by Brenda Novak
A cheer rose from Treynor’s men, but their exuberance did little to relieve the nagging worry at the back of his mind. Cruikshank had fallen among the injured. Now Lieutenant Cunnington was in charge, a man who had little experience and, in Treynor’s opinion, even less sense.
He threw a glance toward the wheel. Cunnington strutted where the captain usually stood, behaving as if the battle had already been won, the continuing volleys of gunfire superfluous in some way.
They were out-manned, out-gunned, and the French crew had already proven themselves better trained and more experienced than any Treynor had faced in the past. They had to do something decisive.
Putting one of his gun captains in charge, Treynor made his way amidships.
“What do you want?” Cunnington hollered above the din.
Treynor suppressed his irritation; Cunnington was, after all, his superior officer. “With all due respect, Lieutenant, judging from the condition of the Superbe’s quarterdeck, I think we may have injured or possibly killed their captain.”
“They certainly do not appear to have a lack of leadership,” he sneered.
Ignoring his response, Treynor lifted a hand. “Listen—do you hear that?”
Cunnington looked bewildered. “What?” he snapped impatiently.
“The silence since that mast went. If we capitalize on their confusion, we might board, turn their own guns upon them, and capture the ship.”
“Have you gone mad?” A staccato laugh punctuated Cunnington’s question. “Our crew is smaller than theirs.”
“They not only have more men, they have bigger guns,” Treynor pointed out.
“So?” He shrugged. “The bloody frogs are idiots.”
Treynor bit back a curse. “I beg your pardon, sir, but we have to do something before those ‘idiots’ blow us out of the water.”
“We are doing something, Lieutenant. They haven’t the mettle of Englishmen, as you know. If we keep at it, we will pound them into the sea.” He fisted his hand as though it were that easy.
Again, Treynor struggled with his temper and raised his voice. “A little difficult when so many of our crew are awaiting the surgeon’s attentions, don’t you think?”
He’d been unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “Watch yourself,” Cunnington warned, “or I will have you court-martialed after I return home with our prize. Although your idea shows a certain amount of …daring, by your own account of our injured, we haven’t the men to pull it off.”
“Already our carpenters are overworked and unable to fix the damage we have sustained,” Treynor argued. “We are taking on water despite the pumps. Several fires have broken out and are barely contained. Once the Superbe starts firing again, she will continue to lob eighteen-pounders into our hull—”
“If they get going again.”
“—while we respond with fewer and fewer twelve-pounders. It is only a matter of time. Do you not see that?”
“I see that you haven’t enough confidence in our men. I think the battle is going quite well. Some difficulty is to be expected, as well as a certain number of casualties. If we won the battle easily, there would be no glory in it.”
“Glory? Are you blind?” Fearing he might throttle Cunnington yet, Treynor took a deep breath. “My God, man, you are talking about running up an impressive butcher bill, a bloody battle to brag about back home, when we should be trying to swarm their ship so we can win while there is yet time!”
Cunnington narrowed his eyes. “Get back to your station, Lieutenant. Now! I will not have you tell me how to run this ship or win this battle! Do you hear?”
Even more convinced that the injured captain had left the ship in the hands of an inept fool, Treynor stepped forward. “You are asking for a miracle—”
“No, you are. Board their ship! Swarm the deck! Evidently you—”
There was an explosion, followed by a loud crack.
The mainmast fell toward them. It might have killed them both, but Treynor threw himself against Cunnington and knocked him far enough to the side to avoid one of the broken spars that stabbed the deck like a spear.
As Treynor got to his feet, a dazed Cunnington followed suit. Brushing off his uniform, the first lieutenant stared about himself in amazement, as though he’d only now awakened to find himself amidst such chaos.
Treynor almost wished his reaction when the mast went hadn’t been quite so quick nor half so instinctual. “We must board!”
Cunnington’s brow furrowed. “I cannot go charging off. I must stay with the ship.”
