(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.
At first, he had not known the ship had been retaken. The abrupt movement of the hull around him, together with the booms of the guns above firing, had suggested something was amiss, but he'd known it to be folly to leave the sick-berth and his patient. It was his authority alone that protected the Marine lieutenant from the crew and Finch well knew it. The man was still alive, which suggested a definite pluck, and that made Finch all the more determined to keep him that way. Keeping Forsythe alive required a complete detachment from anything taking place outside the canvas flap that served as the sick-berth's door.
Finch had remained in the sick-berth during the fighting that came later, the noise of which seemed to come dangerously close to invading his little sanctuary. His loblolly boy, Briggs, had briefly shown an interest in seeing what had caused the fighting, but Finch prevented him. It had been established from the start, when the ship had seemed to be in motion earlier in the evening, that both Graves, the surgeon's mate, and Briggs were forbidden to leave the sick-berth for any purpose. Whatever violence was being done amongst their effective captors, Finch and his assistants would have no part of it.
It was not until Lieutenant Alderbury appeared through the hanging canvas flap that Finch realised their fortunes had changed. The soaked, hard-eyed lieutenant cast his gaze around the sick-berth before lowering his sword. "There is no one else in here?"
Finch shook his head. "No. We have been left largely to ourselves. Is the ship in hand again?"
"Yes." Alderbury seemed to settle a little as he looked toward the cot in which Lieutenant Forsythe lay. "How does he fare?"
"He is alive," Finch answered, a trifle reluctantly. "Every hour he remains so improves his chances. But I cannot tell how his wound will affect him when he awakens."
There was a pause, during which Alderbury swiped a hand over his damp face, swiping some loose strands of hair away from his eyes. He seemed almost reluctant to speak further, then he collected himself. "There are several wounded shortly to be brought down. Regaining the ship was not a bloodless business. Those men who are prisoners are accompanied by a guard. Keep a close eye on them, as I doubt any of them will pass up an opportunity to attack."
More violence, or the threat of it. Finch was becoming heartily sick of it. Combat with the enemy was something he could understand, even if he might dislike it. But this was beyond anything reasonable or expected as part of war. Shipmates were not meant to kill each other, especially not in this way.
"How many wounded?" It was best, he decided, not to acknowledge Alderbury's second comment.
"A dozen, roughly," was the reply. "More of that number being prisoners now. Those lads who made it aboard were rather zealous in their efforts to secure the ship."
That was understandable enough, Finch had to admit. He nodded, slowly. "Very well. Cover Mister Forsythe with another blanket, Briggs. We are about to receive wounded." A dozen men were not so many after a battle, comparatively. That was a good thing in itself.
Alderbury looked grateful for the physician's ready acceptance of the news, and the changed situation. "I will look in later, sir, after you are at better liberty. Now I must find the captain and give him a formal report. It is good you and Mister Forsythe have survived." With that, the sea officer was gone, to be replaced only seconds later by a scowling seaman carrying a musket.
"Wounded, sir," the sailor said in a rasping voice. He stood aside, holding the canvas flap aside so the single line of men could file in. As Alderbury had said, the majority of them were accompanied by an armed guard. It did not pass unnoticed by Finch that these guards were all sailors themselves and that each man's assigned prisoner wore a black cloth on his upper left arm. A way to tell friend from foe, no doubt. Sensible.
"Vinegar washes, Briggs," Finch directed, his tone all business. "Quickly, now!"
By the look of it, this was going to take some time. Alderbury's men had been decidedly overeager in their efforts to subdue their former comrades. Finch donned his heavily-stained leather apron and sighed. This was an unpleasant business indeed. He looked briefly over the silent, sullen men waiting treatment and felt only disgust. Then Graves held out a linen dressing and all thoughts not germane to the work at hand were swept away.
Later, when the last of the men was sent away, his wounds cleaned and dressed, Finch allowed himself to relax again. This would, he hoped, be the last of the internal fighting. Perhaps they could get on with the more appropriate work of fighting the war. That was an odd desire for him, he thought wryly as he wiped his hands off with an old rag. He was no man of war himself and in fact disdained violence in all its forms, but at the same time he acknowledged that it was an ingrained trait for man to fight.
"About time those lads took the ship back," Graves remarked as he cleaned out the tin basin that the vinegar wash had been in. "Wish they coulda sorted out more of those bastards while they were about it, though!"
Finch resisted the urge to sigh, but only just. "I am going aft," he said, as if Graves had not spoken at all. "No one but a ship's officer may enter until I've returned." He made his way out directly, not waiting for a response. In truth, Graves' expressed opinion irritated him. Had there not been enough needless bloodletting already without wishing for more?
The first men he encountered on his way aft were seamen, hard at work swabbing and scrubbing the deck. There were only a few stubborn, lingering stains on the well-trodden deck beams and these would shortly be scoured away under the relentless holystoning. Finch nodded in acknowledgment of the salutes these men offered and he took care to walk well to the side, away from where they were working. Upon his asking, they informed him that Lieutenant Alderbury was right aft, in the wardroom.
This was indeed where he found the sea officer, who had, since appearing in the sick-berth, succeeded in exchanging his soaked clothes for clean and dry attire. Alderbury was slouched at the wardroom table, a glass of wine between his hands. To Finch's surprise, three Marines sat on the opposite side of the table, each with a tankard in front of him. One of them was the dark-skinned Christopher Davenport, who had been through the sick-berth earlier.
"A glass, Doctor?" Alderbury sat up in his chair upon noting Finch's arrival and made an admirable effort to look cheerful. "By some miracle, our collective stocks have passed undisturbed, so there is wine to enjoy in celebration of our victory."
After a moment's hesitation, Finch drew out a chair for himself. There was something going on here, for there was a distinct mood of unhappiness hanging in the air, but he dared not enquire after it. Not when he suspected he would be enlightened in due time. "I should be glad of one," he replied, with a glance toward the three blank-faced Marines. They were, he noted, carefully studying their individual tankards and did not react to his gaze.
Alderbury had risen to fetch a fresh glass, into which he now poured three inches of deep red wine. "Claret," he said thoughtfully, "helps clear a fellow's head, I find." He waited until Finch had accepted the glass before adding, "It will no doubt be of little surprise to you that the captain is desirous of a swift return to Antigua. He wishes to make a stark example of our prisoners in front of as many of our compatriots as possible. Were there enough men aboard now, I imagine he would order us to sea directly."
