(no subject)
Title: The Dogwatches
Rating: M (Suitable for ages 16 and above)
Disclaimers: None.
Original pen-date: 22 September 2008
Summary: Discontent and mutiny aboard a Royal Navy frigate. American Revolution, 1780.
Author's Note: There are probably some historical/ship goofs in here and I beg forgiveness for them.
"D'you reckon they made it?"
Corporal Jones shrugged and didn't bother looking toward the open doorway of the hut he was sitting in. In the hours since the two longboats had undertaken their impossible mission, there had been no sign of anyone, rebel or otherwise. It was as if the storm had swallowed up all three ships in the bay and their crews with them. With the coming of morning, they'd know how the night's attempts had fared.
"They better've made it," Symon Higgins offered, glancing up from the bayonet he was sharpening. "Or this'll all've been fer nothin'."
An undersized shadow tumbled into the hut with a colourful oath. A shadow that righted itself quickly and shook itself off as though it was a dog. "Storm's lettin' up, Mister Donovan sez," a thoroughly-soaked Fingers Smith reported, swiping indelicately at his dripping nose with his equally-dripping sleeve. "Be a couple'a 'ours 'fore it packs up, or sommat."
Higgins wiped splattered droplets of rainwater off his face with a halfhearted grimace. "Shame, ain't it? This'll only be the last time you ever bathe, Fingers."
The boy fairly beamed. "Bathin's unnach'ral. 'Ere, you gotta dry blanket. Give us a corner?"
The seaman next to Higgins rolled his eyes, but shook out part of the blanket. "Strip off that jacket first, mate. This here won't be dry fer long else!"
Fingers offered his trademark slightly-squeaking laugh and skinned out of all his clothes in only a few seconds. It was obvious he took the sailor's admonition to heart. With his sodden clothing left in a heap on the floor, the boy wrapped himself up in the offered half of the blanket. "Cheers," he said gratefully.
From his place by the door, Billy Springfield shook his head. Boys had no sense of shame or modesty. But then, why should they? "Did Mister Donovan any anythin' about the chances of them Yankees doin' for themselves?"
"Cou'n't be so lucky!" Joe Kipp declared. He nudged Fingers with his elbow and added, "Mind you shift a bit to starboard, wouldja? Give a lad some room for hisself."
The others in the hut chuckled when Fingers wriggled no more than a few inches to the right, giving Kipp the desired space. A broad smirk brightened the boy's face, showing he was not put off by Kipp's apparent desire to keep as much of the blanket for himself.
"Greedy beggar," Fingers observed with an admirable attempt at sounding serious. For a second, he was successful in squashing his smirk, but it didn't stay suppressed long. "No, he ain't knowin' a thing 'bout that," the boy added, belatedly answering Springfield's question.
"Ah, well," Higgins mused. "We'll do for 'em our own selves, right 'nuff."
That sounded good enough to the others. A companionable silence fell over the crowded hut, with each man content to listen to the rain thundering down. The sporadic booms of gun fire had petered out hours ago, leaving only the sound of the rain. If one set aside all other thoughts of their uncertain situation, it was a peaceful, almost pleasant, time. The men in the hut were glad for its shelter.
The peace was broken by a shout from outside, which drew nearly every man in the hut toward the narrow door. Jones, being closest, was able to see two hazy figures dash past through the curtain of rain, but there was little else easily seen, even for him. It wasn't until there came a sharp oath from Higgins, the former gamekeeper, that any of them knew something was amiss.
"What'd yeh see, Higgins?"
"Trouble." Higgins elbowed his way through the cluster of men around the door and headed back out into the rain, the stained white of his shirt making him seem ghostly in the dark. Whatever he had spotted, it must be important. Joe Kipp was the first man to follow Higgins out and the others shortly followed, heedless of the instant soaking they received as they left the hut's shelter.
Despite himself, Jones groaned. Whatever sort of trouble it was, chances were he would have to take charge, to give orders. He had become increasingly reluctant to do anything if it required leadership on his part. Please God don't let this be one of those occasions.
