Historical Romance Boxed Set (76 page)

The surgery took on an unreal quality as the blasts above continued and more men stumbled or were carried in, some barely alive. Rocked by cannonballs and barrages of smaller shot, the
Tempest
tossed about on the sea as though it weighed a mere fraction of its several tons. And still the two ships pounded away at each other, making it difficult, at times, for Jeannette to keep her balance.

From the number of sailors swamping the sick bay, she could hardly believe there were men left to fight. But she had yet to see an injured Lieutenant Treynor, or hear of his death, and for that she was eternally grateful.

“He’s dead. Throw him overboard.” Sivern indicated a man along the wall.

Jeannette cringed at the thought of a lifeless body floating in the briny water. So many bodies. But she knew they had no choice. Not in battle.

The surgeon’s mate left to dump the barrel of severed arms and legs over the side and was followed by another man who carried the dead sailor. The container was brought back to be filled again, a process that continued for over an hour.

The advent of two sailors, barking for the others to move aside, broke the routine when they entered carrying the captain.

A hush claimed the room as the surgeon motioned for the man on his table to be returned to the line so he could care for Cruikshank, who was bleeding from the right shoulder.

“How do you feel, Captain, sir?” the surgeon questioned as he examined the wound.

“Like hell,” Cruikshank groaned. “Give me a pull of that.”

Cruikshank took a gulp of the rum Jeannette provided. Then he gritted his teeth and refused to cry out as the surgeon went to work.

Once Sivern determined that the captain’s injury had been caused by a ball, which had passed clear through his shoulder, he washed the blood away and set Jeannette to bandaging the wound.

“What are you doing down here?” Cruikshank asked, as though seeing her for the first time. “Now I understand why the baron can’t keep track of you. I can do no better.”

“Well said.” Jeannette laughed. “You are going to be all right, sir.”

The captain grew serious and contemplative. “It is not my shoulder that worries me, beyond the fact that it keeps me from my duty.” He turned his head to stare out the door, obviously wishing he were back on deck.

Cruikshank’s words were Jeannette’s first indication that the fighting wasn’t going well. Although she knew they’d sustained a great many casualties, and even more injuries, she had no idea what was to be expected, or whether the French crew wasn’t suffering worse death and injury. Now she worried about losing the battle.

“Is Cunnington in charge then?” she asked.

“Aye,” he said, but the sigh that followed told her more than his words.

Her fate—and that of all those on board—now rested in Cunnington’s hands.

It was a terrifying thought.

Chapter 18

Had the last blast of the
Tempest
’s guns hit their mark?

The pepper of gunfire sounded in Lieutenant Treynor’s ears as he squinted through the smoke. The
Superbe
’s mizzenmast showed damage, but besides a few broken yards, it remained intact. He needed one more lucky round—just one.

“Wait …wait …wait …and fire!” he cried.

With another deep belch of the cannons there was a loud crack, as if the earth itself was dividing asunder. Then the French ship’s entire mizzenmast fell onto their deck, forcing those below it to scatter.

A cheer rose from Treynor’s men, but their exuberance did little to relieve the nagging worry at the back of his mind. Cruikshank had fallen among the injured. Now Lieutenant Cunnington was in charge, a man who had little experience and, in Treynor’s opinion, even less sense.

He threw a glance toward the wheel. Cunnington strutted where the captain usually stood, behaving as if the battle had already been won, the continuing volleys of gunfire superfluous in some way.

They were out-manned, out-gunned, and the French crew had already proven themselves better trained and more experienced than any Treynor had faced in the past. They had to do something decisive.

Putting one of his gun captains in charge, Treynor made his way amidships.

“What do you want?” Cunnington hollered above the din.

Treynor suppressed his irritation; Cunnington was, after all, his superior officer. “With all due respect, Lieutenant, judging from the condition of the
Superbe
’s quarterdeck, I think we may have injured or possibly killed their captain.”

“They certainly do not appear to have a lack of leadership,” he sneered.

Ignoring his response, Treynor lifted a hand. “Listen—do you hear that?”

Cunnington looked bewildered. “What?” he snapped impatiently.

“The silence since that mast went. If we capitalize on their confusion, we might board, turn their own guns upon them, and capture the ship.”

“Have you gone mad?” A staccato laugh punctuated Cunnington’s question. “Our crew is smaller than theirs.”

“They not only have more men, they have bigger guns,” Treynor pointed out.

“So?” He shrugged. “The bloody frogs are idiots.”

Treynor bit back a curse. “I beg your pardon, sir, but we have to do something before those ‘idiots’ blow us out of the water.”

“We
are
doing something, Lieutenant. They haven’t the mettle of Englishmen, as you know. If we keep at it, we will pound them into the sea.” He fisted his hand as though it were that easy.

Again, Treynor struggled with his temper and raised his voice. “A little difficult when so many of our crew are awaiting the surgeon’s attentions, don’t you think?”

He’d been unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “Watch yourself,” Cunnington warned, “or I will have you court-martialed after I return home with our prize. Although your idea shows a certain amount of …daring, by your own account of our injured, we haven’t the men to pull it off.”

“Already our carpenters are overworked and unable to fix the damage we have sustained,” Treynor argued. “We are taking on water despite the pumps. Several fires have broken out and are barely contained. Once the
Superbe
starts firing again, she will continue to lob eighteen-pounders into our hull—”

“
If
they get going again.”

“—while we respond with fewer and fewer twelve-pounders. It is only a matter of time. Do you not see that?”

“I see that you haven’t enough confidence in our men. I think the battle is going quite well. Some difficulty is to be expected, as well as a certain number of casualties. If we won the battle easily, there would be no glory in it.”

