by David Starr
Even before Cerberus is fully sideways, the guns below me open up. All thirteen of the starboard guns fire as one. The ship shakes from the force of them, and I watch in dreadful awe as the wooden sides of Incorruptible splinter as our shots pound into her. Unicorn does the same. From the deck it seems as if all the cannonballs strike home.
The setting sun bathes us in a red glow. With the clouds of smoke obscuring the ships, the flashes of flame flaring out of the guns and the cries of wounded and dying men, there is something demonic about this battle, as if we are in hell itself. On the shore I see the lights of a small town, and I cannot help wondering what we must look like to the civilians onshore.
A French cannonball smashes into our quarterdeck. The force of shot throws us both to the deck. We are unharmed, but when we stagger to our feet we soon learn that we are more fortunate than some.
The helmsman, Captain Whitby and Lieutenant Murray still live, though Murray has a long splinter sticking out of his forearm. Second Lieutenant Wilson, however, is not so fortunate. He has been hit by a full load of shot. What’s left of the commander of the starboard watch lies spread around the quarterdeck in bloodied pieces large and small.
“Back to your stations!” orders Captain Whitby, climbing to his feet, wiping a stream of blood away from his face. Murray grasps the wood stuck in his arm and pulls it out with a grunt. He ties off the wound with his kerchief and takes his place beside the captain, as if the splinter was nothing more than a mosquito bite.
I tear my eyes from the carnage on the quarterdeck as Bill, Peter and I heave on the carronade, repositioning it.
Once our carronade is aimed at Incorruptible I fire, sending chainshot into the French rigging. For the third time since the battle began, shattered wood and rope fall to the deck of the French ship and sailors scream out in agony. I ignore them and fire again and again, as Cerberus and Incorruptible drift closer and closer to each other.
Suddenly, the large guns below fall silent. “Why aren’t they shooting?” I ask Bill, wiping the sweat and gunpowder from my face.
“We’re too close to each other. The French have stopped firing, too. If either one of us hits each other’s powder magazine we’ll both be blown to smithereens. We’re in between Unicorn and the French as well, so she can’t fire either. From here on out it’s side arms and cutlasses. We’ll be boarding her any minute now.”
We are now only fifty yards or so from the French. The sun is gone and Incorruptible looms in silhouette in the twilight, so close I could almost reach out and touch her.
“Boarding party ready!” cries Lieutenant Gladding. The Royal Marines form up beside him, pistols and swords at the ready.
The only shooting now comes from the snipers in the fighting tops in both ships. Musket balls whiz through the air, thudding into wood — and frequently into flesh. These guns are smaller than cannon, but just as deadly.
Barely twenty yards separates the two warships. “Prepare grappling hooks!” Gladding commands. A dozen sailors line up on the side, sharp anchor-like hooks attached to lengths of rope in their hands.
“As we come together the Marines will throw those hooks into the lower rigging and swing aboard,” says Bill. “We’ll follow with our cutlasses when the decks collide.”
I can barely breathe. My sword shakes in my hand as I hear shouting and cheers in French and English as the crews prepare to slaughter each other. I’ve killed only one man at such close quarters: La Malice, in self-defence on the banks of Fraser’s River in what seems a lifetime ago.
I’ve never been able to get that memory from my head, had hoped never to have to do such a thing again, but here I stand, sword in my shaking hand ready to kill or be killed.
Without warning, a small metal object bounces on the deck before me. It is the size of a large apple, with a smoking fuse sticking out its side. “Jump!” cries Bill. My friend takes my arm, pulling me away from the grenade as it goes off.
Shrapnel flies through the air, whizzing past me like angry wasps. The force of the blast throws me off my feet, lifting me to the side of the ship. I bounce into the wooden rail then over it. Before I can even take a breath, I hit the water and disappear under the surface.
I’m deep in the blackening water when I come to my senses. I panic as I look through the water above me. I see fire, hear the muzzled sound of shots. I kick furiously towards the surface, my lungs burning for want of air. I feel as if it’s too far, that I won’t make it, then my head bursts free. I gasp, cough and sputter as I breathe once more.
