The King`s Commission l-3

by Dewey Lambdin

  And there was Lieutenant Lilycrop, splayed out amidships between the oarsmen where he could not have been seen, his cox'n supporting his head and shoulders, and another man helping hold his legs up out of the bilges. He was gritting his teeth in agony and rolling his head back and forth to keep silent before his men.

  The bosun's chair was lowered immediately, and Lilycrop helped into it and secured with a line about his waist. Gentle hands were there to ease his passage up the side, to keep him from bumping against the timbers. The stay-tackle hauled him up and over the gangway bulwarks and swung him over the waist. Lieutenant Lilycrop's right foot had been wrapped up in someone's shirt for a bandage, tied with small-stuff to keep it from falling off, with another length of twine about his leg above the knee to control the bleeding. Even so, his sodden wrap left a trail of blood droplets as he was lowered to the deck.

  "Make haste here, damn your eyes, Mister Lewyss!" Alan called as he gained the waist and knelt over his stricken commander.

  "Calm as does it, Mister Lewrie," Dr. Lewyss urged in a soft voice, patting Alan on the shoulder with a blood-grimed hand. "The captain already knows he's hurt, and we don't want him to take fright from all this yelling. Got to gentle the wounded, so ye do, like one would with a colt. Make 'em feel they have a chance, else they take fright and go all cold and grey. Seen it happen, and then you lose them, sure as Fate."

  Lewyss shouldered on past him and knelt by the injured leg. As the loblolly boys were readying a carrying board, and Lilycrop was being freed of the bosun's sling, Lewyss unwrapped the bandage. Once he saw the wound, he could not help wincing and sucking air in through his clenched teeth at the sight.

  The captain's right ankle was shattered. The shoe and stocking had been removed, though pieces of silk stocking still clung to the wound. The foot was a wine-dark horror, swollen beyond recognition, and hanging from the ankle by only a few remaining tendons at an obscene angle. Lewyss spanned his hand above the ankle, as though deciding just where he would start sawing to take it off, and found another wound, this one a bruise with a small blue-black hole in the center that oozed blood.

  "Captain, sir," Lewyss said with as much false good cheer as he could summon. "We'll get you below to the surgery and fix you right up. Nothing for a man to worry about. 'Tis going to be a handsome thing as the ladies'll gush over in future. Take a few sips on this while my lads get you below, and there's more where that came from."

  "Oh, shut up, you bloody Welsh fraud." Lilycrop grimaced. "I know you're to take my foot off. Gimme that bottle and get on with it, damn your eyes."

  Lewyss offered him a small pocket flask of rum, which the captain bit the stopper from and spat out. He drained it at one go.

  "Hurry. Mister Lewyss. I beg you," Alan urged in a harsh whisper.

  "Lewrie, that you?"

  "Aye, Captain."

  "Don't stand there lookin' like a specter, sir. Ship alright? No wounded aboard?" Lilycrop asked between waves of pain.

  "All well, sir," Alan said, close to tears. "We lost the small bower, sir."

  "Small enough price." Lilycrop groaned as he was rolled over onto the carrying board and lashed down. "Doctor, have you no more rum fer me, damn you? Let's get goin'! Get it over with, for the love of God!"

  Lewyss nodded to his hands, and they lifted the captain up to carry him away, gripping onto the loops of rope in the carrying board to maneuver his form down the steep ladders of the main hatch to the surgery aft in the cockpit.

  "It'll have to come off, of course, sir," Lewyss whispered sadly. "I could leave him most of the calf, but for that second wound. There's a musket ball about a hand-span above the ankle, and bones sure to be broken there. At least he'll have half his calf, and the knee, of course. Make things much better for him when it comes time to fit him for an appliance. He may walk almost naturally."

  "Then you'd best be about it, Mister Lewyss," Alan snapped.

  "Time enough, sir," Lewyss said, not to be hurried. "Let him have some more rum first, and let the numbness set in. If you will excuse me, sir."

  "No one else wounded, Mister Rossyngton?" Alan asked, once the doctor had taken himself below to his sad duty.

  "No, sir. Just the captain," the midshipman reported, shaken into somberness. "The landing was pretty much unopposed, sir, just some pickets to slow us down in the woods. But we came up against some heavy volleys once we were over the first hill. And we went to ground there, sir. We sent for a diversion against the town, as I expect you know, sir."