“Then I will lead the men. May I do so? Now?”
The first lieutenant stared at the Superbe while wringing his hands.
Treynor wanted to shake him. Cunnington was wasting precious time. Only the sure knowledge that a quarrel would most certainly take its toll in lives kept him speaking civilly. “If we do not act, and soon, we will all be killed,” he reasoned. “Or taken prisoner. They are probably planning to board us just as I am hoping to board them. They shall not beat us a second time today!”
“Yes.” Cunnington nodded. “Yes. Very well. A preemptive strike. We will board. But Lawson will lead the charge.”
Treynor felt his jaw tighten. “What? He is not the man for the job, and you know it. Let me do it!”
“No! You would love nothing more than the chance to come out of this a hero, to reap the glory and praise of our superiors, to beat me to post-captain, but—”
“Think of this, Cunnington—” Treynor’s hands balled into fists “—chances are far better I will be killed.”
When Cunnington almost smiled, Treynor could tolerate no more. “I am going,” he snapped, “and nothing you say will stop me.”
“I shall have you hanged for mutiny!” Cunnington screamed after him. “How dare you defy my authority!”
“Go to the devil!” Treynor tossed those words over his shoulder. He would not stand by and let hundreds of Englishmen die because of Cunnington’s ignorance and blind jealousy. Neither could he expect the soft-spoken Lawson to do what needed to be done.
Sparks flashed through the haze of battle as another boom, coming from the Superbe, rent the air. Splinters flew in every direction, several shards of which entered the flesh of Treynor’s arm, knocking him back like a meaty fist. At the same time, Lieutenant Cunnington fell, writhing, to the deck—and one glance told Treynor that the steersman, who’d been standing next to them both only moments before, was dead, the wheel blown to bits. Now they couldn’t steer the ship or angle the Tempest to send off another broadside. Whatever damage they could inflict with their chasers would never be enough.
A cry of “Vive la nation!” rose from the other ship, and Treynor guessed the French were about to board.
Oh God…
Red rings of blood fanned out from the splinters that pierced his left arm, but there was nothing he could do about that right now. Forcing himself to move in spite of the agonizing pain, he knelt to examine Cunnington’s wounds.
“Take him to the surgeon,” he said to the two closest sailors. Cunnington had a nasty gash on the head, a large piece of wood protruding from his middle, and a smaller one sticking out of his leg.
“No!” Fighting them off, Cunnington tried, unsuccessfully, to stand. “I am in charge here. Lower the flag.”
Treynor gritted his teeth. The wounded, moaning seamen and the wreckage made him sick. If not for the captain’s poor timing at the onset, and Cunnington’s incompetence thereafter, the day could have ended much differently. They had beaten themselves. The battle had been decided the moment their wheel was destroyed. But Treynor wasn’t willing to give up yet.
“Not now.” Treynor fought to keep his feet despite his dizziness. “I will need all able-bodied men, pistols at the ready. We shall board. Like us, they have lost their mast, and perhaps their wheel. They will not get off another blast as square as the last.”
A weak cheer met his words.
“Anyone who follows him w
ill be hanged for mutiny,” Cunnington groaned. With one hand grasping his stomach, he looked to the closest junior officer. “Did you hear me? Lower the flag. I am still in charge here.”
The man glanced uncertainly toward the flag locker where all flags, including those used for signals, were separated into pigeonholes. Then he looked at Treynor. “Nay. I think it’s time ye relinquish command, Lieutenant Cunnington,” he said, only to be interrupted by a shout of alarm.
“We’re goin’ down!”
Those from the handling chambers and shot lockers below began to swarm the deck. They dived into the foaming sea as they abandoned ship, some clinging to wreckage while others, who couldn’t swim, screamed until they drowned.
It was too late. Treynor hung his head as he tried to comprehend the magnitude of what had happened. They had lost the battle and the ship and far too many men.
And they stood to lose a lot more….
