She drew in a slow breath, for here was another kind of battle, one moreover that had been fought almost silently during the long, wearying weeks of blockade, not with guns or muskets, swords or knives, but in sharply turned shoulders, little jerks of chins, compressed lips, and in Mrs. Groton’s venomous whispers that mostly Sophy had pretended not to hear.
As the surgeon set them to readying the scraped bandages, the lint, and the powder, Sophy reflected on those dear days at Yarmouth. She had believed so blithely that naval wives were above the pettiness of such women as Amelia Forsham, but now she knew better: that benignant atmosphere had been the work of the port admiral’s wife.
Sophy, in finding herself the principal woman aboard a ship of 700 crew members, had striven to model herself on that admired woman. And it had not been easy. The gunner’s wife, there, as broad as she was tall, and smelling of whiskey, was a good-natured soul and handy with the ship’s boys; she was also lucky in that her place had been the gunroom, with the lower officers and the midshipmen.
The wardroom was where the silent battle was fought, the chief cause of enmity Mrs. Groton, wife of the first lieutenant and fourth daughter of the brother of an impecunious earl.
Mrs. Gorton, having endured through life the smirking superiority of a cousin who had married up in rank, despised Maria West, the pretty eighteen-year-old bride of one of the youngest of the lieutenants, for being a shopkeeper’s daughter. It seemed to make Mrs. Gorton the angrier that Mr. West was the heir to a respectable barony—and so wealthy and generous that the wardroom mess had gained significantly since Mr. West’s coming aboard just before the blockade began.
“Mrs. Skipper!” the gunner’s wife declared, her cheeks in a ruddy glow. “Why, here you be at last. What did you see afore coming below?”
Mrs. Groton twitched her shoulders and stepped back, away from the waft of spirituous liquor emanating from the gunner’s wife. Sophy affected not to notice. They all worried in their own way, she thought as her spine throbbed from the captain’s fierce hug.
Mrs. Groton’s forefinger scratched at the reddened skin around her thumb. The purser’s timid little wife had her Bible clasped to her bosom. Mrs. West looked subdued, but unafraid though on the other side of the surgery they heard the clink and thud as the surgeon and his mates readied their instruments; obedient to Admiral Nelson’s wishes, the surgeon had a small fire going, that they might warm the saws.
Sophy turned her gaze away from that rusty, naked steel and said, “The Combined Fleet is definitely out, and has begun maneuvering into column. Villeneuve and Gravina are coming to the attack.”
“What’s got into these poxy frogs? Why would they and the dons come out of Cadiz now?” the gunner’s wife asked, wiping a stray gray lock from her damp brow. “The seas are rising. There is bad weather a-coming. We can all feel it.”
“Perhaps it is a mere shift in the winds,” Sophy said, because she felt that something of the sort was required of her with all eyes turned her way. But they all knew that October’s weather, with its occasional extremes of heat and cold, could bring anything.
“As for what I witnessed . . . I must stay out of the way, as do we all, when they beat to quarters, but I stood beside the binnacle, and in the field glass I believe I spied the Santisima Trinidad, for it was quite the largest of those hull up in the horizon.”
“Hundred and forty guns. Moult says it ships 140 guns. Devil take it, what is this world coming to?” The gunner’s wife used her grimy apron to wipe her face.
“It certainly is large,” Sophy said. “Last, before I was sent down, there was a signal from the flag exhorting the men to their duty. You might have heard the cheer for that. And for the next, minutes later—I do not know precisely how many—when the Admiral signaled Temeraire to fall back astern of Victory.”
Mrs. Moult guffawed heartily at that. “That’s the admiral all over, that is, wants the honor o’ being fired on first, and devil take the hindmost!”
“I find such language extremely offensive,” Mrs. Groton began.
Mrs. West rolled her eyes. “As for offensive,” she murmured dulcetly.
“And . . .” Sophy raised her voice, and her rank once again—as it had for weeks—quashed an argument from breaking out. “And the final signal was ‘Engage the enemy more closely.’”
