A musket thrust for him, its bayonet sharp and hungry. He put up the pistol to bind with it, slashing backward with his rapier and opening up the man’s chest. As the man stumbled and went down, Alan struck again across the neck, then vaulted the body as it sank to the deck.
Now he was on the quarterdeck, as British Marines and sailors swarmed up the ladders from the waist in a rush, and Lewrie’s people took the crumbling opposition in the flank, doing great damage before they were spotted.
Lewrie faced off with a boy, perhaps a midshipman like him, and almost without thought beat the young man’s guard aside and ran him through with the razor-sharp rapier.
Next there was a real swordsman, an officer by his clothes and breeches and good stockings and shoes, with a rapier and what looked like a poignard.
“To me!” Alan screamed, but he’d been cut off by the swirling fight, almost backed up against the larboard bulwarks and nettings. The man was fast and strong, his wrist like an iron bar as their blades met. Alan retreated slowly, parrying the sword with his rapier and trying to keep the poignard away from his belly with the long barrel of the pistol.
The French officer stamped and lunged, and Alan beat him aside in quartata, but the Frenchman was there with the poignard going for his throat, and they binded, thrusting forward at each other. The poignard snapped the gun back to full cock and Alan took aim in the general direction and pulled the trigger. The powder in the pan flashed, but the gun hung fire, the muzzle not three inches from the man’s head …
The Frenchman actually smiled as he leaped back, devilishly quick on his feet, before driving forward again. Lewrie held him off with the rapier, going onto the attack to keep the poignard away. He still held the gun pointed at the man, hoping it would make up its mind to fire.
Then they were almost chest to chest again, and Lewrie had to lower the pistol to deflect the poignard. The gun went off. The French officer grunted and fell backward, all his strength gone. The pistol had finally discharged, in the man’s groin.
“Quarter,” someone yelled in English. “Give ’em quarter, I say…”
It was not that easy to turn aside the men’s blood lust. Three Marines ran past Lewrie, muskets held right-forward, stabbing, slaughtering broken men like rabbits.
Alan leaned on the railing and became aware of a pain in his gun hand. The Frenchman’s poignard had cut deep into his fingers on the butt as he had tried to fend off sure death from that dagger.
“Goddamn it, give ’em quarter,” Railsford was shouting. “Stop that.”
Slowly the fight drained out of the men as they realized they had slaughtered and butchered from the forecastle to the after quarterdeck, and that there were very few enemy left standing. The ship was alive with cries of agony and terror, and the screaming of those horses or mules continued from the first moment they had opened fire.
“Mister Lewrie, is that you?” Railsford demanded, coming toward his side of the quarterdeck.
“Aye, Mister Railsford,” he shouted back through a cracked and dry throat.
“Take a party below and roust out the survivors.”
Lewrie found half a dozen Marines and sailors, and went from one compartment to another, down into the orlop and the holds in search of those who had hidden from death. They ran about ten men topsides.
“What’s below?” Railsford asked him.
“Gun caissons, limbers, gun carriages, looks like six- or nine-pounder artillery, sir,” Lewrie said, his hand throbbing now. “There’s draft horses, sir, shot up and screaming.”
“Toliver,” Railsford called.
“Aye aye, sir?”
“Take a party below, and put those horses out of their misery.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Hollo, what’s happened to your hand?”
“Cut it, sir. French officer over there with a dagger.”
“You go see Dorne, then report right back to me, hear?”
“Aye, sir.”
The two ships were now lashed firmly together, heading south on a soldier’s wind on the beam, as they tried to sort things out. There was a hatch grating lashed to the bulwarks over which Lewrie scrambled to his own ship, still gripping the strange rapier. He went below to the orlop and found surgeon Dorne busily cutting and sewing, his leather apron awash in blood, with gore up to the elbows. There were few of the Desperate present, but plenty of unfamiliar faces on the deck were twisted in pain.
“Bide a moment, Mister Lewrie,” Dorne said, his head bare for once in the dancing light of the lanterns over the operating table made of chests. He was removing the arm from a French soldier, which had been shattered by grape-shot. “No, can’t help this one anymore. Lewrie, come here. Anything wrong?”
