Rondo Allegro (36 page)

Captain Duncannon’s smile was brief. “Bless you, ma’am, have
no fears on that score. Did no one explain the rules?” He kept his tone
measured, aware of all the listening ears.

“Rules?”

“There are even rules to war. Though in truth the French
have not always honored ’em. But we expect the Spaniards to lead by example:
the ships of the line do not fire upon frigates, unless we fire first.”

“Yet the cannons are out, and those tubs of smoke, is that
not for shooting cannon?”

“We have to be ready for any eventuality, which includes
coming to the rescue of any ship who needs us. And if we do catch stray balls,
why, we send ’em back post-paid,” he said, and sure enough, the old joke
brought laughter rumbling all along the curving deck of waiting gun crews.

“Come.” He cupped her elbow to draw her to the taffrail,
aware of the trembling that she tried valiantly to hide. “Here is the
Victory
, nobly leading the vanguard. Is
she not the grandest sight? And
Neptune
given the honor of following directly after. Ha-ha, there is the signal flying,
Neptune
is too eager, she must luff
up a little. The admiral will have the honor of going before all.”

Anna looked at that sinister line of ships slowly bearing
down. “But will not all those ships fire upon her?”

“They will,” Captain Duncannon said gravely. “Look your fill
upon
Victory
. Take courage from the
sight. Ah, there is the signal for
Mars
to lead the larboard division. Pray observe her well, that you will always
remember her. Then, with your respect, I suggest you go below. The time has
come, I believe.”

Anna stood at the rail, looking at
Victory
with her brave golden checkerboard, guns at the ready, and
above, the towering geometry of gently curving sails, white in the brilliant
sunlight. She breathed, her ribs tight, but could not suppress the drumming of
her heartbeat.

Great as the ship was, yet she seemed small in comparison
with some of those mighty Spanish argosies, and Anna clasped her hands to her
breast. Her throat had dried.

The marines began to thunder the drums, and sailors ran
about with purpose. She could not prevent a last, questioning look at the
captain. He met her gaze—he had been watching her. He half-lifted his hand, but
then, aware of the watching eyes, he doffed his hat to her.

She curtseyed, and turned toward the hatch. There Parrette awaited
her, face tense.

As Anna caught up her skirts and began her descent, she was
aware of the rap of the captain’s boot heels as he crossed the deck and began
addressing words to each man. Her throat tightened, her heart hurt, though she
could not define why. She only knew she was afraid, for him, for herself. For
them all.

Anna descended the rest of the way and found the orlop
transformed. Tarpaulins had been laid down, and then spread with sand. Buckets
of sand stood under each corner of the table. “For fire?” Anna whispered to
Parrette.

“Blood,” was the answer.

Anna looked away, to where a portable stove glowed. So the
admiral had made his wishes known to others besides her. Of course he had. The
mates and the loblolly boy stood at one end, talking in low voices. They broke
off at the clatter of a newcomer, who ducked through a moment later. It was Mr.
Gates, the burly purser, who turned an empty bucket upside down and sat, fists
on his knees. “Signal from the flag,” he said. “Anchor at the end of the day.”

Old Mr. Leuven grunted. “I told ye, I told ye it was going
to come on to blow.”

As the men began to argue about the weather, and surmise if
the French would be able to slither back into Cadiz under cover of rain, Anna
turned to Parrette. “Where is Michel?”

“He will run powder, or aid here, or fight a gun, wherever
he is needed most.” Parrette’s lips had thinned. Anna suspected that her worry
was less for herself than for her son.

Anna pressed her arms across her middle. Time had slowed
again, each creak of the wood, each slap of the waves against the bulkhead,
sharp and distinct. She closed her eyes and softly, softly, began to hum, first
her scales, and then the lively “Papagena” air from Mozart, the first she ever
learned.

She trusted to the louder men’s voices to cover the sound of
hers, but Mr. Gates cocked his head, motioned the others to quiet, and then got
to his feet. “Ma’am, would it trouble you to tip us that piece so we can hear?”

Anna considered the expectant faces. She saw no impatience.
Perhaps they, too, wished to fill the time as best they could. And so she sang
for them, there in the fetid murk, and watched the faces relax. Even severe,
occasionally sour Mr. Leuven appeared less sour.

