Sails on the Horizon: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars by Jay Worrall Page B
Authors: Jay Worrall
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now. And Lieutenant Winchester here looked after the shipping of the cable and making it fast to the bitts with never a hitch. Also, with the bang on the head you’ve had, we all thought you could do with the sleep. Everything’s fine. Be easy.”
Charles turned to Attwater. “In the future,” he said slowly, emphasizing each word, “when I say I want to be called at dawn, it doesn’t mean whisper through the door and tiptoe away. It means I want to be got up and out of bed by any means necessary. Is that clear?”
“Yessir,” Attwater responded evenly, “I got it now.”
Charles nodded, unsatisfied but not knowing what else to say. He decided on, “You may bring me some coffee.”
Around nine-thirty the surgeon and his mate appeared, waving a piece of paper. “What’s that?” Charles snapped as they approached.
“It’s the report you asked for,” the surgeon replied. “The butcher’s bill—the dead and wounded, sir.”
“Thank you,” Charles said, relieved that they weren’t planning to do anything to him. “What does it say?”
“Four score and seven killed outright,” the surgeon intoned emotionlessly. “One hundred thirty-two wounded. Maybe two score seriously. Twelve of them died during the night.”
“Thank you,” Charles said again, sobered. Ninety-nine dead so far and there would be more, he was sure. And for this he was honored by the fleet. “You may go.”
The surgeon hesitated, looking at him expectantly. “We have to change the dressing on your head, sir.”
“You touch my head and I’ll run you through with a sword,” Charles snarled. “Go away.”
“Now, do be serious, sir. It’s just the dressing. We only have to unwind the old one, slap on a little physic, and wrap on a new one. It might go bad if we don’t.”
Charles hesitated. On a signal from the surgeon, his mate pulled up a stool and pushed Charles down onto it. “Just you sit still, it won’t take a minute. Won’t hurt a bit.” As the surgeon was winding the new and somewhat cleaner bandage around Charles’s head he said, conversationally, “When are we going to have the service?”
“Service for what?” Charles asked.
“The burial for the dead, of course. We have to have a service with words and all.”
Charles tried to focus his mind on it. Argonaut carried no parson, and Captain Wood had neither encouraged nor discouraged attendance at the brief Bible readings held most Sundays. The last church service he could remember attending was his sister’s christening when he was nine years old. He’d always considered himself as nominally Church of England when he thought of it, which was rarely. He had, however, been present at numerous burials at sea, and he knew generally what to do. He turned to Bevan. “Have the pulpit rigged and the dead brought on deck. Not Captain Wood; we’ll carry him to Lisbon. Have all hands called aft at six bells.”
He found a Bible in Wood’s cabin, and at six bells he stood solemnly at the pulpit, said a short speech about remembering shipmates who’d made the last sacrifice, and then read the dog-eared sections from the book. He signaled to Winchester to have the first plank tilted over the rail. The drummer began his roll, one of the few remaining marines fired his musket into the air, and the bundled figure of a man, sewed into his own hammock and with two twelve-pound roundshot at his feet, slid off the board and plunged into the sea. The act was repeated to the solemn roll of the drum and the diminutive volleys innumerable times. When it came to the smaller form of Billy Bowles, Charles watched with a lump in his throat until it sank out of sight. He spent the remainder of the day distant and uncommunicative. That night he slept poorly and awoke twice to find himself sitting bolt-upright in a cold sweat, with images of the ship’s side exploding inward and men being hideously mangled all around him. After the second episode he rose, dressed, and spent
Charles turned to Attwater. “In the future,” he said slowly, emphasizing each word, “when I say I want to be called at dawn, it doesn’t mean whisper through the door and tiptoe away. It means I want to be got up and out of bed by any means necessary. Is that clear?”
“Yessir,” Attwater responded evenly, “I got it now.”
Charles nodded, unsatisfied but not knowing what else to say. He decided on, “You may bring me some coffee.”
Around nine-thirty the surgeon and his mate appeared, waving a piece of paper. “What’s that?” Charles snapped as they approached.
“It’s the report you asked for,” the surgeon replied. “The butcher’s bill—the dead and wounded, sir.”
“Thank you,” Charles said, relieved that they weren’t planning to do anything to him. “What does it say?”
“Four score and seven killed outright,” the surgeon intoned emotionlessly. “One hundred thirty-two wounded. Maybe two score seriously. Twelve of them died during the night.”
“Thank you,” Charles said again, sobered. Ninety-nine dead so far and there would be more, he was sure. And for this he was honored by the fleet. “You may go.”
The surgeon hesitated, looking at him expectantly. “We have to change the dressing on your head, sir.”
“You touch my head and I’ll run you through with a sword,” Charles snarled. “Go away.”
“Now, do be serious, sir. It’s just the dressing. We only have to unwind the old one, slap on a little physic, and wrap on a new one. It might go bad if we don’t.”
Charles hesitated. On a signal from the surgeon, his mate pulled up a stool and pushed Charles down onto it. “Just you sit still, it won’t take a minute. Won’t hurt a bit.” As the surgeon was winding the new and somewhat cleaner bandage around Charles’s head he said, conversationally, “When are we going to have the service?”
“Service for what?” Charles asked.
“The burial for the dead, of course. We have to have a service with words and all.”
Charles tried to focus his mind on it. Argonaut carried no parson, and Captain Wood had neither encouraged nor discouraged attendance at the brief Bible readings held most Sundays. The last church service he could remember attending was his sister’s christening when he was nine years old. He’d always considered himself as nominally Church of England when he thought of it, which was rarely. He had, however, been present at numerous burials at sea, and he knew generally what to do. He turned to Bevan. “Have the pulpit rigged and the dead brought on deck. Not Captain Wood; we’ll carry him to Lisbon. Have all hands called aft at six bells.”
He found a Bible in Wood’s cabin, and at six bells he stood solemnly at the pulpit, said a short speech about remembering shipmates who’d made the last sacrifice, and then read the dog-eared sections from the book. He signaled to Winchester to have the first plank tilted over the rail. The drummer began his roll, one of the few remaining marines fired his musket into the air, and the bundled figure of a man, sewed into his own hammock and with two twelve-pound roundshot at his feet, slid off the board and plunged into the sea. The act was repeated to the solemn roll of the drum and the diminutive volleys innumerable times. When it came to the smaller form of Billy Bowles, Charles watched with a lump in his throat until it sank out of sight. He spent the remainder of the day distant and uncommunicative. That night he slept poorly and awoke twice to find himself sitting bolt-upright in a cold sweat, with images of the ship’s side exploding inward and men being hideously mangled all around him. After the second episode he rose, dressed, and spent
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