A Sloop of War

by Philip K Allan

  The marines around him banged away at the little ship, firing into the fog of gun smoke as soon as they had reloaded. It was the same little devil ship that they had met before. The one that had led them on through a day and a night, always there but ever just beyond reach. That was why the fool of a captain had been so blind to all danger, determined that they would not evade him again. The gun smoke began to thin a little, swirling in columns as the wind gusted. Alvaro saw grey figures, wraith-like, clustered on the quarterdeck below him. Which one, he thought, which one? If only the Royal Navy would wear uniforms as gaudy as that of his own officers. There could be no missing Captain Perez, gorgeous beneath his heaped braid, the Order of Santiago at his throat. A beam of sunlight cut through the smoke, and by chance found a route through the mass of rigging and sail. It glinted on the gold epaulet the tallest figure wore on his left shoulder like the flash of light from a key hole in a darkened room. Alvaro Gaya steadied his musket, settled his aim and squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter 16

  Departure

  The impact of the bullet sounded like a hand patting the neck of a horse, hardly noticed over the thunder of the Rush’s carronades. Sutton looked around to trace the strange noise and saw his captain stagger backwards a step, a puzzled look on his face. He clasped his left shoulder and sank down on his knees. His drop to the deck continued as he toppled over onto his side. Sutton froze in horror for a moment, and then knelt down beside his friend. Blood spilt through Clay’s fingers from the wound and dripped down onto the deck.

  ‘They have got me, John,’ he gasped. ‘You must take command. Fire briskly and keep it so.’

  ‘Oh, Alex,’ said Sutton, cradling Clay’s head. ‘How bad do you believe it to be?’

  ‘No good, I fear,’ hissed Clay through gritted teeth. Sutton looked about him for help.

  ‘Wilson, Brewer, yes and Sedgwick too! Over here, make haste now.’ He reeled off the names of two members of the afterguard, and the sailor who had just run up from the main deck.

  ‘Lift the captain, and take him at once down to Mr Linfield in the cockpit,’ he ordered, letting Clay’s head gently back down onto the deck. He moved to one side so that the men could lift up his fallen friend. ‘Handsomely now lads, he is sore hurt.’

  ‘All Right captain, we got you,’ said Sedgwick, his voice tender, and the three sailors carried the slumped figure of Clay across the quarterdeck and down the ladder way. A trail of crimson splashes on the deck marked the path they had followed. Another musket ball thudded into the planking near one of the blood stains, and Sutton turned towards the marine commander.

  ‘Mr Macpherson, can your men not drive those damned soldiers from the enemy forecastle,’ he snapped.

  ‘Aye, in time we may, but their fire is very hot at present,’ replied the Scotsman calmly. ‘Might we not get one of the great guns to bear? A whiff of canister would be most helpful. Ah, now what are those tricky coves about now?’ Sutton followed where Macpherson was pointing, just in time to see the last of the Spanish soldiers disappear from view. The fire of the marines around him petered out as they searched for targets through the gun smoke.

  ‘Do you suppose that they are ready to yield?’ asked Macpherson.

  ‘Perhaps they are, Tom,’ said the lieutenant. He searched the big ship’s rigging for the huge yellow and red flag, but could not see it anywhere.

  ‘I do believe the Dons may have struck their colours,’ said the Scotsman. Sutton looked up at the San Felipe for a moment longer and then pulled out the whistle from his pocket to sound the ceasefire. One final carronade fired and the sound of the shot faded away across the bay.

  ‘Listen, Tom,’ said Sutton, his head on one side. From somewhere beyond the rear of the San Felipe, where the Agrius lay, they could both hear the sound of cheering.

  *****

  ‘On the table, lads. Bring him closer, I pray, over here, in the light,’ ordered Jacob Linfield, his arms slick to the elbows with the blood of previous patients. ‘A little to the left, if you please, Sedgwick. Yes, just so.’ He smiled down into Clay’s face, his own only inches above it as he bent double under the low beams of the cockpit. ‘Right, sir, let us see what the wicked Dons have done to you,’ he said. He sliced open Clay’s coat and shirt and peeled the blood-sodden cloth back to reveal the wound. He paused for a moment, his sharp scalpel glinting in the light of the single lantern that lit the space.

