The King`s Coat

the gun back to half-cock and went on aft.

By the main chains he got into another melee. Three men in slop clothing were falling back from about half a dozen men in white infantry uniforms, mostly armed with short hangers. ’At 'em, Desperates,' Lewrie yelled, partly to let them know that he was not a foe to be chopped into chutney sauce, and partly to encourage them. He found himself at the head of the pack, slashing away with abandon. One of his men struck forward with a cutlass and ripped the groin out of a foeman, which brought such a shriek that the others turned to run. Alan chopped a second man down across the spine as he faced away but could not escape past his friends.

A musket thrust for him, its bayonet sharp and hungry. He put up the pistol to bind with it, slashing backward with his rapier and opening up the man's chest. As the man stumbled and went down, Alan struck again across the neck, then vaulted the body as it sank to the deck.

Now he was on the quarterdeck, as British Marines and sailors swarmed up the ladders from the waist in a rush, and Lewrie's people took the crumbling opposition in the flank, doing great damage before they were spotted.

Lewrie faced off with a boy, perhaps a midshipman like him, and almost without thought beat the young man's guard aside and ran him through with the razor-sharp rapier.

Next there was a real swordsman, an officer by his clothes and breeches and good stockings and shoes, with a rapier and what looked like a poignard. ’To me!' Alan screamed, but he'd been cut off by the swirling fight, almost backed up against the larboard bulwarks and nettings. The man was fast and strong, his wrist like an iron bar as their blades met. Alan retreated slowly, parrying the sword with his rapier and trying to keep the poignard away from his belly with the long barrel of the pistol.

The French officer stamped and lunged, and Alan beat him aside in quartata, but the Frenchman was there with the poignard going for his throat, and they binded, thrusting forward at each other. The poignard snapped the gun back to full cock and Alan took aim in the general direction and pulled the trigger. The powder in the pan flashed, but the gun hung fire, the muzzle not three inches from the man's head…

The Frenchman actually smiled as he leaped back, devilishly quick on his feet, before driving forward again. Lewrie held him off with the rapier, going onto the attack to keep the poignard away. He still held the gun pointed at the man, hoping it would make up its mind to fire.

Then they were almost chest to chest again, and Lewrie had to lower the pistol to deflect the poignard. The gun went off. The French officer grunted and fell backward, all his strength gone. The pistol had finally discharged, in the man's groin. ’Quarter,' someone yelled in English. 'Give ' em quarter, I say…' It was not that easy to turn aside the men's blood lust. Three Marines ran past Lewrie, muskets held right-forward, stabbing, slaughtering broken men like rabbits. Alan leaned on the railing and became aware of a pain in his gun hand. The Frenchman's poignard had cut deep into his fingers on the butt as he had tried to fend off sure death from that dagger. ’Goddamn it, give 'em quarter,' Railsford was shouting. 'Stop that.’

Slowly the fight drained out of the men as they realized they had slaughtered and butchered from the forecastle to the after quarterdeck, and that there were very few enemy left standing. The ship was alive with cries of agony and terror, and the screaming of those horses or mules continued from the first moment they had opened fire. ’Mister Lewrie, is that you?' Railsford demanded. coming toward his side of the quarterdeck. ’Aye, Mister Railsford,' he shouted back through a cracked and dry throat. ’Take a party below and roust out the survivors.’

Lewrie found half a dozen Marines and sailors, and went from one compartment to another, down into the orlop and the holds in search of those who had hidden from death. They ran about ten men topsides. ’What's below?' Railsford asked him. ’Gun caissons, limbers, gun carriages, looks like sixor nine-pounder artillery, sir,' Lewrie said, his hand throbbing now. 'There's draft horses, sir, shot up and screaming. ’

‘Toliver,' Railsford called. ’Aye aye, sir?’

‘Take a party below, and put those horses out of their misery.’

’Aye aye, sir.’

’Hollo, what's happened to your hand?’

‘Cut it, sir. French officer over there with a dagger. ’

‘You go see Dome, then report right back to me, hear?’

‘Aye, sir.’

