by Paul Almond
“Well, exciting till you get in a fight, ma’am. Then...” James trailed off, finding himself disturbed at the visions that arose before him.
“Then what?” Catherine asked.
“Leave him be, Catherine,” her mother urged.
“No, she’s right to ask. You’re all correct to want to know. It’s terrible. War. Battles. Mr. Garrett knows. The carnage is just...” James went on in a low voice. “Men working next to me were blown to smithereens. Bits of arm, legs, brains spewed out. Blood running down the deck. Shrapnel, splinters from the wood, it wreaks havoc with your flesh, you bleed even when you don’t feel it.” He lapsed into silence, before clearing his throat and going on. “You see, we were drawn up right against l’Orient — the biggest French ship, double the firepower — and she just towered above us. Her marines, posted high up the mizzen and main mast platforms, they just raked our decks with firepower. And their cannonry, they had one hundred and twenty-four guns to our seventy-four, and heavier, it was awful. Booming explosions, smoke everywhere, and dark too, deafening, but we kept on firing! They poured it on, and so did we. Not sure how or why the Good Lord spared me. But I shall never forget... one of my gunners.” He didn’t raise his head, but stared fixedly at the floor, missing the looks of dismay on Eleanor and Catherine’s faces.
“Our captain, Darby, he was hit early, knocked unconscious, the first mate Lt. Daniel, he was killed, London, the Second Officer, and Fourth and Fifth Lieutenants, all dead. I remember at Trafalgar, Wemyss, the Marine Captain, he had his leg blown off. He said, ‘A mere scratch! I apologize for having left the deck on such a trifling occasion,’ or something like that. Imagine. He died right after.
“Discipline, we worked hard, we worked well, the men were just amazing, you know, unbelievable how they kept going, so many of their mates beside them cut to pieces.” He warmed to the subject. “A fire was started on our lower deck, right near the powder room. You know what that means? One of my gunners got a bunch of men together, and they worked the hand pump to put it out — Captain himself didn’t even know, nor anyone on the top deck. Cause a panic if they knew beforehand. Y’see, we’d been enmeshed with l’Orient, and a fire started on her, too, blazing high, we all saw it, we tried to get free but our mizzen mast had fallen, then our main, so we strung up our jib, and just managed with a bit of wind to haul away.
“And then, my God, up that ship went, I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything like it, lit up the whole sky, a noise you cannot imagine, the whole ship, sailors and all, blown to hell. We’d made it just in time. Otherwise we’d all have gone sky high with them, the whole bloody lot of us. But of course, though we were saved, the Billy Ruffian didn’t fare so well. Blood running everywhere, our guns were thrown off their carriages, gunners cut into pieces, all at night too, just a few lanterns, no good really, and bright flashes of the guns, dead dragged out of the way so we could keep going... deafening noise, our cannon and theirs, all going off together.”
“But did you beat them, finally?”
“Oh yes sir, we licked them. The fleet did. Us, we were drifting, pretty helpless at the end, highest casualties in the battle, too,” he said, with a touch of pride, but also with a deep sorrow as it all rolled over him once again. “I have no desire to boast, but it was well said that the coolness and efficiency of the British sailor under fire allowed us to snatch our victory.”
“But your gunner, you were telling us,” Catherine asked.
“Oh yes. There was a tremendous noise — part of the gun port was torn away just as we fired. I heard through the smoke and chaos, a cry, and when I could see, one of my gunners, my favourite, actually, he was lying back, dead, I thought. Where his left arm had been... just a mangled stump. Pouring blood.
“I grabbed him up, ordered the rest to keep firing and, as someone who could be spared — you need all the crew to fire — and half carried, half dragged him down to the cockpit, that’s where we Middies slept: our Surgeon, Dr. Bellamy, had made it into his surgery, below the water line. Covered our table with a sheet.
“My gunner came to in my arms, but I could tell he wasn’t fully conscious, his eyes flickering, his blood running over both of us. I tried to clutch his arm in a way that would stop the bleeding. Please, I prayed, please let him live. But I knew that although my Maker had been very good at answering every prayer, this was one he would be hard put to grant.
