Then, in succession as she turned, Castor’s starboard guns fired into Angelique. Holes appeared in her courses, which she had not reefed before action for need of speed and surprise. Her main topmast suddenly leaned crazily forward, but she was not yet out of action. Some of her gun crews were very fast, indeed, and a howling ball passed a few feet from Neville’s position behind the starboard gun crews, taking with it the end of a shot garland and releasing several balls to roll dangerously about the deck. The popping of muskets began from both ships, and Neville thought of Daniel, although he knew Watson was not playing marksman when an action was afoot. Something tugged at his jacket, and a small hole appeared there. He felt nothing more, and he returned to his business of firing another round.
Another shot – two – three from Angelique tore holes in the main course, and a horrendous flapping and flailing of canvas above him commenced as the starboard main course sheet was cut by flying links of iron. The cannon beside him roared a final salute to Angelique, its ball cutting Angelique’s precious spanker boom cleanly in half.
A cheer was rising from the crew, and Neville looked up to see the smaller vessel’s colours being hauled down. Her sheets suddenly flew to the wind, and she began turning to windward before Mermaid.
Mermaid was forced to make an abrupt turn to weather to avoid ramming the Angelique. The unexpected turn put her in irons for a few minutes, allowing Castor to be the first to run alongside her small adversary.
4 - “Gold”
HMS Castor drifted with her starboard side grappled to the Angelique in the low mounding water. The sea was considerably softer, but was by no means calm. The marines, and most of the starboard gun crews, being the closest, had boarded as soon as the distance between the ships had been small enough to allow them to leap. The captain held the larboard watch back in expectation of minimal resistance. They indeed met none, since the enemy had struck; Angelique’s crew actually assisted in the grappling as to effect the least damage to their vessel.
Neville found himself aboard the prize, dirk in hand, as much because he had been caught up in the rush to get aboard as to do his duty and lead the charge. There he was, nevertheless, aboard only the second ship he had ever set foot upon, save little shore boats and ship’s boats and a few minutes on a water hoy during a transfer back in Sheerness. He slid the dirk back in its scabbard.
They had come aboard amidships, and that was where he stood, comfortably near his normal station at the mainmast. No longer sailing, but lying alongside another vessel, he became increasingly conscious of the heat. The late afternoon sun beat strong upon them, causing trickles of sweat to run down his back. He was also conscious that Angelique’s motion was different from Castor’s. Though he noticed it, it was not a surprise when he thought about it. Why should any two ships – particularly of different size – have the same motion? It felt slower and heavier than he expected, though. As truth would have it, he was almost daydreaming and at a loss for what he should be doing. He spotted Tripp on the quarterdeck just as Tripp noticed him; the latter waved Neville to come.
He paused for a careful look around before joining Lt. Tripp. Angelique’s tall, thin captain was still standing on the poopdeck with his sword, but noticeably not giving orders. There was the obvious damage above, of course – the dangerously tilted main topmast. Men were already in the rigging working to repair it before the mast came crashing to the deck. Several more were attempting to splice stays and halyards that had been cut by Castor’s langridge. A great many men, it seemed to Neville. There were obvious problems on deck: several pools of drying blood and the collection of bodies – two, it looked. There were possibly six wounded on the foredeck, where Angelique’s crew had carried them as soon as the order had come to strike the colours; he could hear their screams. A man was kneeling there at work among them.
Why not below? he wondered, moving to investigate. Is this ship so small it has no sickbay?
Neville reached the makeshift on-deck sickbay in only a few strides, calling out to the kneeling man, “Oi, you there. Are you a doctor?” quickly realizing that he may not be able to communicate with someone who spoke another language.
The man did not give the appearance of a ship’s surgeon. Neither was he a sailor. A gentleman’s long gray coat was tossed aside nearby, and a tall felt hat. His trousers were not a sailor’s rough cloth; neither was his shirt, which sported a large open collar. He looked to be of average height, but that was hard to tell given his position, with very dark hair of medium length. His face was angular, a small moustache accentuating his small mouth.
