So, you've worked it all out then? I do hope so…or not…? Read on, MacDuff!
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Juana Margill had not been surprised that William Wickham had not been where he had fallen ten minutes later and she had used all her cunning to locate him again. Now she watched as his escape took him through the rigging, up to the royals and topgallant sections of masts and then, either bravely or foolishly, was a leap towards the Redoubtable, leaping towards the enemy ship's corresponding mast section.
Foolish, though Juana Margill who had pursued him aft and partially up the rigging as the boarding party from HMS Victory set foot on the French frigate and quickly overran it. She had toyed with the idea of retreating back to the mid-deck where the rims of both vessels were touching so as to meet Wickham on the other side but, after a swift speed-time calculation figured she would never make it in time.
She had been right – one of the small boats of the Redoubtable was, even now, heading in the direction of Spain and there was little Juana could do to stop it – even exposing her hand to the Victory's crew would not have enabled anyone to catch him. God-damn the man! She had been so close too! Had it not been for Jean-Baptiste Lebec she would have been behind Wickham herself and she wouldn't have left him a-decks with only a nasty headache.
Juana Margill unhooked a delicately-shoed foot from the last of the rigging, absently thanking the heavens that the thundering of warfare all around them had, between these two ships at least, stopped and turned away from the fleeing ex-patriot. Both knew she had survived his attempt at killing her and that he had escaped her hunting him.
She wondered what the future would hold, and whether she would excel enough to catch him again and next time, complete the job. At least he could not return to England, and she could expose him to Toby Hamilton, chief of military espionage operations, for the traitor that he was. And to think, he had tried to frame her for Nelson's assassination – the impertinence!
Juana sighed again and looked down from the quarterdeck onto the main. No, the pursuit would be in vain. Besides, there were other things were more urgent now to her mind, graver things to worry about. The woman calling herself Robert Young calling himself Stephen Maturin. Had Wickham not shouted it aloud there was a chance Juana would not have realised.
But…where was she? Milling around in the open air men of all ranks were taking the injured and the dying below decks, to the cockpit - that would be where she would be, in a place she knew very well, in that butchery which served as a hospital upon a warship, where Beatty would now be hacking limbs, administering stupor-inducing drugs and sewing up while Smith was fetching and carrying, nursing and soothing.
Juana hastened her step, knowing that, acting as a mere mizzenlad that Cicely was, it was unlikely she would have been treated, or at even her wounds considered. She would be last in the queue of deserving, behind more senior officers with stubbed toes and the like, such a vile practice which the surgeon of the Surprise had long since altered, giving primacy to, more humanely, those who needed it most urgently. Juana Margill knew she would have to act fast if she were to save Cicely's life.
Refusing to allow that thought a space in her mind Juana hurried to the main deck's hatch and down the stairs, vowing that she would pay penance in a thousand hells should Robert Young now die.
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Below deck, the floor swimming with blood and viscera which sloshed to and fro with the rolling of the ship and the stench making the headwaters seem pure, Juana Margill looked around. Every available space in the cavernous gun deck, was now occupied with the injured and the dying, some even lying upon the guns themselves for want of room
Abaft the gunroom was anything but – an open expanse of human bodies, at least three dozen, crammed together and wanting a sense of organisation and expediency. These men were dying, injured and in pain and displayed the qualities thus. Those whose agonising wounds were not being treated, broken limbs, impaled flesh and the like expounded their suffering loudly. Others lay still, silently, in a state of unconsciousness or through bravery daring not to call out in their varying stages of decay
Many were being treated, cared for and pacified by other crew members, like for like, though little in the way of treatment had happened or was happening. Yes, their numbers were many but that should have made Beatty more organised. Juana wondered whether Thomas Hardy may have fared better.
At the centre of the cockpit William Beatty stood, assessing a midshipman's shoulder injury, staring at it intently as he decided what to do next, surrounded by instruments which were to hand, hot water under his nose brought by Neil Smith. Striding past the surgeon and his assistant Juana scanned the room, her eyes urgently seeking out Robert Young.
Those she passed called out to her pitifully, begging for help, water, comfort but Juana walked by hastily. There seemed to be a group of bodies lying to one side, larboard, who seemed to be unperturbed and, to a fleeting glance, asleep. Juana hurried over, turning the faces of those still, not-yet-corpses, looking at their features, some mangled, some unshaven, most illucent, healthy pallor ebbing, or ebbed. Then, to one side, by the panelling which separated the aft upper deck from the cockpit lay Robert Young.
His eyes were closed, lids sunken, with blood to his face and neck, though not obviously his. Not wishing to move him far yet wishing to pull his body far from those other poor wretched souls with whom he lay, Juana moved him to a clearer spot, feeling his arms, his abdomen, his legs. She touched where the red staining appeared to be, in his left hip, a large, five-inch diameter stain, scarlet and damp and, under her fingers Robert Young flinched a little. He was still alive. Cicely was still alive.
Juana felt again – a bullet had obviously penetrated her hip and, from an investigation to Young's opposing side, the back of his hip, ascertained there was no exit wound. The bullet was lodged inside him. She glanced at his leg, which had also a deep gouge, now clotted and dark. That needed treating too, otherwise infection would take hold.
