barefoot_bard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
barefoot_bard) wrote2014-01-11 09:15 am
barefoot_bard) wrote2014-01-11 09:15 am
Entry tags:
Powder Smoke
Title: Powder Smoke
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: With the exception of William Fairley, who is my own creation, all names given in the story belong to men who fought and, in some instances, died at Trafalgar.
Story summary: A seaman witnesses the fall of one of his ship's officers. A prompt fill from this challenge, using this painting
Author's Note: I have taken some liberties with names and facts, but intend no disrespect in so doing.
Without a doubt, this was the most desperate combat William Fairley had ever known. Not that he had been in many sea battles before now. He was still new to his rating, never mind to this ship, having only joined her in Gibraltar. Yet here he was, stood on the great ship's quarterdeck, shoving the long-hafted rammer down the barrel of his assigned gun, driving wad and shot home, then heaving the rammer out again. He and his gun crew were utterly exposed here, for during action the weather deck of any ship was invariably a prime target. Only the officers, resplendent in their dress uniforms, were more tempting attractions of enemy fire. Already the quarterdeck, and the poop above it, was well-stained with blood from easily a dozen men. Fairley would swear it.
The three seamen who had been unceremoniously dumped over the side had been, until not ten minutes ago, Fairley's colleagues. Now he was working at a gun while his remaining comrades laboured below to get the ship to answer to her rudder. It was only luck that Fairley himself hadn't been at the wheel with them when French shot had smashed it and the unfortunate souls nearest it into oblivion. As a quartermaster's mate, he should have been at the wheel as well, but he was heartily glad to have to avoided his comrades' fate.
Every second that passed had him thinking sure he would shortly follow them, however, Without her wheel to command the rudder, Victory was at a stand and was beset seemingly on all sides by the enemy, who were pouring fire into her with a will. When Fairley had commented on this, a Marine nearby, crouching behind the dubious cover of the hammock nettings, offered a grinning, "Means they're just as like to hit each other as us!"
It was not the most encouraging remark ever but in a way, Fairley could see the Marine's reasoning. Victory's guns were thundering away, as fast as each gun crew could sponge, ram, and load. Marines were spread out around the rails, most crouching behind the hammock nettings and bulwarks, firing at any targets of opportunity they clapped eyes on. Fairley darted a glance at the Marine he'd just spoken to, just in time to see the man fall backwards away from the nettings, one hand clutching a bloody hole in his chest, his face already going pale.
"There goes Cobourn," another Marine remarked in a powder-roughened voice. "Tip him over, he's done for!"
"Fairley! Ram, damn yer eyes! Lively!" The gun captain, Simon Moon, bellowed, and Fairley leapt to the task, the dying Marine already forgotten. There were far more vital matters to focus on. It was impossible not to hear the mind-numbing clash of noise all around but if he concentrated on Moon's voice and thence to his own work, Fairley was almost able to pretend that he was not smack in the middle of a desperate fight to the death.
All was chaos. Despite having his necker tied over his ears, Fairley felt nearly completely deafened by the cacophony of noise around him. Every time he glanced around, away from the narrow view of his gun's sturdy wooden carriage, he saw the horrible damage being inflicted on the ship. Men were being torn to bloody ribbons by grapeshot, which swept over the weather deck to murderous effect. Musketry from the French mast platforms played havoc from above. Splinters and shorn slivers of iron did their own damage, sticking like deadly needles into everything, wood and flesh alike.
Those men unfortunate enough to be only wounded were everywhere, crying for aid, their mothers, or death. Their voices were drowned out by the constant crash of round shot, the ominous rattling hum of grape, the shriek of chain shot, and a hundred other sounds. The deck beneath their feet ran scarlet with blood, making the beams slippery. Yet no one appeared distracted or even disheartened by it. The carnage passed unseen, as much because of the thick, lazily-drifting clouds of powder smoke as not. Dead men were heaved thoughtlessly over the side and the work of fighting, of defending their ship, raced on unchecked.
A heavy block from aloft came smashing down to the deck, carrying with it long, torn lengths of cordage and a luckless maintopman, who had only an instant to scream before he struck the deck. Fairley did not even glance over. He thrust the rammer down the barrel, succeeding in burning his hand and wrist on the heated iron, then hauled it hastily out again. He and the others stood quickly back as Moon, the gun captain, jerked sharply on the lanyard and the twelve-pounder fired.
Fairley had leapt back after ramming another shot and wad down when it happened. There was a shout from behind him that was immediately joined by others, accompanied by a rush of feet close by. He turned quickly to see what was the matter and found himself staring at the broad, red-jacketed back of Sergeant Secker of the Marines. To Fairley's great shock, he realised the Marine was kneeling, cradling an officer in his arms.
