"We have to leave her, Cony. We'll search for survivors first and get them over the larboard side."
"Got Gracey an' Sadler, sir, an' a coupla t'others. Hoy, here be Lisney!"
"How's it below, Lisney?" Lewrie asked.
"Fires is burnin', sir. Aft, mostly," Lisney coughed, hacking and spitting, blowing his nose on his fingers to clear soot from his nostrils and throat. "Transom's blowed clean out, sir. Ye kin see th' daylight through 'er. Floodin' bad."
"So we sink before the orlop magazine catches fire?"
"They's fires on th' orlop 'neath us, now, sir," Lisney cried between retches. "Nothin' big yet, but… after half, I reckon. Me'n th' gunner, an' 'is powder yeomen? Jus' come back. Too smoky t'see wot y'r doin'. 'Ey soaked th' made-up charges an' kegs good, long'z we 'ad water runnin' in th' 'ose, sir."
"We have to go below," Lewrie announced, chilling himself at his words, seeing the shiver of fear and awe reflected in his men, at what he was asking them to do. "There's gear below that'll float, lads. We need it. And, we have to check the magazine. Mister Spendlove, inform Lieutenant de Crillart where we're going, and have him round up as many as he can to assist the bosun. Then, see if you can find Lieutenant Scott. Right, men… after me. Let's go." Bloody daft, I am, he told himself; daft as bats!
But they followed him below, that clutch of shuddering men; went staggering down the companionway ladders into smoky darkness to gather up stools and armfuls of tightly rolled hammocks, which might make temporary life buoys before they soaked through. They ripped down partitions and doors from warrant and mates' cabins, cut down the mess tables hung from the overheads, and handed them up, looted the unused carpenter's stores for baulks and planks of dry timber.
Lewrie forced himself to enter the magazine, crouched low under the coiling smoke, coughing his lungs out, even so. The felt screen in the doorway was still wet and cool, the door slimy with water. Farther aft, the wooden bulkheads were only slightly warm yet. He felt over a pile of paper cartridges, sickly slick and tacky with water. He worked in the dark-Bittfield, their senior gunner's mate, had extinguished all the lanterns in the glassed-in light room which usually illuminated the magazine. Lewrie's feet slipped and slid in a slurry of wet gunpowder, gritty but soaked. He almost wet himself when he realised it. Normally, only felt or list slippers could be worn in the magazine to avoid sparks; no matter how careful the yeomen of the powder were, a small amount always spilled, and one scrape of shoe leather could set it off like a bomb! He heard trickling water.
God, yes! Forward there was a tin-lined water tank, used by the galley to fill the steep-tubs to simmer rations, and as a fire reserve. Bittfield had axed his way through the overhead planking and punctured it, hang the risk of a spark when his steel axehead had bitten into it. The tank was slowly emptying itself into the magazine, gurgling in shoe-heel deep. He felt the massive kegs in the dark. They were wet to the touch. Though Lewrie felt his "nutmegs" had shriveled up to the size of capers, he decided that the magazine would be safe just long enough for them to get away before it blew. There was double-banked timber on all sides, top and bottom, which would only smoulder and char… for a while. His hideous duty done, he quite happily fled. "All clear, sir," Lisney coughed and wheezed at him when he came forward to the companionway, where there was at least the hope of air and a little light. Lisney was fuming that he'd taken so long, that he could not flee himself until Lewrie did.
Can't say that I blame him, Alan thought.
"Hatchets," Lewrie barked, between coughs. "Take the ladders, too. Break 'em loose, then we'll haul 'em up after us."
"Aye, sir," Lisney whined, impatient to be away. "Hoy, lads!"
It was a matter of seconds to break the ladders free, to scamper to the gun deck, then sling them upward and to the side. Lewrie followed them to the larboard side, the lee, and looked over. There was no more he could do. It was time to go.
"Half of 'em sir," Spendlove wailed, standing on the fore-chain platform, clinging to taut stays. "They just lit out for the beach, and I couldn't stop them! Didn't wait to help, or…"
"It's alright, Mister Spendlove," Lewrie said, peeling off his uniform coat. "They can't help it."
He swung a leg over the bulwarks and stepped down beside Spendlove, on the chain platform. It was only eight or so feet more to the water, but it looked one hellish-far drop. Terrified as he'd been down in the magazine, well… it didn't hold a candle to this!
No wonder they lit out, he shuddered, taking a look aft along the floating battery's side. She was slightly down by the stern, and fires raged unchecked aft, snarling like famished dogs over the forward edge of the quarterdeck, beginning to eat at the gangways on either beam, and the after-half of the gun deck was sizzling with low sheets of flamelets.
