by The Rock
Eliott said nothing. O'Brien was a good man, but blind. O'Brien went on quickly. "The other item is this—look at the figures for the 10th Foot. They have as many admissions as the others ... but barely one fifth of the mortality! Now what can that mean! That the 10th have acquired a resistance? Where? They've come from India. Is that it?"
Eliott stood up. He said, "None of these things matter. I cannot be interested in your medicine any more, Mr. O'Brien. Thank you for what you have done, but I shall not be back."
O'Brien stared up at him open-mouthed. The glass rattled on the table. Eliott turned and went out, hearing one baffled, hurt cry behind—"Eliott!"
He went straight to Mr. Matania's house, where the merchant now lived alone with his only surviving daughter. He was in the parlor and stood up carefully when Eliott entered. "David," he said formally, "what can I do for you?" His manner to Eliott had changed greatly since the epidemic; but then, everything had.
Eliott said, "I have decided to become a Teacher."
"The Lord be praised," Mr. Matania exclaimed.
"I have come to accept your offer. I shall go to England to study."
"The Lord be praised!" Mr. Matania cried again. "David, this is wonderful! When are you leaving?"
"As soon as I can get passage."
Mr. Matania hurried out, calling, "Wait there." His cane tapped away and in a few minutes returned. "There's fifty sovereigns for your passage and to fit yourself out in London," he said, "and here's a banker's order on Mr. Rothschild for twenty pounds a month. If you need more, you have only to ask your Uncle Gamaliel. And ... you'll come back to us, to be our Teacher and guide?"
He looked up, anxious and subservient.
"I shall come back," Eliott said somberly. He went out, the merchant's final "The Lord be praised" still echoing in his ears. Now he had to tell his mother. She would faint for joy, for she had been pestering him to take this step ever since the end of the epidemic.
He bumped into someone, and a voice cried, "Hey, hey, look where you're going, you walking beanpole...." It was Mr. Whittle. He recognized Eliott. "Why, Eliott, damn my eyes, I haven't seen you in an age, and now I'm off again—but there's just time for a quick one afore we sail."
"Where are you going?" Eliott asked quickly.
"Bristol."
"I'll come." He looked at the sun—still an hour or more before the beginning of the Sabbath. "I'll be on board in half an hour." He ran away down the street, the tails of his black coat flying.
"Sail ho!" a sailor at the bow cried. "Two points off the port bow."
Mr. Whittle leaped nimbly into the port-side rigging and peered forward. "Thank God!" he said. "It's one of ours." He jumped down and glanced astern, where a brown-sailed, black-hulled sloop was hauling up fast on the Partridge. A few minutes later the sloop's captain saw the new sail and put down his helm. Two puffs of smoke blossomed on his flank, two columns of water leaped out of the sea, far short, and then two thuds of cannon. The sloop, a Spanish privateer, turned and headed back for Cadiz, just out of sight over the eastern horizon.
Mr. Whittle laughed and cocked a snook after her. To the helmsman he called, "Steer for the man o' war, George. We'll sell 'em some vegetables."
The ship bore down upon them, all sail set before a northwest wind. When the black hull and yellow gunports and waving ensigns seemed to be right on top of them, sailors scrambled like squirrels up the rigging, and she backed topsails. A boat smacked into the water almost simultaneously, and Mr. Whittle said, "It's the Ark Royal. Best-handled ship in the fleet. She was fitting a new mainmast in Rosia till a few days ago. But... hold hard! What do they want to send an officer and marines for? Put up the helm, George, quick!"
An officer on the poop of the warship shouted through a speaking trumpet, "Put down your helm, master, or I fire." Eliott saw that half a dozen guns on that side had been run out to the ports.
The boat rowed alongside, and a lieutenant came aboard. "Captain Burleigh's compliments, and he must press any able-bodied men aboard for the king's service." Mr. Whittle shouted, "You can't press my crew, lieutenant."
"Oh yes, he can, master. It's Mr. Whittle, isn't it? He sailed forty short, and now we've lost ten more down with fever. And the enemy are reported to be warping out of harbor."
Redcoated marines scrambled aboard the sloop, and Mr. Whittle called up resignedly, "All right, Captain Burleigh. But leave me five sailors."
A marine jogged Eliott's arm and pointed to the boat. Eliott said, "I'm a Jew."
