Authors: Christine Trent
How peculiar that she had only been down here a short time and already she was becoming numb to the carnage and gore.
She left the boy there and turned to go see if Mr. Beatty needed her. Penetrating all of the chaos and noise was the sound of a great
thud
and almost instantly she found herself lying flat on her stomach on the deck.
What happened? Did she trip over something?
Two falls in a very short time. Really, Marguerite, you are quite clumsy.
No one else seemed to have taken the same tumble she did, although she saw some men looking upward with concern. But they immediately returned to what they were doing. She got to her knees and looked down. More blood, now combined with sand and bits of flesh, made a messy pattern all over the front of her dress.
She made a halfhearted swipe at it all, then resigned herself to it. No time for cleaning up—there were wounded men who needing
tending to. She returned to Mr. Beatty’s table, where he had obviously been waiting impatiently for her. He took no notice of her disheveled condition, merely giving her instructions for the operation he was performing next.
After yet another surgery accompanied by howling and gore in the immense heat, Mr. Beatty threw down his knife and looked at Marguerite in despair.
“There are too many, too fast. We need more help assigned to us, instead of just grabbing someone nearby and convincing him to help us. I want you to do something, Mrs. Ashby. Something difficult.”
Marguerite nodded her willingness to do as he asked.
“I want you to go find Mr. Hardy and ask him to send us anyone who can possibly be spared. He’ll be on the quarterdeck somewhere, managing things with Nelson.”
“But wouldn’t Mr. Smith or Mr. Westemburg have more sway with the captain, Mr. Beatty? Why do you want me to do this?”
Mr. Beatty looked uncomfortable for the first time that day. “Listen to me. It requires great risk to go up to the quarterdeck right now. I cannot imperil my assistants, for I need them the most. Do you understand?”
She did indeed.
She was more expendable in the event that she was wounded or killed in the attempt to go on deck.
But Darden’s principles were a drumbeat in her head.
I must do my duty.
Just as I made that poor boy do with the dead sailor.
She attempted a salute to the surgeon, imitating what she had seen other sailors do dozens of times. His amused bark was incongruous as they stood there in the middle of their horrific situation.
“One more thing, Mrs. Ashby. See the purser. Get a uniform. I don’t want you on deck dressed like that. You’ll be too … conspicuous.”
She dashed off to Mr. Burke again, who cocked an eyebrow but did not question her request for a uniform and merely added it to her bill. She locked herself in the dispensary to change. It was blessedly more quiet in here, although the confined space meant it
was even hotter than the rest of the orlop. Her dress was nearly impossible to remove, as it was so thoroughly encrusted with blood and grime that it stuck to her skin. She finally got it peeled off, removed the watch to pin it onto her new uniform, and rolled the dress up and stuffed it in a corner for retrieval later. Or perhaps burning.
Her skin underneath was stained everywhere from blood. A couple of hours ago she would have been mortified, but now it seemed quite normal.
Marguerite quickly threw on the jacket and used the neckerchief to tie her hair up in as small and inconspicuous a bundle as possible. The sleeves were too long and required rolling up, and her torso practically swam in the jacket, but its loose fit would help with the heat. She enjoyed the odd sensation of pulling on the white trousers and tying them around her waist with rope. She walked back and forth across the dispensary twice in her bare feet, getting used to her new uniform, then took a deep breath and opened the dispensary door to embark on her deadly mission.
Marguerite took note of the time. It was 12:45.
She ignored the cries of men in the queue pleading for water or help, averting her eyes as she dashed past them. She scrambled up the steps to the lower gun deck and very nearly lost her nerve before she even got started.
The milieu of the gun deck made the orlop seem like a barge ride along the Thames on a mild spring day.
She could hardly believe it. The slaughter was actually worse here than below.
