Lieutenant Harm had been struck in the face by a large splinter. Half his face, the side nearest Lewrie, had been shaved off to the bone. One eye was gone, and in its place was a splinter nearly a foot long and nearly as big around as Lewrie's wrist. Harm's mouth opened and closed a couple of times like a dying fish before he toppled forward like a marionette with the strings cut. He fell on top of Snow, the quartergunner, whose entrails were spread out in a stinking mess on the deck. Just beyond him, Lewrie could see a side-tackle man lying beneath the overturned gun, and still screaming at the ruin of his legs. ’Oh," Lewrie managed to say, gulping in fright. The fear that seized him made him dizzy, turned his limbs to jelly and took him far from the unbelievable sights and smells of the deck. He tried to take a step but felt like he was walking on pillows, and fell to his knees.
That's an eye, he decided, regarding the strange object below his face. He threw up his dinner on it. Overhead, but no business of his, he could hear the upper deck twelve-pounders banging away raggedly, and the roar of the trucks as they recoiled. It sounded as if Ariadne was being turned into a pile of wood chips.
A second broadside from the Spanish ship slammed into them. More screams, more singing of flying debris, and a muffled explosion somewhere! He got back to his feet, clinging to a carline post.
Lieutenant Roth came skidding down the hatchway with his hat missing, and the white facings of his uniform and breeches stained grey with powder smoke. "Harm! Lewrie, where's-" And then someone jerked Lieutenant Roth's string, or so it seemed, for he left his feet and flew across the width of the gun deck to slam into the larboard side where he left a bloody splash, cut in half by shot.
Got to get out of here, he told himself, considering how dark and safe it would be in the holds below the waterline snuggled up by the rum kegs. He seemed to float to the hatch, but Cole, the gunner's mate, stopped him by hugging his leg in terror. ’Zur," Cole pleaded on his knees, clutching tight. "Zur. ’
‘Not now." Alan was intent on salvation, but there was a Marine sentry at the hatch using his bayonet to disincline others who had already had the same thoughts, and he looked over at Lewrie as one more customer for his trade.
Couldn't make it with this bastard anyway, Alan decided, unable to move without dragging the mate along with him. "Goddamn you, you're a mate… tell me what to do!’
‘Zur!" the mate babbled, shuffling on his knees with Alan. "I want out of here, hear me? OUT," Alan yelled. ’Run out, zur?" the gunner's mate asked, eager for any sane suggestion. "Run 'em out? Right, zur!’
‘Let go of me, damn you, and do your job! Get up and do your job! Stand to your guns!" And he hauled Cole to his feet and shoved him away. "Corporal, run those shirkers to their guns!" Right, he told himself; I wouldn't believe me, either, seeing the Marine's dubious look. ’Ready, zur!" Cole was wringing his hands in panic. "Fire as you bear!" Lewrie ordered, hoping to be heard in all the din. The thirty-two-pounders began to slam, rolling back from the sills and filling the deck with a sour cloud of burnt powder. This isn't happening to me, he thought wildly. I refuse to be killed. I will not allow myself to believe this is real…
Lewrie staggered to a port which no longer contained a gun and peered out to see through the smoke cloud. He was amazed to see some ragged holes punched into the enemy's hull. The range was less than a cable as the two ships drifted down on each other. ’Beautiful! Hit him again!" he shouted, happy that he might take a few of the bastards with him. "Swab out, there, charge your guns.. ‘. ’Git yoor ztupid foot atta the bight a that tackle er yew'll be Mister Hop-kins," the gunner's mate told someone. Just to be sure it wasn't himself, Lewrie stepped back to the centerline of the deck. Knew we should have struck all this below, he thought, studying the wreck of chests and stools and spare clothing.
As they were ramming down round-shot, a rammer man beside him took a large splinter of oak in his back and gave a shrill scream as he toppled over, scattering the terrified gun crew. ’Clear away, there! Wounded to the larboard side! Run out your guns!" Lewrie was glad to have something to do besides shiver with fright. He had not thought it would be that cold below decks. Teeth-chattering cold! "Prime! Point!" He saw fists rise in the air as each gun was gotten ready and he felt the hull drumming to hits, but he also felt the scend of the sea under Ariadne. "On the uproll… fire!" This was much more organized, a twelve-gun broadside fired all at the same time. An avalanche of iron seemed to strike the enemy. She visibly staggered, and three waist gun ports were battered into one, whole chunks of scantling blown apart by the impact. Surely there was a cloud of splinters on her gun deck this time. ’Kick 'em up the arse!" Lewrie sang out, which raised a ragged cheer from the men. "Sponge out your guns!’
