A Royal Likeness (42 page)

As close as they were to that ship, it was likely that
Victory
would be boarded. He had no intention of succumbing without taking two or three Frogs into the watery depths with him.

But his attention was taken away from the thought of the enemy boarding
Victory
by a more immediate problem. Although the enemy was lobbing shot far and high, and generally missing the deck completely, the masts and sails were under vicious attack. He grimaced as he saw the fore-topsail break away, which was followed by great shouts of joy aboard the enemy ship.

“I’ll personally cut that imperial eagle up and feed it to them as their prison rations,” he growled to no one in particular.

The loss of the fore-topsail was followed in quick order by three mast sections, putting
Victory
in jeopardy of not being able to pick up speed or tack easily.

Sections of mast lay broken on the deck, although thus far it didn’t look like the debris had injured anyone. He searched for Nelson through the acrid smoke gathering from both the marines’ musket fire and the cannon fire from the enemy ships. Spotting the admiral in conference with Captain Hardy across the deck, he went to him.

“My lord? Orders?” he shouted above the whizzing bullets and the creaking of tottering masts.

An enigmatic smile crossed Nelson’s face. “Now, Lieutenant, we will show the enemy what the British navy is made of. The
Bucentaure
over here on our port side, and the
Redoubtable
to our starboard side, are to be very surprised, indeed.” He issued Darden a puzzling steering direction, one that would shift them at the last moment from its collision course with one ship and practically into the stern of another.

But Darden knew the genius of Nelson, so however disconcerting the change might appear, he knew it came from sound judgment.
He sent the order down and returned to Nelson’s side. Captain Hardy had disappeared again.

Nelson raised an eyebrow at him and Darden nodded in return. The admiral smiled again, in remarkably good humor aboard a ship whose masts and sails were being shot to bits.

Victory
was now tacking toward the stern of the ship Nelson had identified as
Redoubtable.
“Hardy is taking care of the next step of our little plan. Have a care, Lieutenant.” Nelson cocked an ear expectantly.

In seconds, the plan was executed. As they passed
Bucentaure
, one of
Victory’s
carronades unleashed a barrage of shot onto the enemy ship’s upper deck. Even through the confusion created by the smoke, Darden could see that the attack had devastated the crowd of men on
Bucentaure’s
deck. Screams of shock and pain accompanied the sounds of sailors falling against the deck and into the swirling waters below.

But before Darden had a chance to congratulate Nelson on the surprise attack,
Victory
opened up her ports and fired into the stern of the French ship.
Victory
was so close by that Darden, Nelson, and other officers on deck were covered in dust blown from shattered woodwork on
Bucentaure’s
stern.

Yet still there was little time for Darden to react, for another French ship immediately to the east of
Bucentaure
fired a broadside into the bow of
Victory,
returning the same kind of destruction. But there was no time to check for damage, for Nelson’s new target had been reached.

With a colossal jolt, accompanied by the sound of splintering wood and the roaring of men whose pent-up boredom is about to be satisfied in a fierce and bloody way,
Victory
collided with the
Redoubtable.

Above her, Marguerite could faintly make out the sounds of men shouting, weapons firing, and heavy items being dragged across decks. Her ears cleared after a few minutes and she took the plugs of cloth from her ears, but Mr. Beatty shook his head no at her, so she replaced them.

The lull in activity did not last long. Soon there was a trickle of men being carried down to the operating theatre and the trickle rapidly became chaos, with half-naked, sweating, wild-eyed men scrambling down the stairs to deposit their fellow crew members mixing with the cries and groans of the injured. In between pointing out dropping spots for wounded men and those who had been through surgery, she tended to those in the queue as best she could. A cup of water for a gasping man here, a rough blanket for a shivering man there, and the wiping of blood off everyone. So much bleeding. The smell of it as she wrung it from rags into buckets was nauseating, and she was soon wearing a mélange of every injured man’s blood on the front of her dress, which had been none too clean to begin with, since it was only one of three changes of clothes she’d had in weeks. But compared to these seamen, she was dressed regally, so she took a deep breath and smiled as she bent down, took out an ear plug, and listened to the next man’s request.

