A Royal Likeness

by Christine Trent

  Mr. Beatty looked uncomfortable for the first time that day. “Listen to me. It requires great risk to go up to the quarterdeck right now. I cannot imperil my assistants, for I need them the most. Do you understand?”

  She did indeed.

  She was more expendable in the event that she was wounded or killed in the attempt to go on deck.

  But Darden’s principles were a drumbeat in her head.

  I must do my duty.

  Just as I made that poor boy do with the dead sailor.

  She attempted a salute to the surgeon, imitating what she had seen other sailors do dozens of times. His amused bark was incongruous as they stood there in the middle of their horrific situation.

  “One more thing, Mrs. Ashby. See the purser. Get a uniform. I don’t want you on deck dressed like that. You’ll be too … conspicuous.”

  She dashed off to Mr. Burke again, who cocked an eyebrow but did not question her request for a uniform and merely added it to her bill. She locked herself in the dispensary to change. It was blessedly more quiet in here, although the confined space meant it was even hotter than the rest of the orlop. Her dress was nearly impossible to remove, as it was so thoroughly encrusted with blood and grime that it stuck to her skin. She finally got it peeled off, removed the watch to pin it onto her new uniform, and rolled the dress up and stuffed it in a corner for retrieval later. Or perhaps burning.

  Her skin underneath was stained everywhere from blood. A couple of hours ago she would have been mortified, but now it seemed quite normal.

  Marguerite quickly threw on the jacket and used the neckerchief to tie her hair up in as small and inconspicuous a bundle as possible. The sleeves were too long and required rolling up, and her torso practically swam in the jacket, but its loose fit would help with the heat. She enjoyed the odd sensation of pulling on the white trousers and tying them around her waist with rope. She walked back and forth across the dispensary twice in her bare feet, getting used to her new uniform, then took a deep breath and opened the dispensary door to embark on her deadly mission.

  Marguerite took note of the time. It was 12:45.

  She ignored the cries of men in the queue pleading for water or help, averting her eyes as she dashed past them. She scrambled up the steps to the lower gun deck and very nearly lost her nerve before she even got started.

  The milieu of the gun deck made the orlop seem like a barge ride along the Thames on a mild spring day.

  She could hardly believe it. The slaughter was actually worse here than below.

  The fifteen or so cannon that lined each side of the deck were manned by crews of varying number. It looked as though most had six members, each performing a different job in the complicated process of loading and firing his cannon, but it was difficult to see for billowing clouds of eye-stinging smoke emitted each time a cannon fired. Some of crew were obviously injured, with blood trailing from their noses, ears, and other locations, but they ignored it and kept at their assigned tasks. The noise of the cannon firing at differing intervals made for one long, cacophonous stream of explosions. As each cannon fired, it jolted backward several feet on its carriage, and that cannon’s gun crew hopped back to avoid being crushed by the massive weapon. The sailors took their jobs seriously, and despite the soul-numbing danger, kept at their jobs relentlessly.

  The stench here was so bad that she practically longed for the simple filth-and-blood mix in the operating theatre. Not only was there the sickly smell from blood spattered everywhere, but the putrid odor from the firing cannon made her gag. It was as though the eggs from a thousand dead and decaying chickens had been smashed everywhere, and were releasing their noxious fumes in an all-encompassing miasma.

  But the enemy’s cannon wreaked havoc on deck, as well. The impact of shot hitting the side of the ship added a different kind of terrifying noise to the ongoing, deafening racket. Some shot bounced off Victory, but some made it through open gun ports, splintering the wood around the port and sending shrapnel flying into whatever was nearby, mostly sailors who screamed in agony when they were hit. Marguerite knew they were screaming only because their mouths were open as wide as their terror-filled eyes. Most fell and were kicked or shoved out of the way by their crewmates. Some valiantly stood and continued to work.