“Close! Aye, no need to signal that, is what I think,” Mrs. Moult stated, a finger laid beside her nose. “They’ll be close enough yet, you mark my words.”
With every cheerful word Mrs. Moult spoke, Mrs. Groton’s face hardened into further rigidity.
Sophy had scarcely drawn breath to say she knew not what when the first sounds of gunfire echoed like faint, dull booms. Everyone stilled, eyes turning to Sophy. She understood viscerally what was meant: they wanted her, as wife to the captain, to know what was to be, to restore order to the world.
But that she could not do. She could only pretend that her heart wasn’t knocking against her ribs. “I believe they have commenced firing. Let us look about us, then, and ready ourselves.”
Mrs. Gorton said, “I believe I ought to take the first station here—unless, of course, you feel that your duty, Mrs. Croft. Let it never be said that I do not know my proper place.” And she sent a poisonous glance at Mrs. West, who—she felt—should never be forgiven for marrying above her station in life.
“I know my station in life,” Mrs. West said forthrightly, in her Bristol accent. “By my husband’s side, and right here nursing, when he’s got the deck duty.”
Sophy knew what Mrs. Groton was after, and her clinging to rank aside, she had the right of it. They had heard often enough how Mrs. Groton had sewn men back together after the Battle of the Nile, whereas Sophy, though a captain’s wife, so far had only witnessed a few chases, two of which had come to a few exchanges of shots and no significant damage.
Credit where it is due, Sophy thought, pitying Mrs. Groton, whose husband drank twice as much as Moult and his wife—which was probably why he was still a lieutenant at forty. “Why, I believe you should show us the way, Mrs. Groton. Your experience will be invaluable.”
Twin spots of mottled red flew like signal flags in Mrs. Groton’s thin cheeks, and she gave a prim nod, her angry pride assuaged for the moment. “Very well, then. Here is what we did at Akoubir . . .”
Boom! The ship lurched, and again everyone froze, eyes meeting.
“Get ready,” the surgeon called. “They’ll be coming down anon . . .”
And so it was. Suddenly the loblolly boys were there, carrying groaning or insensate sailors. After the first shocking sight of splinter-torn flesh, Sophy was too busy for anything but cleaning, stitching, and bandaging wrapping.
Time became meaningless, until she was wrapping the head of yet another small boy, who whimpered under her hands, and there was Mrs. West at her shoulder.
Bright eyes looked into Sophy’s as she waited for a lull in the roar of artillery, then the bride said, low-voiced, “I am going to run powder.” She cast a quick glance at Mrs. Groton, busy wrapping an arm stump on a sheet anchor man who had just underwent amputation. “Moult passed down the word. They don’t have enough boys—we have most of them here, except for the two dead.”
“Put on West’s trousers,” Sophy whispered.
Mrs. West’s smile flashed, and she flitted away.
After that, the intermittent roar of guns, the jolts and shudders of the ship, the wash of crimson water about their ankles seemed destined never to end . . . until it briefly did. West was second to last to be carried down. Sophy’s heart lurched when she saw his slack face, but he breathed. He breathed. Off came his ruined leg below his knee. He shrieked, “Sally! Sally!”
Black in the face from powder, and filthy from top to toe, Mrs. West was there beside his head. “Here I be, sweeting. Hush, hush. A quick wrap, and Bob’s your uncle. Bide quiet, now . . .”
They faced the door, Sophy aware of a throbbing through her entire body, but the noise of new
arrivals caused her to brace and sway. And in came more, these crying, shouting or muttering in incomprehensible languages, most of them sodden, or smelling of smoke: the prisoners, being pulled out of the water, or off burning ships.
When the last wretched prisoners had been seen to, Sophy was free to climb back up the ladders to the quarterdeck. She was shocked by the wreckage strewn about, in an evil greenish sea that promised worse weather to come. But her gaze swept the snarls of cordage, the splintered wood, the bloodstains and detritus until she found whom she sought: he stood on the poop, a stained rag bound around his left arm.
He turned his head, and the look in his eyes caused her to skip over a fallen yard and run to Captain Croft.
“Nelson is dead,” he murmured, low-voiced.
