His Majesty's Ship (32 page)

      
Some considered it wrong to send men into battle with spirit in their bellies, although Shepherd had found it made the uneasy that much more likely to hold together. Besides, rum before battle had become something of a tradition, and it would be the last favour he would be able to do for many of them.

      
In the waist the purser’s stewards began passing amongst the men, handing out tots as they ticked names off their list. At every gun the gun captain was allowed to draw his tot neat, before carefully transferring it to a private bottle or jar. With an act of immense willpower it was then hidden away, to be enjoyed after the action. Gregory noted this, conscious not only of the pride that each man placed in his position, but also of his supreme confidence in the outcome of the battle. So certain were these men, not only of victory, but their own immortality that they were willing to postpone a precious drink to that end. He stopped a steward and, stepping in the cover of the gangway, helped himself to his first tot of rum since leaving the lower deck, nine years before. This was not his first time in action, and he had no such illusions.
 

*****

      
With Flint gone, much of the discipline of number three gun, lower battery, had departed as well. Matthew had positioned himself next to the open port and, resting against the gun barrel, was peering out at the approaching cutter.

      
“'ow close's 'e now?” Jenkins asked. Matthew, who found judging distances hard, tried to be non-committal. “Not, far. Reckon they'll be up to us in a few minutes.”

      
“What about the Frogs?”

      
That was more difficult. Once, when his father had taken them on a day's walk to Box Hill, he had pointed at the distant village of Brockham, and told him it was all of two miles away.

      
Matthew swallowed. “About two mile off,” he said, with misplaced confidence.

      
“Two mile?” The men looked at each other doubtfully. Two miles meant they were almost within range; the enemy would be opening fire before long. Should Flint not be back in time Lieutenant Rogers would nominate one of them as gun captain. It was an honour they all seemed equally eager to avoid.

      
“I can see Flint!” shouted Matthew, dispelling their worries, and almost sending himself over the side in his excitement. Sure enough Flint was standing next to the foremast of the cutter, preparing to throw a line up to
Vigilant
as they crept into range. The sails came down and for a moment or two the small boat lay wallowing in the water, while shouts were exchanged with cronies from the upper deck, as the big ship bore down on them. Then there came a succession of creaks as the wind was spilled, the mizzen topsail backed, and
Vigilant
slowed, sweeping round to shelter the boat in her lee with the last of her momentum.

      
“Stand away, there!” Rogers' voice was sudden and deadly. Matthew struggled back through the port while the others grouped themselves about the gun at attention. In the short time they had known him the lieutenant had not endeared himself to any of the crew.

      
“Peering out like washerwomen on a Sunday!” there was silence, then Jenkins allowed a nervous laugh to escape; one of the many things that was known to annoy Rogers and might easily lead to the entire gun crew being disciplined. Lewis nudged him firmly in the ribs, although on this occasion Rogers appeared not to notice. “We are at quarters; that means silence, do you understand?” His tone was brittle, with a trace of urgency that was quite misplaced. For a moment he held them with a ghastly look. Then he too broke out in a laugh. It was high pitched and mad, and finished as suddenly at it had begun. Rogers stood in front of them for a second longer, as if uncertain of what to do, before turning away and continuing along the deck. Matthew breathed out in unison with the rest of them. There had been something in that laugh that had disturbed him far more than any reprimand.

      
But then everyone was behaving strangely; he supposed it was a symptom of nerves, although he for one had fewer worries. Flint was back, and with him and his supreme confidence, Matthew knew he would be quite safe.
 

*****

      
On deck Tait watched as the boat grappled on to the main chains, and the first fit men scrambled up. He saw Jackson and six, no, seven marines, and six seaman including Flint and Fletcher. There was also what looked like Copley lying in the bottom of the boat, although he may well be dead. Within seconds slings were lowered and the body strapped and swayed up to the main deck. And then there was King standing beside him, his face creased with strain, and carrying his left arm awkwardly.

      
“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.