Dewey Lambdin - Sea of Grey

"It must come off, at once," Mr. Thomas Shirley, the twentyish surgeon, lowed like a cow, spouting some dry, esoteric dog-Latin.

"Non, non… ze humerus is broken, not shattered, m'sieur," Durant (or somebody Froggish, anyway!) insisted. "See, ze axillary responds when I stick 'is palm, and…"

"Ow! Bloody…!"

"Ze blood loss suggest ze axillary artery is non torn, aussi ? Cut eez coat and shirt off, s'il vous plaоt … gently. Ze ball pass through complete, you see? M'sieur Capitaine ? Drink zees, an' think ze pleasant thought." Followed by more "Ahumms" and Latin gibberish.

A large pewter cup of rum was shoved under Lewrie's nose and he drank it down, just before a leather gag was put between his teeth to bite on when the pain got severe… which it did!

They probed, retracting wool coat and silk shirt shards, taking out slivers of bone and tiny splashes of lead, Durant insisting that a watered tincture of brandy be splashed around inside the wound, over the instruments, before they squeezed, twisted, and pried at his arm to see how it lined up before getting shot… and re-set it!

"A simple fracture, after all, sir."

"Sonofagoddamnbitchl'llbloodykillyourmiserableFrogass!"

"You are welcome, M'sieur Capitaine. Next?"

He was bound in linen, with lots of batting, also soaked in the French йmigrй's watered brandy, that stung like Blazes; over the bandages, two wooden belaying pins were bound taut with twine; some spare Number Eight sailcloth, the lightest aboard, was fashioned into a neat sling; and he was stowed forrud on a straw-filled mattress, armed with another hefty measure of rum, then ignored.

"We took her, sir! We took her!" Langlie was crowing about a quarter-hour later, coming to his side with flecks of blood (hopefully someone else's!) on his coat facings, his cheek, and shirt. "Oh, 'twas a hard fight, but we took her! You were right to call for boarders, Captain Lewrie. Had they formed and attempted to board us, well…! But we beat them to it, and broke their spirit into the bargain."

Lewrie could but gawp at him (a trifle drunkenly by then) and wonder what the Blazes this idiot was babbling about!

"Very good, sir. Just get me out of this cess-pit and back to my roomin' house, 'fore the wife finds me, hey?"

"Sir?" Lt. Langlie gawped in puzzlement.

"Oh, never mind, I'm too sleepy t'care."

"And that, sirs, is how I conquered a Dutch frigate," Captain Alan Lewrie, RN, concluded with a blithe laugh. "Stood up shirtless, strapped to a carryin' board by the windward mizen shrouds, with a cup of rum in my hands, towin' out our prize! Speaking of… allow me to propose another toast. To Lieutenant Anthony Langlie, my able First Officer, and the true hero of the piece. He placed the Batavian Navy Orangespruit, a thirty-six gun Fifth Rate frigate, on a platter for me, and served her up… well done!"

His fellow diners gave out a loud, prolonged cheer, along with the curious onlookers who had gathered to peer over their shoulders as the tale was told, and they clapped and laughed, as well. Handsome women in the height of Fashion that season fanned and flushed, or made as if they'd swoon. They raised a rousing "For He's A Jolly Good Fellow," to which Lewrie nodded and smiled, raising his port glass in answering salute and acknowledgement.

Of course, it made a good tale, a 32-gun taking a 36-gun; what the public expected their Navy to accomplish. Of course, he did not tell them of his mistakes, of stumbling about in the smoke, damn near lost, of his sin of over-confidence, of yielding the wind-gauge to the Dutch so stupidly, being drawn like a lamb to the slaughter into the mouths of the guns of a doughty, wily, and desperate enemy captain, who had taken much the same precautions as he, to be the biter and not the bit, that day!

No, this crowd wouldn't appreciate unvarnished truth, nor would they tolerate another toast, this to the dead, the maimed and gutted, to those men now minus limbs or sight, and doomed to a lifetime of poverty ashore, with but a pittance of a pension to atone for a too-brief moment of glory.

Nineteen killed, listed with the simple "D-D" in ship's books for Discharged, Dead and interred at sea, out of sight and mind. And twenty-nine wounded, too, with fourteen of those merely Discharged… landed ashore at Sheerness and lumbered off to a naval hospital, never to return to duty, should they survive the ministrations.

For the Dutch, it had been a slaughter-pit, as well; over sixty dead and over an hundred cruelly wounded. That was the sort of harvest that England 's public liked; the greater the number of enemy slain, the higher

cost in British lives, well… the greater the honour! Losing captains had been knighted for bravery after such fights, since they'd run up a high "butcher's bill" of their own people before striking!

Perhaps he should tell them the cost, he speculated; they might get a vicarious thrill from so much distant blood! All due to his work, his cockiness, his famed "luck," and his "tradition of victory"!

While they cheered and clapped, his beloved Proteus languished in a Sheerness graving dock, her guns and stores warehoused ashore as the shipwrights repaired her many hurts. She was as nearly shattered as the captured Orangespruit! Damn 'em all! he thought; no matter what face I put on it, 'twas a costly damn' victory. Something I could never say even to Caroline in strictest privacy. My father, well… he knows of it, he's a military man, I spilled my secret to him, but… Caroline!

He almost felt like breaking down and blubbing in public, after all! And fearing that Dame Fortune had decided to turn on him and feed him to her wolves!

"A flutter of the cards, Captain Lewrie?" Mr. Lumsden asked.

"Ah, no," Lewrie soberly replied. "I feel as if I've stretched my luck far enough, lately. Haven't heard from the Prize-Court yet…"

"Our reckoning, I should think," his father quickly suggested as he spotted his son's wavering. "We should be gettin' home, son, gettin' some part of a good night's rest. Do you gentlemen excuse us? I keep at Willis's Rooms when in town. Do call upon me, and we could pursue the matter of a gentleman's club further, perhaps discover some backers who might also find the notion intriguing…?"

They said their good-nights, gathered their hats and cloaks from the tiler, then stood chilled at the kerb outside whilst a young "daisy kicker" servant of The Cocoa Tree whistled them up a hired carriage to bear them home.

I t was "fashionably" well past midnight before they entered the lodging house, with but a yawning servant to unlock the door for them and offer candles so they could light their way abovestairs. Willis's was otherwise dark and broodingly silent, the cheery fires in the common and public rooms banked, the equally cheery bar now shuttered. Sir Hugo assured his son that, failing the publican's commerce, he had a bottle of good Frog brandy in his room.

Lewrie by then was exhausted, and not much in need of a drink; he'd had half-enough for a lifetime, thankee very much!

The spirit's willin, but the body's weak, he thought, in awe of the other diners' capacity, of his father's ability to put it away with nary even a slurred word. Navy's ruined me, damn 'em, he decided, as he fumbled out his key, peering about owlishly.

Lewrie hesitated before the door to his set of rooms, key finally in hand, wondering should he knock or scratch first. With a sorry curse, softly muttered, he rued again fleeing the park with his father, of coming back so late and so "in the barrel" and bedraggled, instead of rushing back to Willis's after merely an hour's pause to argue things out with Caroline, and defend himself, once she'd cooled down.