This was no more than Finch might have expected of the man, but there was a note of distaste in Alderbury's voice that he did not like. "Which is well within his rights, is it not?"
"Certainly," was Alderbury's response. "But first he wishes to put our boats ashore to collect the remainder of the crew, regardless of weather and the presence of the enemy close by. If the men with us now are loyal they will do as they are bidden or be thoroughly damned. I should rather be damned, sir, than carry out such a folly, but there is nothing for it!"
One of the Marines shifted uneasily and his chair creaked, which drew Finch's gaze. It was Davenport. This time, the Marine glanced up to meet Finch's eyes but he looked away again after only a second. "How many men came aboard with you?" Finch asked.
"Less than ten. The boat turned turtle before we could hook on, but perhaps half of us made it up the side by some miracle. It was enough of a miracle that we made it to the ship at all and now he wants those few of us left to drown ourselves as reward for our courage!"
This could not go on, Finch realised. It was entirely inappropriate for any officer to speak in this manner and unthinkable for him to do so in front of men he had charge of. He hesitated a moment to consider his words, painfully aware that he was about to tread firmly upon Alderbury's pride. "Perhaps, sir, you should accompany me to the sick-berth. I suspect you may be suffering the ill effects of prolonged exposure to cold seawater."
There was a short grunt from Alderbury. "Do you think so? It seems entirely possible... yes. Of course. Lead on, sir. Dry linen can hardly compare to a warm blanket or two." The sea officer tossed back the last of his wine and stood up, showing only the barest waver as he did so. Finch rose to his feet as well, not yet allowing himself to believed at Alderbury's ready agreement to his suggestion.
"You lads enjoy the rest of that claret," the sea officer told the three expressionless Marines who had stood up quickly upon Alderbury's own movement. "Then you may get on with your duties."
Finch paused, disliking the tone of that order as it was spoken but unwilling to enquire about the reason for it. There was only so much he, as the ship's surgeon, could do and already he was perilously close to overstepping his boundaries. Even being aware of his limitations, he was resolved to have a word with these Marines later and attempt to find out what Alderbury had been discussing with them before his own arrival. If there was any more of this foul mischief being planned...
"Come along, sir," he said patiently and Alderbury, with a nod, led the way out of the wardroom.
When they were gone, Davenport sank down into his chair and sighed. "We'll be for it if that other boat don't make it," was his only remark.
~
It was not until daybreak that the handful of men aboard Cornwall were able to take complete stock of their situation. They had passed a long night cleaning and setting their messdecks to rights, occasionally changing the sentries on the midshipmen's berth which now served as a makeshift prison cell. The only one of their prisoners to remain unguarded was Sergeant Devlin, who, at Doctor Finch's order, was released from the leg irons and escorted to the sick-berth, where he now stayed. For nearly every man aboard, sleep was little more than a passing thought; none of the them being able to catch more than an half-hour's nap.
Despite this weary, foot-dragging state, Captain Leaford ordered them topside as soon as the light was strong enough to work by. Not since their hasty, half-blind scrambling about as they'd come aboard had any of them been on the weather deck. To a man, the boat's survivors were struck by the extent of the damage that had been done during the storm. A long, low whistle of astonishment from Chicken Dyer summed up their collective feelings. It was a mess of considerable proportion. Somebody had been hideously careless in handling the ship.
The best bower anchor was missing and the frayed ends of the severed anchor cable told the story of what had happened plainly enough. A couple of boarding axes lay near the ruined cable end and gave further testimony to the best bower's fate. Worse, the main topgallant yard had gone, leaving a mass of torn rigging strewn about the deck. Long pieces of standing rigging trailed over the side and it was up these that the boarders had hauled themselves the night before. Amidst the wreckage, bodies were discovered. These were the victims of the yard falling. There was a strangled grunt from Gwynn Vaughan when the body of George Swift was found by the belfry.
More unlucky dead were discovered when the shredded rigging was hauled up from the sea. Two sailors who had been tangled up in the deadly snarl of cordage were hastily cut free and carried to the foc's'le to join the other corpses. Then, at Captain Leaford's order, work to repair the damage was begun. All the men knew of the captain's unrealised intention to make a return boat journey to the beach, but Doctor Finch had judged them unfit for such a task. His ordering Lieutenant Alderbury confined to the sick-berth for the night had scuttled any last hope the captain might have had for that fool's errand.
The reprieve was welcomed, but there was, of course, not to be any dearth of work for any of them, the wounded included. Rigging needed splicing, the weather deck needed scrubbing, the dead needed burying. This was leaving out the matter of those men who had not made it aboard with them the night before. Of those, only two appeared to have survived the night, by virtue of their having clung determinedly to the overturned longboat's keel. An empty cask, to which a line had swiftly been tied, was thrown out to them and they were shortly hauled aboard to safety.
The men's spirits were rising gradually when Chase glanced across the bay toward the two rebel brigs, which had until then shown no overt signs of hostility. Now, however, there was a definite bustle aboard both brigs. Captain Leaford stared long and hard at both vessels through a glass and eventually declared them to be preparing their guns. One of the men had produced a small telescope of his own and passed this around, so everyone on deck could see for himself what the Yankees were about.
It was Chase again who spotted the flash of red on the deck of the brig nearest the beach. His surprised exclamation brought Davenport springing to his side, a full stride ahead of his two mates. Chase found himself stripped of the small glass and could only grumble at Davenport's brusqueness. The flash of red he'd reported to have seen was gone when Davenport scanned the brig's deck, but he spotted something else familiar.
"Sir!" The Marine looked aft toward the quarterdeck. "Mister Simcoe's aboard there! The brig nearer the beach!"
There was an instant reaction from the captain. He snatched up his own glass again and trained it on the innermost brig. A second later there was an oath heard distinctly from his direction. "That fool!" Leaford stomped quickly to the quarterdeck rail. "Gun crew below! Run out and put those brigs on the bottom!"
Now how, Davenport thought sourly, were they to adequately man a gun when most of them were wounded? He could barely lift his arms higher than his shoulders owing to the slash across his chest, and he knew the sailors were in little better shape. But of course the captain wouldn't care about such things. He wanted retribution and woe betide any of them who could not act to carry out that retribution.
"Powder!" Chase barked, assuming the role of gun captain. He was standing by the Number Eight larboard gun and the others hurried about, readying the gun for action. A sailor scampered past Davenport, bound for the magazine. Without any ship's boys around, the work of fetching cartridges fell to a seaman to manage. That seaman came flying back soon enough, a powder bucket in either hand.