Seniorita Margill stood swiftly and made her way back to the cockpit where Beatty and Smith were working, a little quicker this time, Juana noticed. These men would be grateful for it. Intent in their work neither the surgeon or his assistant noticed a tall woman, heavily made up and bejewelled (or she had been the previous night) in clothing that had never fitted her, appropriating Beatty's instruments and equipment. Further, Juana lifted a brown-glassed bottle of laudanum and even the next bowl of steaming water and prepared bandages, sutures and thread that Smith had organised for Beatty's current patient's stitching of his arm.
It was only when Smith had been taken aback in its absence that his attention was drawn to the locale and he watched, dumbfounded for a moment as a woman walked back towards the aft with his master's belongings.
"Hey! Hey! Hold, there!" Juana did not turn, but hastened her stride to the supplies located on shelves behind Beatty She needed to bathe Robert Young's leg, as she tore his clothing carefully so as not to contaminate his abdomen wound. Then she must assess the bullet-wound, taking care to minimise internal injury, especially so close to the hip and lower bowel.
"What are you doing here?" William Beatty, white-hot fury reflected in his tone, demanded an answer. When none came and, further, Seniorita Margill continued to analyse the bottles, jars and powders, he added, "a woman? Here? Stealing my possessions?"
"Borrowing," replied Juana Margill, waving her hand dismissively, "and strictly speaking, most of these belong to the Royal Navy." She felt a firm hand on her shoulder but Juana did not look from her task – she was after rubbing spirit, to numb the wound directly as it was likely Robert Young would not be able to imbibe it, nor the laudanum come to that.
"You have other men to treat," Juana continued when Beatty did not reply, and she deftly shrunk from his grip, "I expect that they need you to do that, rather than talking to me."
"Why, you – " Beatty made to look at her, but Juana deftly moved to one side, stepping widely to the right. There. Rubbing spirit. Or blind man's folly.
"How dare you – " he asked again, " – Smith! Send for Lieutenant Quilliam! Directly!" Not wanting to make a grab to restrain the woman, not least for fear of his precious belongings, instruments and liquors, he watched as Juana Margill stepped lightly in the direction of the makeshift hospital ward aft.
"What are you doing here?" he tried again, at a loss as what to say in a situation where a woman he had never met before was raiding him and doing her level best to avoid him.
"I'm here to help, Mr. Beatty. And I'm starting right here, with those in most need." Had a neutral witness been present they may well have laughed heartily as a woman bustled around the surgeon's realm helping herself so outrageously.
Kneeling beside Robert Young, Juana worked swiftly, wiping and dressing her deep leg gouge, so deep she could almost see the bone, before tearing his shirt and bindings to reach the site where the bullet had penetrated.
"My love," he began as he worked efficiently and nimbly, "I will never, never, – " thankfully the bullet was not too deep and would be easy to remove, " – put my work second to you – " but the muscle, tissue and tendons were severed in several awkward places, " –again." She prepared the sutures, having rinsed the wound with copious amounts of alcohol and the instruments too.
"Oh my darling," Juana cried empathetically as her eyes flickered, the laudanum she had administered still taking effect. "You will live, and I will show you," she concluded as she darned neatly the inner flesh before closing Robert Young's outer. It would be weeks…months probably, before it had healed properly, and of course, the chances of familial opportunity had more than likely come to an end. Looking at him, she used the remainder of the clean bandages to wipe his face tenderly.
Juana sighed, her brown creased with worry. What concerned her most was her beloved's unconscious state. That he were awake to explain where it hurt, to shout and scream, to bellow, to cry…those sounds would be sweet music compared to the deathly silence, bar his ragged breathing, that confronted her now.
No! Not deathly! He would live, of that Juana was determined, with all the skill she had, with all his piety and bravery. God would see to that. Juana Margill rested her head gently on Robert Young's chest.
Oh my darling, my darling, she whispered, not knowing whether her words had had enough energy to stir the air and actually make sound. A part of her knew she could offer help to others, but, looking at her beloved, in her arms, the thought evaporated as her lips murmured a song, one of her early adolescence.
"…Lá na mara…" she whispered in Gaelic as she stroked his arm, "lá na mara nó rabhart… 'sé mo laoch mo ghile mear…suan gan séan ní bhfuair mé féin…o chuaigh i gcéin mo ghile mear…", then, in English, "…no rest or happiness, since you went away…to the sea…to follow the waves…" she reached up to stroke his hair tenderly, "…my gallant darling…"
Lieutenat Quilliam, standing just inside the deck's doorway that led back out to the cockpit, waited a few moments at this Spanish Seniorita lulling and cooing over her love so affectionately, such a beautifully sad moment (for the man was like to die) and had made to turn, to address the situation later. Then the resemblance of the Spanish seniorita's beloved caught his eyes and Quilliam's mind jumped back to early that morning. He turned to the cockpit, calling out to a middie who was assisting with the men who Beatty had already treated. John Carslake jerked his head.
"Mr. Carslake, call for Captain Adair, if you please." Then he turned back to Juana and frowned at her. Clearly the mizzenlad was in no fit state to answer for why he was not still incarcerated. This woman would know, he was bound.
"Madam!" Juana's pale eyes jerked in the lieutenant's direction, her expression malevolent.
"Si?"
"Name?"
"Stephen Maturin."
"No, madam, I want your name…"
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