  Next to firing cannon, it appeared that the second most important job was repair. Whenever there was mutilation done to the deck, a carpenter would rush forward to try to patch the damage the best way he could. So most of the crew worked to inflict destruction, whereas some crew members’ sole job was to fix things.

  Several of the youngest men scampered past her on and off the deck, delivering shot and gunpowder to each of the cannon and avoiding the rolling carriages as well. She presumed the supplies came from somewhere in the ship’s hold. A few of them scowled at her when going past, and one sailor yelled something at her. Although she wasn’t sure what he said, she was certain it was not flattering and probably referred to her shirking her duty as a crew member.

  She clung to the rails of the stairway, too terrified to move. How could anyone survive this? And how much worse was it on the quarterdeck?

  Was she meant to die on Victory?

  Do your duty, Marguerite.

  Another man carrying shot scrambled past and knocked her in the shoulder with his load. He kicked her shin and shouted at her. This time it was clearly an insult.

  It was time to pluck up her courage and head farther up.

  The middle and upper gun decks were identical scenes to what she saw down below. She now desperately wished for the relative safety and calm of the orlop.

  One more set of steps, Marguerite.

  She poked her head out again in the same location where she had witnessed the flogging just a few days before. How different it all was now. She could see the feet of men stomping past her on their way to carry out their orders. There were the ubiquitous cannon on their carriages firing and jolting backward, and through yet more smoke she caught glimpses of men in red uniforms poised around the perimeter of the ship, firing muskets at targets she couldn’t see. She could hear return fire whizzing over the deck and striking various points.

  And the smell was little better up here than down below.

  How would she ever find the captain, even if she could make it past the hail of bullets?

  But luck was with her. The captain came into view, strolling calmly with another officer whose back was to her as he turned to speak to Hardy. They paraded about as though completely unaware of what was going on around them.

  Were they brave or foolhardy? No time to think on it now.

  Marguerite said another quick prayer, then leaped out of the hole, running headlong toward Hardy.

  Victory was now locked together with Redoubtable, and the momentum of Victory’s impact on the other ship carried them both out of the line of the other ships. The ships were so close together now that Darden could actually see through the continuing musket fire into the faces of his opponents.

  We could board Redoubtable and take her, Darden thought.

  As though his thoughts had been transmitted to the captain of the other ship, he saw that the gun ports on the side facing Victory were being rapidly closed.

  They fear us gaining access.

  He joined Captain Hardy, who was pacing the deck in front of Admiral Nelson. Nelson still wore his faux decorations that singled him out as an important naval officer, even though they were practically in hand-to-hand combat with the Redoubtable. Nelson even wore his peculiar green eyeshade that was made specially for protecting his good left eye while in the sun.

  Does the admiral have a death wish? he wondered, but tamped the traitorous thought down. He knew the admiral was the bravest man alive. If only he understood that he needed to be protected. Without Nelson, English morale would be lost just as French morale would be boosted. A completely unacceptable state of affairs. But what could be done?

  And then something utterly horrific happened that
gave him the most magnificent idea.

  Marguerite nearly collided with the captain.

  “What ho, sailor? Why have you left your post?”

  “Pardon me, Captain Hardy. It’s me, Mrs. Ashby.”

  Hardy bent down to peer into her dirty face. “Why, so it is! What are you doing up here? In a uniform, yet. I thought you were assigned to the operating theatre.”

  “You were what?” burst the man next to Hardy.

  Marguerite turned to see who it was. Darden. Naturally. His eyes were filled with a thousand questions, most of which she was certain would result in a tongue-lashing after she answered them.

  She decided to ignore him for the moment.

  “Yes, sir, I’ve been helping Mr. Beatty. He sent me up to ask you for more men down in the orlop to help. Sir, there are too many injured coming down for us to handle.”

  “Why didn’t he send one of the men? It’s entirely too dangerous for a woman up here.”

  “Yes, Captain, but I volunteered to do it. I got a uniform from Mr. Burke so I could move about more easily and now here I am.”