“For goodness sake be quiet!” hisses Yankee Bill. He’s holding onto a piece of flotsam, a chunk of thick broken spar from one ship or the other, his head barely above the water, a grimace of pain on his face.
“Are ye all right?” I whisper.
“I dunno,” he says. “My left leg feels as if it’s burning, and I can’t feel my foot. What about you?”
Through some miracle I have avoided serious injury. My ears ring, though whether from the cannon fire or grenade I can’t tell. I have a cut on my shoulder from a piece of shrapnel, no doubt, and my left side hurts from hitting the rails before I fell overboard, but that seems to be the extent of my wounds.
The water around us is red, both because of the reflection of the fires but also from blood that swirls around us in the water. I fear it comes from my friend’s leg. “Can ye lift yer leg?” I ask.
With a grunt of pain, Bill does as I ask. His leg rises from the water. As it does I see the damage the grenade has done. Bill can’t feel his foot because it is gone. All that is left is bone and bleeding flesh halfway between his knee and where his ankle used to be.
Bill sees it too. “That ain’t good is it, Trap? I’m in a world of trouble, I fear.” Bill has gone as white as one of our sails. His eyes flutter. His breath comes in ragged gasps.
“Ye’ll be right as rain,” I tell him, though the wound is not good at all. We are in quite the predicament. The pair of us float between the bows of the ships, easily crushed if the ships move. If we cry out for help? We would be easy targets for a sharpshooter in the rigging. My stomach constricts into knots when I realize we may have another problem as well.
Some say sharks can smell blood in the water a mile away. They are a portent of death. Battle’s coming soon enough, and the sharks are waiting around for a meal.
I look to Bill. He is barely conscious, from pain or blood loss, I can’t tell. What I do know is that I have to do something or my friend will die in the water. I’ve already lost Tom and the rest of my mess; I will not let Bill suffer that same fate.
“Keep yer leg still.” I try to keep the fear from my voice as I picture the sleek grey shape of a shark, jaws open, swimming towards us. With great effort my friend raises his leg out from the water. I hold his wounded limb with one hand, blood still streaming out of the wound as I reach for my neck with the other. It’s hard to untie my kerchief with just one hand but somehow I manage to release the knot.
“Hold tight while I stop the bleeding,” I tell Bill as I tie the kerchief tightly above the wound.
“Good idea,” he says through gritted teeth. Wounded or not Bill understands our situation. “I’d hate to survive the battle and end up bleeding to death or in a shark’s belly as his supper.”
Overhead, shot after shot rings out, as does the clashing sounds of sword on sword. I watch men swing on ropes or leap across the void from one ship to the other, shouting war cries, or screaming in pain as a ball or a blade sinks into soft flesh or bone.
“Hold onto me as I paddle,” I whisper. “We need to get out of the water and away from the ships. A fallen spar, an errant shot, and we’re done for.”
We hold onto the wood, keeping our heads low, my feet kicking slowly. It’s only when we are fifty yards away I stop to rest. As I do, the sound of shots and clashing steel suddenly stops. “Who’s winning, do ye think?”
“I don’t know,” Bill says. The sun has completely vanished, the only light we
see comes from the stars that twinkle overhead, the windows of the houses onshore, and from the fires that burn on board both frigates.
Then shouts erupt in the darkness. “Three cheers for Cerberus! Three cheers for King George!”
“Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!” a chorus of sailors reply in one voice.
“Well,” says Bill. “It seems we did. What do you think, Trap? Do we yell out for help — or do we not?”
“What do ye mean?” I’m exhausted, too slow by far to pick up his intimation.
“I think it’s time we say goodbye to the Royal Navy, don’t you? Swim to shore, take shelter in some nice Sicilian inn, then make our way back to England and get your sister. I told you an opportunity would present itself. I just didn’t think it would come at the expense of my foot.”
“Do ye think we can make it? To shore I mean? In yer condition?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“What about the cap’n? Will he come looking fer us?”
