Under Enemy Colors
Read Under Enemy Colors Online
Authors: S. Thomas Russell,Sean Russell,Sean Thomas Russell
Tags: #Action & Adventure, #Historical, #Naval, #Naval Battles - History - 18th Century, #_NB_fixed, #onlib, #War & Military, #_rt_yes, #Fiction
S. Thomas Russell
G. P. P
UTNAM’S
S
ONS
New York
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0745, Auckland, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Copyright © 2007 by Sean Russell
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Published simultaneously in Canada
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Russell, S. Thomas (Sean Thomas), date.
Under enemy colors /S. Thomas Russell.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-1-1012-0747-5
I. Title.
PS3618.U7665U63 2007 2007017290
813’.6—dc22
H.M.S.
Themis
ship illustration © John W. McKay
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is dedicated to my son,
Brendan Thomas Russell,
with all my love.
KEY
- Forecastle
- Gangway
- Quarterdeck
- Gun-deck (Upper Deck)
- Berth-deck (Lower Deck)
- Hold
- Orlop (Cable Tier)
- Fore Platform
- Aft Platform
- Bowsprit
- Foremast
- Mainmast
- Mizzen Mast
- Capstan
- Steering Wheel
- Manger
- Galley
- Riding Bitts
- Pumps
- Great Cabin (Captain’s Cabin)
- Gunroom
- Midshipmen’s Berth
- Fore Magazine
- Shot Locker
- Hold Well (Pump Well)
- Aft Magazine
A
hard gale blew in off the Atlantic at dusk, west by south, raising a steep, breaking sea. All through the first watch pale crests surged out of the darkness, lifted in ghostly rumblings, then boomed against the forward quarter, staggering the ship.
Just before eight bells a thin, angular man emerged from the aft companionway, crouched precariously on the slippery planks, and looked anxiously about. Perceiving a cascade of water break along the deck, he made a reeling dash to the windward shrouds just as water spun about his knees. The frigate, deeply laden and labouring, rolled heavily to leeward and a blast of wind struck the man, Griffiths, wetly across the face.
“Is that you, Doctor?” a voice sounded over the wind.
A timely flash of lightning illuminated the sailing master, not two feet before him, face pale and streaming, hat clamped down to his eyebrows and bound tightly in place by a length of blue cotton.
“I must have more hands,” the sailing master shouted almost into Griffiths’ ear.
“I have given you all who can walk, Mr Barthe,” the surgeon responded in like manner. “Those remaining are too ill to stand.”
“Is it the yellow jack, then? That is what men are saying.”
“It is not, Mr Barthe. It is acute poisoning from some substance ingested—likely the pork served this very day. But I have never seen it so severe. Men cannot stand, and have disgorged more fluids than their bodies can bear. It was my hope that you could spare men to aid
me
…”
“I cannot, Doctor. I have been reduced to sending boys and reefers aloft, where they should not be. I can spare no one.”
The ship rolled again, and water sluiced across the deck, slopping about them. The doctor felt Mr Barthe’s hand grasp his shoulder to preserve him from harm. The master began to speak again, but a gust devoured all human sound.
In the distance, lightning branched down into the sea, illuminating, for an instant, the chaotic waters, the spider-work of rigging. Four men wrestled the wheel, their eyes sunken, faces faintly blue.
A boy struggled toward them, crabwise, hand over hand along the lifeline. In the flare of godly light, he slipped and fell, then dragged himself up on the taut line. He reached them, breathless, dismayed.
“Mr Barthe!” he shouted. “We have lost Penrith.”
“What in hell do you mean, you’ve ‘lost’ him?”
“He went aloft with us, but no one saw him climb down. We do not know what became of him.”
“Did you not number off the men as they reached the deck?”
A second of hesitation. “No, sir.”
The master cursed. “Has he taken ill and repaired below?”
“Williams made a thorough search. We fear he’s gone overboard, unseen.”
“Damn this night! Have Mr Archer go down to Captain Hart!” The master began to struggle forward but turned back to the doctor. “Will you take yourself below, Doctor? There is naught you can do here, and I should be happier knowing you were below in such weather.”
Griffiths agreed, and scrambled toward the companionway, his last view of the gale, Barthe, and some others in the waist, gazing up at the yards—stark, angular, gone. He backed down the companionway stair, which moved with the ship, describing a long, irregular arc. Finding the deck, he stepped aside and let the few men ascend who could stand watch. As the last man went cursing up into the moaning night, the off-watch came slipping and thumping down, throwing spray about them, glistening in the smudge of light from a stained lamp.
Down again they went, to the berth-deck, and as they descended there ensued some shoving at the bottom of the stair so that one man tumbled down the last steps. Voices were raised in anger.
“You men!” Griffiths shouted down. “Do I need to call Mr Landry?”
Several
No, sir
s came floating back up and the shoving and cursing stopped. The hands went muttering forward as Griffiths descended.
“They’ve done for Penrith,” the surgeon thought he heard one man say. “The fucking blackguards. Penrith!”