Sea of Grey

drum, ceremoniously got the gay red-and-gilt rum keg to the forecastle belfry, and the people began to queue up for their tots, chattering and laughing along as the merry tinkle of the string of copper measuring/drinking cups jangled.

'She repeats her first signals, sir,' Mr. Grace said, turning a worried eye to his captain, knowing that there was bad blood between Captain Blaylock and Lewrie already.

'We'll explain, once in hailing distance,' Lewrie said, though feeling that he was in for a 'cobbing,' no matter what he did.

Boom-boom-boom-b'boom. The drums began once more, now that the punishing guns, the ones that struck from nowhere, had ceased. A shot sounded, a thin and weak crack! from a lone musket. A desultory spatter of two more, a gust of gunfire, then the field guns began to bark anew. There was a massive shout, a challenging roar that caused a blizzard of musketry in reply, and then things fell silent again.

'Flag's waving!' Wandsworth's deputy, Scaiff, pointed out.

'Need us again, I expect. My my,' Wandsworth grieved wearily.

'Your midshipman fellow's runnin' off inland,' Scaiff said.

'Who? What?' Lewrie snapped, returning to the starboard side. 'What the Devil? He's takin' a horse!'

'Into the woods. Curious,' Scaiff said, yawning. 'That rum ye issue, Captain Lewrie? Could a poor soldier get a taste? I'm dry as dust.'

'Aye, go forrud and tell the Purser you want a tot,' Lewrie muttered, intent with his spyglass on the doings ashore, wondering why young Nicholas would go dashing off towards the trenchworks so suddenly.

'Water, sir?' Aspinall offered, coming onto the quarterdeck.

'God, yes, thankee,' Lewrie said, turning to accept a tall mug and drain half of it in one gulp.

'Fresh batch, sir. Good an' cool from the orlop.'

'Quite fine, quite fine,' Lewrie answered, sighing with contentment, and relief. His mouth had been as dry as a private soldier's, a man who'd been biting off cartridges all day. ' Toulon 's hiding down below, I take it?'

'Down in the midships hold, sir. Like he always does. Poor ol' puss, the guns scare him somethin' pitiful,' Aspinall chuckled.

The sound of gunfire in the forest erupted again, louder this time, more sustained and urgent, the volleys of two-ranked soldiers on top of each other as fast as they could load, the artillery crashing a steady tolling up and down the lines.

And men were running down the short streets of the town to the docks, men in red coats bearing weapons, but bearing the corners of a series of blankets, too… jogging along as fast as they could, with wounded! Thirty or so sentries who had been guarding the diminishing piles of stores were massing, led by a sword-waving officer who looked very much like that Major James who had come aboard earlier, and were trotting double-time the other direction, into the forest.

Lewrie lifted his telescope to see better, and found a figure in white slop-trousers and a short midshipman's coat, hatless, waving at him! It was Nicholas! And his right sleeve and hand were smeared with gore! He clung with his left hand to a side of a blanket which bore a wounded man, and tears could be seen coursing down his face in terror or grief.

'Andrews!' Lewrie roared for his cox'n. 'Away my gig to shore! Mister Nicholas is coming back wounded. Hurry, man, hurry!'

'Awn de way, sah! Furfy, Sharp, you two bastids, ovah de side!'

Lewrie felt glued to the ocular of his spyglass, wishing for a stronger one, ruing his cheapness on his last shopping trip to London chandlers. Nicholas trotted-no, staggered!-closer to the end of the longest pier, four soldiers still bearing their burden-to which he clung with a white-faced death grip-'til they reached the very end and laid it down.

Midshipman Nicholas sank to his knees beside the blanket, then lifted the man in it, taking the wounded fellow by the chin to try to shake him back to consciousness, pointing out towards their ship.

It was Midshipman Sevier… as pale as death!

'Row like the Devil, Andrews, they're both wounded!' Lewrie bellowed, his innards churning to think that his decision might have gotten both lads maimed or killed.

'Eh! Eh! Bomba! Heu! Heu! Canga, bafio tй!'

The enemy's chant seemed a cruel mockery.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Boat's comin' alongside!'

'Pass word for the Surgeon Mister Shirley!' Lewrie shouted.

'Signallers are waving once more, Captain Lewrie,' Captain Wandsworth pointed out. 'Hellish urgent-like? Do you have any cannister or grape stands remaining, I think it's needed something desperate.'

'Very well…' Lewrie began.

'Excuse me, sir, but Halifax spells out. 'Up Anchor' and 'Move.' '

'He can go bugger himself!' Lewrie snapped. 'Second hoist for Halifax.. . make 'request all your cannister and grape-shot.' That'll keep that pestiferous bastard busy, Mister Grace. Well? Run and send it!' Lewrie growled, noting Grace's wide-eyed goggling of the stir by the entry-port, where Sevier and Nicholas were being hoisted aboard.

'Aye aye, sir,' Grace gulped, and dashed for his flag locker and halliards.

'Mister Foster? Break open the shot lockers and make up charges for the guns, quick as you can, and keep it coming 'til it's completely gone,' Lewrie said, wanting to dash to the entry-port himself to see to Sevier and Nicholas. Things were coming too thick and fast to suit him, unlike the long minutes of an evolution at sea.

'Charge yer guns… shot yer guns…' a grizzled quarter-gunner was intoning to his weary crews, who had set their rum rations down on the quarterdeck, that priceless elixir of ease abandoned for a rare once, in the face of need. Other crewmen who had gone forward for

their rum ration had gulped it down then returned to their posts, their prime moment of relaxation and jollity stolen by stern Duty.

Wandsworth and Scaiff fiddled and calculated, gazing heavenward and counting on their fingers, muttering and whispering to themselves before reaching a mutual decision. A quick trot down the deck to see to the elevation, and…

'By broadside.. .fire!'

The 6-pounder long guns and the stubby 24-pounder carronades lit off together, shuddering Proteus anew, refogging her in a reeking pall of powder smoke, and making everyone's ears ring. Seconds later, the sound of musketry ashore rose in volume, crackling down the line of trenchworks like the advance of a brushfire, with the crisp sound of burning twigs. There was a roar of several light field pieces, then a howl of human voices raised in rage or fear or glee, the daft bray of a foxhunting horn to urge them on, just before another musket volley.

'Samboes broke the entrenchments,' Wandsworth found time to say, tugging at his ear again, 'and I think we just saw 'em out. Where your midshipman was wounded, I shouldn't wonder.'

'Mister Langlie, you have the deck,' Lewrie said, going to the gangway where Sevier was being hoisted inboard.

'Easy with him, lads,' Mr. Shirley was saying, already clad in his 'butcher's apron' of light leather for surgery, his sleeves rolled to the elbows. The grey army-issue blanket was lowered to the deck, already half soaked in gore, and Mr. Shirley sadly shook his head for a moment as the loblolly boys transferred Sevier's body to a carrying board, an eight-man mess table with rope straps to bind the patient to it, and other rope straps for lifting.

Shirley looked up at Lewrie and grimaced in sadness with another wee shake of his head. Sevier had been savaged by thrusts from bayonets or swords; the cloth and lace of his shirt, the flap of his white breeches were cut