"Hardy, I believe they have done it at last. My backbone is shot through," the small-framed officer remarked, his tone somehow calm, turning his face and his one arm upward toward a stricken-faced Captain Hardy. It was the admiral, Fairley realised, the awareness striking him like a great hammer. Sweet God. The admiral.
"Steady, sir," Captain Hardy was saying, crouching carefully over the downed, sobbing form of a wounded Marine behind hm. "Do you be steady, there is hope yet."
"There, sir!" Another voice cried. "There, there! Drop the bugger, sir!"
A musket cracked, closely followed by another, and Mister Pollard, one of the midshipmen, called, "That's done him! You are avenged, sir."
It was a thin comfort, thought Fairley, unable to do anything but stare in wide-eyed disbelief. How could this be possible? Somehow, it defied crediting that Lord Nelson himself should fall, even with so many of his ship's crew being felled like fresh hay all around them. Mister Pollard's prompt reaction, killing the French marksman who'd just visited this calamity on them, seemed a flat victory. What did it matter when the admiral lay slumped in Sergeant Secker's arms, firm in his belief that he was mortally struck?
"You there! Bear a hand, handsomely! Get his lordship below to the surgeon!"
Fairley all but flung his rammer aside and hastened to help lift the wounded admiral. Close next to him was Robert Davison, who had abandoned his boarding pike in order to help as well. Between the two of them and Sergeant Secker, it was no challenge to gently lift their fallen chief and carry him toward the companionway. The moment of pause had ended, though Fairley doubted there had truly been one, for the thunderous din of gunfire rolled on unabated. No one but they had time for this task, yet that was only right. The object now was to defeat the French, to pummel them into complete surrender.
Nearly to the companionway, Lucky Rob abruptly sagged, his grip on his lordship lost. He too had been hit. Fairley and Sergeant Secker stepped cautiously over him, Fairley striving to ignore the harsh, wheezing gasps from Lucky Rob as the seaman tried to draw in a full breath. Poor sod's luck had run dry at last. It was down now to him and the Marine to see their unhappy duty through. They made as much haste as they could down the steep ladder, reaching the upper gundeck and immediately plunging into a much more stifling, hellish world than the one they had just left.
His lordship was not silent, though his words were partially muffled and difficult to make out. But what Fairley could discern of the speech left him despairing. Lord Nelson was dying. He would know that fact better than anyone. What a cruel twist in the day. Fate's terrible hand at work. What would this mean for the fleet? Or even for Victory herself? Without the admiral to see them through... what chance might they have?
It was only the powder smoke that made his eyes sting so. Fairley would swear it. Only the powder smoke.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: With the exception of William Fairley, who is my own creation, all names given in the story belong to men who fought and, in some instances, died at Trafalgar.
Story summary: A seaman witnesses the fall of one of his ship's officers. A prompt fill from this challenge, using this painting
Author's Note: I have taken some liberties with names and facts, but intend no disrespect in so doing.
Without a doubt, this was the most desperate combat William Fairley had ever known. Not that he had been in many sea battles before now. He was still new to his rating, never mind to this ship, having only joined her in Gibraltar. Yet here he was, stood on the great ship's quarterdeck, shoving the long-hafted rammer down the barrel of his assigned gun, driving wad and shot home, then heaving the rammer out again. He and his gun crew were utterly exposed here, for during action the weather deck of any ship was invariably a prime target. Only the officers, resplendent in their dress uniforms, were more tempting attractions of enemy fire. Already the quarterdeck, and the poop above it, was well-stained with blood from easily a dozen men. Fairley would swear it.
The three seamen who had been unceremoniously dumped over the side had been, until not ten minutes ago, Fairley's colleagues. Now he was working at a gun while his remaining comrades laboured below to get the ship to answer to her rudder. It was only luck that Fairley himself hadn't been at the wheel with them when French shot had smashed it and the unfortunate souls nearest it into oblivion. As a quartermaster's mate, he should have been at the wheel as well, but he was heartily glad to have to avoided his comrades' fate.
Every second that passed had him thinking sure he would shortly follow them, however, Without her wheel to command the rudder, Victory was at a stand and was beset seemingly on all sides by the enemy, who were pouring fire into her with a will. When Fairley had commented on this, a Marine nearby, crouching behind the dubious cover of the hammock nettings, offered a grinning, "Means they're just as like to hit each other as us!"
It was not the most encouraging remark ever but in a way, Fairley could see the Marine's reasoning. Victory's guns were thundering away, as fast as each gun crew could sponge, ram, and load. Marines were spread out around the rails, most crouching behind the hammock nettings and bulwarks, firing at any targets of opportunity they clapped eyes on. Fairley darted a glance at the Marine he'd just spoken to, just in time to see the man fall backwards away from the nettings, one hand clutching a bloody hole in his chest, his face already going pale.
"There goes Cobourn," another Marine remarked in a powder-roughened voice. "Tip him over, he's done for!"
