Leeward 🏳️‍🌈 [PUBLISHED BY CANELO]

1: The Devil's Mass (1798)

1 August 1798, Aboukir Bay, Egypt

Captain Hiram Nightingale climbed from the hot, crowded belly of the Lion and out into bright light. He stepped onto the quarterdeck, slipped in the frothing mixture of blood and water, and groped for the lee-rail. No one noticed. Every man rushed about to extinguish the growing fires.

Nightingale recovered himself and turned to look off the starboard bow. His stomach tightened. Remains of Bellerophon's destroyed mainmast floated in the seething debris of the bay, clung to by a gang of desperate French sailors. Riven by horrified awe, Nightingale stared up at the inflamed rage of the Orient. The gargantuan French flagship spat gouts of flame which licked up her ragged sails. He had to raise his head to look at her masts.

They were close, too close, not even a cable's length away.

Swallowing his dread, Nightingale staggered through the black smoke and reached the helm. In the barrage of cannonfire, one of the lanterns, hung to identify British ships, had fallen from the mizzen. A midshipman, Cleveland, was still dampening the flames. First Lieutenant Leroy Sawyer knelt with him. As Nightingale approached, he stood and reached to tug the peak of his hat in salute before realising it was gone. Blood welled from a cut on his forehead, staining his sweat-soaked fair hair. The sudden encounter with injury chilled Nightingale.

"You are hurt," Nightingale said. He could barely hear himself.

"Below, sir!" Leroy urged. "You should go below!"

"You are hurt!" Nightingale shouted, louder. Leroy waved a hand as if it was nothing. "What is the damage report, Lieutenant?"

"The main topmast is struck clean away, sir, and everything above the foretop. The bowsprit is only hanging on by the standing rigging and one timber, perhaps. And these fires..."

"The anchor cables are cut. Our guns are silenced for now. Attend to the fires, Mr Sawyer. There's—" Little more we can do, he was going to say but it sounded too ominous.

Leroy hesitated. He stared at Nightingale as if he would change his mind. Nightingale fought through those seconds, on the verge of begging Leroy to find somewhere safe.

"Be careful, Leroy," he said instead, briefly reaching out and squeezing his arm. He did not know if Leroy heard as he hurried away.

Nightingale fisted his hands behind his back while he surveyed the bay. It was almost impossible to believe that it was nightfall. Exploding balls of light turned the waters into a fiery apocalypse, illuminated by the feverish hulk of the Orient. Thank God Swiftsure and Alexander had ceased firing upon her, though he could still hear the roaring of cannons further along the coast. Wood and flesh splintered at the end of each of those streaks of fire. At first, he had heard the individual voices.

Now it was all one devil's mass.

The Lion crawled through the slaughter. Nightingale had set course for Tonnant and her eighty guns, but the stern anchor had been too slow to deploy and the ship faced the Orient. She still towered over them, even after the anchor cables had been cut.

Nightingale's nails cut bloody scars into his palm. Helplessness petrified his limbs. After the ferocity of the last hours, he could only watch the tattered sails as they caught the paltry breeze; pray that the fires had been extinguished; hope that the canvas and decks were wetted enough to bear the fury of what was coming –

Beside him, Cleveland staggered to his feet. Burn-marks scored his hands from the fractured lanterns. He quickly hid them before Nightingale could send him to Dr Harrow.