The soldier had died, and was being lugged out by the loblolly boys to be tipped over the side without ceremony.
“Ah, flex your fingers for me,” Dorne said, peering at the cuts. “Everything still works. Drink this.”
There was a mug of rum, barely cut by an equal mixture of water, which Alan drank down greedily. Dorne sponged his hand with seawater, got out his sewing kit and began to stitch the worst ragged tears while Alan set his face in a mask. Life was full of pain, anyone could tell you that, and it had to be borne as best as one could, without a show of fear. Men had been operated on for the stone, had their limbs severed, and never uttered a peep … they knew that pain could be stood, and once stood, was over.
“Once you are through with that, sir, I have a pair of breeches need mending,” Alan said tightly, looking off into the middle distance at Frenchmen in much more pain than he. At least he hoped they were!
“Give it a week and you’ll be sewing yourself,” Dorne said. “There. Soak daily in salt-water, which is an excellent prevention of suppuration. The stitches will weep for a while, but no lasting damage has been done. Hogan, wrap this in clean cloth, will you? And you come see me if you have any discoloring or odorous discharge.”
“Aye, Mister Dorne,” Lewrie said, happy to escape that place, as another man was slung onto the table with both legs slashed open. Once Hogan had bound his worst-cut finger and wrapped a bandage around his whole hand, Alan went back on deck, reeling from the drink.
He reported to Railsford and was soon in charge of a working party hoisting out the dead horses. The cook was slaughtering them and carving them into chunks of roughly four pounds apiece for fresh meat for each mess. Other teams were identifying Desperate’s dead and wounded, carrying them aboard for burial or surgery, tipping dead or badly injured Frenchmen over the side and shoving over offal from shattered bodies.
“Whole company of French infantry,” Railsford said as dawn began to tint the eastern horizon. “And a battery of artillery going to the Virginia colony. Not a corporal’s guard of them left.”
“Virginia, sir?” Alan asked, reeling once more, this time with exhaustion as they labored to set the ship to rights for the prize crew to handle.
“Aye, I thought we had that safe, but things must be happening up north,” Railsford told him. “There’s a French officer left … not for long; that man over there in the green coat and red breeches, War Commissary Corps to Rochambeau and Lafayette … He makes it sound like the whole bunch of Southern colonies has been stripped bare for some major fight in the Virginias.”
An older French officer had been wounded in the belly and was propped up as comfortably as possible near the double wheel by his orderly, who was sponging his brow.
“He won’t last,” Lewrie said.
“I know, but he’s full of information and cares little for keeping it to himself. You understand French, Lewrie?”
“Just barely, sir. There’s a lot would go right past me.”
“Well, I’ll keep at it, then,” Railsford said. “God, I wish we had our people here.”
During the night the convoy of prize ships had plodded past the ship and Desperate, once Amphion had assured herself that they had things in good order. The larger frigate had
given up half a dozen hands and a master’s mate into Desperate to help work her, but this prize would require thinning out the crew further.
“Anything more you want me to do, sir?” Alan asked.
“Check the cargo manifests. Toss any drink over the side that the prize crew might be able to get to. We shall have to get underway.”
Lewrie went aft under the poop to the master’s cabins. There had been some minor looting done and furniture was overturned, but the glossy desk was still in good order. Lewrie opened drawers until he came across the ship’s log, manifests and daily books.
Their prize was a merchantman owned by Mulraix et Fils, Bordeaux, named the Ephegenie, chartered by the Royal War Commissary on Martinique and Admiral DeGrasse to carry a full battery of artillery to Rochambeau. Twenty-four stout European draft horses, now mostly dead and soon to be dinner, worth their weight in gold in the Colonies compared to smaller native-born horses; a line company of replacements for the Régiment Soissonois, which explained the soldiers in white uniforms with rose facings; a full artillery company of men in dark blue and buff, both sorts also mostly dead. There were stands of muskets for Washington, crates of swords, bales of uniforms, new boots and gaiters, field tents, horseshoe blanks and farrier’s equipage for Lauzun’s Legion of Dragoons, over 200 kegs of wine, tons of biscuit and salt-meat, a field bakery and wagon (disassembled), over two tons of six-pounder artillery cartridges, and half a million rounds of musket shot, pre-made into paper cartouches.
