The Flag Captain

now. Meheux had cut them all away, leaving the gun with a wide arc of fire from quarter to quarter. Hastily rigged tackles were being checked by McEwen, while the other seamen were busily stacking powder and shot against the cabin bulkhead.

Meheux wiped his streaming face and forced a grin. “She should do well, sir.” He patted the fat breech. “She’s an English thirty-two-pounder. I wonder where these thieving buggers got her from?”

Bolitho nodded and strode to the gaping windows. By craning over the sill he could see the leading boat, her oars like gold in the sunlight. Most of the Navarra’s cannon were old and little use. They were carried more to deter any would-be pirate than for firing in deadly earnest. She had depended more on her agility than her prowess in combat, as did most merchant vessels the world over.

This cannon was certainly the one true discovery of any worth. Similar to those which made up Euryalus’s lower gundeck, it was recognised as a powerful and devastating weapon, when in the right hands. Nicknamed a Long Nine by the seamen, being nine feet in length, it could throw a ball with fair accuracy over one and a half miles, and still be able to penetrate three feet of oak.

And accuracy was more important than anything else at this moment.

Bolitho turned his back on the sea and said, “We will fire as soon as the leading chebeck is end on to us.”

McEwen, who was a gun-captain aboard his own ship, asked, “Double-shotted, sir?”

He shook his head. “No. That is well enough for a ship-to-ship engagement, when there is nothing opposite you but another broadside. But today we cannot afford to be erratic.” He smiled at their shining, grimy faces. “So watch your charges, and make sure each ball is a good one.

He took Meheux aside and dropped his voice. “I believe they will try and attack from ahead and astern simultaneously. It will divide our resources and give the enemy some idea of our ability!

The lieutenant nodded. “I am wishing we had not seen this damned ship, sir.” He grinned ruefully. “Or that we had sunk her with a full broadside!”

Bolitho smiled, remembering Witrand’s own words. Better for both of us had we never met. Well, it was too late for regrets now.

He paused in the doorway, his eyes passing over the busy seamen, the cabin’s air of dejection at being so badly used.

“If I fall today, Mr Meheux,” he saw the sudden alarm in the lieutenant’s eyes and added quietly, “you will carry on with the fight. This enemy will offer no quarter, so bear that well in mind!” He forced a smile. “You were the one who was pleading for battle yesterday. You should be well satisfied!”

He walked swiftly towards the sunlight again, past the unattended wheel, to where Grindle stood watching the approaching craft as if he had never moved.

Along both bulwarks of the upper deck the Spanish sailors stood or crouched beside their guns, the largest of which were twelve-pounders. Here and there, wherever they could find some sort of cover, he could see some of the passengers, hastily provided with muskets from the arms chest, while others had appeared carrying elaborate sporting guns from their own baggage to add their weight to the defences.

He shut his ears to the distant drums and tried to visualise the ship’s firepower as it would display itself within the next few minutes. Several of the larboard guns were useless, upended and

smashed by the Euryalus’s brief onslaught. Much depended on what the enemy would do first.

The pumps were still working steadily enough, and he wondered whether Pareja’s translation had brought home to those trying to control the intake of water the true value of their work. Or whether at the first crash of gunfire they would run from the pumps and give the sea its own victory.

There had been a good few peasant women amongst the passengers. Tough, sun-dried creatures, who had not shown either resentment or fear when he had suggested they might help by assisting on the pumps, For, as he had wanted to explain, there were no longer any passengers in the Navarra. It was a ship’s company upon whose determination and strength depended survival and life itself.

Grindle called, “Them’s splittin’ up, sir!”

The two rearmost vessels were already swinging steeply from the line and pulling parallel with the drifting Navarra, their long stems cutting the water apart like scythes as they glided purposefully towards the bows.

Bolitho looked along the upper deck to where Witrand was standing by the foremast, a pistol in his belt and another laid nearby on a hatch cover. Ashton was with him, his pale face screwed up with determination and pain as he waited for his orders from the poop.

Bolitho called, “You may run out, Mr Ashton.”

He bit his lip as the guns squeaked protestingly towards the open ports. Now the gaps in the defences were all the more apparent, especially on the larboard side and quarter where the damage was most severe.

He beckoned to Pareja who had been standing as if mesmerised below the poop ladder.

“Tell them to fire on the order. No random shots, nor do I want them to waste time and energy by aiming at empty sea.”

He narrowed his eyes against the glare and watched the two graceful craft turning slowly as if to cross the Navarra’s bows. They were about two cables clear. Biding their time.

Astern it was much the same, with the three boats moving in perfect unison towards the larboard quarter, and at a similar distance.

He could hear Meheux rapping out orders, and wondered if he had any faith in his ability to hold off the attackers.

He stiffened, realising that one bank of oars on the leading boat had halted, poised above the sea, so that even as he watched the hull seemed to shorten until it was pointing directly towards him. Only then did the motionless bank of oars begin to move again, but at a slower pace, the water creaming back from her stem in a fine white arrowhead.

There was a sudden puff of dark smoke from her bows, followed instantly by a loud bang. He saw the water quiver as the invisible ball hurled itself just a few feet above the surface to smash hard into the Navarra’s side directly below where he was standing. He heard sharp cries of alarm from below, a momentary pause in the pumping, and saw several figures leaping up and down on the enemy’s forecastle as if in a frenzy of excitement.

Another bang, from ahead this time, and he saw a tall waterspout leap skyward some three cables abeam. The other chebeck had fired and missed, but the plume of spray gave a good hint of the size of her gun.

Helplessly the Spanish seamen waited by their ports, staring at the mocking squares of empty water and tensing their bodies for the next ball.

They did not have to wait long. The boat closest to the larboard quarter fired, and the ball smashed hard into the poop, hurling wood splinters across the sea alongside and making the deck quiver violently.

Bolitho snapped, “I am going aft, Mr Grindle.”

He trusted Meheux to obey his orders more than he did his own ability to remain inactive under this searching, merciless bombardment. Yet that was how it must be if they were to have even a shred of hope.

He found Meheux leaning against the gun, his eyes wary as he watched the oared hull gliding easily towards the quarter, now a cable away.

Bolitho tensed as the chebeck’s bow gun belched smoke and fire, and felt the ball crash into the transom below him. Probably close to the damage already made worse by the storm.

Meheux said between his teeth, “My God, she’ll come apart with much more of this, sir!”

Bolitho looked along the gun barrel, noting the stiffness in the naked backs and shoulders of the seamen, who like Meheux were expecting the next shot to be amongst them.

Bang. The muffled explosion was followed by the telltale shiver as a heavy ball struck the Navarra’s hull right forward. But he could not be up there as well as here. And this was the ship’s vital and most sensitive part.

The next shot from astern cleaved through the empty gunport on the transom, and Bolitho gritted his teeth as he listened to it smashing deep into the hull, the attendant cries and screams which told him it had found more than mere timber this time.

Meheux snarled, “What is he waiting for, damn him?”

Bolitho realised that the enemy had not fired again, although his previous timing between shots had been