Page 79 of Unlikely Heroes
In silence, Smitty heeled theMercuryprecisely into the narrow space, which caused the French double decker to veer just enough to give theMarsroom to play, like a wolfhound momentarily startled by a pup. Able knew Captain Duff from the Battle of the Nile. He knew George Duff would back off and go at the Frenchie from the vulnerable rear. When theMercurysailed through, theMarstook the invitation and dropped back. Well-named, theMarsrained fire on the stern that roared through the quarterdeck and knocked down scores of Frenchmen like bowling pins on a peaceful greensward. Out of the corner of his eye, Able saw Captain Duff give theMercurya wave.
Too soon, theFougeauxdealt in kind from theMars’sother side, letting go with a barrage that left Able deaf for long seconds. Smitty’s mouth opened in horror as Captain Duff’s head and neck separated from his body and the parts collapsed on theMars’s bloody deck, a good man gone in a blink.
“He never knew what hit him, Mr. Smith. Take us out through that space dead ahead,” Able said, his voice firm. He yawned to clear his ears and pressed down on Smitty’s shoulder. Able looked toward the signal locker. “Mr. March,” he hollered, surprised that he could barely hear himself. “Signal, Surgeon on Board.”
As Smitty wheeled theMercuryto open space, Avon had the flags fluttering. Able looked back. They had woven their way through the center of the action. All around was carnage, with bodies and parts of bodies dipping and bobbing on the water.
“Watch the water, Rats,” he ordered. “If you see life and movement, sing out.”
Whitticombe called from starboard. “Over here, Smitty! Come in slow.”
As Able watched, Whitticombe and the count hauled a man roughly over the side and onto the deck. Whitticombe called for Davey Ten, who, seconds later knelt beside the sailor, feeling for a pulse in his neck. “Too late,” he shouted. He and Whitticombe unceremoniously pushed him back into the water as the count pulled another man aboard, and Tots one more.
Between them, they carried the two injured men below deck. The count remained where he was, then turned in surprise as a French ship bore down on them.
It was thePluton, the other double-decker that had given such misery to theMars, swinging around like a sightless fighter in the smoky haze, aware of motion but little else, angry and ready to fight….something. Able glanced up at thePluton’s riggings, chilled to see sharpshooters there, aiming at Smitty.
With an oath, he shoved Smitty down to the deck and took his place, turning the wheel, knowing full well the sails would luff and swing about, ruining the aim, if the god of war felt like smiling upon them. No Frog was going to kill his Gunwharf Rat.
A rifle ball carved a path through the skin above his left ear. Wet warmth dripped down his neck and his ears rang. He glanced up, saw two more sharpshooters, and knew the next balls would take him.So be it. I love you, Meri.
Upon later reflection in the quiet of the return voyage, Able wondered if he should have expected what happened next. Perhaps he would have, had he felt the love of a father for a son when he was a baby like Ben. Over the noise and screech of falling masts and ripping sail and guns booming, he heard that rifle ball meant for him. In seconds divided by miniscule increments, his amazing brain told him that the ball was spiraling directly toward his frontal lobe, where it would explode in bloody, gray froth and he would be as dead as poor Captain Duff.
He heard a huge gasp and wondered why his cranial inhabitants hadn’t already deserted him. He didn’t think they were much for a fight, because he had heard nothing from them in several hours. Why would they exclaim so loud now, and in Spanish?O dios mio!
The gasp was followed by darkness and a heavy weight, two distinct thuds, and then a sigh. Able crashed to the deck, his father on top of him. Was this death? Able felt suddenly warm and peaceful. It must be death.
Maybe it wasn’t death. Hands other than his own wrenched away the heavy weight, then reached for him.
“Sharpshooters,” he managed to say. “Lie flat.”
“No, Master Six. TheMarsjust gave thePlutonwhat for. Gor, what a fight!”
Tots held out his hand and pulled Able into a sitting position. Smitty was sitting beside him, blinking as if the grey gloom of battle was too bright for him. Then Davey was beside him with a cloth. “Hold this to your head, sir, and press hard. I’ll look at your father.”
His father.O dios mio. Able dropped the bandage and stared at the heavy weight across his legs. He saw where the rifle balls had spiraled their way into the Count of Quintanar, royal naval quartermaster of the Kingdom of Spain, ruining Meri’s wonderful warm sweater. When Davey turned his father over so gently with his surgeon’s delicate touch, Able knew he would see carnage and death, and extraordinary love. He swallowed and blinked.
Little Avon pressed the bandage back on Able’s head, as Able stared down at his father, whose eyes were open and watching him. Davey expertly wound another bandage around to anchor the compression pad on Able’s head and knotted it firmly. Able rested his hand on his father’s ruined chest, his father who lay across his legs.
“Padre mio,you shouldn’t have,” Able murmured in Spanish.
“It was the crowning act of my life,” the count said. “I would do it again.”
Able looked up at Davey, a question in his eyes. His young surgeon’s lips tightened as he shook his head slightly. Able looked down. Davey was right. He saw much ruin, disguised only because the dark blood blended with the dark wool. A person could almost be fooled into thinking that a bandage here and another one there, perhaps a drain, plus plenty of rest and a low diet would have the count on his feet in no time.
He took his father’s hand in his, speechless with sorrow. The count smiled at him, but it was a wistful smile. “I would like to have stayed longer,” he said, his words starting to run together, the words of a sleepy man ready to lay down his burdens for the night and wake up somewhere else. “I was just getting acquainted with you.”
Able couldn’t help the moan that escaped him. It seemed to pour out of his entire body. Those were the exact words his father had said mere days ago, when they chatted and laughed together on the night of the dinner with Mrs. Munro.
Able knew it was pointless to try to sniff back his tears in a manly way. He sobbed over his father, assuaged this time by Smitty’s hand so firm onhisshoulder. Duty took over briefly. He looked to the wheel, where Whitticombe steered so expertly, then back at his father, whose eyes had followed his.
“You have trained them well, my son,” his father said. “Please give my best to Meri.”
“I will,” Able said, as his heart started beating again. That four-chambered miracle had no choice; he was alive, thanks to a final sacrifice. “Father, I wish it weren’t ending this way.”
“Never mind, dear son.” Able had to lean closer to hear fading words. “I, who could never protect you before, protected you in the end.” He closed his eyes and Able tensed. “It is a father’s duty and privilege.Adios.”
He was gone like that, quietly and with dignity. Able sat back, stunned and silent. All around him he could see the sound of battle. ThePlutonhad drifted away, mortally wounded by theTonnant, which then turned as if to shepherd the littleMercuryto safety out of the line. Able knew heshouldbe hearing the sound of battle but all was silent, waiting. Next he saw in his amazing mind a cemetery in Dumfries, one with a granite grave marker with the single word Mary carved on it, and the number 134. He saw another grave, much smaller, in their parish cemetery in Portsmouth. All it read was Baby Six, and one sad date reflecting birth and death. He had bought a large plot; there was room for others. Mrs. Munro could bring her daughter closer, and what would be the harm in the count lying beside Mary Carmichael again, as he had wanted to all his life? His parents. It would truly become the family cemetery he never thought to see.