The first cartridge was grabbed out of its bucket by Chicken Dyer, who wasted no time shoving it into the gun barrel. Another seaman rammed the cartridge home and Dyer, after accepting a nine-pound round shot from Chase, tipped the heavy iron ball down the barrel. This too was rammed down the barrel with wadding tucked tightly in after it. In short order, the gun had been run out and Chase had primed and cocked the lock.
He peered along the barrel for a moment before ordering an adjustment to the gun's elevation. Another sight down the barrel and he was wanting the carriage shifted a point to the left. Then, just as there was an impatient bellow from topside, Chase stood back and jerked the trigger line. The gun boomed at once, hurling the solid iron ball across the bay.
Chase gave them no time to look to see if they had scored a hit. With his thumb pressed firmly down over the vent, he rapped out orders to the men around the gun, urging them to work as quickly as they could despite their wounds and weariness. The initial surge of energy that attended a call to battle was fading from them fast. Sponge out, ram cartridge and wadding, load with ball. Each man knew every step, but the barked commands helped steady them.
Then Dyer, the loader, dropped the heavy round shot on his way to tip it down the barrel. As he backed quickly away to avoid having his bare toes flattened, bright droplets of blood dripped from the bandage around his arm. He had taken a nasty slice from a hanger the night before and the pain from the wound, which was newly reopened, had overwhelmed him. His heartfelt curse signalled his feeling about his carelessness.
The rumble of the ball over the deck had an immediate effect. Captain Leaford all but flung himself down the aft ladder, even as Mattie Barrett grabbed the ball up and shoved it down the gun barrel. The sea officer had his sword in hand and the instant his shoes touched the gundeck he was bellowing at the top of his lungs. "Shot rolling, again! I might have bloody known it! You rogues can never pass up a chance. And a Marine! Of course! Stand away, there, damn your eyes, or I'll carve you in two!"
An expression of terror washed across Barrett's face. The seamen stood perfectly still where they were, instinctively recognising the danger their captain represented. Davenport, on the other hand, had had his fill of this manner of lunacy. To the gun crew's amazement, the coatless Marine stepped squarely in front of Leaford's drawn sword and folded his arms across his chest.
"It was an accident, sir." Davenport's tone was firm but polite. "The lads are all done in."
Something like shock clouded Leaford's expression and then, to the stunned disbelief of every motionless man around the gun, the captain drew back and laid the back of his hand across Davenport's face. The resulting sharp crack seemed to echo ominously around the gundeck. "Insolent fool!" The captain spat. "You are another one I shall have the pleasure of watching hang!"
To his credit, Davenport took the blow without reaction, but he did not back down. He met Leaford's glare evenly and held his silence. It was plain who held the upper hand in this newest confrontation, but Mattie Barrett was not sure Davenport's show of defiance was the wisest thing. Even as young as he was, Barrett could recognise how tenuous their situation was. Even this trifling display could land them all in hot trouble. The longer Davenport remained steadfastly silent, the worse it got.
"You there! Clap this man in irons!"
This distraction provided by Captain Leaford was shortly to prove costly. To everyone's surprise, the silence was broken not by Leaford or Davenport, but by a great crash as several round shot slammed into the frigate's side. Chase yanked on the trigger line out of sheer reflex, not realising until after his arm had jerked back that the gun had not been run out after being reloaded. The ball clipped the top of the gunport, tearing off the port lid as it burst out over the water, arching away to a point well away from its intended target.
Pandemonium broke out even before the plume of powder smoke had fully spread from the gun's muzzle. There was little hope of maintaining discipline or gun crew cohesion now. Barrett shook his head in a futile effort to stop the ringing in his ears. Someone was shouting at him but he could not make out the words. What did it matter anyway? They had only enough men to work one gun, and with the ship's captain laying about indiscriminately with the flat of his sword, what was the use in attempting to fight?
A hand closed around his arm and out of instinct, Barrett jerked away. Chicken Dyer's face loomed close to his, only for an instant, then there was a great whuff of air past him and the feeling of something solid slamming into him. What, he thought as the world spun out of control around him, in the hell had just happened?
~
"Lever that gun around! Lively now! Put your bloody back into it!" Mister Matheson's voice fell on the ears of the straining gun crew as they alternately levered and hauled the light gun around to better bear on the nearest rebel brig. The men on the beach had been alerted to renewed trouble by the outbreak of firing between the ships in the bay. That the first shot had come from Cornwall was a heartening sign. Their initial cheers stopped abruptly, however, when the two brigs returned fire and the solitary gun on Cornwall was silenced.
The boatswain had taken the initiative and summoned a gun crew at once, then sent a runner to find Lieutenant Carver almost as an afterthought. It was no surprise to anyone that the lieutenant had agreed to whatever course of action Matheson desired, for doing so meant Mister Carver was not obliged to make the decision himself. The third lieutenant was, Michael Quintin thought, no better than Corporal Jones in that respect.
Quintin worked the oil-stained cloth over the disassembled musket lock and watched the gun crew's efforts with detached interest. He was less concerned by the exchange of shot between the ships, for it presented no direct threat to him. No sense getting into a fighting temper when there was no way to relieve it. They'd get their chance, Quintin was sure. Besides. Cleaning this musket helped keep his mind off other things.
He had been uneasy and in fact resentful since his corporal had gone off with the boats without him the night before. The two of them had been mates since McIntyre had joined the frigate about a year back and there were few places the corporal went that Quintin didn't go as well. Somebody had to keep that Irishman out of trouble and Quintin didn't trust anyone else to perform that task half as well as he. That he had been left behind, even if it was unintentional, did not sit well with him.
Worse was the fact that a man from McIntyre's boat had washed ashore, sputtering on about how the boat had broached and thrown its occupants into the heaving sea. That news had sparked off a rare spike of fear in Quintin, and he had spent the rest of the night glaring into the darkness, feeling resentful and anxious by turns. It wasn't right to not be with his corporal, regardless the situation.
And there he went, allowing his thoughts to drift. Angry with himself, Quintin worked the rag over the lowered flint with particular vigour. This was the only outward sign of his agitation; as far as the others could tell, he was calmly cleaning his firelock in preparation for a fight. If only they knew otherwise. But perhaps they were better off not knowing. Quintin had never been one for socialising and sharing thoughts and that sort of rubbish with people.