  ‘Ah, yet another bullet wound,’ he exclaimed, chatting towards Clay’s pale face as he worked. ‘What a curious action we are engaged in! Down here below the waterline it is very hard for us to judge the progress of the battle. We hear the guns rumble away above our heads for sure, but no other definite intelligence comes to us other than the flow of wounded. Lift him up for me, Webb,’ he added to his assistant, and Clay felt a hand run across the back of his shoulder, the fingers probing the muscle.

  ‘Oh, Christ that hurt!’ spluttered Clay, as Linfield touched one particular point.

  ‘Your pardon, sir, you have some broken ribs,’ he said with a smile as if this was good news, before addressing his assistants. ‘Back down again, if you please. Sedgwick, are you yet here? Well, if you must stay kindly tend the captain’s head. Cut away the rest of the coat and shirt if you please, Web, and prepare the gag and straps.’ Clay felt himself settled back down and his head being cradled. He glanced backwards and saw the anxious face of Sedgwick. He found his look of concern comforting, and tried to smile through his pain at the sailor. From elsewhere he felt a tugging as his clothes were stripped away, while Linfield continued his chatter.

  ‘Ah, do you hear, sir?’ he exclaimed. ‘The guns have ceased to fire at last. Let us hope it may signify a victory.’ Clay felt Linfield’s hands on his shoulder again, this time accompanied by his breath as he examined the wound. ‘So what are we to make of the battle from the wounds we have treated?’ he asked. Clay was groggy with lack of blood now and close to passing out, but fortunately Linfield seemed happy to answer his own question. ‘Why, that it is barely a naval action at all! No splinter wounds, no great traumas from the impact of cannon balls, just a steady progression of musket wounds. I might think myself the surgeon of an infantry regiment, were it not for the anchors on the buttons of my coat.’ Clay sensed him turn away from him to address his assistants again. ‘Strap down an arm each and get some rum. Large probe and extractor if you please, Webb. You may stay if you wish, Sedgwick, but be warned that matters may become lively.’

  ‘Now to your wound, sir,’ said Linfield. ‘In one sense you are very fortunate. You have been struck in the left shoulder in a down ways fashion, and yet the ball has somehow contrived to miss your lung, heart and all of the great blood vessels, for which you may heartily thank your Maker. However, the ball is still lodged deep within the wound, and must come out. I will extract it now, but I must warn you that it will not cooperate at all in its removal, yet emerge it must. Webb here has rum for your present relief. I would urge you to take as much as you are able, after which he will gag you for the preservation of your tongue.’

  Once Clay had choked down a few mouthfuls of the fiery spirit, he felt the wet leather gag pushed into his mouth, and firm hands pressed him back down onto the canvas-covered top of the operating table. Next a belt tightened across his chest, and straps closed about his arms. He tried to force himself to relax, hoping that this might help the surgeon in his task. He focused on Sedgwick’s anxious face, reading the concern in his eyes. He felt Linfield’s hand near to the wound and wondered why the surgeon had stopped talking. Moments later his shoulder was a mass of searing pain the like of which he had not imagined possible.

  *****

  Clay walked along a cobbled road under a low dark sky, heavy with the threat of rain. The land around him was barren and seemed to be composed of grey ash. Stare as he might he could not see any trace of green. A chill wind blew, raising dust devils from the road surface near his feet. He trudged along with little idea where he was go
ing, driven onwards by the feeling that there was somewhere ahead he should be. His shoulder throbbed with pain and his left arm hung useless by his side.

  A bell tolled from somewhere close at hand, and looking towards the sound he saw a grey stone church with blank, dark windows by the side of the road. He hurried towards it, and came to the lichgate where a sailor stood. He recognised the man, although he thought that he had died, struck down by a cannon ball when the Agrius had fought the Courageuse.

  ‘Afternoon, captain,’ said the sailor, knuckling his forehead in salute.

  ‘It is Drinkwater, is it not? Gun captain on the Agrius?’ Clay heard himself ask.

  ‘Late of the Agrius, that’s right, sir,’ smiled the sailor.

  ‘Tell me, shipmate, am I late for the funeral?’ continued Clay.

