A Royal Likeness

by Christine Trent

  No, he’d merely asked for her promise that she wouldn’t leave and had taken it for granted that she would do as he asked.

  She got up and smoothed her skirts. There was no advantage to thinking upon Darden’s baffling nature now. Her mind was made up. She returned to the bread room long enough to blow out the lantern, then scurried back to the orlop to find the surgeon. She would be useful on this voyage, no matter how hard the good lieutenant tried to thwart her.

  The orlop deck was fairly quiet, although she could hear the echoes of men shouting and cannon being rolled into place on the decks above her. What a melee it must be already.

  She found Mr. Beatty inside the dispensary with his assistants, counting bottles and performing other last-minute preparations. His look of relief upon seeing her instantly gave way to irritation.

  “Where have you been, Mrs. Ashby? You committed to a responsibility to me. Have you lost your wits or your nerve?”

  After her encounter with Darden, the surgeon seemed a tame kitten to her.

  “Neither, Mr. Beatty. I was unavoidably detained. I’m very sorry. But I’m ready to work now.”

  The surgeon accepted her apology and gave her further instructions. She was to stay posted where the canvas was laid out for the wounded. He expected her to come up with a way to keep track of who had come down first, so the men could be treated in order of arrival. She would also offer water, succor, and comfort to the sailors while they waited their turn for a surgical table.

  Any further instructions the surgeon may have had were forgotten as a blend of shouting and cheering above them reached the pandemonium level. Marguerite could have sworn she heard the sound of a band striking up a patriotic tune.

  “What is happening?” she asked.

  “I do believe we have met the enemy.”

  But the surgeon was wrong. A wild-eyed sailor flung himself into the orlop, bursting with excitement. “Lord Nelson’s giving us the go-ahead. We’re about to engage. He’s sent up a signal: ‘England expects that every man will do his duty,’ and followed it up with another one for close action!” The man scurried away to the other decks with his news.

  Marguerite held her breath as she and the surgeon stared at one another helplessly while waiting to see what happened next. She looked down at her timepiece. It was just before midday.

  They didn’t have long to wait, although it seemed an eternity.

  Brax was standing on the quarterdeck of Royal Sovereign, taking stock of how close they were to the enemy’s fleet so he could report it down to the gun captains on the decks below. Other officers were translating flag messages drifting by on frigates whose sole purpose was to run up and down the line delivering these missives.

  Nearby, Vice Admiral Cuthbert Collingwood shook his head at the other officers standing about on deck. “I wish Nelson would stop signaling, as we all know well enough what we have to do!”

  Brax sympathized with the admiral’s sentiments. Nelson was not one for autocratic control of his fleet, and typically gave simple, general direction and extended his vice admiral’s flexibility in how to carry out those orders. A message about performing one’s duty was akin to telling crew members how to breathe properly.

  Collingwood’s irritation extended to those around him. “Lieutenant Selwyn! What the devil are you wearing?” The admiral strode angrily to where Brax was standing. Collingwood’s uniform of blue jacket with tails, white waistcoat and breeches, and large cocked hat was impeccable, almost as if he were preparing for a formal ball rather than going into battle. By comparison, Brax was similarly attired but was not sure he carried off his superior’s stiff and ceremonial look.

  “Sir?” Brax asked.

  The admiral gestured at Brax’s feet. “What is that?”

  Brax looked down to where his superior officer was pointing. “Sir? My boots?”

  “Exactly! You know my policy. Get those things off. If you’re wounded it will be impossible for the surgeon to remove them. Stockings only. Quickly, man.” Collingwood pointed down at his own unshod feet for emphasis before moving off to deliver other orders.

  Brax sighed. He didn’t think the surgeon’s convenience should trump a man’s dignity—God only knew how ridiculous an officer looked gliding about like a half-dressed girl, and besides, boots provided protection against rolling cannon and wreckage on the deck—but he would obey the order without question. It would be foolish to anger the one man he planned to valiantly impress today. Brax shucked his boots off as quickly and gracefully as he could before dashing down to the decks below to store them away and give his report to the gun crews and the ship’s captain, Edward Rotheram, who was busy in his cabin at his log books.

