The Patriot's Fate (37 page)

King considered him thoughtfully as he eased the pistol in his belt, and adjusting the hilt of his cutlass. “Of course there may be some who take their bluster a little too rich,” he said. Chilton laughed, then King bent to peer down the barrel of the nearest carronade.

“Wait ‘tils we touch,” he growled as the ship grew closer. There was a snapping of wood and tearing of lines as
Scylla
slowly and unceremoniously ploughed into the Frenchman’s starboard bow. The two hulls drew apart momentarily but joined again a little further down. Then, with a deadly groan from the timbers, the warships finally locked.
 

Without waiting for an order,
Scylla
‘s carronades were fired, and all but wiped the waiting Frenchmen from their forecastle and gangway. Then, following Westwood’s mighty shout, the boarders left with a rush.

Despite the impact there was still several feet to clear before the enemy deck could be gained, and the battleship’s freeboard was higher than the frigate’s. King found himself tottering on
Scylla
‘s side, conscious of the body of men behind, and actually jumped before he could plan a suitable place to land. He was lucky, and fell against the flagship’s main rail. It took no time to clamber across and pull himself up. Cox, immediately behind, was less fortunate. He leaped, but missed his footing, and disappeared into the dark void between the two vessels without a sound.

King recovered himself and took his pistol from his belt. He brought the hammer back to full cock and drew his cutlass as he looked about. The forecastle was all but clear, yet there were enemies a plenty, far more than any of them had realised. The entire waist was filled with soldiers, most of whom would soon be swarming up to meet them. For a moment he wondered about returning, but a glance at the number of British still coming across revealed the folly of such a thought. There was no way any of them could leave now.

Westwood had landed further along the forecastle and was still swinging that ridiculous gun and shouting as he made his way down the ship. But it was a compelling example and several were already following. To their left another group of seaman had just come from
Scylla.
Amongst them King noticed Johnston, alongside Surridge, the quarter gunner. The latter was already in the fight and wielding a boarding cutlass against a French army officer who was trying to reclaim the forecastle. The man was swept aside by Surridge’s heavy blade as if he were a mere puppet, and Johnston casually pressed the body back down to the waist with his foot. Westwood advanced into the space they had created, and more followed. As King watched the marine looked back to him.

“Make for the quarterdeck!” he shouted, indicating the enemy’s starboard gangway. King nodded. Westwood had the right of it: the waist was tightly packed with soldiers; it would take an age to cut through such a mob, but the gangway ran several feet above, and had been all but cleared by
Scylla
‘s carronades. It also acted as a direct line to the command point of the ship; if they were to force the French to strike, the order must come from there.
 

One of the marine privates fell, shot in the chest by a group of marksmen on the opposite gangway. Westwood called his men’s attention to the threat and aimed his own rifle. The rank of Frenchmen collapsed amidst a volley of musket fire, and Westwood grinned, clearly satisfied.
 

King started for the gangway and joined it about ten feet behind Westwood’s group, with Barrow and Chilton close behind. Another Frenchman fell to the marine officer’s piece as the forward party advanced. The thrust of a pike came up at them from the waist, but Johnston was alert and grabbed at the shaft before it could do any damage. A downward slash of Surridge’s cutlass followed, then the pike was unceremoniously plunged backwards into its owner’s face, and they continued.

The British were just over half way along the gangway when the French fully realised their position. Soldiers on the quarterdeck took aim with muskets, and the man next to King was sent spinning as a ball hit him in the arm. The lieutenant caught the body instinctively, and realised it was Barrow. His face was stretched in pain, but the wound did not appear critical. King heaved him to one side, telling the lad to keep still. There was little he could do to help, but at least the midshipman would be safer propped against the bulwark than if he had fallen to the mob below. They moved on, Surridge pushing past Westwood as the officer paused to pick off a man on the French quarterdeck. Chilton came level with King; he was gripping an ornate hanger and grinning like a madman.

“All well, Peter?” King asked.

“Splendid, Tom,” the lieutenant replied through gritted teeth. “Splendid.”

Two Frenchmen joined the gangway from the quarterdeck, and ran down towards the advancing British. Westwood’s rifle fired, and Surridge swung his cutlass, pausing to finish both his and the marine’s victim off with unnecessary zeal.
 

Then they reached the quarterdeck proper, and Surridge immediately laid into a group still working a carronade. There was an officer amongst them, or at least a man wearing an officer’s decorated coat as well as a pair of rather dandy pantaloons, and the British seaman was clearly in the mood for some upper class sport. He advanced, his cutlass at the ready, but the man was armed with a short sword, and parried the strike expertly. Westwood also fired, hitting a seaman with vivid red hair who shrieked like a startled rabbit. The marine was raising his piece to reload, when a musket ball fired from the poop struck the weapon.
 

There was a loud crack and Westwood’s precious rifle seemed to fly from his grasp. The officer’s head rolled back, both hands went to cover his face, and he began a long and agonising scream as he sank to his knees at the very end of the gangway. King bounded forward and rolled him aside, gasping as he saw the terrible wound. The rifle was lying on the deck; its butt had exploded and was now nothing more than a tangle of jagged, twisted metal. King kicked angrily at the weapon, sending it down to the waist below. There was nothing for it, he must take command.
 

He glanced back. More men from
Scylla
had followed them along the gangway. King saw Chilton hesitate as he noticed the prone and moaning body of the marine ahead of him. The young lieutenant looked more astonished than frightened and King figured his nerve would be good for a while longer. Further forward Surridge still seemed locked in combat with the French officer and a British marine was swinging his musket by the barrel like a club. King pressed on, and Chilton followed, stepping carefully passed the groaning Westwood.
 