“‘You’re going to be fine,’ I told him, as we started down the companionway. ‘Lots of sailors have only one arm, don’t worry. You’ll be taken for our good Admiral Nelson, you watch!’ As you may know, our commander had lost his arm in the battle at Tenerife. ‘We’ll get you to the sawbones, and he’ll make you right as rain.’ I knew that Dr. Bellamy would have to perform a miracle, but then, they do happen, don’t they?
“At any rate, I laid him on the sacking outside the surgery with half a dozen others, all shot in so many ways, blood running everywhere.” James stopped as he saw the alarm in the ladies’ eyes. “I’m sorry, but you see, it’s like that, war, it’s terrible. And our ships, being of wood, the spray of splinters does something terrible to you, tearing off the skin, and knocking you about.”
“And you’ve had your share of splinters, I suppose?” added William.
“Oh yes, Mr. Garrett sir, that I have.” James grinned sheepishly, and went on, “Well, I was trying not to listen to the screams that came from behind the surgery door — not hard with the noise of our cannon, and the French right up against us, that did us a service by muffling those poor wretches who were on their way to heaven, and of course, it was hard to see, all at night, with all the powder and smoke...”
The two women were spellbound and William stared fixedly at the floor, pausing every so often to take a meditative puff. Was he thinking of the same sort of scenes at his own past battles, James wondered. Is my story bringing back images he would rather forget? “Anyway, I hurried into the surgery. ‘Beg pardon, sir, we have a man who —’ “‘I know, I know, I have seven waiting, and more every minute,’ the surgeon told me. ‘I’m doing my best. Here, cut this sheet into four, give it back to me, see if you can take one and use it as a tourniquet. Then you’ll have to cauterize him. I’ll supervise.’
“I cut it as hastily as I could and hurried out. But as I kneeled beside him...” James paused his narration for a long moment, staring into space as though he were seeing the vision right here and now. “Poor fellow, he had gone.” He nodded. “I made a sign of the cross over him, mumbled a prayer, and tore up the stairway back to my crew, where I took the dead man’s place, thrusting the ramrod very inexpertly, I’m afraid, into the barrel.
“‘Atta boy, sir, ’at does it!’ my head gunner roared over the cannons’ pounding.
“We stepped back and covered our ears, as it blasted yet another thirty-four pounder straight into the side of the l’Orient.‘Better look to yourself, sir!’ He pointed.
“Blood was running down my leg. A splinter, well, yes, a sizeable chunk of wood, had lodged in my thigh. I plucked it out, tried to affix the flap of flesh shut, pressing it hard for a few seconds, and then went on firing.”
“So the sight of blood is no stranger to ye, neither,” said William.
“Oh no, I’m very much used to that. But hopefully, those days are gone forever. And soon, that slaughter will be forgotten in the good life here.” But something compelled him to go on, almost as a memoriam to his friend. “You see, that gunner was the sly one, winking, and coming as close to insubordination as he could, with his wisecracks and knavish jokes. He was clever, hailed from Devon in fact, spoke with a thick accent. I always felt he should have been a Londoner, he’d probably have prospered there, rather than having been unfortunate enough to be press-ganged into service.”
“Pressed?” Catherine asked.
“Yes, Catherine,” he finally raised eyes, and took her in with almost a shock, how lovely she looked with the firelight on her cheeks. “Well you see, they’d send crew
s out into the countryside — those in London being much too clever — to catch poor unsuspecting villagers, slip them the king’s shilling, and once impounded, they’d grab ’em and get ’em on board.”
“And they can’t get off?”
“Well, I won’t say never. But it is, as you may have heard, virtually impossible to escape from one of His Majesty’s ships.”
“You did!” blurted Catherine.
James turned and looked at her. “Yes, I did. But I want you to know, Catherine, that I have been exonerated.”
“Have you now?” broke in her mother.
“Aye, madam, that I have.”
