Beneath the Aurora by Richard Woodman

Author:Richard Woodman
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Sheridan House
Published: 1995-12-26T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 10

October 1813

Friends and Enemies

The dismasting of the Odin brought them more than a respite, it brought them a sense of accomplishment. They had not achieved a victory, but they had beaten off an enemy with a superior weight of metal. In his cabin, or in the after section of the gun deck which had formerly been his cabin, by the light of a pair of horn-glazed battle lanterns, Drinkwater outlined his plan to his officers. His right cheek was dark and pocked with clotted blood.

‘It is going to be a long night, gentlemen,’ he concluded, ‘but most of us will be able to sleep a little easier when we do turn in. Any questions?’

The officers shook their heads and rose from where they squatted on the deck or the trucks of the adjacent guns, exchanging brief remarks with one another. All wore grim expressions and none were under any false illusions about their chances. Further forward the buzz of the men eating at their action stations swelled at this sudden, conspicuous activity aft.

Huke hung back. ‘What about these damned prisoners, sir?’

‘I’ll see them in a minute. Get a screen put up, will you? A canvas will do, just enough to discourage prying eyes. Ah, and post a marine sentry on its far side.’

Huke nodded. ‘I’ve taken command of the marines myself, I hope you approve?’

‘Yes, of course. I’m going to see the wounded first. Get the screen rigged and we’ll find what’s at the bottom of all this.’

In the cockpit Kennedy was finishing the last of his dressings. ‘Twenty-three wounded, sir, five seriously.’

‘How seriously?’

‘Very. Two are mortal, maybe three. Deep penetration of the abdomen, vital organs in shreds, severe blood loss.’

‘Bloody business.’

‘Very.’

‘You look tired.’

‘Not used to naval surgery. Noisy business. Most of the poor devils are dead drunk. Used a lot of rum.’

‘Go and get something to eat. I’m afraid we’re going to start getting the ship out of this predicament.’

‘Ah,’ replied Kennedy. He had no idea what the captain was talking about, but was too tired to ask.

‘By the bye, how is the man with typhus? I had quite forgotten him. I take it we sent him below?’

‘He’s here . . .’

Drinkwater followed Kennedy through the stygian gloom. The low space, usually the mess and living quarters of the midshipmen and marines, was filled with the mutilated wounded who groaned where they lay. Kennedy’s assistants were clearing away the blood-soaked cloth from the ‘table’ upon which the surgeon had wielded scalpel and catling, saw and suture needle. The stink of bilge, blood and fear hung heavy in the stale air. Snores and low moans punctuated the sounds of deep breathing, and the grey bundles moved occasionally as the fumes of oblivion cleared momentarily. In a corner a hammock was slung.

‘How are you?’ Drinkwater asked the pale blur that regarded him.

‘Better than those poor bastards.’

The man’s manner was abrupt, discourteous even, his accent American. Abruptly Drinkwater turned about and made for the gun deck. The canvas screen was almost rigged.

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