“Admiral Lord Nelson?” Sophy repeated. It was impossible! Heroes didn’t die.
“Shot from the upper yard. Probably aiming at his diamond medal,” he added, touching his coat. “Duff is gone as well . . .” He named captains, lieutenants, sailors from other ships, then finished, “And Groton. He may have . . .” He looked away, swallowing. “He may have thrown himself overboard in the extremity, but I will put him down as died in the execution of his duty.”
Sophy could not speak, she could only nod. It meant that Mrs. Groton would receive whatever was to come to her husband—little enough recompense for such a loss. But at least the woman would not be turned ashore penniless.
Sophy slid her arm into his and stood with him in silence as they oversaw the work that never seemed to promise an end. The mariners labored doggedly, most beyond exhaustion into stupefaction. The sky streaked with ugly clouds above the fiery sunset. Damaged as they were, they were in for another attack, this one from nature, and the ship must be ready or it would founder.
At length Croft took her hand in his good one and led her to the cabin, which had been partly restored, so that they might shift their clothing in decency. Cold food awaited them, but what Sophy craved most after her exertions was watered wine, and after that rest for her stiff knees and aching neck.
“I shall need you,” he said at last.
“I know. Leave the nursing to us.”
“The prisoners as well. I will not have them neglected. They fought a tight battle, Spaniards as well as French.”
Sophy nodded. As she forced herself below to take up her nursing duties, she could not help but note there were no more brags about putting it to ’em, no ‘Johnny Crapaud’ or other epithets. The angry boast of imminent battle was gone entirely. Now they must all work together to save the ship from sinking.
The hours blended into measureless days, until at last they limped into Gibraltar, itself swept clean of disease by the storm. But the promised liberty was not forthcoming.
A signal from a first rate flying an admiral’s flag forced them to haul their wind and rock upon the water while an admiral and several lieutenants were rowed over.
Admiral Brand strutted aboard, his uniform immaculate in the way only achieved by an officer who had been sitting snugly at Gib while the battle was fought against the enemy and the weather.
“Well, well, Croft,” he said as he tipped his hat briefly at Sophy and smirked in her direction. “I understand I am to congratulate you on a splendid victory! Heh, did you smoke the jest there, ‘Victory’?” When he saw no answering smile in Croft’s rather grim countenance, he hastened on. “Collingwood will no doubt have many compliments for you—but first, I am very much afraid that I am in need of these excellent sailors.”
Sophy sensed her husband stiffening beside her. “I promised them liberty—they have been working watch on watch these six days and more.”
Admiral Brand spread his hands. “Alas, the service waits upon no one, you know that as well as I, and my brother requires a couple hundred good man of war’s men to get well on the way to Halifax. I expected he’ll meet with a few Yankees off the islands so that he can complete his crew, but until then, why, he needs to get the ship there!” He chuckled, but the sound fell into a dead silence.
Sophy felt remonstrance—protest—rise to her lips, but she knew better than to speak. And so she stood beside Croft as Brand expertly picked out the strongest and best of the men and had them rowed, under Marine guard, to a 64 lying a few cables’ lengths off.
The admiral was seen off the ship with rigidly correct protocol, then Croft turned and walked into the cabin. He slammed the door behind Sophy. “Nine months and more, those men will get, under one of the worst captains in the fleet,” he said bitterly.
“Is there nothing you can do?”
“Nothing,” he said. “That treble-shotted coxcomb knew what he was about—he stopped me in the seas, and if I’d known who it was, I could have maneuvered around him—claimed I was under orders from Collingwood, which would supersede his, if I could have signaled—but he knew well what I was about. Why do you think Captain Brand is short of men? Because he flogs half of them to death, and drives the others to run. Well, I hope these men run when they get to Halifax, and go straight to the Yankees.”
He sighed and shook his head, not recovering his equanimity until they were anchored at last, the prisoners safely discharged and the wounded sent to the hospital, which was packed to overflowing.
