Regency Debutantes (16 page)

Nathaniel saw the slumped shoulders and read the reason correctly. ‘In a straight confrontation we don’t stand a chance against them. They each carry forty guns to our thirty-two, both are made of oak to our pine. The
Pallas
simply cannot withstand the pounding she would receive. Hit for hit we would suffer vastly more damage than they, not to mention the injury to the men from the splinters. They would have us down in a matter of minutes.’

‘Then all is lost and we should strike our flag,’ said Lieutenant Anderson miserably.

‘Quite the contrary, Mr Anderson. We must look to our advantages and make the best use of them.’

Pensenby piped up, ‘But you said that the
Pallas
is no match for them in battle.’

Nathaniel closed the spyglass with a snap. ‘No, Mr Pensenby, that is only the case in direct confrontation. There are many other types of battle.’

‘But we’re to run.’ John Anderson looked puzzled.

‘For now, until the conditions favour us rather than our enemy.’ Both men regarded him in silence. ‘The
Pallas
is smaller, and at only 667 tonnes, significantly faster. She should easily outrun them. Then it’s simply a matter of waiting until the timing is right.’

Lieutenant Pensenby seemed reassured by this. He was not a man suited to the bloody physicality of war, and the prospect of escaping what would undoubtedly prove to be a crashing defeat beckoned appealingly.

Captain Hawke strode across the quarterdeck to shout orders to the ship’s master. He paused momentarily, looked back over his shoulder, and said, ‘Rest assured that I’m not Byng, Mr Anderson.’

John Anderson thought of Admiral Byng who had been executed for failing to engage the Spanish Fleet with sufficient vigour. No, he did not doubt Captain Hawke’s courage. He would do better to watch and learn.

With the sails set fully to capture the wind the
Pallas
skimmed across the surface of the water with a deftness of speed that could not hope to be matched by her bigger, bulkier opponents. Heading further south into Spanish waters, they had lost sight of the two large French frigates before Nathaniel gave the order to change direction.

Georgiana could feel from the rolling motion that the ship was fairly flying across the waves, and concluded with relief that they were fleeing from the French. Although she did not know the size or manner of the enemy, common sense warned her that two against one did not offer good odds of a favourable result. This, coupled with what she had learned: the
Pallas
was experimental in design, being unusually small for a frigate and
built entirely of lightweight pine rather than sturdy English oak. It did not take a genius to surmise that any big gun fire would tear the ship apart.

Although Georgiana had no direct knowledge of exactly what naval battle involved, she had spent many an evening listening to Burly Jack’s reminiscences, tales of glory and honour, descriptions of blood and gore, death and decay. She shivered and drew her jacket closer around her. Nathaniel Hawke could be the best damn naval captain in the world, but, outnumbered and disadvantaged by his ship, there was little doubt as to the outcome of any encounter. And the thought of it brought a shiver to her soul. If she were to lose him now…She bit at her lip and wrung her hands together. She knew what would happen if the French were to catch up with them. For the second time in Georgiana’s life she was sailing dangerously close to a watery grave, poised to topple. She dropped to her knees and prayed for a gale that would spirit the
Pallas
with wings, far, far away from the long guns of the French.

A dense sea fog shrouded the
Pallas,
as she swept slowly, steadily on, cutting a path through the vast Atlantic Ocean, blind but for her trust in her captain’s charts and compass. Silently stalking her prey through the muffled cloud that enveloped her. All calls had been stifled, all pipes quelled. She floated as a ghost ship ever closer to her quarry, ears straining, guns readied. Then they heard it, an eerie shout through the gloomy miasma. Fingers moved to cock their muskets, hands to quietly draw their swords. Captain Hawke whispered his orders and the
Pallas
responded mutely, slipping into position. A bell sounded close by, its clang deadened by the blanket of fog. Nathaniel waited. Waited. Biding his time.
Breath by breath. Second by second. He only hoped his calculations were correct, there would be no room for error. One chance, and one chance alone, to take the prize or be damned in the process.

