Caution to the Wind (7 page)

He’d hate to have to leave Adam behind. He liked having the boy around. His skill with a stove had been evident, but there was more to it than that. The boy had a gentleness not often found among sailors. Will found it...soothing.

Will shook his head at his own foolishness. A gentle soul did not belong on a privateer anymore than a woman did.

“All men at the ready, sir,” Bull reported.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Will walked past each of the nine-pounders, Bull trailing behind him.

“Will you have trouble with that one?” he asked when his inspection took him to the far end of the ship and out of earshot of Adam.

“No, sir,” Bull responded, turning for a moment toward the gun where Adam stood, waiting for orders from the captain of the gun crew.

Will wondered that Bull didn’t have to ask to which of the new recruits he referred. Several sailors still had a hard time keeping their grog in their bellies and their feet underneath them when the
Amanda
pitched without warning. More than a few were still unsure of their duties. Many of them had eyes glistening with fear.

Had he done something to lead Bull to believe he had a special concern for Adam? He would have to guard his expressions better to avoid having his crew think he had gone soft.

“So you believe the boy can do his duty?” Will asked, his voice harsher than he intended.

“He will or I’ll toss him over the side meself,” Bull said. Then his tone softened, “It’s his first battle, Captain. Everyone has to have a first battle.”

Truer words were never spoken. Will’s stomach roiled as he remembered his own first battle on the
HMS Triumph
in the last days of the French and Indian War. Until then, the life of a lieutenant in His Majesty’s Royal Navy had seemed easy compared to that of an officer in the army. On a ship, one could spend days on end without so much as spotting the enemy. Battles often lasted only a short time, and some captains struck their colors after the first warning shot across their bow.

Then he witnessed first-hand the carnage left behind when ships of war engaged in a full offensive, and he knew the illusion of a bloodless battle to be just that, an illusion.

However, the real test of character was not to quell one’s fear before battle, but to perform one’s duties during battle in spite of the fear. He still held out hope that Adam would do himself credit.

He could read the name on the back of the merchant ship now.
Duckworth.

The boy would soon have his opportunity.

With any luck, the
Amanda
could rake the side of the larger ship and then draw past before the merchant ship’s twenty-four-pounders made toothpicks out of her. The superior speed of his Baltimore schooner over a heavily laden merchantman gave him more than enough advantage to overcome the mismatch in firepower. However, not every captain had as much skill at leveraging that advantage. Nor as much luck.

Time slowed. Every eye focused on the captain. Every ear, alert for his next order. Even the wind whistling through the rigging quieted as though to listen for the captain’s command.

“Fire!” Will’s cry split the silence and bounced across the deck a fraction of a second before a series of explosions rocked the small ship. The pungent aroma of spent gunpowder permeated the air.

Several of the shots fell clear, but a number of them hit their mark in a spray of splinters.

Although clearly better armed, the merchantman’s crew didn’t appear to be well-trained or well-supplied. Many of the enemy’s guns were not fired, and those few that were, fell short. Tell-tale shouts of confusion rang across the short expanse of sea separating the two ships.

“Above the water line, men!” Will yelled, before ordering the helmsman to bring the ship around. “We don’t want to sink our prize before we get a chance to see what she offers, do we?”

A raucous cry rose from the deck. A good sign for a new crew.

The
Amanda
came about to take another shot at her prey, giving the men time to reload the guns. Will spent the few minutes of respite considering his good fortune to have a crew so hearty and capable and a merchant ship so defenseless on which to cut their teeth.

Crews aboard a privateer were neither pressed into service nor required to serve for a specified length of time. Many men returned to shore once they had made enough money to pay off their debts or start a new life. For sailors aboard a skilled privateer, it often didn’t take more than a year or two.

Still others stayed on, either for patriotic or personal reasons. With each new voyage, Will prayed he would have enough seasoned sailors joined by willing, capable new hands to continue the almost legendary string of the
Amanda’s
successes. A lucky captain was a good thing, a skilled crew even better.