  Brax rejoined Collingwood on the quarterdeck as soon as he was done, taking care not to slip in his nearly bare feet. He intended to stay as close to Collingwood as possible, in case an opportunity for bravery showed itself. Brax was convinced that this day, this battle, was his one opportunity for glory and he would not waste it.

  Even if it meant risking his life.

  For it would do him no good to return home empty-handed, so to speak, without having laid claim to a rightfully deserved promotion. Such an unthinkable occurrence would mean seeing great disappointment in his father’s eyes, and would give him little to commend himself to a potential bride.

  “Lieutenant!” Collingwood’s voice exploded from behind him. “Look in front of you, man. A sharpshooter could pick you off easily while you stand there like a sack of barley. Get below and have the gun captains line up a simultaneous broadside. Tell them to fire as soon as we are centered there, on that frigate that looks to belong to those devil Spaniards. Quickly. And tell Captain Rotheram what I intend.”

  Cursing his bitter luck that the admiral was forever sending him away from his side, Brax flew down to the ship’s upper gun deck and relayed the message, instructing a sailor to carry it farther down to the other gun decks, and returned once again to the captain’s quarters. Brax then scurried back to the open air, determined to keep his eyes open for an opportunity.

  Nelson’s division of ships was running parallel to Collingwood’s to the port side but lagging behind a little. Because Royal Sovereign headed up Collingwood’s line, that ship would be the first to smash through the line of French and Spanish ships that were frantically trying to shift their perpendicular position to the British fleet. The enemy was starting the battle in a seriously compromised position. Since gun ports were in the sides of the ship only, a ship needed to pull up alongside another in order to fire at it properly.

  But Nelson’s genius plan called for the British fleet to separate into two lines and dive directly through the enemy’s fleet, splitting it into three sections and firing on the aft and stern of the ships it passed by. The British ships would have all of the advantage while the French and Spanish ships spent time tacking around to a new position.

  As they neared their first target, Brax used a telescope to just make out the words Santa Ana on her stern.

  The Santa Ana has no chance, he thought.

  But to the starboard side of Royal Sovereign, a French-flagged ship was tacking quickly around, and to his surprise, fired a broadside at them from what was obviously too far a distance to cause any damage. Most of the shot fell short into the ocean.

  Admiral Collingwood stood nearby and unfurled his own telescope to better see the ship that had fired upon them.

  “Fougueux. Why would any naval officer give an order to fire that far back?” He shook his head. “Damned waste of rounds, it is. Fougueux will regret its stupidity.”

  Royal Sovereign continued on its single-minded path straight into the enemy’s fleet, with Victory about a half hour behind it. As the man-of-war inched its way toward the line, more enemy ships joined the Fougueux in firing on it, but their aim was too high and their ships were not positioned well to conduct a direct attack.

  Brax stood alongside Collingwood and Rotheram, who had joined the admiral on deck.
Both the admiral and the captain wore enormous grins at their impending engagement, Collingwood’s irritation with Nelson, Brax, and anyone else entirely forgotten. Collingwood clapped the captain on the shoulder. “Rotheram, what would Nelson give to be here!” he said, nodding back to where Victory’s line trailed theirs.

  Royal Sovereign steered its way through the narrow gap between Fougueux and Santa Ana, and at a command from Captain Rotheram, unleashed a thunderous broadside into the Santa Ana, sending over one hundred cannonballs plus grapeshot ripping into the whole length of the gun decks of the Spanish ship.

  From a pocket, Collingwood pulled a shiny apple and casually took a bite.

  It was eleven minutes past noon.

  The battle had officially begun.

  21

  From the poop deck of Victory, Nelson and Hardy, along with a contingent of several other officers including Darden, watched the engagement unfold before them.

  Nelson shook his head. “See how that noble fellow Collingwood carries his ship into action. Not an ounce of cowardice in the man. Our turn next, eh, Mr. Hardy?”

