writing_shadows

<<I am bored, so have decided to write nWoD historical fiction. Pick a year. This is for Fran, who chose 1782>>

The dank of the orlop. The creaking of wet wood as she hove to through gleaming blue ocean. The thunder of the battle raging above, rolling peals of ferocious fire and flame. The crack and cry of death somehow penetrating the oak shell. The taste of tropical sickness, bitter and sweet in turn, permeating the stinking hull. And everywhere, in a glorious river, in a bursting shower, in a flowing crimson fountain of sanguine delight, blood.

Blood on the instruments. Blood on the table. Blood on the Lieutenant’s face as he screamed in agony and the saw cut through flesh and bone, ripping through cartilage to expose the juicy delicious ruby of arterial blood. Blood on the decks, a carpet of perfect vermilion that he wanted to collapse onto and lap up like a cat after a cream spill.

Another peal of thunder, and the ship drifted hard to port, the guns' recoil forcing even this behemoth of the seas to tilt and obey Mr Newton’s laws. She was the Barfleur, second rate, 98 guns, 177 foot long, 50 foot to beam, launched 20 years ago and stained with endless conflict. Above the battle raged: Hood’s squadron forcing its way through the French line, sending shot and hell to smash timbers and rip de Grasse’s fleet asunder. These were the same French that had blockaded Yorktown and forced Cornwallis’ hand. This was the Royal Navy’s revenge.

Not that he cared. The surgeon ignored it, kept at his work, kept hacking with primitive tools in the squalid place, lit by a single hanging lantern. The dying, the dead and the wounded gathered around, awaiting his verdict or administrations, gruesome wounds and exposed bone that would have caused men to faint. But not he, not since his death. Right now Lieutenant Withers was his concern; the boy was going to lose his arm, and his life unless the blood flow was stemmed. He twisted his back to them and examined the wound once more.

Blood. Endless blood. Its metallic taste on his lips, its teasing scent in his nostrils. He loved it, revelled in it. He had signed on as ship’s surgeon knowing this carnival of gore was inevitable. As surgeon, he had the luxury of remaining below decks. In battle, his place was here, deep in the hull, with only ballast, bilge and tarred oak between him and a watery grave. Here he could linger, feed, study his texts, excuse his pale pallor and wait for the rivers of blood to flow. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood…

He shot up at a gasp, and realised he had given in. His fangs were in the brachial, suckling on the nectar of his curse. Withers was staring at him, eyes wide in terrible horror as the surgeon feasted and devoured.

The surgeon rose. None of the wounded or dying had noticed; too busy in their own woes, his back concealing his momentary weakness. He looked at Withers, licked the trail of blood from his lips, and wondered what to do…