what naval battle involved, she had spent many an evening listening to Burly Jack’s reminiscences, tales of glory and honour, descriptions of blood and gore, death and decay. She shivered and drew her jacket closer around her. Nathaniel Hawke could be the best damn naval captain in the world, but, outnumbered and disadvantaged by his ship, there was little doubt as to the outcome of any encounter. And the thought of it brought a shiver to her soul. If she were to lose him now…She bit at her lip and wrung her hands together. She knew what would happen if the French were to catch up with them. For the second time in Georgiana’s life she was sailing dangerously close to a watery grave, poised to topple. She dropped to her knees and prayed for a gale that would spirit the Pallas with wings, far, far away from the long guns of the French.
A dense sea fog shrouded the Pallas, as she swept slowly, steadily on, cutting a path through the vast Atlantic Ocean, blind but for her trust in her captain’s charts and compass. Silently stalking her prey through the muffled cloud that enveloped her. All calls had been stifled, all pipes quelled. She floated as a ghost ship ever closer to her quarry, ears straining, guns readied. Then they heard it, an eerie shout through the gloomy miasma. Fingers moved to cock their muskets, hands to quietly draw their swords. Captain Hawke whispered his orders and the Pallas responded mutely, slipping into position. A bell sounded close by, its clang deadened by the blanket of fog. Nathaniel waited. Waited. Biding his time. Breath by breath. Second by second. He only hoped his calculations were correct, there would be no room for error. One chance, and one chance alone, to take the prize or be damned in the process.
Even as his hand clenched, poised to give the final command, his mind flitted to the girl locked below in his cabin. Like a moth to a flame he was drawn to her. Could no longer deny his compulsion. Was glad even that she was here on his ship, in his care, for all the danger that it brought. He knew he was a scoundrel to think such a thing. Hadn’t he learned his lesson with Kitty Wakefield? He had no right to gamble with Georgiana’s life, none but the knowledge of her likely fate at the hands of a French captain, or, even worse, a French crew. That was if she survived the wrecking of the Pallas. They were all supposedly governed by the gentlemanly rules of warfare. But Nathaniel knew that these were employed as and when it suited. Georgiana would stand little chance against either the Atlantic Ocean or their French opponents, and the thought lent strength to his resolve. There could be no failure. Not for her. Not for any of them. He could only hope that the Pallas would live up to her name—the Greek goddess of victory. With a steady hand and a courageous heart, Captain Hawke gave the order.
The full force of four carronades on the Pallas’ forecastle blasted at close range upon the hapless and unsuspecting French frigate Ville-de-Milan, inflicting substantial damage to the hull. In the lull that followed Captain Hawke personally led the small boarding party to secure the ship. In a matter of minutes the task had been completed. Nathaniel returned to the Pallas, ready to engage the second frigate positioned close by. The yells of her crew alerted him as to her precise position and he swung the Pallas round to hide her bow. The French guns fired before the manoeuvre was complete, shattering the foremast and splintering the bow. The Pallas’ carronades roared again, delivering their massive twenty-four-pound round shot with a snarling ferocity. The Coruna slipped behind the Ville-de-Milan, but Nathaniel had anticipated the move and was already leading his men across the barren boards of the first frigate to reach the second. Nothing could stop him, Georgiana would be safe and the prize his.
Georgiana shivered at the unnatural hush that surrounded her. No voices, no banging, no footsteps, no pipes, no bells. Only the gentle lap of water and the weary creaking of timber. Foreboding prickled at the nape of her neck and she was aware of a tight smothering tension. She sat rigidly in the small chair within the night cabin and waited. Sweat trickled in slow rivulets down her back. Fingers grew cold and numb. Silence. Suddenly an enormous explosion ricocheted around her, the blast echoing in her ears. Even locked below within the tiny cabin, the unmistakable odour of gunpowder pervaded. She leapt up from her seat. The Pallas’ guns were firing. Nathaniel must be cornered, under attack. Dear Lord! The ship shuddered violently, landing her forcefully to the floor. Men’s screams, voices shouting. Georgiana struggled to her feet. Fear rippled through her, but it would not stop her. She could no longer stay hidden and safe while the rest of the crew faced death and capture. Ship’s boy Sam Wilson needed her, able seaman Jack Grimly needed her, and then there were the others. And the most important name of all held close to her heart—Nathaniel Hawke. She would do what she must to help those that she had come to think upon as friends. For Nathaniel she would lay down her life. Without further ado she slid the key into the lock and turned the handle.
Scenes of mayhem greeted Georgiana as she ran along the gun deck. Surprisingly the long guns were run in and silent, gun teams at the ready. Neither was the usual screen of pungent blue smoke hanging in the air, but she scarcely had time to ponder upon it. Two massive holes gaped on both the starboard and larboard sides where a round shot had ripped its way through and fortunately departed again. Not so fortunate was the devastation it had reaped on its route. Part of the capstan had been destroyed and enormous splinters of wood lay all around. Worst still, Georgiana could see the surgeon tending a blood-soaked figure on the floor. Several other men slumped nearby, their faces ashen, their clothing ripped and red-stained. Blood pooled invisibly upon decks painted red for just such a purpose. She ran to the surgeon’s mate kneeling over a prone body.
‘Mr Murthly, can I assist you, sir?’
Robert Murthly, a sturdy young man with untidy red hair, looked up at the boy. ‘Captain wouldn’t be best pleased to find you here, Robertson—or should I say Lord George? Shouldn’t have thought you’d have wanted to dirty those fine letter-writing hands of yours.’
The gossipmongers had been busy. She looked beneath the sneer on the surgeon’s mate’s face and saw fear and fatigue. Little wonder he despised her, thinking her a pampered brat to be coddled in the captain’s cabin while the rest of the ship risked their lives. Surreptitiously she fastened her jacket, and hoped that the surrounding chaos would draw Murthly’s full attention. With so much blood and carnage she doubted that any man would have the time to notice the subtle change in Lord George Hawke’s appearance. Besides, the crew were about to learn there was a whole lot more to the captain’s nephew than they supposed. ‘I’m here to help, sir, just tell me what to do.’ Her voice was harsh and gritty, its tone as low as she could manage.
The surgeon’s mate wiped the sweat from his brow with bloodied fingers and regarded her with deliberate consideration. Most of the men were busy securing the French frigates, and the gun crews were not permitted to leave their stations. An extra pair of hands, even aristocratic ones, would come in useful.
‘Murthly!’ bellowed the surgeon. ‘Have a table shifted over here and quickly.’ He gestured to the mess tables that interspersed the long line of guns. ‘This man won’t make it below, losing too much blood. We’ll have to operate here. Run and fetch my instruments.’
Murthly looked at Georgiana. ‘Move the table like he says.’ Then the squat figure was off and running.
Georgiana, helped by one of the nearby powder boys, dragged the rough wooden structure that passed for a table across to the surgeon.
The surgeon scarcely looked at her, just dumped the haemorrhaging body down on to the surface that had so recently served up a dinner of salted meat and biscuit.
The seaman’s face was chalk-white and smeared with sweat, his lips trembling as he tried to suppress the moans of pain. She skimmed down and saw the ragged stump where what had been his hand hung. His breathing came fast and shallow and his pupils shrunk to pinpricks. No time for rum, nor for the opiates which would have deadened his agony.
Nimble fingers loosed the belt from her waist and looped it around just below the sailor’s slack elbow. She tightened the tourniquet and held the injured arm aloft. Her other hand touched
