by Brenda Novak
A tall fellow with a thick dusting of whiskers spoke. “Lytle of the gun crew, madam …I mean m’lady. Lookout has spotted an enemy frigate. We been chasing her most of the night. The captain means to engage her as soon as we’re close enough.”
“I see.” Their eagerness to assemble at their station, Jeannette could understand. Their apparent excitement she could not. Feeling nothing but dread, she stared at the gunner who had delivered this terse message.
He cleared his throat. “If you will excuse us then…”
“Oui. Just give me a moment.” She closed the panel and leaned her head against it. The Tempest would fire upon the French, the French would respond in kind and men would die—men with wives and children. Only one side could win, and even then, the victory would likely cost all parties.
She hoped to God the Tempest would prevail. She couldn’t bear to see the sailors she’d come to know hurt or killed. And if she became a prisoner of war, she would face the guillotine, just as many of her friends and more distant relations had already done. The Bouchers, along with the rest of the French aristocracy, were considered no better than criminals now.
Jeannette opened the door and allowed the gun crew to file in just as a boy arrived carrying a folded missive. He handed it to her without a word, then hurried away.
Inside, she found a hastily scrawled message.
My Dear Lady St. Ives:
We are to engage an enemy ship at any moment. For your own safety, please stay below the gun deck, yet well away from the powder stores, in case of fire. Amelia and the baby are ensconced in the Hawkers’ cabin on the orlop deck.
Your Most Obedient Servant,
Lieutenant T.
Jeannette let her fingers pass over the words as though she could touch the hand that had written them. The same hands she’d watched deliver a baby with infinite care; the same that had thrilled her with the pleasure they could so easily evoke. She wished he’d written a more personal word, or salutation, but she knew he couldn’t risk revealing their intimacy lest someone get hold of it.
The enemy ship seemed significantly closer already. She had expected this day to herald her return to Plymouth, not her initiation into naval warfare. Still, postponing her parting from the second lieutenant, for whatever reason, brought a measure of peace and rightness, despite the ominous portent of what lay ahead.
Folding the paper into a small square, she slid it into her bodice for safekeeping. The message would probably be the only thing she would ever own in connection with Crawford Treynor.
She headed topside, but before she reached the last companionway, one of the captain’s servants came after her.
“M’lady! M’lady! The captain sent me for ye. ‘E asks that ye await the outcome of the battle in ‘is cabin, where ‘e can be assured of yer safety.”
Jeannette was reluctant to closet herself away at the stern. She wouldn’t be able to see anything or know how the battle progressed. Nor would she be able to determine whether or not Lieutenant Treynor was safe. He would be on deck, a target for the enemy in his uniform, as officers always were.
“It’s this way, m’lady,” the servant pressed.
“I know where the captain’s quarters are, and I will go there shortly. But I need to …I only want to…” Jeannette found herself at a complete loss for words. She couldn’t tell the truth: that she wanted to see Lieutenant Treynor, whole and well one more time. She had no desire to face that fact herself.
Turning away despite the doubtful look on the servant’s face, she mumbled, “I will go there in a moment,” and headed off.
“I don’t think it wise to delay!” the boy argued, but he didn’t follow and she ignored him.
Jeannette caught sight of the enemy the instant she stepped out on deck. The ship that had been nothing but a distant speck now loomed to starboard. It appeared to be a frigate, as she’d been told, not the more dangerous ship-of-the-line, but looked considerably larger than the Tempest. And it had its gunports open. Judging from the long line of black muzzles pointed directly at them, it carried significant firepower, too.
Chattering about prize-money, some crewmembers rolled up hammocks and stuffed them into nets at the gunwale to form a breastwork against enemy pistol fire. Others hurried to spread damp sand on the polished deck to keep the gun crews from slipping on the blood that would be spilled.
Jeannette watched in awe. Canvas sails snapping in the chill February wind, the Tempest raced toward her enemy. There wasn’t much time now….