  ‘No, eight bells it is,’ said Drinkwater. ‘You’re right on time, sir, but it be no funeral, it be a wedding.’

  ‘A wedding?’ muttered Clay as he made his way to the entrance. He pushed the heavy oak doors apart. Inside the church was empty, save for the priest, and the couple who were to be married.

  ‘Ah, the guest of honour at long last!’ exclaimed the priest, with a wave in Clay’s direction, ‘We can proceed with the ceremony.’ The groom turned towards Clay.

  ‘Good day, old boy,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘Windham!’ exclaimed Clay.

  ‘Captain Windham, if you please,’ said the groom, indicating the gold epaulet on his left shoulder. ‘Pretty, isn’t it? It was yours once, but now that your shoulder is no more, they gave it to me.’ Clay looked at his shoulder and noticed for the first time it was little more than a gaping wound. The lips of pale skin hung open and the inside brimmed with blood.

  ‘Oh,’ he said in surprise.

  ‘You call me sir!’ yelled Windham. ‘You must say, “Oh, sir”, not just Oh!’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Clay.

  ‘Yes, they have promoted me in your place, at last,’ continued Windham. ‘They gave me this wench to marry too,’ he added, giving his bride a hefty wallop on her backside. She stumbled forward under the blow, her veil sliding open as she tripped to reveal the beautiful but tear-stained face of Lydia Browning.

  ‘No!’ yelled Clay, striding down the aisle towards them. He tried to run, but each successive step seemed harder to take than the last. He was sinking lower and lower. Increasingly he had to crane his neck upwards to see Lydia and Windham. He was aware of a chill that had spread up his legs and looked down to find he was sinking into jade green water. He glanced up in despair towards Lydia and the water closed over his head. Down he sunk, deeper and deeper. He could still see the surface above him, but struggle as he might he could not swim towards it. His leg seemed to be caught. He looked down, and saw that Captain Follett, his eyes vacant and dead in his pale face, had a firm grip on his leg, and was pulling him ever deeper. Clay opened his mouth to cry out, and the greedy water flowed in.

  *****

  The Rush was at sea, running across the channel of deep blue ocean that lay between St Lucia and Barbados once more. To leeward of her were three of the troop transporters that had carried the successful expedition to Vieux Fort and were now returning to Barbados full of Spanish and French prisoners of war from the San Felipe and the captured fortress. Sutton examined them with care through his glass to make sure all was well. On the deck of each ship he could see a cluster of red-coated figures standing guard around the battened down hatchways, members of the detachment from the Shropshire regiment detailed to see the prisoners taken safely to Bridgetown.

  ‘All appears to be as it should be, Mr Appleby,’ he said as he turned from the rail.

  ‘Indeed, Mr Sutton,’ said the master. ‘In fact the situation has not changed this past three hours. I assure you all will be fine, John. Even if the Dons and Frogs did managed to break free and capture one of the transporters, we would be able to very swiftly run down on them.’

  ‘Doubtless that is so,’ said Sutton, still glancing across at the cluster of ships. ‘Oh, I know you think I am fussing like a brood hen with her chicks, Joseph, but this is effectively my first independent command. I cannot but be a little anxious that all should go well.’ He started to open his telescope to look at the transporters once more. Appleby noticed the movement and caught his arm. He gently drew him away from the rail and made him pace up and down the deck beside him.

  ‘Do you think they will ever get the San Felipe off that sand bank?’ he asked. ‘She still seemed to be most stubbornly wedged when we left.’

  ‘I am sure Captain Parker and the crew of the Agrius will do their upmost to get her re-floated, even if they have to empty her of every gun, spar and barrel,’ said Sutton. ‘If she cannot be brought home to Bridgetown, there will be no prize money, and they are due the same share as us.’

  ‘I hope they do not have to remove her ballast,’ said Appleby, screwing up his face. ‘Nasty job that on a Spanish ship.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Sutton. ‘Why so?’

  ‘Do you not know?’ queried the master. ‘Why it is because of their religion. Being fervent papists to a man means they will not commit their dead to the sea as we do. No, the bodies have to be interred on land, ready for their resurrection on the last day. So they bury them in the ballast until they can be transferred to graves ashore. Even without the hazards of war, a big crew like that of a seventy-four might expect at least one fatality each ten days or so. You can well imagine that on a cruise of a few months, in this Caribbean heat…. As I say, Mr Sutton, nasty job that, digging out her ballast.’