"Mikey!"
A splatter of sand showered over the newly-cleaned lock as shod feet thudded to a halt beside him and Quintin greeted this careless intrusion with a couple choice words. The voice belonged to Colbert Smith, who for whatever reason had not going larking off with the boats either. What the hell did he want?
"Have you seen Jones?"
Oh for Christ's sake. "No," Quintin answered, clearing damp sand out of the lock's working parts with the little whisk that hung from a buttonhole on his coat front. Why the hell should he care where Corporal bloody Jones was? The spineless idiot could have killed himself for all he mattered to Quintin.
Smith sounded irritated. "Damn it. The rebels look like they're puttin' boats out again. Matheson reckons we'll be havin' guests soon but Jones ain't no-place to be found."
That was nothing new. Quintin rolled his eyes. "What'm I s'posed to do about it?"
"Oh I dunno," Smith retorted. "Clean your musket, maybe."
Wasn't that what he was doing? Idiot. He said nothing in reply to that and with a snort, Smith went on his way. Good. Maybe the rebels were indeed preparing an assault on the beach, despite the fire from the light gun that Joe Kipp and his lads were working. Or maybe they were sending a picnic lunch. Quintin didn't much care. As long as the stranded Cornwalls eventually got to fight those bastards properly, it didn't matter at all to him what they got up to.
It dawned on him then that the light gun had fallen silent. He looked up from the work of fitting the lock back into the musket stock and saw why. There was no more shot to be fired. Joe Kipp looked mightily displeased by this, but his gun crew seemed cheered by something. One of them was pointing toward the nearer of the two rebel brigs. Quintin glanced in the direction the seaman was indicating and nearly smiled. The brig was a flurry of activity, with men dashing about the weatherdeck in what looked suspiciously like panic.
"That's done her, by God!" Somebody cried.
He wasn't sure what the seaman meant by that, but supposed any success made against a seaworthy brig by a single light shore gun was indeed worth celebrating. Shrugging, Quintin returned to the task of reassembling his musket. The rising chorus of cheers from the men around him were summarily ignored. Only the sudden rattle of musketry had an instant claim on his attention. The lads were formed up in a rough skirmish line, or at least those of them who had muskets were. None of them, however, had fired. The shots had come from the nearer rebel brig, which now looked as though it was settling.
A sailor nearby to Quintin let out a curse when a redcoated figure leapt over the rail of the brig, limbs flailing. The distant Marine hit the water with a great splash and was promptly lost from view. His appearance was as sudden as his disappearance and both were equally distressing. The men on the beach were no longer cheering, Quintin noted grimly. More muskets fired from the brig's deck. There was a boat bobbing alongside the ship, manned only by two Yankee seamen, and to the shock of every man on the beach, a bluejacketed sailor broke free of the chaos on the weatherdeck and skipped nimbly down the side-ladder.
Hard on his heels was another seaman and between the two of them, the startled rebels were quickly overpowered. In a moment, the boat was shoved off and drifting, its two bold crewmen ducking the musket fire directed at them from the brig's deck. A third sailor tumbled over the brig's rail, and, to the lusty cheers of the watching men on the beach, a man in a gold-braided coat followed him. These two were hauled unceremoniously into the drifting boat. Now adequately manned, the boat's oars stirred and propelled the little craft away from the brig.
Other boats were being swayed out now, and the second brig was sending its own boats. It was clear now to everyone what was happening. Joe Kipp had handled his light gun well, aiming each precious shot for the nearer brig's waterline. His efforts were paying off before their eyes. Even if the brig's pumps were being fully manned, Kipp's carefully-aimed shots must have done more damage than the pumps could contend with. For a moment, Quintin wondered at the lack of coordination amongst the Yankee sailors. It was baffling to him that no officer was seemingly able to maintain control aboard there. But of course those were only privateers. They'd have no real discipline, would they?
Fresh cheers from the men broke out. Quintin looked seaward again and saw the captured boat pulling toward the beach, now with two redcoats and another seaman aboard. Where had those lads come from? Not that it mattered. They were all on their way to safety. He stirred himself, his musket by now reassembled, and moved to join his mates where they stood in line. There was still a chance the rebels would attempt to storm the beach, even as occupied with saving themselves as they were. One never knew.
Sailors ran out into the gurgling surf to help drag the boat up the beach, sparing the gasping occupants from such labour. Soon enough, the boat's crew were staggering onto the sand, supporting each other until their mates swept in to carry them up to the huts. One seaman dripped blood from a wound in his back and had to be carefully borne up the beach. Only Mister Simcoe made the journey unattended, though judging by the way he was holding his right arm, he could tolerate no help anyway.
The Marines dispersed from their line at Higgins' order and almost as one headed up the beach to join their newly-rescued mates. Quintin remained behind, feeling completely chilled and cheerless. There had only been two Marines returning to shore. Two, when he recalled seeing at least four scrambling into the second longboat last night. Two Marines and neither of them were who Quintin wanted most to see. This did not necessarily mean what he dreaded most, but it was difficult to imagine that his corporal could not have effected an escape when Frazier and Tomilson had managed the same.
With most of the stranded crew permitting themselves to be distracted by the handful of survivors, Quintin shouldered his musket and appointed himself to the task of sentry. If nothing else, it afforded him the ability to keep an eye on the listing rebel brig in the hope of seeing more redcoats make their bids for freedom. He paced slowly along the beach, just above the tideline, and did his best to ignore the activities of the other Cornwalls around the huts. Movement behind him and to the right, however, caught his eye and he turned, pausing in his patrol just long enough to see who was stirring there. It was far enough away from the others to be suspicious.
It was Corporal Jones. Funny how that useless bastard chose now to turn up. He had no right to be anywhere near them. Especially not looking as though he'd just been struck by a handspike. Since when did he care about anyone but himself? He was certainly no use to the detachment at all. Disgust washed across Quintin's face and he turned away. If they were lucky, Jones would go drown himself.
The big Marine's presence was wholly unnoticed by the corporal, who stood staring at the rebel brig. He had heard and seen everything, but unlike the others, he felt only a heavy sense of doom. It was all he could do to stand there as he was, in fact. Any hope he had clung to that there might be a good end to the previous night's foolishness was sinking right in pace with that rebel brig. It was perhaps just as well that Quintin had turned his back. The tears on Jones' face could not, after all, be understood.
