Chapter Thirteen: Black Night
With a grunt, I toppled over a coil of rope on the deck and stumbled to my feet, my arms extended before me in the thick blackness. I was on the First Night Qatch with Griffith as the governing office. But a few days had passed since my argument with Roland, and even the news of a possible change of course was not thrilling me as well as I would have hoped. Things had only gotten worse.
Bennett and the other lads were sound asleep in their cozy hammocks, and crude Willard was the other ship's boy on watch with me. To add to my misfortune, all lights were out, for fear of being discovered by our enemy, and I was stuck to wandering like a blind man amidst the inevitable dim of a moonless night.
Having recovered from my fall, I walked forward, and felt my way around only to run directly into a well-formed mass of lean muscle and supreme power.
"Watch where you're going," he snarled, grabbing my shirt sleeve and raising his free arm to swat me. His blue eyes were all I saw in the dark, and I found the same untamable and fiery insanity spark in them.
Stunned frozen, I braced myself, bones and flesh tensing to withhold his crushing blow, but the flash died and he released his grip on me, chuckling to himself. "Jack," he sang, patting my shoulder rather aggressively. "Run to the galley and get me some coffee, would you?" Do it yourself, you snot. And why the hell d'ya want damn coffee for?
Jerking my shoulder away from him, I trudged away—straight into the foremast— and heard the unfamiliar 'clunk' of my forehead against the wood. "Need a lantern?" he laughed.
"Ye know the rules, sir," I moaned, rubbing my sore brow. "No lights after dark."
"Oh, but Jack, it's just for a short time. Blow it out when you come back."
"But the enemy—"
"Tosh. The enemy has no information about our whereabouts. It's not bloody likely they'll attack while you're gone."
"I'm not going to do it, sir," I growled, completely forgetting that I was speaking with the explosive and redoubtable Victor Griffith. White fury blazed in his eyes and he seized my arm before I could run away.
"You insolent swine!" he screeched, raising a fist to hit me. I ducked my head and tugged again on my sleeve, but it appeared as though it was nailed to him.
The first hit came down, knocking me hard on the head, and I thought for a moment that everything shifted into silence. And then, slowly, it grew into a deep thump ringing distantly in my pounding skull. My head rolled back and my eyes caught sight of a black ball ramming fast into the foremast, causing millions of wooden splinters to fly everywhere in the frustrating darkness.
I hit the floor, covering my arms with my head. I didn't know what happened to Griffith, but he had finally let me go. From afar I heard him shouting orders with a quaking voice, and I believed that even he, mighty Griffith, had a sense of cowardice in the turmoil of battle.
"Beat to Quarters!" Lifting my head, some shreds of wood fell from my hair and I jumped to my feet. I ran abaft, my eyes scanning the black ocean for the sails of our clever enemy.
The haunting silence seemed to come again, although the sailors on watch were now bustling to their posts and duties, and I stood dumb, facing the sea. Then commenced the bright flare shooting from amidships of our opponent, and my eyes grew wide as I took a rigid step back, unable to move, for the bright spark had told me to freeze.
"Down, lad!" came a shout from behind, and an arm hooked my neck and pushed me down while I recovered from my shock and curled into a tight ball underneath the protection of my rescuer. "Down to Doctor Cavanaugh, now, Jack," he said, knowing it was safe to stand and pulling me up to my feet. I felt a bit of shame from having being stricken numb by stupid cannon fire, for it was Captain Carlisle who had saved me.
I saluted shakily and scurried below decks.
I emerged into the surgeon's cockpit and saw Doctor Cavanaugh hurriedly setting up his operating table and tools. "Barlow reporting for duty," I said, bringing my knuckle to my brow. He looked up at me, his stressed face smiling with relief, and he beckoned me over.
"Just like last time, Jack. Get the sand ready. Water too," he ordered.
"Aye, sir."
I left to retrieve the items, trying my best to remain composed. Seeing more blood, wounds and dead bodies was not what I particularly desired after so many difficulties with my mates onboard, but it had to be done. Perhaps I could have been the difference between life and death for a man and that was not something I would decline. I was honored to help.
I see the water
And the blood on my hands
I feel the water
And the handfuls of sand
I hear their cries
And the fading beat of heart
I understand their fear
And the wounding start
I see the blackness
And mettle I lack
I see the darkness
But I shan't turn back…
The French were very clever little bastards. Obviously, Griffith's assumption that the enemy had no knowledge of our location was blatantly incorrect, for now our ship was on the verge of becoming completely destroyed.
Damn French. Damn Griffith.