The fifteen or so cannon that lined each side of the deck were manned by crews of varying number. It looked as though most had six members, each performing a different job in the complicated process of loading and firing his cannon, but it was difficult to see for billowing clouds of eye-stinging smoke emitted each time a cannon fired. Some of crew were obviously injured, with blood trailing from their noses, ears, and other locations, but they ignored it and kept at their assigned tasks. The noise of the cannon firing at differing intervals made for one long, cacophonous stream of explosions. As each cannon fired, it jolted backward several feet
on its carriage, and that cannon’s gun crew hopped back to avoid being crushed by the massive weapon. The sailors took their jobs seriously, and despite the soul-numbing danger, kept at their jobs relentlessly.
The stench here was so bad that she practically longed for the simple filth-and-blood mix in the operating theatre. Not only was there the sickly smell from blood spattered everywhere, but the putrid odor from the firing cannon made her gag. It was as though the eggs from a thousand dead and decaying chickens had been smashed everywhere, and were releasing their noxious fumes in an all-encompassing miasma.
But the enemy’s cannon wreaked havoc on deck, as well. The impact of shot hitting the side of the ship added a different kind of terrifying noise to the ongoing, deafening racket. Some shot bounced off
Victory,
but some made it through open gun ports, splintering the wood around the port and sending shrapnel flying into whatever was nearby, mostly sailors who screamed in agony when they were hit. Marguerite knew they were screaming only because their mouths were open as wide as their terror-filled eyes. Most fell and were kicked or shoved out of the way by their crewmates. Some valiantly stood and continued to work.
Next to firing cannon, it appeared that the second most important job was repair. Whenever there was mutilation done to the deck, a carpenter would rush forward to try to patch the damage the best way he could. So most of the crew worked to inflict destruction, whereas some crew members’ sole job was to fix things.
Several of the youngest men scampered past her on and off the deck, delivering shot and gunpowder to each of the cannon and avoiding the rolling carriages as well. She presumed the supplies came from somewhere in the ship’s hold. A few of them scowled at her when going past, and one sailor yelled something at her. Although she wasn’t sure what he said, she was certain it was not flattering and probably referred to her shirking her duty as a crew member.
She clung to the rails of the stairway, too terrified to move. How could anyone survive this? And how much worse was it on the quarterdeck?
Was she meant to die on
Victory?
Do your duty, Marguerite.
Another man carrying shot scrambled past and knocked her in the shoulder with his load. He kicked her shin and shouted at her. This time it was clearly an insult.
It was time to pluck up her courage and head farther up.
The middle and upper gun decks were identical scenes to what she saw down below. She now desperately wished for the relative safety and calm of the orlop.
One more set of steps, Marguerite.
She poked her head out again in the same location where she had witnessed the flogging just a few days before. How different it all was now. She could see the feet of men stomping past her on their way to carry out their orders. There were the ubiquitous cannon on their carriages firing and jolting backward, and through yet more smoke she caught glimpses of men in red uniforms poised around the perimeter of the ship, firing muskets at targets she couldn’t see. She could hear return fire whizzing over the deck and striking various points.
And the smell was little better up here than down below.
How would she ever find the captain, even if she could make it past the hail of bullets?
But luck was with her. The captain came into view, strolling calmly with another officer whose back was to her as he turned to speak to Hardy. They paraded about as though completely unaware of what was going on around them.
Were they brave or foolhardy? No time to think on it now.
Marguerite said another quick prayer, then leaped out of the hole, running headlong toward Hardy.
Victory
was now locked together with
Redoubtable,
and the momentum of
Victory’s
impact on the other ship carried them both out of the line of the other ships. The ships were so close together now that Darden could actually see through the continuing musket fire into the faces of his opponents.
We could board
Redoubtable
and take her,
Darden thought.
As though his thoughts had been transmitted to the captain of
the other ship, he saw that the gun ports on the side facing
Victory
were being rapidly closed.
They fear us gaining access.
He joined Captain Hardy, who was pacing the deck in front of Admiral Nelson. Nelson still wore his faux decorations that singled him out as an important naval officer, even though they were practically in hand-to-hand combat with the
Redoubtable.
