by Alaric Bond
“Nearly given you up for dead, Thomas.” Tait's voice was harsh although there was no mistaking the relief in his eye, and his hand was readily accepted by the younger man.
“Cast off that boat, there!” They both started as Gregory erupted next to them. Clearly the cutter had been thought unworthy of salvage. The mizzen yard creaked back and the boat was soon lost as Vigilant picked up speed.
“Are you wounded, Mr King?” Dyson enquired as he joined them.
“A scratch, sir.” He opened his coat to show the dark patch of blood that had stained his white shirt.
“Very good. Go below and let Mr Wilson attend to it. You can take up your station as soon as he thinks fit.”
Tait walked with him as far as the main companionway. He paused before descending. “Seems you've joined us just in time.”
King searched his face and looked serious. “It was a mistake, Richard. A lot of men were killed, Matt Pite amongst them.”
“I know,” Tait nodded grimly. “And you're thinking 'if it wasn't for me...’”
King gulped. “Exactly.”
“If it wasn't for you Hampshire Lass would be in one piece, and probably about to be taken by the frogs.” Gregory's interruption caught them both unawares, but he continued nevertheless. “The crew would all be prisoners; more important, the enemy wouldn't have split, and we'd not have had a cat in hell's chance against them.” He looked King in the eyes before walking away with a slow, but solid, step.
Tait smiled. “Well, you've gained someone's approval at least!”
King paused before descending below. “Is it me,” he asked. “Or can you smell rum?” His face finally broke into a grin, and then a laugh that robbed his body of all the pent up tension of the last few hours.
“Mr King,” It was Dyson's voice. He had turned round and was looking towards them. “You will be wanted shortly, kindly have yourself attended to.”
King stifled the laughter and allowed Tait to all but push him towards the companionway, under the wooden gaze of the marine sentry.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“You'll excuse me, Mr King, if I attend to Copley first.” After the strong daylight the darkness of the orlop made Wilson's features indistinct at first. “One of my men can have a look at it, if y'like, else I'll be with you presently.”
King nodded, like every man on board he knew the protocol in treating the injured and, despite the nearness of the enemy, he felt in need of rest and was in no rush to return to duty.
“Or, if you've a mind, you can watch my work.” The surgeon's teeth shone yellow in the gloom as he grinned.
Wilson stood hunched under the low deck head, above a group of sea chests that made up his operating table. Copley was lying ready for him, his body naked except for a bundle of rags that covered the wounded leg. Four lanthorns hung from the low deckhead, their golden light casting soft shadows over the macabre scene, giving King the impression that Copley was already dead.
“How's he, Skirrow?” Wilson asked his assistant who was wiping the body with a turpentine soaked rag.
“Out cold, an' the shakin's stopped.”
Wilson nodded, “Be ready if he wakes when I start.” His hands felt the bandages, still wet from the journey in the cutter. “Cold salt water's the best he could have asked for,” he said, patiently loosening the dressing that one of the marines had tied. “Reckon he'll have lost a deal of blood...” Then the wound was exposed, Wilson looked at it for no more than a second, before reaching for a fresh leather tourniquet. “But he's a fit man, an' stronger than most. Bone’s badly splintered, I’m going to cut a few inches back to give a decent stump, and leave a bit of flesh for padding. If he survives the next five minutes, we'll see him draw his pension.”
King, usually sickened by any form of operation, stared in fascination. The cutting was over in what seemed like seconds, with the dead limb falling away like so much meat being whipped out of sight by a loblolly boy. Now he watched as the surgeon’s powerful fingers tied lengths of horsehair about the ends of Copley's arteries. The bloody stump was then cooled with turpentine, and a pledget bound into place with fresh bandages before the tourniquet was released. Wilson stood back from his work and reached for the bottle held ready by Skirrow. It was no more than three minutes since he had first picked up the saw.
“Will he be all right?” King asked, somewhat artlessly.
Wilson wiped his lips with the back of a blooded hand and gave him a smile. “If he's a mind, he'll be.” He returned the bottle to Skirrow and reached for the fleam-toothed saw that had made such short work of Copley's leg. “It's a sharp saw,” he explained. “Less chance of complications with a sharp saw. At the end of this action I'll have used this 'bout forty times. Them that get's cut last al'ays seem to come on with gangrene. I put it down to the blade an' 'aving no time to sharpen it.” King nodded. He'd heard a hundred different reasons for complications in surgery, and each sounded about as likely as another.
“Splinter, is it?” Wilson said, turning his attention to King's chest. He pressed the wound with fingers stained dark with Copley's blood. “Yes, just a small un,” he muttered, standing back. “Well, no point in leaving it there. Get your shirt off and we'll have it from you.” As an afterthought, he picked up the saw and wiped it on his already soiled smock before tossing it back on to the pile with the rest of his tools.