The trouble that Higgins had spotted revealed itself in the form of a crawling, half-drowned man, struggling against the surf that tried its best to claw him back to the churning sea. Two sailors waded out to retrieve him, heedless of the tugging waves. Even as Jones joined the growing crowd of onlookers, the coughing, sputtering man was carried up the beach to safety.
"The boat," the unfortunate fellow gasped, sounding utterly wretched. He had no chance to speak further, for Matheson the boatswain arrived at that moment. A couple of curtly-barked commands were all it took to disperse the assembled gaggle of men before Matheson himself bent to help the two gasping rescuers to carry their half-drowned comrade up the beach. The boatswain's arrival had neatly removed the burden of responsibility from Jones' shoulders, but in the same instant that he felt relieved, he realised there was now a greater burden to be borne.
The rescued sailor had spoken of a boat. There weren't many boats he could be referring to. Jones stared out at the dancing waves and shuddered. At least one of the longboats sent out had turned turtle. It was only inevitable, really. Attempting to cross to any of the ships in the little bay, in this weather, was utter madness. Why had they even tried? That meant all other Marines fit for assuming command were gone. It had to be. Jones' luck wouldn't have gone any other way. Or even if it wasn't, the chances of either boat being successful in its individual mission were impossibly small. He shuddered again.
No matter how he looked at it, he realised there was only one man on the beach with sole responsibility for the remaining Marines of the detachment. Himself. Despair settled in his gut like a frigid leaden weight. This was a task he did not at all feel equal to. Maybe, had he not been kept aboard Cornwall after his promotion, he could have done all right as a corporal. But these were not only his Marines. These were his mates. He'd been with them since the frigate had been commissioned. How could he give real orders to any of them and not forfeit his standing amongst them?
"Corporal!"
Jones cringed. It had only been a matter of minutes and yet it was already beginning to come crashing down on him. He turned to see Higgins loping toward him, now, strangely, carrying a musket. "Aye?"
"Mister Matheson's wantin' a word," the Somersetman told him. "Won't say what fer."
Perfect. The boatswain wouldn't explain his reasons to any messenger but Jones had a feeling he knew well enough what Matheson wanted to discuss. With no certainty that either of the boats had survived, the remaining crew on the beach would have to come up with a new plan of action. This storm would not last for ever and when it finally let up, their former captors would make a concerted attempt to retake their little camp ashore. There was little doubt in Jones' mind that they'd be successful in that attempt as well.
He grunted an acknowledgment at Higgins and started up the beach, only just able to keep his shoulders from slumping. Why did it have to be him?
~
When the boat had gone over, Edgar Tomilson was one of the first flung into the heaving sea. The musket he had been clutching was torn from his fingers the instant he hit the water but its loss was unimportant. What mattered was the fact that he could not swim. What mattered was the harsh realisation that he was about to drown and there was nothing he could do about it. He flailed blindly, gasping for air but inhaling nothing but stinging sea. The salt water choked him and he coughed, which did nothing to help. Only once was he above the waves, able to suck in a spray-heavy mouthful of air, then he was tumbling underwater with nothing but a frightening sense of helpless tumbling.
He was on the verge of resigning himself to never making it back to the surface when hands closed around his arms. Instinct drove him to resist, his panicking, terrified mind telling him that it was his doom coming to claim him. Whatever had a hold of him was pulling determinedly, no doubt drawing him into the murky depths. Tomilson opened his mouth to scream but no sound came forth. Instead, he took yet another mouthful of water and was another step closer to drowning. It was almost too much. He could feel the prickling wave of darkness beginning to shroud his brain, dulling his senses. It was a relief to feel the crushing tightness in his chest begin to ease. So this was what it felt like to die. He hated it, even as he longed to welcome it.