  “Volunteered?” Darden roared, his detonation as earsplitting as one of the cannon below deck.

  Even in the midst of battle, Hardy was amused by the lieutenant’s obvious concern for his charge, a concern that clearly went way beyond duty. Thus he was agreeable when Darden suggested that he take care of both getting Mrs. Ashby to safety and resolving the shortage of men in the operating theatre.

  Darden took Marguerite’s hand and yanked her across the deck back down to the next staircase, where she nearly fell down to the next deck because he was pulling her so hard.

  She yanked back to get his attention through the battle madness around them. Seeing her practically sprawled on the deck, he slowed and helped her descend the staircase a bit more gently.

  From there he took hold of her elbow and led her down one more level to the middle gun deck. Marguerite shut her eyes reflexively against the turmoil that lay before them. Darden squeezed her elbow so she would open her eyes and gestured to her that she was to hide under the staircase for a few moments while he took care of getting her more help. He pointed down at the floor under the stairs and then waggled his finger in her face sternly.

  Do not disobey me this time.

  If she wasn’t so terrified, she would have found his expression quite funny. His flashing eyes and humorless lips were set inside a scruffy, unshaven face with his dark hair thoroughly soaked from sweat, undone from its queue, and hanging limply down the sides of his face.

  But she was indeed terrified. She crouched under the stairs as directed, and watched his retreating figure as he bent over and ran through the gauntlet of horror to the stern of the ship. Before he disappeared from view in the smoke and press of bodies, she saw him limp once as though he had stepped on a small stone.

  Hopefully that’s all he stepped on.

  For once, Marguerite obeyed Darden completely and did not so much as twitch an eyebrow while he was gone. He returned shortly with two men who looked none too happy with their new duties. They took the staircase down toward the orlop and Marguerite moved to follow them, but Darden had grabbed her elbow again. He shook his head no and motioned for her to follow him.

  Taking his hand willingly she went up with him. Were they going back to the quarterdeck? She hoped not. To her surprise, she realized he was leading her to Nelson’s cabin. Except that most of Nelson’s cabin had been turned into a battleground. The beautiful settees, tables, and chairs were gone, as well as his exquisite bed, the paintings, and other décor. Instead, cannons were firing out gun ports, and the exquisitely painted canvas floor was obliterated by sand, blood, shrapnel, and gunpowder. Darden wrapped an arm around her head and tried to cover her body with his as best he could as they raced down to the back of the admiral’s cabin. Against the back wall of windows stood the wax Nelson and Hardy. They were remarkably untouched, although their faces were melting a bit and their uniforms were stained with drops of paint and wax. Still, they had survived well.

  Darden flattened her against the windows between the two figures, pressing his body against hers. He pulled the cloth plug from her right ear and bent down to speak quietly to her.

  “Listen to me. I want to take at least one of these figures on deck and set it up as a decoy.”

  “But I thought they were to be used only if the admiral or captain was injured.”

  “Yes, but they’re both strutting about the quarterdeck as though nothing will ever happen to them. Victory is jammed into the Redoubtable now, and their sharpshooters can take easy aim at us. I want to deflect their attention. I want you to help me position the figures.”

  She nodded her comprehension.

  He cupped her cheek in his roughened hand as he continued speaking in her ear. “I despise myself for asking this of you, because it will be treacherous work. But you know the figures and will handle them properly. And it’s my obligation to do what I can for Lord Nelson and the captain. It’s more important than anything else. Do you understand me?”

  She nodded again. Despite the miserable heat and noise, she couldn’t help but be contented to have him enveloping her in his arms, even if it was to basically issue her battle orders. Hopefully no one else had noticed him pressed up against what looked like a young boy in the admiral’s cabin.