*****
Flint made his way down to the lower gundeck with little of his usual aplomb. The fact that they had returned, surviving several broadsides from a frigate and a nightmare journey in a leaking open boat, did little to ease the lingering terrors that still haunted him. His father would be on board one of the merchants so there was no chance of running in to him in the next few hours. Maybe they would meet up later, probably in some French gaol. Then, he supposed, he could get to know him, although the idea did not appeal. Flint had been at sea a while, had met many types of men, and it was as if he knew in an instant the grade his father would be, and already sensed his worth. His feet touched the warm smooth surface of the gundeck and he felt slightly better; this was his home after all, and he was once more amongst friends.
“Here he is, the wanderer returns!” The jovial greeting from O'Conner raised his spirits slightly, although it still took some effort to maintain a likeness of his old self.
“An' what have you all been up to, while I've been away?” Flint asked.
He rubbed a large hand through Matthew's hair as he smiled round at his mates.
“Ain't had much time to do nuthin',” Jenkins replied with his usual slow drawl. “Been too busy watchin your lot racin' frog frigates!”
“How is it with Mr Pite?” Lewis asked.
“Right, did he really catch one?”
Flint's smile faded. ‘fraid so. There were a few others as well, and Copley's with the surgeon now.”
“What's his damage?”
Flint swallowed. “He was out cold last I saw of him, He'll lose a leg, that's certain; can't say more.” Indeed he could not, and no one knew how near he came to trembling while he spoke of Copley's wounds.
Jenkins pulled a face. “He allay's was a rum one, that. Like as not young Pamplin will be all over 'im if he get's better, and cryin' like a toad if he don't.”
Flint spurred himself back to the job in hand: Copley’s place had to be filled, and with Pite gone they were without a divisional midshipman: someone else would have to appoint the new man. His eyes flicked around the men. “Klier, you'd better take Copley's station.” It was a simple enough decision, but taking it lifted Flint's spirits slightly.
The short haired Dane was part of Copley's mess and knew the duty well. Flint turned away and began to check out the gun, his hands shaking only slightly as he inspected his priming equipment.
Since getting back to Vigilant, the normal routine and camaraderie from his mates had done much to restore his old trim. Even the smell of the ship, the familiar mixture of tar, bilge water and humanity, was enough to
persuade him that the discovery of his father, that and the uncontrollable terror he had felt in action, were nothing more than temporary aberrations. It had to be that way: for he knew for certain that if the terrors did return he would be finished.
Men had turned soft during action before: it was not uncommon. He had seen it, even in those he had previously considered friends, and at the time thought himself justified in despising them. But now he knew their fears, knew and fully understood the horrors that could make a man run from battle. Understood and totally accepted how, even the threat of certain death by hanging was not enough to make some stand their ground.
“Thought you was dead meat,” Matthew whispered, daringly using a phrase he had overheard only recently. Flint almost jumped, and took a grip on himself to appear natural as he turned from the linstock. It was clear that the lad had been watching him for some time, and for a dreadful second he feared he had noticed the change; seen past the brash exterior of the old Flint, and through to the coward that was now trying to imitate him. But the boy had an odd look on his face, somewhere between concern and worship. Flint registered this, and with it came realisation.
“You don't want to worry,” he said with a smile that was hardly forced at all. “It'd take more than a bunch of Frenchmen to shake me.”
He might have lost the one person that he looked up to, but clearly there was still someone who looked up to him.
*****
The wind had backed still further and now strong enough to raise white crests on the mounting waves. After pausing to collect the cutter's crew, Shepherd had ordered Vigilant round and she cut through the water with the wind two points abaft the beam, heading for the oncoming frigates. These were rapidly approach-ing the mile and a half range that Shepherd would need to allow his twenty-four pounders, loaded as they were, to fire with any accuracy. The sun had moved down in the sky but there would be more than enough daylight to see the job done. Over to the east the merchants were on the starboard tack, sailing for all they were worth, although the two line-of-battle ships were running down, and would cut them off before long. Shepherd stood on the quarterdeck, watching the movements of each group of ships, and measuring in his mind the likely time each would take. If anything he wished the merchants would slow down, bringing the course of the liners nearer to Vigilant, although that would only be an advantage if he was successful in disabling the frigates. He turned his attention to these now.
They were modern affairs, with sleek lines and long hulls that were yet to be a common sight in British fleets. One, the smaller of the two, was painted conventionally in dark brown, with lighter beige highlighting above the wales in a long, wide stripe. The other was clearly commanded by a dandy. Her hull was jet black, with no contrasting colour, making her appear even more swift and sinister. There was a flash of gold about the bows, and he guessed the stern would be equally ornate; clearly someone with money, or influence. Shepherd wondered if this gave him any clues to the capability of its commander, then dismissed the thought as useless speculation.
The two ships were about three cables apart, and sailing slightly away from each other. Clearly they intended to pass Vigilant on either side, and hold her in their cross fire. It was a common enough move, and normally Shepherd would have been content to stake his ship's timbers against those of a frigate, even if it meant employing both batteries simultaneously. Today however, he was not looking for a pitched battle; this had to be one strike, hard and fast; then leave, even if the job was only half done.
Dyson came and stood next to his captain, “We're making nigh on eight knots, sir.” He muttered the words while looking straight ahead at the enemy, as if passing on a tip to a fellow punter. Shepherd glanced up. Vigilant was a good ship to make eight knots under the fighting rig of topsails, jib and driver. There were plenty of seventy-fours that would need more sail to keep up the all important speed. More sail meant more men to tend it, and less to fight; that was ignoring the extra fire risk when courses were involved.
