He was not aware of Tregembo and Easton rallying on him. He was oblivious to James Quilhampton a deck below still pouring shot after shot into the French lugger's hull at point blank range with two 24-pounder carronades. Neither did he see Rogers emerge on deck with the starboard gun crews who had succeeded in dismasting the other lugger at a sufficient distance, nor that Quilhampton had so persistently hulled their closer adversary that her commander realised he had caught a Tartar and decided to withdraw.
He did not know that the Viragos were inspired by the sight of their hatless captain, one foot on the rail, hacking murderously at the privateersmen like a devil incarnate.
Drinkwater was only aware that it was over when there were no more Frenchmen to be killed and beneath him a widening gulf between the two hulls. He looked, panting, at his reeking hands; his right arm was blood-soaked to the elbow. He was sodden from the perspiration of fever and exertion. He watched their adversary drop astern, her sails flogging. She was low in the water, sinking fast. Several men swam round her, the last to leave Virago he presumed. Staggering as though drunk, he looked for the second lugger. Her foremast was gone and her crew were sweeping her up to the assistance of her foundering consort.
Drinkwater was aware of a cheer around him. Men were shouting and grinning, all bloody among the wounded and the dead. Rogers was coming towards him, his face cracked into a grin of pure delight. Then there was another cheer out to starboard and Virago surged past the anchored red bulk of the Sunk alarm vessel, her crew waving from the rail, her big Trinity House ensign at the dip.
'They bastards've bin 'anging round three days 'n' more,' he heard her master shout in the Essex dialect as they passed.
'I fancy we fooled the sods then, God damn 'em,' said Rogers as the cheers died away. Drinkwater's head cleared to the realisation that he was shivering violently. He managed a thin smile. Ship and company had passed their first test; they were blooded together but now there was a half-clewed main course to furl, a topsail to secure and a mainyard to fish.
'Do you wish to put about and secure a prize, sir?' asked the ever hopeful Rogers.
'No Sam, Captain Martin would never approve of such a foolhardy act. Do you put about for Yarmouth, we must take the Shipway now. Those luggers'll not harm the alarm vessel and have problems enough of their own. Mr Easton, a course to clear Orfordness if you please. See word is passed to Willerton to fish that bloody yard befofe it springs further, and for Christ's sake somebody get that poor fellow Mason below to the surgeon.'
Drinkwater was holding the poop rail to prevent himself keeling over. He was filled with an overwhelming desire to go below but there was one last thing to do.
'Mr Q!'
'Sir?'
'Do you bring me the butcher's bill in my cabin directly.'
PART TWO
Sir Hyde Parker
'If you were here just to look at us! I had heard of manoeuvres off Ushant, but ours beat all ever seen. Would it were over, I am really sick of it!'
Chapter Eight
An Unlawful Obligation
'Hold him!' Lettsom snapped at his two mates as they struggled to hold Mason down on the cabin table. A cluster of lanterns illuminated the scene as Lettsom, stripped to the shirt-sleeves, his apron stained dark with blood, bent again over his task.
Despite a dose of laudanum Mason still twitched as the surgeon probed the wound in his lower belly. The bruised flesh gaped bloodily, the jagged opening in the groin where the splinter had penetrated welled with blood.
Drinkwater stood back, against the bulkhead. Since the action with the luggers that morning he had slept for five hours and fortified himself against his fever with half a bottle of blackstrap. Virago was now safely anchored in Yarmouth Roads in company with a growing assembly of ships, partly the preparing Baltic fleet, partly elements of Admiral Dickson's Texel squadron. Drinkwater was feeling better and the absence of Explosion had further encouraged him.
Mason was the last of the three serious casualties to receive Lettsom's attention. One seaman had lost an arm. Another, like Mason, had received severe splinter wounds. An additional eight men had received superficial wounds and there were four of their own people dead. The seven French corpses left on board had been thrown overboard off Lowestoft without ceremony.
Lettsom had left Mason until Virago reached the relative tranquility of the anchorage. He knew that the long oak sliver that had run into Mason's body could only be extracted successfully under such conditions.
Drinkwater watched anxiously. He knew Lettsom was having difficulties. The nature of the splinter was to throw out tiny fibres of wood that acted like barbs. As these carried fragments of clothing into the wound the likelihood of a clean excision was remote.
The set of Lettsom's jaw and the perspiration on his forehead were evidence of his concern.
Lettsom withdrew the probe, inserted thin forceps and drew out a sliver of wood with a sigh. He held it up to the light and studied it intently. Drinkwater saw him swallow and his eyes closed for a moment. He had been unsuccessful. He rubbed his hand over his mouth in a gesture of near despair, leaving a smear of blood across his face. Then his shoulders sagged in defeat.
'Put him in my cot,' said Drinkwater, realising that to move Mason further than was absolutely necessary would kill him. Lettsom caught his eye and the surgeon shook his head. The two men remained motionless while the surgeon's mates bound absorbent pledgets over the wound and eased Mason into the box-like swinging bed. Lettsom rinsed his hands and dropped his reeking apron on the tablecloth while his mates cleaned the table and cleared Drinkwater's cabin of the gruesome instrument chest. Drinkwater poured two glasses of rum and handed one to the surgeon who slumped in a chair and drained it at a swallow.
'The splinter broke,' Lettsom said at last. 'It had run in between the external iliac vein and artery. They were both intact. That gave me a chance to save him…' He paused, looked at Drinkwater, then lowered his eyes again. 'That was a small miracle, Mr Drinkwater, and I should have succeeded, but I bungled it. No don't contradict me, I beg you. I bungled it. The splinter broke with its end lodged in the obturator vein, the haemorrage was dark and veinous. When he turns in his sleep he will move it and puncture his bladder. Part of his breeches and under garments will have been carried into the body.'
'You did your utmost, Mr Lettsom. None of us can do more.'
Lettsom looked up. His eyes blazed with sudden anger. 'It was not enough, Mr Drinkwater. God damn it, it simply was not enough.'
Drinkwater thought of the flippant quatrain with which Lettsom had introduced himself. The poor man was drinking a cup of bitterness now. He leaned across and refilled Lettsom's glass. Drinkwater was a little drunk himself and felt the need of company.
'You did your duty…'
'Bah, duty! Poppycock, sir! We may all conceal our pathetic inadequacies behind our "duty". The fact of the matter is I bungled it. Perhaps I should still be probing in the poor fellow's guts until he dies under my hands.'
'You cannot achieve the impossible, Mr Lettsom.'
'No, perhaps not. But I wished that I might have done more. He will die anyway and might at least have the opportunity to regain his senses long enough to make his peace with the world.'