A Royal Likeness (39 page)

The boatswain shouted some orders from the new captain, Captain Collingwood, who had transferred over to
Royal Sovereign
from his flagship
Dreadnought
several days earlier after Nelson had taken command. Collingwood was now Nelson’s second-in-command, which meant that Brax was now on a very important ship in the Royal Navy’s fleet. He mentally cast aside his personal dreams and angst.

Be a man, Selwyn. This battle will prove to be your death or your most glorious moment to date.

Mr. Beatty’s attitude toward Marguerite improved dramatically after the floggings. The men were returned to duty after several hours in their care. Afterwards, he spent time talking about various remedies he had developed and experimented with, and shared with her his particularly favorable impression of Nelson’s insistence that citrus fruit be available on board any ships under his command, thereby greatly reducing the incidence of scurvy. The fruits were expensive, so many officers skipped purchasing them. Crews noted that few officers took such good care of their men as Nelson did.

Marguerite could feel the admiration for Admiral Nelson pulsating through the ship beyond Mr. Beatty’s words. She often overheard sailors bragging of their honor at being on Nelson’s flagship. Even some of the sailors who had been flogged were less concerned with their wounds than they were over the thought that Nelson would be personally disappointed in them.

Does Darden feel proud to be on Nelson’s flagship?

Mr. Beatty even invited her to sup with him, an invitation she gratefully accepted, since the man Darden had sent to tend to her rarely spoke more than two consecutive words to her and reminded her more of a shriveled, salted side of beef than a breathing human being.

Why did Darden abandon me, then send me such a colorless companion? And when will I be transferred to a ship at the rear of the fleet?

At least Mr. Beatty’s friendlier attentions gave her some company, especially since she had read through all of her books. Twice. And, truth be told, she had rather enjoyed the excitement of tending
to the wounded men. It wasn’t fun, exactly. More like she had been
useful.

Something she had not been since the moment she cracked her head on Nelson’s dining room table.

Her mild pleasure turned into amazement when Mr. Beatty reported his recent conversation with Captain Hardy to her.

“You want me to
stay
?” she managed to squeak out.

“Yes. I told the captain about what you did with the men and that you might actually be of some value to me. He says you can stay if you want, but there’s no pay in it for you since you aren’t a member of the crew. What d’you say?”

There was no question for Marguerite that she wanted to do it, if for no other reason than to escape the sheer boredom of lying around all day with nothing to do. A transfer to another ship would not improve her conditions. Well, except to keep her away from the line of fire. But to stay on
Victory
also meant to be near Darden, even if he had abandoned her. She pretended to consider Mr. Beatty’s offer.

“Well, I suppose I would be willing to do so.”

“Good, good.” He beamed happily. “The enemy has come out of hiding so we’re giving chase and will be engaging soon. Come, let me show you more of what I do. You need to learn quickly the kinds of injuries that result from a naval battle, and you can help me set up the hospital.”

“The hospital? What do you mean? Won’t we treat them right here in the sick berth?”

And did he just say the fleet would be engaging
soon?
What, exactly, did
soon
mean? Her stomach fluttered uneasily.

“My girl, look around you. See all of the cannon pointing outward? This is a gun deck, and soon Captain Hardy will want to take over the sick berth for fighting. We’ll lay canvas down on the orlop deck for the wounded, and have the ones needing surgery put on the midshipmen’s mess tables and chests. Besides, it’s safer for us below the water line.”

And so Marguerite followed the surgeon to the orlop, where Messrs. Smith and Westemburg were scooping sand out of sacks and sprinkling it on the deck.

“What are they doing?” she asked.

“The sand absorbs blood and other fluids from the injured so it doesn’t soak into the deck. There’s more being spread on the gun decks.”

“I see.” What other response was there?

Once the sand was fully distributed, she and the surgeon spread out canvas, also intended to capture blood flow and to put some sort of layer between the wounded and the rough deck. Like the other lower decks she had passed through, this one was not tall enough for an average man to stand straight. Even she had to duck to avoid many of the beams spaced at regular intervals along the ceiling. After that, they cleared off the few tables in the midshipmen’s mess on the orlop and spread more canvas sheeting on them.