The marine said, "All right, Moses, into the boat."
"But ... this is not my business. This is nothing to do with me," Eliott cried. "I'm a passenger, going to England for rabbinical studies."
Two marines seized him and dragged him, struggling and shouting, to the boat, "Go along easy," Mr. Whittle called anxiously. "It can't be helped, Eliott. The fleet needs men.... He's a doctor, lieutenant."
Twenty minutes later Eliott stood on the deck of the battleship with a dozen other sailors and passengers taken off Mr. Whittle's ship. The Partridge herself was just beginning to make headway toward the northwest, on the starboard tack. A tall, dark-jowled man in blue, with much gold lace, stood in front of them and said, "Seamen, one step forward. Mr. Trott, distribute them.... Bos'n, take charge of the rest. Give 'em some gun drill at once."
Eliott said, "I want to go to England."
A nearby group of sailors began to titter. The lieutenant said, "The master said this one was a doctor, sir."
Captain Burleigh said, "Ah, then down to the orlop with you, and report to Surgeon Halford."
Eliott said obstinately, "I am not a physician. I want to go to England."
Captain Burleigh glared at him, the dark eyes snapping. They stood alone on the poop, for everyone else had gone about his business. Two marine sentries, guarding the companion up from the main deck, stared woodenly ahead.
The captain said, "You speak very good English for a Rock scorpion. You are a Gibraltarian, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Try saying, 'Yes, sir.' "
"Why? I am not in the military."
Captain Burleigh said, "You are now.... You are an educated man or you wouldn't speak English. And yet, you seem to know nothing.... This ship is about to rejoin Lord Nelson's fleet. Tomorrow that fleet will fight the French and Spanish, somewhere near here. Do you know what will happen if we lose?"
Eliott shook his head. It was none of his affair, this business of fleets and armies and battles.
"The enemy will be able to invade England. And Gibraltar will go back to Spain."
"Gibraltar?" Eliott exclaimed. "Here?"
"Here!" the captain said.
Eliott looked out over the heaving tumbling waste of blue and white. Specks of sails had begun to show along the western horizon. If Gibraltar became Spanish, what would happen to the Jews? It seemed unbelievable, and unjust, that such a question should be decided miles away, upon another element, by men from other countries. But so it was. And the movements of these forces, which he had lived with all his life but ignored, would now also decide his own career and his fate.
"Take me to the surgeon," he said. "I will do what I can."
The next morning was Monday, October 21. Shortly after dawn a sailor found Eliott killing cockroaches in the orlop and told him the captain wanted him. "Bring a sharp knife, captain says," the sailor added. Eliott worked his way up narrow ladders, through long, low-roofed spaces crowded with chattering men and silent guns, to the open air. Captain Burleigh was sitting on a barrel on the poop. The rising sun shone on his worn blue coat and tarnished gold lace. He thrust his hand out. "See that splinter? Cut it out." The splinter was at least an inch long and had been driven hard into the palm of the captain's hand. Eliott said, "But..."
"From Commander-in-Chief, sir—form order of sail in two columns," an officer nearby called out, the telescope still to his eye.
"Acknowledge, Mr. Ponsonby.... Don't 'but' me, surgeon, do as I
say."
Eliott took the hand, and probed gingerly with his scalpel. He began to sweat, and his own hand became slippery.
"From Commander-in-Chief, sir—course east by south. Masthead reports enemy fleet wearing in succession from rear."
The sun shone on blue heaving water, the sweat glazed in Eliott's eyes, his wrist trembled.
"From Commander-in-Chief, sir: prepare for battle."
Battle, Eliott thought. Soon, he was to be in it. His trembling stopped; he gripped the captain's hand firmly with his left and cut deep along the line of the splinter with the point of the scalpel. The hand tightened but did not move. Blood flowed freely as he slipped the scalpel under the splinter and eased it out.
"Water, someone," the captain said. "Wash it Didn't you bring a bandage, surgeon? Think, man, think!" He peered at Eliott more closely, meanwhile wrapping his own handkerchief around his hand. "By God, you look as if you need a tot more than I do. And I certainly do." He prized up the lid of the barrel, dipped in the ladle hanging at the side, and gave it to Eliott. Eliott drank, coughed, choked, and drank again. The captain clapped him on the back.
"Sit down a minute, man. If blood affects you that much, are you sure you wouldn't rather serve a gun?"