The two ships were now lashed firmly together, heading south on a soldier's wind on the beam, as they tried to sort things out. There was a hatch grating lashed to the bulwarks over which Lewrie scrambled to his own ship, still gripping the strange rapier. He went below to the orlop and found surgeon Dome busily cutting and sewing, his leather apron awash in blood, with gore up to the elbows. There were few of the Desperate present, but plenty of unfamiliar faces on the deck were twisted in pain. ’Bide a moment, Mister Lewrie,' Dome said, his head bare for once in the dancing light of the lanterns over the operating table made of chests. He was removing the arm from a French soldier, which had been shattered by grape-shot. 'No, can't help this one anymore. Lewrie, come here. Anything wrong?' The soldier had died, and was being lugged out by the loblolly boys to be tipped over the side without ceremony. ’Ah, flex your fingers for me,' Dome said, peering at the cuts. 'Everything still works. Drink this.’

There was a mug of rum, barely cut by an equal mixture of water, which Alan drank down greedily. Dome sponged his hand with seawater, got out his sewing kit and began to stitch the worst ragged tears while Alan set his face in a mask. Life was full of pain, anyone could tell you that, and it had to be borne as best as one could, without a show of fear. Men had been operated on for the stone, had their limbs severed, and never uttered a peep… they knew that pain could be stood, and once stood, was over. ’Once you are through with that, sir, I have a pair of breeches need mending,' Alan said tight! y, looking off into the middle distance at Frenchmen in much more pain than he. At least he hoped they were! 'Give it a week and you'll be sewing yourself,' Dome said. 'There. Soak daily in salt-water, which is an excellent prevention of suppuration. The stitches will weep for a while, but no lasting damage has been done. Hogan, wrap this in clean cloth, will you? And you come see me if you have any discoloring or odorous discharge.’

’Aye, Mister Dome,' Lewrie said, happy to escape that place, as another man was slung onto the table with both legs slashed open. Once Hogan had bound his worst-cut finger and wrapped a bandage around his whole hand, Alan went back on deck, reeling from the drink.

He reported to Railsford and was soon in charge of a working party hoisting out the dead horses. The cook was slaughtering them and carving them into chunks of roughly four pounds apiece for fresh meat for each mess. Other teams were identifying Desperate's dead and wounded, carrying them aboard for burial or surgery, tipping dead or badly injured Frenchmen over the side and shoving over offal from shattered bodies. ’Whole company of French infantry,' Railsford said as dawn began to tint the eastern horizon. 'And a battery of artillery going to the Virginia colony. Not a corporal's guard of them left.’

''VIrginia. sir?' Alan asked, reeling once more, this time with exhaustion as they labored to set the ship to rights for the prize crew to handle. ’Aye, I thought we had that safe, but things must be happening up north,' Railsford told him. 'There's a French officer left… not for long; that man over there in the green coat and red breeches, War Commissary Corps to Rocharnbeau and Lafayette… He makes it sound like the whole bunch of Southern colonies has been stripped bare for some m::yor fight in the Virginias. ' An older French officer had been wounded in the belly and was propped up as comfortably as possible near the double wheel by his orderly, who was sponging his brow. ’He won't last,' Lewrie said. ’I know, but he's full of information and cares little for keeping it to himself. You understand French, Lewrie?’

‘Just barely, sir. There's a lot would go right past me. ’

‘Well, I'll keep at it, then,' Railsford said. 'God, I wish we had our people here.’

During the night the convoy of prize ships had plodded past the ship and Desperate, once Amph;on had assured herself that ' they had things in good order. The larger frigate had given up half a dozen hands and a master's mate into Desperate to help work her, but this prize would require thinning out the crew further. ’Anything more you want me to do, sir?' Alan asked. 'Check the cargo manifests. Toss any drink over the side that the prize crew might be able to get to. We shall have to get underway.’

Lewrie went aft under the poop to the master's cabins. There had been some minor looting done and furniture was overturned, but the glossy desk was still in good order. Lewrie opened drawers!lntil he carne across the ship's log, manifests and daily books.

Their ptjze was a merchantman owned by Mulraix et Fils, Bordeaux, narned the Ephegenie,