The Patriot's Fate (28 page)

* * *

When clearing for action part of
Scylla
‘s orlop deck was allocated to the medical department. The bulkheads to the midshipmen’s berth and other accommodations were struck down, and an area made clear for two operating tables. Space was also left for the wounded waiting for attention. These would be placed in line on a deck that had been covered with two layers of canvas. Each man was taken in order, with scant regard for the degree of injury, and little for their rank or standing. Patients who had been attended to were moved further forward, while any who died were neatly stacked to one side for later disposal. The gunroom on the deck above and even the officers’ cabins would also be liable for requisition if the numbers grew too high.
 

Clarkson and Manning had supervised the moving of drugs and equipment from the sick bay and were now laying out their tools, while the loblolly boys, assisted by Mrs Clarkson; Mrs Porter, the boatswain’s wife; and Miss Monroe finished preparing the area.

“You shouldn’t be lifting, my dear,” Clarkson told his wife. She stopped in the act of moving a bench and obediently stood back to allow the surgeon to slide the wooden form against a bulkhead.

“I had no idea you were with child,” Sarah told her.

“Oh yes,” Betsy replied, sounding every bit the seasoned mother. “It is only the first few months, but you know what men are like.”

Sarah said nothing. In fact she knew rather less than Betsy, but did have a far greater understanding.

Two of the loblolly boys began dragging midshipmen’s sea chests to form the operating tables, which Sarah and Betsy immediately covered with canvas, and four heavy lanthorns were hung from the deckhead: it would be poor light, but close examination was rarely necessary. Most of the surgeon’s work involved the removal of splinters and amputation of limbs, and even if Manning prided himself on his fine needlework, there was rarely time for anything but the most basic stitching when it came to closing wounds.

“We’ll need an empty barrel,” Mrs Porter said. “Speak to the cooper will you, Taylor?” The man knuckled his forehead and Betsy glanced at Sarah.
 

“That will be for the legs and wings,” she explained. “The bits the surgeons remove that are no longer required.”

Sarah swallowed. She had volunteered to help the medics, thinking it would be more pleasant than sitting the battle out with her parents in the cable tier, but now she was beginning to have doubts.

Betsy sensed the other woman’s uncertainty and instinctively took her hand. “I am sure you will find it easy enough when we are busy,” she told her. “To be frank, much of our job is instinct. Tell the men they shall be well again, even if you know it to be otherwise, and comfort them as much as you can.”

“Yes, thank you. I think I shall be fine when there is more to do.”

“The waiting is more’n likely the worst part,” Mrs Porter agreed, joining them. “Tell me, do either of you have a pen and paper?”

“No, I…”

“Then I shall see they are available.” The boatswain’s wife bustled off determinedly while Sarah looked again to Betsy for an explanation.

 
“Some near death may need to tell us things,” she told her. “Maybe instructions or messages; it would be better to write them down.” Her eyes grew a little distant as a thought occurred. “And there could be those who think we are someone else: their mother or their wife, or perhaps just a lover.”

Just a lover? It was an odd phrase, but Betsy was still speaking.

“When a man is near death his mind may play strange tricks. Though I am sure you will say whatever is needed.”

“Yes, thank you. I think I understand.”

“Bibles are kept next to the drug cabinet, should any ask. If all fails it might help to read a passage or two. Maybe a psalm?”

Sarah nodded; it all made sense, and she was reasonably sure she could cope, especially with those as experienced as Mrs Clarkson and Mrs Porter close at hand to guide her. “Betsy, have you been in action many times?” she asked finally.

“Lord no,” the surgeon’s wife replied. “This is my first.”

* * *

The British had certainly found them, but this was not the biggest problem the French fleet faced. The storm that had been building steadily throughout the day had reached it zenith by evening; it was the third they had encountered in a short time, and most of the seamen knew this was likely to prove the most dangerous.
 

The wind bore down relentlessly, while waves broke over the heavily laden hulls, soaking any part that the rain might have missed and terrifying the human cargo packed tightly below. Many of these, whether French soldiers or Irish patriots, were desperately sea-sick, and any that were not appeared drunk. And all the while the savage Irish coast was in their lee, waiting to welcome them with beckoning breakers and razor sharp ridges of rock that would be glad to rip the bottom off any ship, or strip the soul from the body of a man.
 

To avoid this danger Bompart was desperately clawing back as much sea room as possible, but his efforts were causing great strain on his ships. The fleet itself had separated, and all were paying scant attention to their fellows as they fought their own private battles for survival.
 

The scene that Crowley and the others had witnessed on the
Hoche
‘s orlop had brought forth images of hell powerful enough to convert the most determined sinner, and despite the atrocious conditions on deck, had sent them up to the open air of the waist. Now they huddled together, taking what shelter they could under the gangways, while above them the tophamper creaked and groaned in a manner that chilled the seamen’s hearts.

“If it lasts the night out I’ll count my blessings and never go to sea again,” Doyle told them with total sincerity as they watched the jury main topmast working in the storm. They were carrying fully reefed topsails, but even that scant amount of canvas was dangerous in the present conditions.

“He must be clear of the coast b’now,” MacArthur grumbled, although none felt inclined to look, and all were well aware of the dangers of a lee shore.

“We have to take in that sail,” Crowley said, his eyes still fixed on what served as a main topsail. “It isn’t going to hold, and if we lose the mast we’ll be in a worse fix than ever.”

He even rose, and was starting for the quarterdeck steps, but as he did a terrible groaning came from above. The men watched, fascinated, as the jury topmast bent and split before their eyes. Then the topsail itself billowed and cracked, while the bulk of the mast began to fall.