Then, the smothering weight of the turbulent sea was thrown off and he was howling into the clean, wet air. His lungs screamed as he gulped in precious oxygen, and promptly vomited up much of the water he had swallowed. Whatever had borne him to the surface gripped him still and Tomilson clung to it, all but sobbing in complete relief. That had been the closest he ever wanted to come to dying. He could not even begin to imagine how he had been plucked from that clutches of that awful fate but was only deeply glad that he had.
"Steady!" His rescuer gasped, trying to prise Tomilson's hands loose from his coat. The young Marine, fearing he was about to be cast adrift again, panicked and flailed. He could not be left to flounder. He would not. Not again! There was a long moment of wild thrashing before a closed fist slapped against his jaw. The blow surprised him and brought an immediate halt to his struggles.
"Steady, I said!"
This time, the words sank into Tomilson's awareness. Steady. Right. He dragged in another glorious breath and, with an effort, calmed himself. A little, anyway. Something solid and wooden was shoved into his hands then and he grasped it tightly out of reflex. It was a boat oar. Anything to help him stay afloat. He realised suddenly that his rescuer was gone, having provided him with this precious piece of buoyancy. Terror began to swell up within him again. He didn't want to be left alone out here! The rise of a wave carried him upward, then he was falling, tumbling almost head over heels as the wave crested and curled in on itself. Were it not for the oar he was clinging to, he might have gone straight to the bottom.
When his head broke the surface again, Tomilson gasped in a mouthful of spray-thick air and felt unaccountably weary. Why couldn't the storm blow itself out? More to the point, why did their boat have to turn turtle? They had surely been close to their objective. He wrapped his arms around the oar as another wave bore him upward. There was no telling where the rebel brig was or even where the beach was. It was all he could do to keep from being parted from his precious oar. This was the only thing keeping him from drowning. He knew it.
Yet another wave was dragging him heavenward when he saw the weighted line splash into the water below him. What in the devil? Pure self-preserving instinct drove Tomilson to strike out toward where the line had gone in, even though he had no idea how to swim. The oar in his hands helped, a little. It was almost like working a boat. He struggled against the wave's momentum but shortly found himself slipping downward, falling backward as the wave crested. No. No. He cried out in frustration. That weighted line could only come from something solid and safe, which meant rescue. A real, lasting rescue. But wherever that line was now, it would be impossible to reach.
There was a splash from very close by and Tomilson flailed for it. That could only be one thing, couldn't it? Whoever was throwing this line knew where he was and was trying to save him. At that moment, he didn't care who it was, so long as he got out of this heaving sea. In order to search for the line, however, he had to let go of the oar. He'd only have one chance at this. If he missed... steeling himself, Tomilson released his grip on the oar and it was immediately swept away. Nothing for it now. Fight back the panic. Keep your head above water. Find that wretched line. It was all much easier thought of than done.
Whoever was handling the line seemed to know exactly what was happening. The weighted end buried itself into the water almost directly on top of Tomilson's flailing hands. He grabbed for that thin rope immediately and cried out in relief when his fingers closed around it. At last! The line was in motion now, as whoever controlled it hauled away mightily. Tomilson was dragged swiftly through the clawing waves, thinking sure he might yet drown if the line should part. Then he was clear of the sea and soaring - or so it felt - toward the heavens. Despite himself, he laughed aloud at the feeling of utterly weightlessness. After everything else that had happened that day, this was easily the least terrifying.
His brief, joyous flight came to a bone-rattling halt when he was dropped heavily onto the deck of a ship. There he stayed for a long moment, breathing in deep shuddering gasps. Whatever sort of ship this was, he was immensely grateful for it. A shod foot prodded him roughly and a gruff voice barked, "Get up, redcoat. You're not here for your leisure!"
Tomilson wheezed and a second later vomited again, expelling more of the seawater he had swallowed. This action was rewarded with a kick to the ribs. Already his relief at being rescued was fading. That voice had a particular drawl to it that meant only one thing. He'd been hauled aboard one of the American brigs. He pushed himself up to his knees and peered blearily around. There were a couple sailors in blue jackets nearby, but no one else in red. Was he the only Marine left alive? A hand grabbed the back of his coat and dragged him to his feet. That same hand shoved him toward the two blue-jacketed sailors. It was obvious his rescue was only a mixed blessing, for he was a prisoner again.
