Authors: Christine Trent
Darden flattened her against the windows between the two figures, pressing his body against hers. He pulled the cloth plug from her right ear and bent down to speak quietly to her.
“Listen to me. I want to take at least one of these figures on deck and set it up as a decoy.”
“But I thought they were to be used only if the admiral or captain was injured.”
“Yes, but they’re both strutting about the quarterdeck as though nothing will ever happen to them.
Victory
is jammed into the
Redoubtable
now, and their sharpshooters can take easy aim at us. I want to deflect their attention. I want you to help me position the figures.”
She nodded her comprehension.
He cupped her cheek in his roughened hand as he continued speaking in her ear. “I despise myself for asking this of you, because it will be treacherous work. But you know the figures and will handle them properly. And it’s my obligation to do what I can for Lord Nelson and the captain. It’s more important than anything else. Do you understand me?”
She nodded again. Despite the miserable heat and noise, she
couldn’t help but be contented to have him enveloping her in his arms, even if it was to basically issue her battle orders. Hopefully no one else had noticed him pressed up against what looked like a young boy in the admiral’s cabin.
He placed the cloth plug back in her ear. Just as she thought he was turning away from her to dislodge one of the figures from its stand, he turned back to her and kissed her with the same hungry passion he had shown when she was a mere accidental passenger in the sick berth. Except now they were pressed entirely against one another, under the threat of imminent death. She clung to him, fearful that this would be their last embrace. Ever. His body was hard and taut and powerful from shipboard life, yet she knew this was a man who would never intentionally hurt her.
Unless it interfered with his duty.
As though he had just had the same thought about his responsibilities, he broke away from the kiss.
He mouthed something at her, but he said it softly and she couldn’t hear him. It looked as though his lips formed the words, “I’ll love you always.” Or did he merely say, “Time to lug the figures”?
But he really had turned away this time and the moment was gone.
They decided on taking the Nelson figure, simply because it was a bit smaller and was therefore easier to carry. What a sight they must have been to anyone who was watching: the lieutenant and a young seaman, carting an effigy of their admiral up to the quarterdeck.
But the crew was too busy to pay attention to anything that didn’t concern firing upon the enemy.
Getting “Nelson” up the staircase to the quarterdeck was difficult work. The figure had become slippery from the softened wax, and they had to handle it gingerly to avoid damaging its limbs. Not to mention evading the maelstrom of flying debris and enduring the copious clouds of smoke threatening to suffocate them.
But they finally hoisted it out flat onto the quarterdeck, and both Darden and Marguerite popped out behind it. Marguerite followed Darden’s lead as he stayed crouched next to the body,
looking around as though waiting for something. At some optimum moment that she didn’t understand, Darden nodded to her and they dragged “Nelson” forward toward the bow. Even through the confusion Marguerite could see that
Victory’s
bow had collided with the other ship’s, and fierce hand-to-hand fighting was going on in the intersection. Knives and cutlasses flashed in a blur, and thankfully she could no longer hear screaming for the booming of cannon on board
Victory,
the
Redoubtable,
and other ships nearby.
How close did Darden plan to go?
Together they stepped down a gangway onto a lower section of deck, even closer to the personal fighting. Marguerite began to sweat not just from the heat, but from fear. She was certain she was very close to death now, yet Darden showed no fear, just caution.
They had now crept up next to a launch boat that was kept stored in the middle of this deck. Surprising, since she’d previously seen others lowered into the water as the crew prepared the decks for battle. Darden nodded to her and pointed at the launch. Once again she nodded her understanding of his hand gestures.
They propped “Nelson” up next to the launch, putting one of the figure’s arms over the side of the tiny craft to hold him up, however temporarily that might work. Marguerite jumped as a ball ricocheted off the launch and sent a shower of wood chips spraying around her.
Was that a random shot, or is someone aiming at me?
But this was no time to allow fright to take over her presence of mind. She casually brushed the debris from her head and shoulders as though she had hardly noticed anything.