When the wine kegs were broached the hands groaned to see good red wine go cascading over the side. Cheatham took several kegs into Desperate for issue at six-to-one dilution, but the rest had to go; no officer could keep order in a prize crew with such a temptation.
The sun was well up before the prize was rerigged well enough to sail for Antigua or another British port. Alan made one last tour of the cabin to see if he had missed anything. He probed into the transom settee lockers, and found personal wine stocks.
There was also a wooden box with holes in the side, holes in the lid which fit down inside the box like a wine-press, though Alan didn’t think the French master would squeeze his own grapes. He fetched it out and found canvas-bound packets wrapped up in ribbons like naval orders, weighted down with grape-shot sewn into the canvas binders.
He read the first. DeGrasse to Rochambeau: what sounded like a reply to a request of some kind, full of all the flowery gilt and beshit compliments Frenchmen were capable of. Agreement with plans, fleet being assembled … There was a second letter to Washington, also in French, but of much the same tone.
Lewrie hurried on deck to find Railsford, and quickly showed them to him. Railsford read closely, his lips moving with the effort of translating a foreign language to himself.
“Have we found something important, sir?” Alan asked, eager to have done something clever, something arse-saving.
“Indeed we have,” Railsford said, almost clicking his heels as he bounced about the deck. “This DeGrasse bugger is going to sail north with a fleet to meet Rochambeau and Washington, somewhere in Virginia or Delaware … either Delaware Bay or the Chesapeake…”
“And the rebels won’t know it!” Lewrie crowed.
“Oh, there’s probably half a dozen sets of these that have already gone north, so one of them would make it through the patrols,” the lieutenant said. “But we’ve intercepted one, and if we can get word to Hood he might just be able to square DeGrasse’s yards before he gets anywhere with his plans. Get over to Desperate and show these to the captain at once.”
Lewrie had not seen Treghues for some time, so he assumed that he was aft in his quarters. He raced up to the Marine sentry and was admitted with the usual ceremony of stamping, slamming and shouting.
“Damn you,” Dorne hissed at the Marine sentry. “Lewrie, what’s the call for all this noise?”
“Papers from the Frenchman that the captain must see, sir.”
“Right then, but make it quick.”
Dorne pointed to the small cabin to the port side, where Treghues had a hanging bed box, chest and dressing area shared with a six-pound gun. Lewrie stuck his head in, and there was Treghues, in bed, his chest bare and his head wrapped up in a bulky bandage. His steward Judkin was holding up a mug of watered wine for him to sip, and Lewrie caught the scent of fruit juices mixed into it. Treghues’ face was puffy and marred with a massive bruise on one side from scalp to jaw.
“What is it?” Treghues snapped, not exactly cheered to see Lewrie and obviously in some pain from a heavy blow to the head.
Lewrie blurted out his news but Treghues was off in his own little world, from the injury or some medicine that Dorne had given him. He could only rave and quote scripture about fornicators and Absalom’s rape of Tamara, and all through it cob Lewrie for a miserable sinner of the worst stripe.
“Just thought you’d like to know, sir,” Lewrie said, and left the cabins, knowing he was not going to get any sense through to the captain in his state.
“He acts out of his wits,” Lewrie said to Dorne in the passageway to the gun deck.
“Some French gunner laid him out with a rammer,” Dorne said. “I have given him laudanum to let him sleep. Best treatment for now. I have good hopes he shall recover his senses in a few days.”
“Let us pray he does,” Lewrie said with a solemn expression that was expected, but secretly was delighted. Him whom the Lord loves, he chastiseth, he quoted to himself wryly. Pious bastard.
He reported back to Railsford, still holding on to the letters.
“We must get word to Antigua quickly,” Railsford said after a long moment. “And if Commander Treghues needs further medical treatment he must have it soon. Desperate must go direct to English Harbor. The prize can catch up the convoy for safety, and pass word to Amphion regarding our discovery.”