Bill laughs softly then gasps in pain. “Hardly. There are bits and pieces of sailors all over the decks and at the bottom of the sea. When they take rollcall Captain Whitby will assume we perished. Ain’t no way anyone’s going to come looking for us. What do you think? Make up your mind quickly before the sharks choose for us.”
I grin so widely I fear my teeth will give us away as I start to paddle again, moving through the dark waters away from the ships towards the Sicilian coast. “Aye, an inn sounds nice to me as well. I reckon we’ve done our duty to King and country.”
Chapter 29
Although barely 500 yards away, the slow swim to the shore is gruelling. The tide runs against us, the water choked with debris from the battle and the bodies of the dead. Despite putting on a brave face, Bill is grievously wounded and I must hold onto him as well as the spar as I kick my feet towards land.
I nearly cry with relief when I hear the waves slapping on the shore, and feel the rocky bottom beneath my bare feet. Bill drifts in and out of consciousness, unable to stand or even crawl. With my last remaining strength, I pull him to the beach and half-drag, half-carry him up a small sandy beach to what I hope is a spot beyond the tideline.
Behind us on the water, fires still burn, though they are smaller. Either Royal Navy sailors have extinguished the flames on Incorruptible or the ship has burned and sunk to the bottom of the bay. Either way I am too exhausted to care. I check the kerchief tied onto Bill’s shattered leg to make sure the bleeding has stopped. Job done as best I can, I fall to the sand beside Bill and the world fades away.
* * *
I awake the next day to the mewling of gulls and the heat of the sun on my face. Groaning, I open my eyes and peer into the sky. The sun is high above us. I realize with a shock that it is noon, or just after. I’ve slept the night and all of the morning away.
I look to the sea. Incorruptible, Unicorn and Cerberus are not to be seen, although I hear the voices of sailors, the sounds of hammers and saws on the wind.
It is then I realize that we have swum into a small bay, protected by a narrow headland that blocks the sight of the open Mediterranean. This is fortunate. If I can’t see the ships they can’t see us.
“Bill! How are ye?” I look to my friend beside me. He lies still, his eyes shut. At first there is no answer and I fear he’s dead.
“Bill! Wake up!” I cry as I shake him by the shoulders.
“Easy, Trap,” he says in a weak voice, his eyes fluttering open. “I may feel like death but I’m still alive. I thought we were gonna find a nice inn? This doesn’t look much like one to me.”
“I need to check yer foot,” I say, relieved beyond words my friend still lives and can make a joke.
Bill struggles to sit up on the sand. “I think you mean my stump. If you’re looking to check my foot you’d best swim out to Cerberus to ask the sharks if they ate it for tea. If they did, tell ’em I hope they choke on a toenail.”
“I’m glad ye haven’t lost yer sense of humour,” I say as I move towards his leg.
“I’ve lost enough for one day, don’t you think, Trap? What does it look like? Tell me true.”
“It isn’t a pretty sight.” Halfway between Bill’s knee and where his foot used to be his leg bone is visible. The bone is jagged, a large patch of flesh dangling underneath it. His leg is covered with dried blood while fresh blood still leaks from the wound. The tourniquet I made from my kerchief has saved his life, no doubt.
“I need to clean it,” I say. “Give me a minute.”
We have no clothes. No shirts, no hats, no shoes, just our dirty breeches. That outfit is fine enough for sailors on the deck of a ship but less so for two men washed up onshore.
I walk down to the beach. The bay is littered with debris. There is wood, rope, an entire sail even, untouched save for the holes ripped into it by chainshot. I can’t help wondering if I was the one who shot it.
There is also a body washed up, birds landing and taking off beside it. Whoever it was, French or English, the near-naked corpse is already bloating in the sun. The poor wretch’s eyes are gone as well, eaten by crabs or birds or some other scavenger.
A long knife hangs in a leather scabbard on his belt. This is a most lucky thing. While I still wear a scabbard on my waist I have lost my own knife, either from the force of the explosion that knocked me off the ship or during the swim ashore.
I reach down to the man, nose wrinkling in distaste at the stench of death. His body is riddled with holes, one large enough for a crab to crawl in and take refuge. I take the knife from its scabbard, tuck it into my own then walk away. I have an important task to attend to, after all.