“Very good, Mr Dyson.” Shepherd measured the distances once more. They would be within range in no time; at any moment he expected the bow chasers of the nearest frigate to open up.
“The guns are ready?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Loaded with chain, and the people know their duty.”
Vigilant carried five rounds of chain shot for every gun. Twin balls, joined with a length of chain, and designed to wrap about shrouds and spars, bringing down rigging and damaging the enemy's sailing ability. However, the broadside would do little, if any, damage to the frigate's fighting power.
“I wonder if I might mention a matter, sir?” Dyson still seemed intent upon the oncoming French, and Shepherd was mildly intrigued as to the subject his frosty second in command wanted to bring up at that moment.
“You have given no orders about Simpson.”
Heavens, he was right. For the last few hours thoughts of their failed deserter, still presumably chained up on the punishment deck, had been far from his mind
“You would have every reason to release him, sir.” Shepherd looked at Dyson sideways, although he was still apparently intent on the oncoming ships. He continued; “It might be thought bad amongst the people if he were to remain under restraint, and Simpson is a trained hand who has fought well in the past.” At last the lieutenant turned towards him. “Possibly you could accept his parole, sir?”
It was completely within Shepherd's powers to grant Simpson temporary release, although he wondered how much the need for an extra hand had influenced his first lieutenant. It was almost conceivable that Dyson felt sorry for him, although it would take a cold heart indeed to send a man into battle without a chance to defend himself.
“Very good, Mr Dyson. As you say, we need every man.”
“Of course, sir.” Dyson threw a meaningful look at one of the midshipmen, who darted from the quarterdeck, evidently aware of his instructions without further prompting. There were captains who would be furious at such an example of his officers conspiring in secret, as it was Shepherd was mildly amused. The rare insight into Dyson's character was also of interest; something that could be worth remembering for the future.
A shout from one of the lookouts drew their attention back to the enemy. Grey smoke was billowing from the forecastle, and a shot skipped less than half a cable from the British ship's bows.
“They've opened fire, sir!” Dyson said, unnecessarily, as the dull boom reached them.
“Yes, tell the men to take cover.”
Dyson stepped forward and collected the speaking trumpet from the binnacle.
“Secure yourselves!”
The gun crews promptly stood down from their battle stations and sheltered in untidy heaps beneath the ships stout bulwarks, while the marines folded themselves into crisp neat lines beneath the hammock stuffed netting. Someone muttered a comment, and there was a ripple of laughter, quickly cut short by a growl from a boatswain's mate. Shepherd was glad to note the spark of humour, although how long that would last when they remained under fire without replying was uncertain.
Another shot from the frigate, this time it hit them square on the starboard prow. Despite the fact that the bows and stern were her weakest areas, Vigilant was quite able to withstand a shot from that range. The wind was growing stronger, and they crept perceivably closer, closer into the wide space the French had left for them, closer into the space that Shepherd had no intention of filling.
Another crash, this time followed by a scream that was quickly muffled. A shot had come over the starboard side, and struck a hand who happened to look up at that moment. It was a lucky hit, and even as the man went spinning into the scuppers, Shepherd wondered if it was to be an omen.
There was a muttering amongst the men as the unfortunate was lowered down to the surgeon. Shepherd considered ordering the bow chasers to return fire. They might at least bolster morale, even if the chance of doing real damage was small. But no, he must conserve all his fire power f
or the time when it would do the most good. It would only be minutes now, perhaps even seconds.
*****
Below the waiting was starting to tell on some of the men on number three gun. Most had used the pissdales at least once, and there was nervous muttering and crude comments that attracted no laughter. Matthew was sitting on the salt-box that held two ready-use charges of powder, Lewis was trying to read from a small book, and Jenkins stared aimlessly at a tobacco tin that was embossed with a horse's head. Rogers walked along the deck, cursing the absence of Pite and taking time to swear at Mintey, one of the remaining midshipmen, whenever the chance arose. Fletcher was spinning wild tales about his recent exploits to the men on his gun who, to a man, were not listening. King came up from the orlop, on his way to take up his position in charge of signals on the quarterdeck. His coat was draped over his shoulders and his open shirt revealed a bandage across his chest. He looked along the line of men, before acknowledging Rogers with a nod. Throughout the ship, all knew the time was very near.
The chaplain had now joined the purser and his stewards, and all stood ready to assist the surgeon, who was currently putting wide, strong, stitches into the shoulder of the most recent casualty. The schoolmaster and five seamen were in the after powder room, while the cook, gunner and twelve men tended the grand magazine. Carpenter's mates were stationed in the wings, the small corridors that ran level with the waterline which gave fast access to hull damage.
Crehan had also returned to duty. The Navy held no grudges: a crime was considered cancelled out by punishment, as if it had never been committed. Now that his body was healing he could take up his previous rating and responsibilities. Crehan could not forget as easily however, and the episode with Matthew still sat heavily with him.