“When?” Catherine asked, her blue eyes watching his every reaction.
“Not too long ago...”
“After your visit here two years ago?”
“Oh yes...” James began to change the conversation away but was brought back abruptly by William. “Now there’s a tale worth telling...” William prompted. A tale worth telling indeed. But James was not so sure he wanted to tell it. He was too afraid of the tears that might start into his eyes.
Chapter Twelve
James found it hard to know whether William Garrett was testing him or not. But he’d decided to make sure there’d be no more ghastly mistakes, no more brothers or townspeople running to JPs to thrust him into court all over again. If he told them now, though, it might be all over town later; it could mean he’d be accepted without any misunderstandings, such as some aberrant naval ship trying to do its duty by flogging him to death.
“Well, when I first arrived, it was utter wilderness, and I was rescued by a Micmac band, who were very good to me...” He paused, caught by the loneliness that rose to confront him, like a malignant spectre, every time the band was mentioned. “They saved my life, in fact, one winter. And, um...” he cleared his throat. “Well, a year later, their Chief fell ill, and they asked me to help. I soon saw that he needed an operation. No surgeons in New Carlisle for sure, but I’d seen our ship’s surgeon work miracles on occasion, and so I decided I’d have to bring him to my ship.”
“The Billy Ruffian?” gasped Catherine.
“Yes. You see, it was in port here, and no doctor in Paspébiac. So... well, finally Dr. Bellamy operated and, as I suspected, he was able to save the Chief’s life. And by the way, that’s how I came to be given the fine canoe, moored as it is now down at our breakwater! The band gave it to me as a present.”
“But how did you get exonerated, laddie?” asked William gently.
“Well, you see, the penalty for desertion...”
“They do punish you, then?” asked Eleanor.
“They do, ma’am, and it’s rather severe.”
“What do they do?” burst out Catherine.
James held back. He was not sure that the company assembled by the open fire would like such extremes, nor did he wish here to denigrate his Navy. But they were all looking at him in keen anticipation.
“Well,” he finally went on, “it’s a thousand lashes, one hundred on each ship of the line.”
The two women gasped, and William coughed mightily.
“How horrible!” Catherine exclaimed.
“What a dreadful and very long-drawn-out punishment.”
“Not so drawn out, ma’am. You don’t last beyond, well, the first ship, or if you’re lucky, beyond half of that even. You certainly don’t live to see the other nine.”
“And they still keep doing it?”
“Aye. Just as long as there is anything left to lash, I suppose.”
“How awfully horrid!” Mrs. Garrett raised a handkerchief to her eyes. “I had no idea.” Catherine buried her face in her hands.
“You mean those rascal sons of yours would have subjected young James to that?” Eleanor looked at William in shock and anger.
“Now luv, they’re your sons too, and they just got into some rum, and you know well, I punished them right and proper, I did. Y’see,” he turned to James, “they were only going to turn you in as a sort of prank. Thank heaven we found out in time.”
“You didn’t find out in time, Papa,” Catherine burst out, nearly in tears, “it was just that —,” she stopped, “just that James was called away in time — before anything could happen.” James could see she was not about to reveal that it was her own quick thinking that had saved his life.
“Well, anyway,” William went on, sitting back in his chair and letting out a big puff of smoke, “you are exonerated now?”
“It appears so.”
“You still didn’t tell us how,” William asked.
“Oh. Well, I didn’t mean it to happen. It just... Somehow...” He was loath to give away the full details.
“Come on, out with it,” William nudged. Perhaps he was beginning to believe it never happened.
“Well, you see, I knew that sending the Chief by himself with his canoes — well, you can imagine how they would treat a Native turning up in a Micmac canoe to a ship of the line of His Majesty. So I had to go along with him. You know, to make sure they did what was right and proper.” James shrugged. “And that meant, of course...”
“They caught you!”
“Yes. They had me.”
“Your life? You would have given up your life. To save another man? To save an Indian?” William took his pipe out of his mouth, staggered beyond belief.
