And then the reality, quickly following the assumption that we’d passed the trouble: that, as we’d by now unfurled the Union Jacks the crew had made, there could be no question that they were firing on a British frigate. My padding down to the captain’s cabin, half believing we might be clear of it, then the terrible, terrible sound from just above me – the cabin door slamming shut, and then almost immediately bursting open – the mushroom cloud of choking black smoke surging in. The realisation that they had meant to fire on us – that they were firing on us now; that they meant us grievous harm. The shock of it. The terror. The sense of disbelief and outrage. Of hearing the captain – no, that was wrong – it had been the first lieutenant, hadn’t it? Of the first lieutenant, shouting… Return fire! Return fire! Bridge to wheelhouse! Return fire! Feet, thundering past me. Screams – so much screaming! Of the shouts and the cries – the desperate, keening cries – then the massive whump! close at hand, and the feeling that I was flying – of being lifted high, high, and higher, way up into the air, that same air then being violently snatched from my lungs…
The explosion! I juddered involuntarily, causing a second wave of agony to streak through my body, and the darkness sucked me down once again.
When I woke the second time, in stifling heat now, feeling thirsty and dizzy, it was to a second, even scarier revelation. It was one that I sensed, rather than saw, sniffing a sharp note of charring in the still air of the cabin and having it suddenly hit me what the source of the smell might be.
My whiskers! Where were my whiskers? Had they been burned off completely? I felt sick. I wanted to be sick, and even felt myself retching. For, despite my prone position, and my having no immediate need of them, the realisation of their absence felt like a violent wound itself. It terrified me anew. Would they ever grow back again? And what other grievous injuries might I have sustained?
I tried to lift my paw, very gingerly, the better to establish what I’d been left with, but again, the slightest movement – of any part of me, it seemed – caused me intense pain, and sent waves of nausea coursing through me. And as I could see almost nothing, I had no choice but to try to lie as still as I could again. To try to find refuge in further sleep.
But it was hard to sleep. The sound in my ears was like a burrowing animal worming away at me, and with so many questions swirling round my head, my brain was equally buzzing. What was going on? Where was everyone? What had become of Lieutenant Weston? What was happening to the Amethyst? Was she even moving?
My senses told me no, but they were muddled. Eventually I did sleep, though it was fitful enough and shallow enough to allow the noises around me to filter through. And the noises were, by now, at least a little less frightening, the screams and whumps of shells being replaced by very different sounds, a few of them even familiar and reassuring.
I thought I could hear the coxswain. Was that his low, phlegmy rasp? And Peggy? Was that Peggy barking? Oh, I hoped so. After a time, even more reassuringly, I could smell food being cooked, too, immediately conjuring the comforting image of one of my favourite spots in the galley, where I’d sit patiently while Slushy, the cook, trimmed what looked like whole sides of cows so they would fit into the oven, often treating me to a titbit of raw meat.
But such appearance of normality was soon unmasked as an imposter, and even in my weakened state, and with my mind bent so far out of shape by the constant noise in my head and the pain in my hindquarters, I recognised that despite the welcome clangs, thumps and whistles, things aboard the Amethyst were very far from normal. Was the terrible thing that had happened to us still going on in some way?
I strained to make sense of some of the sounds that were reaching me; of men below and along the passageway making strange, mournful noises; of angry shouts; of muffled sobs; of a single, anguished scream from somewhere above. They must have eventually triggered something because more memories started rushing back towards me like a tidal wave surging over a beach. Of seeing things happening to my friends that seemed to defy belief and comprehension.
Of men flailing and shouting, men falling and screaming. Of the acrid taste of smoke and cordite in the air. Of mangled lumps of metal strewn all over the Amethyst, as if flung there, like so much jagged jetsam.
But I mostly saw blood. Viscous, oily pools of it, steam rising from it, almost the colour of Cotton Tree blossom. I remembered lying on the quarterdeck, not understanding how I got there, and seeing blood, instead of water, flowing thickly across the deck and into the scuppers.
I closed my eyes again, hoping to make it all go away. But it wouldn’t disappear. It seemed burned onto my brain.
‘Well, now, look at this one. He really has been in the wars, hasn’t he?’
I woke again with a start, feeling immediately anxious, because I was sure I could sense a stranger standing over me. It was the odour – strong and musky, laced with some fuel-type tang I didn’t recognise. It was alien enough to snap me into consciousness in a moment.
He spoke gently, however, and with a strange twang to his voice. It was a form of human speech that I hadn’t heard before. Disorientated and confused, I tried to open my eyes so that I could see him, but found I couldn’t. My eyelids seemed to be gummed shut. After a couple of painful attempts to part them, I gave up trying. Perhaps I should leave well alone.
‘Something of a miracle he’s still with us, I’d say, Doc, wouldn’t you?’
My heart leaped. I knew that voice. It was Frank! It was Frank! I couldn’t see him, but I was immeasurably glad to hear him.
I also registered that word ‘Doc’. Was the man a doctor? ‘Sid Horton, one of the ratings, found him lying out on the deck this morning,’ Frank was explaining. ‘We suspect he was in the captain’s cabin when it happened. Took a direct hit. He must have. You saw it, didn’t you? When you came aboard? Beggars belief, it does.’ There was a pause. I tried to imagine their expressions. ‘Well, you could hardly miss it, could you?’ Frank added at last. ‘Poor little blighter must have been blown feet in the air.’
‘So he’s probably lost his hearing,’ the other man said, his odour mushrooming up around my face now, followed by the shock of feeling his fingers brushing against my fur. I tried to calm myself. He was a doctor. He was obviously taking a look at me.
‘Oh, I don’t think so, sir,’ Frank said. ‘I reckon he can hear us well enough, can’t you, Simon?’ To which I managed to respond with all I could manage – a feeble tail flick. It wasn’t much – barely anything – but it seemed it was sufficient. ‘See, Doc!’ said Frank. I could hear the pleasure in his voice.
‘So he can hear,’ said the other man. ‘Well, well, well. And there’s no blood in his ears, so that’s good. Though that’s a nasty burn on his left one, poor thing. But you’ve patched him up, I see.’ He touched me a second time. This time on my shoulder. ‘And that’ll heal quick enough.’ There was another pause. ‘Anyway,’ he said finally. ‘As you say, something of a miracle.’
‘Did what we could,’ Frank said. ‘And if he’s stayed with us this long, I reckon he’ll be okay, don’t you? Ship’s cat, isn’t he? Survivors. What’s to say?’ He cleared his throat. ‘Anyways, leave your things over there, and we’d best be getting you to the sick bay. The worst are gone, as you know, but we’re far from doing well. Though there’s a fair few in the after-mess as well.’ Yet another pause. He cleared his throat again. ‘We’ve run right out of room.’