The only thing I wondered at that moment was how they could have found us, for it was a moonless night and our ship had absolutely no lights on. The only way one could have found us in the murky dark would be if we did have a candle or some sort of lantern on. But we didn't. It was either that some unfortunate cove disobeyed the captain's rule and lit a candle, or the French had damned good eyes and could see in the dark. But I knew that the French weren't that talented, and therefore we had a betrayer on the ship. Who it was, well, that was the least of my worries at the time.
Our poor ship was caught by so much surprise that men were filing down to the surgeon's cockpit like water from a pump. They'd continue to tumble down, the majority of them moaning and streaked with blood.
Due to the excessive number of men arriving, Doctor Cavanaugh ordered me to treat the less serious of wounds on the men and then dismiss them back up on deck to resume fighting. I'd locate their injury, dress it with a bandage, make them swallow a spoonful of thick white paste and then send them off. Many of them were eager to leave, judging by the way they took one look at the operating table and gagged.
Doctor Cavanaugh also made me in charge of administering the sewing of flesh as well. The man would come, point to the open gash in need of closure, and I'd take a needle (already used many times a-forehand), loop in some thread and then poke it through the sailor's flesh. He'd wince, and I'd just pull all the harder for time was against me. I was expected to do that and bandage limbs in under a minute due to the growing number of wounded coming down. Word had it that our damned enemy was lying alongside, preparing to board and take the H.M.S Resolve as a prize.
"Make way for the captain!" barked a man coming down the ladder to the surgeon's cabin. Lieutenant Throne stormed down, his face marked with a red line across his cheek. Behind him stumbled Captain Carlisle, who did not look in very good shape. His hat was missing, his head hung low, and his legs were weak.
"Jack, aid Mister Thorne and get the captain here quickly," commanded Cavanaugh. I nodded and rushed forward, supporting Captain Carlisle from the other side while Thorne had the other.
"What is his injury, sir?" I asked, amidst the yells coming from the current patient on Doctor Cavanaugh's table.
"A few cuts across the face and what seems to be a leg wound. The enemy has boarded our ship and we've been fighting hordes of those damned French. He's exhausted," replied Thorne, for once speaking to me in a more agreeable tone. "Whatever you must do, do it. I need to get back on deck. The men won't hold long." We reached Cavanaugh and I was told to get the current patient off the table and so I dragged the man off, with him still screaming, and to quiet his useless screams over a mere stitch on the leg, I gagged him with a bandage.
"Jack!" cried Doctor Cavanaugh. "He has a deep gash across his neck. You treat it. More men are coming. I can't be occupied."
"Aye, sir!" I said, wrapping an arm around Captain Carlisle and helping him away from the operating table. "Can ye stand, sir?" I asked, stepping back away from him to check his wound. He nodded, wincing. His white collar was damp with his blood and I tore it away and twitched at what I saw. A bandage wouldn't heal the gash. It needed to be stitched.
"Sir, if you please," I began, running over to the medicine chest and rummaging through numerous bottles of anesthetics. The simple white paste wouldn't do as a lenitive for the gash. I found a better anesthetic, one applied directly to the skin: a liniment, and with that done, I took a clean needle and began to sew up the slash, which was rather difficult, for it was on the poor man's neck.
Bang!
I veered my head towards the ladder leading to the cabin and saw a sailor tumble down, a bullet hole in his chest. Dear God.
A few chuckles came from the men who paraded down afterwards, speaking softly to each other in the romantic French language. My hands dropped the needle and I stood frozen in place, wondering what the hell was to be done. The enemy had found us, and what good would Cavanaugh and I be with a group of dead and wounded men?
"Dammit," I breathed. "Cavanaugh!" Abandoning Captain Carlisle and scurrying to the doctor's side, I whispered, "What are we going to do?" Cavanaugh looked uncertainly at me. His eyes were scanning my own for any possible solution, but none was coming.
"Oh, Docteur!" taunted the intruders walking calmly towards us, waving pistols and swords in the air. At least five more men sauntered down the stairs, each smiling with satisfaction at our sight. They thought us easy game. Perhaps even sport.
"Do ye have a sword, sir?" I asked quickly, gradually inching back to Captain Carlisle as the French advanced. Cavanaugh shook his head. I gulped and felt my stomach tossing and turning and twisting with apprehension. I felt neither fear nor immense worry. I felt… excited to the point where I was sick with the thrill.
"All right," I nodded. "That's fine. You keep working. I'll fight."
"No, Ja—" I didn't let him finish because I leapt towards Captain Carlisle's conscious, but weak body and grabbed the pistol from his belt, cocked it and fired a shot. The blast rung in my ears as a stream of smoke was left behind and I heard a man fall down.
