“There was a gun dismounted,” Lewrie said suddenly, aching at the effort of communication. “Has it been bowsed down?”
“Aye, sor,” a quartergunner told him. “Got her back on her truck an’ lashed snug ta larboard.”
“Good. Good.” He nodded. “Organise a crew from larboard to rig a wash-deck pump and begin cleaning up. We may not be through yet.” He could see that once the guns ceased to speak, the men were sagging into shock, and that sneaky bastard might come back. They would be useless the next time, and he did not know what to do.
“Water, zur,” the gunner’s mate said. “Have a cup.”
“They’re falling apart. What do I do?” Lewrie pleaded.
“I’ll see to keepin’ ’em on the hop, zur. Yew take a breather. Yew done enough fer now,” Cole said, making it sound like a reproof.
I must have screwed this up royally, Lewrie sighed. Well, who cares? I never wanted this anyway! I wonder if all this was famous or glorious? What would Osmonde say? Is he alive to say anything?
Bosun’s pipes shrilled and the bosun yelled down, “D’ye hear, there? Secure from Quarters!”
“Iffen yew want, zur, I’ll finish up here,” the gunner’s mate said. “When ya zees the first lieutenant, the count is eleven dead an’ nineteen wounded an’ on the orlop.”
“Jesus,” Lewrie breathed. “Sweet Jesus.”
“Aye, zur. Damned bad, it was.”
Anything to get away from the screams from the surgery, he decided, getting to his feet with a groan and slowly ascending to the upper deck and the quarterdeck.
“Good God, are you wounded, Mister Lewrie?” Swift asked him as he reveled at the coolness and sweetness of the evening winds.
“I don’t think so, Mister Swift,” wondering if he had been struck and did not yet realize it. Perhaps that explained his weakness and the trembling of his limbs.
“You gave me a fright with all that blood,” Swift said. Lewrie looked down and saw his trousers, waistcoat and facings blotched black in the gloom with dried blood as if he had been wallowing in an abbatoir.
“I beg to report that the lower gun deck is secured, sir. One gun burst, one overturned but righted. All lashed down snug. The gunner’s mate said to tell you eleven dead and nineteen on the orlop with the surgeon.”
“What about Mister Roth and Mister Harm?”
“Dead, sir. Mister Harm had this big baulk of wood stuck in his face. And Mister Roth came below and just … went splash across the deck.”
“Who ran the gun deck, then?”
“Me and the gunner’s mate, sir.”
“Wait here, Lewrie,” and Swift tramped off across the splintered deck toward the binnacle, where Lewrie could make out the sailing master and the captain.
“You look like ‘Death’s Head on a mopstick,’” Kenyon said as he strolled up.
“Who won, sir?”
“Draw, I’d say. Those Dons are off to the suth’rd making repairs. We’ll have to work like Trojans through the night, or they’ll be back at dawn and finish us off. Where are Roth and Harm?”
Lewrie recited his litany of woe once more, leaving Kenyon at a loss for words. “I shall need you to assist replacing the maintopmast with the spare main-course yard.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Lewrie, come here,” from Lieutenant Swift.
Standing before Bales, he had to explain when Harm and Roth had fallen, and what had happened following their deaths, what the state of the lower gun deck was, how many wounded and killed. It felt like an old story that he couldn’t dine out on for long.
“And you did not think to report your officers fallen?” Bales asked.
“There wasn’t time, sir.” Lewrie was feeling faint again, ready to drop in his tracks. “Could I sit down, sir? I’m feeling a bit rum.”
If they want to cane me for not sending a messenger, then they can have this bloody job. I quit! he told himself, leaning on the corner of the quarterdeck netting.
The captain’s servant offered him a mug of something which he said would buck him right up, and Lewrie took it and tipped it back, drinking half of it before he realized it was neat rum. No matter, it was wet and alcoholic, whatever it was. He smiled and belched contentedly at all of them.
The gunner’s mate was there, pointing at Lewrie, but he could not hear what he was saying … Probably telling him what a total poltroon I was. I should’ve been taking orders from him, not the other way around …
“God bless you, Mister Lewrie,” someone very like Captain Bales said to his face. “From the most unlikely places we find courage and leadership in our hour of troubles. I shall feature your bravery in my report most prominently, believe you me.”
Here, now, you can’t be saying that, Lewrie goggled at him, unable to feature it. He could not speak, merely nod dumbly, unable to remove his weary, drunken smile.
But then he had to go aloft to clear away the raffle of all their damage, which sobered him up right smartly but did nothing for his aching weariness.
Chapter 6
English harbor at Antigua was a bit of a letdown, after yearning for it, imagining the joy of it, and struggling so hard to reach it. Once round Cape Shirley into the outer roads, the land was all dust and sere hills, sprinkled with dull green flora. They were told it was the dry season, even though it was near the start of the hurricane season. There were island women in view, loose-hipped doxies in bright dresses and headclothes ready to provide comfort and pleasure for the poor English sailors, but the ship was not allowed Out of Discipline. They were much too busy for that.
First, they had to keep from sinking at their temporary moorings. Ariadne’s bilges and holds were deep in the water, and the orlop hatches had been sealed tight; even then at least an inch of dirty water sloshed about on the orlop. Since their battle with the disguised Spanish two-decker the pumps had gushed and clanked without pause while carpenters slaved to patch holes. The upper deck damage could wait; gilt and taffrail carvings were moot if Ariadne foundered.
Along her waterline, ravelled sails could be seen, hairy patches fothered over gaping wounds to slow the inrush of water. Discarded bandages, bloody slop clothing and floating personal possessions seeped from her like pus.
Rowed barges towed her down the tortuous channel to the inner harbor and the dockyard, where she was buoyed up with camels, barges on either beam supporting thick cables that slung under the hull. As the camels were pumped out, they rose in the water, bringing Ariadne with them so that laborers could get into her holds and begin plugging the many shot holes.
Above decks, she was in much better shape; damaged yards and topmasts had been replaced, snapped rigging reroved, torn canvas taken down and replaced with the heavy-air set, or hastily patched. But the poop, starboard side and the starboard gangway still bore shot holes, especially around the waist. Light shot was still embedded in her thick scantlings, the decks were still torn from splintering, and no amount of scrubbing could remove the huge bloodstains, especially on the lower deck.
And Ariadne stank, though she had been scoured with vinegar or black strap, smoked with tubs of burning tobacco, or painted with her slim stocks of whitewash and red. She reeked of vomit, of gangrenous wounds from her tortured men who had been killed but had not yet been allowed the final release from agony. She smelled coppery-sickly from the smell of decaying bodies, and the island flies found her and made a new home so they could feast on her corruption, on all the blood that had been spilled and seemed now a part of her framework.
She was a worse environment than the old Fleet Ditch, Dung Wharf or the worst reeking slums Lewrie could remember hastily passing. He was an Englishman, which meant that he was used to stinks, but he had never imagined anything that bad.