The Victory (50 page)

‘Bad luck,' said Haworth.

‘
Twarn't nothing, sir,' Bullen said modestly. 'It were the
fall that broke me arm. One thing, sir, I'll be able to whistle a
treat through me gap, now.’

In the cockpit itself the surgeon and his assistants were
working by candlelight, cutting out splinters, probing
wounds, amputating smashed limbs.

‘How are things, Parry?' Haworth asked.

The surgeon looked up with a harried expression. 'I need
more help, sir,' he said abruptly. 'I've sixty or seventy
wounded here.'

‘
Everyone needs more help,' Haworth grimaced. 'I'll do
what I can. For the moment you can have the cook and his mates. They can begin by giving every wounded man a tot
of rum to celebrate our victory.' Someone raised a feeble
cheer. ‘Morpurgo here's got a bit of a knock; and I've taken
a blow to my back. Just take a look at it, will you, old fellow,
and tell me its nothing but a bruise, so that I can get back
on deck.’

Parry wiped his reeking hands perfunctorily and took
Haworth aside to examine him. He pressed here and there,
making Haworth wince and break out in a sweat. 'Nothing
broken, so far as I can tell,' he said at last. 'Just a massive
contusion. You'll be as stiff as a board tomorrow, but that
can't be helped. You were lucky, sir.'

‘Thanks,' said Haworth wryly.

‘
Hill, take a look at Mr Morpurgo's head, will you. I'd
better get back to my man,' Parry said. The man face-down
on the table was writhing in a slow, aimless way like a
wounded snake, and Haworth could see the purple-black
shape of a foot-long splinter under the skin of his back. Splin
ters, being barbed, could rarely be drawn out by the route
they went in, in this case a jagged hole under the armpit. The
surgeon usually had to cut down to the point and drag them out through flesh and muscle with forceps. Haworth tucked
his shirt back into his trousers, not much wanting to witness the operation, and with a reassuring pat to Morpurgo's shoul
der, he went out into the murk of the orlop.

There were women moving about amongst the wounded,
bandaging minor wounds, doing what they could for the
others. There was Lieutenant Phillips of the Marines, cheese-
coloured with approaching death, his white breeches ending
in bloody bandages. Haworth stopped to speak to him, and
then realised that the woman crouching by him was the
carpenter's wife. She looked up apprehensively.

‘
What are you doing here? Where's my daughter?' he
demanded. She was not obliged to answer, for Africa's voice
came from further off in the gloom.

‘Here I am, Papa.’

Haworth went towards her, staring in horror, for she was
squatting on the bloody deck beside a jack with a bandaged
stump instead of a right arm, supporting his head with one
hand while she fed him sips of water from an iron cup.

‘
What are you doing? Come away from there!' he said, his
voice hardly more than a whisper from the shock of seeing her
in such a position. But she only looked at him calmly, and
there was no child in her eyes, except in the simplicity with
which she saw the situation.

‘
It's all right, Papa,' she said. 'They're my friends. I must
help them.'

‘
It's not fitting,' Haworth said. 'You shouldn't be here. Mrs
Colley had no right to allow you to see this.'

‘
It's not her fault,' Africa said. 'She tried to stop me, but
poor Mr Parry had so much to do.’

Haworth turned back to the carpenter's wife, who had
stood up, and was twisting her apron nervously in her fingers.

‘
Mrs Colley, take my daughter back to your quarters at
once, and keep her there.'

‘
Begging your pardon, sir, but I haven't got no quarters.
It's all shot away, sir. Colley's in there now, sir, with his
mates, trying to plug the leak.’

So that's where the hole was. Haworth paled as he thought about it. If she had been in there when the shot came through
the hull ...!
Africa stood up and laid her small brown hand on his arm,
looking up steadily into his face. 'I'm all right, Papa, really.
You can go back on deck,' she said, and he remembered
suddenly how her mother had helped with the wounded
during the first battle she had ever witnessed, before Africa
was born.

He laid his hand over hers, and smiled uneasily. There was
so much for him to do, and she knew it, and was trying to
help him by taking herself out of his hands.

One of the midshipmen, a boy of twelve, came picking his
way, round-eyed with horror, through the wounded towards
him.

‘
Captain, sir, Mr Tyler's compliments, sir, and we're ready
to make sail.'

‘
Thank you, Mr Dixon,' Haworth said automatically. This
boy was no younger, inside himself, than Africa, his erstwhile
playmate; and indeed, his eyes had strayed from his captain
to her, and she was giving him a little, brisk nod for reassurance. He could not protect her from the knowledge to which
his decision to bring her to sea had exposed her. 'Tell Mr
Tyler I'm on my way,' he said.