  “Indeed yes, sir, and none too soon.”

  Royal Sovereign disappeared in a cloud of smoke from guns firing not only from its own decks, but from those of Fougueux, Santa Ana, and other ships that had gathered round the British man-of-war.

  Nelson’s ragged column of ships was slowly pressing its way into the enemy line about a half mile north of where Royal Sovereign had broken through. As she neared shooting range, several of the enemy’s ships had turned to position and opened fire. Most of the French and Spanish gunners were aiming high, causing damage to Victory’s sails and rigging and not to the ship itself, but the growing sea swell soon made their aim wildly inaccurate and they decided to focus on another, smaller British ship pulling up to join Victory.

  Victory, however, had already sustained some damage without firing a single shot herself. One of her topmasts had been completely shot away, and parts of other masts had been brought down or were bouncing across the upper decks. Further compounding the ship’s problems was a shot that smashed the wheel, leaving the ship out of control.

  “Lieutenant Hastings!” Hardy barked. “Organize a team of men to control the tiller by hand down below. Coordinate for messengers to run my directions down to them.”

  Darden saluted, his tar-stained palm turned toward his face. He soon found himself assembling a team of forty men to haul the enormous tiller beam in accordance with instructions that were raced down minute-by-minute via messengers. The tiller turned the rudder, which was the source of the ship’s precise steering. They could see nothing, buried down inside Victory, so the timing of messages from above was as critical as the men’s ability to obey the commands instantly. Fortunately, when crisis came to a man-of-war, few men had the temerity to disobey any superior officer’s orders.

  Darden stripped off his jacket and shirt, already soaked with sweat, and joined the team of men in their hot and heavy work until he thought they were working well in tandem. One wag modified a sea shanty, and soon all of the men were singing a new version of “Spanish Ladies” in rhythm to the tiller’s movement.

  “Now let ev’ry man drink off his full bumper, And let ev’ry man drink off his full glass; We’ll drink and be jolly and drown melancholy, While Hastings rests flat on his arse.”

  Darden rolled his eyes and laughed at their mocking of him. Although discipline was strict, most officers didn’t mind sailors poking fun at them in song. It usually prevented other, more serious rebellion.

  Once the tiller crew was in good working order, Darden sought out the ship’s carpenter and issued orders to have the ship’s wheel repaired straightaway, then raced back to the upper deck.

  Nelson and Hardy had moved from the poop deck jutting over the rear portion of the ship down to the quarterdeck. The enemy’s fire was still being directed chiefly at the rigging, but was pointed so high as to be basically unnoticed on the exposed decks. Only two men had been wounded up here, and as they were carried, bleeding, past Darden to the orlop, he could see that they had been wounded by musket fire from an opposing ship, not cannon-shot.

  Thank God Marguerite is safely ensconced in the bread room, and will have no reason to witness not only these two wounded men, but the carnage that is sure to ensue. Assisting the surgeon, what a notion!

  Far below Lieutenant Hastings, Marguerite and the medical men waited wordlessly in the dimly lit operating theatre. An eerie period of silence passed, punctuated by the distant, muffled sounds of cannon fire. Then, the sound of hurried steps preceded two men brought down in the arms of comrades. Marguerite ran forward to inspect them. Both were bleeding so profusely that Marguerite couldn’t quite tell where their wounds originated.

  Not that it mattered. Mr. Beatty’s assistants stepped in front of her and instructed the men to deposit the wounded sailors on two of the three operating tables that had been set up. She sighed and sank down on a stool. Perhaps she was to be of no use after all.

  But the grunts and cries of the injured men piqued her concern and she quietly approached one of the operating tables. The patient lay there, groaning, moving his head back and forth in delirium. His wrists and ankles were held down by the sailors who had brought him to the orlop, and they were offering words of encouragement such as were possible to a man in extreme pain. Some of the blood had been smeared away, but what was left was combined with sweat and grime, and made for an ugly, muddy-looking trail across the man’s bare torso that emitted a sharp, acrid smell. At least it was now obvious that the injury was in his left shoulder.