As soon as Captain Croft had reported to Collingwood, he came back and he and Sophy sat snug at an inn, the ship being stripped entirely for repairs. The eaves still dripped after the torrential rains, and they drew close to a fire, both so tired they felt as if they still floated on the water.
“Collingwood apologized for Brand’s damned trickery. I knew he would. He would have clapped a stopper over it had he had the chance, but Brand knew what he was about.” He heaved a sigh. “Now for better news, my dear,” he said, brightening. “I am appointed rear admiral.”
“Capital!” Sophy said, “And now I can sew onto your cuffs the stripe that I have been hiding in secret this age!”
“Ha, ha!” The new admiral paused to thoroughly enjoy his wife’s mild joke as if it were the wittiest bon mot ever uttered, and she laughed to see him so happy. “Ha ha, hiding in secret. Well that secret is soon let out! Ha! Second, there is news about Frederick.”
“Frederick! Where is he? Will we see him here?”
Croft smiled. “I do not believe so, for he was sent back to the West Indies, where it is believed that Boney is up to his old capers, now that he is winning battles all over Europe. He seems to have forgotten LeClerc’s defeat.”
“Perhaps that will gain Frederick his step,” Sophy said.
The admiral’s smile vanished. “He is aboard one of his beloved frigates—that is good, but under Sails Algernon.”
Sophy, by now, had become acquainted with a great many naval officers, and more by name. “Algernon?” she repeated, trying to recollect if she had met this captain.
The admiral bent closer and explained. ‘Sails’ Algernon was named by that by his fellow officers, but not to his face. The soubriquet derived from ‘Make More Sail,’ a signal everyone who had experience with blockading knew; Algernon’s ships received it far oftener than most.
Algernon, in short, had a reputation for being timid in action, hanging back with a care to his ship—and his own skin. But he was much cherished in Whitehall because he seldom indented at the overtaxed dockyards for supplies, unlike the more dashing captains whose ‘crack on like smoke and oakum’ actions resulted in much damage.
Then he sat back, and Sophy sighed. She knew what that meant: there was little chance of advancement under such a captain.
Sophy thought of Groton, an embittered lieutenant at forty, at that age unlikely ever to gain his promotion. She shook her head. There was nothing she could do, and so there was no use in repining. She met her husband’s eyes, seeing there that he knew her thoughts, and shared them. “There is little I can do, as yet. But I shall keep a sharp eye, mark my words. For Frederick don’t deserve such an ill turn.”
An ill turn that would keep him safe? But
Sophy knew her naval officers. The dashing ones thirsted for action. “I know, dearest.” She forced a smile. “Any other news?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Admiral Croft’s first command in his new rank was to take charge of a fleet that sailed east into the Mediterranean, once to chase marauding French frigates, and once to clean out an infestation of pirates. The first proved to be inconclusive, for the French had melted away, but the second was a smashing success.
Sophy, aboard the flagship, remained on deck so that she could watch the battle through field glasses, her idea to describe it to her brothers. However, what she mainly saw was smoke drifting over the water, with the orange flashes of broadsides briefly demonstrating where the ships lay, followed by the booms of the artillery.
After the smoke cleared, she saw the shocking damage firsthand: fire, debris in the water, swimming figures. The idea of pirates being sunk had given her a pleasure from a distance, for she knew the depredations they wrought, but the destruction in human terms gave her no pleasure.
That action, however, secured to the admiral even more prize money than had the action at Trafalgar, their having recovered treasure that had been stolen from Spanish ships come from the Western Pacific. Sophy, walking off the ship and finding the household awaiting her respectfully, understood for the first time what it meant to be wealthy: gradually over the past year, she had had to accumulate servants for a house suitable for an admiral.
They walked together to the house, where the post lay on a silver salver. Gone were the days when either of them must fetch it in person.
“I am become a vice-admiral,” he said, laughing.
At the same moment, Sophy exclaimed, “Frederick has seen action—he is now on his way back to this side of the Atlantic.”
They both stopped, and at the same time, each spoke, “You first!”
That prompted another laugh. The new vice-admiral read out his appointment, with its new orders, following which Sophy sat on the arm of his chair that they might read Frederick’s scribble together.