Nelson even wore his peculiar green eyeshade that was made specially for protecting his good left eye while in the sun.
Does the admiral have a death wish?
he wondered, but tamped the traitorous thought down. He knew the admiral was the bravest man alive. If only he understood that he needed to be protected. Without Nelson, English morale would be lost just as French morale would be boosted. A completely unacceptable state of affairs. But what could be done?
And then something utterly horrific happened that gave him the most magnificent idea.
Marguerite nearly collided with the captain.
“What ho, sailor? Why have you left your post?”
“Pardon me, Captain Hardy. It’s me, Mrs. Ashby.”
Hardy bent down to peer into her dirty face. “Why, so it is! What are you doing up here? In a uniform, yet. I thought you were assigned to the operating theatre.”
“You were
what
?” burst the man next to Hardy.
Marguerite turned to see who it was. Darden. Naturally. His eyes were filled with a thousand questions, most of which she was certain would result in a tongue-lashing after she answered them.
She decided to ignore him for the moment.
“Yes, sir, I’ve been helping Mr. Beatty. He sent me up to ask you for more men down in the orlop to help. Sir, there are too many injured coming down for us to handle.”
“Why didn’t he send one of the men? It’s entirely too dangerous for a woman up here.”
“Yes, Captain, but I volunteered to do it. I got a uniform from Mr. Burke so I could move about more easily and now here I am.”
“Volunteered?”
Darden roared, his detonation as earsplitting as one of the cannon below deck.
Even in the midst of battle, Hardy was amused by the lieutenant’s obvious concern for his charge, a concern that clearly went way beyond duty. Thus he was agreeable when Darden suggested that he take care of both getting Mrs. Ashby to safety and resolving the shortage of men in the operating theatre.
Darden took Marguerite’s hand and yanked her across the deck back down to the next staircase, where she nearly fell down to the next deck because he was pulling her so hard.
She yanked back to get his attention through the battle madness around them. Seeing her practically sprawled on the deck, he slowed and helped her descend the staircase a bit more gently.
From there he took hold of her elbow and led her down one more level to the middle gun deck. Marguerite shut her eyes reflexively against the turmoil that lay before them. Darden squeezed her elbow so she would open her eyes and gestured to her that she was to hide under the staircase for a few moments while he took care of getting her more help. He pointed down at the floor under the stairs and then waggled his finger in her face sternly.
Do not disobey me this time.
If she wasn’t so terrified, she would have found his expression quite funny. His flashing eyes and humorless lips were set inside a scruffy, unshaven face with his dark hair thoroughly soaked from sweat, undone from its queue, and hanging limply down the sides of his face.
But she was indeed terrified. She crouched under the stairs as directed, and watched his retreating figure as he bent over and ran through the gauntlet of horror to the stern of the ship. Before he disappeared from view in the smoke and press of bodies, she saw him limp once as though he had stepped on a small stone.
Hopefully that’s all he stepped on.
For once, Marguerite obeyed Darden completely and did not so much as twitch an eyebrow while he was gone. He returned shortly with two men who looked none too happy with their new
duties. They took the staircase down toward the orlop and Marguerite moved to follow them, but Darden had grabbed her elbow again. He shook his head no and motioned for her to follow him.
Taking his hand willingly she went up with him. Were they going back to the quarterdeck? She hoped not. To her surprise, she realized he was leading her to Nelson’s cabin. Except that most of Nelson’s cabin had been turned into a battleground. The beautiful settees, tables, and chairs were gone, as well as his exquisite bed, the paintings, and other décor. Instead, cannons were firing out gun ports, and the exquisitely painted canvas floor was obliterated by sand, blood, shrapnel, and gunpowder. Darden wrapped an arm around her head and tried to cover her body with his as best he could as they raced down to the back of the admiral’s cabin. Against the back wall of windows stood the wax Nelson and Hardy. They were remarkably untouched, although their faces were melting a bit and their uniforms were stained with drops of paint and wax. Still, they had survived well.