Third Week
From the Personal Log of John Sinclair,
Senior Post Captain, RN
Thursday 17 June 1779
“That’s everything we’ve managed to ascertain, sir.” Lieutenant Bartholomew Jones said after he had presented his findings. We were sitting in my day cabin aboard HMS Sapphire, the 36-gun frigate of the Gemstone class swung easily at her anchor cable in New York Harbour. Arronbourge, the powerful French frigate that had been causing so much trouble during the previous months, had not been heard from in well over three weeks but two more vessels in what we both believed to be the combined Continental/French raiding squadron had made their appearance. The first was the Lexington, a frigate of 22 guns that had once been a small, fast Indiaman. The second, which had only last night captured a Loyalist schooner off Montauk Point on the eastern tip of Long Island, was another Frenchman, the Magicien of 32 guns. So to the best of our knowledge there were three frigates operating in the area of New York possibly with more coming. Even if we waited until Enchanted was ready, a matter of some three weeks at least, we would still be outnumbered three-to-two. Not a comforting prospect for the future.
Still that was well over three weeks away as I was still bound by my promise to Washington not to take up arms against the Rebels or their French allies until the 11th of July. There had been quite the ruckus over that once I’d reported to Sir Avery Canning, KB, Rear-Admiral of the Red and commander of the Inshore Squadron. As my immediate superior in New York I had sent my report on our expedition to Pollepel Island to him. The Admiral had gone so far as to threaten to remove me from my ship; only the fact that I was technically under the absent Vice-Admiral Eisenbeck’s command had stopped him. But he was severely displeased to say the least. I have tried not to take his anger personally as I’m aware of his reputation as a fair-minded commander. I can only think that the situation with these enemy raiders has unnerved him more than he lets on.
Looking down I again examined the map of the coastline that was spread out on the table before us. The coast was a maze of inlets, coves and river mouths that could easily hide a hundred ships. The rebels had been making use of that fact since the war had begun to come and go practically unhindered, just as smugglers had done before the war.
“It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. You won’t find it until it sticks you and afterwards it will immediately disappear again.” I sighed. “Tell me about these two schooners Sir Avery has out?”
“They left nine days ago, sir. Small and handy they’ll be able to poke into anyplace that the enemy might hide all right, but they’re only carrying four or five popgun six-pounders a side. Anything they find will send them to the bottom unless they’re very lucky and very good.”
“Who is in command?” I asked.
“One is the son of a friend of the Admiral by the name of Villiers. I only know him by reputation, competent to all accounts but inclined to let matters take their course.”
“Not a go-getter then. And the other?”
“There I have better news, sir. It’s James Kent.”
Kent had been my second lieutenant aboard Goshawk when we’d left England in ‘76. He was a highly professional officer with a flair for daring and an instinctive knack for command. A loyalist like the Masons he had been on leave with his family when I’d left to convey Sir Malcolm home last year. I’d recommended him for a schooner or brig but hadn’t heard if he’d gotten one.
“Since last year he’s been attached to the military establishment.” Jones continued. “As I understand it he was with Sir George Collier and Brigadier Matthews in Virginia last month. He returned when you were up river. We barely had a chance to say hello before he was tapped for this mission and on his way again.”
“Well I’m reasonably confident in Mr. Kent’s abilities but still with only a handful of six-pounders I hope he has the good sense to show the enemy a clean pair of heels.”
“I agree, sir. Even Lexington, the smallest, would overwhelm either of the schooners in short order and heaven help them if they run into Arronbourge.”
“True enough. Well there’s nothing we can do from here but wait and hope for the best. Still, keep at it, the more information we have when the time comes the better.”
“Aye aye, sir” He replied as we both stood. I slipped into my dress coat without even a single twinge from my shoulder, then picked up my cocked hat from the desk.
“I’m going ashore. The family is having a celebration at Lennox House this evening. Jennifer has received word that Will has been posted to Vanessa, it seems that the Admiralty does listen to my suggestions on occasion.”
“Please give Mrs. Mason my best wishes, sir, and Miss Tara of course.”
“Naturally. I should be back aboard by midnight, until then the ship is yours, Bart.”