Calling for Lawson to lower the flag from the gaff and to see the wounded Cruikshank and Cunnington safely away in one of the few sound boats on the chocks abaft, Treynor headed to the hatch. He’d sent Jeannette below decks. Imagining her fear and confusion, he knew he had to find her. The battle had been lost. There was nothing more he could do for his men. But he would not lose her.
Shoving his way through what remained of the panic-ridden crew, Treynor looked first in her cabin and then, in a futile yet hopeful attempt, in his own.
Both were empty.
Remembering his note telling her to stay below the gun deck, he descended to the bowels of the ship, where he sloshed through the rising water that was already causing the Tempest to tilt at an odd angle. “Jeannette!”
His voice echoed back to him without answer.
Treynor saw Bosun Hawker hurrying his wife, along with Amelia, her new baby, and Jeannette’s dog, out of their small cabin.
“Have you seen Lady St. Ives?” he asked.
“No, sir. An’ ye ‘aven’t the time to search for ‘er unless ye’re longin’ fer a watery grave yerself. Chances are, the lady ‘as already jumped ship.”
Treynor thought that unlikely. He’d not seen her topside since the outbreak of the battle, at least that he’d noticed. And he hadn’t passed her on his way below. But amid so many, he could easily have missed her….
Intending to search the water from the deck, he started to follow the Hawkers. The bosun claimed someone was holding a boat for them. But then Treynor turned back. There would be no second chance to visit the farthest reaches of the ship. The Tempest would soon be awash and foundering in the rough sea. Then it would sink.
The thought of Jeannette going down with it caused fear to squeeze his chest, gripping so tightly he could scarcely breathe.
* * *
Jeannette tried not to panic amid the clamoring voices and pushing, frantic men. Filled with many who couldn’t move, the surgery resounded with cries of doom and misery as water seeped into the room like icy fingers of death, grabbing at their ankles.
Clamping her hands over her ears, Jeannette hoped to block out the sound long enough to think of a way to get the injured topside. But there were far too many helpless sailors.
“Go!” The surgeon herded his mates out ahead of him. Each man supported one among the injured who could stand. They left behind those who were unconscious or unable to walk, along with the mortally wounded.
“What about the others?” Jeannette cried.
The surgeon barely spared her a glance. “There is nothing we can do. Get out unless you want to go down with them!”
When she didn’t move, he shrugged and pushed through the portal. Half-carrying a tall, thin seamen with a bandage circling his bare chest, he left Jeannette alone amid the cries for help.
The Tempest shifted, knocking her into the surgery table and the blood still puddled there. It stained her dress. No doubt her face and hair were speckled with it, as well. She could smell the freshness of that vital substance along with the sweat of the men who’d left it behind—just as she could smell the fear of those who remained.
It was the odor of death.
“Ma’am, don’t leave me, please!”
Steadying herself, Jeannette turned to see the powder boy with the hurt foot, his large brown eyes glazed with fright.
“I can’t walk. ‘Elp me, please!”
The water level inched higher as Jeannette waded over to him, the weight of her wet skirts slowing her progress. It broke her heart that she couldn’t save all those who reached toward her. But without help or more time, there was little she could do.
“I will come back for you,” she promised the others as she helped the boy to stand. For most, her words would prove a lie, but she fully intended to rescue as many as she could. Hope was the only thing she could offer them at the moment.
The boy grimaced in pain as they worked their way to the door. Jeannette encouraged him as best she could, but was only half aware of what she was saying and was soon breathing too hard to continue speaking.
When they reached the top deck, she stared in horror.
The wet sand that had covered the wood was now a mixture of water, sand, and blood—the blood of those lying prostrate on the deck or slumped over cannons, mouths gaping open in a forever scream. Portions of the deck were missing altogether. Scattered cannons were trapped among the considerable wreckage.
Instinctively she turned her face toward the place she’d last seen Treynor. With the slant of the ship, many of those who had died on deck tumbled toward the forecastle. Some had been snagged by the fallen mast or the broken boats.
