Renzi tried to turn over but could not. The two lob-lolly boys - older men no longer suitable for work on deck — rotated him. He felt the surgeon's hands rip away clothing and tensed for the knife, but after a pause and cursory poke the surgeon straightened. 'You're lucky, my man. Superficial tissue loss but we'll need to staunch the blood.' He probed the area. Renzi could feel the man's breath around the wound. 'Yes, fit for duty in weeks. You know what to do,' he told the lob-lollies; then he was gone.
The excruciating pain of a vinegar solution on the raw flesh brought tears to his eyes, but relief was unfolding in a tide of emotion — he would not suffer under the saw. A dressing, a tourniquet; additional pain came from the biting cord. Then the indignity of being dragged to a further corner to recover — or die.
Somewhere outside the battle's fury continued; the fabric of Tenacious shuddered with savage blows. On deck it would be chaos, but the cruel logic of war meant that duty must be done and the battle fought irrespective of the hideous scenes.
Renzi rolled to his side in discomfort. Then he noticed the glint of gold lace being carried down the hatchway. It was the first lieutenant, his head lolling ominously to one side. The quarterdeck was being cleared fast.
Possession of their prize — Wassenaar— released Triumph for hotter work. Passing Venerable and Tenacious she rounded into the enemy line again, laying herself bow to bow with a yellow-sided man-o'-war.
Her guns opened again with a thunderous broadside, which was answered with equal venom by their opponent - but having practised over long weeks at sea the English guns spoke faster and truer. Kydd, below, drove on his men with bellows of encouragement as the side of their opponent bulked just yards away.
But Triumph was coming under fire from another quarter. A previously untouched Dutch ship had approached and opened up on her opposite side. Kydd was taken by surprise at the sudden irruption of cannon fire — but almost immediately the sea was lit by a flash, and a sullen boom rolled over the waves.
The enemy fire slackened and stopped. A ruddy glow tinged the sea. Fire! Kydd stooped to look out, and saw, only a few hundred yards off, the attacking warship lit by a spreading blaze near the base of the mainmast. Something must have touched off powder on deck, and if the flames reached tarred rigging and sails she would turn into a fire-ship, a danger to friend and foe on the crowded sea.
Kydd turned back to his task and saw that the yellow-streaked ship's angle away had changed and, after another exchange of fire, she could be seen gathering way: she was fleeing! Triumph continued on to wear round; it was clear she was keeping away from the burning ship and falling back to support the hard-pressed Venerable. Kydd set about clearing away and squaring up.
In the lull a midshipman messenger hurried down the ladder to Kydd. 'Captain desires your report, if y' please.'
Kydd tried to keep his mind calm as he emerged on deck. Triumph was cut about grievously, wreckage strewn about, ropes trailing from aloft, blood smears on the deck. This was his first sight of the open battlefield. While he hurried aft, his eyes took in the vastness of the scene: ships in every direction at every angle, boats in the water, cannon splashes around ships still under fire, an immense pall of smoke over the whole area.
'You, er, Kydd?' The captain was obviously in pain, his arm in an improvised sling, his face blackened and red.
'Sir.'
'Lieutenant Monckton?'
'Regret he's still unconscious, sir. I have him on th' gratings 'midships so if he comes to . ..' 'Quite right. And the guns?'
'Number seven larb'd dismounted, number nine larb'd has a blown vent bushing. Lost a truck off number six stb'd, but the crew is managin'. Er, we lost six men on number seven, an' there's a total of — let me see - thirteen been taken below.' Kydd added, 'We c'n still give ye a full broadside less two t' larb'd, an' all to starb'd, but could be pressed t' fight both sides. But, sir, we're in fine spirits, don't worry of us.'
Captain Essington nodded slowly, looking closely at Kydd.
'Sir, may I know — f'r the others — how's the day?'
Essington smiled grimly. 'You see there,' he pointed to the south, 'the starb'd division has taken all five of their opponents and are bearing up to join us. And there,' he indicated the ships they were steering for locked together in the throes of combat, 'that is their flagship, and she has lost all her masts, and fights three of our ships. I rather fancy she will strike soon — and the day will then be won.'
Kydd touched his hat and went below. Monckton was still unconscious, breathing heavily, so Kydd tried to make him comfortable and turned back to the task of clearing away the debris of battle.
A swelling roar of cheers sounded on deck followed by a shout at the ladderway: 'She's struck! The Dutchy admiral threw it in!' The cheers were instandy taken up on the gundeck by Kydd's men, smoke-grimed, bloody, but victorious - and in that moment all the emotional tensions of recent events melted away for Kydd. He punched the air with rediscovered pride.