Suddenly, the lookout cried out from above. “It’s the Superbe, Cap’n. I’ve ‘eard of her. Her cap’n’s a smart man, that he is, but we can take her. I know we can.”
Jeannette certainly hoped that was the case. And that it would happen quickly.
Struggling to keep her footing on the pitching deck, she searched the crowd for the man she longed to see. Lieutenant Treynor couldn’t be far. Another lieutenant stood close by, barking orders to a group of men who were busy cleaning cannon muzzles.
Cunnington was easy to spot, too. He happened to glance up and see her, reminding her that she had enough enemies already—and much closer to home.
“My lady, what are you doing up here?”
Jeannette recognized the gravelly voice of the captain before she turned to see his seamed face.
“I thought I sent Joseph to take you to my cabin.”
“You did, sir.” She tried to smile through her fear. “I apologize for not following orders as well as your men. I had to see what was happening before the battle started and I was left to await the outcome.”
“You do not want to stay here. ‘Tis no place for a woman.”
“No, I am going.”
“Very well. It shouldn’t take long.”
Did he mean it shouldn’t take long to make quick work of the battle? Or it shouldn’t be long before the fighting broke out?
“What are we waiting for?” she asked.
He stared across the water without answering. Didn’t he hear her?
“Captain?”
Blinking, he returned his attention to her. “My lady, we must hold our fire until we are sure it will be deadly. And they—” He nodded toward the enemy ship. “—must do the same.”
“Captain!” The master approached and Cruikshank turned away.
Still unable to find Lieutenant Treynor, Jeannette went to the bow. She needed one glimpse, just one glimpse of him. Then she’d go below. But there were so many men and so much activity. And the enemy was drawing close…
Her nerves taut as the sails overhead, she hugged the forward mast. A hush fell over the entire deck. With five men and a small boy, the powder monkey, surrounding each cannon, the gun crews stood ready. The officers seemed to be sniffing the air, waiting to get close enough to their quarry while hoping not to miss the perfect moment to unleash a broadside before the enemy beat them to it.
And then she saw him. Treynor stood across the deck, braced for action. His eyes, as deeply blue as the ocean that churned and dipped as they sped through its roiling waves, were riveted on the other ship. His body, tense with expectation, stood straight and true, reminding Jeannette of an ancient warrior.
She’d had her glimpse—but still she couldn’t make herself leave. Somehow it felt as if nothing could happen to him as long as she was there to be sure of it.
The other ship drew so close Jeannette began to fear they’d collide and still there hadn’t been a single shot. Even Treynor seemed to grow impatient. He flung an anxious glance back to where the captain stood, as if he longed to give the command himself.
Then the roar of guns deafened her and several iron balls smashed into the hull of the Tempest. Cruikshank had missed his chance to launch the first volley; he’d waited too long.
With a stab of foreboding, she clung to the mast as the Tempest fired in response. The gun crews, their members known by numbers to simplify orders, worked almost in unison from that point on. They hurried to clean muzzles,
damp down sparks to prevent an explosion during reloading, and pack the guns with shot and powder before inserting a powder-packed quill as a fuse. Using handspikes and ropes to lever the guns back into firing position, they breathlessly awaited their officer’s next command.
From what Jeannette could tell amid the smoke that soon hovered over the deck, Lieutenant Treynor’s station included the carronades in the forecastle. Occasionally she could hear his voice, telling his crews to wait for the Tempest’s roll to help them aim their guns.
Other voices muttered, grumbled, cursed, groaned, and cried out as they got off another few rounds.
“Come on! Come on, ye froggy bastards!”
“We’ll show ye what we got!”
“Aim for the wheel….”
The smell of gunpowder gagged Jeannette, and smoke stung her eyes and throat. She managed to glimpse the lieutenant again, expected to see him deep in concentration but found him looking directly at her instead. Eyebrows drawn, his face set in anger, he motioned her toward the forward hatch.