The man turned, saying in a surprisingly understandable English, “Oui - Yes. I am Dr. Monsieur Francois Badeau, but I am not this ship’s surgeon. They were not carrying one for this short passage, and I carry no supplies. Can you send your surgeon?” He added, in a quieter voice, “Also, I must see your captain at once. I am afraid they may try to sink this ship!”
Neville said only, “I will report it, Sir,” and he walked to where Tripp was waiting for him.
“Order your men back aboard, Mr. Burton,” Tripp said, explaining, “this crew is not dangerous, and the Marines will make sure it stays that way. Then take two men below for a quick search of the hold and return to the captain’s cabin. I am sure that one of your betters will be there by the time you arrive.”
“Aye, Sir. Permission to speak, Sir?”
“Yes, what is it?”
In a lowered voice, he reported: “Their wounded are on the foredeck, not below. There is a doctor attending who says he has no supplies, and he has asked for assistance of our surgeon. The doctor also says he is afraid they will try to sink this ship. I think he may not be joking; it seems all the ship’s company is on deck or above.”
Instantly glancing about for confirmation of Neville’s report, Tripp replied, “Thank you, Mr. Burton. Get below this instant. I’ll send a couple marines right after you, and I’ll send word back for the doctor. Get on with it.”
Captain Troubridge stood with Lieutenants Froste and Ratcliffe at the starboard rail of the Castor looking down on Angelique’s deck. The damage was probably more visible from this perch than from the deck of Angelique herself. Ratcliffe had a blood-soaked, white cloth wrapped ‘round his head and was looking unusually pale.
“Assemble your prize crew, Lieutenant Froste,” said Troubridge. “Sixteen guns, I see. She is most likely a privateer. Get over there and send Lieutenant Tripp back with the captain and ship’s papers.”
“Send most of the marines back immediately, as you have the prisoners contained and done a search.”
Able seaman Hinter, rushing to them from the waist and knuckling his forehead, was admitted by the sentry. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Sirs, and I has word from Lieutenant Tripp over there on the prize.”
“Go ahead, man.”
“He asks if you could you spare the doctor, as they have none?” blurted Hinter, knuckling his forehead yet again and backing away from them.
Troubridge concluded to Froste: “As soon as you can, then. We’ll be losing daylight soon, and I don’t want to be tied alongside after dark. We will send the doctor over to look at the Frogs as soon as he has finished with the worst of our casualties.” He then stalked off to his cabin.
The first person Neville saw, upon turning to find assistants for his inspection, was Shustik, who somehow never seemed to be very far away. “Cowes, there, and Shustik; come with me,” he called out. “We’re going below on a quick inspection.” They began moving toward the main hatch.
“They’re all watchin’ us,” said Cowes as the three descended into the ‘tween decks. “Why’s that, then?”
“Keep your cutlasses at the ready, men,” was Neville’s reply. He drew his short sword and dropped down yet another ladder. At the hatch to the bilge, they could plainly hear a hatchet or axe at work not far aft, and moved toward the sound. It stopped.
“This is not going to be quick, is it?” mused Neville aloud as he started
down into the reeking dankness of the bilge. “Let’s wait just a minute until we can see down here.” He could hear the slosh of water as the ship rolled heavily. There is always water sloshing about in the hold of a wooden ship, but this seemed a bit more than he expected. He edged down another step, and his boot filled with water.
“Cowes, get above and tell Lieutenant Tripp we’re sinking if we don’t get pumps going directly.”
Not twenty feet ahead and to the left, the sound of a scurrying rat began. Then a chipping sound, followed by a flash of light and the hiss of a burning fuse.
“They’re lighting explosives, Shustik! Jump on that ….” he started to say while stepping forward.
It was not a firm deck that he stepped on, though, but more water. He fell, face forward, into the stinking black liquid. The fall saved him, though; something shiny slashed past his ear as he went down. Lurching up to stand waist deep, he realized that the sudden flash must have instantly ruined the night vision of everyone there. However, with the fuse burning, everyone in the hold had gained a glimmer of light to see by.
