Gus Walby, who had his spyglass focused on the enemy ship’s stern. “Mr. Walby,” he hollered above the roar of the wind, “can you tell me the name of the ship?”
“It’s the Liberty, sir. The Isabelle did a fine job of raking her. Why, her stern windows have been completely blown away.”
“If we were lucky, President Madison himself would have been standing in front of those windows.”
“We had the advantage of the weather gauge, didn’t we, sir?”
“We did, but she still managed to inflict plenty of damage. Look! Look up at our sails.”
“Slices of Swiss cheese, sir!” cried Gus.
“Quite so!” Fly cupped his hands around his mouth to yell to the men who had the unenviable task of dodging grapeshot and cannonballs high up on the yardarms. “Topsails only, men!”
“Aye, sir. Topsails.”
“Quickly now, Mr. Walby, get yourself below. The moment we come up broadside to her, the guns will be firing again.” Fly laid one hand on Gus’s shoulder. “And please do us all a favour and take Mrs. Kettle with you.”
“I will try, sir.”
* * *
ON THE GUN DECK, the air was stifling and rank with the smell of fear. The half-naked gunners were black with gunpowder. Tiny rivers of sweat carved lines upon their blackened torsos as if the men had been scratched with giant fingernails. Clustered around each of the heavy guns was a crew of six, each member with his assigned duty. One man sponged out the gun barrel to remove traces of burning powder so others could insert the new powder charge, wads, and shot, and prepare all for the gun captain, whose task it was to aim and fire the gun. The young lads called “powder monkeys” scurried about, having carried up fresh charges from the magazine deep in the Isabelle’s hold.
Striding amongst the men and the guns was James, the polished brass buttons of his dark blue jacket glinting like cats’ eyes in the gathering gloom. Already his Hessian boots were scuffed and his cream-coloured breeches covered in filth and blood. His face was red with exertion and he kept one hand glued to the silver hilt of his sword.
“Deep breaths, men. Do not shoot again until we are broadside-to-broadside. We cannot afford to lose a single shot. Aim for her hull, but remember, our goal is to cripple her, not to sink her.” He stopped his pacing to stand behind Octavius. “This time we will have our chance to board her and search for deserters. I will leave you to it, Mr. Lindsay, as I must learn what damage has been done to our Isabelle.”
7:30 p.m.
(Second Dog Watch, Three Bells)
EMILY COULD STAND THE NOISE and suffering no longer. Streams of blood had now found their way into her dark corner. She could not see it, but she could smell it and feel its stickiness. On all fours, she crawled out through her canvas curtain into the hellish scene in the hospital. The room was clogged with bleeding, dying men whose eerie shadows were cast upon the wooden walls by the swaying light of the lanterns. Those who could stand leaned against one another, but most were huddled or lying on the floor. Every one of the hammocks was full, including the extra dozen that Osmund had hung up before the battle began. Young boys sobbed, calling out for their mothers; others groaned mournfully; most said nothing at all, presumably having already died or passed from consciousness.
“Please, Dr. Braden, please see me next. I can’t breathe, sir.”
“I’ll be with you soon, Mr. Smith. Hold on.” Leander’s voice was as calm as if he were tending to patients on a routine day.
“A drink of water … just a drink of water.”
“I want me ma …”
“I can’t see! Oh, God, I can’t see!” shrieked a hysterical boy, rocking back and forth on the floor, his face red and mutilated.
Emily’s eyes filled with tears. She had seen it all before, though it was no easier to bear this second time round. Here again was the reality of battle beyond the politicians’ rousing rhetoric and the reckless bravado of common men. Here again it lay before her – in all its dreadful glory – and she had no recourse but to face it head on. She yanked the red scarf from her neck and used it to tie back her hair. Then, crawling to the bucket of water Leander kept next to his operating table, she unhooked a cup from the bucket’s side and filled it. Balancing the cup in one hand she weaved her way through the throng of suffering sailors to the man who had pleaded for water.
She put the cup to his swollen lips and said softly, “Here, drink this.” He coughed and spit, but managed to get some down. There were no shoes on his feet, his pants had been half torn away, and a spreading bloodstain on his soiled shirt showed he had been struck in the chest. With laboured breathing, he looked up at her and said, “Thankee, Miss.” A moment later his bruised head slumped forward and he slowly slid down against her breast, his blood seeping into her clothes. Emily heard him utter a long moan and knew that he was gone.
A teenaged lad crouching nearby said, “He’s dead, ma’am.”
Emily suppressed a whimper and put her hand on the lad’s arm. “Could you help me carry him out to the galley?”
“Aye, ma’am. Only got a bit ’o lead in me leg, but I don’t feel it none.”
The lad hooked his strong, bare arms under the dead sailor’s limp ones and lifted him up while Emily held onto his legs. Blinking back tears, she fought to keep her stomach down as they carried him through the stifling, stinking hospital and out into the galley where they lay him carefully on a grey blanket near Bailey Beck, who was already at work there sewing the dead men – with an eighteen-pounder at their feet – into their hammocks for burial at sea. Emily thanked the young lad and searched out others who needed aid, this time walking rather than crawling through the sea of misery, mindless of her own cares and annoying ankle. Struggling to contain her emotions, she gave water and a comforting word to those she knew would die before Leander was able to see them.
Before long the guns boomed again. Above deck, the bellowing grew louder and fiercer so that Dr. Braden had to raise his voice in order to be heard by Osmund, who was darting nervously about the room like a fox with a pack of hounds on its heels. Emily could hear the whirr of chain and bar shot intended for the Isabelle’s rigging, and could feel the large cannonballs pounding her walls. She reached up for the ceiling boards to balance herself as she waded through the room, catching a word or two spoken by the men.
“Sounds like we be broadside to ’er now.”
“Lord, help thee lads.”
“Dr. Braden, I only got a couple ’o cut-up fingers. If ya could just bandage me real fast, I could git back to fightin’.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Morris, you will have to wait your turn,” Leander said, focusing on a lead extraction from the arm of a shrieking, thrashing, red-haired midshipman. “Mr. Stewart, if you could stay still I might have an opportunity to remove the lead ball. If not, I will be forced to send you to the back of the line, and when I see you again in about three days, I will most likely have to remove your entire arm.”
Not heeding the doctor’s words, the midshipman continued to thrash about on the table.
“A good punch to the face will settle ’im down, Doc.”
“Thank