‘B… better, zur!" the mate said as Ariadne was struck deep in the hull but not on the gun deck. He looked at Lewrie like a puppy who had lost his man in a crowd. "They're not sullen about gun drill now, are they?" Lewrie said with a manic smile. "We'll take a few of the shits with us, hey?’
‘Aye, zur!" Cole said, finding his courage and gazing at him with frank admiration, which Lewrie found disconcerting in the extreme. "Have we fired twice or three times?" he asked. "Should we worm the guns? Don't want a charge going off early.’
’I'd worm, zur!" Cole said. "Worm out yer guns there!" He must think I've gone mad, Lewrie thought, getting away from Cole as far as possible. In doing so he stepped over the body of a boy, a tiny, young midshipman who had lost a leg and bled to death, his dirk still clenched in a pale fist. Odd that after eight months in the same ship together Alan couId not place him at all. Fuck me, I'm dead or deranged already, he told himself. If I have to go game, I wish I couId stop shaking so badly. I'm ready to squirt my breeches! He clung to a support beam amidships and tried to get a grip.
Within a minute, fresh charges had been rammed down, wads, ball and sealing wads, and the guns trundled up to the ports. God, they're close now. At this range, we ought to shoot right through them… ’Prime your guns, point… on the uproll… fire!" Another solid broadside, a blow beneath the heart. ’Sponge out!" Lewrie shrilled. "Gunner's mate, reduce charges and load with double shot… double shot and grape…" Powder monkeys scampered like panting rats as they came up from below with lighter powder bags, eyes widening in their blackened faces at the sight of the gore. ’No wonder they paint everything red down here," Lewrie told a handspike man as he levered his charge about. "Like the cloaks that the Spartans wore, I suppose, what?" The handspike man was too busy to talk to him, or even to listen, and Lewrie chastised himself for beginning to sound like one of those Hanoverians at Coon with their eh, what, what's. ’Gunner's mate, on the downroll this time, rip the bottom out from under them!". ’Aye aye, zuc!" The gunner's mate stood in awe as he watched Lewrie take out his pocket watch, consult it, then pace about.
He knows I'm off my head… "On the downroll, fire!" Below the level of the enemy's lower gun ports, star-shaped holes appeared. The range was a long musket-shot now with hardly a chance for a miss. "Lewrie, where's Lieutenant Harm?" Beckett yelled up at him. "Dead as cold boiled mutton," Lewrie told him conversationally. "So is Roth. He's over to larboard someplace. Need something?’
‘The Spanish are closing us, we must cripple them now-’
‘Oh. Right. We'll give it a shot, pardon the play on words.
Double shot the guns again. Or do you think, if we reduce to saluting charges, we could triple-shot the damned things?" Beckett and he had strolled aft through all the carnage, until Beckett spotted the dead midshipman, gave a shrill scream of disbelief and began to spew. "Striplin! Oh dear God, it's Striplin!". ’Wondered who that was," Lewrie said. "Ready? Run out your guns." The enemy ship was evidently in trouble with her larboard battery, and was painfully tacking about to point her bows toward Ariadne to bring her undamaged side to bear. Her turn could also cut across their stem, and round-shot fired down the length of the gun deck would be like a game of bowls through the thin transom wood. But for that instant, the Dons we
re vulnerable to the same thing. ’As you bear… fire!" It was too much to ask for a synchronized broadside, but he could count on a few steady gunners to let fly as they readied their pieces. One at a time the thirty-two-pounders barked, no longer rolling back from the ports but leaping back and slamming to the deck with a crash as loud as their discharge as the breeching ropes stopped them.