~
The first pale fingers of dawn streaked across the sky, giving the barest shade of light to the glittering sea. No trace of cloud could be seen now. The storm had blown itself out hours before and any sign that there had even a storm had gone with it. The West Indies were notorious for such swiftly-changing weather. With daylight's rapid approach, it was possible to survey the damage the storm had inflicted on the unlucky boat crew. Not that such a thing was even necessary, Nick Frazier thought darkly. There were no more than eight men from the boat huddled on the brig's weather deck. Eight out of nearly twenty who had dared join the cutting-out party.
It was a miserable state of affairs. Frazier leaned heavily on the deck rail and looked gloomily at the sea, which was well-littered with debris and bodies. He could only count a few men drifting aimlessly out there, but had little doubt there were more to be revealed when the salvage boats were sent out. It was a damned sorry waste and Frazier suddenly resented that the attempt had even been made. How had they thought they could succeed? It had been sheer stupidity. And he was stupid himself for volunteering to be part of it.
The others were stirring. He could hear the gurgling rasp of Tomilson's cough as the young Marine tried to draw air into his water-logged lungs. The lad needed a surgeon but there was small chance of his seeing one with these damned Yankees in charge. Mister Simcoe was another who needed a surgeon, to set his broken arm. The lads had done the best they could in binding the injured limb to the first luff's chest with a crossbelt, but it was definitely a poor answer to a proper looking-to.
Frazier shivered and turned his gaze outward again. He wasn't sure if it was easier to search the now-settled sea for the bodies of his mates or to study the dejected faces of the handful of survivors gathered around the brig's mainmast. Both were equally dispiriting. At least, he admitted, the rebels had made an effort to save them. Between a couple gratings, some empty casks, and a couple weighted lines, they had done well to help save as many as they had. Not that it made that much difference, if those lads floating motionless out there were any sign.
"Away with you," a Yankee sailor snarled. The increasing bustle of activity on deck behind him must mean the crew were ready to launch their salvage boats. It was best to get as far out of their way as possible. Frazier made no reply to the sailor as he shifted toward the foc's'le. He was much too weary to rise to provocation. How he was even able to stand steadily defied belief.
From the foc's'le, he watched silently as the first of the boat crews went out. This was a task he had seen undertaken only once before. It was not at all pleasant to watch and he had little doubt it was even worse for the lads in the boats. Even being the enemy. The Marine's gaze moved from one floating corpse to another, taking note of every visible detail. It was something he simply could not help. Call it morbid curiosity or a driving need to know exactly who was down there, but he had to see. Even though he did already know who was out there by virtue of knowing who was on deck here with him.
The first boat nosed up against a grating, to which three men clung. Two sailors and a Marine. There was no movement from any of them. Frazier watched as the two sailors were pulled loose and dragged into the boat. He could not see their faces clearly but knew he would soon enough. When the boat idled toward the Marine, however, it came to him suddenly that he knew very well - perhaps too well - who that damned unlucky beggar was. A heavy, sick feeling settled in his stomach when the Yankee bowman leaned out over the gunwale to grab hold of the motionless Marine's coat. For, when the Marine's single-handed grip on the grating was finally prised loose, it was revealed that his other arm was firmly circled under the arms of a second Marine.
This time, Frazier saw the man's face plainly, for it took several oarsmen to drag the two Marines into the boat. Damn it. Damn it. He'd known it. He'd known it but refused to believe it, but seeing the face meant it was true. His eyes prickled and he looked away, his jaw clenching. That idiot just had to be the hero, didn't he? Never a second thought about it. Damn him for it! Frazier turned slowly around and sank down to the deck. He was an idiot himself for needing to see it. Stupid. It was all so damned stupid. He dragged in an unsteady breath and closed his eyes.