“Glory? Are you blind?” Fearing he might throttle Cunnington yet, Treynor took a deep breath. “My God, man, you are talking about running up an impressive butcher bill, a bloody battle to brag about back home, when we should be trying to swarm their ship so we can win while there is yet time!”

Cunnington narrowed his eyes. “Get back to your station, Lieutenant. Now! I will not have you tell me how to run this ship or win this battle! Do you hear?”

Even more convinced that the injured captain had left the ship in the hands of an inept fool, Treynor stepped forward. “You are asking for a miracle—”

“No, you are. Board their ship! Swarm the deck! Evidently you—”

There was an explosion, followed by a loud crack.

The mainmast fell toward them. It might have killed them both, but Treynor threw himself against Cunnington and knocked him far enough to the side to avoid one of the broken spars that stabbed the deck like a spear.

As Treynor got to his feet, a dazed Cunnington followed suit. Brushing off his uniform, the first lieutenant stared about himself in amazement, as though he’d only now awakened to find himself amidst such chaos.

Treynor almost wished his reaction when the mast went hadn’t been quite so quick nor half so instinctual. “We must board!”

Cunnington’s brow furrowed. “I cannot go charging off. I must stay with the ship.”

“Then I will lead the men. May I do so? Now?”

The first lieutenant stared at the
Superbe
while wringing his hands.

Treynor wanted to shake him. Cunnington was wasting precious time. Only the sure knowledge that a quarrel would most certainly take its toll in lives kept him speaking civilly. “If we do not act, and soon, we will all be killed,” he reasoned. “Or taken prisoner. They are probably planning to board us just as I am hoping to board them. They shall not beat us a second time today!”

“Yes.” Cunnington nodded. “Yes. Very well. A preemptive strike. We will board. But Lawson will lead the charge.”

Treynor felt his jaw tighten. “What? He is not the man for the job, and you know it. Let me do it!”

“No! You would love nothing more than the chance to come out of this a hero, to reap the glory and praise of our superiors, to beat me to post-captain, but—”

“Think of this, Cunnington—” Treynor’s hands balled into fists “—chances are far better I will be killed.”

When Cunnington almost smiled, Treynor could tolerate no more. “I am going,” he snapped, “and nothing you say will stop me.”

“I shall have you hanged for mutiny!” Cunnington screamed after him. “How dare you defy my authority!”

“Go to the devil!” Treynor tossed those words over his shoulder. He would not stand by and let hundreds of Englishmen die because of Cunnington’s ignorance and blind jealousy. Neither could he expect the soft-spoken Lawson to do what needed to be done.

Sparks flashed through the haze of battle as another boom, coming from the
Superbe
, rent the air. Splinters flew in every direction, several shards of which entered the flesh of Treynor’s arm, knocking him back like a meaty fist. At the same time, Lieutenant Cunnington fell, writhing, to the deck—and one glance told Treynor that the steersman, who’d been standing next to them both only moments before, was dead, the wheel blown to bits. Now they couldn’t steer the ship or angle the
Tempest
to send off another broadside. Whatever damage they could inflict with their chasers would never be enough.

A cry of “
Vive la nation!
” rose from the other ship, and Treynor guessed the French were about to board.

Oh God
…

Red rings of blood fanned out from the splinters that pierced his left arm, but there was nothing he could do about that right now. Forcing himself to move in spite of the agonizing pain, he knelt to examine Cunnington’s wounds.

“Take him to the surgeon,” he said to the two closest sailors. Cunnington had a nasty gash on the head, a large piece of wood protruding from his middle, and a smaller one sticking out of his leg.

“No!” Fighting them off, Cunnington tried, unsuccessfully, to stand. “I am in charge here. Lower the flag.”

Treynor gritted his teeth. The wounded, moaning seamen and the wreckage made him sick. If not for the captain’s poor timing at the onset, and Cunnington’s incompetence thereafter, the day could have ended much differently. They had beaten themselves. The battle had been decided the moment their wheel was destroyed. But Treynor wasn’t willing to give up yet.

“Not now.” Treynor fought to keep his feet despite his dizziness. “I will need all able-bodied men, pistols at the ready. We shall board. Like us, they have lost their mast, and perhaps their wheel. They will not get off another blast as square as the last.”

A weak cheer met his words.

“Anyone who follows him will be hanged for mutiny,” Cunnington groaned. With one hand grasping his stomach, he looked to the closest junior officer. “Did you hear me? Lower the flag. I am still in charge here.”

The man glanced uncertainly toward the flag locker where all flags, including those used for signals, were separated into pigeonholes. Then he looked at Treynor. “Nay. I think it’s time ye relinquish command, Lieutenant Cunnington,” he said, only to be interrupted by a shout of alarm.

“We’re goin’ down!”

Those from the handling chambers and shot lockers below began to swarm the deck. They dived into the foaming sea as they abandoned ship, some clinging to wreckage while others, who couldn’t swim, screamed until they drowned.

It was too late. Treynor hung his head as he tried to comprehend the magnitude of what had happened. They had lost the battle and the ship and far too many men.

And they stood to lose a lot more….

Calling for Lawson to lower the flag from the gaff and to see the wounded Cruikshank and Cunnington safely away in one of the few sound boats on the chocks abaft, Treynor headed to the hatch. He’d sent Jeannette below decks. Imagining her fear and confusion, he knew he had to find her. The battle had been lost. There was nothing more he could do for his men. But he would not lose her.

Shoving his way through what remained of the panic-ridden crew, Treynor looked first in her cabin and then, in a futile yet hopeful attempt, in his own.

Both were empty.

Remembering his note telling her to stay below the gun deck, he descended to the bowels of the ship, where he sloshed through the rising water that was already causing the
Tempest
to tilt at an odd angle. “Jeannette!”