Lydia glanced back to see the oxen emerging from the sea. Behind them she saw Pierre-Louis Poiret and Monsieur Laurent with a couple of armed men emerge from the jungle and approach Danielle. The tableau grew smaller as they pulled further away but she caught a glimpse of Pierre-Louis’ hand raised in farewell and returned the gesture.
The lurch of the boat as it pulled aside Legacy brought Lydia’s attention back to the events at hand. She had been so engrossed that she had not even given thought to her usual fear.
A complicated system of ropes and rigging had been readied. In a mad flurry of activity, the crew secured the throne and hauled it up from above. Thirty minutes after spotting sails on the horizon, Captain Campbell, bellowing commands, set foot once more on his deck.
The sails snapped to attention, bringing Legacy about smartly. To Lydia the scrambling crew looked as chaotic as a mound of ants.
Lydia had Sophie transported below decks and comfortably ensconced in a hammock before joining the gentlemen and Captain Campbell on the quarterdeck. From this vantage point the French ship loomed nearer.
“We have to make it out of the cove before we will be able to pick up any real speed. We have the weather gauge, but the breeze won’t pick up proper until we get out to sea,” Campbell said.
“The French will be able to open up with a full broadside. They have plenty of time to take up position. Look, they are already bringing her about.” Danbury pointed at the other ship, lumbering into a turn that would put her at the best angle to open up with her guns when Legacy tried to pass.
“Yes, but we hold the trump card,” said Harting. “They can’t sink us or they risk losing the throne. They can’t even do major harm below decks, as they risk damaging it beyond repair.”
“You’re right,” said Captain Campbell. “But they can shoot our rigging to bits, until we can do naught but wallow like an upended tortoise.”
Harting gestured with his spyglass towards the other ship. “While they are aiming at our rigging, we can aim at what really matters.”
A new light came into Campbell’s eye. He rubbed his jaw. “We’ll have to stay out of range of their grapnels.” In an instant, Captain Campbell reversed his previous orders to his crew.
The men scrambled like roaches in a sudden light, striking the sails and leaving only enough canvas aloft to provide rudimentary manoeuvrability. Sharpshooters climbed aloft and the gunnery crews took up positions. Legacy had only twenty-eight guns, while the French ship had at least fifty, but they would make the best use of them they could.
They drew close enough to see the name emblazoned on their adversary: Angélique. With a threatening clatter the French raised their gun hatches. Lydia caught her breath.
All noise aboard Legacy had been snuffed out as if sound were as easily extinguishable as a candle. Lydia could not tear her eyes from the warship. They had only one opportunity to get past the Angélique. If they could make open water, they could outrun the heavier vessel. Should the Frenchmen catch Legacy with their lines in the narrow mouth of the cove, they would swarm the ship. They would be overwhelmed in moments.
Enthralled as a mouse before a snake, Lydia could not move, could not breathe. A heavily accented voice boomed from the French ship. “Legacy!”
Lydia jumped and let loose a little squeak.
“Strike your colours and ’eave to, in ze name of France.”
“Pompous Frogs,” muttered Captain Campbell. He shouted back to the disembodied voice. “Never!”
“’Eave to or face bombardment.”
“Bombard away.” Campbell’s flippancy brought grins to his men’s faces and they nudged one another.
In a quieter voice Campbell ordered the passengers below. Lydia moved slowly. Fascination with the life-and-death dance being played out between the two vessels made her sluggish. Neither gentleman made any movement.
There was a moment of utter stillness, then the French response was heralded by a puff of white smoke and a roar from one of Angélique’s gun hatches. The shot landed on the far side of the ship, throwing up a great geyser of foamy spray.
“Buck up, lads. We’ll get past these Frogs and laugh at them when we do,” Campbell called to the men.
“Miss,” one of the sailors called to Lydia. “Miss, get below! And pray for us.”
“Of course.”
Lord Danbury whirled round at the sound of her voice. “Get below. It is too dangerous on deck.”
