“Most of the stores are safe, sir. Only two water casks were smashed by shot, but we can replace them. The biggest loss is one of the rum casks.”
“The men will have to lose their rum ration until we can replenish the cask. Cooper, how about replacing the water casks?”
“I’ll have new casks made by tomorrow if we have easy sailing.”
Roscarrock was coming to the report that he disliked most of all. “Mr. Smithers, what’s the total casualties?”
The sloop was lucky in that it carried a surgeon. Sloops of His Britannic Majesty’s navy did not usually have the luxury of carrying a surgeon and had to rely on the cook-cum-barber to double in that capacity.
“Thirteen dead, twenty-four wounded, five seriously,” intoned the florid-faced surgeon with an enthusiasm that seemed to indicate he relished his work.
Roscarrock’s mouth thinned. “How seriously injured?”
“Three will be dead before nightfall, sir.”
Roscarrock’s jaw tightened for a moment. Then he asked, “What ranks among the dead?”
“Two midshipmen and… and Lieutenant Jardine; four petty officers, and the rest”-the surgeon shrugged-”the rest were other ranks. Of the wounded, all are seamen, sir.”
Roscarrock glanced quickly at the surgeon. “Jardine was killed, you say?”
It was the petty officer gunner who answered. “Beg pardon, sir. Lieutenant Jardine was on the gun deck, laying the guns, when he-”
Roscarrock interrupted with a frown. Lieutenant Jardine was the chief gunnery officer. There was no need for an explanation as to where his station had been during the action. “We’ll get the details later. And the midshipmen who were killed?”
“Little Jack Kenny and Tom Merritt,” the surgeon replied.
“Very well,” Roscarrock said after a moments silence. “Very well, I want this ship cleared and ready for action again within the hour.”
There was a chorus of “aye ayes,” and the petty officers dispersed to their jobs. The surgeon went with them to take charge of the wounded.
Lieutenant Gervaise was shaking his head. “Jardine, eh? There’ll be a lot of ladies at Chatham who will shed a tear, no doubt.” He did not sound grief-stricken.
Lieutenant Unstead was positively smug. “And there’ll be a lot of husbands who will sleep more comfortably at night,” he added sarcastically.
Jardine had been third officer on the sloop. He had been a youthful, handsome, and vain man with a reputation for the ladies, especially for other men’s wives. Roscarrock did not rebuke Unstead, because he was aware that, before they had left the port of Chatham, Unstead had actually challenged Jardine to a dueclass="underline" something to do with his wife, Phoebe. The duel had been prevented by the provost marshal on shore, and both officers were severely reprimanded.
Roscarrock did not bother to comment. He knew that most of the officers and men would not be sorry to hear of Jardine’s sudden demise. His handsome looks disguised a cruel temperament. He had been too fond of inflicting discipline with a rope’s end. Roscarrock had tried to keep Jardine in check, but the man was possessed of a brutal nature that enjoyed imposing pain on those who could not retaliate. It was not good for discipline for a ship’s company to see their officers in conflict, and so Roscarrock was unable to show his disapproval of Jardine before the men. He had to support the punishments that his junior gave out and reprimand him only in private. No, there would be no false grieving in the Deerhound over Jardine.
“Mr. Hart!”
The young midshipman came running forward, touching his hat to his captain.
“Lieutenant Jardine is dead. As senior midshipman, you are now acting third lieutenant. I want you to go round and make a list of all casualties. The surgeon will have his hands full tending the wounded.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Report back to me within the hour.”
Roscarrock swung round, dismissing the youthful officer with a curt salute, and turned to his first officer.
“Make sure that the men know the urgency of our situation, Mr. Gervaise. I shall be below in my cabin for a while.”
In a sloop, a captain’s quarters were small, dark, and stuffy. A small curtain separated his sleeping quarters, a single bunk, a cupboard, and space for a chest, from his day cabin, in which there was space for a desk and a couple of chairs. Roscarrock went to the desk and pulled out a half-filled bottle of brandy. He uncorked it and poured out a glass. For a moment he held it up to the light that permeated through the cabin, seeing the amber liquid reflecting in the dull gray light. Then his features broke into a smile and he raised the glass, as if in silent toast, before swallowing in one mouthful.
He replaced the bottle, sat down, and drew out the ship’s log. Then he took out pen and ink.
Kjoge Bight, 2 September 1807, he wrote at the top of his entry, and then sat back to consider how, in brief form, he should address the events of the brief but fierce engagement.
He had just finished the details and realized that Midshipman Hart had not returned with the list of names to enter in the log. But at that moment there was an urgent tap on the door.
Frowning, he uttered the word: “Come!”
Midshipman Hart stood flush-faced in the doorway. He seemed in a state of great excitement.
Roscarrock frowned irritably. “You’re late! Do you have the casualty list?”
Midshipman Hart placed a piece of paper on the captains desk but continued to stand in a state of some agitation.
Roscarrock suppressed a sigh. “What is it?”
“Beg to report, sir,” he began, “concerning the death of Lieutenant Jardine-”
“What about the death of Jardine?” Roscarrock demanded sharply, causing the young man to pause awkwardly again as if trying to find the right phrases.
“There are some… some curiosities about the manner of his death, sir. I–I don’t know quite how to put it.”
Roscarrock sat back with a frown, placing his hands before him, fingertips together. “Curiosities?” He savored the word softly. “Perhaps you would explain what you mean by that word?”
“It would be better if you would come to the gun deck, sir. Begging your pardon, it would be easier to show you rather than to tell you.”
The young man was clearly embarrassed. He added quickly, “I’ve asked the surgeon to join us there.”
Roscarrock sat quietly for a moment or two. Then, with a sigh, he reached for his hat and stood up. “This is highly unusual, Mr. Hart, but I will come, as you seem to set such store by my attendance.”
“Thank you, sir, thank you.” Midshipman Hart seemed greatly relieved.
As Roscarrock followed the young man up onto the deck and allowed him to lead the way toward the gun deck, his expression was bleak. “I cannot see what is curious about a death in battle that needs a captain in attendance when a report is made of the fact, Mr. Hart. I presume you have a good reason for dragging me to look at a corpse?”
Midshipman Hart jerked his head nervously. “I think you will understand when I show you, sir.”
They descended on to the gun deck. The Deerhound mounted eleven cannon on either side. The first thing that struck one in that confined space, which had a clearing of only five feet between decks so that often the men crouched to perform their fighting duties, was the stench. The acrid gunpowder and smoke predominated, but it mingled with the smell of burnt wood, recent fires that had been doused where French shot had ignited combustible materials. There, too, was that odor of charred flesh, that indescribable nauseous combination of the reek of the wounded and the stench of urine.
Captain Roscarrock drew out a square of lavender-soaked linen, which he always carried, and held it to his nose, glancing around him distastefully.
The deck was a shambles where the French shot had hit. Wood was splintered. Ropes and tackle lay in chaotic profusion. There was blood everywhere, and canvas covered several bodies that had not yet been cleared away.