guarding the brig had been trembling since the call to go to quarters
had sounded above; a mingling, Laurence thought, of anxiety and the desire to be doing something, and
the frustration at being kept at so useless and miserable a post: a sentiment he shared from his still more
useless place within the cell. The ball seemed only to be rolling at a leisurely pace by the time it
approached the brig, and offered a first opportunity; the Marine had put out his foot to stop it before
Laurence could say a word.
He had seen much the same impulse have much the same result on other battlefields: the ball took off the
better part of the foot and continued unperturbed into and through the metal grating, skewing the door off
its top hinge and finally embedding itself two inches deep into the solid oak wall of the ship, there
remaining. Laurence pushed the crazily swinging door open and climbed out of the brig, taking off his
neckcloth to tie the Marine’s foot; the young man was staring amazed at the bloody stump, and needed a
little coaxing to limp along to the orlop. “A clean shot; I am sure the rest will come off nicely,” Laurence
said for comfort, and left him to the surgeons; the steady roar of cannon-fire was going on overhead.
He went up the stern ladderway and plunged into the confusion of the gundeck: daylight shining in from
her east-pointed bows, through jagged gaping holes, and making a glittering cloud of the smoke and dust
kicked up from the cannon. Roaring Martha had jumped her tackling, and five men were fighting to hold
her wedged against the roll of the ship long enough to get her secure again; at any moment the gun might
go running wild across the deck, crushing men and perhaps smashing through the side. “There girl, hold
fast, hold fast—” The captain of the gun-crew was speaking to her like a skittish horse, his hands wincing
away from the barrel, smoking-hot; one side of his face was bristling with splinters standing out like
hedgehog spines.
In the smoke, in the red light, no one knew Laurence; he was only another pair of hands. He had his
flight gloves still in his coat pocket; he clapped on to the metal with them and pushed her by the mouth of
the barrel, his palms stinging even through the thick leather, and with a final thump she heaved over into
the grooves again. The men tied her down and then stood around her trembling like well-run horses,
panting and sweating.
There was no return firing, no calls passed along from the quarterdeck, no ship in view through the
gunport. The ship was griping furiously where Laurence put his hand on the side, a sort of low moaning
complaint as if she were trying to go too close to the wind, and water was glubbing in a curious way
against her sides: a sound wholly unfamiliar, and he knew this ship. He had served on Goliath four years
in her midshipmen’s mess as a boy, as lieutenant for another two and at the Battle of the Nile; he would
have said he could recognize every note of her voice.
He put his head out the porthole and saw the enemy crossing their bows and turning to come about for
another pass: a frigate only, a beautiful trim thirty-six-gun ship which could have thrown not half of
Goliath ’s broadside; an absurd combat on the face of it, and he could not understand why they had not
turned to rake her across the stern. Instead there was only a little grumbling from the bow-chasers above,
not much reply to be making. Looking forward along the ship, he saw that she had been pierced by an
enormous harpoon sticking through her side, as if she were a whale. The end inside the ship had several
ingeniously curved barbs, which had been jerked sharply back to dig into the wood; and the cable at the
harpoon’s other end swung grandly up and up and up, into the air, where two enormous heavy-weight
Page 8
dragons were holding on to it: an older Parnassian, likely traded to France during an earlier peacetime,
and a Grand
had sounded above; a mingling, Laurence thought, of anxiety and the desire to be doing something, and
the frustration at being kept at so useless and miserable a post: a sentiment he shared from his still more
useless place within the cell. The ball seemed only to be rolling at a leisurely pace by the time it
approached the brig, and offered a first opportunity; the Marine had put out his foot to stop it before
Laurence could say a word.
He had seen much the same impulse have much the same result on other battlefields: the ball took off the
better part of the foot and continued unperturbed into and through the metal grating, skewing the door off
its top hinge and finally embedding itself two inches deep into the solid oak wall of the ship, there
remaining. Laurence pushed the crazily swinging door open and climbed out of the brig, taking off his
neckcloth to tie the Marine’s foot; the young man was staring amazed at the bloody stump, and needed a
little coaxing to limp along to the orlop. “A clean shot; I am sure the rest will come off nicely,” Laurence
said for comfort, and left him to the surgeons; the steady roar of cannon-fire was going on overhead.
He went up the stern ladderway and plunged into the confusion of the gundeck: daylight shining in from
her east-pointed bows, through jagged gaping holes, and making a glittering cloud of the smoke and dust
kicked up from the cannon. Roaring Martha had jumped her tackling, and five men were fighting to hold
her wedged against the roll of the ship long enough to get her secure again; at any moment the gun might
go running wild across the deck, crushing men and perhaps smashing through the side. “There girl, hold
fast, hold fast—” The captain of the gun-crew was speaking to her like a skittish horse, his hands wincing
away from the barrel, smoking-hot; one side of his face was bristling with splinters standing out like
hedgehog spines.
In the smoke, in the red light, no one knew Laurence; he was only another pair of hands. He had his
flight gloves still in his coat pocket; he clapped on to the metal with them and pushed her by the mouth of
the barrel, his palms stinging even through the thick leather, and with a final thump she heaved over into
the grooves again. The men tied her down and then stood around her trembling like well-run horses,
panting and sweating.
There was no return firing, no calls passed along from the quarterdeck, no ship in view through the
gunport. The ship was griping furiously where Laurence put his hand on the side, a sort of low moaning
complaint as if she were trying to go too close to the wind, and water was glubbing in a curious way
against her sides: a sound wholly unfamiliar, and he knew this ship. He had served on Goliath four years
in her midshipmen’s mess as a boy, as lieutenant for another two and at the Battle of the Nile; he would
have said he could recognize every note of her voice.
He put his head out the porthole and saw the enemy crossing their bows and turning to come about for
another pass: a frigate only, a beautiful trim thirty-six-gun ship which could have thrown not half of
Goliath ’s broadside; an absurd combat on the face of it, and he could not understand why they had not
turned to rake her across the stern. Instead there was only a little grumbling from the bow-chasers above,
not much reply to be making. Looking forward along the ship, he saw that she had been pierced by an
enormous harpoon sticking through her side, as if she were a whale. The end inside the ship had several
ingeniously curved barbs, which had been jerked sharply back to dig into the wood; and the cable at the
harpoon’s other end swung grandly up and up and up, into the air, where two enormous heavy-weight
Page 8
dragons were holding on to it: an older Parnassian, likely traded to France during an earlier peacetime,
and a Grand
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