Will laughed when Bull sent a sailor sprawling to the deck with a boot to his backside. Never vicious in his discipline, when he felt the men were shirking their duties, Bull made sure they knew it.

He had been crew master on a whaler, but eager to join the fight when war broke out at last. With Bull’s rough edges and his disregard for authority, he made a natural privateersman, especially under Will’s command. He had great respect for Bull’s experience and trusted the grizzled old veteran without question. On the rare occasion when Bull argued with him, Will listened. Bull respected his captain too, and if he saw fit to resist an order, he usually had good reason.

Although Will trusted Bull’s counsel, he trusted his own instincts more. He watched Adam go about his duties. The boy juggled three of the nine-pound balls while his brother yelled at him to keep up.

Had he been wrong this time?

After more than two weeks of hard work, Adam still looked like he might snap in a stiff wind. Struggling with his load, fear showed in the boy’s wide eyes and colorless lips.

As if sensing Will’s gaze on him, the boy looked up. He gave Will a look that was clearly apologetic, then tightened his grip on his load.

Sighing, Will focused his attention on the rest of the preparations. With the
Amanda
bearing down on a much larger vessel with vastly superior armament, he couldn’t allow himself to be absorbed in concern for one ship’s boy.

“I don’t think we’ve woken her up yet, men,” he bellowed. “Prepare to give her another round.”

“Fire!” The boom of his voice was echoed a moment later by a chorus of cannons.

A momentary chaos descended on the
Amanda
when shot from one of the merchantman’s guns struck a railing. Wood splinters rained down on the crew, a man screamed, and Buck and Bull shouted orders above it all.

Once the smoke cleared, Will assessed the damage. Minimal, he thought with relief. A railing could be replaced. Masts and men and guns were not so easy.

One man lay on the deck, his face chalky. A large piece of wood pierced his thigh. He struggled to get up while another sailor held him down.

Another good sign, Will concluded. He had seen men have an arm blown off and still want to fight. This man had heart. Will hoped the sailor’s wounds weren’t serious, and he would be able to rejoin them in the next fight. However, for now, he was in the way.

“Take him below!” he ordered.

****

Amanda stared at the jagged wood protruding from the sailor’s thigh. A red stain seeped through his canvas trousers.

With the captain’s order given, Bates, the sailor who had been holding the man down, grabbed him under the arms and motioned with a sharp nod for Amanda to take his feet. With a grunt and an effort not to stare at the red ooze seeping around the wood, she grabbed both legs and struggled to carry the wounded man toward the steps. A couple of times, she had to readjust her grasp, and the sailor groaned in pain.

Going first down the ladder, Amanda bore the brunt of the man’s weight. Her legs burned and her back ached. His blood, hot and sticky, trickled down his leg and seeped into her sleeve. When she somehow managed to descend the few steps and gain a solid footing on the planks below, she offered a quick but silent prayer of thanks.

“First patient, Doctor!” Bates called.

They carried the man into the erstwhile dining hall.

“Set him there,” the doctor said, looking up from a tray of instruments.

The sailor grunted when they laid him on the nearest table. His lips paled when Bates and the doctor adjusted his position, and Amanda winced along with him.

“You’re going to be just fine,” she whispered in his ear, setting her hand on his shoulder to calm him.

The man looked at her with some surprise before saying, “Thank ye, kindly.” He sighed and his shoulder relaxed beneath her fingers.

Bates gave her a nod of thanks and retreated to the main deck. Amanda watched him go, her hand still resting on the wounded man. Perhaps she would stay just a few minutes to comfort him while the doctor saw to his wounds. Then she would return to her station no matter how much she dreaded it.

She searched for something soothing to say. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Simon, m…” He mumbled the rest of his answer, but at least she caught his first name.

“Well, Simon,” she said, trying to sound cheerful, “it doesn’t look too bad. I am sure the doctor will have you fixed up in no time.”