  He placed the cloth plug back in her ear. Just as she thought he was turning away from her to dislodge one of the figures from its stand, he turned back to her and kissed her with the same hungry passion he had shown when she was a mere accidental passenger in the sick berth. Except now they were pressed entirely against one another, under the threat of imminent death. She clung to him, fearful that this would be their last embrace. Ever. His body was hard and taut and powerful from shipboard life, yet she knew this was a man who would never intentionally hurt her.

  Unless it interfered with his duty.

  As though he had just had the same thought about his responsibilities, he broke away from the kiss.

  He mouthed something at her, but he said it softly and she couldn’t hear him. It looked as though his lips formed the words, “I’ll love you always.” Or did he merely say, “Time to lug the figures”?

  But he really had turned away this time and the moment was gone.

  They decided on taking the Nelson figure, simply because it was a bit smaller and was therefore easier to carry. What a sight they must have been to anyone who was watching: the lieutenant and a young seaman, carting an effigy of their admiral up to the quarterdeck.

  But the crew was too busy to pay attention to anything that didn’t concern firing upon the enemy.

  Getting “Nelson” up the staircase to the quarterdeck was difficult work. The figure had become slippery from the softened wax, and they had to handle it gingerly to avoid damaging its limbs. Not to mention evading the maelstrom of flying debris and enduring the copious clouds of smoke threatening to suffocate them.

  But they finally hoisted it out flat onto the quarterdeck, and both Darden and Marguerite popped out behind it. Marguerite followed Darden’s lead as he stayed crouched next to the body, looking around as though waiting for something. At some optimum moment that she didn’t understand, Darden nodded to her and they dragged “Nelson” forward toward the bow. Even through the confusion Marguerite could see that Victory’s bow had collided with the other ship’s, and fierce hand-to-hand fighting was going on in the intersection. Knives and cutlasses flashed in a blur, and thankfully she could no longer hear screaming for the booming of cannon on board Victory, the Redoubtable, and other ships nearby.

  How close did Darden plan to go?

  Together they stepped down a gangway onto a lower section of deck, even closer to the personal fighting. Marguerite began to sweat not just from the heat, but from fear. She was certain she was very close to death now, yet Darden showed no fear, just caution.

  They had now crept up next to a launch boat that was kept stored in th
e middle of this deck. Surprising, since she’d previously seen others lowered into the water as the crew prepared the decks for battle. Darden nodded to her and pointed at the launch. Once again she nodded her understanding of his hand gestures.

  They propped “Nelson” up next to the launch, putting one of the figure’s arms over the side of the tiny craft to hold him up, however temporarily that might work. Marguerite jumped as a ball ricocheted off the launch and sent a shower of wood chips spraying around her.

  Was that a random shot, or is someone aiming at me?

  But this was no time to allow fright to take over her presence of mind. She casually brushed the debris from her head and shoulders as though she had hardly noticed anything.

  But Darden had certainly noticed. He grabbed her hand again, and together they hurriedly made their way back up the gangplank to the quarterdeck and down that deck toward the staircase. Darden helped her down to the upper gun deck. At the bottom of the staircase, he pointed to himself and back up to the quarterdeck, then put a finger to her chest and pointed down. Apparently they were not going back for the Hardy figure.

  Yes, Lieutenant, she thought as she brought her hand up in a salute as she had watched other sailors do. Like the good seaman she had become, she knew now that it was imperative to obey orders.

  Darden laughed and kissed her forehead, surely taking away a puddle of filthy sweat on his lips as he did so. He saluted her in return and scrambled up the staircase as nimbly as a monkey.

  As she made her way back to the dimly lit orlop and the distinctive horror that awaited her there, Marguerite pictured in her mind the real Nelson with the wax figure, and thought with ironic pride that the wax figure’s decorations looked much better than those on the admiral.

  But would Darden’s plan work?

  23

  As the first ship to enter the fray, Royal Sovereign had been engaged in heated battle with the Spanish man-of-war, Santa Ana, for hours. Or had it been days?