“Quarter!” Lewrie seconded, after drawing a deep breath with which to do so, amazed at how winded he was. “Dis-arm them and form the prisoners up round the main mast!”
A French officer, his uniform splotched with blood and grime and sporting a deep gash on one cheek, tottered up to Lewrie looking dazed, and it was difficult for him to form words, at first.
“M’sieur le Capitaine, I surrender to you,” he managed to say with tears running down his grimed cheeks. “Ze frigat L’Egyptienne is yours. I present my sword.”
Damn the niceties, damn this honourable thing, Lewrie thought, his blood-lust still coursing, but he shook himself, sheathed his hanger, and accepted the offered sword, only for a moment.
“After such a hard and gallant fight, m’sieur, I can do no less than return it to you,” Lewrie replied, even if that was through his gritted teeth. “You offer your parole? Good. Bon. You are senior aboard, m’sieur?”
“I am, m’sieur,” the French Lieutenant responded. “Notre Commodore and notre Capitaine are … morte.”
“My sympathies, sir,” Lewrie said with a bow of his head, but feeling nothing of the kind. These bastard Frenchmen had harmed his ship, slain or wounded his people.
“A damned hard fight, sir,” Lt. Westcott said as he came to report. “Over an hour and a half. What a slaughterhouse!”
“It was?” Lewrie asked, amazed. It had seemed like less than that, much less. “Christ!” he said as he looked over at Sapphire from the enemy deck. There wasn’t much left of the upper bulwarks above the sail-tending gangways, and the iron stanchions that held tautly wrapped hammocks and bedding, for defence against grapeshot and musket fire, were bent and twisted, their contents spilled. Round the ship’s gun-ports, bow to stern, there were un-countable shot holes, some so big he could see clean through to the waist or lower deck. His own cabins were now well-ventilated, open to fresh air in several places. And that precious and dearly obtained lower main mast had taken hits that looked as if beavers had gnawed at it above the line of bulwarks.
“We must have killed or wounded half their crew,” Westcott said, pointing down into the French frigate’s waist, drawing Lewrie’s attention from his ship to the butcher’s yard. French dead were piled round the bases of the fore and main masts, several dozen of them, and even more lay scattered about where they fell. A French surgeon and his mates, aided by litter bearers, picked among those whose wounds might be treated, and those for whom nothing could avail.
“We’ve lost Mister Elmes, sir,” Westcott told him, “along with the Sailing Master, Marine Lieutenant Roe … Midshipmen Kibworth and Ward, Master’s Mate Dorton,” he said with a weary sigh, taking off his hat to swipe at his sweaty hair. “I’ll have you the full list as soon as I can, but it’s sure to be dear. It’s a grand victory, but hard-bought.”
Lewrie could only nod in response; he was completely spent, as he always was after a battle, badly in need of a sit-down or lie-down, his throat both raw and very dry. Something caught his attention … what? It was the silence.
He turned and tottered aft to the French frigate’s taffrails, skirting the joyous tars who were hoisting the Union Jack over the French Tricolour, looking astern.
Down to leeward lay Undaunted, alongside the frigate that she had taken on, swirled about to show both ship’s sterns to him, with British colours flying on both. Off to the Nor’east, he could spot Sterling close-aboard her opponent, with one of the brig-sloops on the other beam of their prize, and even further East, there was yet another French frigate, seemingly lashed alongside the other brig-sloop, conquered, captured, and made prize.
It was a victory, utter and complete, the sort that men would envy, could spend their whole careers seeking, one worthy of a praiseful resolution in Parliament, but at the moment, all Lewrie could feel was numbness. He turned away and went back to the frigate’s waist to seek a dignified way of regaining his own ship’s decks, hoping that someone might rig a gangway.
“Oh, arah, sor,” his Cox’n said to him, coming up from the carnage below the quarterdeck, with tears on his cheeks. “Th’ bastards have done for Pat, sor. Shot him dead, just as they were givin’ up, an’ none of ’em’ll admit to it! Sneakin’ damned back-shootin’…!”
“Furfy?” Lewrie gasped. “Oh, Christ, no!”
“If I knew which’un done it, I’d murder him, sor,” Desmond swore, clumsily swiping his face. “Ye’ll let me, sure, sor?”
