Dewey Lambdin - The Baltic Gambit

"Hoy, Thermopylae, Captain Lewrie?"

"Aye!" Lewrie shouted back through cupped hands.

"What is the date of your 'posting,' sir?"

"April, of Ninety-Seven!" Lewrie shouted back, mystified. "Why?"

"Lieutenant Quilliam here, sir! Captain Riou has fallen! I am to pass squadron command to the next senior officer present. Perhaps to Captain Sutton in Alcmene, then."

"Riou's fallen?" Lewrie shouted, shocked and suddenly saddened.

"Cut in half by a round-shot, sir!" Lt. Quilliam shouted back, his voice shaky with emotion. "Said… 'Let us all die together, my brave lads,' and… not a quarter-hour later, sir…!"

"A damned good man, sir!" Lewrie told him, with a speaking-trumpet of his own, this time. "My condolences to you and all your Amazons. And, by God, may he not have fallen in vain!"

The next salvo from the Danes fell short by two cables as they finally stood out of range, still creeping slowly ahead of HMS Amazon.

"Secure from Quarters, Mister Farley," Lewrie ordered, slumped wearily, un-captain-like, on the hammock nettings. "Fresh water butts are t'be fetched up for our people."

"Aye, sir."

Lewrie plodded back towards the binnacle cabinet and double-helm, but the Ship's Surgeon, Mr. Harward, was slowly dragging himself up to the quarterdeck by the starboard gangway ladder, his breeches and his shirt cuffs still stained with gore despite the long leather apron he wore when at his grim trade.

"Beg to report, sir," Harward wearily said, "we've seven killed and eighteen wounded… four seriously. Midshipman Privette's regained consciousness, but he's taken a hard knock, and must be counted on light duties for a few days, may you spare him."

"And Mister Ballard?" Lewrie had to ask.

"Passed over, sir, sorry," Harward replied, idly wiping hands on a damp towel that thankfully did not bear too many blots of blood. "We succeeded in seizing his femoral artery, the great artery found in a man's leg, and cauterised it, staunching the loss of blood, and we managed to neaten up his thigh bone for a stump, with enough flesh as a covering, for later…"

Lewrie held up a hand to shush him, damning surgeons for being so enamoured of their learning that they just had to prose on about the arcana of their trade.

"Well, the loss of blood was too massive, in the end, sir. He is gone. Sorry. I know he was an old friend and shipmate of yours," Harward told him. He reached into an inside pocket of his unbuttoned waist-coat and produced a letter. "He surely must have had a premonition, sir, for he pressed me to deliver this to you."

"Thankee, Mister Harward," Lewrie said, taking it and turning it over and over, for wont of something better to do. "I know you did your best for him.. for all our brave lads."

"Thankee for saying so, sir," Harward said, bowing himself away to the starboard side for a breath of fresh air, after hours cooped up in the foetid horror of the cockpit surgery.

Lewrie looked up at the signal halliards on the main-mast, and saw Number Thirty-Nine still flying. "Mister Tillyard? Now we've ackknowledged it, haul that shameful thing down, sir!"

Full darkness, at last, after an eerily red and gold sunset that silhouetted Copenhagen's spires, castle towers, and bastioned walls in war-like colours, as if a battle still raged, though by mid-afternoon, the guns had fallen silent. The mild winds had long before blown away the last wisps of gunsmoke arisen in impenetrable thunderheads from ships and shore batteries, and now only a few faint mists from burning or sunken Danish floating batteries or warships remained.

HMS Thermopylae lay peacefully at anchor among her sister ships by the North end of the Middle Ground shoal, near HMS London and her consorts, about three miles off the Trekroner Fort, and well out of range of its cannon, though there was little expectation that the Danes would resume the contest.

They were beaten, after all; seventeen of the eighteen warships, anchored hulks, or floating batteries had been taken, burned, or sunk in action, and the enemy commander's ship, Dannebrog, had taken fire and blown up with stupendous loss of life well after the artillery duel had ended. Nelson and his squadron had persisted despite the "General" signal to discontinue the action, and had won, though at great cost in men.

The rest of Thermopylae's day had been spent repairing; re-roving and splicing cut-up rigging, replacing shattered yards and upper masts. The entire ship needed scouring to erase the stains of gunpowder residue… and blood. Vinegar had been used to ease the odours of rotten eggs from the guns' discharges, the coppery reek of splattered gore, and the foetid stench from Mr. Harward's surgery on the orlop.

When the foremast had been "fished" and banded, the weather decks had had to be re-sanded with bears and bibles. After that, the cannon had to be thoroughly swabbed out and washed down from muzzles to breeching rope cascabels, the truck-carriages touched up with a little paint, and the recoil and run-out tackles replaced in some cases after all the strain and fraying placed upon them.

On top of that, all the ship's boats had been led round from being towed astern, and had spent the entire time since the cease-fire at rescuing Danish sailors from the wrecks of their vessels, taking prisoners, then cooperating with the crews of Danish rowboats in transferring their dead and wounded ashore to the hospitals in the city.

Alan Lewrie had been busy, too, visiting aboard HMS Amazon to attend Capt. Riou's brief funeral, then conduct his own rites for the seven officers and men who had died from Thermopylae's complement, then see to his wounded, some of them in a bad way after amputations, and sure to join the Great Majority, and their slain shipmates, in a few days.

In his gig, he had had to report to Lord Nelson aboard, Elephant, then to Sir Hyde Parker aboard London, and there had been no time for food or drink, or a chance to catch his breath, it seemed, since they had dropped anchors. Finally… finally, the sun was down, and there were no more demands upon him or his crew. A harbour watch was set on deck, with the usual lookouts posted at bow, stern, and both gangways. Marines in full, freshly cleaned kit stood sentry posts to prevent desertion, though it made no sense given a three-mile swim to a hostile shore. It was simply what the Royal Navy did when anchored.

Captain Alan Lewrie touched the brim of his hat in casual salute and nodded with a grin to Marine Private Leggett, who stood guard by the door to his great-cabins, receiving a musket salute, and a shy hint of a grin in reply as he entered his quarters.

"Thank God," he breathed in relief as he shut the door on care and worry and grief, and the demands of Duty. He hung up his own hat and sword belt, not waiting for Pettus to serve him, and almost limped on weary legs and slightly sore feet to the starboard side settee.

"A glass of something, sir?" Pettus asked, looking as clean and natty as if the day had never been, as well-turned-out as a civilian servant in a London club.

"God, yes!" Lewrie enthused. "It's been a long, dry day." And, as Pettus fetched him a refreshing glass of white wine, as Toulon and Chalky, happily resettled amid their familiar environs with the terrifying din of battle long over, leaped into his lap and made glad mews of joy to be stroked and cossetted in peace, Lewrie could relish the homeyness of his cabins returned to normalcy, with every piece of furniture, every chest, chair, and framed picture put back in the right places.

And after a long, dry-mouthed sip of the light white wine, he could even allow himself a long, happy sigh of near bliss. Pettus had the bottle, and topped him back up for a slower, more meditative drink.