Unlike on the upper gun deck, these tables rested on the deck on legs, instead of being suspended from the ceiling by ropes. She asked the surgeon about them, and he told her that tables are suspended from ropes to get them stowed out of the way quickly in a time of battle. The orlop had no guns, therefore the furniture was placed more or less permanently. Dim lanterns dangled above each table, providing little light for what was sure to be intense work.

Mr. Beatty showed her what instruments and supplies needed to be distributed on the tables, and she helped him and his assistants with getting them all laid out properly. One particular instrument, which resembled a miniature saw with a smooth blade, made her particularly queasy, and she hoped she would not have to watch it in use.

Afterwards, the surgeon showed her his own cabin on this deck, as well as the locking dispensary next to it. Looking at the crowded shelves in here, Marguerite realized that the small trunk of powders and potions in the sick berth were but a sampling of the treatments Mr. Beatty had at his disposal.

She slept fitfully that night, her mind swirling with thoughts of Darden, the wax figures stowed in Nelson’s cabin, and the myriad of formulas and procedures Mr. Beatty had stowed into her head.

And there was to be little sleep for her again anytime soon.

* * *

“Lieutenant!” Nelson commanded as Darden passed by the admiral on the quarterdeck. “I need you to take a message to Captain Hardy. Tell him I want
Victory
to be at the head of my division and he’s to raise a message for the other ships to slow and wait. Collingwood will have
Royal Sovereign
leading his division.”

“Yes, your lordship.” Darden abandoned his previous task to obey Nelson immediately. Much of a lieutenant’s life was consumed with the bearing of messages between decks or even between ships. When confidential messages had to be passed, the process was made tiresome by repeated scrambles into launches to row quickly to the designated ship, board the ship, deliver the message, row back, and scuttle aboard his original ship. All instead of using the more common flag signals from atop the deck.

Darden didn’t mind, though. He knew he was fortunate to be on board
Victory
and to be considered part of Nelson’s staff on his flagship. A few inconvenient treks to find Captain Hardy, or even to the captain of another ship, were just part of the duty and honor of serving Lord Horatio Nelson.

But this reminded him that he needed to have Marguerite set into a launch bound for
Pickle
as soon as they pulled close enough to her. After delivering his message to Hardy, he sought out the midshipman whom he had assigned to look after her. The man was undoubtedly shirking that duty to the greatest extent possible, but as long as she was eating, being escorted to the wardroom for private necessary activities, and getting some opportunity for bathing, that was all that could be hoped for.

He addressed the sailor. “I need you to prepare Mrs. Ashby for transfer in a launch to
Pickle.
We should be meeting up with
Pickle
within a few hours.”

And in the same way Darden dropped anything he was doing to obey Nelson, so did the midshipman instantly obey his command.

Claudette ground her fists in her eyes in frustration as she and William left the inn at Guildford in their carriage.

“So they have a record of Marguerite staying overnight here with some other female passenger, but they don’t know that she was necessarily going to Portsmouth the next day.”

Across from her, William patted her knee. “It’s not likely that an innkeeper cares much about his guests beyond their ability to pay and not cause trouble. I’m sure Marguerite paid her bill promptly and was no nuisance, so why would he notice her?”

“I know. I’m just frightened out of my wits as to what could have happened to her.” She reached out and took her husband’s hand for comfort.

“We’ll learn more at Portsmouth. You need sleep. Come over here with me.” He pulled his wife over to his cushioned bench, wrapped an arm around her, and with his other hand pulled her head to his shoulder. “Rest, sweetheart. We’ll find her, I promise.”

But now even William was becoming concerned. How could Marguerite have simply disappeared like this?

Brax was energized.
Royal Sovereign
and
Victory
would be entering battle together. So he and Hastings would be side by side until they split through the French and Spanish fleet. The two divisions of ships were racing parallel to one another in order to smash the
enemy’s line in a perpendicular cut. Nelson’s goal was to slice through and damage the enemy’s fleet beyond repair before it had a chance to begin tacking its ships around to point its guns at the British ships.