“No, Desmond, I can’t allow that,” Lewrie had to tell him as he took him by the shoulders. “Dear as he was to me, too, to all of us … they’ve struck, asked for Quarter. We’ve already killed more than enough of ’em. We’ll have to settle for that.”
“Swore to his Mam, time we run off after the Risin’,” Desmond barely managed to say, “that I’d look after Patrick an’ keep him from harm, and his own foolishness, through thick or thin, an’ … what’ll I tell her, now?”
“That you did your best, Desmond,” Lewrie cajoled, “you and me both, we always did.”
There was a clatter as several planks were lashed together to make a wide gangplank from one ship to another, and British wounded began to be borne back aboard Sapphire. Mr. Snelling the Surgeon and his Mates and loblolly boys had done what they could for those hurt aboard their own ship, and were now assisting the French.
“Ah, here’s another of ours, sir,” Surgeon’s Mate Phelps said, turning over a body. “Poor wee lad. Went game, it looks like. Took a Frenchman with him.”
Lewrie left Desmond to his grief and headed for the gangplank, but stopped in shock. It was Jessop! Dead! To Hell with a Captain’s required air of aloofness; he knelt and took the fired pistol from the lad’s hand, saw that Jessop and a nearby dead Frenchman had shot each other, not three feet apart. He passed a hand over Jessop’s face to close his sightless eyes and sat back on his heels.
“Didn’t suffer, sir,” Phelps told him in a kindly manner, to his lights, anyway. “Shot right in the heart, it appears, and didn’t have time to take notice before he expired.”
“That,” Lewrie spat, “is cold comfort to me, Mister Phelps!”
He shot to his feet and made his way to the gangplank, bound for his own ravaged decks, his wounded ship, cold and heartsick; so much so that he had no dread of falling between the hulls and drowning as the gangplank jounced under his feet, swayed, and tilted as both ships lazily rolled.
Saws were already screeching, hammers were ringing as people laboured to make what first repairs they could, under the direction of the Second Officer, Mr. Harcourt, the senior Mids, Bosun Terrell and the surviving petty officers.
“Mister Hillhouse,” Lewrie bade.
“Aye, sir?” Hillhouse said, coming to him and doffing his hat.
“I am appointing you an Acting-Lieutenant, and Third Officer, in Mister Elmes’s stead, Mister Hillhouse,” Lewrie told him. “I hope this will be an opportunity for advancement which you have sought.”
“Ehm … thank you, sir!” Hillhouse exclaimed, as if that was a surprise, most-likely thinking that the senior Master’s Mate, Mr. Stubbs, would be offered the post, instead.
“Carry on, Mister Hillhouse,” Lewrie said in parting, going aft to look over what was left of his cabins. Yeovill was there with Pettus, already trying to set things to rights as sailors re-erected the deal and canvas partitions, and fetched furniture up from the orlop.
“Galley’s a mess, sir,” Yeovill reported, “and it may be cold commons for a day or two. Someone told me the French carronades did it. Thirty-six pounders, they say!”
“Is it true about Jessop, sir?” Pettus asked.
“Aye,” Lewrie gruffly said. “Pat Furfy, too, and a lot of good men.”
“Good God, sir,” Pettus could barely mumble. “He wanted to be a real sailor … his tattoos and all, poor tyke.”
“In the end, he was,” Lewrie said, going aft, through the wood door and the jury-rigged twine mesh screen door that kept Chalky safe from going over the side, c
hasing birds.
The air was clearer and fresher on his little-used stern gallery, with hardly a hint of gunpowder that permeated Sapphire and the prize frigate. He took a deep breath of it, heard the flag over his head stirring; the shot-to-nothing wind was returning. With any luck, the squadron, and their prizes, could be back under way in an hour or two … back on their hunt along the Spanish coast? Maybe.
Men to promote, he thought; men to replace, move up. Repairs to be made … men, and boys, to bury in the sea.
The cost of his damned victory was more than he could bear.
EPILOGUE
The meeting with his fellow captains had been joyous, full of boyish high-cockalorum, and well liquoured, though the reports which Lewrie had gotten from his officers and petty officers were deeply disturbing and depressing, taking most of the joy from Lewrie’s participation in their celebrations.
