The sounds returned; so did his resolve. “Davey, fetch a blanket. I know we should toss the count over the side, but I will not do that. I cannot.”
Smitty grinned at him. How had they all gotten so grimy with black powder, when they had no guns? “I was hoping you wouldn’t, sir.”
“It’ll be a fearful stink below deck until we raise Portsmouth again,” Able said. “We’ll discover that dead Spaniards smell as bad as we do.” Where is this coming from? he asked himself aghast at his ill-mannered reference to his father. From your heart, he heard inside his brain, and knew that Euclid, that old rip, hadn’t deserted him. This isn’t funny, he thought.
Someone else responded, who, he wasn’t certain. No, but it is war, he heard. Sometimes we laugh to hold the tears at bay.
Indeed we do, whoever you are. Oh, you, Sir B?
Tots leaned closer. “Sir, you don’t think Gunwharf Rats haven’t smelled plenty of reek from the workhouse, do you? Was it all roses and marmalade in Dumfries, or summat like that?”
The Rats all laughed together, holding tears at bay.
Chapter Thirty-six
Working quickly, they rolled el Conde de Quintanar into a blanket, along with his uniform jacket, medals, gold frill and all, and his bicorn and sword. Able felt the miniature painting of his mother in the uniform jacket, tempted to remove it. No. His father had treasured Mary’s tiny portrait all his life. He patted the miniature through the woolen fabric, content to leave it there.
As twilight approached, Smitty threaded the Mercury through one dying fleet, and another victorious but battered one. Tots sat on the deck and took turns with Whitticombe, sewing the count into his shroud.
After a long moment watching his father – his face so peaceful – disappear behind the fold of the blanket, Able went below deck with Davey, who sat him down, removed the compression pad and took a good look at the wound.
“Will I live?” Able asked. “Mrs. Six will be so disappointed if I come home addled.”
“Oh, sir,” Davey said in an affectionate tone that soothed Able as nothing else could have.
With a remarkable future ahead of him – William Harvey himself was even now showing Able Davey’s eventual honors and accolades– the Gunwharf Rat who loved medicine examined the furrowed wound. “I won’t need to suture anything. I will clip around the wound, clean it well (this’ll sting a bit), bandage you neatly and call it good. You were lucky, sir.”
Lucky, my great Aunt Lydia’s fifth vertebrae! Good God, Hippocrates, that cranky fellow. “Yes, I was lucky,” Able said, ignoring Hippocrates, who uttered another oath. “Now let us take a look at your patients, Davey. Could you use some help?”
They were below deck an hour, Davey suturing a foretopman from the Thunderer, then a powder monkey not much older than Avon from an unknown ship, while Able tried to convince the Frenchman that his leg must to be amputated. “I know you understand the situation,” Able told the man in his best French. “We cannot fix your leg. Look down and see.”
Still the man refused. Able turned away, ready to help two more sailors plucked from the water who looked hopeful and cooperative. He spoke over his shoulder. “It’s your choice,” he said. “When you die, Davey will record your cause of death as stubbornness.”
Another sailor was less reluctant to part with his mangled arm below the elbow. Able guided Davey through his first use of capital knives. He took over when Davey started to sway. “Sit down, lad, head between your knees.” Able tied off an artery and blood vessels. By the time he was suturing the flap of skin, Davey stood beside him again, watching intently.
The noise of battle gradually faded, punctuated as darkness neared by a spectacular explosion that brought Able and Davey on deck, as well as two patients more spry than the others.
“What should I do, sir?” Smitty asked at the wheel as the Achille burned from stem to stern and French sailors dropped into the water, some on fire.
“Stay well back,” Able warned. “The Achille’s guns are cooking off in the heat and ready to explode.”
They ducked by the railing as the French two-decker’s guns blew apart with a roar, raining red-hot metal on men already in the water and swimming for their lives. Avon turned his face into Able’s side and shuddered, reminding Able that his stalwart Rats were still boys. He patted Avon’s shoulder. “No fears, my lad.