An Ensuing Evil and Others (15 page)

“What about the mizzentop mast?”

“We were lucky there. A chain shot went through the sheet, but it can be patched. That was the shot that impacted against the mainmast.”

Roscarrock nodded swiftly. “Do your best. Well attempt to rejoin the fleet as soon as this fog bank clears. Then we’ll effect proper repairs. If our main fleet have already captured Copenhagen, we should have no problem.” Roscarrock turned back to a grizzled petty officer. “What’s the situation with the guns?”

The elderly man raised a finger to his forelock. “Four guns and their crews out of action, Cap’n. Three guns totally destroyed.”

Not as bad as Roscarrock expected—still eighteen guns remaining in action. “Purser? What’s our status?”

“Most of the stores are safe, sir. Only two water casks were smashed by shot, but we can replace them. The biggest loss is one of the rum casks.”

“The men will have to lose their rum ration until we can replenish the cask. Cooper, how about replacing the water casks?”

“I’ll have new casks made by tomorrow if we have easy sailing.”

Roscarrock was coming to the report that he disliked most of all. “Mr. Smithers, what’s the total casualties?”

The sloop was lucky in that it carried a surgeon. Sloops of His Britannic Majesty’s navy did not usually have the luxury of carrying a surgeon and had to rely on the cook-cum-barber to double in that capacity.

“Thirteen dead, twenty-four wounded, five seriously,” intoned the florid-faced surgeon with an enthusiasm that seemed to indicate he relished his work.

Roscarrock’s mouth thinned. “How seriously injured?”

“Three will be dead before nightfall, sir.”

Roscarrock’s jaw tightened for a moment. Then he asked, “What ranks among the dead?”

“Two midshipmen and… and Lieutenant Jardine; four petty officers, and the rest”—the surgeon shrugged—”the rest were other ranks. Of the wounded, all are seamen, sir.”

Roscarrock glanced quickly at the surgeon. “Jardine was killed, you say?”

It was the petty officer gunner who answered. “Beg pardon, sir. Lieutenant Jardine was on the gun deck, laying the guns, when he—”

Roscarrock interrupted with a frown. Lieutenant Jardine was the chief gunnery officer. There was no need for an explanation as to where his station had been during the action. “We’ll get the details later. And the midshipmen who were killed?”

“Little Jack Kenny and Tom Merritt,” the surgeon replied.

“Very well,” Roscarrock said after a moments silence. “Very well, I want this ship cleared and ready for action again within the hour.”

There was a chorus of “aye ayes,” and the petty officers dispersed to their jobs. The surgeon went with them to take charge of the wounded.

Lieutenant Gervaise was shaking his head. “Jardine, eh? There’ll be a lot of ladies at Chatham who will shed a tear, no doubt.” He did not sound grief-stricken.

Lieutenant Unstead was positively smug. “And there’ll be a lot of husbands who will sleep more comfortably at night,” he added sarcastically.

Jardine had been third officer on the sloop. He had been a youthful, handsome, and vain man with a reputation for the ladies, especially for other men’s wives. Roscarrock did not rebuke Unstead, because he was aware that, before they had left the port of Chatham, Unstead had actually challenged Jardine to a duel: something to do with his wife, Phoebe. The duel had been prevented by the provost marshal on shore, and both officers were severely reprimanded.

Roscarrock did not bother to comment. He knew that most of the officers and men would not be sorry to hear of Jardine s sudden demise. His handsome looks disguised a cruel temperament. He had been too fond of inflicting discipline with a rope’s end. Roscarrock had tried to keep Jardine in check, but the man was possessed of a brutal nature that enjoyed imposing pain on those who could not retaliate. It was not good for discipline for a ship’s company to see their officers in conflict, and so Roscarrock was unable to show his disapproval of Jardine before the men. He had to support the punishments that his junior gave out and reprimand him only in private. No, there would be no false grieving in the
Deerhound
over Jardine.

“Mr. Hart!”

The young midshipman came running forward, touching his hat to his captain.

“Lieutenant Jardine is dead. As senior midshipman, you are now acting third lieutenant. I want you to go round and make a list of all casualties. The surgeon will have his hands full tending the wounded.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Report back to me within the hour.”