L’Egyptienne, 40; Sultane, 36; Meduse, 32; and Fauvette, 28. Proud names for grand ships, sure to be bought in and made into Royal Navy ships, perhaps with their original names; soon to enrich every man involved in their taking with prize-money, and glory, far beyond their merchant captures. And, before the wine-cabinet had been opened, Lewrie had made Capt. Chalmers’s day; he would take command of the squadron in Lewrie’s stead. He would have to, for Sapphire would have to sail for the dockyards at Gibraltar, the nearest place that could make all the repairs that she needed. It was there or a yard in England. Either way, he would have to strike his broad pendant, but at least at Gibraltar, Lewrie could keep command of her for even a few months more. He dreaded what Admiralty, and the dockyard Commissioners back home, might do with her.
They had mutually decided that their prize frigates would go to England, though, where their arrival would make more of a sensation with the public, with Admiralty, and, secretly, a hoped-for Nine Day Wonder in the prominent newspapers, for none of the proud, stoic Captains though they might be … Chalmers, Yearwood, Blamey, Teague, or Lewrie, in point of fact, were immune to fame, and hard-won acclaim.
Lewrie had seen his Captains off at the entry-port, wishing them all well, sharing some last japes as they had made their way to their boats.
He stared at the weakened main mast once they were gone, and re-entered his cabins, bidding Midshipman Holbrooke to pass word for the First Officer.
* * *
“First Off’cer t’see th’ Cap’um, SAH!” his Marine sentry called, with a stamp of boots and musket butt.
“Enter,” Lewrie replied.
“Sent for me, sir?” Westcott said as he stepped before Lewrie’s desk in the day-cabin.
“Aye, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie said as he folded his official report on the action, and his decisions, over to make a letter, then began to melt a stick of wax with which to seal it. “No help for it, I suppose?”
“She’s shot to pieces, sir, aye,” Westcott commiserated, “and I’d not trust the main mast with a bed sheet or tablecloth. It seems we’re right back where we were when we got back to Portsmouth.”
“Pettus, pour Mister Westcott something, will you?” Lewrie bade as he drizzled a blob of wax and got out his seal. “Whatever he cares for.” He pressed his seal, the one with his crest of knighthood, the rarely-used one, onto the wax, blew on it to harden the wax, then got to his feet. “Let’s go to the settee, shall we?”
“Welcome, sir,” Westcott agreed, taking his ease in one of the chairs while Lewrie sprawled on the settee.
Westcott requested Portuguese vinho verde, admitting that it was growing on him, and Lewrie asked for the same.
“We can’t remain on station, not in the shape the ship is in,” Lewrie began as Pettus got out the wine. Jessop’s replacement, a fourteen-year-old lad from the East End in London, Tom Dasher (or so he called himself), who claimed that he had been a waiter and pot-boy, followed Pettus’s every movement, still learning his duties.
“Home yard, will it be, sir?” Westcott asked, sounding eager to set foot in England, savour the joys of shore liberty, and hunt up some fresh “mutton”.
“I was thinking of Gibraltar,” Lewrie said, “it’s closer, and there’s less chance of something going smash than on a long passage home. The prizes will be going to Portsmouth, though. And, whilst we’re in the yards, I’ve appointed Captain Chalmers to carry on here.”
“Oh, that’ll please him, right down to his toes!” Westcott said, almost hooting in derision. “Mean to ask, sir … is your son well?”
“Aye, thank God,” Lewrie said, perking up for a moment, “made a brave showing in boarding the Sultane, and came off without even a scratch.”
“Glad to hear it, sir!” Westcott said, sounding pleased. “He’s a fine young man, and a joy to you, I’m bound.”
“Aye, he is,” Lewrie gladly agreed as the wine arrived. They both took deep sips, then made appreciative noises. “About our prize, Mister Westcott. D’ye think she’s in condition enough to make the voyage home?”
“We’ve made what repairs we could, given our spare stocks of lumber and such,” Westcott told him. “Her masts, sails, and rigging are in good order, so she should do fine. The hardest part will be keeping the prisoners in order, what’s left of the poor buggers, that is. I never saw such an abbatoir. Nigh an hundred killed, and almost two-dozen more sure to perish from their wounds? With another fourty wounded or crippled?”