So she sang two more arias from
Magic Flute
, breaking off when a cheer roared overhead.

Everyone looked at one another.

“Go,” Mr. Leuven said to the loblolly boy, but before he
could get out, noisy footsteps approached, and Michel Duflot ducked in, grin
slashing across his face. “The flag signaled. Nelson says that England wants us
all to do our duty, then followed it with ‘Engage the enemy more closely.’”

The men in the orlop sent up a hoarse cheer, and Michel
vanished, his footsteps retreating—to be lost in a sudden deep boom.

Anna had heard the cannons go off from time to time, in
signal. But she had yet to hear a broadside from a ship of the line.

The sound reverberated through the wood, the true note
muffled by the water surrounding them. It was followed by another, and then
another, each sound building on the last. The extra men in the orlop had
departed by then, their footsteps completely lost in the noise.

Each time Anna thought it could not possibly get louder,
there came a new tumult, vibrating through bones and teeth. There was no
hearing anything the others said: in the light of the swinging lanterns, she
could see Mr. Leuven’s head tipped back, his mouth moving, moments before the
floor abruptly slanted, throwing Anna into Parrette. The two crashed over the
midshipmen’s trunks lashed together as a secondary table.

Anna winced, pain lancing through both knees and one elbow.

The surgeon’s mate had been struck by something sharp, and
the first blood of the day dripped down his arm as he and the others picked up
the surgery tools that had slid off the table, all while standing with one foot
against the slanting deck, and the other against the hull.

Another surge, another plunge, a fresh roar, and the ship
heeled again. Anna and Parrette pressed themselves against the hull as the men held
their instruments in place.

The noise was ceaseless. The smell of smoke drifting down sent
thrills of alarm through Anna’s nerves. She locked her teeth together to keep
from crying out, though no one would have heard her.

A shock rang through the ship as above their heads, the guns
fired a broadside.

Mr. Leuven’s wide eyes, his pale face, revealed tension. His
mouth moved: Anna was only sure of the words
fired upon
.

Groaning, crashing, roars . . . and then in
the doorway the extra men reappeared, and here were the first casualties.

One sailor was laid on the table, and another brought to
Anna and Parrette. He curled up, rocking back and forth, his side dark with
blood. At first Anna could not bear to look at his mangled flesh, but Parrette
pulled her insistently, and motioned for Anna to hold their first patient
still.

Anna gripped him by the forearm, and as he resisted, she
pulled his arm against her thigh. Long shards of wood had penetrated the man
down one side. He opened his mouth, teeth showing, as Parrette gripped the
worst splinter and pulled it free. Was he screaming? No one could hear over the
roar.

When the last splinter tugged free, Anna dashed for the
bandages, felt Parrette’s insistent hand, and remembered the spirits.

“Do it,” Parrette mouthed. She pressed her small, strong
hands on his shoulders, holding him down.

Anna took up the wooden cup, dipped it, and flung the liquid
into the gaping hole in the man’s thigh. He stiffened, then slumped into a
faint. Tears burned Anna’s eyelids. She hastily doused the rest of his wounds.

Parrette stitched up the wounded flesh where she could. At
the end, she and Anna took up a bandage and passed it back and forth as they
bound the man’s leg.

All right. She could do this work. Remove the cause of the
wound, pour, sew, bind. As soon as the worst of the man’s wounds were wrapped,
the loblolly boy thrust his hands under the seaman’s armpits and hauled him off
the table as he began to stir and groan.

A terrible grating sound caught Anna’s attention. Mr. Leuven
was plying his saw on a lower leg as Mr. Gates held down their patient, who
uttered guttural groans around a leather thing stuck between his teeth.

Stars glittered across Anna’s vision. She gulped breath,
shut her eyes, and leaned against the bulkhead.

“Here they come,” someone shouted in another lull between
cannon booms.

The wounded came so quickly that Anna had no time for
anything but the work before her: the world filled with bloody, torn flesh;
pleading, shocked, angry eyes; limp fingers; blood-matted hair. Anna swiftly
learned to distinguish between splinter wounds, those caused by metal bits, and
the nasty round puckers of musket balls.