And shells were still falling from Fort La Garde, bursting above her, splashing down all about the cove, close aboard. One came down in a knot of swimmers and paddlers, clinging to any old sort of flotsam by the beach. Up rose a pillar of water, mud, gravel… men, or pieces of men; broken coop crates and bits of timber. When the feather collapsed, there weren't four heads to be seen still afloat!
"Mister Scott, sir," Spendlove cried, tears running on his face.
"Yes?" Lewrie asked, staring at the sea below him with foreboding.
Dear God, if I can't find something solid to cling to…! Alan shuddered.
"Dead, sir!" Spendlove shouted, as if in accusation. "Blown to… dear God, sir, there were bits of him, scattered…" He pointed aft to the raging furnace of the quarterdeck, where Scott would have taken himself, to ready 74U to up-anchor. Spendlove's shirt front was wet with breakfast, his terrified reaction to his first dead men.
Lewrie could but nod at that sad news, more concerned with surviving himself at that moment, gazing like a hypnotised rabbit under a snake's steely glare, at the sea. Hungry waters lapped and gurgled with what sounded like glee against the side, as if they'd been waiting for him for a very long time.
"See to the men, Mister Spendlove. Get as many ashore as you can," he ordered. "Be calm. They'll need that." "Aye, sir," Spendlove gulped, fighting back bis own fears. Waist-coat too, I s'pose, Lewrie surmised; good broadcloth, it'll soak up water like a sponge. He peeled it off and cast it away. Lewrie undid the buckle of his neck-stock and lace front to toss them away, too. This day, he wore old cotton stockings, his worst-stained pair of cotton breeches, the working pair he' d had run up out of sailcloth.
It struck him that they were French, and he giggled. Serge de Nimes, they called the fabric… sailcloth. Bloody Frogs invented it, didn't they? But he could not recall what the French called "sails." Vela? No, that was Latin.
Weak and shuddering, feeling a bit faint at his prospect of drowning, chilling all over, feeling his knees buckling, and his death grip on the stay slipping, he imagined he was already a spirit, a shade, freed of his body's mortal husk, outside of himself and distanced from the world. His ears were ringing, not from an excess of noise but from an almost total lack of sound. A shell burst, its fuse wrongly selected, right over the bluffs, and he could barely hear its barking Crack!
"Sir, sir!" from far away. "Mister Lewrie, sir! 'Old on, Mister Lewrie, I'm a-comin'!"
And there was Cony, paddling and treading water at his feet. So far below, though!
"Got ya somethin' f 'ang onta, sir," Cony promised. There was a small, rectangular hatch grating from a limber hole off the orlop deck, a bar to intruders who had no business secreting themselves in the dark recesses of the bilges or the carpenter's walks; cross-hatched of wood two-by-four, with ventilation squares. It'll float like anythin', sir! Ya gotta jump on down, Mister Lewrie. I'll be right 'ere, no worries."
"Ah…" Lewrie said, grimacing with fear that looked like a grin.
"She's burnin' damn' fierce, Mister Lewrie, she'll blow sky-high any minute now," Cony insisted, swiping water and soaked flaxen hair out of his eyes. "Ever'body else'z off 'er, sir, ain't no reason t'stay no longer. Come on, sir!"<
br />
Lewrie sat down on the fore-chain platform, easing his buttocks to the edge, his toes dangling, terror-breaths whooshing in and out, as if the next would be the last.
"God love ya, Mister Lewrie, sir," Cony coaxed, his face crimped with worry. "All these years t'gether, I don't mean t'lose ya now. Wot I tell y'r good lady an' y'r kiddies, if I went an' lost ya? Come on, sir! 'Old y'r nose an' slide off! I'll be right by y'r side, swear it by Jesus, I do, sir!"
Well… he sighed. He clapped his cocked hat firmly on his head, took a deep breath, held his nose, compressed his lips, took one last fond look at the bluffs-and let go of the stay.
He fell, he splashed like a cannon ball, arrowing down… down, and down, wanting to scream, blinded by brine, forever lost, lungs aching, wishing he'd taken a deeper breath, deep enough to last forever…
"Shit!" he yelped as he broke surface, felt light and air on his face, felt Cony's hand on his shirt collar. Retching and coughing from smoke, from water in his mouth, his eyes, weeping with salt-water sting and pure, semi-hysterical relief.