Lewrie nodded, taking no joy from the high “butcher’s bill”, for Sapphire had lost nineteen dead, nine sure to succumb to their wounds in the days to come, and another dozen in the forecastle sick-bay, and more hands on light duties from minor injuries. The other ships of the squadron had gotten away far more leniently.
“I want you to take the Egyptienne home, Geoffrey,” Lewrie said. He held up a warning hand to stave off Westcott’s immediate objections. “With my report of the battle, I’ll not need all that many hands to get Sapphire to Gibraltar, and stand less chance of any more French warships crossin’ my hawse, so I can spare as many men, and Marines, as you need.”
“Good God, sir!” Westcott almost exploded. “Send Harcourt. He’d be pleased as punch. Or Hillhouse. He’d gain his Lieutenancy right off, and we both know that if he has to stand before an Examination Board, he never will make it, else!”
“Or, you could be promoted to Commander, and the next time we meet, you could be in command of your own ship, at long last,” Lewrie pointed out. “Hell! Do you sail in with four prize frigates, ye might even be knighted! I don’t know what the rest of the Navy’s been up to lately, but after the disastrous mess that ‘Dismal Jemmy’ Gambler made at Basque Roads, our success might make as big an impression as news of Trafalgar! Surely, there’s a promotion in that for the officer who carries the news.”
“But, sir … mean to say!” Westcott spluttered. “Why me? And here I thought that we were friends.”
“We are, Geoffrey, we are friends,” Lewrie admitted, “good ones, lifelong friends, I hope. And I’m doing this so you can advance, and make your mark in the Navy. You know you’re more than ready for a ship of your own, and you have me as an example of how not to do things.”
“Well, you always have been amusing to watch,” Westcott japed, flashing one of his quick, harsh grins. “But why now? Sapphire’s got time left in this commission.”
“Because I’m afraid I’ll lose her, Geoffrey,” Lewrie confessed. “Look here, how many two-decker Fourth Rates are still serving? Four, five? Their days are done. It was a hard fight t’keep her after the lightning strike, and here we are in the same predicament, and where a spare lower mast can be found, or fashioned, is beyond me. I fear a letter from Admiralty saying that we’re to turn her over to the Gibraltar yard, pay off the crew, and you and I buy passage home on the mail packet, un-employed and on half-pay. They could turn her into a trooper, like most of the other Fourth Rates have been, a store ship, even a prison hulk. With no quick source of masts to fit her, prison hulk at Gibraltar’s the most likely. D’ye want orders t’be Captain o’ that? To
Admiralty, that’d be the most convenient.”
“But, what of you, sir?” Westcott asked, looking concerned for his Fate. “You’d be on half-pay, stuck at Gibraltar, sailing home as ‘live lumber’ aboard a packet, or a returning trooper…?”
“Bein’ stuck for a time at Gibraltar’s not that bad, we both know that,” Lewrie laughed off, even leering significantly. “Besides, I’m a bloody hero, the victor of one Hell of a battle, hey?” He made mock of his accomplishment with a roll of his eyes. “Lettin’ someone else sail me home’d be a welcome rest. Just so long as they set a good table. And when I get home, surely there’ll be a new commission waitin’ for me.”
“I don’t know, sir. It cuts rough to…” Westcott protested, though weakly, as if resigning himself to depart.
“Speakin’ of gettin’ home, Geoffrey,” Lewrie cajoled, “think of the reception you’d get. Dined out on our victory … balls and supper parties just drippin’ with luscious young lovelies hangin’ on your every word, eyes big as saucers, worshippin’ your heroism?”
“Well, if I must,” Westcott said, sniggering. “Damme, but it’s a pity my parents couldn’t afford to buy me a set of colours. Once in a regimental mess, you’re in for life, and never have to part every three or four years from good friends you most-like will never see in this life, again.”
“That’s the Navy for you,” Lewrie drolly replied. “If ye can’t take a joke, ye shouldn’t’ve joined. So. You’re amenable?”
“Aye, I’ll take her home, sir,” Westcott reluctantly agreed.
“Good!” Lewrie exclaimed, “and the next time I see you, there had better be an epaulet on your left shouder, and a ship under your feet. Let’s drink to it. Pettus, do we still have some of that Spanish brandy?”
A Hard, Cruel Shore Page 39
