Peter Tremayne - An Ensuing Evil and Others

Roscarrock knew that he must have sustained several casualties. He could see for himself that the main topgallant mast had been splintered, the rigging and spars still hanging dangerously. The last shots the French had fired had been high and chain shot, which had ripped into the rigging. Captain Roscarrock also knew there had been at least one, probably two shots landed on the gun deck. However, his first concern was whether the Deerhound had been holed below the waterline, and his second concern was whether the damage to his masts was irreparable and would prevent him returning quickly to the main British fleet of Sir James Gambier to warn him of the presence of the French.

Lieutenant Gervaise had already read his mind and passed word for the masters mate, bosun, purser, cooper, chief gunnery officer, and doctor: all the heads of the various departments that ran a ship-of-war.

The group of men came after in ones and twos and gathered before the captain on the quarterdeck. They were tired but wore that look of relief at finding themselves still alive. Faces were blackened by powder burns; clothes were torn and stained with blood.

“Has the word been passed for the gunnery officer?” Captain Roscarrock asked, looking round and not seeing the third lieutenant who fulfilled this role.

An elderly sailor, with petty officer insignia, touched his forehead briefly. “Beg pardon, sir. Gunnery officers dead. I’ll make his report.”

The first lieutenant blinked a moment. The second officer, Unstead, whistled tactlessly. Roscarrock broke in harshly as if he had not noticed their reactions.

“And where’s the bosun?”

“Dead, sir,” replied the masters mate dryly.

“Then his mate should be here.”

“Dead as well, sir. I’ll attend to the report,” the man replied.

“Very well. Damage?”

“No shots below the waterline. Main topgallant mast splintered and upper rigging tangled and dangerous. There is no way we can replace topmast shrouds nor the futtock shrouds. She should be able to take the mainsl and we can run without tops’ls, though it will slow us down.”

“What about the mizzentop mast?”

“We were lucky there. A chain shot went through the sheet, but it can be patched. That was the shot that impacted against the mainmast.”

Roscarrock nodded swiftly. “Do your best. Well attempt to rejoin the fleet as soon as this fog bank clears. Then we’ll effect proper repairs. If our main fleet have already captured Copenhagen, we should have no problem.” Roscarrock turned back to a grizzled petty officer. “What’s the situation with the guns?”

The elderly man raised a finger to his forelock. “Four guns and their crews out of action, Cap’n. Three guns totally destroyed.”

Not as bad as Roscarrock expected-still eighteen guns remaining in action. “Purser? What’s our status?”

“Most of the stores are safe, sir. Only two water casks were smashed by shot, but we can replace them. The biggest loss is one of the rum casks.”

“The men will have to lose their rum ration until we can replenish the cask. Cooper, how about replacing the water casks?”

“I’ll have new casks made by tomorrow if we have easy sailing.”

Roscarrock was coming to the report that he disliked most of all. “Mr. Smithers, what’s the total casualties?”

The sloop was lucky in that it carried a surgeon. Sloops of His Britannic Majesty’s navy did not usually have the luxury of carrying a surgeon and had to rely on the cook-cum-barber to double in that capacity.

“Thirteen dead, twenty-four wounded, five seriously,” intoned the florid-faced surgeon with an enthusiasm that seemed to indicate he relished his work.

Roscarrock’s mouth thinned. “How seriously injured?”

“Three will be dead before nightfall, sir.”

Roscarrock’s jaw tightened for a moment. Then he asked, “What ranks among the dead?”

“Two midshipmen and… and Lieutenant Jardine; four petty officers, and the rest”-the surgeon shrugged-”the rest were other ranks. Of the wounded, all are seamen, sir.”

Roscarrock glanced quickly at the surgeon. “Jardine was killed, you say?”

It was the petty officer gunner who answered. “Beg pardon, sir. Lieutenant Jardine was on the gun deck, laying the guns, when he-”

Roscarrock interrupted with a frown. Lieutenant Jardine was the chief gunnery officer. There was no need for an explanation as to where his station had been during the action. “We’ll get the details later. And the midshipmen who were killed?”

“Little Jack Kenny and Tom Merritt,” the surgeon replied.

“Very well,” Roscarrock said after a moments silence. “Very well, I want this ship cleared and ready for action again within the hour.”

There was a chorus of “aye ayes,” and the petty officers dispersed to their jobs. The surgeon went with them to take charge of the wounded.

Lieutenant Gervaise was shaking his head. “Jardine, eh? There’ll be a lot of ladies at Chatham who will shed a tear, no doubt.” He did not sound grief-stricken.

Lieutenant Unstead was positively smug. “And there’ll be a lot of husbands who will sleep more comfortably at night,” he added sarcastically.

Jardine had been third officer on the sloop. He had been a youthful, handsome, and vain man with a reputation for the ladies, especially for other men’s wives. Roscarrock did not rebuke Unstead, because he was aware that, before they had left the port of Chatham, Unstead had actually challenged Jardine to a duel: something to do with his wife, Phoebe. The duel had been prevented by the provost marshal on shore, and both officers were severely reprimanded.

Roscarrock did not bother to comment. He knew that most of the officers and men would not be sorry to hear of Jardine’s sudden demise. His handsome looks disguised a cruel temperament. He had been too fond of inflicting discipline with a rope’s end. Roscarrock had tried to keep Jardine in check, but the man was possessed of a brutal nature that enjoyed imposing pain on those who could not retaliate. It was not good for discipline for a ship’s company to see their officers in conflict, and so Roscarrock was unable to show his disapproval of Jardine before the men. He had to support the punishments that his junior gave out and reprimand him only in private. No, there would be no false grieving in the Deerhound over Jardine.

“Mr. Hart!”

The young midshipman came running forward, touching his hat to his captain.

“Lieutenant Jardine is dead. As senior midshipman, you are now acting third lieutenant. I want you to go round and make a list of all casualties. The surgeon will have his hands full tending the wounded.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Report back to me within the hour.”

Roscarrock swung round, dismissing the youthful officer with a curt salute, and turned to his first officer.

“Make sure that the men know the urgency of our situation, Mr. Gervaise. I shall be below in my cabin for a while.”

In a sloop, a captain’s quarters were small, dark, and stuffy. A small curtain separated his sleeping quarters, a single bunk, a cupboard, and space for a chest, from his day cabin, in which there was space for a desk and a couple of chairs. Roscarrock went to the desk and pulled out a half-filled bottle of brandy. He uncorked it and poured out a glass. For a moment he held it up to the light that permeated through the cabin, seeing the amber liquid reflecting in the dull gray light. Then his features broke into a smile and he raised the glass, as if in silent toast, before swallowing in one mouthful.

He replaced the bottle, sat down, and drew out the ship’s log. Then he took out pen and ink.

Kjoge Bight, 2 September 1807 , he wrote at the top of his entry, and then sat back to consider how, in brief form, he should address the events of the brief but fierce engagement.