unlocking the irons, his mind grappling with Witrand’s sudden change of manner. He was worried.

Meheux helped him to his feet and said, “Take care, sir.” He

sounded just that much too bright, Bolitho reflected, and was probably imagining his captain was about to be interrogated, or worse.

He followed Witrand along the passageway, aware of the silence all about him. Apart from the pumps and the gentle creak of timbers, he could hear no voices at all. And that in a ship crowded with apprehensive passengers.

It was late afternoon, and on deck the sun was blinding hot, the seams sticking to Bolitho’s shoes as he followed Witrand up a ladder and on to the poop. The glare from the glittering blue water was so intense that he almost fell across some of the splintered planking, so that Witrand put out his hand to steady him.

“Well, what is it?” Bolitho shaded his eyes and looked at the other man. “I have not changed my mind. About anything.”

Witrand did not seem to hear. He took Bolitho by the arm and pulled him round towards the rail, his voice suddenly urgent. “Look yonder. What do you understand about them?”

Bolitho was suddenly aware that the ship’s main deck and forecastle were crammed with silent, watching figures. Some men had climbed into the shrouds, their intent figures dark against the limp sails as they peered towards the horizon.

Witrand held out a telescope. “Please, Capitaine. Tell me.”

Bolitho steadied the glass on his forearm and trained it across the rail. Most of the people on deck had turned to watch him, and even Witrand was studying his profile with something like anxiety.

Bolitho moved the glass very slowly, catching his breath as the small brightly coloured lateen sails swam