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.
At first, he had not known the ship had been retaken. The abrupt movement of the hull around him, together with the booms of the guns above firing, had suggested something was amiss, but he'd known it to be folly to leave the sick-berth and his patient. It was his authority alone that protected the Marine lieutenant from the crew and Finch well knew it. The man was still alive, which suggested a definite pluck, and that made Finch all the more determined to keep him that way. Keeping Forsythe alive required a complete detachment from anything taking place outside the canvas flap that served as the sick-berth's door.
Finch had remained in the sick-berth during the fighting that came later, the noise of which seemed to come dangerously close to invading his little sanctuary. His loblolly boy, Briggs, had briefly shown an interest in seeing what had caused the fighting, but Finch prevented him. It had been established from the start, when the ship had seemed to be in motion earlier in the evening, that both Graves, the surgeon's mate, and Briggs were forbidden to leave the sick-berth for any purpose. Whatever violence was being done amongst their effective captors, Finch and his assistants would have no part of it.
It was not until Lieutenant Alderbury appeared through the hanging canvas flap that Finch realised their fortunes had changed. The soaked, hard-eyed lieutenant cast his gaze around the sick-berth before lowering his sword. "There is no one else in here?"
Finch shook his head. "No. We have been left largely to ourselves. Is the ship in hand again?"
"Yes." Alderbury seemed to settle a little as he looked toward the cot in which Lieutenant Forsythe lay. "How does he fare?"
"He is alive," Finch answered, a trifle reluctantly. "Every hour he remains so improves his chances. But I cannot tell how his wound will affect him when he awakens."
There was a pause, during which Alderbury swiped a hand over his damp face, swiping some loose strands of hair away from his eyes. He seemed almost reluctant to speak further, then he collected himself. "There are several wounded shortly to be brought down. Regaining the ship was not a bloodless business. Those men who are prisoners are accompanied by a guard. Keep a close eye on them, as I doubt any of them will pass up an opportunity to attack."
More violence, or the threat of it. Finch was becoming heartily sick of it. Combat with the enemy was something he could understand, even if he might dislike it. But this was beyond anything reasonable or expected as part of war. Shipmates were not meant to kill each other, especially not in this way.
"How many wounded?" It was best, he decided, not to acknowledge Alderbury's second comment.
"A dozen, roughly," was the reply. "More of that number being prisoners now. Those lads who made it aboard were rather zealous in their efforts to secure the ship."
That was understandable enough, Finch had to admit. He nodded, slowly. "Very well. Cover Mister Forsythe with another blanket, Briggs. We are about to receive wounded." A dozen men were not so many after a battle, comparatively. That was a good thing in itself.
Alderbury looked grateful for the physician's ready acceptance of the news, and the changed situation. "I will look in later, sir, after you are at better liberty. Now I must find the captain and give him a formal report. It is good you and Mister Forsythe have survived." With that, the sea officer was gone, to be replaced only seconds later by a scowling seaman carrying a musket.
"Wounded, sir," the sailor said in a rasping voice. He stood aside, holding the canvas flap aside so the single line of men could file in. As Alderbury had said, the majority of them were accompanied by an armed guard. It did not pass unnoticed by Finch that these guards were all sailors themselves and that each man's assigned prisoner wore a black cloth on his upper left arm. A way to tell friend from foe, no doubt. Sensible.
"Vinegar washes, Briggs," Finch directed, his tone all business. "Quickly, now!"
By the look of it, this was going to take some time. Alderbury's men had been decidedly overeager in their efforts to subdue their former comrades. Finch donned his heavily-stained leather apron and sighed. This was an unpleasant business indeed. He looked briefly over the silent, sullen men waiting treatment and felt only disgust. Then Graves held out a linen dressing and all thoughts not germane to the work at hand were swept away.
Later, when the last of the men was sent away, his wounds cleaned and dressed, Finch allowed himself to relax again. This would, he hoped, be the last of the internal fighting. Perhaps they could get on with the more appropriate work of fighting the war. That was an odd desire for him, he thought wryly as he wiped his hands off with an old rag. He was no man of war himself and in fact disdained violence in all its forms, but at the same time he acknowledged that it was an ingrained trait for man to fight.
"About time those lads took the ship back," Graves remarked as he cleaned out the tin basin that the vinegar wash had been in. "Wish they coulda sorted out more of those bastards while they were about it, though!"
Finch resisted the urge to sigh, but only just. "I am going aft," he said, as if Graves had not spoken at all. "No one but a ship's officer may enter until I've returned." He made his way out directly, not waiting for a response. In truth, Graves' expressed opinion irritated him. Had there not been enough needless bloodletting already without wishing for more?
The first men he encountered on his way aft were seamen, hard at work swabbing and scrubbing the deck. There were only a few stubborn, lingering stains on the well-trodden deck beams and these would shortly be scoured away under the relentless holystoning. Finch nodded in acknowledgment of the salutes these men offered and he took care to walk well to the side, away from where they were working. Upon his asking, they informed him that Lieutenant Alderbury was right aft, in the wardroom.
This was indeed where he found the sea officer, who had, since appearing in the sick-berth, succeeded in exchanging his soaked clothes for clean and dry attire. Alderbury was slouched at the wardroom table, a glass of wine between his hands. To Finch's surprise, three Marines sat on the opposite side of the table, each with a tankard in front of him. One of them was the dark-skinned Christopher Davenport, who had been through the sick-berth earlier.
"A glass, Doctor?" Alderbury sat up in his chair upon noting Finch's arrival and made an admirable effort to look cheerful. "By some miracle, our collective stocks have passed undisturbed, so there is wine to enjoy in celebration of our victory."
After a moment's hesitation, Finch drew out a chair for himself. There was something going on here, for there was a distinct mood of unhappiness hanging in the air, but he dared not enquire after it. Not when he suspected he would be enlightened in due time. "I should be glad of one," he replied, with a glance toward the three blank-faced Marines. They were, he noted, carefully studying their individual tankards and did not react to his gaze.
Alderbury had risen to fetch a fresh glass, into which he now poured three inches of deep red wine. "Claret," he said thoughtfully, "helps clear a fellow's head, I find." He waited until Finch had accepted the glass before adding, "It will no doubt be of little surprise to you that the captain is desirous of a swift return to Antigua. He wishes to make a stark example of our prisoners in front of as many of our compatriots as possible. Were there enough men aboard now, I imagine he would order us to sea directly."
