The Flag Captain

Through the smoke Bolitho saw the dovetailed flag very near, and somehow knew this was the leader’s chebeck. Messadi himself trying to get past the Hekla’s fury and escape to the cove once more.

He followed Inch aft to where the helmsmen stood astride two of their dead comrades and gestured with his sword, his voice suddenly loud over the silent carronades. “A guinea for the gun-captain who can bring her down!”

The realisation that they had won, the sudden understanding they had beaten an overwhelming force of a terrifying enemy, was enough. Cheering, or sobbing with exhaustion, they ran back to their tackles, while the swivels and even muskets cut the air apart in their efforts to pursue the fast-moving chebeck.

Bolitho saw a massive carronade lurch inboard, and the flash as its ball burst close under the chebeck’s raked stem. He turned his head as a second slammed into her ornate poop, scattering the packed figures in bloody gruel.

Everyone was yelling and shouting, and Bolitho clung to the shrouds trying to peer over the rolling bank of smoke as the enemy’s twin masts began to tilt over.

He heard Inch calling to him, but as he swung round to listen he felt something like a blow in his right shoulder. It was not much and yet he was falling, and as he dropped to his knees he stared with dulled surprise at the blood which ran down across his

white breeches and covered the deck around him. But something else was happening. He was on his side, the great mainsail high above him, and beyond it a wedge of pale cloud.

Voices were calling, and he saw Inch running towards him, his face frozen with dismay.

Bolitho opened his mouth to reassure him in some way, but as he did so the pain came. So great and so terrible that a merciful darkness closed over him. Then there was nothing.

16 an Affair of honour

Slowly, almost fearfully Bolitho opened his eyes. It seemed to take an age for his vision to clear, and he felt his mind bunching itself to withstand the terrible pain which must surely come. He could feel the sweat running down his face and neck like iced water, but as he waited, dreading the return of torment, he realised he could find no other sensation. He tried to move his body, straining his ears to catch the sound of sea or creaking timbers, but there was neither, and as his uncertainty changed to something like panic he realised he was surrounded by total silence, and that the light was so dim he could have been in a tomb.

As he struggled to lift himself he felt the searing thrust of red-hot agony lance through his shoulder until he thought his heart would fail under it. He gritted his teeth, shutting his eyes tightly against the pain, and felt himself slipping back again into the nightmare. How long had it lasted? Days, hours, or was it an eternity since… He concentrated his failing reserve of will-power to try to remember, to keep his mind from cracking under the pressure in his body.

Figures and voices, looming faces and the vague motions of a ship were parts of the confused memories. Some episodes, although brief, stood out more than others, although they had

neither order nor apparent relevance. Inch cushioning his head from the deck. And Allday’s agonised face coming down at him from every angle, again and again. And he had heard himself speaking too, and tried to listen, as if he had already become completely detached, his spirit hovering to watch the dying husk with nothing more than idle curiosity.

There had been other faces too, unknown to him, yet somehow familiar. Serious and young, calm and sad. His voice had come and gone repeatedly, and once when Bolitho had heard himself crying out in the enclosing darkness the stranger had said quietly, “I am Angus, sir. Coquette’s surgeon.”

Bolitho tensed, feeling the sweat flooding across him as an extension of his own rising terror. The face and the stark memory of those quiet words brought back some of the reality like the shock of the wound.

He had been protesting, his reeling mind fighting against the pain and the unconsciousness to make the surgeon understand. To stop him from touching him.

With a desperate sob he tried to move his shoulder, to discover some feeling in his arm and fingers. Nothing.

He let himself go limp again, ignoring the heated pain, and conscious only of a stinging despair which was blinding him.

As if torn from his innermost soul he heard himself cry out, “Oh, Cheney! Cheney, help me! They’ve taken off my arm!”

Instantly a chair scraped across stone and feet pattered towards him. He heard someone call, “He’s coming out of the coma! Pass the word!”

A cool cloth, was laid carefully over his forehead, and as he reopened his eyes he saw Allday peering down at him, his hard hands supporting his head so that someone else could sponge away the sweat of pain and fear.

He remembered the hands now. They had held him, pressing into his head as if to shut out the first pressure of Angus’s knife.

From a great distance he heard him ask, “How is it, Captain?”

Bolitho stared up at him, so astonished at seeing tears in Allday’s eyes that he momentarily forgot his own suffering.

He replied, “Easy, Allday. Rest easy.” How hoarse his voice sounded.

More faces swayed over him and he saw Angus thrust the others aside as he removed the sheet from his chest, felt his fingers probing before the pain struck at him again, making him gasp aloud.

He managed to say, “My arm. Tell me.”

Angus glanced at him calmly. “Believe me, sir, it is still there.” He did not smile. “However, these are early days. It is well to be prepared.”

He moved out of Bolitho’s vision and said, “New dressing at once. And he must eat something. Broth maybe, and a little brandy.”

Bolitho strained his eyes up to Allday’s face. “Where am I?”

“The fortress, Captain. Hekla brought you in two days back.”

Two days. He persisted, “And before?”

“Hekla took two days to reach here, Captain. The wind went against us.” He sounded desperate. “I thought we’d never reach this damned place.”

A total of four days then. Time enough for the wound to worsen. Why should he not face the truth as Angus was doing? God knew, he had seen it happen often enough to others.

He said quietly, “Tell me, and no lies for my sake, is my arm to come off?”

Again he saw the wretched helplessness in Allday’s eyes.

“No, Captain, I am sure of it.” He tried to smile, the effort only adding to his misery. “We’ve been through worse than this before. So let’s have no more such talk.”

“That is enough talking.” Angus’s face swam above him once more. “You will rest until the dressing is changed. Then I want you to take some food.” He held something against the light, dull-coloured and half flattened by the force of impact. “Some of

these Arab muskets have great accuracy. This ball would have certainly killed you had you not turned your body at the time of delivery.” He smiled severely. “So we must be thankful for that at least, eh?”

A door grated and he added, “But then you have an excellent nurse.” He nodded curtly. “Over here, Mrs. Pareja. The captain will be ready in a moment.”

Bolitho watched as she moved down the side of the bed. Perhaps after all he was still drifting in unreality, or maybe even dead.

She paused and looked down at him, her face very pale against the long black hair, grave and unsmiling. And beautiful. It was hard to picture her aboard the Navarra, nursing her dead husband against her bloodied dress and watching him with such anger and bitter despair.

She said, “You look a lot better.”

“Thank you for all you have done.” He felt suddenly helpless and empty under her calm stare and could not continue.

She smiled, showing her strong white teeth. “Now I know you are getting well. Your language has been a challenge for the past two days.”

She was still smiling as Angus cut away the dressing and replaced it methodically with a new one.