Even as his hand clenched, poised to give the final command, his mind flitted to the girl locked below in his cabin. Like a moth to a flame he was drawn to her. Could no longer deny his compulsion. Was glad even that she was here on his ship, in his care, for all the danger that it brought. He knew he was a scoundrel to think such a thing. Hadn’t he learned his lesson with Kitty Wakefield? He had no right to gamble with Georgiana’s life, none but the knowledge of her likely fate at the hands of a French captain, or, even worse, a French crew. That was if she survived the wrecking of the
Pallas.
They were all supposedly governed by the gentlemanly rules of warfare. But Nathaniel knew that these were employed as and when it suited. Georgiana would stand little chance against either the Atlantic Ocean or their French opponents, and the thought lent strength to his resolve. There could be no failure. Not for her. Not for any of them. He could only hope that the
Pallas
would live up to her name—the Greek goddess of victory. With a steady hand and a courageous heart, Captain Hawke gave the order.

The full force of four carronades on the
Pallas’
forecastle blasted at close range upon the hapless and unsuspecting French frigate
Ville-de-Milan,
inflicting substantial damage to the hull. In the lull that followed Captain Hawke personally led the small boarding party to secure the ship. In a matter of minutes the task had been completed. Nathaniel returned to the
Pallas,
ready to engage the second frigate positioned close by. The yells of her crew alerted him as to her
precise position and he swung the
Pallas
round to hide her bow. The French guns fired before the manoeuvre was complete, shattering the foremast and splintering the bow. The
Pallas’
carronades roared again, delivering their massive twenty-four-pound round shot with a snarling ferocity. The
Coruna
slipped behind the
Ville-de-Milan,
but Nathaniel had anticipated the move and was already leading his men across the barren boards of the first frigate to reach the second. Nothing could stop him, Georgiana would be safe and the prize his.

Georgiana shivered at the unnatural hush that surrounded her. No voices, no banging, no footsteps, no pipes, no bells. Only the gentle lap of water and the weary creaking of timber. Foreboding prickled at the nape of her neck and she was aware of a tight smothering tension. She sat rigidly in the small chair within the night cabin and waited. Sweat trickled in slow rivulets down her back. Fingers grew cold and numb. Silence. Suddenly an enormous explosion ricocheted around her, the blast echoing in her ears. Even locked below within the tiny cabin, the unmistakable odour of gunpowder pervaded. She leapt up from her seat. The
Pallas’
guns were firing. Nathaniel must be cornered, under attack. Dear Lord! The ship shuddered violently, landing her forcefully to the floor. Men’s screams, voices shouting. Georgiana struggled to her feet. Fear rippled through her, but it would not stop her. She could no longer stay hidden and safe while the rest of the crew faced death and capture. Ship’s boy Sam Wilson needed her, able seaman Jack Grimly needed her, and then there were the others. And the most important name of all held close to her heart—Nathaniel Hawke. She would do what she must to help those that she had come to think upon as friends. For Nathaniel she would lay down her life. Without further ado she slid the key into the lock and turned the handle.

Scenes of mayhem greeted Georgiana as she ran along the gun deck. Surprisingly the long guns were run in and silent, gun teams at the ready. Neither was the usual screen of pungent blue smoke hanging in the air, but she scarcely had time to ponder upon it. Two massive holes gaped on both the starboard and larboard sides where a round shot had ripped its way through and fortunately departed again. Not so fortunate was the devastation it had reaped on its route. Part of the capstan had been destroyed and enormous splinters of wood lay all around. Worst still, Georgiana could see the surgeon tending a blood-soaked figure on the floor. Several other men slumped nearby, their faces ashen, their clothing ripped and red-stained. Blood pooled invisibly upon decks painted red for just such a purpose. She ran to the surgeon’s mate kneeling over a prone body.

‘Mr Murthly, can I assist you, sir?’

Robert Murthly, a sturdy young man with untidy red hair, looked up at the boy. ‘Captain wouldn’t be best pleased to find you here, Robertson—or should I say
Lord
George? Shouldn’t have thought you’d have wanted to dirty those fine letter-writing hands of yours.’

The gossipmongers had been busy. She looked beneath the sneer on the surgeon’s mate’s face and saw fear and fatigue. Little wonder he despised her, thinking her a pampered brat to be coddled in the captain’s cabin while the rest of the ship risked their lives. Surreptitiously she fastened her jacket, and hoped that the surrounding chaos would draw Murthly’s full attention. With so much blood and carnage she doubted that any man would have the time to notice the subtle change in Lord George Hawke’s appearance. Besides, the crew were about to learn there was a whole lot more to the captain’s nephew than they supposed. ‘I’m here to help, sir, just tell me
what to do.’ Her voice was harsh and gritty, its tone as low as she could manage.