Shustik was jumping, as ordered, toward the light, and his cutlass clanged off some other metal object.
Neville could faintly see his opponent swinging again, and parried the blow with his little sword. He stabbed and had his blade knocked aside. His opponent may not have been heavier than he, but his weapon was. Neville feared his little dirk would be torn from his hand or broken in half. Again. Jab. Clang! Again. On sudden instinct, Neville cupped a handful of the slimy bilge water at the man and gave a hard thrust at the center of the silhouetted figure in front of him, feeling the sickly motion of the blade sinking into flesh. The man screamed just as the light of the fuse went out. Neville had to jerk his dagger back to prevent losing it. There was a gurgling and splashing, followed by the bubbling sound of the man sinking under the surface.
A moment of silence, save for the sloshing of water, passed. Shustik’s voice emanated from the dark: “You there, Mr. Burton?”
“Thank you, Sergeant Hycson,” Neville muttered to himself, then said loudly, “Yea, you all right?”
“Aye. But I’m not Hycson.”
“I know, sorry. Never mind. As soon as we can see something, we need to get those pumps working or the Castor will be a very crowded ship.”
The two promised marines appeared, creeping slowly down the ladder, and were left nothing to do but haul corpses topside.
Feeling more like a soused herring than a midshipman, Neville stepped shakily up out of the main hatch onto the deck, followed by an equally foul-smelling Shustik. They were nearly knocked aside by the pumps crew from Castor, trailing a long hose as they went down the main hatch. Men turned toward them, some chuckling, and some outright laughing. A couple whistled, but then a fitful cheering began from the crew of Angelique. It grew to a full cheer; the men of the Castor went silent in confusion, and others hung over the rail of the Castor to see what was afoot. A French sailor – maybe an officer, as he wore a long coat that may have been part of a uniform – recognized Neville as part of the English officer corps and crossed the deck cautiously toward him.
“Nous aussi?” he asked, “pumper, oui?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t … oh. Wait,” he said, gesturing for the man to stand his ground.
The cheering died off as the man approached so, in the quiet, Neville could yell to the foredeck, “Doctor Badeau, can you tell me what this man is asking?”
The officer’s question was relayed in French to the Doctor, whose answer was yelled back from a foredeck Castor in English: “Which ‘ee wants to know if the Frenchies can man their pumps.”
“Yes, Yes! Please,” said Neville, nodding his head up and down.
The cheering brought both Ratcliffe and Tripp to the Castor’s quarterdeck rail above, and Lt. Ratcliffe halooed down to the Angelique, “Captain’s regards, Mr. Burton, and will you swim across and step aft, please.”
Across the deck of Angelique he dripped; he stopped at the Castor’s side to pour water out of his boots. He stood aside for a moment to allow Lt. Froste and a party of seamen down onto the Angelique – the prize crew – then climbed up the side of the Castor, walked across the waist and up to the quarterdeck.
Holding his sodden hat, he knuckled his forehead to the officers who had collected farther aft on the poop. Lieutenants Ratcliffe and Tripp stood with Captain Troubridge. Angelique’s Captain Montague stood a few paces aside. Troubridge had Montague’s sword in his hand. Angelique was, by then, confirmed as a privateer sailing under a French letter of marque.
“What have you been up to, Mr. Burton? Why do the French cheer you?”
He thought for a second about reporting in front of the French captain, not knowing whether he spoke English, but decided that if his officers asked, he had better report.
“Once we got aboard her, Sirs, I saw their doctor – I mean, he’s not their doctor, but he’s a doctor – down with all the men on the foredeck, which I thought was strange, so I went there. He speaks English tolerably well, Sirs, and he told me he’s not their surgeon, but a passenger, and he has no supplies, them not carrying a surgeon for a short passage. Then he says he thinks they are going to sink the ship.”
He began to speak more rapidly. “So I looked ‘round for Lieutenant Tripp and saw him on the quarterdeck, and he called me back. I told him what the doctor said, and about all their crew being on deck or in the rigging, and that their sickbay is on the foredeck, and him,” he said, pointing to Captain Montague, “at the rail as though he’s going to go down with his ship and all, so it seemed possible. Lieutenant Tripp sent me down with a couple hands to check.