Lydia had no time to respond. The world was consumed in thundering. Above their heads, the foremast yardarm splintered. With a groan of rending wood, it toppled to the deck.
One of the cables, flying free in a wild arc, struck Lydia. It knocked her to the deck, snatching the air from her lungs. Gasping, she shook her head to clear it. On hands and knees, she scrambled for cover. Blocks and tackle pummelled the deck like hail. Prayer pulsed through her, more a cry of the heart than any formal words.
Men feverishly pounded powder and shot into the muzzles of their muskets. All around, the thundering of the great guns reverberated, followed by the fearsome whine of the balls as they tore by. The deck was soon awash in water flung up by wild shots.
Bitter gun smoke hung in the air, scouring the back of her throat with the scent of battle and death.
The Angélique had an advantage of height. As they came within range, a volley of gunfire burst from her deck. A smattering of strangled cries punctuated the deeper roar of cannon and muskets as men were hit. The sharpshooters in Legacy’s rigging fired back, holding their positions valiantly. Still the two ships drew nearer.
Mr Cabot waved his pistol in the air. “It’ll be canister and chain shot next round, lads!”
Lydia abandoned her prayerful position. God could probably hear her even when she was moving. Half crouched, she scuttled to the nearest wounded man. The hands were desperately defending Legacy. There were few who could tend to the wounded. Stooping, she looped her arms under his and locked her fingers across his chest. She dragged the injured man down the ladderway. It was a good thing he was unconscious as she heaved him along—the pain of their passage would have been terrible, but certainly he would be in less danger of being shot again, or crushed by falling timbers.
Lydia flattened herself on the deck as a shrill screech split the thunder of the guns. Grapeshot sped overhead, cutting a merciless swathe through the men.
Lydia repeated the process time after time, helping the wounded away from the worst of the battle. Every breath was a prayer.
She slipped in a spatter of blood, falling for what must surely have been the hundredth time. Lydia clenched her eyes shut and her hands into tight fists and then released them. She couldn’t bear to stand by and do nothing.
The smoke cleared for an instant as Lydia came on deck. They were abreast of Angélique. She craned her neck up at the vessel.
“Oh, God, please help us,” Lydia whispered.
Below her feet, the gunnery crews could finally bring their guns to bear and they let loose with a long rippling broadside. The horrific noise redoubled, and the whole ship shook with the volume. Her ears rang, and the world went silent as a grave. Clasping her hands over her ears, Lydia hurried to the side of another wounded man. On the foredeck, she could see Mr Harting, tall and elegant as always, taking careful aim as he let off a round from his pistol.
Of its own accord, her gaze sought Lord Danbury. God grant that he’s unharmed.
The injured sailor at her feet had a streak of blood running down his forehead. The wound must be under the hairline somewhere. He lay insensible, a dead weight. Get on with it. Reaching under his arms she linked her fingers atop his chest, hefting him up awkwardly. Gasping and staggering with the effort, she dragged him backwards across the deck.
She nearly had him to safety when from the corner of her eye she saw a French grapnel skitter across the deck and then clamp tight to a nearby rail, its teeth biting deeply into the wood. Her breath hissed through her teeth.
Snat
ching a knife from the belt of the wounded man, she dashed for the railing and hacked at the thick grappling line. A movement caught her gaze and she glanced up to see French sailors gesturing at her wildly.
Lydia dropped to her knees behind the suddenly flimsy protection of the rail. She could not stop her frenzied sawing. More canister shot whistled over her head. More lines thunked onto the deck. Legacy had to break free quickly or they would be overrun.
Some ten feet further down the deck, another grappling hook clattered and then bit into the rail.
Beside her the railing fractured, peppering Lydia with shards of shattered wood. Intent on her task, it took a moment for her to realize she had nearly been shot. The prayer revolving in her mind had been reduced to a single desperate shriek.
She ducked lower still. She almost had it. If only… The cable parted at last. Lydia took no time to celebrate. The acrid stench of the slow match, and foul smoke had seared itself permanently to her lungs. She was panting now, wheezing. The sea and sky had ceased to exist. Only the moment remained. The smoke and flame—and blood.