Once again the ship heeled, and blood washed sickeningly
down the canvas deck cover in sluggish streaks. Anna looked away as someone
dashed sand into the flow, and then threw down another tarpaulin.

Then came more wounded. The first was Mr. Sayers, shockingly
splattered with blood, his face blackened with gunpowder. The hole in the side
of his knee kept him writhing, his face twisted.

Anna and the loblolly boy held the lieutenant down as the
surgeon’s mate plied a long instrument, probing the wound. Tears burned Anna’s
eyes as the lieutenant stiffened, teeth bared in the extremity of pain.

A push, a twist, a yank, and the musket ball was held up in
triumph, then flung into one of the buckets. Anna dashed a cup of spirits in
the wound, Parrette closed the pucker with two neat stiches, then bound it, but
before the loblolly boy could help the lieutenant up, he shook his head,
snatched the cup from Anna’s hand and drank off the dregs.

Then before anyone could react, he thrust the cup back into
her hands, heaved himself off the makeshift table, and plunged back through the
door, to vanish in the direction of the ladder.

The next shock was a crumpled figure carried in the arms of
a big quarter-gunner, and Mr. Bradshaw’s lanky young form was gently laid in
the gore on Mr. Leuven’s table. At first Anna thought he was dead, but the
surgeon felt the boy’s chest, nodded, and motioned to his mates to cut off the
mangled remains of one boot.

Two more men were brought down, so Anna did not witness what
was done to the poor boy; when she had a moment to look next, he lay, pale and
motionless, waiting to be taken out as another broadside shook the ship. An
eternity, a thousand eternities passed, during which she mopped, held for
stitching, bandaged, and bent to refresh the cup of spirits.

Then a crowd of men surged into the orlop, bearing—the
captain. Their distraught faces testified better than mere words to the regard
they held for Captain Duncannon.

Mr. Leuven motioned for the seaman on the table to be
shifted, and the captain was laid with infinite care in his place.

Anna stood, unable to move, until Parrette yanked her by her
blood-smeared wrist. The world filled with tiny lights, and a rushing sound
replaced the din of cannon. A hand pushed Anna’s shoulder down and her legs
collapsed under her. She found herself sitting on a barrel, her hem draggling in
gore, her head in her lap. She sat up and breathed deeply. She would
not
faint. The lanterns swinging, the
remorseless pitch of the ship, above all the dizziness caused her stomach to
protest at last.

“. . . get him into his cot,” came a voice.

A voice! She could hear!

“Anna.” That was Parrette, next to her. “Drink.” The wooden
ladle was pressed into her fingers. The pungent aroma of whisky rose, and Anna
nearly swooned again. “Just a sip.”

Anna forced herself to swallow. The liquor burned the acrid
taste from her mouth, burned going down. She looked up, aware again. “I beg
pardon. I know not what overcame me.”

“Exhaustion, first,” Parrette said, the harsh contours of
her face emphasized in the guttering lantern light. “I ought to have warned
you. But I could never talk about…what I saw. Before I ran to Italy to find my
son.”

Anna looked down, saw the hem of her gown, and gritted her
teeth. A step away, the men began to pick up the captain.

“I can walk.” Captain Duncannon’s voice rasped hoarsely.

“Handsomely does it, sir, handsomely does it,” an elderly
member of the afterguard replied, his tone grandfatherly. “Don’t top it the
nob. Let we’m do our bit.”

The captain insisted on being set on his feet, but he
staggered. Supported on either side, he was taken out of the orlop, and he was
replaced by another, and yet another, a nightmare of lacerated flesh.

Anna worked on, her brain numb, until she became vaguely
aware that sometimes their clothing was wrong, but she paid little heed until a
young fellow no more than sixteen rolled back and forth on the table breathing,
“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!”
Followed by
rapid, idiomatic French.

Parrette paused in tearing sheets of cloth, and both women
turned to the purser, who said hoarsely, “They’re pulling ’em out of the water,
ours and frogs alike.”

And the work went on, until at last there was a pause for
breath between one wounded man and another, then a longer pause. Mr. Leuven
looked around at last, and Anna’s nerves chilled when she perceived the tear
tracks glistening in the furrows of his face.