Jeannette nodded to assure him of her compliance, and felt his attention shift back to the battle. She intended to act on her silent promise, but an explosion sent her sprawling.
A member of one of the gun crews landed on top of her. His weight threatened to suffocate her, as did the fresh wall of smoke that descended. She called for him to get off, but received no response.
The wails of the injured rose, silencing her own strangled cries. Spitting out the sand she’d gotten in her mouth when she hit the deck, Jeannette struggled to get free, but she couldn’t budge the sailor.
Slowly she became aware of a warm, sticky substance leaking onto her face and arms. Turning his head to the side to see why he wouldn’t respond, she felt a jolt of revulsion at the sight of his open, glassy eyes.
“Dead! Dead! Get him off me!” Panic gave her strength. She freed herself, but the carnage around her nearly made her retch.
Another enemy ball landed close by, and a boy fell several feet away, moaning, clutching an injured foot.
Jeannette tried to reach him amid the violent rocking of the deck, but the gun crews, feverishly loading, firing, and reloading, were unwilling to clear a path. She dodged several powder monkeys that were rushing cartridges of gunpowder up from the handling chambers below while the gun captain of the crew closest to her lit a fresh fuse.
The men covered their ears and jumped out of the way as the violent explosion blasted the cannon backward into the ship, almost knocking her down again. Then a mad scramble ensued as the men leaped forward to reload.
She pressed on. “I am coming,” she shouted to the boy. Huddled over a small pool of his own blood, he gave no indication that he heard her. The cannon blasts had deafened them all, but she kept calling to him, for her own peace of mind, if for no other reason.
By the time she neared the wounded powder monkey, the tattoo artist named Smedley was carrying him off. Like many of the other sailors, Smedley had removed his shirt. She followed, letting the rose tattooed on his shoulder guide her. They squeezed past a line of sailors passing leather buckets of water from the ship’s pump, trying to put out a small fire caused by a red-hot cannonball.
“Are you taking him to the surgery?” she asked when they reached the hatch and started down the ladder.
Smedley responded with a slight nod and kept shouldering his way through men whose chests and pants were smeared with blood.
Located aft of the orlop deck, the sick bay was below the water line, less in danger of enemy fire than the gun deck. The surgeon’s table consisted of the crew’s sea chests. Beyond that, only a small table along the wall, containing an assortment of knives and instruments, occupied the large room, which smelled more ripely of blood and less of gunpowder than anywhere else. Injured men and boys lined one wall as more poured in, like a steady stream running into a lake.
The surgeon helped to settle a sailor with a nasty gash in his leg on the table. Beneath and around them sat half-barrels containing different items, a vat of tar, the smell of which made Jeannette wrinkle her nose, and water heated on a portable stove. One of the surgeon’s mates oversaw that as well as the inventory of rolled bandages.
Already Surgeon Sivern looked tired. Sweat dampened his gray hair and caused his face to glisten as he barked out an order for Smedley to deposit the boy at the end of the line, near the door. Although painful, the powder monkey’s injury was probably not life-threatening, which made him less of a priority, despite his tender age.
“Can I help?” Jeannette asked Sivern as Smedley headed out. “Perhaps I can do something for the boy or some of these other men….”
A look of annoyance claimed Sivern’s face. “I haven’t the time to coddle a woman, my lady. An attack of the vapors is the last thing I need.”
“I won’t faint. It looks like you can use all the help you can get.”
“You deliver a baby and you think that makes you a surgeon, eh?” The man on the table cried out as Sivern probed a gash on his thigh to see how deep it was, but the surgeon ignored him. “Stay if you like, but keep out of the way. After this, you will be eager to return to your parlor, I guarantee you.” He nodded to a barrel containing someone’s sawed-off leg, and for the first time, Jeannette realized what it was.