  "Aye."

  "The French fell back to a work above the town," Rossyngton went on, between sips of small-beer from a large wooden piggin. "And they had field guns there, maybe four of 'em, six-pounders. We could see seamen as well as soldiers, sir. Hundreds of 'em. Captain Dixon had just ordered us to retire-not much we could have done in the face of that work-and the captain gave a little grunt, sort of, sir. This cannon ball came rolling out of the bushes, spent almost, but it hit his foot and just flipped him arse over tit, sir, like an acrobat. How he got the second wound, I don't know, sir."

  "Signal from flag, sir!" Edgar called. "It's… 'Captains Repair On Board,' sir."

  "Damn that fool yonder!" Alan spat. "And just how does he think our captain can manage that, I wonder?" He was feeling a heavy wave of guilt. If he had not been malingering, acting as if he was incapable of fulfilling his duties as a whole man, Lieutenant Lilycrop would still have a foot. It was his fault that that good man, a man who had treated him more than fairly, was now undergoing the horror of Lewyss' knives, saws and probes. Then again, he rationalized, it could be him on the table, turning into a maimed figure of fun for the street urchins back home, who would taunt "Mr. Hopkins" at any person with any sort of deformity.

  "Um, think you'd better go in the captain's place, sir," Caldwell suggested, interrupting his furious musings. "To the flag, that is."

  "Hmm. Me?"

  "Yessir, with the captain down wounded, you're in charge for now, sir," Caldwell repeated.

  "Damme, I suppose I am, ain't I?" Alan nodded, slowly comprehending it all.

  Alan's boat ground against Albemarle's side by the main-chains, with Cony holding fast with a painter and Andrews at the tiller as a temporary cox'un. It was with difficulty that he got up the man-ropes and battens to the deck. He was greeted with the shrill of bosun's pipes and the side-party due a captain, which made him shrivel up with guilt once more. He had not known where the other officers stood in seniority to him, so he was the last aboard, and once he had doffed his hat in return salute he limped over to join the others.

  "I am Lieutenant Osborne, first into Albemarle, sir. And you are?"

  "Alan Lewrie, first officer of Shrike, brig o' war," Alan replied.

  "Sir, allow me to name you to the others. Lieutenant Lewrie of Shrike; Captain James King of Resistance, Lieutenant Charles Cunningham of Admiral Barrington, Captain Charles Dixon of Drake. Our second, Lieutenant Martin Hinton, and our Lieutenant Joseph Bromwich. I believe you have already met earlier, have you not? Captain Nelson shall receive you in a few moments."

  It was not exactly a pleasant social gathering. They all looked devilishly grim after being checked ashore and obliged to cut and run from the heavier French battery.

  "Get that ashore, sir?" Captain King asked, noticing Alan's slight limp.

  "No, sir. A few weeks ago on the Florida coast, when we were still part of Sir Joshua Rowley's Jamaica Squadron," Alan replied.

  "Any casualties, Charles?" Dixon asked of Cunningham.

  "Six wounded, sir," Cunningham replied. "Including the bosun."

  "We suffered two, one of 'em our sailing master," Dixon told them all. "Damned fortunate, for all the damage we took. Gaff shattered, rigging cut up pretty well, and we have an eighteen-pounder ball in the timbers. Thank the good Lord they didn't run to heated shot. And how did Shrike fare, sir?"

  "No one aboard is hurt," Alan said. "One wounded ashore with you-our captain, sir, Lieutenant Lilycrop." />
  "Hurt sore?" Dixon asked.

  "He's losing his foot at this moment, sir," Alan stated.

  "Ah, I'm damned sorry," Dixon sighed. "I tried to keep our casualties to a minimum ashore. No sense making a useless demonstration against their works and getting men killed for nothing."

  "Trevenen says we should have reconnoitered last night, sent a boat ashore," King said. "Might have saved us the trouble."

  "Oh, him," Lieutenant Cunningham sniffed. "I'm sure young Jemmy will put pen to paper about this."

  "Excuse me, sirs, but Captain Nelson will see you now," Osborne told them, coining back on deck. He led them aft and below to the great cabins. Alan stuffed his hat under his arm and waited to see what their putative "commodore" looked like.

  Well, stap me, he thought at his first sight. I do believe if they made me a post-captain tomorrow, I'd look older than this'un.