The forward bulkhead aft of the jib-boom burst open. The boom and the bow sprit were shattered, releasing the tension of the forestays that held the rigging tautly erect. Forward gun ports were hammered to ruin as they swung into view. Splinters and long-engrained dust and paint chips fluttered out in a cloud from each strike. With a groan they could hear below decks the Spaniard's foremast came apart like a snapped bow, royal and t' gallant and topmasts sagging down into separate parts and trailing wreckage over the side, or leaning back into the mainmast, ripping sails apart and creating more havoc. ’Yahh… fry those shits," Lewrie heard himself scream. Ariadne struggled to swing to starboard to keep the enemy on her beam, for there was still half that waiting broadside in reserve that could still do terrible damage. Lewrie pounded on people, rushing the swabbing and the loading and the running out. But they could not bear, and the enemy was drifting astern more and more. ’Point aft! HutTy it up!" Lewrie demanded, seizing a crow and throwing his own weight to shift a gun. "Quoins in! Prime your guns as we shift!’
‘Done it!" the gunner's mate sounded off. ’Stand clear… fire!" Someone yelled as a gun recoiled over his foot, and a cloud of smoke rushed back in the ports. Lewrie went halfway out the nearest port for a look. "Sonofabitch! Marvelous!" There would not be a return broadside. There was not one port showing a muzzle that did not tilt skyward, and close as they were, he could not see anyone working in the gloom. Damme, it's nearly dark… is it over, please, God? Ariadne could not stay to windward, for she had taken much damage aloft from chain and bar-shot that had tom her rigging to rags. She sagged down off the wind, while the Spaniard drifted away, going off the wind as well, but far down to the south, able to beam-reach out of danger, and Ariadne could not follow. ’Think it's over fer now, zur," the gunner's mate told him. "Water," Lewrie said. "Organise a butt of water.’
’Right away, zur.’
Lewrie sat down on what was left of a midshipman's chest and caught his breath. Now that the gunsmoke had been funneled out by fresh air, he could see a stack of bodies to the larboard side, and a steady stream of screaming wounded being carried below to the cockpit and the dubious mercies of the surgoon and his mates. The sound from below on the orlop was hideous as they sawed and cut and probed; mostly sawed, for badly damaged limbs had to come off at once. ’There was a gun dismounted," Lewrie said suddenly, aching at the effort of communication. "Has it been bowsed down?’
‘Aye, sor," a quartergunner told him. "Got her back on her truck an' lashed snug ta larboard.’
’Good. Good." He nodded. "Organise a crew from larboard to rig a wash-deck pump and begin cleaning up. We may not be through yet." He could see that once the guns ceased to speak, the men were sagging into shock, and that sneaky bastard might come back. They would be useless the next time, and he did not know what to do. ’Water, zur," the gunner's mate said. "Have a cup. ’
‘They're falling apart. What do I do?" Lewrie pleaded. "I'll see to keepin' 'em on the hop, zur. Yew take a breather.
Yew done enough fer now," Cole said, making it sound like a reproof.
I must have screwed this up royally, Lewrie sighed. Well, who cares? I never wanted this anyway! I wonder if all this was famous or glorious? What would Osmonde say? Is he alive to say anything? Bosun's pipes shrilled and the bosun yelled down, "D'ye hear, there? Secure from Quarters!’
‘Iffen yew want, zur, I'll finish up here," the gunner's m~ said. "When ya zees the first lieutenant, the count is eleven dead an' nineteen wounded an' on the orlop. ’
‘Jesus," Lewrie breathed. "Sweet Jesus.’
’Aye, zur. Damned bad, it was. " Anything to get away from the screams from the surgery, he decided, getting to his feet with a groan and slowly ascending to the upper deck and the quarterdeck. ’Good God, are you wounded, Mister Lewrie?" Swift asked him as he reveled at the coolness and sweetness of the evening winds. ’I don't think so, Mister Swift," wondering if he had been struck and did not yet realize it. Perhaps that explained his weakness and the trembling of his limbs. ’You gave me a fright with all that blood," Swift said. Lewrie looked down and saw his trousers, waistcoat and facings blotched black in the gloom with dried blood as if he had been wallowing in an abbatoir. ’I beg to report that the lower gun deck is secured, sir. One gun burst, one overturned but righted. All lashed down snug. The gunner's mate said to tell you eleven dead and nineteen on the orlop with the surgeon.’
’What about Mister Roth and Mister Harm?’
‘Dead, sir. Mister Harm had this big baulk of wood stuck in his face. And Mister Roth came below andjust… went splash across the deck.’
’Who ran the gun deck, then?’
‘Me and the gunner's mate, sir.’
’Wait here, Lewrie," and Swift tramped off across the splintered deck toward the binnacle, where Lewrie could make out the sailing master and the captain. ’You look like 'Death's Head on a mopstick,' " Kenyon said as he strolled up. ’Who won, sir?’