Simon gave her a week smile. In truth, his leg looked awful, and she had no idea how the doctor would go about removing the large piece of wood and repairing such a ghastly wound.

Setting aside her doubts, Amanda continued to whisper words of encouragement to her shipmate, and Simon closed his eyes. After awhile, she stopped paying attention to what she said because it didn’t really seem to matter. So long as she kept speaking, Simon kept his eyes closed and continued to breathe in a slow, even pattern.

“Well, let’s see what we have here.” Doctor Miller laid his instruments on a side table.

With a pair of scissors, he cut open the man’s canvas trousers, revealing his large thigh, the dark, curly hairs matted in blood. Poking around the splinter, he examined the damage.

“Are you well?” He peered at Amanda over the top of the round spectacles perched on the end of his nose.

“Yes,” Amanda replied. Remembering her duty, she added, “but I really should return to my station.”

The doctor ignored her comment and returned to prodding his patient. “First time in battle?”

“Yes, sir.”

Amanda caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the washbasin in the corner of the room. She looked as white as a sheet, the paleness of her face accentuated by the soot smudges across her forehead and chin and the blood staining her filthy shirt.

She looked terrified. The captain had noticed it too. The look of disappointment he gave her just before turning away had torn at her insides as surely as if she had been struck by the grape shot whistling past her ear.

“Well, you have a good bedside manner. The damage here isn’t too great. No major arteries hit, just ripped the flesh a bit.” The doctor stood and met Amanda’s gaze. “Still it’s going to sting a bit when I take this out and clean him up. Mind staying down here awhile longer?”

“No, sir,” Amanda replied.

Not at all!

The battle raged on deck. Even in the cool, shadowed darkness, the acrid odor of cannon fire hung in the air and mingled with the metallic smell of fresh blood. She gave Simon a reassuring smile. Gratitude shone in his bloodshot eyes when he tried, without much success, to return her smile. If she could do anything to ease this man’s pain, maybe it would be best to stay awhile.

The doctor removed the splinter and cleaned the wound with a dark liquid that made the sailor suck air through his teeth.

“Hold this against his leg, will you?”

He handed Amanda a patch of folded gauze, already stained crimson from the man’s blood. More blood seeped through the thin fabric, wetting the tips of her fingers when she held it against his wound. Amanda wondered at the absurdity of calling the offending matter a “splinter.” To her, the jagged piece of wood lying in the refuse basket at the end of the table looked more like a garden stake.

She held the gauze with a firm but gentle hand and watched the doctor thread a needle thinner and sharper looking than her sewing needles at home. This one also had a slight curve to it.

A boom shook the timbers, and Amanda instinctively leaned over her patient to protect his open wound from the flecks of oakum and dust falling from the beams overhead.

“There now, that looks good,” the doctor said, peeling Amanda’s hand and the gauze away from the man’s leg. “Looks like the bleeding stopped, but we’re going to have to sew this up before we get any more patients.”

The doctor made the first stitch, dabbing at a rivulet of blood with the edge of a fresh piece of folded gauze. Despite the difference in the needle, his motions looked much like sewing, and Amanda wondered why there were not more female doctors if the skills were so similar.

Roger came down the stairs, his beefy arms supporting two sailors about the waist. “Doc, that ship’s givin’ us more trouble than we bargained for.”

The two men were bleeding, but both moved under their own power, although with considerable assistance from their uninjured shipmate. Roger deposited them against the wall, and the doctor glanced over his spectacles, assessing their condition. One man’s arm hung limply at his side. It looked broken. The other had a trickle of blood running down his temple.

“Can you hold the gauze against the wound again while I make sure those two aren’t in immediate danger?” the doctor asked.

Amanda nodded and pressed her hand against the rough fabric. The needle and thread, still connected to the skin where the doctor had made the first several stitches, dangled freely.

“Does it pain you much?” she asked Simon.

He raised himself on his elbows with a small groan. “No, but I would like to get it over with.” His voice held a hint of a suggestion.