"No, sir," Eliott muttered, "I've never worked with the wounded or hurt, only the sick. It's different."
"It is indeed," Captain Burleigh said. "Take a look round while you can."
Eliott looked ahead and saw in the eye of the low sun a long line of sails, stretching across from horizon to horizon. The Andulusian mountains rose hazy behind them. "That's the enemy," Captain Burleigh said, "about fifteen miles away. They're turning to try to get back to Cadiz before we can cut into them, but they won't do it."
A column of ships stretched ahead and astern of the Ark Royal, and a mile to the left there was another column, the two heading for the middle of the enemy line. "That's the Commander-in-Chief's column," the captain said. "He's in the van, in Victory."
"From flag, sir—course east by north."
"Acknowledge.... You'd better get below now, surgeon. Mr. Halford will need your help. Tell him we'll probably engage about noon—say, in four hours—if the wind holds."
Eliott took a long look around the circle of sea and sky, filled now with ships. From all the English ships huge white and red ensigns streamed out ahead in the breeze. Then he went below.
The orlop deck was a part of the third deck down on the port side, forward. It was below the water line and had no ports. Flimsy wood partitions shut it off from the rest of the deck, which contained powder magazines, huge water butts, and bins of 32-pound cannon balls. Oil lanterns swung from the beams, and there was a mixed smell of tar, rum, and sweat. Mr. Halford, the surgeon, was gaunt and harried, with pale eyes and gingery whiskers. "Set to, set to, Mr. Conquy," he said. "Arrange, put out, stack...." There were four or five seaman-mates, and with them Eliott began to get ready. In the orlop "prepare for battle" was a grim business indeed: scrubbing a heavy table for operations, laying out knives, saws, pincers, and a padded hammer; broaching a small cask of rum; setting out buckets of pitch, buckets of water, and just buckets—several of them, empty; a wooden bin, for legs and arms; miles of bandage.... Eliott worked with his jaw set. He felt uneasy in the pit of his stomach but hoped it would go when the firing actually began.
They finished at last. Halford sat down on the table with a sigh and helped himself to a mug of rum. He drank, shaking his head. "There'll be a big butcher's bill today, if Lord Nelson gets his teeth into them." He drank again.
At half past eleven the pipes shrilled, and Mr. Halford said, "All hands on deck." Eliott followed him up through the decks—empty of men now, the guns standing in long rows on either side, to the top. There he gasped, for the line of enemy ships seemed very close. The lead ship of the Ark Royal's column must be no more than quarter of a mile from them. Eliott, from the sixth ship of the line, felt he could almost recognize men's features in the enemy vessels.
Captain Burleigh stood on the break of the Ark Royal's poop, the crew massed below, a few officers behind. Eliott climbed into the rigging close to the poop, the better to see, and looked out over a sea of blue, white, striped jerseys, and black bandannas of the sailors, mixed with the red coats and cockaded black top hats of the marines.
The officer with the telescope said, "From Commander-in-Chief, sir—intend to pass through the enemy line, make all sail with safety to masts."
Captain Burleigh said, "Acknowledge," and turned to face the crew. "Men," he began, "on this auspicious occasion, I feel it is my duty to address a few words to you. We are about to engage the enemies of God, of the king, and of mankind. Let it never..."
"From Commander-in-Chief, sir—" the signal officer interrupted.
"God damn it!" Captain Burleigh exploded. "We don't need any more signals!"
"England expects that every man will do his duty."
The captain's raised, bandaged hand sank. After a long pause he turned to the crew and said quietly, "Did you hear that, men? There's nothing more to be said."
"From Commander-in-Chief, sir—close action! ... The signal is being kept flying."
"Except that!" Captain Burleigh cried. "Three cheers, men, then to your action stations. Hip, hip...!"
Eliott found himself cheering with the rest, and though all the hundreds of mouths were open, bellowing lustily, the sound came out thin in the open air against the creak of the masts and the slat of the sails and the surge of the sea. The upper deck began to empty. Eliott gazed ahead, fascinated, as the leading ship of the column suddenly vanished in a huge cloud of white smoke. Seconds later a thunderous booming reached him. Very quickly the thunder was repeated, and Captain Burleigh shouted to his signal officer, "Eighteen seconds between broadsides! Royal Sovereign's outdoing herself.... Can you see who we're likely to draw, Mr. Ponsonby?"