“Aye, sir,” Lewrie said, handing Railsford the packets.
“I recall you have stood deck watches and run a schooner before, Mister Lewrie.”
“Aye, sir,” Alan replied, beginning to quiver with joy.
“I shall give you Mister Toliver, an acting quartermaster’s mate, and a dozen hands. Transfer the physically able prisoners to Desperate, where I can guard them the better. The prize is yours.”
“Thank you, Mister Railsford!”
“Might take your sea chest,” Railsford suggested. “No, don’t think I want to get rid of you, but you may be separated from the ship for some time and will need your things. Mind you, I’d be proud to have you aboard after what you’ve accomplished, but our captain may not see his way to being reconciled to your presence.”
“Thank you, Mister Railsford. I appreciate your good opinion of me,” Alan told him, and meant it, appreciating such kindness from a man he had not overly cultivated.
“On your way, then.”
An hour later, Ephegenie cast free of Desperate, and the frigate began to surge past her, spreading her tops’ls and the hands tailing on the jears to raise her t’gallants to the accompaniment of a fiddler’s hauling chanty.
Alan watched her go, stout oak hull gleaming brown, her wale a black curve at the waterline, her gunwale streaked bright and jaunty green, her taffrail carvings and gold leaf gleaming in the sun. She was home, for all her frustrations, and she was leaving. He got a lump in his throat at the sight of her.
I never realized that ships could be so beautiful, he thought. Hard work and ruptures, bad food and no sleep, so complex and nothing goes a day without needing fixing, but they can be so Goddamned lovely!
“We’ll be back aboard again, don’t you fret, sir,” Toliver told him, working on a quid of tobacco.
“Get the ship underway, bosun,” Lewrie ordered. “Quartermaster, lay her head sou-sou’west, half-south.”
“Hands ta the braces,” Toliver bellowed. They braced her yards around first, shorthanded as they were, then went aloft and shook out reefs in her courses and tops’ls. The convoy was ahead of them but not sailing fast. With
all plain sail they could catch them up by nightfall.
Lewrie looked at his pocket watch. Eleven-thirty in the morning. Time to think about feeding the men some of that fresh horsemeat before it spoiled. He found a man that claimed he could cook, a former waiter at an inn who had been caught poaching on his squire’s lands.
“Boiled horse, an ammunition loaf of that fresh bread per man, an onion, watered wine, and an apple to polish it off,” Lewrie directed. “Same for me. I’ll take my dinner aft.”
“Rum issue, sir?” the cook asked.
“Mister Toliver.”
“Aye, sir?”
“Supervise the spirits issue, if you please. A pint of wine, if there’s no rum.”
“No rum, sir,” Toliver said, “I checked.”
“I’m sure you did.” Lewrie smiled slightly. “Carry on. And don’t give out more than a pint. And make sure the dinner wine is mixed six-to-one. I don’t want to have to flog anyone for drunkenness.”
“Aye, sir.”
The bosun’s call piped and Toliver shouted, “Clear decks an’ up spirits!”
“And Toliver?” Lewrie said, standing by the wheel with his hands in the small of his back, watching the luff of the main course, like a real watch-officer.
“Aye, sir?”
“Use the kid. Don’t spit tobacco on my decks.”
Chapter 15
Ephegenie jogged along in convoy bound for Antigua, last in column behind the earlier prizes. Lights Out had been piped and the off-duty half-dozen had turned in, with room to swing a hammock for once in the echoing lower deck. Toliver had the watch as the stars came out in a sultry tropical night. It was getting on for hurricane season once more, but for now the sea was calm enough and the wind was steady.
Alan lounged in the master’s cabin aft under the poop, on the transom settee by the stern windows, hinged open for a cooling breeze, and relishing command.
He had fetched the convoy just at the beginning of the Second Dog Watch, had gone close aboard Amphion and had shouted his news to Captain Merriam, explained that Desperate was dashing ahead to carry the news to Hood and that he was to join the convoy.
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