But Darden had certainly noticed. He grabbed her hand again, and together they hurriedly made their way back up the gangplank to the quarterdeck and down that deck toward the staircase. Darden helped her down to the upper gun deck. At the bottom of the staircase, he pointed to himself and back up to the quarterdeck, then put a finger to her chest and pointed down. Apparently they were not going back for the Hardy figure.
Yes, Lieutenant,
she thought as she brought her hand up in a salute as she had watched other sailors do. Like the good seaman
she had become, she knew now that it was imperative to obey orders.
Darden laughed and kissed her forehead, surely taking away a puddle of filthy sweat on his lips as he did so. He saluted her in return and scrambled up the staircase as nimbly as a monkey.
As she made her way back to the dimly lit orlop and the distinctive horror that awaited her there, Marguerite pictured in her mind the real Nelson with the wax figure, and thought with ironic pride that the wax figure’s decorations looked much better than those on the admiral.
But would Darden’s plan work?
As the first ship to enter the fray,
Royal Sovereign
had been engaged in heated battle with the Spanish man-of-war,
Santa Ana,
for hours. Or had it been days?
Both
Royal Sovereign
and
Santa Ana
were badly battered, although the British ship was finally prevailing over her enemy. But for Brax the news was disheartening: No specific moment had arisen during the hours of battle in which he could distinguish himself before either Captain Rotheram or Admiral Collingwood. Collingwood had even taken a bad leg wound from a splinter, but Brax had been off on some errand or other, and so had not been on hand to help the admiral. Or to somehow take the shrapnel for him.
He’d nothing to be ashamed of, for he’d fought as valiantly and with as much courage as every other crew member. There just wasn’t a decisive moment of heroism on his part.
Was his time in the navy worth it?
Marguerite’s sojourn away from the operating theatre had felt like hours. She lifted the watch from where it was pinned onto her jacket to read the time. The face was completely encased in dust. She wiped it with the sleeve on her other arm to check the time. It was fifteen minutes past one o’clock.
At least the noise on the orlop was reduced to a dull roar as compared to the decks above. She even removed the plugs from her ears as she moved back and forth between helping wounded men get positioned around the deck and assisting Mr. Beatty with his sweltering, messy work.
An unusual clattering on the stairs accompanied raised voices that could be heard above the din. On seeing who had just been brought down, all activity ceased on the orlop; the only sounds were those of the battle raging above, punctuated by the groans of the wounded who did not realize what was happening.
Several wild-eyed members of the admiral’s staff clambered into the orlop, including a man in chaplain’s dress. Behind them, and supported by a marine and two seamen—Darden and a man she’d heard referred to as Sandilands—was Nelson, drenched in blood. His green eyeshade was askew, and his face was completely drained of color. Nelson greeted the surgeon. “Ah, Mr. Beatty! You can do nothing for me. I have but a short time to live. My back is shot through.”
The surgeon quickly recovered from his own shock and signaled to have his table cleared of its patient and a clean piece of canvas laid on top of it. Darden and the other two attendants gently lifted Nelson and laid him on the table. Mr. Beatty then motioned for Marguerite to join him.
She passed Darden and searched his face for an explanation, but it was as pale as Nelson’s and only reflected his abject misery. The other officers glanced curiously at Marguerite in her uniform but were too preoccupied to make comment.
“Quickly, Mrs. Ashby, we must make the admiral comfortable,” urged Mr. Beatty.
Together they worked to strip him of most of his uniform, working carefully not to move him too much. Nelson didn’t seem to care much. Marguerite retrieved as clean a blanket as she could find and spread it over the admiral.
While she and Mr. Beatty worked, Nelson continued to talk in a calm and composed tone.
His good eye first landed on the chaplain. “Dr. Scott, I told you
so. I am gone.” Nelson paused briefly and added in a low voice, “I have to leave Lady Hamilton, and my adopted daughter Horatia, as a legacy to my country.”
Before the good chaplain could respond, Mr. Beatty interrupted. “Your lordship, I’m afraid I must examine your wound to discover the course of the ball. I will endeavor to do so without putting you in much pain.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Beatty, but assuredly my back has been shot through.”
