Free Mistress of the Sea by Jenny Barden

was in armour and leading the repulse. The episodes flashed by in his mind, shuddering with gun blasts and blurred by smoke, only slowing in clear distinction around the memories that were worst: Eliseus smiling, though part of his skull was gone. Will had looked round for his friend’s helmet, unable to see it for the press of men fighting. Eliseus was still warm. He had crouched behind the bulwarks while shots whistled overhead, hearing the Spaniards cry, ‘Santiago!’, conscious that he could smell hot blood. The skin was black where the ball had entered behind Eliseus’s jaw. Beside him, a Spaniard writhed, clutching at a broken pike-shaft left sticking in his groin. Near the man’s foot he had found the helmet – it was filled with gore.
    They had re-taken the
Minion
and saved the
Jesus
, fired guns all day at the Spanish fleet, blasting a great man-o’-war until her magazine exploded and masts, men and rigging were blown skyward in a ball of flame, but the
Jesus
was trapped, and most of Hawkins’s ships were crippled.
    Another memory overwhelmed him. He was treading in blood . . .
    . . . The wounded filled the gangway behind the gun deck below. Screams merged with the screech of sawing. When the sawing stopped, the surgeon emerged. His expression was granite.
    Will lowered his eyes as the surgeon pushed past. Someone clawed at his ankle: a burly-framed man who would not let go, whispering his name. He knelt and saw Harry; his face had a sheen like raw egg-white.
    ‘Sew me up, Will. My needle’s gone.’
    ‘How’s this?’
    Harry’s leg was wrong, as if a giant had taken a bite. Harry circled it with his hands.
    ‘A piece of iron . . . Never trust an iron breech.’
    Will realised what had happened as he looked at the bone in Harry’s leg: a gun had exploded in firing. He was kneeling in Harry’s blood and there was nothing to stop the flow.
    ‘The surgeon’s coming soon. I’ll get some rope.’
    Harry grabbed at his arm.
    ‘Thread’s what I need. Not rope, nor the barber. Keep my leg . . .’
    ‘Steady, Harry.’
    Go
. Will ran at the double but found nothing he could use. The guns were pounding. Men were calling.
    ‘We’re holed, Will. Get below.’
    ‘You’re needed, Will.’
    ‘Lead and tar . . .’
    Quick
. He had to get back to the gunners, help Harry, stop the leaks. Again and again he felt the
Jesus
being struck. He slid down a ladder and squeezed into the powder store. He dragged out a barrel.
Rope
. He climbed into the forecastle, barrel on his shoulder, and dodged around the cannon. The deck was like a slaughter-house, blood strewn with straw, crowded and steaming, the guns liable to kick. Will heard tackle crashing down, shot rolling and weights dropped, curses and screams. He reached his friend Job, loading a culverin. Job’s face was black with powder. Young Paul was holding the match, shaft shaking in his grip. No one stopped. Will put the barrel down. Over the bulwarks near the culverin were myriad flecks like drying mud: Harry’s blood.
    ‘They’re firing from the end of the quay,’ Will yelled. ‘Harry’s hurt . . .’
    Job turned without speaking. Will caught his look and stumbled away. Where the foretop lay, more rigging was down; the main was damaged. Will knew the
Jesus
was doomed. He stepped over bodies, and stripped a belt from one, shot full of lumps like the warts of a toad. A cannon-blast shook him.
Run
. He hurtled into the sterncastle and got back to Harry, looped the belt around the big man’s thigh, and braced to pull hard. Rope would have been better.
    ‘Will?’
    ‘I’m with you, Harry.’
    He pulled, but the belt was stiff and Harry’s thigh was massive. Harry’s breathing had the rush of waves over gravel.
    ‘Are you sewing, Will?’
    ‘The best I can.’
    The breathing became softer. Will bent closer to hear.
    ‘Harry?’
    ‘I can ne’er feel it at all.’
    Harry made no sound; his eyes were motionless, staring up towards the hatch. Will saw