From the Remembrances of Tara Mason
Friday 18 June 1779
Nearly ten days ago I promised John I would stay off my feet long enough to allow them to heal properly. Accustomed as I am to activity, the waiting has been hard, though I have had the consolation of having Papa here to talk to me, play chess with me, and help the hours pass. John comes when he can – he is limited by his parole to General Washington as to what he can do with his ship, but there are still many responsibilities involved with the command that do not involve taking the ship into battle.
Last night Papa threw an impromptu celebration in honour of the wonderful news we received only yesterday – that my brother William has been posted and given command of a former French frigate he helped capture last fall, now re-named HMS Vanessa and carrying 26 guns. Papa was especially pleased with the name. “How very appropriate to have his first post command named after my dearest love,” he said, his eyes suspiciously moist. “Well, I know that she approves. Now, my dears, a party is in order – we must have John, of course, and Colonel Therrien, and Colonel and Mrs. Jenkinson if they can come.”
“And Doctor Fred, Papa, we must have Doctor Fred.” I reminded him.
“Of course, Taree. Always.”
It was a wonderful evening with congenial friends – cards, music, conversation and a delicious supper were all enjoyed to the full. Eventually, though, John noticed I was tiring and offered to carry me up to my room, with Mary – who also had a letter, much cherished already – in attendance and Fred following close behind. Fred checked my feet and pronounced them healed, although he did caution against overexertion.
“And no rock-climbing, young lady!” He said with mock sternness, “Don’t undo all my good work.”
With Fred satisfied as to my progress, John was also willing to allow me to stand on my own two feet again, literally. After a late night - John did not leave until nearly midnight - I slept quite late today, waking to share breakfast with Papa as has become our custom. He had eaten much earlier, but he always has at least coffee and toast with me, no matter when I wake up. Then it was time to bathe and dress, this time in the sprigged muslin that John loves so much. Laura came up to my room during this process and announced, “I have a message for you, Taree dear. A certain very handsome sea officer says to tell you that as soon as you are ready to make your debut, he will come up and carry you downstairs.”
“Fred has been talking to him, I can see,” I said with a fond chuckle. “Very well, I think the time has arrived. Ladies, you may inform the Captain that his lady awaits.”
John had been downstairs talking to Papa – one of many conversations they have had over the past week or so. To look at them, one would think they had been raised together as close friends or even brothers.
“Will you stay in Canada, Richard?” John had asked on one such occasion.
“What is left for me there? It was only a temporary refuge to avoid having my family harassed by the sort of people who murdered Mary’s first husband, Daniel Morgan. No, with an English daughter-in-law and an English son-in-law – and that’s just the ones who are married or engaged – I think my future lies there. I’ve always had close ties to the Mother Country and I made sure that all of us had English citizenship in case we ever needed to go back there to live. I can run a shipping business from anywhere there’s a deep-water port. Bristol, for example, is an excellent prospect.”
“A good choice, sir, given its proximity to Thornbury,” John had said with a smile and a glance at me.
Now, there was a tap on my door and, John came in, alone. In two quick strides he was across the room and had me clasped in his arms, lowering his head for a kiss that left us both breathless.
“Do you remember what I told you the first time I saw you in this gown, Mistress of my Heart?”
I remembered. It had been delightfully passionate, and the first time, it had made me blush. This time, it only made me smile and I murmured a response against his eager mouth. “Patience, patience, my love. All in good time. Have you never heard that desire is sharpened by anticipation? Now, your public awaits, but I would really prefer that you not stay on your feet any longer than necessary. May I carry you downstairs, as always?”
“You may. As long as you don’t make me ride in the Bath chair. I don’t care if I never see it again!” He threw back his handsome head and laughed even as he swept me into his arms.
Excerpt from the Diary of William Mason
Saturday 19 June 1779
Early this morning, just as the watch was called and the order given to go to general quarters - the same way we greet every day in this ship in time of war - Mr. Cross reported that my brother Robert was not present for duty at his assigned station. Robertson came to me with the news, and I was about to send someone to look for him when he appeared on deck, naked, roaring and cursing – obviously blind drunk.
Somehow, he must have been hoarding the shortened grog rations I had permitted him for the past few days and had consumed them all at once – and then I remembered – today is his twenty-first birthday. He reeled about the deck as the men looked on in shock and disgust, but when he started for the quarterdeck Stewart stepped in front of him and with a single, well-placed blow to the jaw knocked him cold. Frozen in tableau, we stood for several seconds – Stewart over Robert’s inert body as if to make sure he did not recover and charge the quarterdeck again, Stephen with a look of shame and disgust and something like pity on his face, the men waiting for the next action on this sordid little drama.
