The Peacock Throne (22 page)

Gradually,
Legacy
pulled away. As they came abaft the
Angélique
's beam they gained a position where the situation reversed:
Legacy
could fire on her, but for the moment the French could not return fire. The French ship kept up a withering barrage of gunfire from the upper decks, but her cannon fell silent, biding their time.

Legacy
's great guns roared their outrage. Her gunners aimed for the
Angélique
's waterline. At such close range they could scarcely miss. After the first volley, the order broke down. The gun crews fired and reloaded as quickly as they could. They needed to inflict as much damage as possible in a very few minutes.

A hoarse cheer heralded the appearance of a gaping wound at the
Angélique
's waterline. Another round hulled her once more. In a few moments the
Angélique
began to list, her bow dragged down by the water pouring through the holes gouged by
Legacy
's wicked fire.

Captain Campbell ordered canvas packed on. The seamen jumped to the task, unreefing the sails and letting loose with every ounce of canvas the injured masts could bear. The sails immediately caught the wind, billowing out with a satisfying flapping.

Legacy
swung away from the
Angélique
towards open water. A few angry shots followed them, but they no longer posed any real threat.

“Ha!” Captain Campbell shouted from where he stood at the wheel. “We were a bit more of a challenge than they thought, eh?” Blood trickled from a gash on his cheek and seeped from a makeshift bandage that encircled his thigh, but he grinned widely.

A cheer went up from the crew. Danbury grabbed Lydia, whirling her around in an exuberant embrace. “We did it!”

“Miracles still happen.” Lydia grinned as widely as any of the hands. She shouted too. No one could have heard anything less. They had all been deafened.

“I think you're a lucky charm, Miss,” called one of the sailors. “We made it through a cyclone, and now a battle we ought never to've escaped from. Normally women's bad luck on a ship, but I say as how you're good luck. First the storm and now this.”

“I'm no lucky charm, Jonas. God must've heard our prayers.”

“Well, if your prayers is that good then I wish you'd pray for me.”

“Don't be impertinent.” Danbury stepped towards the scruffy seaman.

A hoot of laughter went up from the listening men at this sally, and Jonas grinned sheepishly. “I didn't mean no disrespect, Miss, and that's a fact.” The sailor scratched his head.

A command from above sent the sailors scurrying back to their tasks.

“I'd best see if Dr Marshall could use my assistance with the wounded.” Lydia turned to go below decks.

Danbury touched her arm as she turned, and then drew back his hand as if she had scalded him. “Miss Garrett, a word please.”

“Yes?”

“I… It's just… you must not risk yourself as you have been doing. I don't think I, that is to say, the mission could do without you now.”

Lydia read the regard in his gaze and lowered her eyes. No use wishing for what might have been had the situation been different. She could manage no more than a husky whisper. “Lucky then that I am unscathed.”

“Unscathed? You're covered in cuts, you have that arm injury, and you look tired enough to drop.”

Lydia's gaze fell to take in her own dishevelled person. “I might have been killed,” she said. “I came within inches of it. I shall be
rather sore in the morning, but for now I am well enough. There's not a soul aboard who isn't scratched and bruised, including you. And there are a great many who are far worse off.”

“There are men enough to care for them.”

“I shall allow Dr Marshall to make that decision. If I can do something to alleviate their suffering, then I intend to do it.”

Danbury sighed. A sensible man, he recognized defeat when it was upon him. “If you need me, I will be conferring with Captain Campbell. He needs to know we will be setting sail for India, not for home. Let's hope he takes the news well, eh?”

Lydia smiled. “If anyone can soothe him, you're the man.”

“Your confidence is touching, if misplaced. Perhaps I ought to find Harting to act as my second. If you see him will you send him to me?”

Lydia nodded agreement, but she had already made good her escape.

Anthony sighed as he watched her fleeing form. He wasn't quite sure how he had managed to botch the conversation so thoroughly. Lydia Garrett was a mass of contradictions. She looked as fragile as the most delicate porcelain, but she had a core of solid strength that bent for no one. Shaking his head at the conundrum she posed, Anthony hurried to speak with Captain Campbell.

Hearing Harting's voice above her, Lydia hurried up the stairs to find him seated on an upturned bucket and working to remove slivers of wood from the face of a swearing cabin boy.

“You must be still or it will hurt all the more,” Harting said.

“They didn't hurt near as bad goin' in. Leave 'em where they are.” The lad wriggled and kicked.

“They're sure to cause infection if I leave them. I'm nearly through. Hold still.” His hand made quick darting motions, until at last with a bark of satisfaction he released his grip on the back of the boy's head. “Go wash your face and bathe it with camphor,” he ordered. The child jumped to his feet and took off.

“Are you angling for Dr Marshall's position? It looked like you had done that before,” said Lydia.

“No, but perhaps I shall study to be a physician when we get back to England. I imagine it provides as much excitement as espionage.”

“The hours are just as poor, though.”

“You have a point.” He smiled. “You've become quite the heroine.”