Marguerite watched as the surgeon worked to trace the ball from its deep penetration into Nelson’s chest. “Your lordship,” Mr. Beatty said, “tell me of all the sensations you feel.”
Nelson grunted. “I feel a gush of blood every minute within my breast, but no feeling in the lower part of my body. Breathing is difficult.”
Mr. Beatty looked up at Marguerite as though Nelson had said something quite significant, but she had no idea what it was.
“And what of your back, sir?”
“I have very severe pain in my spine where the ball struck, and I felt it break my back.”
The surgeon probed Nelson’s chest and side a bit further. “My lord, I believe I’ve discovered the path the ball took. Please rest while I confer with my assistants over the best way to proceed.”
Marguerite rolled the blanket up over Nelson’s shoulders to warm him while Mr. Beatty stepped away, and placed two more rolled-up blankets under his shoulders to prop him up. To her surprise, Mr. Beatty didn’t confer with Messrs. Smith and Westemburg but instead motioned to Nelson’s staff members, including Darden, and the group of men huddled together out of Nelson’s sight. Activity on the deck resumed, with ambulatory men staying respectfully away from Nelson’s makeshift bed.
Marguerite focused on her patient. “Sir, would you like some water?”
“Yes, yes, water. Need a drink.”
She helped him take the cool liquid, which revived him a little.
“My thanks, madam.” He gazed up at her with his good eye, as
though just seeing her for the first time. He gasped, but she wasn’t sure if it was in pain or recognition.
“You’re the waxworker, aren’t you? Why are you still here? And why are you in a uniform? Weren’t you transferred to the
Pickle
?”
“No, sir. Mr. Beatty requested that Captain Hardy let me stay to help out in the operating theatre. I obtained this uniform so I could move around easily on the quarterdeck. I came up to see the captain and to help Lieutenant Hastings move your wax figure on deck. Did you see it?” Marguerite added another blanket to Nelson’s shivering body and patted his face with a cloth dipped in water. She wished she had a lemon nearby to squeeze into the cup, which would make it more refreshing for the admiral.
“Yes, I saw it.” Nelson grunted again. “I nearly tossed Hastings overboard when I saw it. The fool thing was supposed to be brought up only if something happened to me. Hastings thought it would be a good decoy. I thought it an assault on my dignity.” Nelson went silent for a moment, as if thinking about it.
“Hate to admit he was right.
Redoubtable
focused her energies on that wax figure and off the other men on deck. Shot it to bits. Her crew stopped firing and began cheering. Thought they had conquered His Majesty’s navy. Gave us a chance to reestablish our dominance in the fight.”
Nelson screwed his face up in pain and touched his chest. “I feel another gushing. No matter. I’ll be done soon enough. Once we had the advantage again I stepped down to the fo’c’sle, and someone perched up in the
Redoubtable’s
masts realized they’d been mistaken in their impression of my demise. I’m certain my death ball came from a sharpshooter up in her mizzenmast.”
Nelson sighed. “I suppose Mr. Pitt must be told he was right about the wax figures. He’ll have a laugh at my expense, won’t he?” He grabbed Marguerite’s arm with his good hand in a viselike grip that belied his weakened state. “You’ll take the message to him, won’t you? Tell him I concede to his tactical brilliance on that one matter only.”
“Of course, my lord,” she replied.
Nelson released her arm. “But are we won for the day? I pray
God doesn’t take me until I know. I must know if we’re victorious or not.”
Marguerite had no idea how to respond. She patted his forehead again with cool water.
“Fan, fan,” Nelson muttered. Marguerite ran and found her sheaf of stationery bundled up with her dress in the dispensary and waved it on his face, which seemed to bring him comfort.
The wait for the surgeon’s return was endless, even though only a short time had passed since Nelson was brought down. She glanced at her watch again. It was forty-five minutes past the hour of one.
Mr. Beatty finally broke away and returned, and most of the admiral’s staff that had crashed its way down the stairs, including Darden, came to stand watch at Nelson’s side. Marguerite thought Darden looked sickly, but her energies were concentrated on her patient.
After moments of quiet, Nelson became agitated again. “Where is Captain Hardy? Why hasn’t he come to see me?”