A Frenchman fired a pistol; King instinctively ducked even though he could not tell where the shot had been directed. Rising up he almost casually hacked the man back with his cutlass. Then he was free of the gangway and safely on the quarterdeck, although there now seemed to be men everywhere. From one side a madman was waving a wooden handspike with no obvious intention, while the pantalooned officer and Surridge were totally absorbed in what was fast becoming a private battle. King struck wildly at two soldiers who were attempting a bayonet charge; one fell to the blade, the other dropped his musket and drew back at the sight of his colleague being butchered. Chilton was in the fight now, and slashed wildly at a soldier who desperately tried to fend off the blows with his musket. The man was retreating, the weapon held in front of him like a staff, as the lieutenant stepped forward, steadily gaining ground like any professional. Then there were more men from
Scylla
swarming about them, and King knew it could not last for much longer.
 

A seaman came towards him with a cannon rammer in his hands and a look, almost of enquiry, on his face. For a moment King sensed recognition but in the nightmare that was the
Hoche
‘s quarterdeck, reality and conscious thought were effectively suspended. The heavy tool would make a serviceable weapon and instinct told him to defend himself. His sword was ill placed to parry, but the pistol remained unused. He raised it and squeezed the trigger in one fluid action. The gun fired and the face, that strangely familiar face, took on an expression of mild surprise and shock, before disappearing entirely from view. Then a French soldier was charging at him with a musket. There was no bayonet fixed, and King was able to dodge effectively enough, but already another moustachioed seaman was advancing with a sword and deadly intent. King blocked and struck him down, but he knew his luck must soon run out.
 

He glanced about in desperation, eager for any sign that the French might be beaten.
Amelia
was visible off the larboard quarter. She was clearly intending to come to their aid but remained some way off. And there was
Robust
, nearly alongside, although her boarders still lined her rails. Then he noticed a French officer standing, almost aloof, next to the ship’s wheel. Their eyes met, and King nodded in his direction. The man appeared tired, exhausted actually. King advanced towards him, thoughtfully lowering his cutlass as he went. He had little French, and could not begin to explain what was in his heart, but it must be clear to all that nothing more would be gained by fighting. The day was won, or would be within minutes. In that time more men would be killed, more injured; it might as well be acknowledged now as later.
 

On seeing King approach the man went to raise his sword when he seemed to have a change of heart. His shoulders slumped slightly, the blade was returned to its scabbard and, instead, he reached into his jacket for a small silver whistle. There was one loud, solid blast, followed for a second by almost silence. Then the note was repeated and men actually paused to draw breath. The officer spoke in a commanding voice and looked towards King. Someone called up from the waist, and there was a chorus of angry protests. But soon the Frenchmen were lowering their weapons and slowly the nightmare began to fade.

* * *

 
The scene on the orlop deck was one of contained confusion. Sarah had long since banished any foolish horrors about dealing with the injured and was tending each man with a newly discovered competence and understanding. And while doing so she had acquired a loyal friend; one who was helping her attentively as any child might their mother.
 

Parfrey had already been seen by Mr Manning, who closed the gash that ran from his nose to his ear with light horsehair stitches. It was a neat enough job and the bleeding had stopped almost immediately, even if for the rest of his life no one would ever be in doubt of the injury. But at that moment there were other matters far more important to attend to and with his head bathed in bandages the boy followed Sarah about, ready with swabs, instruments, lemonade or rum as the situation demanded. Together they had removed at least eight small splinters and tied three tourniquets, while the number of temporary dressings she had applied, with Parfrey passing the rolls of linen and deftly supporting the patient, were countless. And the men were quieter for the couple’s very presence; none were in any doubt as to their medical qualifications, but the attention of other caring beings was in many cases worth as much as any bandage.

Occasionally she would glance across to Mrs Porter, carrying out a similar task on the opposite side of the deck. Betsy was currently assisting Manning, who had the complex job of removing several deeply embedded metal fragments from a gunner’s torso. The patients had been coming at a steady stream from the start of the action, with the backlog gradually growing as the medical team fought to keep up with the flow, but in the last ten minutes there had been just one man with a minor cut. The great guns had also been silent and all in the cockpit were wondering if the action had finally come to an end.

Their hopes were roughly crushed when a commotion at the hatch heralded the start of a fresh tide of injured. Mrs Porter rose to meet the new intake, swiftly followed by Sarah and her shadow. The new patients were mainly marines, and there were none of the splinter injuries and shot mangled bodies the medics had become inured to. Instead they were presented with the effects of heavy cutlass blades, small swords and pike heads, with the occasional bullet wound to add variety. A marine officer had been savagely wounded in the face and was shouting for laudanum; there were several who had shed their life’s blood on the journey down, and could only to be placed amongst the growing pile of corpses. Some were French, and there was one, a well built bearded man, who was clearly Irish and struggled with the loblolly boys as if they were his sworn enemy. Sarah was attending a seaman wounded in the chest by what she guessed to be a musket shot. The injury was deep and many were in the queue ahead. It would take time to find and extract the bullet, and even then the chances of severe internal damage meant there was little hope for him. She was examining the wound and speaking softly while he watched her with the air of one not fully aware.

“Is there anything we can get you?” she asked as Parfrey applied a light dressing. “A drink, maybe?”

The man shook his head almost sadly but said nothing. Then, as Sarah and the boy stood up to leave, he whispered. “What ship is this?”