“He was the Chief. He was my friend, sir. I had no other alternative, now did I? You know how it is...” James finished rather lamely. He stared at the floor.
William got to his feet as quickly as he could with his bum leg. “James, my man, I am honoured, yes indeed, honoured to come and shake your hand. What a fine specimen. I have seldom met, even in the depths of the Revolutionary War, anyone as brave as this sailor before me.” He stood and surveyed the group. “You know, Hall’s been telling me what you have been going through, back at the mill.”
“The mill? Oh, I’ve been enjoying it, sir. Mr. Hall is a wonderful employer.”
“Aye, that he is. But you’re not getting my meaning, lad.”
“Your meaning, sir?”
“Aye. He told me he’s been watching you. He hinted to me, that he did, that this daughter of mine, here, takes up a lot of your thinking.”
James raised his head, a frown creasing his brow. What was going on? Then he remembered voicing his feelings the night they had stitched the pulleys. After spending the afternoon with her, he’d been overcome with her presence, with desire. Had he said too much? Should he have kept quiet? He’d never suspected his views might be passed on. But of course, Hall and Garrett were partners. When they met, Hall would love to bring it up, especially with his distaste for the Brothertons. Well, what’s done is done, he thought, and glanced at the young woman who was the object of this conversation. Her head was bowed, but one hand tightly clutched and twisted a portion of her skirt.
“Now Eleanor,” William Sr. went on, “I know what you think of the Brothertons. And you know I don’t much agree with that liking of yours. But after you’ve heard from our young visitor here, and how he put loyalty and friendship above all else, I know you agree with me that if he still wants the hand of our daughter in marriage, he can bloody well have it! And I hope, luv, you’d consider it as I do, a right honour for the whole family.”
James looked up sharply. This is not at all what he had expected.
Catherine leapt up, grabbed her father, flung her arms around him, and kissed him hard.
James rose too, as Eleanor came to hug him. He could hardly restrain the tears of joy that leapt into his eyes. A new chapter in his life had certainly begun.
Chapter Thirteen
The next Sunday, his heart beating furiously, James beached the canoe at the foot of Shigawake brook. In the prow ahead, Catherine Garrett stepped out into the waves, soaking her skirt and shoes without care — she was anxious too, he saw, as little Ben leapt out with her and the two of them hauled the canoe in to shore. The only way old Will had permitted his daughter
to go off with James alone was with a chaperone, and they had finally persuaded him that Ben fit the bill.
Ben was going back to work at the mill on Monday as Hall had requested, but James would only return for one week, depending of course on the outcome of Catherine’s decision today. How well he knew that here, in this harsh land, women had to be practical, however much they loved a man. Would she approve of his cabin, albeit as temporary living quarters? Would she be brave enough to face the winter here, far from her family, in conditions fit for none but the hardiest? And all for a love which had not really been tested? Was James asking too much? Definitely, too much, he realized. Well, here they were, and go through with it he must.
He stepped out and helped them lift the canoe up above the high-tide line next to his brook that was tumbling down wide, red stone steps.
Catherine took up her own bag easily and slung it over her shoulder. “So this is the famous brook?”
“Aye. You like it?”
“’Tis pretty, James.”
First hurdle crossed, he said to himself, and set off in the lead.
They headed up the trail, clearly marked but not well worn, between the brook and the steep sides of the Hollow. Home again after two long months: but happiness mingled with anxiety as this one day’s expedition would decide whether she’d agree to become his wife.
So much hung in the balance. Deliberately he had refrained from telling her too many things about this “home”, because every time he spoke, his eyes would glow and feelings spill out — one certain way to destroy any surprise or appreciation. How could he prevent her from being disappointed, today of all days? Nothing for it but let the site speak for itself. And of course, pray hard.
James waved to his left, where through the bare autumn trees could be seen a brow of flat land above. “As I told you, I intend to build a house further up there, and I’ve got the foundations more or less placed.” He tried sounding optimistic, but saw how vapid that sounded — just foundations? “But the cabin is more or less fixed up, though.” He heard anxiety ring in his voice.