“It’s going, it’s bloody going!” They stood, transfixed, not knowing where to run as the tangle of rigging started to collapse above them. A block fell, landing between Doyle and Doherty, and there were shouts and cries from all about.

“Under the gangway!” Crowley shouted. The ship’s boats and what few spare spars they carried appeared to give some shelter, but the gangway planking would offer better protection from falling tophamper. The men ran back as the mast fell to leeward, snapping lines and ripping shrouds as it went. Then there was a further shout. The fore and mizzen topgallant masts were going also, their fragile housings being far too weak for the topmast’s tremendous leverage. The
Hoche
fell off the wind and began to roll in the hollow swell
while wreckage tumbled down, dragging the ship round like one large sea anchor.

“Axes, men!” Crowley was first up and bounding across the heeling deck. There were several ready use hatchets stored on beckets by the mainmast: prime tools for hand to hand fighting, although they would now be used for a very different style of combat. Crowley reached the first taut line and smacked his axe down against the bulwark. The rope separated and disappeared instantly, only to be replaced by another, which Doyle attended to. The jury topmast was smashing against the side of the ship, seemingly determined to burst a hole in the hull with its death throws as the seamen continued to hack at the lines that held it. Then, with a sound that was audible even above the noise of the storm, the maze of wood, canvas and line fell away and was left to float alone.
 

The ship righted, then began a regular roll as she gave herself entirely to the whim of the current. Crowley looked back to the quarterdeck, where the officers, ridiculous in their full length oilskins and oversized hats, were desperately calling for hands. He had no idea quite how close the shore might lie, but knew well enough that the ship must inevitably be pushed towards it. They would have to rig another jury mast, or find some other method of raising a balanced suit of canvas if they wanted to beat away from its impending embrace. A sudden gust of wind took them, laying the hull over for a few desperate seconds, before the ship reluctantly reverted to her steady roll. It would mean working aloft, a dangerous exercise in the present conditions, that or face the certainty of the ship beaching on a lee shore. Crowley glanced about at the others, all equally aware of their predicament, while a wicked thought occurred. They had all been so keen to see Ireland again; now it was apparent that they might be there in a way none of them had imagined.

* * *

With the bulkheads down, the galley stove cold, and the ship stripped of nearly all comforts, those in
Scylla
rode out the storm with grim determination. On the berth deck the watch below had slung their hammocks in the normal way, but with their canvas screens removed it was a bleak and draughty place, and they missed the fire to dry their sodden clothing. The midshipmen and volunteers had lost their quarters to the medical team, and were bunking in various storerooms and passageways. Dudley, the purser, and marine lieutenant Adshead, who had earlier been moved from their cabins in the gunroom to make way for the Monroes, now found the stewards’ pantry they had been sharing to also be the home of Barrow, Rose and Parfrey. The only area that retained some degree of normality was the gunroom itself, and even that had been disrupted. The captain had taken over King’s cabin, forcing the two lieutenants to share Chilton’s quarters, while the dining area was now a general mess for other junior officers. But with the ship in the very teeth of a storm, a powerful enemy fleet and a lee shore known to be close at hand, cramped conditions and lack of privacy were hardly important considerations.

Fraiser sat at the gunroom table, his chart of the western approaches laid out in front of him. The bread bin and a shielded sconce held the paper flat while he worked a set of parallel rulers across the page. Lewis, a master’s mate, was seated to his right and followed the older man’s calculations in silence. Dead reckoning was a skill he had yet to perfect. He knew that with care and attention a feel for the work could be acquired, and having a tutor such as the sailing master to learn from was a definite asset. Fraiser finally looked up and treated the younger man to one of his rare smiles.

“Well, it is impossible to gauge the strength of the current, but I would say we were safe enough for the time being.”

Lewis looked again at his master’s workings, a small triangle of neat black crosses showed their estimated position, with the nearest stretch of coast being the Rosses, which still lay a good few leagues to leeward. He nodded without saying a word. Besides the current Fraiser had allowed for a strong but fluctuating wind, as well as the leeway that any ship was bound to make in such conditions. They might as easily be anywhere within a five or even ten mile radius and, with no evening sighting, Fraiser could hardly have been blamed if they saw breakers at any moment. But there was something in the older man’s calculations that rang true; it was almost as if he had cast a spell and willed
Scylla
to that particular spot, although Lewis would naturally never speak such blasphemous nonsense out loud. But witchcraft or not, Lewis was as confident of Fraiser’s estimation as the captain would soon be. More than that, he felt he had learnt a little of the ancient art himself, and in a few years might even be able to emulate the master in his work.

* * *

By midnight the storm had eased, and once the clouds permitted, the moon gave a fair amount of light. But that was all that could be said in favour of the night. It took two hours of hard work to clear away the wreckage and repair the damage done aloft before the last suitable spar, a fore topgallant mast, could be released from its fixings. It now lay on the skid beams ready for raising into position. The ship was still rolling heavily; it would take skill as well as brute force to bring the spar upright and manoeuvre it against the lower mainmast. A single gust of wind when it had been lifted but not secured, or a rogue wave nudging the ship unexpectedly, and the mast would be lost over the side like its predecessor.

A lantern had been fixed to the mast cap, along with four lines that led up through the lubber’s hole of the maintop. These would first raise the spar upright and then, after being passed about the maintop and refastened, used to keep the mast from tipping in either direction as it was raised. Two stout halliards ran from beneath the heel to provide the upward pressure. They passed up and over the lower mast cap, and lead back through a succession of blocks to two teams of eight men stationed on either gangway. The spar was far lighter than the original main topmast and even the jury mast that had replaced it, and should prove easier to lift, but would remain just as vulnerable during the short journey up the lower mainmast. The boatswain, or
maître d’équipage
, stood at the break of the quarterdeck, an ideal position to supervise the entire process.