This was no more than Finch might have expected of the man, but there was a note of distaste in Alderbury's voice that he did not like. "Which is well within his rights, is it not?"
"Certainly," was Alderbury's response. "But first he wishes to put our boats ashore to collect the remainder of the crew, regardless of weather and the presence of the enemy close by. If the men with us now are loyal they will do as they are bidden or be thoroughly damned. I should rather be damned, sir, than carry out such a folly, but there is nothing for it!"
One of the Marines shifted uneasily and his chair creaked, which drew Finch's gaze. It was Davenport. This time, the Marine glanced up to meet Finch's eyes but he looked away again after only a second. "How many men came aboard with you?" Finch asked.
"Less than ten. The boat turned turtle before we could hook on, but perhaps half of us made it up the side by some miracle. It was enough of a miracle that we made it to the ship at all and now he wants those few of us left to drown ourselves as reward for our courage!"
This could not go on, Finch realised. It was entirely inappropriate for any officer to speak in this manner and unthinkable for him to do so in front of men he had charge of. He hesitated a moment to consider his words, painfully aware that he was about to tread firmly upon Alderbury's pride. "Perhaps, sir, you should accompany me to the sick-berth. I suspect you may be suffering the ill effects of prolonged exposure to cold seawater."
There was a short grunt from Alderbury. "Do you think so? It seems entirely possible... yes. Of course. Lead on, sir. Dry linen can hardly compare to a warm blanket or two." The sea officer tossed back the last of his wine and stood up, showing only the barest waver as he did so. Finch rose to his feet as well, not yet allowing himself to believed at Alderbury's ready agreement to his suggestion.
"You lads enjoy the rest of that claret," the sea officer told the three expressionless Marines who had stood up quickly upon Alderbury's own movement. "Then you may get on with your duties."
Finch paused, disliking the tone of that order as it was spoken but unwilling to enquire about the reason for it. There was only so much he, as the ship's surgeon, could do and already he was perilously close to overstepping his boundaries. Even being aware of his limitations, he was resolved to have a word with these Marines later and attempt to find out what Alderbury had been discussing with them before his own arrival. If there was any more of this foul mischief being planned...
"Come along, sir," he said patiently and Alderbury, with a nod, led the way out of the wardroom.
When they were gone, Davenport sank down into his chair and sighed. "We'll be for it if that other boat don't make it," was his only remark.
~
It was not until daybreak that the handful of men aboard Cornwall were able to take complete stock of their situation. They had passed a long night cleaning and setting their messdecks to rights, occasionally changing the sentries on the midshipmen's berth which now served as a makeshift prison cell. The only one of their prisoners to remain unguarded was Sergeant Devlin, who, at Doctor Finch's order, was released from the leg irons and escorted to the sick-berth, where he now stayed. For nearly every man aboard, sleep was little more than a passing thought; none of the them being able to catch more than an half-hour's nap.
Despite this weary, foot-dragging state, Captain Leaford ordered them topside as soon as the light was strong enough to work by. Not since their hasty, half-blind scrambling about as they'd come aboard had any of them been on the weather deck. To a man, the boat's survivors were struck by the extent of the damage that had been done during the storm. A long, low whistle of astonishment from Chicken Dyer summed up their collective feelings. It was a mess of considerable proportion. Somebody had been hideously careless in handling the ship.
The best bower anchor was missing and the frayed ends of the severed anchor cable told the story of what had happened plainly enough. A couple of boarding axes lay near the ruined cable end and gave further testimony to the best bower's fate. Worse, the main topgallant yard had gone, leaving a mass of torn rigging strewn about the deck. Long pieces of standing rigging trailed over the side and it was up these that the boarders had hauled themselves the night before. Amidst the wreckage, bodies were discovered. These were the victims of the yard falling. There was a strangled grunt from Gwynn Vaughan when the body of George Swift was found by the belfry.
More unlucky dead were discovered when the shredded rigging was hauled up from the sea. Two sailors who had been tangled up in the deadly snarl of cordage were hastily cut free and carried to the foc's'le to join the other corpses. Then, at Captain Leaford's order, work to repair the damage was begun. All the men knew of the captain's unrealised intention to make a return boat journey to the beach, but Doctor Finch had judged them unfit for such a task. His ordering Lieutenant Alderbury confined to the sick-berth for the night had scuttled any last hope the captain might have had for that fool's errand.
The reprieve was welcomed, but there was, of course, not to be any dearth of work for any of them, the wounded included. Rigging needed splicing, the weather deck needed scrubbing, the dead needed burying. This was leaving out the matter of those men who had not made it aboard with them the night before. Of those, only two appeared to have survived the night, by virtue of their having clung determinedly to the overturned longboat's keel. An empty cask, to which a line had swiftly been tied, was thrown out to them and they were shortly hauled aboard to safety.
The men's spirits were rising gradually when Chase glanced across the bay toward the two rebel brigs, which had until then shown no overt signs of hostility. Now, however, there was a definite bustle aboard both brigs. Captain Leaford stared long and hard at both vessels through a glass and eventually declared them to be preparing their guns. One of the men had produced a small telescope of his own and passed this around, so everyone on deck could see for himself what the Yankees were about.
It was Chase again who spotted the flash of red on the deck of the brig nearest the beach. His surprised exclamation brought Davenport springing to his side, a full stride ahead of his two mates. Chase found himself stripped of the small glass and could only grumble at Davenport's brusqueness. The flash of red he'd reported to have seen was gone when Davenport scanned the brig's deck, but he spotted something else familiar.
"Sir!" The Marine looked aft toward the quarterdeck. "Mister Simcoe's aboard there! The brig nearer the beach!"
There was an instant reaction from the captain. He snatched up his own glass again and trained it on the innermost brig. A second later there was an oath heard distinctly from his direction. "That fool!" Leaford stomped quickly to the quarterdeck rail. "Gun crew below! Run out and put those brigs on the bottom!"
Now how, Davenport thought sourly, were they to adequately man a gun when most of them were wounded? He could barely lift his arms higher than his shoulders owing to the slash across his chest, and he knew the sailors were in little better shape. But of course the captain wouldn't care about such things. He wanted retribution and woe betide any of them who could not act to carry out that retribution.
"Powder!" Chase barked, assuming the role of gun captain. He was standing by the Number Eight larboard gun and the others hurried about, readying the gun for action. A sailor scampered past Davenport, bound for the magazine. Without any ship's boys around, the work of fetching cartridges fell to a seaman to manage. That seaman came flying back soon enough, a powder bucket in either hand.