“Mr. Addington.” I called for my Marine lieutenant, my voice deliberately expressionless. He stood to attention and saluted smartly. “Sir!”
“Take Mr. Mason below and put him in irons, if you please, and put a guard on him. He is to have no grog until I give the word. I’ll see the back of any man who disobeys, for whatever reason. Do I make myself clear?”
“Aye, aye, sir!” He gave a sharp order and two of his marines picked my brother up, one by the hands and one by the feet, and carried him below.
“Carry on, Mr. Robertson. Let me know when he’s sober enough to understand what’s said to him.”
By noon Robertson reported that my brother had slept off the effects of the alcohol and was able to answer questions coherently. I had him brought in at two bells, this time decently clad in a clean if crumpled uniform.
“Robert Mason, you are charged with drunkenness and profane execrations, under Section Two of the Articles of War. Have you anything to say in your defence?”
“No, sir.” He said stiffly, his eyes bloodshot and his head obviously still pounding.
“Do you understand the charges lodged against you?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Very well. I sentence you to a dozen lashes, to be awarded this afternoon at the beginning of the first dog watch, and to stoppage of all grog ration from now until we reach our destination. Mr. Addington, the prisoner will remain in irons until sentence is carried out.”
The ship was silent for the rest of the afternoon. Even the men off watch went about their business as if a cloud lay over us – as indeed it did. My former Paladins, if they thought back, would remember that it had been many months since I had last ordered a man to the grating, and they would have told the others as much. I had to open the punishment book and write those horrible words down – and to have to write them down about my own brother, on his birthday at that, was agony.
“You have to do it.” Stewart said quietly. With that happy knack he has of appearing when I need him most, he had come silently into the cabin and stood staring out the stern windows, saying nothing until the time was right.
“I know. It hurts like hell, though,” I confessed.
“Remember the time I thrashed you for bringing that wolf cub home?” He asked.
“Yes. I found it in the woods. It was just a tiny one, but I had no idea that the mother might be close by. She would have torn me apart if she’d found me.”
“You were five years old. I hated to do it, but I’d told you to stay away from wild animals, and you let your curiosity get the better of you. Your father was away at sea, and your lady mother was so close to delivering your sister I couldn’t bear to bother her with it. You bit your lips until they bled, but you didn’t cry – and I wasn’t gentle with the cane, either.”
“But I never bothered a wolf again. And the look on your face – it must have been agony for you, Stewart.” His silence was my answer. “I see your point. It’s going to hurt me much more than it hurts Rob, but it has to be done, not only to maintain discipline on this ship, but to teach him a lesson.”
The ship’s bell chimed. It was time. I stood to allow Stewart to help me into my dress coat, raised my arms to allow him to buckle on the old French blade my ancestor had brought with him to exile in Virginia nearly one hundred years before, accepted my hat, tucked my copy of the Articles of War under my arm, and went on deck.
Robertson gave a sharp order. “All hands lay aft to witness punishment” and the men gathered, as silent as they had been all day.
Robert was brought out. The grating was rigged; his hands and feet were tied to it, and at the order, “Off hats!” I stepped forward to read the pertinent section of the Articles and pronounce sentence formally.
Evan Morgan, my bosun, a huge Welshman with fists like hams, stood by while the ritual was carried out.
“Mr. Morgan, do your duty.” I forced the words through dry lips; he knuckled his forehead and then raised one massive arm. The lash cracked down on Robert’s back and I think the whole company gave a collective wince. The marine drummer kept up his roll as the strokes fell and blood welled up across my brother’s back. He would carry these scars for the rest of his life, but what choice had I? I looked over at Stephen. He had never seen a flogging before, and he was almost in tears, but his eyes did not accuse me. Even at thirteen he seemed to understand what had to be done.
“Nine... ten... eleven... twelve.”
Robertson turned to me again and saluted.
“Punishment carried out, Captain.”
“Very well. You may dismiss the hands below. Mr. Harmon, see to your patient.”
Robert, who had passed out as the last stroke fell, was cut down and his bloody body carried down to the cockpit, where Harmon would bathe and bind up his wounds.
I went down to my cabin in silence.
