8. No Escape
DENIS O’BEIRNE, Unrivalled’s surgeon, climbed wearily up the quarterdeck ladder and paused to recover his breath. The sea was calmer, the sun very low on the horizon.
The ship’s company was still hard at work. There were men high in the yards, splicing a few remaining breakages, and on the main deck the sailmaker and his crew were sitting cross-legged like so many tailors, their palms and needles moving in unison, ensuring that not a scrap of canvas would be wasted. Apart from the unusual disorder, it was hard to believe that the ship had exchanged fire on this same day, that men had died. Not many, but enough in a small, self-contained company.
O’Beirne had served in the navy for twelve years, mostly in larger vessels, ships of the line, always teeming with humanity, overcrowded and, to a man of his temperament, oppressive. Blockade duty in all weathers, men forced aloft in a screaming gale, only to be recalled to set more sail if the weather changed in their favour. Bad food, crude conditions; he had often wondered how the sailors endured it.
A frigate was something else. Lively, independent if her captain was ambitious and able to free himself from the fleet’s apron strings, and imbued with a sense of companionship which was entirely different. He had observed it with his usual interest, seen it deepen in the few months since Unrivalled had commissioned on that bitterly cold day at Plymouth, and the ship’s first captain had read himself in.
As surgeon he was privileged to share the wardroom with the officers, and during that period he had learned more about his companions than they probably knew. He had always been a good listener, a man who enjoyed sharing the lives of others without becoming a part of them.
A surgeon was classed as a warrant officer, his status somewhere between sailing-master and purser. A craftsman rather than a gentleman. Or as one old sawbones had commented, neither profitable, comfortable, nor respectable.
In recent years the Sick and Hurt Office had worked diligently to improve the naval surgeon’s lot, and to bring them into line with army medical officers. Either way, O’Beirne could not imagine himself doing anything else.
He was entitled to one of the hutch-like cabins allotted to the lieutenants, but preferred his own company in the sickbay below the waterline. His world. Those who visited him voluntarily came in awe; others who were carried to him, like those he had left on the orlop deck, or had seen being put over the side in a hasty burial, had no choice.
He glanced around the quarterdeck. Here, in this place of authority and purpose, the roles were reversed.
Unrivalled was rolling steeply despite the sea’s calmer face, lying to as she had for the entire day, with the battered Tetrarch under her lee, the air alive with hammers and squealing blocks as the boarding party had used every trick and skill known to seamen to erect a jury-rig, enough for Tetrarch to get under way again, and be escorted to Malta.
The little brig had capsized and vanished even before many of her wounded could be ferried to safety. He had heard few regrets from anyone, and even the loss of potential prize-money had seemed insignificant.
Two ships, and the sun already low above its reflection. He saw the captain staring up at their new fore-topgallant sail, while Cristie, the master, pointed out something where the topmen were still working.
O’Beirne thought of his latest charge, Tetrarch’s captain. He had borne up well, considering the angle of the pistol shot and a great loss of blood. The ball had been fired point-blank, and his waistcoat had been singed and stained with powder smoke. Only one thing had saved his life: he had been wearing one of the outdated crossbelts which some officers had still been using when O’Beirne had first gone to sea. It had a heavy buckle, like a small horseshoe. The ball had been deflected by it, and had broken in half.
They had stripped him naked and the loblolly boys had held him spread-eagled on the makeshift table, already ingrained with the blood of those who had gone before him.
O’Beirne could shut his ears and concentrate on the work in hand, but his mind was still able to record the inert shapes which lay in the shadows, or propped against the frigate’s curved timbers. There had been no time to separate or distinguish the living from the dead. He had become accustomed to it, but still liked to believe he had not become hardened by it. He remembered the powder monkey who had lost a leg: it had been a challenge not to watch his face, his eyes so filled with terror as the knife had made its first incision. He had died on the table before the saw could complete the necessary surgery.
O’Beirne had seen his surgeon’s mate scribble in a dog-eared log book. The powder monkey had been ten years old.
O’Beirne came from a large family, seven boys and three girls. Three brothers had entered the Church, two had donned the King’s coat in a local regiment of foot, another had gone to sea in a packet ship. His sisters had married honest farmers and were raising families of their own. The brother who had gone to sea was no more; neither were the two who had “gone for a soldier.”
He smiled to himself. There was something to be said for the Church after all.
He realised that the captain was looking at him. He seemed clear-eyed and attentive while he listened to what Cristie had to say, and yet O’Beirne knew he had been on deck or close to it since dawn.
Adam walked away from the rail and stared down at the sailmaker’s crew.
“What is it?”
“The captain, sir.” He hesitated as the dark eyes met his. “Captain Lovatt.”
“The prisoner, you mean. Is he dead?”
O’Beirne shook his head. “I’ve done what I could, sir. There is some internal bleeding, but the wound may heal, given time.”
He had not considered the man a prisoner, or anything but a wounded survivor. He had fainted several times, but had managed to smile when he had finally come to his senses. O’Beirne had prevented him from moving his arms, telling him it might aggravate the inner wound, but they all did it, usually after they had been rendered incapable of thought or protest by liberal helpings of rum. Just to make certain their arms were still there, and not pitched into the limbs and wings tub like so much condemned meat.
He saw a muscle tighten in the captain’s jaw. Not impatience, but strain. Something he was determined to conceal.
He said, “He asked about you, sir, while I was dressing the wound. I told him, of course. It helps to keep their minds busy.”
“If that is all…” He turned away, and then back abruptly. “I am sorry. You are probably more tired than all the rest of us!”
O’Beirne observed him thoughtfully. It was there again, a kind of youthful uncertainty, so at odds with his role as captain, of this ship and all their destinies.
He knew Lieutenant Wynter and a master’s mate were trying to catch the captain’s eye; the list of questions and demands seemed endless.
He said, “He knew your name, sir.”
Adam looked at him sharply.
“Because of my uncle, no doubt.”
“Because of your father, sir.”
Adam returned to the rail and pressed both palms upon it, feeling the ship’s life pulsating through the warm woodwork. Shivering, every stay and shroud, halliard and brace, extensions of himself. Like hearing his first sailing-master in Hyperion, so many years ago. An equal strain on all parts and you can’t do better. And now it was back. Was there no escape? No answers to all those unspoken questions?
Midshipman Bellairs called, “Signal from Tetrarch, sir! Ready to proceed!”
He stared across the water, purple now with shadow, and saw the other ship angled across the dying sunlight, pale patches of new canvas marking the extent of Galbraith’s efforts.
“Thank you, Mr Bellairs. Acknowledge.” He looked at the portly surgeon without seeing him. “Make to Mr Galbraith, With fair winds. Good luck. ” Then, aware of the lengthening shadows,» Roundly does it!”