The first cartridge was grabbed out of its bucket by Chicken Dyer, who wasted no time shoving it into the gun barrel. Another seaman rammed the cartridge home and Dyer, after accepting a nine-pound round shot from Chase, tipped the heavy iron ball down the barrel. This too was rammed down the barrel with wadding tucked tightly in after it. In short order, the gun had been run out and Chase had primed and cocked the lock.
He peered along the barrel for a moment before ordering an adjustment to the gun's elevation. Another sight down the barrel and he was wanting the carriage shifted a point to the left. Then, just as there was an impatient bellow from topside, Chase stood back and jerked the trigger line. The gun boomed at once, hurling the solid iron ball across the bay.
Chase gave them no time to look to see if they had scored a hit. With his thumb pressed firmly down over the vent, he rapped out orders to the men around the gun, urging them to work as quickly as they could despite their wounds and weariness. The initial surge of energy that attended a call to battle was fading from them fast. Sponge out, ram cartridge and wadding, load with ball. Each man knew every step, but the barked commands helped steady them.
Then Dyer, the loader, dropped the heavy round shot on his way to tip it down the barrel. As he backed quickly away to avoid having his bare toes flattened, bright droplets of blood dripped from the bandage around his arm. He had taken a nasty slice from a hanger the night before and the pain from the wound, which was newly reopened, had overwhelmed him. His heartfelt curse signalled his feeling about his carelessness.
The rumble of the ball over the deck had an immediate effect. Captain Leaford all but flung himself down the aft ladder, even as Mattie Barrett grabbed the ball up and shoved it down the gun barrel. The sea officer had his sword in hand and the instant his shoes touched the gundeck he was bellowing at the top of his lungs. "Shot rolling, again! I might have bloody known it! You rogues can never pass up a chance. And a Marine! Of course! Stand away, there, damn your eyes, or I'll carve you in two!"
An expression of terror washed across Barrett's face. The seamen stood perfectly still where they were, instinctively recognising the danger their captain represented. Davenport, on the other hand, had had his fill of this manner of lunacy. To the gun crew's amazement, the coatless Marine stepped squarely in front of Leaford's drawn sword and folded his arms across his chest.
"It was an accident, sir." Davenport's tone was firm but polite. "The lads are all done in."
Something like shock clouded Leaford's expression and then, to the stunned disbelief of every motionless man around the gun, the captain drew back and laid the back of his hand across Davenport's face. The resulting sharp crack seemed to echo ominously around the gundeck. "Insolent fool!" The captain spat. "You are another one I shall have the pleasure of watching hang!"
To his credit, Davenport took the blow without reaction, but he did not back down. He met Leaford's glare evenly and held his silence. It was plain who held the upper hand in this newest confrontation, but Mattie Barrett was not sure Davenport's show of defiance was the wisest thing. Even as young as he was, Barrett could recognise how tenuous their situation was. Even this trifling display could land them all in hot trouble. The longer Davenport remained steadfastly silent, the worse it got.
"You there! Clap this man in irons!"
This distraction provided by Captain Leaford was shortly to prove costly. To everyone's surprise, the silence was broken not by Leaford or Davenport, but by a great crash as several round shot slammed into the frigate's side. Chase yanked on the trigger line out of sheer reflex, not realising until after his arm had jerked back that the gun had not been run out after being reloaded. The ball clipped the top of the gunport, tearing off the port lid as it burst out over the water, arching away to a point well away from its intended target.
Pandemonium broke out even before the plume of powder smoke had fully spread from the gun's muzzle. There was little hope of maintaining discipline or gun crew cohesion now. Barrett shook his head in a futile effort to stop the ringing in his ears. Someone was shouting at him but he could not make out the words. What did it matter anyway? They had only enough men to work one gun, and with the ship's captain laying about indiscriminately with the flat of his sword, what was the use in attempting to fight?
A hand closed around his arm and out of instinct, Barrett jerked away. Chicken Dyer's face loomed close to his, only for an instant, then there was a great whuff of air past him and the feeling of something solid slamming into him. What, he thought as the world spun out of control around him, in the hell had just happened?
~
"Lever that gun around! Lively now! Put your bloody back into it!" Mister Matheson's voice fell on the ears of the straining gun crew as they alternately levered and hauled the light gun around to better bear on the nearest rebel brig. The men on the beach had been alerted to renewed trouble by the outbreak of firing between the ships in the bay. That the first shot had come from Cornwall was a heartening sign. Their initial cheers stopped abruptly, however, when the two brigs returned fire and the solitary gun on Cornwall was silenced.
The boatswain had taken the initiative and summoned a gun crew at once, then sent a runner to find Lieutenant Carver almost as an afterthought. It was no surprise to anyone that the lieutenant had agreed to whatever course of action Matheson desired, for doing so meant Mister Carver was not obliged to make the decision himself. The third lieutenant was, Michael Quintin thought, no better than Corporal Jones in that respect.
Quintin worked the oil-stained cloth over the disassembled musket lock and watched the gun crew's efforts with detached interest. He was less concerned by the exchange of shot between the ships, for it presented no direct threat to him. No sense getting into a fighting temper when there was no way to relieve it. They'd get their chance, Quintin was sure. Besides. Cleaning this musket helped keep his mind off other things.
He had been uneasy and in fact resentful since his corporal had gone off with the boats without him the night before. The two of them had been mates since McIntyre had joined the frigate about a year back and there were few places the corporal went that Quintin didn't go as well. Somebody had to keep that Irishman out of trouble and Quintin didn't trust anyone else to perform that task half as well as he. That he had been left behind, even if it was unintentional, did not sit well with him.
Worse was the fact that a man from McIntyre's boat had washed ashore, sputtering on about how the boat had broached and thrown its occupants into the heaving sea. That news had sparked off a rare spike of fear in Quintin, and he had spent the rest of the night glaring into the darkness, feeling resentful and anxious by turns. It wasn't right to not be with his corporal, regardless the situation.
And there he went, allowing his thoughts to drift. Angry with himself, Quintin worked the rag over the lowered flint with particular vigour. This was the only outward sign of his agitation; as far as the others could tell, he was calmly cleaning his firelock in preparation for a fight. If only they knew otherwise. But perhaps they were better off not knowing. Quintin had never been one for socialising and sharing thoughts and that sort of rubbish with people.