  Captain Horatio Nelson was a skinny little hop o' my thumb, not much taller than some minnikin, slim and coltish as a young whippet, and a good breeze looked enough to blow him right away. His light hair was long, lank and unpowdered, tied back in a Hessian tail of such length that it rivaled Lieutenant Lilycrop's seamanly queue. His captain's coat was the full-dress "iron-bound," stiff with gold lace, and of a fashion more suited to the last war, with over-sized pocket flaps. Altogether, he looked like an actor in some Drury Lane production portraying a Sea Officer, deliberately mis-cast in some parody.

  "Gentlemen, well met," he began in a high, slightly nasal voice. "Though I fear we meet not in a victory worthy of British Sea Officers. Lieutenants Bromwich and Hinton inform me they were obliged to cut and abandon the cannonade on the town battery. How many guns?"

  "At least four or five twenty-four-pounders, sir," Cunningham said. "And near on five or six six-pounders, by my count. A substantial work. And they were manned by seamen, I believe. Very accurate gunners."

  "And Captain Dixon, you encountered at least four more guns, of at least six-pounds shot, at a work blocking your advance?" Nelson asked.

  "Aye, sir."

  "Quite a packet to be transported by La Coquette and that prize sloop now with the Dugay Trouin frigate," Nelson said, playing with the stock of his shirt. "And how many troops did you encounter ashore, sir?"

  "I would estimate over two hundred men, sir," Dixon said evenly.

  "I want to commend your sagacity, sir," Nelson told him with a small, shy smile on his long, narrow face. "Another commander would have tried to force the issue against that work, and would have been repulsed with heavy casualties. Obviously, there are a lot more men ashore than the captive French officers in La Coquette told us. Captain King, did you learn any more from them?"

  "No, sir," King replied. "They said they'd escorted ships here, and La Coquette had given up five of her twenty-six guns to form a battery. I estimated that they could not have landed much more than one hundred fifty troops, plus seamen gunners."

  "But to man that many guns, and provide a guard force for both works, and still leave at least two hundred troops free to operate against Captain Dixon, would make how many, do you think?" Nelson asked, trying not to give the impression that he might like to tear King's head off, even if he did. "If there were other ships escorted here, of which I now am informed."

  This is damned interesting, Alan thought, watching the young man grill the older (and, surprisingly, senior) post-captain over the coals. So post-captains can act just as ill with each other as any pack of surely midshipmen fighting over shares of a pudding?

  "It would make over five hundred men, sir," Alan guessed aloud. "My captain says there's nothing much on the other islands, so Grand Turk is the key, and they must have located all their force here."

  "And you are. sir?" Nelson asked, turning to face him. He didn't look pleased to be addressed, and thrown off the topic.

  "Lieutenant Lewrie, sir, of the Shrike brig. First officer. I stand in for my captain, Lieutenant Lilycrop, who's in surgery now."

  "The officer wounded ashore with me, sir," Dixon added.

  "Yes, Mister Lewrie, over five hundred men, with twenty-four pounders," Nelson said, turning to address all of them. "We put, what, about one hundred sixty-five men up against a French regiment, and a fortification with artillery heavier than any piece we have at our disposal. But, we may still seize the day. I propose to shift the frigates opposite the town to reduce the fortification. If we start now, we may pound upon it all night if need be. As for the brigs, make a demonstration above Britain Bay, at the far end of the island, to get the field troops marching that direction. Then, at first light, we land here, after taking anchor in Hawk's Nest Anchorage, on the other side of the island from the town and battery. They shall have to abandon the work up north, and we may now concentrate our forces against theirs properly."

  "Would it not be better to blockade the place for now, sir?" Captain King advised, shaking his head. "Send one of the brigs off to summon Admiral Hood? He must be back on station by now, after watering at Port Royal. Heavy guns and Marines from the liners…"

  "Weakening the blockade of Cape Francois, Captain King," the diminuitive "commodore" replied, rejecting the suggestion with an energetic wave of his hands. "Perhaps their expedition had that as a secondary goal. No, we have a chance to confound our King's enemies here and now. With enough energetic action, enough alacrity, we may still prevail."

  "I'd like to point out, though, sir," Captain Dixon said with a heavy look, "that even if we stripped every vessel present, the French can still field more troops, and once ashore, we'll have no field guns to counter their battery. It was dirt, and they could dig guns in anywhere they wish, once they see where we land. They hold the upper hand when it comes to moving on interior lines, whilst we are forced to sail all around the island to find another beach."