"Bellerophon's going to get Monarcca, sir. I think the next ship is Covadonga, seventy-four. That'll be ours."
The white smoke ahead billowed higher and wider. More and more of the center of the enemy line was vanishing in the smoke. Over to the left smoke began to hide the head of the other English column, as it too engaged. Ahead of the Ark Royal, ship after ship sailed steadily into the white murk, all but their topsails vanishing. One by one Lieutenant Ponsonby muttered their names as they went: Royal Sovereign, Belle Isle, Mars, Tonnant, Bellerophon.
... The thunder of cannon grew into a continuous battering.
"Our turn now, sir," Ponsonby said.
Captain Burleigh said, "Good luck, Mr. Ponsonby.... Good God, surgeon, what in hell are you still doing up here? Get to your post!"
Then they were in the smoke, the fumes caught at Eliott's throat, a great bow loomed over, and pair by pair the guns on both sides of the ship began to fire, from bow to stem. The deck jumped, the masts groaned, the whole ship shook. Eliott ran for the ladder, filled with a wild, fearful exhilaration.
They started coming into the orlop at once—men with chests crushed, knees smashed, arms gone: thirty-two- pound cannonballs fired at a range of forty feet or less made no small wounds. Crash ... crash ... crash ... crash ... the explosions of the guns never paused, and under them there was a heavy, hollow rumbling. "The guns recoiling and being run back, sir," a sailor with a pulped left hand told him. "Can I have a little water please, sir? God bless you, sir. Thank you, sir." Crash ... crash ... crash ... The ship jarred and grated ... "Rammed someone," a seaman-mate said. Crash ... crash ... crash ... The minutes accumulated into hours, the pile of legs and arms grew in the bin. The operating table and the deck all round were red and slippery. Even? few minutes the mates carried off men who had died, to throw them through a port, and came back staggering under new cases. Powder bums, amputations, disembowelings, deep gouges from flying splinters, Eliott saw them all, wept inwardly over them all, and did his best for all; and below the sadness at the horrors men were inflicting on each other he recognized a steadily growing assurance, a
contentment of discovery. Whether he liked it or not, he was a surgeon. It was, and must be, in this way that he would serve his God.
Crash ... crash ... crash: and always the faint voices—Water.... Thank you, sir, God bless you.... I'm all right, look after my mate, sir.... Those he heard louder, in his mind, than the helpless screams and groans.
"Are we winning, sir?" a sailor asked, pale as death with a splinter clean through his body.
"I don't know," Eliott said.
Captain Burleigh stooped under the beam beside him. "Yes, we're winning, Muggeridge," the Captain said, speaking loud so that all in the orlop would hear. "The Covadonga's struck to us, and Monarca to the Bellerophon. But we're badly holed below the water line. Get everyone on deck, Mr. Halford."
He left, and Eliott realized then that the ship was tilted slightly to starboard. He began to support and carry the wounded men to the upper deck. The noise was as great as ever, though only the port side guns were firing. When he returned to the orlop after his second trip, the list had increased visibly. On deck the masts were only stumps, and all the sails were hanging over the side. Sailors were cutting loose spars and barrels, anything that would float. Eliott went down once more to make sure no one was left in the orlop. It was empty, the buckets and barrels beginning to slide down the tilted deck and legs and arms rolling out of the bin after them. He started back up. As he passed the empty lower gun deck he looked down it and stopped, gripped with a paralysis of horror. He had not paused in the gun decks as he ran up and down with the wounded. Now he was seeing one after battle for the first time. He thought the sight would remain burned onto his eyes for the rest of his life, a permanent background for all else that ever passed before them.
The deck was only empty of the living. The dead lay in drifts and piles, a hundred, two hundred, mixed red, white, blue, yellow. Heads rolled in scuppers awash with blood and tripes. Under the bodies the teak deck was inches deep in blood, ears, fingers, entrails, and eyes. The thick bulwarks of the ship were smashed and splintered the whole way down both sides. Many of the square gun pots had become gaping raw-edged holes. Several of the upper deck beams had been smashed, to fall angled across the deck. Some of the cannon had broken free from the restraining ropes. One by one they thundered down the slope, mashing the bodies under their wheels, to stop with a deafening crash against the lower bulwark, or smash through a huge hole into the sea.