Roscarrock swung round, dismissing the youthful officer with a curt salute, and turned to his first officer.

“Make sure that the men know the urgency of our situation, Mr. Gervaise. I shall be below in my cabin for a while.”

In a sloop, a captain s quarters were small, dark, and stuffy. A small curtain separated his sleeping quarters, a single bunk, a cupboard, and space for a chest, from his day cabin, in which there was space for a desk and a couple of chairs. Roscarrock went to the desk and pulled out a half-filled bottle of brandy. He uncorked it and poured out a glass. For a moment he held it up to the light that permeated through the cabin, seeing the amber liquid reflecting in the dull gray light. Then his features broke into a smile and he raised the glass, as if in silent toast, before swallowing in one mouthful.

He replaced the bottle, sat down, and drew out the ship’s log. Then he took out pen and ink.

Kjoge Bight, 2 September 1807
, he wrote at the top of his entry, and then sat back to consider how, in brief form, he should address the events of the brief but fierce engagement.

He had just finished the details and realized that Midshipman Hart had not returned with the list of names to enter in the log. But at that moment there was an urgent tap on the door.

Frowning, he uttered the word: “Come!”

Midshipman Hart stood flush-faced in the doorway. He seemed in a state of great excitement.

Roscarrock frowned irritably. “You’re late! Do you have the casualty list?”

Midshipman Hart placed a piece of paper on the captains desk but continued to stand in a state of some agitation.

Roscarrock suppressed a sigh. “What is it?”

“Beg to report, sir,” he began, “concerning the death of Lieutenant Jardine—”

“What about the death of Jardine?” Roscarrock demanded sharply, causing the young man to pause awkwardly again as if trying to find the right phrases.

“There are some… some curiosities about the manner of his death, sir. I—I don’t know quite how to put it.”

Roscarrock sat back with a frown, placing his hands before him, fingertips together. “Curiosities?” He savored the word softly. “Perhaps you would explain what you mean by that word?”

“It would be better if you would come to the gun deck, sir. Begging your pardon, it would be easier to show you rather than to tell you.”

The young man was clearly embarrassed. He added quickly, “I’ve asked the surgeon to join us there.”

Roscarrock sat quietly for a moment or two. Then, with a sigh, he reached for his hat and stood up. “This is highly unusual, Mr. Hart, but I will come, as you seem to set such store by my attendance.”

“Thank you, sir, thank you.” Midshipman Hart seemed greatly relieved.

As Roscarrock followed the young man up onto the deck and allowed him to lead the way toward the gun deck, his expression was bleak. “I cannot see what is curious about a death in battle that needs a captain in attendance when a report is made of the fact, Mr. Hart. I presume you have a good reason for dragging me to look at a corpse?”

Midshipman Hart jerked his head nervously. “I think you will understand when I show you, sir.”

They descended on to the gun deck. The
Deerhound
mounted eleven cannon on either side. The first thing that struck one in that confined space, which had a clearing of only five feet between decks so that often the men crouched to perform their fighting duties, was the stench. The acrid gunpowder and smoke predominated, but it mingled with the smell of burnt wood, recent fires that had been doused where French shot had ignited combustible materials. There, too, was that odor of charred flesh, that indescribable nauseous combination of the reek of the wounded and the stench of urine.

Captain Roscarrock drew out a square of lavender-soaked linen, which he always carried, and held it to his nose, glancing around him distastefully.

The deck was a shambles where the French shot had hit. Wood was splintered. Ropes and tackle lay in chaotic profusion. There was blood everywhere, and canvas covered several bodies that had not yet been cleared away.

Roscarrock saw at once that the French shot had blown away part of the first four gunports on the starboard side, which had been the side of the ship he had presented to the enemy in his attempt to turn. Three guns were mangled heaps of metal, almost unrecognizable. A fourth, as the gunner had reported, was damaged but not so badly as the first three.

Yet it was not to that scene of chaos that the young midshipman led him but to a gun that was listed in the gunnery chart as number six portside, the central gun position of the eleven-gunport broadside. There was no damage here, but an isolated body was lying just behind the gun, which was being lashed into its position by two sailors.

The florid-faced surgeon, Smithers, was standing by the body, over which a canvas tarpaulin had been placed.