My eyes locked on those of the enemy and their eyes flamed with hatred. Oh, Dammit, Astrid! Knowing nothing else to do, I stole Captain Carlisle's sword from its scabbard.
"Well," I sighed. "Here it goes. I hope your fencing lessons were worthwhile, Daddy." I sprinted forward, whizzing passed Doctor Cavanaugh's stunned face and straight for the enemy.
One of them fired a shot from a pistol and narrowly missed hitting my head. Swerving to the left, I met the cutlass of the closest Frenchman, and looked up at him, then down at his feet. Remember their feet, Astrid. Remember—
I felt something touch my back and I cast a nervous glance backwards and saw the tip of a pistol on my spine. Damn! The Frenchman had his finger on the trigger, and the one I had crossed swords with was now holding the point to my neck. "Well," I said, "this is rather uncomfortable."
With a squeal, I ducked and rolled, cutting my neck on the sword tip of the cutlass, but missing getting shot in the back with a bullet. In fact, I had dipped down in time and the Frenchie with the gun hit the Frenchie with the blade, leaving one dead, and the other shocked that he had just terminated his own comrade.
I took advantage of that and tried to crawl away, but someone seized my leg and hauled me up, sticking the nose of a pistol to my forehead. "Adieu," he snickered. His finger was on the trigger, curled and ready to pull and the shot came, blasting around my ears and I gave a cry and was suddenly dropped to the ground, something wet on my head and… and…
I was not dead.
"Are you all right?"
I unbolted my locked eyelids and discovered dear Bennett leaning down and helping me up, with a large Frenchman standing right behind him, wielding a raised axe.
"Wait!" I shouted, jumping up and jutting Captain Carlisle's sword into the Frenchman's body. I happened to hit his shoulder and I pulled the blade out, panting as the man crumbled to the floor. I faced Bennie, smiling through all the gore and chaos. "Now I'm all right."
"Good," he replied shakily.
"Vous le petit bâtard!" bellowed a Frenchie that was storming towards us.
I held my sword in front of me, ready to take on his blow, but he didn't cross swords with me. Instead, he cuffed my face with an iron fist and I was thrown back, dropping Captain Carlisle's sword. I felt something hard in my mouth and I tasted the saltiness of my own bleeding jowl. I spit out whatever was in my mouth and had a tooth come out. Oh great, I thought. When Adam sees me again, I'll be a toothless porridge eater.
While still lying on the floor with aching limbs, the Frenchman ran up and raised a cutlass directly over my chest. His dark eyes were mad with the hunger to kill and he grinned a wicked grin that only made me seethe all the more. The point came rushing down and I rolled over and kicked him between the legs. I stretched over and took the cutlass from him and skewered his torso, pushing the blade as far in as I could. He gave a groan every time I pushed the blade through and in a sudden bloodcurdling 'crack' the tip of the cutlass broke through the man's back, showered in his blood.
Fighting alongside Bennett, we were able to kill off any Frenchie who dared to come down to the surgeon's cockpit, leaving Doctor Cavanaugh and Captain Carlisle safe from being taken captive or slaughtered as well. Bennett's main weapon was his trusted pistol, instead of a sword. Of course, if I had been using a pistol, I'd be fiddling with its triggers for the most part until I shot myself by accident. A sword, more importantly, Captain Carlisle's sword, served me very well. That was, until the end of the battle.
With a gasp, I hopped backwards, missing having my nose sliced off by a hair. The Frenchman muttered something before punching me in the gut, and with a grunt, I fell to the ground, rather hard on my bum, squeezing my stomach and glowering at the damn sailor of Old Bony's dreaded navy. "What ya gonna do?" I croaked. "Send me to France and cut off me head on one o' them guillotines o' yiz?"
"Oui," he replied with a cackle, clouting me about the face and making my bloody spit shoot from my immobile jaw.
"Arrêt. Amener le garçon à moi," said a man. The fist knocking my face stopped abruptly and left me, my swaying head, and my leaking nose, to observe the red uniformed man who calmly walked down the steps to the surgeon's cockpit. "Where isth le capitaine?" he said slowly in English, so that I could understand.
I slowly approached the French captain, and I listened to the bedlam of war fade in my ears as we locked glances. His dark eyes turned to one of his men, and with a laugh he spoke to his accomplice in French, pointing a finger at me.
"Would you be so kind asth to show me where le capitaine isth then, boy?" he responded at last, sounding more like a snake with an accent than a man.
My mind was bending towards saying, no, but that would aggravate the captain, and he'd surely kill me with one slash of his blade. But I wasn't about to betray Captain Carlisle either. He was too good a man.
