Under Enemy Colours

by Sean Thomas Russell

  A flash from above, and the report of a musket. A second shot, and then answering fire from the French. Wickham scrambled nimbly down and then Hawthorne lumbered down behind, both looking more frightened than he had seen them so far.

  “This way.” Hayden led them along the ledge, and fortunately around a little point in the rock and out of sight of the French. A few shots still sounded.

  “They’re killing shadows now,” Hawthorne hissed. A wide crevice opened before them.

  “The steepest bit is at the top,” Hayden explained, pointing down. “Stay to the near side. There is no shortage of handholds or footholds, but test them well. I have had more than one chunk of rock break away under foot, or torn it off easily with a hand.” He looked at his companions. “Arm holding up, Mr Hawthorne?”

  “Good as gold, sir.”

  Hayden nodded at Wickham, then began to climb down. The faint starlight illuminated the cliff in patches, which was both good and bad. They were in shadow, which would make them harder to shoot from above, but the climbing was doubly dangerous. Hayden felt his way down, scraping his boots over the stone, searching for a toehold, a place where one might place a foot. Handholds were more easily found, but he had not gone far before one of these broke free and went tumbling down the cliff face. Hayden put his forehead against the cool stone and tried to calm his breathing.

  “Everything all right, Mr Hayden?” Wickham asked from above.

  He could just make out the midshipman above.

  “Yes, broke off a bit of rock, that’s all.” He made himself go on, well aware that if his companions had the same misfortune the rock would come hurtling down on him. He knew that imagination was fertile ground for fear, and tried to concentrate on climbing. Moving one foot down, while maintaining two handholds and one solid foothold. Then moving a hand. Progress was slow and uncertain. Sometimes he searched for a foothold for a long moment before finding one, and had to treat with the panic that would ensue.

  “I can hear them above us,” Wickham whispered.

  Hayden looked up at the cliff top, black against the stars.

  Hayden could almost feel the eyes searching for them, examining each little projection. He tried to mould himself into the narrow fissure, then willed himself to be still as stone. A trickle of dirt sprayed over his face and down his collar. Hayden closed his eyes and wondered if that was from one of his own men or if it was sent down by some Frenchman’s boot.

  The voices faded and Hayden felt himself relax a little, but then they grew louder again. The soldiers had moved down the cliff top to the north and were now discussing what might be a man and what might only be an irregularity in the cliff face. A flash and almost simultaneous report, and a musket ball glanced off the stone ten feet away. He heard Hawthorne curse under his breath.

  “They’re sniping at Mr Hawthorne, sir,” Wickham whispered.

  Hayden cursed as well. “Tell him not to move … And to stay quiet.”

  Steeling his nerve, Hayden began to climb down as rapidly as he dared. A shout from the cliffs and a musket ball exploded two feet away, shards of stone showering Hayden’s face.

  A second ball sailed by his back. Hayden reached a platform of stone and traversed quickly to the right and into the lee of a little point where he was out of sight of the marksmen. Much shouting in French rained down from above, and he heard the soldiers running along the cliff, looking for a vantage from which to shoot at him again. Hayden hoped they had not left a man behind, because he traversed back a few feet, found secure footing, and fished his pistol out of his belt. He balanced it on a little projection of stone and took aim for the cliff top. A bit further away than he would like, but he allowed for the distance and a little for the wind as well.

  The second the Frenchmen appeared, Hayden fired, and was gratified to see the lot of them retreat from the cliff top. “Climb!” he whispered, and when he was sure that the others followed, he thrust the pistol into his belt at his back and began down again. In ten minutes he came to a little triangular landing large enough for his party entire. The cliff top was not in view from here, so they would be safe for the time being.

  Wickham was down in a moment, and then, more slowly, Hawthorne appeared. Hayden had used the time to reload and prime his pistol.

  “I think you hit one of them,” Hawthorne reported when he reached the landing.

  “I don’t think it likely,” the lieutenant admitted, “but I drove them back for a moment. Come, this way.”

  He clambered down about two feet and followed a narrow ledge around a point to the north. He waited there with his pistol raised. As he feared, a shot was fired from the cliff face as Wickham came into view, but Hayden fired back and hoped that would give Hawthorne a moment.