  While Nelson was digesting this view of things, there was a rap on the door, and Nelson bade whoever it was enter, with an exasperated tone to his voice.

  The officer who entered was Lieutenant Osborne, first officer of Albemarle. "Excuse me for interrupting, sir, but the winds are come more westerly, and still quite fresh. Another hour and we'll be on a lee shore."

  "Yes, thank you for telling me, Mister Osborne," Nelson answered, massaging his brow with long, slim fingers. He used his other hand to spin the map of the island about to stare at it. "There is no good holding ground on the eastern side. Shallow reefs and shoals, and then a steep drop off to truly unfathomable depths. Hawk's Nest Anchorage is possible, but under the guns of the battery, and too far for useful fire from our pieces." He gave a heavy sigh, a bitter realization that even the seas and the winds conspired against him, and Alan felt quite sorry for him. The man had rushed in hoping that he would gain a quick victory against light forces, and he had been misled by the intelligence he had received. The French ships taken by Resistance and the other frigate had not carried the expedition, they had escorted other merchantmen or transports, who had equipped the place for a long defense, with heavy guns. Now Nelson would have to admit defeat, and sail back to his admiral with news of his repulse. Better he had done what King suggested in the first place; keep an eye on the island and send word immediately to bring line-of-battle ships that could shoot the battery and works to flinders, land nearly a regiment of Marines and reduce the garrison.

  "Even the sea and winds aid the damned French," Nelson mused, as if God had turned out to be a Hay-Market tout, and had given him a false report on some horse on which he had bet the family estate. "Gentlemen… let us weigh anchor at once and work off this shore before we start dragging anchors in bad holding ground. No sense losing a ship, or another man, on this miserable island."

  "And the expedition, sir?" Captain King asked, as if he liked rubbing salt in wounds. Or had the tact of a mastiff.

  "I fear I must concur with Captain Dixon's estimate of the situation at the last. No, weigh and head back for the squadron off Cape Francois." Nelson scowled, turning away to look out the transom windows, un
able to face them in his moment of failure.

  "How is the captain?" Alan asked, once he was back aboard his ship.

  "Mister Lewyss thinks he'll live, sir." Caldwell told him in a soft voic. "Left him a good stump, sir. Didn't suffer much, nor make a sound."

  "Thank God for small blessings, anyway. Mister Caldwell, I'd admire if you took over as first officer, acting lieutenant. Your mate to rise to sailing master."

  "Aye. sir," Caldwell preened. "Though I hate to prosper at the captain's sorrow, sir. I must advise you, sir, the wind's come westerly and…"

  "Yes, get us under way soon as you can. Lay out the sweeps if you think they might be necessary. Easier than being towed out by the boats. Mister Fukes, prepare to get under way!"

  "Aye aye, sir!"

  "We still going to try something else against these Frogs, sir?" Caldwell asked as the bosun's pipes shrilled for all hands on deck.

  "No," Alan snapped. "They're too strong. The captain's going to lose his ship for nothing. Goddamnit, I'm getting tired of this."

  "You and me too, sir," Caldwell agreed.

  They veered out to take up their stream anchor, hauled back up to short stays on the bower, and got under way. The wind and waves were too much, and she paid off immediately, rolling her larboard rail almost under, even under bare poles. "Sweeps, Mister Fukes!"

  Like an ancient oared galley, Shrike extended her sweeps, too few to Alan's eyes, but they needed strength to finish hauling up the anchor by the capstan, fish it in and ring it up on the catheads. More hands were already aloft, loosing the spanker and jibs, leaving only twenty or so hands to pull at the long oars. It was enough to hold her head up to the fresh breeze until the rudder could bite, and the fore and aft sails could give her forward motion.

  Not trusting to square-sails until they were out beyond the reefs, they short-tacked away from the lee shore, employing the sweeps to get her head around on each tack and keep her driving forward no matter how slowly, until the sails could fill and impart drive. The leadsmen in the forechains swung their shorter sounding lines continually, until they reported no bottom. Then, when even the deep-sea lead could find no bottom, they hauled their wind to the south and loosed topsails and courses, now out over the abyssal depths of Turk's Island Passage.