Midshipman Hart came to a halt by it and turned to his captain. “Lieutenant Jardine, sir,” he said, pointing almost dramatically at the body.

Roscarrock’s eyes narrowed. “I think I presumed as much,” he said without humor. “Now, Mr. Hart, what exactly demands my presence here?”

Hart strained forward like an eager dog trying to please its owner. “Well, sir, this position here, behind number six gun, was where the gunnery lieutenant was positioned to direct our broadsides.”

Roscarrock tried not to sound irritated. “I am aware, Mr. Hart, of the battle stations of my officers,” he replied.

The boy actually winced, and Roscarrock felt almost sorry for his sharpness. However, a ship-of-war in His Majesty’s navy was not the place to deal in polite manners.

“Get on with it, Mr. Hart.”

Midshipman Hart swallowed nervously. “Well, sir, Lieutenant Jardine was not killed by French shot nor collateral damage from its fall.”

The midshipman turned to the doctor. He was smiling as if amused by something.

“Lieutenant Jardine sustained his fatal injuries having been struck by that gun when in recoil.” He indicated the cannon being lashed back to its bulkhead moorings.

Roscarrock stared at him for a moment. “I see,” he said slowly. “Are you telling me that when number six gun was fired, it recoiled into Jardine and killed him? That Jardine was standing too near the gun when it was fired?”

Smithers actually chuckled. “Precisely so, Captain. Precisely so.”

Roscarrock knew there was no love lost between the surgeon and the late third lieutenant. He decided to ignore the man’s humor.

“If he was so close behind the gun when it recoiled, then it would seem that this was an accident but that the fault lay with him. We will give his family the benefit of hearing he died in action and not by an accident that could have been avoided.”

Midshipman Hart cleared his throat. “It was not exactly an accident, sir,” he ventured.

Roscarrock turned quickly to him with a frown. “What’s that you say?” he snapped.

Midshipman Hart blanched at his captain’s disapproving tone but stood his ground. “I do not think this was an accident, sir.”

There was a moments silence.

“Then, pray, sir, how else do you explain it?” Roscarrock allowed a little sarcasm to enter into his voice. “Jardine is standing behind the gun; when it is fired, the gun recoils and slams into him, causing injuries from which he dies. Do I have the right of it, Surgeon Smithers?” he demanded of the doctor without turning to him.

“You do, sir; you do, indeed,” echoed the smiling surgeon.

“Then we are agreed so far. Now, Mr. Hart, if, as you claim, this was no accident, are you saying that Lieutenant Jardine deliberately stood in a position where he, as gunnery officer, knew the gun would recoil on him?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

“Then what are you saying,” Roscarrock demanded harshly, “for I am at a loss to understand your argument?”

“I am saying that murder may have been committed, sir.”

There was an awkward silence.

The young midshipman stood defiantly under the close scrutiny of his captain.

When Roscarrock spoke, his voice was quiet. “Murder, Mr. Hart? Murder? That is a most serious accusation.”

Midshipman Hart raised his jaw defensively. “I have considered the implications of my accusation, sir.”

“Then, perhaps, you would be good enough to take me through the facts which would lead me to follow your line of thinking.”

Hart was eager now to demonstrate his arguments. “I have accepted that Lieutenant Jardine was an experienced gunnery officer. His station in any battle was to stand amidships behind guns number six on both port and starboard, a position where he could command the broadsides on both sides of the ship. His usual position was center ship, where no gun could recoil back if properly secured.”

Roscarrock said nothing. All this was common knowledge that was shared by even the young powder monkeys aboard. The boys who carried powder and shot to the cannon learned immediately they came aboard to avoid accidents such as getting caught in gun recoil.

Hart paused, and when his captain made no further comment, he went on quickly. “Each cannon is secured to its position by stay ropes which allow for recoil but control the extent of the recoil. Therefore, a gun can only jump back a yard or so at most.”

Roscarrock was still silent.

“In the case of number-six gun—” Hart turned to where members of the crew had now finished lashing the gun back into its position. “—the gun recoiled back across the deck and struck Lieutenant Jardine without being halted by the stay ropes.”

Roscarrock s eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you telling me that the gun was not secured?”