To my relief, I felt a hand squeeze my shoulder, and I turned and saw Bennett walking ahead of me, his face solid with fierce determination to keep the ship under British rule. His face was too tightly molded with pride to bow down to a Frenchman.
And to my dismay, the French captain ignored Bennett's advancement entirely, keeping his eyes fixed on my vulnerable self. I could feel myself crumbling under such a glare of authority and my mouth was already about to spit, "Captain Carlisle is right there."
And stupidly… very stupidly, my response came as thus:
"He's right here," I puffed, showing him Captain Carlisle's sword. "I'm the captain." Bennett's eyes bulged and the French captain merely laughed at me, as did his men. The other Britons, might I add, were silent as the grave at my act, hoping that it would go smoothly. "And I, as the captain, challenge you to a duel…" I said, extending a hand of agreement. "To the death," I added.
I did not know what had taken over me. My dumb, self-sacrificing idiot of a self was coming out, and again, it chose to reveal itself at the most inappropriate time, for not only did I put my life in danger, I was basically belittling our captain by taking his place. Either way, I knew the consequences would be dire.
"If you be the true captain," snickered the Frenchie, "then it isth my pleezure to duel with you." He shook my small little hand and we were off.
The men cleared away from our dueling circle, Britons on one side, Frenchies on the other. Oh, please Daddy. Hopefully your lessons were enough, I thought as we raised our swords vertically, parallel to our bodies before we actually began. "Any last words?" I asked, hoping to appear too confident for my own good in the unlikely hope of the French captain surrendering.
"Yesth," he responded. "Your name, so that I may execute you properly." I smirked and lowered my blade and beckoned him to take the first move.
"They call me Jackaroe."
"Capitaine Zha-que-roe," echoed the Frenchman, crossing blades with me. My heart was pounding like a drum in my chest and I could barely hold his dark stare as he bore into my thoughts. "I vwill not honor you withmy name," he scoffed, and in that quick instant, his fine French blade flashed in the dim of the surgeon's cockpit, steering me completely off guard and in as quick as a simple blink of an eye, he sent a most beautiful cut against my left cheek.
The flesh around the gash stung terribly, making my face contort in biting discomfort, and the warm blood oozed from the cut and dripped slowly to the polished wooden floor. "I'll get ye back for that, ya cheap French bastard," I threatened, smearing away the blood with my sleeve. Squeezing the hilt of my blade all the tighter, I leapt forward and thrust, only to have it parried easily. Perhaps too easily for him, for as soon as he tossed away my attack, he brought his blade up and slapped me across the face with it, its silver flash still blinking in my eyes when I realized what he had done.
"Surrender yet?" he asked contemptuously, advancing his blade to my chin. I eyed his weapon, seeing its edge painted red from my own blood and then glowered back at him.
Bravely, I met swords with him again, though I had the increasing fear that I would lose and die. Of course, now that I had challenged him, I was fighting not for myself but for my mates and commanding officers. To defy my French opponent was positively the most stupid thing I had ever done in my life.
Again, I dashed forward and maneuvered my blade, bending my wrist in crooked movements, all the while not getting anywhere with him. He simply deflected all swings and countered with more powerful and tricky movements, pushing me farther back and clearly gaining power over the fight. I was doomed. How stupid could I have been to think that I could have taken a damn captain who was probably more experienced in swordsmanship than I would ever be? I might as well, surrender, I thought. But I shook my head. No. This is not about me. This about my mates. Think of Roland… Dobbin… Andre… and Bennie. Yes… Bennie. Oh, Bennie, you should be terribly frightened for me, and if not, you bloody should be.
My thoughts proved to be my demise, for the next time I truly looked at what was going on instead of just seeing it, the Frenchman had grabbed me by the collar and hauled me to a wall where he commenced to rap me repeatedly with the metal hilt of his sword. Oh, why, why did I choose to be the hero and show off and—
Both the French and the British had lost their composure by then and the rules of a proper duel were broken. Men charged forward, howling like wolves as they continued to kill each other. And through the disarray, I hoped to elude the tricky French captain, but he was too intent on killing me, and before I knew it, he had caught me by my hair and yanked me backwards.
With his free arm, he seized my twig-like neck and began to throttle me, pushing me higher against the wall so that my feet dangled and my own weight would snap my neck.
Gasping for breath and kicking and crying, my hands went limp and Captain Carlisle's sword fell unceremoniously to the ground in a clatter. I was going to die. So much for dying with honor. I was being choked and beaten by a man who spoke a language I did not even understand. I was an idiot to think I could save everyone. Why did I think I had to do that in order to prove myself? There could have been other ways… there could have been—
My forehead was given a bruising whack and strange lights flickered in my wet eyes before I felt my head sway and I saw nothing more.