Dewey Lambdin - The King`s Commission

"Fire!" Tulley finally shouted, and everyone ducked below the bulwarks and nettings as the guns erupted so loudly, avoiding the rush of hot gases and the clouds of smoke, and the whining, ricocheting bits of grape-shot and canisters of musket balls as each piece was turned into a scatter-gun.

Alan stood back up just in time to see Railsford leaping onto the after bulwarks and waving his small-sword in the air. "Boarders!" he screamed. "Away boarders!"

With a lusty roar, Desperate 's crew went up onto the bulwarks themselves. Grapnels had been thrown by the French, and British implements flew across to complete lashing the hulls together. Nettings came down as they surged across, leaping the churning mill-race of white water between the ships.

There wasn't much opposition. That final broadside fired at the highest angle of a naval carriage gun had shattered the upper-works of Capricieuse, ripping the rails to knee height and scything boarders into mangled meat. Alan landed atop the torso of a French marine who had lost belly and intestines, his feet slipping in entrails and excrement as he staggered to the inner side of the riddled gangway and fetched up on the rope railing overlooking the waist of the gun deck.

A weak volley of bullets fanned the air and he jerked his head back quickly. There was resistance forward, but Sedge and Lieutenant Peck of the Marines were dealing with that. There was a large party of Marines on the frigate's quarterdeck, but nothing much between, the waist having been stripped of men, and those men mostly were now dead or dying, the few still on their feet tossing down their weapons and raising their hands in surrender, too shocked by the sudden carnage and boarding to wish to continue fighting.

"Take the larboard gangway!" Alan shouted, pointing with his hanger at a knot of men still armed on the other side of the ship.

He dashed out onto one of the wide cross-deck beams that spanned the waist and reached the far side. A man confronted him with a cutlass, but before he could engage, a hole sprang up in his chest and he tumbled to the deck. Alan whirled to engage a second, but a boarding axe sprouted from that man's shoulder, thrown by one of his men, and that foe fell down as well, screaming in agony. The rest threw up their hands quickly and congregated into a submissive knot by the main chains.

"Stap me, that wuz easy," a Marine corporal said at Alan's side. "Jus' 'bout wot ye'd expect from Frogs, ah reckon, sir."

"Disarm the buggers before they get their wits back, corporal," Alan shrugged, sheathing his still unbloodied sword. "Herd 'em up forward with that other lot and don't forget to pat 'em down for knives and such." The corporal's eyes lit up at that order, for it would be a good excuse to loot the prisoners of what little value they carried on their persons, regulations be damned.

"Ah 'spects ye're right, sir, ah'll atten' ta that direckly."

Alan strode aft to the quarterdeck where Railsford seemed to be in complete charge. The first lieutenant had a bloody gash on his head from which gore still oozed, but his blade was properly slimed with the life's blood of a foe, and his face was split open in a magnificent and triumphant grin. There were French dead laying about like rabbits underfoot all over the quarterdeck, over which he paced unconcernedly.

"I give you joy of this day, Mister Lewrie!" he shouted.

"And to you, sir," Alan replied, studiously trying to avoid the sight of so many men reduced to bloody offal.

"God, what a victory!" Railsford went on. "An old tub such as Desperate taking a 5th Rate with twenty-eight guns. How's your French?"

"Bloody awful, sir," Alan told him, beginning to realize just what an improbable thing they had just pulled off.

"Who'd a thought such a thing possible?" Railsford enthused at some length. "Of course, yon thirty-two helped them make up their mind to strike. But ours is the principal effort, and there's glory enough to share."

Alan noted a British frigate of thirty-two guns falling downwind to them rapidly from the main anchorage, possibly the ship he had spotted before fire had been exchanged. Lashed as she was to Desperate, Capricieuse would have been made a prize even if she had emerged victorious over their puny efforts.

"Here, I can't make out a word this queer-nabs is trying to say, not half of it, anyway," Railsford said, gesturing casually with his sword to a knot of French officers, and a suitably senior man jumped back with a start as the tip of that bloody blade got within scratching distance of his nose. "I thought you might help interpret."

"Pardon a mois, monsieurs, parle vous l'Anglais?" he asked hopefully, doffing his hat to the startled senior officer who seemed to be in command, but that worthy merely pinched his nostrils and went into a positive flood of rapid Frog, and stepped back, snapping his fingers to summon a junior officer.

"Monsieurs, permittez-vous, ici l'troisiиme lieutenant de Marine Royale… 'ow you say, three officeur? I 'ave en peu English," the junior officer volunteered.

"Bloody good," Railsford beamed.

"Charles Auguste Baron de Crillart, а votre servis. Notre capitaine la frйgate Capricieuse , Jules Marquis de Rosset." The Frenchman handled the introductions with all of them bowing in congй and doffing their cocked hats. "My capitaine 'e say 'e is 'ave tres honneur to be striking to you, monsieurs."

In sign of their victory, a Blue Ensign was hoisted on a mainmast signal halyard, with the white and gold Bourbon banner displayed below it, and the crews of both British ships raised a great cheer. The French captain screwed his face up into a grimace worthy of a half-frozen mastiff and undipped his smallsword from his belt frog to hand it over with a polished gesture.

With de Crillart translating as best he could, arrangements were made for quartering of prisoners, the care of the many French wounded, and the Christian disposal of the dead. Railsford had to protest that their captain should not have to surrender his sword, since he had put up such a spirited resistance, and after more florid speeches, this privilege was extended to the surviving commission officers as well. De Rosset then bowed his way to the ladders leading to his quarters as though leaving the presence of royalty where one never gave the monarch the sight of a human back, and went below, probably to see what he had been looted of while honor was being satisfied.

"Thank God that's over," Railsford said softly as they turned to go back aboard Desperate. "The prize isn't that damaged, but our poor ship was knocked about pretty badly. Get me a report from the carpenter, and then see who's left in charge of the various departments."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Desperate had indeed been knocked about; she looked as though she had been eaten at by giant rats, her bulwarks jagged and her decks ruptured and sprung. Nettings, rigging and sails hung about her like a funeral shroud, and those spars and sails still aloft had been shot through so completely a brisk breeze would have brought them down in a total ruin. The sound of chain-pumps clanking made a mournful tempo as streams of flood-water gushed from her. Men picked about her decks to find the wounded or the dead, and the sailmaker and his crew were already at work on the quarterdeck sewing up shrouds for burials.

A quick trip below into the holds assured Alan that their ship would not sink, though the repairs and patches had not stopped the leaks but had only slowed them to a manageable in-flow.

"We'll be at the pumps all the way ta Antigua, sir, but we've got a chance, iffen we could fother a patch er two," "Chips" told him.

That seemed good encouragement, which lasted only until Lewrie got to the surgery on the lower decks, and Dorne gave him the bad news.