What a damned waste everything was.
Rating: M (Suitable for ages 16 and above)
Disclaimers: None.
Original pen-date: 22 September 2008
Summary: Discontent and mutiny aboard a Royal Navy frigate. American Revolution, 1780.
Author's Note: There are probably some historical/ship goofs in here and I beg forgiveness for them.
"D'you reckon they made it?"
Corporal Jones shrugged and didn't bother looking toward the open doorway of the hut he was sitting in. In the hours since the two longboats had undertaken their impossible mission, there had been no sign of anyone, rebel or otherwise. It was as if the storm had swallowed up all three ships in the bay and their crews with them. With the coming of morning, they'd know how the night's attempts had fared.
"They better've made it," Symon Higgins offered, glancing up from the bayonet he was sharpening. "Or this'll all've been fer nothin'."
An undersized shadow tumbled into the hut with a colourful oath. A shadow that righted itself quickly and shook itself off as though it was a dog. "Storm's lettin' up, Mister Donovan sez," a thoroughly-soaked Fingers Smith reported, swiping indelicately at his dripping nose with his equally-dripping sleeve. "Be a couple'a 'ours 'fore it packs up, or sommat."
Higgins wiped splattered droplets of rainwater off his face with a halfhearted grimace. "Shame, ain't it? This'll only be the last time you ever bathe, Fingers."
The boy fairly beamed. "Bathin's unnach'ral. 'Ere, you gotta dry blanket. Give us a corner?"
The seaman next to Higgins rolled his eyes, but shook out part of the blanket. "Strip off that jacket first, mate. This here won't be dry fer long else!"
Fingers offered his trademark slightly-squeaking laugh and skinned out of all his clothes in only a few seconds. It was obvious he took the sailor's admonition to heart. With his sodden clothing left in a heap on the floor, the boy wrapped himself up in the offered half of the blanket. "Cheers," he said gratefully.
From his place by the door, Billy Springfield shook his head. Boys had no sense of shame or modesty. But then, why should they? "Did Mister Donovan any anythin' about the chances of them Yankees doin' for themselves?"
"Cou'n't be so lucky!" Joe Kipp declared. He nudged Fingers with his elbow and added, "Mind you shift a bit to starboard, wouldja? Give a lad some room for hisself."
The others in the hut chuckled when Fingers wriggled no more than a few inches to the right, giving Kipp the desired space. A broad smirk brightened the boy's face, showing he was not put off by Kipp's apparent desire to keep as much of the blanket for himself.
"Greedy beggar," Fingers observed with an admirable attempt at sounding serious. For a second, he was successful in squashing his smirk, but it didn't stay suppressed long. "No, he ain't knowin' a thing 'bout that," the boy added, belatedly answering Springfield's question.
"Ah, well," Higgins mused. "We'll do for 'em our own selves, right 'nuff."
That sounded good enough to the others. A companionable silence fell over the crowded hut, with each man content to listen to the rain thundering down. The sporadic booms of gun fire had petered out hours ago, leaving only the sound of the rain. If one set aside all other thoughts of their uncertain situation, it was a peaceful, almost pleasant, time. The men in the hut were glad for its shelter.
The peace was broken by a shout from outside, which drew nearly every man in the hut toward the narrow door. Jones, being closest, was able to see two hazy figures dash past through the curtain of rain, but there was little else easily seen, even for him. It wasn't until there came a sharp oath from Higgins, the former gamekeeper, that any of them knew something was amiss.
"What'd yeh see, Higgins?"
"Trouble." Higgins elbowed his way through the cluster of men around the door and headed back out into the rain, the stained white of his shirt making him seem ghostly in the dark. Whatever he had spotted, it must be important. Joe Kipp was the first man to follow Higgins out and the others shortly followed, heedless of the instant soaking they received as they left the hut's shelter.
Despite himself, Jones groaned. Whatever sort of trouble it was, chances were he would have to take charge, to give orders. He had become increasingly reluctant to do anything if it required leadership on his part. Please God don't let this be one of those occasions.