If the influx of wounded men was not enough to tell her that
fighting was in full force on
Victory,
the rising heat on the orlop and the perpetual blasts and jarring thuds of cannons on their carriages on the gun decks was indication enough.

And where was Darden? Did someone in his position fire cannon? Was he with the captain, or with Admiral Nelson? Was he even safe?

Please, God, don’t let me see him down here.

She focused on putting Darden and the battle raging on above her out of her mind, and soon she was even able to block out the cries of men on the operating tables and the exploding cannon above her head as she concentrated on succoring the injured men within her care.

But her constitution was about to be tested further.

“Mrs. Ashby, quickly, I need you here!” Mr. Beatty shouted.

She patted the hand of a man whose cheek had been torn away. She could see that the wound was already festering and would become infected if he wasn’t treated soon. She counted. He was seventh in line so he shouldn’t have to wait too terribly long.

She scurried over to Mr. Beatty’s table and nearly retched by what greeted her there.

It was Gin, the sailor who had brought her things on board
Victory.
He lay on the table awash in blood. His mouth was clamped around a thick, filthy piece of rope. His eyes were darting everywhere but seeing nothing, and he was sweating profusely. He wore the same trousers and shirt he had when Marguerite first met him, only now they were tattered and stained, and the left leg of them had been knifed off. What lay below the cut line threatened Marguerite’s stomach with total upheaval.

The leg that had so nimbly supported Gin on the gangplank while carrying her wax figures aboard was a shattered mess.

Bone protruded jaggedly in two places, and the muscle and sinew around the bone had been reduced to a pulpy mass. Marguerite averted her eyes from the man’s misfortune, which could in no way be called a mere wound.

“Everyone else is busy. Get on the other side of the table and hold down his right leg and arm. Can’t do anything for this leg and it will have to go if I’m to save him.”

Marguerite blindly followed his order without question, putting
one hand on Gin’s right thigh and the other against his shoulder and pressing down, but not before giving his arm what she hoped was a comforting squeeze. Gin looked at her in terror and desperation, and, like the sailor Pearce before him, began crying uncontrollably.

She had no idea how to further console him, especially since her role was that of restraining him.

The surgeon took no notice of Gin’s fear or pain. “We have to do this swiftly and surely. The key to his recovery will be to take the limb in as few cuts as possible. You need to hold him so he doesn’t jerk and impair my ability to do that. Do you understand?”

Marguerite nodded grimly, knowing her face was probably as pale as Gin’s by now.

First the surgeon wrapped a tourniquet above the location where he planned to amputate. He twisted the knob that tightened the tourniquet as much as possible. Gin groaned under the pressure of it. Then, in a move so fast Marguerite was not quite sure she had even seen it, Mr. Beatty sliced through Gin’s leg, using a dark-stained knife with a very long blade. Tossing the knife down between Gin’s legs, he picked up one of the saws she remembered seeing earlier when they had set up the operating tables. With three interminable, crunching movements back and forth through his leg, the surgeon had separated most of the man’s leg. The saw was tossed down and the knife picked up again, and Mr. Beatty neatly sliced through the remainder of skin beneath the bone. He pushed the leg aside. Gin’s screams were muffled behind the rope stuffed in his mouth.

“Now hand me that pail there. It was brought down from the stove a short while ago and should still be hot.”

Marguerite looked where his finger was pointing to a pail hanging from a large hook in a beam. She removed it, and the now-familiar odor of tar assailed her. Funny how it no longer made her sick.

Or so she thought.

Inside the steaming pail of tar was a thick baton of oak. Mr. Beatty pulled out the baton, which was thickly coated with the hot
substance, and slabbed it over the bottom of Gin’s leg stump, covering the just-cut fusion of bone, muscle, and nerves.

