The Patriot's Fate (33 page)

Sarah knew she was being a fool, but Betsy understood. “Look, we only got to keep them alive, nothing more,” she said, in a softer voice. “The surgeons will deal with them proper later.”
 

She nodded; she felt weak and her hands seemed unusually large and clumsy, but still she looked at the nearest man and tried to smile reassuringly. He was bleeding badly from a cut on his left shoulder. Blood had already soaked into the canvas flooring, and showed no signs of stopping. The wound was unsuitable for a tourniquet, but the flow was significant and might be hard to check with just bandages.

Sarah was about to go for help but stopped when she caught the man’s expression. He was clearly frightened; his eyes stayed fixed on hers and carried a desperate plea for help. She looked away, feeling both unworthy and undeserving of his trust, but the look remained with her, and she collected a roll of bandages and returned to him.

“Well then, you seem to have been a little unlucky,” she said, her voice sounding unusually loud as she braced herself to pull back his shirt. The cloth came apart in her hands, and the sight of the mangled flesh was almost too much to cope with. But the man was still watching closely, considering her almost, and she felt embarrassed, knowing he deserved far more than her inept ministrations.

“I’m going to make you more comfortable,” she said, now confronting the seeping wound while reaching for a bundle of cotton waste, “and will try and stop that dreadful bleeding.” She placed her hand upon his shoulder and examined more closely. In fact it was not as bad had she had feared, though quite a large flap of skin had been torn back, and a piece of what might be wood was lodged against his shoulder blade, holding the cut open and doubtless encouraging the haemorrhage. At first she considered pressing the injury closed, but guessed it to be a waste of effort as the wound must eventually be re-opened to have the object removed. A loblolly boy was waiting while Manning attended to the concussed marine and looked across in her direction when he felt her eyes upon him.

“Can you fetch a pair of tweezers?” she asked, feeling mildly ridiculous as she closed her forefinger and thumb together in mid air. The man, who was far older than she was, appeared unsurprised at her request; he collected something from the instrument box and came across.

“You gonna stitch him, ma’am?” he asked.

“No, I want to clean his wound,” she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. The loblolly boy passed across a pair of bright brass forceps. Sarah took them and noticed the patient was still watching her.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Jeffreys, miss,” the seaman told her.

“Very well, Jeffreys, are you happy for me to do this?”

“Yes, miss.”

She glanced at the loblolly boy. “Can you help Mr Jeffreys forward?”

“Very good, ma’am.” he grasped Jeffreys’s good shoulder and heaved him upright, rather roughly, Sarah thought.

Jeffreys gave a groan, but the wound was much easier to reach, and was even in a shaft of light from the lanthorn. She brought the forceps closer, and eased the skin back with her other hand. Yes, it was wood: a wedge shaped piece about three inches long and almost half an inch square at its thickest end. She grasped it in the forceps, and eased it gently free of the muscle. The blood continued to flow, but the loblolly boy saw to that with a handful of tow, and as she removed the piece completely, the skin flopped back neatly enough. Sarah sighed, and felt the tension leave her to be replaced by a deep and heady feeling of success.

“You have to check the wound, ma’am,” the loblolly boy said, as if stating the obvious.

“I have to what?”

“Check to see there ain’t no bits left behind,” he told her patiently. “They can cause it to go bad later, else.”

It made sense, she supposed, although part of her felt that Jeffreys had already suffered enough. She returned to the injury and, as carefully as she could, lifted it open again. The man stirred, but the loblolly boy was holding him still in expert hands. There looked to be nothing untoward, and she was about to release the skin once more when a small piece of black attracted her attention.

It was another piece of wood, far shorter, and very much thinner, almost insignificant looking. She reached forward with the forceps and removed it.

One more the wound closed itself, and she felt ready to apply a dressing. The loblolly boy passed a piece of tow to her, and she smoothed the skin flat before beginning to wind a strip of coarse cotton cloth about the chest. Jeffreys was breathing hard; she could feel his warmth on her neck, but she continued to work, keeping the bandage as tight and even as was possible. Then, reaching the end of the roll, she tied it off with a simple knot.

“Nicely done, ma’am,” the loblolly boy told her. They lowered the man back onto the deck, and Sarah arranged a bundle of canvas behind his head to act as a pillow. “I seen a deal worse, and that done by doctors,” he continued, then added meditatively. “But then doctors ain’t surgeons: most are too full of learnin’. They might know all about humours an’ the like, but few would care for a wounded man in the normal way. They ain’t got the sensitivity, you see. Hardly any could close a body, not with any feelin’, not as you jus’ did.”

* * *

Scylla
was keeping all her promises. She had already proved herself an excellent sea boat, fast and biddable; now she was showing just how fine a gun platform she could be. And her cannon were well worth the mounting; already the eighteen pounders on her main deck, supplemented in no small way by the forecastle and quarterdeck carronades, had made a visible impact on both enemy ships. Banks had backed the main and they were maintaining position reasonably enough, just in line with both frigates. Fire from the great guns was almost continuous, and Westwood and Adshead had organised their marines along the starboard bulwark. The crisp bank of red and white stretched almost the entire length of the ship, and under the stoical command of Sergeant Rice the men were working like automatons, buffeting the nearest Frenchman with volley after volley of deadly musket fire. The starboard ship had begun to turn when fortunate shots from
Scylla
‘s main battery brought down both her jib boom and the fore topmast, making the manoeuvre clumsy and incomplete. A trail of line, canvas and spars now trailed from her foretop; she hung in temporary suspension with her starboard bow exposed to the British frigate’s broadside, and most of her cannon either covered by wreckage or unable to bear. There was a solid pencil of smoke winding up from her waist and at times a tongue of flame could been seen. Banks knew that if he were to remain much longer she would strike, although strangely that was not in his plans. The frigate that was third in line was a good way back but coming up on her stern. She was without damage; his next task must be to engage and disable her.
 