Little remained near Treynor’s post besides an overturned cannon that had come loose from its moorings. It had slid across the wood, gathering speed and smashing everything in its path until striking the foremast, which had held fast and stopped its forward momentum.
Forcing herself to examine the faces of those bodies strewn across the deck, she searched for Treynor, praying he had somehow escaped such a fate. “Have you heard word of the second lieutenant?” she asked the men who ran by her.
Few responded. Those who did, merely shook their heads.
“Every man for himself! Swim fer yer lives, ye—”
A French pistol popped as the man who was yelling that leapt over the side, and his words died with him. Then the gunfire ceased, leaving only human cries to echo against the sky.
Jeannette cursed the revolutionaries, the suffering caused by war, and the feeling of loss that swamped her, and tried to bear more of the injured boy’s weight. But her strength was giving out. Had she saved the boy from going down with the ship only to watch him drown? There were no serviceable boats, and she doubted he’d last long in the water.
“Can you swim?” she asked hopefully.
“Aye …a bit.”
She let go of him long enough to slide a broken beam to the edge of the deck. Most of the bulwarks had been shot away. “Grab onto this as soon as you can after you hit the water,” she said, struggling to shove it into the sea. “But be careful where you jump.”
“Are ye not comin’?” he asked.
The acrid, smoky air caused her to cough. “Not yet.”
“But the surgery will be under water.”
She nodded as guilt and sadness welled up inside her. “I know. I am not going back.”
His somber face looked far older than his years. “Thanks for ‘elpin’ me.”
Glancing uncertainly at the dark swells dotted with men and floating debris, she sent him over the side. She didn’t wait to see whether or not he managed to grab hold of the beam she’d pushed into the water. The fear that Treynor lay on deck, somehow not dead but injured, gave her new purpose.
Taking another deep breath, she set out to examine the bodies.
Gray, brown, and a few pairs of blue eyes stared sightlessly up at her as she searched. Stepping in and around the bodies and blown-off limbs, she fought off renewed fear as the bloody sand swallowed her shoes. Only one thought drove her: the
hope that Treynor lived, that she could find him.
When she spotted polished black boots beneath the tangled rigging and yards of the mast, that hope faltered.
Gingerly she pried some of the wreckage loose and lifted the man’s shoulder to glimpse his downturned face. It was the purser. She recognized his dark, matted hair and his face-what there was of it. His jaw had been shot away.
Overcome, Jeannette slumped next to him.
The enemy’s guns had fallen silent, but her ears still rang.
As she wiped Gillman’s blood off her hands and onto her dress, she shivered uncontrollably. The sun had climbed high in the sky, but it offered little warmth to combat the cutting breeze. Considering the death and destruction before her, she wondered if she would ever be warm again.
Water lapped farther and farther up the deck. She was so tired, so discouraged, she could hardly feel fear. Where was Treynor? Dead, probably, swallowed by the cold, hungry sea, just as she would soon be….
A moan reached her ears, but amid the cries of so many, she scarcely noticed the sound until she realized it wasn’t just a moan. It was her name.
Turning, she caught sight of Lieutenant Cunnington lying a few feet away, as pale as death. Blood trickled from his temple and from the corner of his mouth, but his eyes were fixed on her with the single-minded determination of a survivor.
“Help me,” he groaned.
Jeannette stood but drew no closer. She had no time to help him. He was badly injured, would probably not live—and Treynor might need her.
Choking back a sob, she shook her head. “I will not let Treynor die while I save you!”
She spun around, renewing her search with less concern for who or what she touched. If she was going to die, she was going to die searching. She would not give up, would not give in to despair.
“Treynor!” she called, digging through the corpses. A jagged piece of wood cut her hand, but she scarcely felt it. “Treynor!”
“Come on!” A seaman, obviously assuming her to be out of her mind with fright, waved her toward the edge. “The sea is your only chance. The French are fishing those they can out of the water.”