From the Personal Log of John Sinclair,
Senior Post Captain, RN
Thursday 17 June 1779
“That’s everything we’ve managed to ascertain, sir.” Lieutenant Bartholomew Jones said after he had presented his findings. We were sitting in my day cabin aboard HMS Sapphire, the 36-gun frigate of the Gemstone class swung easily at her anchor cable in New York Harbour. Arronbourge, the powerful French frigate that had been causing so much trouble during the previous months, had not been heard from in well over three weeks but two more vessels in what we both believed to be the combined Continental/French raiding squadron had made their appearance. The first was the Lexington, a frigate of 22 guns that had once been a small, fast Indiaman. The second, which had only last night captured a Loyalist schooner off Montauk Point on the eastern tip of Long Island, was another Frenchman, the Magicien of 32 guns. So to the best of our knowledge there were three frigates operating in the area of New York possibly with more coming. Even if we waited until Enchanted was ready, a matter of some three weeks at least, we would still be outnumbered three-to-two. Not a comforting prospect for the future.
Still that was well over three weeks away as I was still bound by my promise to Washington not to take up arms against the Rebels or their French allies until the 11th of July. There had been quite the ruckus over that once I’d reported to Sir Avery Canning, KB, Rear-Admiral of the Red and commander of the Inshore Squadron. As my immediate superior in New York I had sent my report on our expedition to Pollepel Island to him. The Admiral had gone so far as to threaten to remove me from my ship; only the fact that I was technically under the absent Vice-Admiral Eisenbeck’s command had stopped him. But he was severely displeased to say the least. I have tried not to take his anger personally as I’m aware of his reputation as a fair-minded commander. I can only think that the situation with these enemy raiders has unnerved him more than he lets on.
Looking down I again examined the map of the coastline that was spread out on the table before us. The coast was a maze of inlets, coves and river mouths that could easily hide a hundred ships. The rebels had been making use of that fact since the war had begun to come and go practically unhindered, just as smugglers had done before the war.
“It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. You won’t find it until it sticks you and afterwards it will immediately disappear again.” I sighed. “Tell me about these two schooners Sir Avery has out?”
“They left nine days ago, sir. Small and handy they’ll be able to poke into anyplace that the enemy might hide all right, but they’re only carrying four or five popgun six-pounders a side. Anything they find will send them to the bottom unless they’re very lucky and very good.”
“Who is in command?” I asked.
“One is the son of a friend of the Admiral by the name of Villiers. I only know him by reputation, competent to all accounts but inclined to let matters take their course.”
“Not a go-getter then. And the other?”
“There I have better news, sir. It’s James Kent.”
Kent had been my second lieutenant aboard Goshawk when we’d left England in ‘76. He was a highly professional officer with a flair for daring and an instinctive knack for command. A loyalist like the Masons he had been on leave with his family when I’d left to convey Sir Malcolm home last year. I’d recommended him for a schooner or brig but hadn’t heard if he’d gotten one.
“Since last year he’s been attached to the military establishment.” Jones continued. “As I understand it he was with Sir George Collier and Brigadier Matthews in Virginia last month. He returned when you were up river. We barely had a chance to say hello before he was tapped for this mission and on his way again.”
“Well I’m reasonably confident in Mr. Kent’s abilities but still with only a handful of six-pounders I hope he has the good sense to show the enemy a clean pair of heels.”
“I agree, sir. Even Lexington, the smallest, would overwhelm either of the schooners in short order and heaven help them if they run into Arronbourge.”
“True enough. Well there’s nothing we can do from here but wait and hope for the best. Still, keep at it, the more information we have when the time comes the better.”
“Aye aye, sir” He replied as we both stood. I slipped into my dress coat without even a single twinge from my shoulder, then picked up my cocked hat from the desk.
“I’m going ashore. The family is having a celebration at Lennox House this evening. Jennifer has received word that Will has been posted to Vanessa, it seems that the Admiralty does listen to my suggestions on occasion.”
“Please give Mrs. Mason my best wishes, sir, and Miss Tara of course.”
“Naturally. I should be back aboard by midnight, until then the ship is yours, Bart.”