‘Draw, I'd say. Those Dons are off to the suth'rd making repairs. We'll have to work like Trojans through the night, or they'll be back at dawn and finish us off. Where are Roth and Harm? " Lewrie recited his litany of woe once more, leaving Kenyon at a loss for words. "I shall need you to assist replacing the maintopmast with the spare main-course yard.’
’Aye aye, sir.’
’Lewrie, come here," from Lieutenant Swift.
Standing before Bales, he had to explain when Harm and Roth had fallen, and what had happened following their deaths, what the state of the lower gun deck was, how many wounded and killed. It felt like an old story that he couldn't dine out on for long. ’And you did not think to report your officers fallen?" Bales asked. "There wasn't time, sir." Lewrie was feeling faint again, ready to drop in his tracks. "Could I sit down, sir? I'm feeling a bit rum." If they want to cane me for not sending a messenger, then they can have this bloody job. I quit! he told himself, leaning on the corner of the quarterdeck netting. The captain's servant offered him a mug of something which he said would buck him right up, and Lewrie took it and tipped it back, drinking half of it before he realized it was neat rum. No matter, it was wet and alcoholic, whatever it was. He smiled and belched contentedly at all of them.
The gunner's mate was there, pointing at Lewrie, but he could not hear what he was saying… Probably telling him what a total poltroon I was. I should've been taking orders from him, not the other way around… ’God bless you, Mister Lewrie," someone very like Captain Bales said to his face. "From the most unlikely places we find courage and leadership in our hour of troubles. I shall feature your bravery in my report most prominently, believe you me." Here, now, you can't be saying that, Lewrie goggled at him, unable to feature it. He could not speak., merely nod dumbly, unable to remove his weary. drunken smile.
But then he had to go aloft to clear away the raffle of all their damage, which sobered him up right smartly but did nothing for his aching weariness.
Chapter 6
English harbor at Antigua was a bit of a letdown, after yearning for it, imagining the joy of it, and struggling so hard to reach it. Once round Cape Shirley into the outer roads, the land was all dust and sere hills, sprinkled with dull green flora. They were told it was the dry season, even though it was near the start of the hurricane season. There were island women in view, loose-hipped doxies in bright dresses and headclothes ready to provide comfort and pleasure for the poor English sailors, but the ship was not allowed Out of Discipline. They were much too busy for that.
First, they had to keep from sinking at their temporary moorings. Ariadne's bilges and holds were deep in the water, and the orlop hatches
had been sealed tight; even then at least an inch of dirty water sloshed about on the orlop. Since their battle with the disguised Spanish two-decker the pumps had gushed and clanked without pause while carpenters slaved to patch holes. The upper deck damage could wait; gilt and taffrail carvings were moot if Ariadne foundered.
Along her waterline, ravelled sails could be seen, hairy patches fothered over gaping wounds to slow the inrush of water. Discarded bandages, bloody slop clothing and floating personal possessions seeped from her like pus.
Rowed barges towed her down the tortuous channel to the inner harbor and the dockyard, where she was buoyed up with camels, barges on either beam supporting thick cables that slung under the hull. As the camels were pumped out, they rose in the water, bringing Ariadne with them so that laborers could get into her holds and begin plugging the many shot holes.
Above decks, she was in much better shape; damaged yards and topmasts had been replaced, snapped rigging reroved, tom canvas taken down and replaced with the heavy-air set, or hastily patched. But the poop, starboard side and the starboard gangway still bore shot holes, especially around the waist. Light shot was still embedded in her thick scantlings, the decks were still tom from splintering, and no amount of scrubbing could remove the huge bloodstains, especially on the lower deck.
And Ariadne stank, though she had been scoured with vinegar or black strap, smoked with tubs of burning tobacco, or painted with her slim stocks of whitewash and red. She reeked of vomit, of gangrenous wounds from her tortured men who had been killed but had not yet been allowed the final release from agony. She smelled coppery-sickly from the smell of decaying bodies, and the island flies found her and made a new home so they could feast on her corruption, on aU the blood that had been spilled and seemed now a part of her framework. She was a worse environment than the old fleet Ditch, Dung Wharf or the worst reeking slums Lewrie could remember hastily passing. He was an Englishman, which meant that he was used to stinks, but he had never imagined anything that bad.
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