‘
Aye aye, sir.' The boy took one more awed glance around,
and hurried off. Haworth laid the tips of his fingers on
Africa's head, and exchanged a smile with her, and walked
away.

*

But there was little left to do. It was past five o'clock in the
afternoon, and the battle was as good as over. The main mass
of the ships clustered around the centre, where the mastless
Royal Sovereign
wallowed helplessly, having lost her tow-line
to the
Euryalus
when a random shot from the enemy van
severed it as they passed on their flight south. The
Belleisle
and the
Victory
were also dismasted, and many others had
lost topmasts or spars. Of the whole fleet of twenty-seven
ships, more than half were seriously damaged.

But all around, too, were battered French and Spanish
ships, rolling on the swell, and all wearing the white ensign
over their colours. Four ships of the enemy van were fast
disappearing over the southern horizon, while another group,
nine or ten, Haworth thought, were fleeing northwards,
hoping to regain the safety of Cadiz; and the French
Achille
was burning briskly in a circle of clear water prudently left
around her. It seemed a most complete victory.

The firing had almost ceased; certainly there was none on
the vicinity of
Cetus,
for there was no enemy near enough to
fire at. It was time, Haworth thought, to report to Colling
wood for orders, for since neither
Victory
nor
Royal Sovereign
had a mast from which to fly a signal, it was plain there could
be no orders sent that way.

‘
Mr Tyler, secure the guns if you please,' he said. The men
had better not stand down until we have orders from the
Admiral, but see to it that they have something to eat at their
posts.'

‘Aye aye, sir.'

‘Have we any boats left?'

‘
No sir, only the one that Mr Styles took to the prize, sir.’

 
‘It's back, sir, the boat,' said Robins, master's mate. 'Here's
Mr Bittles, sir, with the French officers.’

More distractions. The prisoners came picking their way
across the quarterdeck, escorted by young Bittles, who
probably had no idea that he was grinning like a monkey in
his excitement and pride. The prisoners looked a sorry group,
their faces grimed, their clothing awry, dejected in their
defeat, ashamed of having surrendered, of having always
known that it would end like this. But they had to be received
with courtesy, compliments exchanged, arrangements made
for their accomodation under guard.

Only the man at the head of the group had the spirit to
look around him with interest at the workings of a foreign ship. He was a very short young man with a plump, puggy
face divided across the middle by a bushy black moustache.
The group came to a halt before Haworth.

‘
Dugasse,' said the moustached one, doubling himself with
his hat over his stomach in the French manner.

‘
First lieutenant, sir,' Bittles explained. 'The captain's
dead, sir, killed in our first broadside.’

Dugasse drew himself up to his full five-feet-two. ‘To
whom do I have the honour of rendering myself?' he asked
with dignity.

‘I am Captain Haworth of His Majesty's ship
Cetus.'
Dugasse raised his eyebrows. 'Ah, le Capitaine Haworth!
Of the ship
Afrique at
the battle of Aboukir?’

Haworth bowed. 'You have heard of me, sir?' he asked in
surprise.

‘But of course. I also was at Aboukir, sir, in the
Formid
able.
I
am glad
to be able to render the
Furieux
to such a
distinguished officer.' He bowed, and Haworth bowed again, and the other French officers, who presumably did not speak
English and were looking blankly miserable, bowed too.

Haworth turned to Tyler. ‘Mr Tyler, would you see to it
that these gentlemen are taken below to my cabin, and given
some refreshment. Gentlemen,' to the French officers, ‘I'm afraid your accommodation will be a little cramped for the moment, but we will do our best to make you comfortable.
Mr Bittles,' turning in relief from more bowing as Tyler
ushered the prisoners away, 'are there any boats intact on the
prize ship?’

Bittles frowned in thought. 'There's a gig, sir, that doesn't
look too badly damaged. We could probably repair it.'

‘
You had better give Mr Styles a hail: my compliments, and ask him to have it patched up and sent for you. I must
have our boat go to the flagship.'

‘Aye aye, sir.’

Morpurgo was by his side again, his fair hair falling across the bandage round his forehead. ‘Mr Morpurgo, can you find
me some paper and a pen and bring it to me here?' With the
French prisoners in his cabin, there was nowhere else for him
to write to the Admiral.

‘
Aye aye, sir,' said Morpurgo, as if it were the easiest
request in the world. Haworth felt a renewed surge of affec
tion for the boy.