Forcing back the bile that threatened, as the surgeon had no doubt expected it would, Jeannette stood straighter, more determined than ever to brave it out. Sick bay needed more hands, and hers were capable enough.
Swallowing hard, she stepped up to the table, only to wince and turned away when Sivern put a stick, sideways, between the man’s lips for him to bite and brandished a saw. “Perhaps I can help with the water and bandages,” she mumbled.
“Suit yourself.”
The sound of Sivern’s blade hitting bone made Jeannette blanch. The man on the table screamed again, his voice muffled by the stick. With nothing but rum to ease the pain, the patient—or victim, Jeannette thought sadly—could only hope Sivern would do his work quickly.
In this, the surgeon obliged. The man’s amputated leg thumped the bottom of the barrel. Then Sivern cauterized the bloody stump with hot tar, and Jeannette helped bandage the wound.
The smell of burned flesh almost incited her already weakened stomach to mutiny. Jeannette tried to keep her mind off the battle as a whole and her work in particular, but the fear that Lieutenant Treynor might soon be carried down to have a limb sawed off was ever at the back of her mind.
The surgery took on an unreal quality as the blasts above continued and more men stumbled or were carried in, some barely alive. Rocked by cannonballs and barrages of smaller shot, the Tempest tossed about on the sea as though it weighed a mere fraction of its several tons. And still the two ships pounded away at each other, making it difficult, at times, for Jeannette to keep her balance.
From the number of sailors swamping the sick bay, she could hardly believe there were men left to fight. But she had yet to see an injured Lieutenant Treynor, or hear of his death, and for that she was eternally grateful.
“He’s dead. Throw him overboard.” Sivern indicated a man along the wall.
Jeannette cringed at the thought of a lifeless body floating in the briny water. So many bodies. But she knew they had no choice. Not in battle.
The surgeon’s mate left to dump the barrel of severed arms and legs over the side and was followed by another man who carried the dead sailor. The container was brought back to be filled again, a process that continued for over an hour.
The advent of two sailors, barking for the others to move aside, broke the routine when they entered carrying the captain.
A hush claimed the room as the surgeon motioned for the man on his table to be returned to the line so he could care for Cruikshank, who was bleeding from the right shoulder.
“How do you feel, Captain, sir?” the surgeon questioned as he examined the wound.
“Like hell,” Cruikshank groaned. “Give me a pull of that.”
Once Sivern determined that the captain’s injury had been caused by a ball, which had passed clear through his shoulder, he washed the blood away and set Jeannette to bandaging the wound.
“What are you doing down here?” Cruikshank asked, as though seeing her for the first time. “Now I understand why the baron can’t keep track of you. I can do no better.”
“Well said.” Jeannette laughed. “You are going to be all right, sir.”
The captain grew serious and contemplative. “It is not my shoulder that worries me, beyond the fact that it keeps me from my duty.” He turned his head to stare out the door, obviously wishing he were back on deck.
Cruikshank’s words were Jeannette’s first indication that the fighting wasn’t going well. Although she knew they’d sustained a great many casualties, and even more injuries, she had no idea what was to be expected, or whether the French crew wasn’t suffering worse death and injury. Now she worried about losing the battle.
“Is Cunnington in charge then?” she asked.
“Aye,” he said, but the sigh that followed told her more than his words.
Her fate—and that of all those on board—now rested in Cunnington’s hands.
It was a terrifying thought.
Chapter 18
Had the last blast of the Tempest’s guns hit their mark?
The pepper of gunfire sounded in Lieutenant Treynor’s ears as he squinted through the smoke. The Superbe’s mizzenmast showed damage, but besides a few broken yards, it remained intact. He needed one more lucky round—just one.
“Wait …wait …wait …and fire!” he cried.
With another deep belch of the cannons there was a loud crack, as if the earth itself was dividing asunder. Then the French ship’s entire mizzenmast fell onto their deck, forcing those below it to scatter.