Meanwhile, to larboard, the leading French ship had received a proper pounding. Her stern lights and quarter galleries had been almost completely knocked in, and it was only luck that had left her with a mizzen and any means of steering. Quite what conditions were like below deck he could not tell, but no ship survives two comprehensive stern rakings and emerges undamaged. She had limped on and was now only just in long range of their cannon, and clearly intended to wear. Doubtless her captain proposed turning back on her tormentor, and Banks was quite prepared for just such a move.

“Bring her to the wind, if you please.”

The quartermaster strained at the wheel, and
Scylla
eased gently to larboard as the braces brought the main back to the breeze once more. There would be an uncomfortable moment when her stern was presented to the starboard frigate. But she was still in such disarray from the downing of her spars that Banks considered the risk worth running. The larboard ship had caught his intention, and was coming round as fast as she could, but would be in no position to deliver a broadside while their bow was vulnerable.
 

For a moment there was blessed silence as the guns were stilled. All stood waiting while the British frigate picked up speed, then the yards were adjusted further, and
Scylla
began a tight and tidy turn. Her starboard battery fired halfway through the manoeuvre, and the leading enemy ship was nicely straddled. Little material damage could be seen, apart from the forecourse, which took fire and was consumed within seconds. Banks watched with satisfaction; doubtless the flames would be quickly contained, but the ship would lose speed, and her crew confidence. Then
Scylla
was round and heading seemingly on a collision course with the bow of the second frigate.

The quartermaster was clearly following his captain’s train of thought, and had the ship aiming at a point just ahead of the Frenchman’s bowsprit.
Scylla
was gathering speed all the time and should pass her with ease and in ideal range for a sound broadside, although Banks had a different target in mind.

Beyond, the third in line was on the starboard tack and closing. She had slowed following
Scylla
‘s intervention, and was now setting to clear the disabled ship. Banks knew then that he must be prudent and not waste shot on an enemy that was already badly damaged. There would be no time to reload; they must be ready to face that third frigate with something more than empty barrels.

“Tell Mr King to ignore the first target,” he said, turning about for a messenger and remembering that Parfrey was absent. Crouch, a reliable hand, was standing at a nearby carronade and took the instruction without question. Banks watched him as he made for the quarterdeck steps. King might find it hard to contain his gun crews; their blood would be up, and some were bound to protest at being ordered to leave the exposed bow of an enemy unattended. But the third in line was fresh, and liable to deal them a nasty blow; he had to meet her with some degree of retaliation.

“Hot work, sir!”

Captain Westwood was beaming at him from the starboard bulwark: the man’s face glowed almost as red as his tunic. He mopped at his brow while a private fed fresh shot into the loading chamber of his rifle and Adshead began to regroup the men on the opposite side.

“You have been busy, Captain?” Banks asked as the marine followed his men across the deck.

“Aye, sir,” he said, regarding the rifle with obvious affection. “The piece is truly a marvel. I reckon to have bagged three Frenchman already, and those from quite a distance.”

It must have been seeing young Parfrey wounded, that or lowering his defences enough to allow Sarah to get close, but Banks felt a sudden surge of revulsion well up inside and was quite unable to reply. He wondered for a moment; they were both fighting officers after all, and the fact that Westwood was taking pleasure in his work should not count against him: such dedication might even be applauded. And Banks had both ridden to hounds and shot for game; was there anything so different in the satisfaction the marine was currently exhibiting to that felt at the end of a successful day in the field? Banks supposed not, but even as he gave a curt acknowledgement he could not ignore the chill that stayed long after he had moved on. Then it came to him: Westwood was taking all this far too personally; he should be attending to the direction of his entire force, not allowing himself to become entrapped with the detail of one single weapon. He watched as Westwood eagerly collected the rifle and stood waiting for further sport. He was an officer yet seemed content to behave like a private, and it was that, Banks finally decided, as much as any enthusiasm for the task, which particularly grated. The revelation came as something of a relief and he tried to empty his mind of all further distracting thoughts.
 

The next French frigate was a large one, probably bigger than
Scylla
, and liable to be carrying more guns. They would meet almost head on; he had to plan some way of gaining the upper hand, and random musings on the function of officers and men would not help.

“We’re missing a prime target there, sir.”

And now it was Caulfield’s turn to interrupt him. Exasperated, Banks swung round to see his first lieutenant pointing at the bow of the nearest Frenchman. But he could not deny, it was a tempting mark, and any gunner could hardly be blamed for sending his shot into that frail and beckoning prow. A solid broadside from
Scylla
would settle her for good whether she chose to strike or not. It would be a satisfying blow and Bank’s fame was certain to rise one notch higher in consequence.
 

But then he must not fall into the same trap as Westwood. The men beneath him were there to fight, it was his responsibility to organise their efforts without regard to personal satisfaction. Besides, there would be little gained if he took out the nearest frigate, only to be beaten to a wreck by the fresh ship that was steadily growing closer.