From the Remembrances of Tara Mason
Friday 18 June 1779
Nearly ten days ago I promised John I would stay off my feet long enough to allow them to heal properly. Accustomed as I am to activity, the waiting has been hard, though I have had the consolation of having Papa here to talk to me, play chess with me, and help the hours pass. John comes when he can – he is limited by his parole to General Washington as to what he can do with his ship, but there are still many responsibilities involved with the command that do not involve taking the ship into battle.
Last night Papa threw an impromptu celebration in honour of the wonderful news we received only yesterday – that my brother William has been posted and given command of a former French frigate he helped capture last fall, now re-named HMS Vanessa and carrying 26 guns. Papa was especially pleased with the name. “How very appropriate to have his first post command named after my dearest love,” he said, his eyes suspiciously moist. “Well, I know that she approves. Now, my dears, a party is in order – we must have John, of course, and Colonel Therrien, and Colonel and Mrs. Jenkinson if they can come.”
“And Doctor Fred, Papa, we must have Doctor Fred.” I reminded him.
“Of course, Taree. Always.”
It was a wonderful evening with congenial friends – cards, music, conversation and a delicious supper were all enjoyed to the full. Eventually, though, John noticed I was tiring and offered to carry me up to my room, with Mary – who also had a letter, much cherished already – in attendance and Fred following close behind. Fred checked my feet and pronounced them healed, although he did caution against overexertion.
“And no rock-climbing, young lady!” He said with mock sternness, “Don’t undo all my good work.”
With Fred satisfied as to my progress, John was also willing to allow me to stand on my own two feet again, literally. After a late night - John did not leave until nearly midnight - I slept quite late today, waking to share breakfast with Papa as has become our custom. He had eaten much earlier, but he always has at least coffee and toast with me, no matter when I wake up. Then it was time to bathe and dress, this time in the sprigged muslin that John loves so much. Laura came up to my room during this process and announced, “I have a message for you, Taree dear. A certain very handsome sea officer says to tell you that as soon as you are ready to make your debut, he will come up and carry you downstairs.”
“Fred has been talking to him, I can see,” I said with a fond chuckle. “Very well, I think the time has arrived. Ladies, you may inform the Captain that his lady awaits.”
John had been downstairs talking to Papa – one of many conversations they have had over the past week or so. To look at them, one would think they had been raised together as close friends or even brothers.
“Will you stay in Canada, Richard?” John had asked on one such occasion.
“What is left for me there? It was only a temporary refuge to avoid having my family harassed by the sort of people who murdered Mary’s first husband, Daniel Morgan. No, with an English daughter-in-law and an English son-in-law – and that’s just the ones who are married or engaged – I think my future lies there. I’ve always had close ties to the Mother Country and I made sure that all of us had English citizenship in case we ever needed to go back there to live. I can run a shipping business from anywhere there’s a deep-water port. Bristol, for example, is an excellent prospect.”
“A good choice, sir, given its proximity to Thornbury,” John had said with a smile and a glance at me.
Now, there was a tap on my door and, John came in, alone. In two quick strides he was across the room and had me clasped in his arms, lowering his head for a kiss that left us both breathless.
“Do you remember what I told you the first time I saw you in this gown, Mistress of my Heart?”
I remembered. It had been delightfully passionate, and the first time, it had made me blush. This time, it only made me smile and I murmured a response against his eager mouth. “Patience, patience, my love. All in good time. Have you never heard that desire is sharpened by anticipation? Now, your public awaits, but I would really prefer that you not stay on your feet any longer than necessary. May I carry you downstairs, as always?”
“You may. As long as you don’t make me ride in the Bath chair. I don’t care if I never see it again!” He threw back his handsome head and laughed even as he swept me into his arms.
Excerpt from the Diary of William Mason
Saturday 19 June 1779
Early this morning, just as the watch was called and the order given to go to general quarters - the same way we greet every day in this ship in time of war - Mr. Cross reported that my brother Robert was not present for duty at his assigned station. Robertson came to me with the news, and I was about to send someone to look for him when he appeared on deck, naked, roaring and cursing – obviously blind drunk.
Somehow, he must have been hoarding the shortened grog rations I had permitted him for the past few days and had consumed them all at once – and then I remembered – today is his twenty-first birthday. He reeled about the deck as the men looked on in shock and disgust, but when he started for the quarterdeck Stewart stepped in front of him and with a single, well-placed blow to the jaw knocked him cold. Frozen in tableau, we stood for several seconds – Stewart over Robert’s inert body as if to make sure he did not recover and charge the quarterdeck again, Stephen with a look of shame and disgust and something like pity on his face, the men waiting for the next action on this sordid little drama.
