Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [75]
“Sir?”
“What?” The commodore snapped, irritated.
“Look! Can you see?” Dale pointed astern into the night.
Paul Jones squinted. His eyes did not lie. A vessel was bearing down on them, bellying sails ghostly gray, towering over the unmistakable lines of a frigate.
“Well, well,” he said. “Now we shall see.”
CHAPTER 5
Midshipman Fanning crouched uncomfortably on his haunches in the foremast-top. Fumbling with his powder horn he tried to reload his pistol. His hands were trembling with excitement while his body shook, chest heaving. He had never felt so alive, every nerve end tingling, every sense magnified as the battle raged around him. He had never felt so close to death either. Time had no meaning. He did not know whether they had been fighting for minutes or hours or forever.
When he had climbed the ratlines to his station in the fore-top with fourteen marines, the men had been apprehensive while trying to appear cheerful. Each was fully equipped and knew what he had to do. There was a professionalism and orderliness about it all. Now, equipment littered the blood-slippy planking and half were dead, stripped of powder and shot then pushed over into the nothingness of night to make more room for the living.
The remaining men fought consistently. Some lived up to his expectations of how professional soldiers should perform. They fought grim faced, almost deliberately slow as they loaded and carefully aimed before shooting. Others screamed their hate like cornered animals, almost climbing over the rail, eager to inflict pain and death. They reloaded with frantic speed, cartridge-ball-wad-ram-prime, almost one fluid movement fueled by anger. Others were silent, legs jerking uncontrollably as they shot or threw grenades down onto the English warship. He wasn’t sure whether they trembled with rage or terror.
Ears numb from the battering of cannon fire below and crashes of muskets in the mast-top, the midshipman glanced around the half circle of marines. However they fought, and whatever their feelings, they fought well. He tried to still his shaking hands long enough to prime the pistol. Powder scattered over the dirty knees of his white breeches. Suddenly his hand was wet with blood. He stared at the great splash of crimson, too shocked to scream or move. He hadn’t felt anything. Nothing at all. Now he knew what it was like to be wounded. God, you didn’t even feel it! He choked back a hysterical laugh. There was nothing to fear but fear. Eyes wet with tears of relief, he rocked back on his heels.
Shadows moved. Fanning glanced up as a figure lurched above him, keeling over. A musket clattered unheard on the planking. Automatically, he lifted his arms to protect himself and caught the crumpling soldier. The French marine was already dead, eye socket empty where a ball had screamed into his brain. Fanning fended off the deadweight corpse. It fell at his side. Covered in the dead man’s gushing blood, he wiped both hands on the tail of his uniform jacket. When he looked down gore was smeared across his hands but there was no wound. With the knowledge he had not been hit after all, the fear returned. Grimacing and sobbing, he completed reloading then hauled himself to his feet. He brandished the pistol and yelled.
“Dead man here! Clear the deck!”
A marine who had fallen back to reload rested his smoking musket on the deck then bent to hoist his dead comrade over the rail. The action was complicated by the cramped confines of the mast-top. Dancing shadows from below confused a man’s eyes. Gun smoke provoked coughing fits. Each explosion nearby made nerves already raw jangle, expecting to take a hit at any moment. Clumsy, he was unable to get a firm grip on the body.
“Here man,” said Midshipman Fanning in a commanding voice he did not recognize as his own. He tucked his pistol into his belt before bending to lend a hand. They dragged the corpse