The trouble that Higgins had spotted revealed itself in the form of a crawling, half-drowned man, struggling against the surf that tried its best to claw him back to the churning sea. Two sailors waded out to retrieve him, heedless of the tugging waves. Even as Jones joined the growing crowd of onlookers, the coughing, sputtering man was carried up the beach to safety.
"The boat," the unfortunate fellow gasped, sounding utterly wretched. He had no chance to speak further, for Matheson the boatswain arrived at that moment. A couple of curtly-barked commands were all it took to disperse the assembled gaggle of men before Matheson himself bent to help the two gasping rescuers to carry their half-drowned comrade up the beach. The boatswain's arrival had neatly removed the burden of responsibility from Jones' shoulders, but in the same instant that he felt relieved, he realised there was now a greater burden to be borne.
The rescued sailor had spoken of a boat. There weren't many boats he could be referring to. Jones stared out at the dancing waves and shuddered. At least one of the longboats sent out had turned turtle. It was only inevitable, really. Attempting to cross to any of the ships in the little bay, in this weather, was utter madness. Why had they even tried? That meant all other Marines fit for assuming command were gone. It had to be. Jones' luck wouldn't have gone any other way. Or even if it wasn't, the chances of either boat being successful in its individual mission were impossibly small. He shuddered again.
No matter how he looked at it, he realised there was only one man on the beach with sole responsibility for the remaining Marines of the detachment. Himself. Despair settled in his gut like a frigid leaden weight. This was a task he did not at all feel equal to. Maybe, had he not been kept aboard Cornwall after his promotion, he could have done all right as a corporal. But these were not only his Marines. These were his mates. He'd been with them since the frigate had been commissioned. How could he give real orders to any of them and not forfeit his standing amongst them?
"Corporal!"
Jones cringed. It had only been a matter of minutes and yet it was already beginning to come crashing down on him. He turned to see Higgins loping toward him, now, strangely, carrying a musket. "Aye?"
"Mister Matheson's wantin' a word," the Somersetman told him. "Won't say what fer."
Perfect. The boatswain wouldn't explain his reasons to any messenger but Jones had a feeling he knew well enough what Matheson wanted to discuss. With no certainty that either of the boats had survived, the remaining crew on the beach would have to come up with a new plan of action. This storm would not last for ever and when it finally let up, their former captors would make a concerted attempt to retake their little camp ashore. There was little doubt in Jones' mind that they'd be successful in that attempt as well.
He grunted an acknowledgment at Higgins and started up the beach, only just able to keep his shoulders from slumping. Why did it have to be him?
~
When the boat had gone over, Edgar Tomilson was one of the first flung into the heaving sea. The musket he had been clutching was torn from his fingers the instant he hit the water but its loss was unimportant. What mattered was the fact that he could not swim. What mattered was the harsh realisation that he was about to drown and there was nothing he could do about it. He flailed blindly, gasping for air but inhaling nothing but stinging sea. The salt water choked him and he coughed, which did nothing to help. Only once was he above the waves, able to suck in a spray-heavy mouthful of air, then he was tumbling underwater with nothing but a frightening sense of helpless tumbling.
He was on the verge of resigning himself to never making it back to the surface when hands closed around his arms. Instinct drove him to resist, his panicking, terrified mind telling him that it was his doom coming to claim him. Whatever had a hold of him was pulling determinedly, no doubt drawing him into the murky depths. Tomilson opened his mouth to scream but no sound came forth. Instead, he took yet another mouthful of water and was another step closer to drowning. It was almost too much. He could feel the prickling wave of darkness beginning to shroud his brain, dulling his senses. It was a relief to feel the crushing tightness in his chest begin to ease. So this was what it felt like to die. He hated it, even as he longed to welcome it.