“When we got only a few steps down into the bilge, first we heard someone chopping with a hatchet. Halfway down the ladder, I stepped in water, and so I sent Crowe back for the pumps. Then someone lit a powder fuse, Sirs. It was awful dark, and we couldn’t see anything at all once the fuse lit – and then we could, a bit, and another one takes a swing at me, see, but he missed when I fell off the ladder. I fended him off and managed to stick him in the dark somehow. Shustik jumped on the fuse and then t’other chap, and that was all it was, Sirs.” Neville began shaking inside. A tear appeared in his right eye, and then one in the left.
“When we came up the hatch, the Frenchies started cheering, so I guess they knew what was afoot and they’re happy not to be swimming …, Sirs.” His shaking became visible to the others.
“Hatchet,” you say? “Tillman, pass word for ‘Chips’ to get his mates down in that bilge. Tell him they must have chopped a hole. Tell him to report where to fother.”
Even from the Castor, Neville could hear the pumps begin clanking steadily on Angelique, but he waited for a few minutes more, pleased, at least, that the sun’s rays were baking him mostly dry. Even though his shaking had not stopped, he would go next to confirm the number of wounded with Dr. Badeau.
Lt. Froste came up a mere five minutes later, walking as fast as a man can without giving the appearance of running, asking again to speak with the captain and motioning that they step aside to talk. He spoke excitedly as he handed a thin packet of papers to the captain, intentionally turning his back toward Captain Montague. Captain Troubridge looked disinterestedly at the papers. When they were finished, the captain spoke, loudly enough to be heard by the few officers nearby, “All right, Lieutenant Froste, keep all but four of the marines aboard. It’s a good thing we didn’t let her sail away, after all. Have Mr. Burton organize the movement of their wounded to our sickbay as well; keep him busy so he’ll settle. Notify me the minute we can sail her.”
“Mr. Burton,” said Froste, “do as the captain has ordered, and get them to sew their dead in their hammocks and stow them out of this infernal sun.”
When Neville arrived on Angelique’s foredeck, the scene looked slightly more controlled. Two more men were now helping with the wounded, and they had strips of sailcloth and small stuff for bandages strewn about, and buckets of se
awater to wash off the worst of the blood. A few men had been splinted with barrel staves. Three of the injured were either asleep or too exhausted to make further cries. Someone had brought the conscious men a jug of dark red wine, the sight of which made Neville lick his lips thirstily.
“Doctor Badeau, I, I, I … am to help you move all these men to our sickbay, wh … wh … wh … where you might assist our Dr. Mills to treat them,” he stuttered. “Y… Y…You were right about trying to sink this ship. Do you still need to see the captain?”
Badeau’s head jerked up, but he tried to conceal his surprise, “Your surgeon,” he said. “Doctor Mills? Thank you. That would be best. He would have a proper medicine chest? Yes, of course.” He thought for a moment. “No, if you have saved us from sinking, I will not need to speak with the captain,” adding as an afterthought, “but I would speak with you about your ordeal as time permits.”
“I will return in a few minutes, then, after I organize some men to help carry them.”
“Dr. Mills,” Neville said upon arriving in the Orlop, and there he paused. He recognized the doctor’s operating room as his own quarters. All the midshipmen’s personal gear was pushed aside, and the doctor stood over a man he recognized as Heebe. Heebe was not conscious, but showed no sign of bleeding. There had been people bleeding here before, however. The deck was a mess that would take some time to clean up. “Ahhh … I ….”
“Come on, out with it,” Mills demanded crossly without looking up from his work applying a poltice to Heebe’s badly bruised face. “This man’s last, and then I have to go over to that French thing to deal with them.”
“That’s what I came to tell you, doctor,” Neville continued, his wits gathered. “Dr. Badeau will come here with his patients. He has no medical ….”
The Glorious First Of June (Neville Burton: Worlds Apart Book 1) Page 6