The surgeon’s mate wiped the sweat from his brow with bloodied fingers and regarded her with deliberate consideration. Most of the men were busy securing the French frigates, and the gun crews were not permitted to leave their stations. An extra pair of hands, even aristocratic ones, would come in useful.

‘Murthly!’ bellowed the surgeon. ‘Have a table shifted over here and quickly.’ He gestured to the mess tables that interspersed the long line of guns. ‘This man won’t make it below, losing too much blood. We’ll have to operate here. Run and fetch my instruments.’

Murthly looked at Georgiana. ‘Move the table like he says.’ Then the squat figure was off and running.

Georgiana, helped by one of the nearby powder boys, dragged the rough wooden structure that passed for a table across to the surgeon.

The surgeon scarcely looked at her, just dumped the haemorrhaging body down on to the surface that had so recently served up a dinner of salted meat and biscuit.

The seaman’s face was chalk-white and smeared with sweat, his lips trembling as he tried to suppress the moans of pain. She skimmed down and saw the ragged stump where what had been his hand hung. His breathing came fast and shallow and his pupils shrunk to pinpricks. No time for rum, nor for the opiates which would have deadened his agony.

Nimble fingers loosed the belt from her waist and looped it around just below the sailor’s slack elbow. She tightened the tourniquet and held the injured arm aloft. Her other hand touched to the man’s brow, its cool fingers wiping the sweat from his eyes.

The surgeon looked at her then, a suspicious expression of enquiry on his face.

She said nothing, just focused on the injured man lying so helplessly before her.

Murthly’s feet clattered back along the gun deck. He threw open the wooden box that he carried and handed the surgeon a large and wicked-looking knife. ‘Tourniquet already in place,’ he observed, and saw the surgeon’s eyes flit to the captain’s nephew.

‘Yes,’ he said drily. ‘Speed is our saviour,’ he proclaimed, ‘let’s not waste any more time.’ He paused before the blade contacted the bloodied pulp of reddened tissue and addressed Georgiana. ‘See what you can do for the others. There are clean linen strips within the box.’

She did as she was bid, using the knowledge she had gleaned from her furtive reading of Mr Hunter’s
A Treatise on the Blood, Inflammation, and Gunshot Wounds.
A fascinating book, if not one of which her stepfather would have approved for either her or Francis. Thankfully her stepbrother’s secret medical ambition had led him to lodge the book safely beneath his bed. When the last of the men had been transferred to the sick berth down on the lower deck, Georgiana slipped away to discover what had become of Nathaniel. She had just made her way up the companion ladder when the answer to her question appeared most suddenly, for, as she stepped from the last rung up on to the uppermost deck, she practically collided with Captain Hawke.

‘George!’ The word escaped unbidden, as his hands closed around her upper arms. His gaze swept over her, taking in the dried blood streaking her face, the pale fragility of the skin beneath and the dark stained clothing, and a pulse of horror beat in his breast. Behind him Lieutenant Anderson cleared
his throat, and with a start he came crashing back down to the reality of the situation. Not only had Georgiana blatantly disobeyed his order, but she was now risking her secret in an awkward situation. Perdition, but the girl seemed utterly determined to destroy her own reputation despite all his efforts. His eyes darkened. ‘Get back down below, Robertson,’ he barked.

Georgiana blinked, the breath caught in her throat. He was safe, unhurt. Her heart leapt at the sight of him. Thank God. But even as she relaxed with relief she saw the change wash over his face. And the tide that it brought with it was not one of love or even affection, but one of blazing fury. ‘Nathan …’ She remembered herself in time. ‘Captain Hawke,’ she amended, deepening her voice.

‘That is an order.’ His words were hard and angry, a stranger to her ear. Just as she turned to retreat she caught sight of the two smartly dressed French captains standing proudly behind him, their intense, dark eyes trained on Nathaniel. For one awful minute she froze, suddenly aware of how close she’d come to betraying herself. Wandering about the ship without the protection of her bindings, almost calling the captain by his given name, and all in full view of not only their own men, but also the French!