Gin’s howling was akin to a fox in a trap. The rope fell from his mouth, and Marguerite hurried to pour him some rum from a bottle stored nearby. With her hands trembling uncontrollably, she sloshed more of it over the sides than actually made it inside the cup. She put an arm under his neck and lifted him up to take the liquor. He gulped it greedily and lay back down.

Less than two minutes had passed since the surgeon had first picked up the knife.

Mr. Beatty took Gin’s stump and tossed it into a short barrel Marguerite had not noticed before. Inside the barrel was a macabre assortment of arms, legs, feet, and fingers. The movement of the ship made the blood draining out of the limbs and into the container slosh up and over the rim onto the floor around it. It looked like an oversized soup pot full of mutton bones waiting to be cooked down.

Don’t be hysterical, Marguerite. You don’t want to end up a babbling patient down here yourself.

Mr. Beatty nodded to the barrel. “See to that, Mrs. Ashby. It’s almost full.”

“See to it?” She felt her heart quicken and swallowed to quell the panic again.

“It needs to be dumped overboard. Get someone to take it up one deck and put it through a porthole not being used by cannon. Go on, don’t just stand there gawping at me, woman. And hurry—there’s more to do here.” The surgeon shouted to two sailors rushing by to clear Gin off the table.

Marguerite was more sickened by this task than by assisting in Gin’s surgery. For at least Gin was put out of his misery quickly and was now lying unconscious on the floor with a blanket over him. Finding two men willing to carry the grisly container of body parts proved very difficult, and she finally had to bar entry into the orlop until two burly sailors holding a fallen messmate grudgingly agreed to do it as long as Marguerite moved their fellow seaman to the top of the queue. She agreed and the deed was done. Marguerite
wiped a hand across her sweaty brow and returned to work. From then on she knew how to get the limb buckets emptied quickly.

After what she thought was a temporary duty as Mr. Beatty’s assistant, she found herself recalled again and again to his operating table, since his assistants were overwhelmed with their own work now. Marguerite dashed back and forth between succoring the injured and helping the surgeon with whatever incision, removal, or stitching he needed to perform.

It was impossible to know from down in the hot, stinking, windowless orlop what was happening in the battle. Marguerite caught bits of news from injured men and those who were carrying bodies back and forth. Her interest was piqued to hear that
Royal Sovereign
had been the first to engage. She wondered fleetingly if Brax was unharmed.

Other comments penetrated her plugged-up ears as well, and she pieced together that
Victory
had become quite disabled thus far, although she was placing some well-landed shot.

She threw up a silent prayer for Darden’s and Brax’s safety, but all thoughts of the two lieutenants disappeared while she washed a man’s wounds with vinegar. She could tell this poor soul would not make it. His gun crew companions had brought him down shortly before. The man had been injured by splintering wood from enemy cannon-shot. He was pierced in several places by the sharp wooden projectiles, but the largest piece had inserted itself in his abdomen. His mates unceremoniously yanked it out of his stomach before bringing him down. It looked as though his friends had done more damage than the enemy. Their coarse work resulted in the some of the man’s entrails being pulled out. They were now lying on top of his skin.

She smiled encouragingly at the man, another one who seemed near to delirium. She suddenly remembered an old verse Claudette sang to her in the dark days following Nicholas’s death. They would sit in a darkened room together and Claudette would wrap her arms around Marguerite, rocking her back and forth and singing softly.

Marguerite now did the same in an attempt to comfort the man.
She knelt next to his head, put an arm under his clammy neck, and looked directly in his eyes as she sang.

She wasn’t sure if he could actually hear her over all the din of the ship, but he smiled gratefully at her before closing his eyes to sleep. Within seconds his breathing became shallow, and then he breathed no more.

Marguerite removed her arm from around him, patted his head with a whispered, “Farewell, friend,” and went to find the sail-maker’s assistant, a useless boy of about seventeen who was utterly terrified of his job. She found him cowering in a squat near the dispensary, his bag of materials slung over a shoulder. She yanked him to his feet and dragged him to the expired sailor.

“We’re all frightened,” she shouted so she could be heard. “But we all do our duty. Do yours now.”