I cut a chunk of canvas from the sail then using it like a makeshift water skin, the sort I used in New Caledonia and along the river, I collect sea water then return to my friend.
“What did you see?” Bill asks. “Can you tell what happened?”
“I cannae see the ships from here. We’re in a bay of sorts. I’ll go fer a look later but fer now ye need me to tend to yer leg.” Salt water is as good as anything at cleaning wounds, I learned at sea. Bill grunts in pain as the sea water washes over his leg, but he bears up well enough to let me do my work.
“Guid enough,” I say. “Fer a few hours at least.”
I carefully untie the kerchief, ready to knot it back up if a rush of blood pours from his leg. While some does, it is just a wee amount. This is good news. While my friend may yet die of infection or fever, at least he won’t bleed to death.
Gently I wrap the canvas around his stump then tie it off with the kerchief.
“You sure you weren’t a doctor instead of a fur trader in the wilds of Canada, Trap?”
“I’ve seen my share of cuts and scrapes and have tended more than a few in my travels, ‘tis true.” On my way across North America and down the river with Simon Fraser there were many injuries. Gagnier with the swivel gun that blew up when he fired it. Fraser’s fall and injured leg when he narrowly missed a bite from a rattlesnake.
Though I am no doctor I did watch and learn a few things about healing from the voyageurs, the people of the river, as well as from the sailors. “If I had bear grease I could work miracles.”
Bill is completely confused. “Bear grease? What on earth are you talking about, Trap?”
I smile. “Never ye mind. ’Tis a little trick I learned to heal feet ripped up by sharp rocks and cacti.”
“I think I need more than bear grease to fix my foot.”
“Aye, yer right about that. The best thing right now is rest and salt water. Let’s find ye a more comfortable place to sit.”
I help Bill up. He hops gingerly along as I wrap my arm around his waist and help him off the beach towards a spindly tree next to a rocky bluff.
I place Bill down, his back resting against the trunk of the tree. “How’s that?” I ask.
“Not quite a king’s throne but it will do.”
“Guid. Now wait here. Get some sleep if ye can while I s
ee if there’s any fresh water to be found. I haven’t done all this work saving yer life only to have ye die of thirst on me.”
Chapter 30
I return to the beach to cut another chunk of canvas from the sail, doing my best to ignore the body. I will search later to see if any other useful items have washed up, but I must find fresh water first.
There is a narrow footpath that follows the beach. Weeds grow along it, and I can tell that it is not used frequently. I look to the north. From the deck of the Cerberus I saw the twinkling of lights a mile or two from our present location.
A time may come when I need to follow the path towards the town, but today is not that day, not with the ships still anchored offshore. We can’t afford to trust the people who live there not to turn us over to the Royal Navy.
I scan the coastline to the south. From my travels in the wilds I know that creeks and rivers often flow in draws and small valleys. Some three hundred yards down the coast I see such a thing. Canvas in hand I set off along the beach, walking carefully. I have no shoes after all, and though my feet are hardened by weeks of walking barefoot on the deck of the Cerberus, sharp rocks and spiny plants will still hurt.
As I clear the headland, Cerberus and the other ships come into view. I crouch down beside a twisted pine and watch the ships. I hear ship’s carpenters busily swinging their hammers, repairing the damage done to both the Cerberus and the Incorruptible.
Both are still afloat, though even from some five hundred yards away I can see that the French frigate suffered significant damage. Her mainmast still stands, but the foremast is gone, its spars, sheets and sails shot away as well. No doubt remains that the piece of canvas I hold in my hand came from the Incorruptible.
The Unicorn escaped major damage during the battle and stands guard, her starboard guns point out to sea, ready to level a broadside on any enemy ship that approaches.
There is good reason for her to be wary. The other French frigate, Revanche, is still out in the Mediterranean somewhere, and would love to avenge the double insult we have given Napoleon’s Navy. It will be bad enough that the Incorruptible lost the battle but to have her taken, repaired and turned into a Royal Navy ship will make the French furious.