Then, the smothering weight of the turbulent sea was thrown off and he was howling into the clean, wet air. His lungs screamed as he gulped in precious oxygen, and promptly vomited up much of the water he had swallowed. Whatever had borne him to the surface gripped him still and Tomilson clung to it, all but sobbing in complete relief. That had been the closest he ever wanted to come to dying. He could not even begin to imagine how he had been plucked from that clutches of that awful fate but was only deeply glad that he had.
"Steady!" His rescuer gasped, trying to prise Tomilson's hands loose from his coat. The young Marine, fearing he was about to be cast adrift again, panicked and flailed. He could not be left to flounder. He would not. Not again! There was a long moment of wild thrashing before a closed fist slapped against his jaw. The blow surprised him and brought an immediate halt to his struggles.
"Steady, I said!"
This time, the words sank into Tomilson's awareness. Steady. Right. He dragged in another glorious breath and, with an effort, calmed himself. A little, anyway. Something solid and wooden was shoved into his hands then and he grasped it tightly out of reflex. It was a boat oar. Anything to help him stay afloat. He realised suddenly that his rescuer was gone, having provided him with this precious piece of buoyancy. Terror began to swell up within him again. He didn't want to be left alone out here! The rise of a wave carried him upward, then he was falling, tumbling almost head over heels as the wave crested and curled in on itself. Were it not for the oar he was clinging to, he might have gone straight to the bottom.
When his head broke the surface again, Tomilson gasped in a mouthful of spray-thick air and felt unaccountably weary. Why couldn't the storm blow itself out? More to the point, why did their boat have to turn turtle? They had surely been close to their objective. He wrapped his arms around the oar as another wave bore him upward. There was no telling where the rebel brig was or even where the beach was. It was all he could do to keep from being parted from his precious oar. This was the only thing keeping him from drowning. He knew it.
Yet another wave was dragging him heavenward when he saw the weighted line splash into the water below him. What in the devil? Pure self-preserving instinct drove Tomilson to strike out toward where the line had gone in, even though he had no idea how to swim. The oar in his hands helped, a little. It was almost like working a boat. He struggled against the wave's momentum but shortly found himself slipping downward, falling backward as the wave crested. No. No. He cried out in frustration. That weighted line could only come from something solid and safe, which meant rescue. A real, lasting rescue. But wherever that line was now, it would be impossible to reach.
There was a splash from very close by and Tomilson flailed for it. That could only be one thing, couldn't it? Whoever was throwing this line knew where he was and was trying to save him. At that moment, he didn't care who it was, so long as he got out of this heaving sea. In order to search for the line, however, he had to let go of the oar. He'd only have one chance at this. If he missed... steeling himself, Tomilson released his grip on the oar and it was immediately swept away. Nothing for it now. Fight back the panic. Keep your head above water. Find that wretched line. It was all much easier thought of than done.
Whoever was handling the line seemed to know exactly what was happening. The weighted end buried itself into the water almost directly on top of Tomilson's flailing hands. He grabbed for that thin rope immediately and cried out in relief when his fingers closed around it. At last! The line was in motion now, as whoever controlled it hauled away mightily. Tomilson was dragged swiftly through the clawing waves, thinking sure he might yet drown if the line should part. Then he was clear of the sea and soaring - or so it felt - toward the heavens. Despite himself, he laughed aloud at the feeling of utterly weightlessness. After everything else that had happened that day, this was easily the least terrifying.
His brief, joyous flight came to a bone-rattling halt when he was dropped heavily onto the deck of a ship. There he stayed for a long moment, breathing in deep shuddering gasps. Whatever sort of ship this was, he was immensely grateful for it. A shod foot prodded him roughly and a gruff voice barked, "Get up, redcoat. You're not here for your leisure!"
Tomilson wheezed and a second later vomited again, expelling more of the seawater he had swallowed. This action was rewarded with a kick to the ribs. Already his relief at being rescued was fading. That voice had a particular drawl to it that meant only one thing. He'd been hauled aboard one of the American brigs. He pushed himself up to his knees and peered blearily around. There were a couple sailors in blue jackets nearby, but no one else in red. Was he the only Marine left alive? A hand grabbed the back of his coat and dragged him to his feet. That same hand shoved him toward the two blue-jacketed sailors. It was obvious his rescue was only a mixed blessing, for he was a prisoner again.