And everyone knew Nelson was a naval genius beyond compare. His plan would work.

And surely, being at the front of the line, Brax would get an opportunity for derring-do. Captain Braxton Charles Selwyn. Perfect.

Was Hastings also made of the substance necessary to earn a promotion?
Brax’s competitive spirit whispered the question softly as he issued an order to an underling.

“I haven’t noticed a launch depart yet. Has Mrs. Ashby been removed from the ship?” Darden was tapping his fingers impatiently on the outer rail of the quarterdeck. He needed to know Marguerite was out of danger before he could focus on the tasks ahead. It was past dawn, and engagement with the enemy would occur today. Soon.

“No, sir, she said she was staying.” The man was sweating from the exertion of battle preparations, as they all were.

“She
what?
What do you mean, staying? I issued an order and I expect both you and Mrs. Ashby to follow it.”

“Yes, sir, Lieutenant, but she was quite insistent that she had permission to stay.”

“Permission?
From whom? For God’s sake, why would she want to stay aboard this floating arsenal?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but she refused to come with me to the launch. She said the surgeon would vouch for her, but I couldn’t find him at the moment and, sir, I’ve got my hands full with other duties. I didn’t know the woman meant that much to you.”

“Well, she does!” Darden slammed his fist down on the rail. “I mean, she doesn’t. Only in that Nelson will have my guts for garters if I don’t see her off this ship.”

“Yes, sir.” The midshipman waited expectantly for further instruction.

“Never mind. I’ll deal with the woman myself.”

The sailor scurried away gratefully, far more interested in preparing
for battle than worrying about some random female trapped on the ship.

Darden gritted his teeth for the confrontation ahead. He took the steps to the upper gun deck two at a time, not stopping to acknowledge any of the men who tried to ask questions of their superior officer. All of the sick berth hammocks had already been stowed away and the deck made ready for battle. He went farther down and found Marguerite standing on the orlop, already at work. She was examining the contents of a stoppered bottle among a collection of several such vessels on one of the makeshift surgical tables. She looked up at him and smiled warmly.

“Why, Lieutenant, it’s nice to see you again.”

Damn the woman. Her eyes sparkled mischievously as though at some secret knowledge. And he knew that knowledge was of his absurd weakness for her. And her hair was still full and unruly, even after weeks of washing it in buckets of sea water. He wanted nothing more than to dig his fingers into that mass of curls and pull her to him—

Enough.

“Mrs. Ashby, I gave my midshipman specific orders to have you taken to
Pickle.
Yet somehow you are still standing here, playing with the surgeon’s potions. May I ask why?”

The light went out of Marguerite’s eyes. “Mr. Beatty asked me to stay aboard. I helped him care for the men who were lashed for drunkenness—”

“Yes, yes, I heard about it.”

“—and he thought I might be of some help to him during the battle.”

“Mrs. Ashby, have you any idea of the danger involved on a first-rate man-of-war like
Victory
?”

Marguerite put the bottle down slowly, as though gathering up her temper and storing it away in the container before it reached the table.

“Actually, I do have some idea of it, based on my experience with those poor men’s flayed-open backs.” The new, dark glints in her eyes should have warned him that this was not going to go well for him, but he was too angry to care.

“You know nothing. Those injuries were like flea bites as compared to what happens in battle. Men were brought down in simple pairs. They had wounds that were easily treatable. The ship was not under attack and the noise deafening. You don’t have a man screaming and begging for you to take a knife to his throat so he can avoid the pain of the three-foot wood splinter protruding from his chest. Or his leg. Or his eye.”

“I assure you, Lieutenant, that I am fully capable of managing myself and assisting the surgeon.”

“The only thing I see you to be fully capable of is disobeying me.”

“Disobeying you?” she gasped, incredulity on her face.

He knew he had gone too far, but he couldn’t help it.