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 Court with their eh, what, what’s.
“Gunner’s mate, on the downroll this time, rip the bottom out from under them!”
“Aye aye, zur!” 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 stern, 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 were 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! Hurry 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 torn 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 surgeon 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 mate 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 and just … went splash across the deck.”
“Who ran the gun deck, then?”
“Me and the gunner’s mat
e, 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, torn 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 torn 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 all 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.
Dockyard officials had been aboard and had ordered the removal of her artillery to lighten her. They had poked and probed, measured and calculated, noting her new tendency to “hog,” to bend down a bit at bow and stern, a sure sign that the keel structure was badly strained, some of her key midship beams weakened. It was supposed that once she could float on her own without aid, she would go into the dock for permanent repair. Though where they’d get the timber …
The wounded were taken off to the hospital; the dead had been buried at sea. Altogether, they had suffered forty-one men discharged dead, and another seventy severely wounded, and half of those stood a good chance of dying yet. That was a quarter of the entire ship’s company, and did not count those lightly wounded that had been returned to light duties.
There were gaping absences in her crew. Turner had been killed on the riddled starboard gangway. The master gunner, Mr. Tencher, had been killed up by the bow chasers. Harm and Roth, of course, were gone from the officer’s mess. Two young midshipmen had died, as well as little Striplin, and his friend Beckett had lost a foot on that last broadside. Shirke was ashore with a broken arm, but looked likely to mend. Chapman, on the other hand, had lost a chunk out of his right thigh from a grape-shot ball, and his future held in a precarious balance, for they thought the leg might have to come off near the groin.
Finnegan and another of his mates had been made acting lieutenants, as had Keith Ashburn, since no officers could be spared from the other ships in port. Indeed, no captain would willingly give up a competent commission officer into such a ship, and no lieutenant would consider such an appointment, since if she were condemned he would be left high and dry without employment.
Captain Bales, once he had made his dire report to the admiral, had kept his own silent counsel aft in his quarters. Lieutenant Church was nowhere to be found, and no one would admit knowledge of his whereabouts. Rolston also had gone, in custody of Marines, from the flagship.
The remaining midshipmen had been run ragged in the days that followed, standing watches, ferrying groaning and crying wounded ashore and bringing back fresh supplies to feed the survivors, lumber to plug shot holes, emptying the magazines and hoisting out the great guns and their trucks, and the tons of round-shot to lighten the ship. They were also involved ferrying the dockyard officials, flag officers, the idle curious and the morbid who wished to come and gawk and marvel, praise or damn, inspect and condemn.
Lewrie clambered up the ship’s side and through the battered entry port, chafing in his uniform. The day was hot, and there was no wind in the harbor. He let Bascombe take his place and went to the scuttlebutt for a measure of fresh water, grateful for the shade of the old scrap canvas that was rigged over the quarterdeck as an awning.
By God, I know it’s unhealthy to bathe too often but I’d adm
ire a dunk in a creek or something, he thought. With so much fresh water coming aboard, no one would miss a gallon in which he could take a quick, cooling scrub and put on some clean linen.
“Mister Lewrie?” the captain’s clerk said to him.
“Aye, Mister Brail?” Alan noted that even Brail wore his arm in a sling; fortunately not his writing arm.
“The captain would like to see you.”
“Me? What have I done?” Alan cringed, by rote.
“I have no indication that Captain Bales is displeased with you, Mister Lewrie. He would be, however, should you keep him waiting.”
Lewrie straightened his sweaty clothing and went aft.
“Midshipman Lewrie reporting, sir.”
The captain stared at him, scowling with those huge eyebrows, and Alan was sure he had committed some grievous and punishable offense without knowing what, or how.
“Mister Ashburn has informed me of your mess’s request that I release some of your money for the purchase of fresh cabin stores. I have summoned you to take charge of it, since the others are away at their duties at present.”
“Whew…” was forced from him, barely audible.
“I will allow each of you no more than five pounds, as the prices here in the islands are higher than normal. That will have to be sufficient. And I’ll not have it all spent on spirits, mind you.”
Lewrie was mystified that Captain Bales sat there, in a ship that could still sink right out from under him, and took care of a small chore that his clerk or coxswain could have handled easily. Had he lost his senses, or could he no longer bear to face the larger issues?
“With the artillery removed, you may consider livestock. Sheep or pigs are your best bet. Island bullocks are too lean and stringy, and usually overpriced. Hard-skinned fruits are plentiful, as are the onions hereabouts. You’ll find cheese dear, as well as tea, but coffee is fairly cheap.”
The King's Coat Page 15