Using the rail as a screen she crawled on all fours to the next line and attacked the rope. A strong hand gripped her shoulder.
“Allow me,” shouted Danbury, his mouth close to her ear. He raised a boarding axe in one hand.
Lydia scrambled aside and he took her place at the rail. Two competent strokes of the axe, and the rope gave way. Legacy was free.
A couple of feet away, another grapnel landed on the deck. Not again. Before it could find purchase, Lydia snatched it up and hurled it into the sea.
CHAPTER 29
Gradually, Legacy pulled away. As they came abaft the Angélique’s beam they gained a position where the situation reversed: Legacy could fire on her, but for the moment the French could not return fire. The French ship kept up a withering barrage of gunfire from the upper decks, but her cannon fell silent, biding their time.
Legacy’s great guns roared their outrage. Her gunners aimed for the Angélique’s waterline. At such close range they could scarcely miss. After the first volley, the order broke down. The gun crews fired and reloaded as quickly as they could. They needed to inflict as much damage as possible in a very few minutes.
A hoarse cheer heralded the appearance of a gaping wound at the Angélique’s waterline. Another round hulled her once more. In a few moments the Angélique began to list, her bow dragged down by the water pouring through the holes gouged by Legacy’s wicked fire.
Captain Campbell ordered canvas packed on. The seamen jumped to the task, unreefing the sails and letting loose with every ounce of canvas the injured masts could bear. The sails immediately caught the wind, billowing out with a satisfying flapping.
Legacy swung away from the Angélique towards open water. A few angry shots followed them, but they no longer posed any real threat.
“Ha!” Captain Campbell shouted from where he stood at the wheel. “We were a bit more of a challenge than they thought, eh?” Blood trickled from a gash on his cheek and seeped from a makeshift bandage that encircled his thigh, but he grinned widely.
A cheer went up from the crew. Danbury grabbed Lydia, whirling her around in an exuberant embrace. “We did it!”
“Miracles still happen.” Lydia grinned as widely as any of the hands. She shouted too. No one could have heard anything less. They had all been deafened.
“I think you’re a lucky charm, Miss,” called one of the sailors. “We made it through a cyclone, and now a battle we ought never to’ve escaped from. Normally women’s bad luck on a ship, but I say as how you’re good luck. First the storm and now this.”
“I’m no lucky charm, Jonas. God must’ve heard our prayers.”
“Well, if your prayers is that good then I wish you’d pray for me.”
“Don’t be impertinent.” Danbury stepped towards the scruffy seaman.
A hoot of laughter went up from the listening men at this sally, and Jonas grinned sheepishly. “I didn’t mean no disrespect, Miss, and that’s a fact.” The sailor scratched his head.
A command from above sent the sailors scurrying back to their tasks.
“I’d best see if Dr Marshall could use my assistance with the wounded.” Lydia turned to go below decks.
Danbury touched her arm as she turned, and then drew back his hand as if she had scalded him. “Miss Garrett, a word please.”
“Yes?”
“I… It’s just… you must not risk yourself as you have been doing. I don’t think I, that is to say, the mission could do without you now.”
Lydia read the regard in his gaze and lowered her eyes. No use wishing for what might have been had the situation been different. She could manage no more than a husky whisper. “Lucky then that I am unscathed.”
“Unscathed? You’re covered in cuts, you have that arm injury, and you look tired enough to drop.”
Lydia’s gaze fell to take in her own dishevelled person. “I might have been killed,” she said. “I came within inches of it. I shall be rather sore in the morning, but for now I am well enough. There’s not a soul aboard who isn’t scratched and bruised, including you. And there are a great many who are far worse off.”
“There are men enough to care for them.”
“I shall allow Dr Marshall to make that decision. If I can do something to alleviate their suffering, then I intend to do it.”
Danbury sighed. A sensible man, he recognized defeat when it was upon him. “If you need me, I will be conferring with Captain Campbell. He needs to know we will be setting sail for India, not for home. Let’s hope he takes the news well, eh?”