"Grab ahold o' this, sir, there ya be, safe'z 'ouses," Cony cooed, and Lewrie flailed about until his hands seized the hatch grating, took it to his bosom trying to get his whole chest over the two-by-three-foot grating. Feeling it wobble under him, threatening to tip him over.
"Shit!" he reiterated.
" 'Ang on, sir, jus' th' edge, t'keep y'r 'ead 'bove water, an'…" Cony instructed. "That's better, sir. You jus' 'ang on, an'I'll tow."
"Lost my hat," Lewrie carped, prying one stinging eye open.
"Hat's no matter, Mister Lewrie," Cony laughed. "Gotta get shed o' y'r sword, sir."
"No!" Lewrie insisted, almost petulantly.
"Drag ya down, do ya slip an' let go, sir," Cony explained.
"No!" Lewrie growled, groping fearfully for the scabbard which dangled between his legs. He dragged it around to lie athwart the grating before his eyes, then resumed his death grip.
" 'Ere we go then, sir," Cony fretted, beginning to side-stroke and tow. "Do ya kick y'r legs, sir? Push like ya wuz a-climbin' real steep stairs, that'd help. Y'll get the 'ang of it."
Once away from Zele's side, out of her lee, they met the wind, which helped propel them into the cove, towards the beach. Grunting as he gyrated his legs in an unfamiliar motion, he could begin to feel each tiny thrust as he clung to his raft, gagging and spitting with the water just under his chin, and wavelets slopping over his shoulders, to his ears at times, from behind. Halfway there, he lost his right shoe, no matter how he'd crimped his toes to keep it.
There were dead in the water, men floating face-down with their long hair come undone from tarry queues, fanned out like tentacles from flattened jellyfish. And bits and pieces of men who'd been torn apart by one of those underwater shell-bursts. Cony thrust their way through a bobbing assortment of broken barricoes, stubs of lumber, jagged, still smoking planks and ship's beams. Here an abandoned hammock, inches under but still afloat, there a man who'd drowned even with two rolled hammocks about his chest. Coils of loose rope, swaying upwards for the sun like sea snakes he'd seen in the China Seas.
Sharks! he quailed, to himself, grimly pushing and kicking, finding a rhythm at last with Cony's towing strokes. Bloody hell, I've seen 'em, every shipwreck, every battle, looking for survivors… Some bit of half-submerged flotsam touched his bare foot and he all but screamed, biting his sword belt to keep from unmanning himself.
Rumblings, distant earthquake quivers in the water, pressure he could feel squeezing on his stomach and lungs. Groans and cries astern. He dared turn his head to look and saw Zele with two-thirds heartily burning, the foremast toppling slowly, great gouts of bubbles foaming around her as she settled lower and lower. Her stern was probably already on the rocky bottom, he thought, with waves burbling around her great-cabin windows. She at least would not have far to go, not in four fathoms, and she drew two; she'd lay awash, until everything above that new waterline had charred to crumbly coals.
"Right, sir," Cony said cheerfully, "we're here. Hit me knee on a rock." He left off side-stroking and stood up, waist-deep. Alan was not that brave-he thrust with his legs until he was past Cony before he groped for the bottom with his feet. When he at last stood up, he'd reached thigh-deep water. And he was cold.
"Christ," he sighed, beginning to shiver, his teeth to chatter as that brisk November wind found every water-logged inch of him. Immersed, it hadn't felt quite so bad. His legs below the surface were warmer.
"Lucky we wuz so near th' beach, sir, else we'da froze up solid an' gone under," Cony said, hugging himself to still his own shiverings.
"Cony, I…" Lewrie blushed. "Thankee, Will Cony. Thankee."
"Aw, sir," Cony shrugged modestly as they splashed through tiny surf-rushes onto the gravel of the beach. "Weren't… well, sir. After all this time, I'd not care t'be servin' another officer. So I 'spect it'd be better t'save th' one I'm usedta."
"Whatever reason, Cony… my hand on't," Lewrie offered, shaking Cony's paw vigorously. "I'm in your debt. Damme, if I ain't."
"All these years, sir… well, I swore I wouldn't lose ya. An' so I didn't. Thankee, sir. Thankee kindly."
"Now, let's see what we have left," Lewrie said, breaking free, feeling a tad uncomfortable over such a close and affectionate display of emotion towards another man. Even one who'd just saved his life.
