The Flag Captain

He stood up again. In spite of the deep swell outside the bay, the distance the men had pulled their great oars and all the other nagging delays, they were arriving at the prescribed moment.

The fortress was much nearer now, not more than a cable away. He imagined he could see the darker shadow below the northwest comer where the sea entrance lay, protected it was said by a

rusting but massive portcullis. Where Fittock’s explosive charge would soon be laid and a way blasted for their attack.

He gritted his teeth as somewhere astern a metallic click came from one of the boats. A careless seaman must have kicked against his cutlass. But nothing happened, nor any shout of alarm from those high, forbidding walls.

Which was just as well, he thought grimly. Broughton’s ships would be well clear of the land by now, and without any real wind to fill their sails they would be in no position to send aid.

Something white flashed in the darkness, and for an instant he thought it was an oar blade cutting through the water. But it was a fish jumping, falling with a flat slap within feet of the boat.

When he looked for the fort again he saw it was very close. He could distinguish the individual slits cut in the walls for the guns, the paler patches to show where some of the squadron’s guns had made their mark.

“Easy all!” He saw Bickford’s boat gliding slowly abeam and the others fanning out within easy hailing distance. It was time.

The one boat which was still moving under oars pulled steadily past, and he saw Lieutenant Sawle’s figure upright in the stern, and another, probably Mr Fittock the gunner, stooping below him. This was the vital part of the whole attack, and it was also Sawle’s chance to distinguish himself to such a degree that, bully or not, his future in the Navy would be assured and profitable. He had an equally good chance of being blown to pieces if the fuse was mishandled. He was a competent officer, but if he were to die tonight, Bolitho was aware he would not be mourned aboard the Euryalus.

Allday muttered, “We’ve seen a few, eh, Captain?”

Bolitho did not know if he was speaking of the lieutenant or the actual attack. Either could be true, but he had other things on his mind.

He snapped, “We have five minutes or thereabouts.”

Oars moved restlessly abeam and he saw Bickford’s men back-paddling to stop their boat from being broached sideways on the swirling current.

He thought of Inch again and pictured him aboard the Hekla making final preparations for firing his squat mortars high over the beaked headland. He would have no problems with secrecy now. He could use all the lights he required, knowing there were marines on the hillside above his ship waiting to signal the fall of shot as well as to protect him from unwanted intruders.

A strange craft, Keverne had said. Hekla was little more than a floating battery, with just enough sail power to carry her from one theatre of operations to another. Once in position she was anchored firmly at bow and stern. By slackening or hauling on either cable Inch could move the hull and therefore the twin mortars to the desired bearing with very little effort.

“Mr Sawle’s boat is below the wall, Captain!” Allday sounded tense.

“Good.” He accepted Allday’s word, for there was nothing but the slash of black shadow at the foot of the fortress to distinguish boat from entrance.

A midshipman squatting by his feet yawned silently, and Bolitho guessed he was probably fighting his own sort of fear. Yawning was one of the signs.

He said quietly, “Not long now, Mr Margery. You will take charge of the boat once the attack is begun.”

The midshipman nodded, not trusting himself to reply.

Allday stiffened. “Look, Captain! There’s a boat to the left of the wall!”

Bolitho saw the telltale froth of oars and guessed the garrison had taken the precaution of having a guardboat patrolling around the bay. Probably it was intended to prevent any attempt at cutting out the anchored brig, but it was just as deadly as an army of sentries.

Up and down, the oars dipped and rose with tired regularity, the green phosphorescence around the stem marking the boat’s progress better than daylight.

The movements halted, and he guessed they were resting on their oars, letting the current carry them along before starting on the next leg of the patrol.

Allday muttered between his teeth, “Mr Sawle should have the charge laid by now.”

As if in response to his words there was a brief, spurting gleam of light like a bright red eye below the wall, and Bolitho knew Fittock had fired the fuse. The light would be hidden from the guardboat by the wall’s curve, but once Sawle’s men pulled clear the alarm would be sounded.

Bolitho bit his lip, imagining Sawle and his men clinging against the great iron portcullis, listening for the guardboat moving again and hearing the steady hiss of the lighted fuse.

Almost to himself he said, “Come on, man, get away from it!” But nothing happened to break the dark patch beneath the wall.

There was a sudden jarring thud and he saw the eyes of the nearest oarsman light up with an orange glow, as if the sailor was staring directly at a freak sunrise. He knew it was the reflected glow from one of Inch’s mortars beyond the opposite headland, and as he swung round in the boat he heard a sharp, abbreviated whistle, like a marsh-bird disturbed suddenly by a wildfowler. The crash of the explosion was deafening. He saw the far side of the fort light up violently, the billowing smoke very pale before darkness closed in again, leaving him momentarily blinded.

But it had been long enough to tell him Inch’s first shot had been near perfect. It had hit the fortress on the opposite rampart, or perhaps below the wall itself. He could hear the grinding sounds of falling masonry, the splash of larger pieces hitting the water.

Another thud, and the next shot fell in much the same place as the first. More crashes and rumbles, and he saw the smoke drifting in a thick bank low above the bay like a dust cloud.

The guardboat had been hidden by the smoke, but he could hear voices yelling in the darkness and then the sudden blare of a trumpet from the direction of the fortress.

The Hekla’s third shot overreached, and he heard the splintering crash of stonework and guessed it had hit the causeway or part of the islet below the walls. The marines would be using their shuttered lanterns to signal the news to Inch, and fresh adjustments would have to be made to the charges or elevation before another attempt.

Allday said, “Mr Sawle is pulling away now.” He sounded relieved. “He cut it fine, an’ no mistake!”

Bolitho called, “Pass the word, Mr Bickford! We are about to attack!”

No need to be quiet now. There was enough clamour from the fortress walls to awaken the dead as the dazed Spaniards ran to their defences. Some might have guessed what was being used against them, others would be too terrified to think as the fortress shook to the battering from Inch’s mortars.

It was at that moment Sawle’s charge exploded. Bolitho saw the low entrance erupt in a great gushing tongue of fire, watched with fixed fascination as a small tidal wave surged out from below the wall to hurl Sawle’s cutter on to its beam ends, spilling men and oars into the sea in a kicking tumult, like a whaleboat before a wounded narwhal.

As he drew his sword and waved it towards Bickford he saw part of the upper rampart fall slowly across the belching flames, taking with it an iron-wheeled cannon and a length of heavy chain, which he guessed was part of the portcullis hoisting gear.

“Right, lads! Give way together!” He almost fell as the boat surged forward beneath him, feeling the hot smoke fanning above his head to mark the power of the last detonation.

The upended cutter passed in the gloom, and here and there he saw a pale face, thrashing arms and legs, to show that some at least had survived the explosion.

Then he forgot everything but what he had to do, as like a gaping mouth, the blasted portcullis protruding from the breached wall like rotten teeth, the opening was right ahead and then over the bows.

A musket ball slammed against the gunwale, and somewhere a man screamed in sudden agony.

He waved his sword above his head and yelled, “Pull, lads!”

The barge seemed to be hurling itself through the smoke at a tremendous speed. He saw pieces of scorched woodwork floating on the surface, and then two grotesque sternposts of what must be old galliasses which the