~
The first pale fingers of dawn streaked across the sky, giving the barest shade of light to the glittering sea. No trace of cloud could be seen now. The storm had blown itself out hours before and any sign that there had even a storm had gone with it. The West Indies were notorious for such swiftly-changing weather. With daylight's rapid approach, it was possible to survey the damage the storm had inflicted on the unlucky boat crew. Not that such a thing was even necessary, Nick Frazier thought darkly. There were no more than eight men from the boat huddled on the brig's weather deck. Eight out of nearly twenty who had dared join the cutting-out party.
It was a miserable state of affairs. Frazier leaned heavily on the deck rail and looked gloomily at the sea, which was well-littered with debris and bodies. He could only count a few men drifting aimlessly out there, but had little doubt there were more to be revealed when the salvage boats were sent out. It was a damned sorry waste and Frazier suddenly resented that the attempt had even been made. How had they thought they could succeed? It had been sheer stupidity. And he was stupid himself for volunteering to be part of it.
The others were stirring. He could hear the gurgling rasp of Tomilson's cough as the young Marine tried to draw air into his water-logged lungs. The lad needed a surgeon but there was small chance of his seeing one with these damned Yankees in charge. Mister Simcoe was another who needed a surgeon, to set his broken arm. The lads had done the best they could in binding the injured limb to the first luff's chest with a crossbelt, but it was definitely a poor answer to a proper looking-to.
Frazier shivered and turned his gaze outward again. He wasn't sure if it was easier to search the now-settled sea for the bodies of his mates or to study the dejected faces of the handful of survivors gathered around the brig's mainmast. Both were equally dispiriting. At least, he admitted, the rebels had made an effort to save them. Between a couple gratings, some empty casks, and a couple weighted lines, they had done well to help save as many as they had. Not that it made that much difference, if those lads floating motionless out there were any sign.
"Away with you," a Yankee sailor snarled. The increasing bustle of activity on deck behind him must mean the crew were ready to launch their salvage boats. It was best to get as far out of their way as possible. Frazier made no reply to the sailor as he shifted toward the foc's'le. He was much too weary to rise to provocation. How he was even able to stand steadily defied belief.
From the foc's'le, he watched silently as the first of the boat crews went out. This was a task he had seen undertaken only once before. It was not at all pleasant to watch and he had little doubt it was even worse for the lads in the boats. Even being the enemy. The Marine's gaze moved from one floating corpse to another, taking note of every visible detail. It was something he simply could not help. Call it morbid curiosity or a driving need to know exactly who was down there, but he had to see. Even though he did already know who was out there by virtue of knowing who was on deck here with him.
The first boat nosed up against a grating, to which three men clung. Two sailors and a Marine. There was no movement from any of them. Frazier watched as the two sailors were pulled loose and dragged into the boat. He could not see their faces clearly but knew he would soon enough. When the boat idled toward the Marine, however, it came to him suddenly that he knew very well - perhaps too well - who that damned unlucky beggar was. A heavy, sick feeling settled in his stomach when the Yankee bowman leaned out over the gunwale to grab hold of the motionless Marine's coat. For, when the Marine's single-handed grip on the grating was finally prised loose, it was revealed that his other arm was firmly circled under the arms of a second Marine.
This time, Frazier saw the man's face plainly, for it took several oarsmen to drag the two Marines into the boat. Damn it. Damn it. He'd known it. He'd known it but refused to believe it, but seeing the face meant it was true. His eyes prickled and he looked away, his jaw clenching. That idiot just had to be the hero, didn't he? Never a second thought about it. Damn him for it! Frazier turned slowly around and sank down to the deck. He was an idiot himself for needing to see it. Stupid. It was all so damned stupid. He dragged in an unsteady breath and closed his eyes.
What a damned waste everything was.