"Fairley! Ram, damn yer eyes! Lively!" The gun captain, Simon Moon, bellowed, and Fairley leapt to the task, the dying Marine already forgotten. There were far more vital matters to focus on. It was impossible not to hear the mind-numbing clash of noise all around but if he concentrated on Moon's voice and thence to his own work, Fairley was almost able to pretend that he was not smack in the middle of a desperate fight to the death.
All was chaos. Despite having his necker tied over his ears, Fairley felt nearly completely deafened by the cacophony of noise around him. Every time he glanced around, away from the narrow view of his gun's sturdy wooden carriage, he saw the horrible damage being inflicted on the ship. Men were being torn to bloody ribbons by grapeshot, which swept over the weather deck to murderous effect. Musketry from the French mast platforms played havoc from above. Splinters and shorn slivers of iron did their own damage, sticking like deadly needles into everything, wood and flesh alike.
Those men unfortunate enough to be only wounded were everywhere, crying for aid, their mothers, or death. Their voices were drowned out by the constant crash of round shot, the ominous rattling hum of grape, the shriek of chain shot, and a hundred other sounds. The deck beneath their feet ran scarlet with blood, making the beams slippery. Yet no one appeared distracted or even disheartened by it. The carnage passed unseen, as much because of the thick, lazily-drifting clouds of powder smoke as not. Dead men were heaved thoughtlessly over the side and the work of fighting, of defending their ship, raced on unchecked.
A heavy block from aloft came smashing down to the deck, carrying with it long, torn lengths of cordage and a luckless maintopman, who had only an instant to scream before he struck the deck. Fairley did not even glance over. He thrust the rammer down the barrel, succeeding in burning his hand and wrist on the heated iron, then hauled it hastily out again. He and the others stood quickly back as Moon, the gun captain, jerked sharply on the lanyard and the twelve-pounder fired.
Fairley had leapt back after ramming another shot and wad down when it happened. There was a shout from behind him that was immediately joined by others, accompanied by a rush of feet close by. He turned quickly to see what was the matter and found himself staring at the broad, red-jacketed back of Sergeant Secker of the Marines. To Fairley's great shock, he realised the Marine was kneeling, cradling an officer in his arms.
"Hardy, I believe they have done it at last. My backbone is shot through," the small-framed officer remarked, his tone somehow calm, turning his face and his one arm upward toward a stricken-faced Captain Hardy. It was the admiral, Fairley realised, the awareness striking him like a great hammer. Sweet God. The admiral.
"Steady, sir," Captain Hardy was saying, crouching carefully over the downed, sobbing form of a wounded Marine behind hm. "Do you be steady, there is hope yet."
"There, sir!" Another voice cried. "There, there! Drop the bugger, sir!"
A musket cracked, closely followed by another, and Mister Pollard, one of the midshipmen, called, "That's done him! You are avenged, sir."
It was a thin comfort, thought Fairley, unable to do anything but stare in wide-eyed disbelief. How could this be possible? Somehow, it defied crediting that Lord Nelson himself should fall, even with so many of his ship's crew being felled like fresh hay all around them. Mister Pollard's prompt reaction, killing the French marksman who'd just visited this calamity on them, seemed a flat victory. What did it matter when the admiral lay slumped in Sergeant Secker's arms, firm in his belief that he was mortally struck?
"You there! Bear a hand, handsomely! Get his lordship below to the surgeon!"
Fairley all but flung his rammer aside and hastened to help lift the wounded admiral. Close next to him was Robert Davison, who had abandoned his boarding pike in order to help as well. Between the two of them and Sergeant Secker, it was no challenge to gently lift their fallen chief and carry him toward the companionway. The moment of pause had ended, though Fairley doubted there had truly been one, for the thunderous din of gunfire rolled on unabated. No one but they had time for this task, yet that was only right. The object now was to defeat the French, to pummel them into complete surrender.
Nearly to the companionway, Lucky Rob abruptly sagged, his grip on his lordship lost. He too had been hit. Fairley and Sergeant Secker stepped cautiously over him, Fairley striving to ignore the harsh, wheezing gasps from Lucky Rob as the seaman tried to draw in a full breath. Poor sod's luck had run dry at last. It was down now to him and the Marine to see their unhappy duty through. They made as much haste as they could down the steep ladder, reaching the upper gundeck and immediately plunging into a much more stifling, hellish world than the one they had just left.
His lordship was not silent, though his words were partially muffled and difficult to make out. But what Fairley could discern of the speech left him despairing. Lord Nelson was dying. He would know that fact better than anyone. What a cruel twist in the day. Fate's terrible hand at work. What would this mean for the fleet? Or even for Victory herself? Without the admiral to see them through... what chance might they have?
It was only the powder smoke that made his eyes sting so. Fairley would swear it. Only the powder smoke.