Lydia smiled. “If anyone can soothe him, you’re the man.”
“Your confidence is touching, if misplaced. Perhaps I ought to find Harting to act as my second. If you see him will you send him to me?”
Lydia nodded agreement, but she had already made good her escape.
Anthony sighed as he watched her fleeing form. He wasn’t quite sure how he had managed to botch the conversation so thoroughly. Lydia Garrett was a mass of contradictions. She looked as fragile as the most delicate porcelain, but she had a core of solid strength that bent for no one. Shaking his head at the conundrum she posed, Anthony hurried to speak with Captain Campbell.
Hearing Harting’s voice above her, Lydia hurried up the stairs to find him seated on an upturned bucket and working to remove slivers of wood from the face of a swearing cabin boy.
“You must be still or it will hurt all the more,” Harting said.
“They didn’t hurt near as bad goin’ in. Leave ’em where they are.” The lad wriggled and kicked.
“They’re sure to cause infection if I leave them. I’m nearly through. Hold still.” His hand made quick darting motions, until at last with a bark of satisfaction he released his grip on the back of the boy’s head. “Go wash your face and bathe it with camphor,” he ordered. The child jumped to his feet and took off.
“Are you angling for Dr Marshall’s position? It looked like you had done that before,” said Lydia.
“No, but perhaps I shall study to be a physician when we get back to England. I imagine it provides as much excitement as espionage.”
“The hours are just as poor, though.”
“You have a point.” He smiled. “You’ve become quite the heroine.”
Lydia groaned inwardly. She had no desire for another lecture about staying prudently out of danger’s reach. “I’ve done no more than anyone would have, given the opportunity.”
“I beg to differ. There are quite a lot of people who would have run screaming given half a chance. You, however, seem to have no instinct for self-preservation whatsoever.”
Lydia rolled her eyes at him, and attempted a distraction. “Lord Danbury requires assistance breaking the news of our new destination to Captain Campbell.”
“Right-o.” Harting rose.
Lydia thought for an instant that her efforts had been successful. No such luck.
&
nbsp; “I wasn’t being critical, you know. I admire courage in anyone and you’ve got it by the bucketful. Danbury and I were both worried for you, though. Not because we don’t think you are capable, but because we should be destitute without you.”
Lydia shook her head at him. “You know very well that’s not true,” she said, even as she wished it were. “Off with you. Lord Danbury will need all your skills at persuasion.”
Harting did as instructed, but with an infuriatingly secret smile Lydia could not interpret. Shaking her head in a futile effort to clear it of distractions, she hurried to the orlop.
Moans and the stench of blood, sweat, and worse met Lydia as she entered the surgery. For an instant she considered retreat. Even the thick miasma of gun smoke and charred wood permeating the deck was better than the closed-in reek of the orlop.
Dr Marshall caught sight of her. “Miss Garrett, I’m glad you are here. Your assistance will be much appreciated.”
The injuries ranged from a serious chest wound, where a splinter nearly a foot long and wickedly sharp had pierced a man’s torso, to a broken leg caused by a recoiling gun, and an injured foot, hurt when a sailor dropped a cannonball during the heat of battle.
Every berth was occupied. While Dr Marshall and his loblolly boy handled a tricky amputation, Lydia stepped in to set a broken leg. Her patient lay supine on the operating table. His arms and uninjured leg were lashed securely in place to keep him from thrashing about. The man’s eyes rolled about wildly. Sweat beaded his forehead and he bit down on the bit of rope she placed between his jaws.
Bracing her own feet against the rolling deck, Lydia pulled on his foot, carefully repositioning the bone. It took every ounce of strength she possessed to accomplish the task. At the end, she quivered from the effort. Her entire person was drenched in perspiration and the cut on her arm had reopened. Blessedly, the sailor had passed out in the midst of the ordeal. While he remained unconscious, she immobilized the leg so he could not undo her efforts.
The Peacock Throne Page 21