"Mikey!"
A splatter of sand showered over the newly-cleaned lock as shod feet thudded to a halt beside him and Quintin greeted this careless intrusion with a couple choice words. The voice belonged to Colbert Smith, who for whatever reason had not going larking off with the boats either. What the hell did he want?
"Have you seen Jones?"
Oh for Christ's sake. "No," Quintin answered, clearing damp sand out of the lock's working parts with the little whisk that hung from a buttonhole on his coat front. Why the hell should he care where Corporal bloody Jones was? The spineless idiot could have killed himself for all he mattered to Quintin.
Smith sounded irritated. "Damn it. The rebels look like they're puttin' boats out again. Matheson reckons we'll be havin' guests soon but Jones ain't no-place to be found."
That was nothing new. Quintin rolled his eyes. "What'm I s'posed to do about it?"
"Oh I dunno," Smith retorted. "Clean your musket, maybe."
Wasn't that what he was doing? Idiot. He said nothing in reply to that and with a snort, Smith went on his way. Good. Maybe the rebels were indeed preparing an assault on the beach, despite the fire from the light gun that Joe Kipp and his lads were working. Or maybe they were sending a picnic lunch. Quintin didn't much care. As long as the stranded Cornwalls eventually got to fight those bastards properly, it didn't matter at all to him what they got up to.
It dawned on him then that the light gun had fallen silent. He looked up from the work of fitting the lock back into the musket stock and saw why. There was no more shot to be fired. Joe Kipp looked mightily displeased by this, but his gun crew seemed cheered by something. One of them was pointing toward the nearer of the two rebel brigs. Quintin glanced in the direction the seaman was indicating and nearly smiled. The brig was a flurry of activity, with men dashing about the weatherdeck in what looked suspiciously like panic.
"That's done her, by God!" Somebody cried.
He wasn't sure what the seaman meant by that, but supposed any success made against a seaworthy brig by a single light shore gun was indeed worth celebrating. Shrugging, Quintin returned to the task of reassembling his musket. The rising chorus of cheers from the men around him were summarily ignored. Only the sudden rattle of musketry had an instant claim on his attention. The lads were formed up in a rough skirmish line, or at least those of them who had muskets were. None of them, however, had fired. The shots had come from the nearer rebel brig, which now looked as though it was settling.
A sailor nearby to Quintin let out a curse when a redcoated figure leapt over the rail of the brig, limbs flailing. The distant Marine hit the water with a great splash and was promptly lost from view. His appearance was as sudden as his disappearance and both were equally distressing. The men on the beach were no longer cheering, Quintin noted grimly. More muskets fired from the brig's deck. There was a boat bobbing alongside the ship, manned only by two Yankee seamen, and to the shock of every man on the beach, a bluejacketed sailor broke free of the chaos on the weatherdeck and skipped nimbly down the side-ladder.
Hard on his heels was another seaman and between the two of them, the startled rebels were quickly overpowered. In a moment, the boat was shoved off and drifting, its two bold crewmen ducking the musket fire directed at them from the brig's deck. A third sailor tumbled over the brig's rail, and, to the lusty cheers of the watching men on the beach, a man in a gold-braided coat followed him. These two were hauled unceremoniously into the drifting boat. Now adequately manned, the boat's oars stirred and propelled the little craft away from the brig.
Other boats were being swayed out now, and the second brig was sending its own boats. It was clear now to everyone what was happening. Joe Kipp had handled his light gun well, aiming each precious shot for the nearer brig's waterline. His efforts were paying off before their eyes. Even if the brig's pumps were being fully manned, Kipp's carefully-aimed shots must have done more damage than the pumps could contend with. For a moment, Quintin wondered at the lack of coordination amongst the Yankee sailors. It was baffling to him that no officer was seemingly able to maintain control aboard there. But of course those were only privateers. They'd have no real discipline, would they?
Fresh cheers from the men broke out. Quintin looked seaward again and saw the captured boat pulling toward the beach, now with two redcoats and another seaman aboard. Where had those lads come from? Not that it mattered. They were all on their way to safety. He stirred himself, his musket by now reassembled, and moved to join his mates where they stood in line. There was still a chance the rebels would attempt to storm the beach, even as occupied with saving themselves as they were. One never knew.
Sailors ran out into the gurgling surf to help drag the boat up the beach, sparing the gasping occupants from such labour. Soon enough, the boat's crew were staggering onto the sand, supporting each other until their mates swept in to carry them up to the huts. One seaman dripped blood from a wound in his back and had to be carefully borne up the beach. Only Mister Simcoe made the journey unattended, though judging by the way he was holding his right arm, he could tolerate no help anyway.
The Marines dispersed from their line at Higgins' order and almost as one headed up the beach to join their newly-rescued mates. Quintin remained behind, feeling completely chilled and cheerless. There had only been two Marines returning to shore. Two, when he recalled seeing at least four scrambling into the second longboat last night. Two Marines and neither of them were who Quintin wanted most to see. This did not necessarily mean what he dreaded most, but it was difficult to imagine that his corporal could not have effected an escape when Frazier and Tomilson had managed the same.
With most of the stranded crew permitting themselves to be distracted by the handful of survivors, Quintin shouldered his musket and appointed himself to the task of sentry. If nothing else, it afforded him the ability to keep an eye on the listing rebel brig in the hope of seeing more redcoats make their bids for freedom. He paced slowly along the beach, just above the tideline, and did his best to ignore the activities of the other Cornwalls around the huts. Movement behind him and to the right, however, caught his eye and he turned, pausing in his patrol just long enough to see who was stirring there. It was far enough away from the others to be suspicious.
It was Corporal Jones. Funny how that useless bastard chose now to turn up. He had no right to be anywhere near them. Especially not looking as though he'd just been struck by a handspike. Since when did he care about anyone but himself? He was certainly no use to the detachment at all. Disgust washed across Quintin's face and he turned away. If they were lucky, Jones would go drown himself.
The big Marine's presence was wholly unnoticed by the corporal, who stood staring at the rebel brig. He had heard and seen everything, but unlike the others, he felt only a heavy sense of doom. It was all he could do to stand there as he was, in fact. Any hope he had clung to that there might be a good end to the previous night's foolishness was sinking right in pace with that rebel brig. It was perhaps just as well that Quintin had turned his back. The tears on Jones' face could not, after all, be understood.