  ‘You amaze me, Mr Appleby,’ said Sutton, shaking his head. ‘But surely they must store their water and vittles as we do, just on top of the ballast?’

  ‘Indeed they do,’ said the master with satisfaction. ‘Don’t bear thinking upon, do it?’

  From the forecastle came the sound of five clear bell strokes.

  ‘Ah, that is my summons,’ said Sutton. ‘I am to meet with the surgeon for a report on the captain’s progress. Keep a steady eye upon the transporters, if you please, Mr Appleby. Pass the word for me if you see anything suspicious.’

  ‘Aye aye, Mr Sutton,’ replied Appleby, rolling a weary eye towards Preston. The midshipman of the watch adopted a fixed expression to stifle the laugh rising in his chest.

  In the captain’s quarters Sutton saw that all had been done that could be to make the patient comfortable. Most of the cabin lights had been screened to block out the bright sun, and a wind scoop had been rigged on the deck above to bring some of the cool ocean breeze into the cabin where he lay. Despite this his sheets were still clammy with sweat.

  Linfield held a hand to Clay’s burning forehead, and the patient writhed away from the touch, muttering to himself. He ran his hands down onto the bandaged shoulder, and felt the furnace heat just beneath the dressing.

  ‘The fever approaches its crisis, Mr Sutton,’ said the surgeon, his face grim, ‘and he is ill equipped to battle it. In the normal course of events I would combat the fever by taking several ounces of blood, but the captain has lost so much already I fear the vital functions of his great organs may be harmed if he were to lose any more.’

  ‘How long has he been like this?’ asked Sutton, his face shocked at the change in his friend.

  ‘The fever has been building since last night,’ said Linfield. ‘The delirium has been quite pronounced for the last few hours. Partly it is the laudanum I have administered to control his pain, but much stems from his fever. He is relatively calm now. Earlier he was fair ranting. Calling out and shouting for someone called Lydia, among others.’

  ‘Why should it be him? It is so unfair,’ said Sutton. ‘The fight was all but over with the Dons when he fell. This should have been his victory.’ Sutton glanced away from the bed as he felt tears moisten his eyes. ‘Do you believe he will live?’ he asked. Linfield took his arm and led him away from the bed.

  ‘There is always a little hope, John, but you must
prepare yourself for the worst,’ he said. ‘In some regards it is remarkable that he yet lives. The normal course with such cases is that the patient will often be fortunate enough to survive the trauma of the initial wound, especially if they are young and fit like the captain. It is only later that they succumb to the corruption that always follows such injuries. I have extracted the bullet and cleaned the wound, to be sure, but there is always something left behind, a fragment of coat borne in by the bullet, a little dirt. If the wound was lower on his arm I could have amputated the limb and stopped the putrefaction in that way.’

  ‘What odds will you give me that he will live?’ muttered Sutton.

  ‘John, please do not ask me to reduce his life chances to such terms,’ said Linfield.

  ‘Give me the damned odds,’ snapped Sutton. Linfield stared at him for a moment before he replied.

  ‘If he lives till Bridgetown, and can be transferred to a hospital on shore, perhaps one in ten, God willing.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Linfield,’ said Sutton. ‘I will take such odds, for I believe they will answer very well. Many would have rated a sloop and a twelve pounder frigate’s chances against a seventy-four at longer than that, and yet the captain won through to win us our victory none the less. I will sit by him for a while. Do you think if I was to speak to him, he might hear me?’

  ‘Yes, it is probable that he might,’ lied the surgeon. ‘It can certainly do no harm. Now, if you will excuse me I must attend to my other patients.’

  *****

  The sun shone down on the back of Jacob Linfield’s best uniform coat as he bumped up the road that wound out of Bridgetown towards Melverton and the Robertson’s plantation. He rode on a borrowed horse, and the elderly mare was making heavy weather of the climb. She needed considerable urging from the surgeon’s knees and heels to move forward at all. When at last they reached the summit, he brought her to a halt to recover her wind, and looked back down the slope at the view.