Ramage's legs flopped one in front of the other while the Cornishman on one side and the Irishman on the other dragged him along: they probably had plenty of experience of getting a drunken shipmate out of a tavern.
In front, through the smoke swirling across the decks and curling into strange wreathing patterns as it was caught by eddies of wind coming in at the gun ports, danced the boy, whom he now recognized as the First Lieutenant's servant. The late First Lieutenant's servant, he corrected himself.
What the 'ell now? 'Ow are we ter get 'im up the ladder?'
The ladder from the main deck up to the gangway and quarter-deck has eight rungs - Ramage was pleased with himself for remembering that and is only wide enough for one man. Eight rungs mean nine steps to the top, and every one of those eight rungs is mine to command.
The stupidity of the thought shocked Ramage into realizing he was making no real effort to pull himself together: the two seamen could carry him no farther: he was on his own: up those eight rungs was the quarter-deck where, as the new commanding officer, he now belonged: where several score men were looking to him as their leader.
'Where's a tub?' he asked, freeing himself from the men's grasp.
'Just here, sor.'
He lurched a couple of paces and knelt beside it. When the ship beat to quarters before the action began, small tubs of water had been placed near the guns for the men to soak the sponges used to swab the barrels of the guns. As he plunged his head into the water he gave a gasp of pain, and groping fingers found a big swelling and a long gash across the back of his scalp. The gash was not deep, but enough to explain why he had been unconscious: probably a flying splinter of wood.
Ducking his head again, he swilled water round in his mouth, and spat it out, then pulled the wet hair back from his forehead, took several deep breaths, and stood up. The sudden movement set his head spinning again but already he felt stronger; the muscles were coming back to his legs.
At the foot of the ladder he paused, a spasm of fear twisting his stomach: at the top carnage and chaos awaited him. Decisions, vital decisions, had to be made and orders given - by someone who had been below, commanding one division of the guns for most of the action, his field of view restricted to what could be seen through a gun port, and unconscious for the rest of the time.
As he struggled up the ladder Ramage found he was talking to himself, like a child learning something by rote: the Captain, First and Second Lieutenants must have been killed, which leaves me the next senior. The boy said the Bosun had sent word that I'm in command, so presumably the Master was also dead, otherwise the message would have come from him. Well, thank God the Bosun survived, and let's hope the Surgeon's been spared and stayed sober.
How many of the Sibella's guns have fired in the last few minutes? Four or five, and they are all on the main-deck, which means the upper-deck guns and carronades must be out of action. With only four or five guns firing on the engaged side, how many of the ship's company are still alive? There'd been 164 answering last Sunday's muster.
Two more rungs and I'll be at the top. Another broadside from the Barras on
pulled her along.
'Bosun! Clew up the main and mizen topsails and set the spritsaiL'
With no sails drawing on main and mizen masts, the wind would not tend to push the ship's stern round, and the spritsail, set under the bowsprit, would help the foretopsail, though it was almost too small to help much in such a light wind.
As the Bosun's shouts set the men to work, Ramage saw the Carpenter's Mate approaching: he seemed to have smeared more tallow on his body than on the cone-shaped wooden shot plugs which he had been hammering into the holes in the hulL
'Well, make your report'
'More'n four feet o' water in the well, no pumps, six or more shot betwixt wind and water, an' three or more below the waterline - must have hit as she rolled, sir.'
'Very well: sound the well again and report to me at once.' Four feet of water. Mathematics was Ramage's weak point and he tried to concentrate, knowing the Barras's next broadside was due any moment. Four feet of water: well, the Sibella's draught is just over fifteen feet, and every seven tons of stores taken on board put her an inch lower in the water. How many tons did that four feet of water swilling about down below represent? What did it matter, anyway, he thought impatiently: what matters is the Carpenter's Mate's next report.
'Bosun - have some men cut away the anchors. Tell them to keep their heads down: we don't want any more casualties.'
Might as well try to get rid of some weight to compensate for the water flooding in. That would save about five tons in weight - decrease the Sibella's draught by just over half an inch. It's almost ludicrous, but it'll give the men something to do: with so many guns out of action seamen were now wandering around aimlessly, waiting for orders. He could save plenty of weight by heaving damaged guns over the side, but with the few men available it would take too long.