Lydia groaned inwardly. She had no desire for another lecture about staying prudently out of danger's reach. “I've done no more than anyone would have, given the opportunity.”

“I beg to differ. There are quite a lot of people who would have run screaming given half a chance. You, however, seem to have no instinct for self-preservation whatsoever.”

Lydia rolled her eyes at him, and attempted a distraction. “Lord Danbury requires assistance breaking the news of our new destination to Captain Campbell.”

“Right-o.” Harting rose.

Lydia thought for an instant that her efforts had been successful. No such luck.

“I wasn't being critical, you know. I admire courage in anyone and you've got it by the bucketful. Danbury and I were both worried for you, though. Not because we don't think you are capable, but because we should be destitute without you.”

Lydia shook her head at him. “You know very well that's not true,” she said, even as she wished it were. “Off with you. Lord Danbury will need all your skills at persuasion.”

Harting did as instructed, but with an infuriatingly secret smile Lydia could not interpret. Shaking her head in a futile effort to clear it of distractions, she hurried to the orlop.

Moans and the stench of blood, sweat, and worse met Lydia as she entered the surgery. For an instant she considered retreat. Even the thick miasma of gun smoke and charred wood permeating the deck was better than the closed-in reek of the orlop.

Dr Marshall caught sight of her. “Miss Garrett, I'm glad you are here. Your assistance will be much appreciated.”

The injuries ranged from a serious chest wound, where a splinter nearly a foot long and wickedly sharp had pierced a man's torso, to a broken leg caused by a recoiling gun, and an injured foot, hurt when a sailor dropped a cannonball during the heat of battle.

Every berth was occupied. While Dr Marshall and his loblolly boy handled a tricky amputation, Lydia stepped in to set a broken leg. Her patient lay supine on the operating table. His arms and uninjured leg were lashed securely in place to keep him from thrashing about. The man's eyes rolled about wildly. Sweat beaded his forehead and he bit down on the bit of rope she placed between his jaws.

Bracing her own feet against the rolling deck, Lydia pulled on his foot, carefully repositioning the bone. It took every ounce of strength she possessed to accomplish the task. At the end, she quivered from the effort. Her entire person was drenched in perspiration and the cut on her arm had reopened. Blessedly, the sailor had passed out in the midst of the ordeal. While he remained unconscious, she immobilized the leg so he could not undo her efforts.

As the worst of the injuries were treated, Lydia's tasks became more mundane. She worked with Marshall through the afternoon, washing and bandaging wounds, fetching water, and wiping faces.

The gentlemen joined her late in the afternoon.

Lord Danbury looked appalled. “Miss Garrett, you are running yourself ragged. Some of these patients look better than you do.”

“Perhaps you would like to help then.” Having reached the limit of her endurance, she had no patience or energy for disruptions.

“Of course we want to help. That's why we are here.” Harting smoothly inserted himself between them.

Instantly contrite, Lydia begged pardon. “I'm sorry. Your help would be greatly appreciated. They've had nothing to eat. If you could ask the galley to send something…?”

“I assume you also have had nothing to eat,” Harting said.

“I don't think I could eat anything.”

“I'll have something brought in case you change your mind.”

Lydia shrugged, too weary to argue. From across the room a man croaked out a request for water, and she automatically turned to him.

“Let me get it.” Lord Danbury took the cup from her hand.

Harting excused himself to procure food, leaving Lydia with Danbury. She set about changing a dressing. They worked in silence for several moments.

“We took a count and, except for some minor cuts and bruises, all of the wounded are in here. By some miracle we lost only nine men in the battle.”

Lydia smiled. “I am glad to hear it. They certainly fought well.”

“Most of them are attributing our successful escape to you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, they took you literally when you said you prayed.”

“I meant it literally. I did pray.”

“I know you did. I mean they seem to think you are akin to a saint. On first-name terms with God and all.”

Lydia snorted. “I'm scarcely a saint—ask Danielle Long.”

“You have a point. I don't think she found you fitting for canonization just yet.” Danbury met her gaze and smiled at her. A gentle smile that suggested his opinion was contrary to Danielle Long's.

“Lord Danbury, I—”

Harting arrived leading a parade of men bearing armfuls of hammocks, blankets and trays of piping hot porridge. He took the spoon from Lydia's hand as she bent to help a sailor eat his meal.

“Let me do this. Sit in that chair over there and eat something. Danbury even pulled up a table so you don't have to worry about disarranging your lovely dress.”

Lydia looked down at the filthy, blood-spattered rag she wore and grimaced. “I suppose I do look frightful. Little did you know the bargain you were striking when you granted me a clothing allowance.”

“Yes, your bits and baubles are liable to bankrupt the nation. Come now. Go eat.” He pushed her gently towards the chair.

Danbury patted the back of the chair, like a boy trying to attract a recalcitrant puppy. Lydia offered no resistance. She couldn't marshal her thoughts into an argument. Perhaps if she sat for just a few moments…