There wasn't much. De Crillart and his gunners were grouped off to one side, only about half the number Lewrie had recalled, trying to put names to half-known faces, trying to dredge up the identity of missing men. Of Spaniards, there were only four still alive. Spendlove, Porter and Lisney were huddled together in a group. He still had Preston and Sadler, Gracey, Gittons… there was gunner's mate Bittfield…
"Bosun?" he called. 'Taken a muster?"
"Aye, sir," Porter nodded, in a daze still. "Nothin' to write on, sir, I…"
"Later," Lewrie agreed, clapping him on the shoulder. "We'll sort it out later. Stout fellow, Porter. To get as many as you did ashore."
"Oh, aye, sir… thankee," Porter straightened, bucking up. Lewrie undid the knee buckles of his breeches, letting a minor flood of sea-water escape down his shins. He pulled up his stockings from his ankles, where they'd settled. And winced as he plodded across the rough shingle of the beach. Lock-Jaw Fever was so easy to die of, he couldn't recall a time he'd ever gone barefoot, even as a child.
There was a muffled boom from Zele as part of her soggy powder at last took light in the magazine, a dull whoomph, accompanied by a spurt of smoke from her gunports. She'd settled now, with only her upper bulwarks and gangways, her jib boom and quarterdeck above the surface. The fires had abated, with too little dry timber to feed on. She fumed now like a slag heap in Birmingham, the smoke thin and bluish like burning autumn leaves.
It struck Lewrie suddenly that he had just lost everything. His sea-chest had gone down with her. All his clothes, books, a career-span of official documents and letters, orders and… His two pairs of pistols, shoes, stockings, homemade preserves he had packed, that Caroline had put up. His dressing gown no one liked.
Christ, her letters! he groaned. And the miniature portrait, and Sewallis' crude first drawings, Hugh's messy handprints from the latest post… that juju bag, too. Lucy Beauman had had one of her family slaves make it… a "witch" to keep him safe from the sea, long ago when he was ashore on Antigua, recovering from Yellow Jack. He hadn't really worn it in ages, but to lose it… Yet…
"Fat lot of good it did me, after all," he whispered. "I got ashore without it."
Hurtful as his losses were, the one that really stung was that, for all his vows to keep his sailors alive, come what may, he'd lost some of them-he'd failed. And, for the first time in his career, he had lost a ship.
Chapter 10
"Charles," Lewrie muttered, standing over the despondent Lieutenant de Crillart. "We have to get moving. We stay on this beach, we'll freeze to death. It looks as if we could climb up to
the Hieres road and march to St. Margaret. That's what, 'bout half a mile?"
"Oui, Alain," de Crillart nodded slowly, getting to his feet as creakily as a doddering ancient. Lewrie offered him a hand up. "All zose hommes splendides. Moi… my men!"
"I know. Mine, too, Charles. Mister Scott…" Lewrie replied.
"Sir!" Bosun Porter shouted in alarm suddenly. "Riders comin'!"
Spilling down from the gentlest slope above the beach, just west of where the French field guns had fired, were a knot of horsemen, men in oversized shakos, bearing lances. Blue uniforms, green uniforms all sprigged in red braiding. And the lances bore small, burgee-cut pennons of blue-white-red, the Tricolour. They were French. About twenty cavalrymen, followed by officers in cocked hats.
"Well, shit," Lewrie sighed as the leading horsemen curvetted all about them, brandishing lance points or sabres. "Stand fast, lads! Stay calm. Stand fast!"
It was all they could do. To run… well, there'd be no running, not shoeless on shingle, no escape from a lance tip in the back. They were already disarmed, except for Admiralty-pattern sheath knives, and Captain Braxton had made sure the points had been blunted long before.
"Silly-lookin' bashtids," Landsman Preston grumbled. Some of the cavalrymen wore braids in their hair, pigtails on either side of their faces, with the rest long and loose-flowing as women, or shorn peasant-short in Republican, revolutionary style. Tall dragoon boots above the knee, Republican trousers instead of breeches, gaudy new and unfamiliar uniforms. Not a queue, not a powdered head in sight. And they were a scruffy-looking lot, too, as if their new rags had been sewn up from a set of old rags. And they stank. Lord, how they stank, bad as rotting meat, their horses galled raw by hard service!
" 'Oo eez een charge?" a cavalry officer asked, one of the riders in green and red, with the ridiculous pigtails beside his cheeks.
"I am," Lewrie spat, disgusted at being captured, and so easily.
The cavalry officer extended his heavy sabre, blade inverted and point down, inches from Alan's nose, with a triumphant smirk on his face. "Parlez-vous francais, m'sieur?" he sneered.
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