“Mr. Addington.” I called for my Marine lieutenant, my voice deliberately expressionless. He stood to attention and saluted smartly. “Sir!”
“Take Mr. Mason below and put him in irons, if you please, and put a guard on him. He is to have no grog until I give the word. I’ll see the back of any man who disobeys, for whatever reason. Do I make myself clear?”
“Aye, aye, sir!” He gave a sharp order and two of his marines picked my brother up, one by the hands and one by the feet, and carried him below.
“Carry on, Mr. Robertson. Let me know when he’s sober enough to understand what’s said to him.”
By noon Robertson reported that my brother had slept off the effects of the alcohol and was able to answer questions coherently. I had him brought in at two bells, this time decently clad in a clean if crumpled uniform.
“Robert Mason, you are charged with drunkenness and profane execrations, under Section Two of the Articles of War. Have you anything to say in your defence?”
“No, sir.” He said stiffly, his eyes bloodshot and his head obviously still pounding.
“Do you understand the charges lodged against you?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Very well. I sentence you to a dozen lashes, to be awarded this afternoon at the beginning of the first dog watch, and to stoppage of all grog ration from now until we reach our destination. Mr. Addington, the prisoner will remain in irons until sentence is carried out.”
The ship was silent for the rest of the afternoon. Even the men off watch went about their business as if a cloud lay over us – as indeed it did. My former Paladins, if they thought back, would remember that it had been many months since I had last ordered a man to the grating, and they would have told the others as much. I had to open the punishment book and write those horrible words down – and to have to write them down about my own brother, on his birthday at that, was agony.
“You have to do it.” Stewart said quietly. With that happy knack he has of appearing when I need him most, he had come silently into the cabin and stood staring out the stern windows, saying nothing until the time was right.
“I know. It hurts like hell, though,” I confessed.
“Remember the time I thrashed you for bringing that wolf cub home?” He asked.
“Yes. I found it in the woods. It was just a tiny one, but I had no idea that the mother might be close by. She would have torn me apart if she’d found me.”
“You were five years old. I hated to do it, but I’d told you to stay away from wild animals, and you let your curiosity get the better of you. Your father was away at sea, and your lady mother was so close to delivering your sister I couldn’t bear to bother her with it. You bit your lips until they bled, but you didn’t cry – and I wasn’t gentle with the cane, either.”
“But I never bothered a wolf again. And the look on your face – it must have been agony for you, Stewart.” His silence was my answer. “I see your point. It’s going to hurt me much more than it hurts Rob, but it has to be done, not only to maintain discipline on this ship, but to teach him a lesson.”
The ship’s bell chimed. It was time. I stood to allow Stewart to help me into my dress coat, raised my arms to allow him to buckle on the old French blade my ancestor had brought with him to exile in Virginia nearly one hundred years before, accepted my hat, tucked my copy of the Articles of War under my arm, and went on deck.
Robertson gave a sharp order. “All hands lay aft to witness punishment” and the men gathered, as silent as they had been all day.
Robert was brought out. The grating was rigged; his hands and feet were tied to it, and at the order, “Off hats!” I stepped forward to read the pertinent section of the Articles and pronounce sentence formally.
Evan Morgan, my bosun, a huge Welshman with fists like hams, stood by while the ritual was carried out.
“Mr. Morgan, do your duty.” I forced the words through dry lips; he knuckled his forehead and then raised one massive arm. The lash cracked down on Robert’s back and I think the whole company gave a collective wince. The marine drummer kept up his roll as the strokes fell and blood welled up across my brother’s back. He would carry these scars for the rest of his life, but what choice had I? I looked over at Stephen. He had never seen a flogging before, and he was almost in tears, but his eyes did not accuse me. Even at thirteen he seemed to understand what had to be done.
“Nine... ten... eleven... twelve.”
Robertson turned to me again and saluted.
“Punishment carried out, Captain.”
“Very well. You may dismiss the hands below. Mr. Harmon, see to your patient.”
Robert, who had passed out as the last stroke fell, was cut down and his bloody body carried down to the cockpit, where Harmon would bathe and bind up his wounds.
I went down to my cabin in silence.