  Mr. Beatty gave instruction to Mr. Westemburg on how to fish for the bullet. The assistant plunged his index finger and thumb into the poor man’s gaping wound, eliciting a great cry of agony as the patient struggled against his restraints.

  “I don’t feel it, sir,” the assistant said helplessly to Mr. Beatty.

  “Let me try,” Mr. Beatty said, not unkindly.

  Westemburg removed his fingers, now bright red and dripping, and wiped them on his trousers.

  Now Mr. Beatty thrust his large index finger into the man’s shoulder and attempted to feel for the musket ball. By this time, the sailor was howling and begging to be shot in the head to end his misery.

  “Aha!” Mr. Beatty raised his own soiled hand and proudly showed off the nugget now lodged between his thumb and forefinger. “I have it! Simple bit of surgery, that.”

  The injured man raised his head to see that the ball had indeed been removed from his shoulder, groaned, and fell unconscious.

  “Sew it closed, put a bandage on it, then put him off to the side,” Mr. Beatty instructed. “Mrs. Ashby can point out a place for recovery.”

  Mr. Beatty moved to the next table where Mr. Smith was, but the assistant there just shook his head.

  The surgeon looked around, irritated. “Where’s the sailmaker?” He gestured to the dead man’s companions. “Go find him. Tell him to send someone to stay down here for the duration.”

  Marguerite stood rooted to her spot. Not another sea burial! She didn’t think she could watch another one. She was just beginning to realize that Darden was right. Assisting the surgeon was going to be much more grisly work than mixing plasters and applying ointments to men who had merely taken a lashing on their backs.

  “Miss? Where do we put Pearce?” One of the sailors had tapped her shoulder.

  “What? Oh, lay him on the canvas over in that corner. I’ll tend to him.”

  Unfortunately, the man’s compatriots carried him over and dropped him rather clumsily, stirring him out of unconsciousness and resulting in more cries of anguish. Marguerite brought him a tin cup of beer and lifted his head so he could drink it. Tears leaked from the man’s eyes as he fell back from slaking his thirst. He grabbed Marguerite’s hand with his right one.

  “Can you scribe?” he asked.

  “Yes, I can.”

  “I need you to write to my wife, tell her what hap
pened. Tell her I love her and I’m right sorry about the wench from the Fox and Hounds Inn. Tell her my messmates will raise money from my belongings and send it to her.”

  “But, Pearce, you’re not going to die. The surgeon removed your bullet.”

  “‘Course I’m gonna die. Nobody leaves the ship’s surgeon without a missing arm, leg, or eye. And since I’ve got all of those, it means I’m done for.”

  Marguerite thought the man was becoming delirious and tried to comfort him as best she could. But he refused all encouragement shy of having his letter written. Even the sound of cannon fire from far above them did not seem to penetrate his determination. So Marguerite ran as quickly as she could to the other end of the deck to find Mr. Burke, the purser, to buy some stationery, a quill, and ink, with a promise on Darden’s name that it would be paid for later. To her great surprise, using Darden’s name got her a large sheaf of parchment, several quills, and a pot of ink.

  She wrote Pearce’s letter according to his dictation, and he seemed to settle down and rest after making her swear to send it off once they returned to England.

  “I promise, but it’s a better chance that I’ll be handing this letter back to you, and you can deliver it to your wife yourself.”

  “Maybe.” Pearce drifted off to sleep and Marguerite went back to join Mr. Beatty. Before she could open her mouth to ask him a question about the selling of a sailor’s belongings, a series of massive explosions occurred in a way that seemed to hurtle straight over them. Had they been struck already? Was she to die so quickly?

  Marguerite grabbed the edge of a table, her ears ringing. “What’s happened? Are we sinking?”

  The surgeon smiled. “No, my dear, that’s just Victory giving the enemy a taste of what’s to come. Captain Hardy must have ordered a rapid broadside.”