Bolitho 09 - Form Line Of Battle! by Alexander Kent

Author:Alexander Kent
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-05-26T17:34:55+00:00

Bolitho ducked his head beneath the low beams and groped his way through the semi-darkness of the orlop deck. By comparison the air and light of the quarterdeck even at the height of the battle was fresh and clear, for down here deep in the Hyperion's hull there was little ventilation, and his stomach rebelled against the mingled stenches of bilge and tar, of neat rum and the more sickly smell of blood.

Rowistone, the surgeon, had soon found that his tiny sick bay was quite inadequate for the casualties sent down from the decks above, and as Bolitho stepped into a circle of swaying lanterns he saw that the whole area forward of the mainmast's massive trunk was filled with wounded men. Hyperion was plunging heavily in a lively quarter sea, so that the lanterns kept up a crazy haphazard motion and threw weird dancing shadows against the curved sides, or picked out small tableaux for just a few seconds at a time like sections of an old and faded painting.

Above the sounds of groaning timbers and the muffled pounding of water against the hull Bolitho heard the confused murmur of voices, mingled with sobbing and an occasional sharp cry of agony. For the most part the wounded lay still, only their eyes moving in the gyrating lanterns as they stared dully at the little group around the heavy scrubbed table, where Rowistone, his suety face screwed up with concentration, worked on a seaman who was being held down by two of his loblolly boys. Like any badly wounded man the sailor had been well dosed with rum, and as Rowlstone's saw moved relentlessly across his leg he lolled his head from side to side, his cries muffed by the leather strap between his teeth, his frantic protests drowned by both rum and vomit.

Rowistone worked busily, his fingers as bloody as the heavy apron which covered him from chin to toe. Then he gestured to his assistants and unceremoniously the seaman was hauled from the table and carried into the merciful darkness beyond the lanterns.

The surgeon looked up and saw Bolitho. Surrounded by wounded and mutt' -Ated men he seemed suddenly frail and vulnerable.

Bolitho asked quietly, 'How many?’

'fen dead, sir.' The surgeon wiped his forehead with his arm; leaving a red smear above his right eye. 'So far.' He glanced round as two of his assistants half-carried another man towards the table. Like so many wounded in a sea action he had been hit by wood splinters, and as the surgeon's mates tore off his stained trousers Bolitho could see the great jagged tooth of wood where it jutted from below his stomach. Rowlstone stared unwinkingly at the man for several seconds. Then he said flatly, 'Some thirty wounded, sir. Half of them might live through it.'

Another man was slopping rum into the wounded seaman's open mouth. He did not seem to be able to drink the neat spirit fast enough, and all the time his eyes were fixed on Rowlstone's hands with the fascination of hope and terror combined.

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