  “Did they find you, Wickham?”

  “No, sir,” the boy reported. “Holed my satchel, but came no nearer.”

  “That’s near enough.”

  As Hawthorne rounded the point, three shots were fired, but the large man escaped unharmed.

  “I think we are safe from them now unless they climb down after us, which I fear they might do.”

  “I think they sent a man running south, Mr Hayden, so we will likely have men coming at us along the beach from Crozon.”

  “We will be down long before they can reach the spot. Let us not tarry. The way down is not so formidable now.”

  In a few moments they were on the sand beach. Hayden kept them in the shadow of the cliff, scanning the sea with his glass, looking for the Themis or her cutter.

  “Difficult to pick out a boat without a moon in the west, sir,” Wickham offered.

  “Yes. How is your arm, Mr Hawthorne?”

  “A good climb was just the tonic it required, Mr Hayden. It is on the mend.”

  Hayden smiled. He searched the long arc of the beach, picking out the fire by the quay where the fencibles would be guarding the fishing boats hauled up on the beach.

  “What hour would you estimate?” Hayden asked.

  Hawthorne looked up at the sky. “Near to midnight, by the stars.”

  “Then where is Mr Childers and our boat?”

  “If he is late I shall flense him, render his fat, and light my lamp by it,” Hawthorne growled.

  “And a fitting lesson that shall be,” Hayden replied.

  Wickham came up then. He had been scavenging along the cliff base, and now held up a musket triumphantly.

  “Is that one of ours?”

  “I threw them off the cliff before I climbed down,” the boy said, a bit smugly. “One had its lock shattered on the rocks, but this one will fire again. A bit of sand in the barrel, that’s all.” He cocked the gun and pulled the trigger. “There. You see? Good as new.” He crouched down and began cleaning and loading the flintlock, and when he was finished, did the same with Hayden’s pistol.

  “May I have a look, Mr Hayden?” Hawthorne asked. He was trying not to appear anxious or impatient, but failing.

  Hayden passed the marine his glass, and Hawthorne took a moment to search the secret sea. “Dark as Madeira out there, sir.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right. Can you see any Frenchmen trotting up the beach?”

  Hawthorne turned the glass down the curving sand and shook his head. “No, sir, but it is very dark and I can’t say for certain.”

  The lieutenant cast his gaze around the beach, then more anxiously out to sea. “We will be in a bit of a bind if Childers’ cutter does not soon appear. I don’t think we dare climb up again. Men will be waiting at the top. If the fencibles come along the beach it will be fight or swim, and I don’t think there is much profit in either.”

  Wickham stood gazing at the horizon, putting his hard-gained knowledge of the heavens to use. “I should hazard a guess that the hour of midnight has passed, sir.” He said it calmly, no tone of despair to be heard.

  “Mr Hayden … ? I believe I see men coming along the beach—double time.”

  Hayden cursed. Hawthorne passed him the
glass.

  “They did not tarry, did they?” Hayden said. He searched the sea desperately one last time, and then pointed his glass down the beach where the French were advancing. He glanced up once. “There will be shadow along the cliff base until the moon rises and shifts into the west. With a little boost from luck we will hide here and let these Frenchmen pass. We’ll have to seize a boat and get out to sea. Tide is past slack, but the fall will not be great; even so, there is not a moment to squander.”

  They set out along the base of the cliff, their boots muffled by the soft, dry sand. When the French came huffing along the margin of the sea, small waves breaking around their feet, Hayden and his company lay down at the cliff’s base and hid their pale faces. The party, three soldiers and several fencibles, passed them by without a glance, eyes fixed on the end of the beach, where the English had managed their descent.

  When the French were well past, Hayden and his mates leapt up and continued jogging along in the cliff’s shadow, which grew narrower as the bluff became less steep. Very soon they were crouched in a thin ribbon of jagged shadow, staring out at the watchman’s fire burning near the foot of the jetty.

  “How many men can you make out?” Hayden whispered to Wickham.

  “I count three, sir.”

  “I could shoot one from here,” Hawthorne offered, “then charge and overwhelm the others with pistol fire.”

  “All three will be needed to launch a boat. We are too few to manage it alone.” Hayden thought a moment. “Go down the beach beyond the fire. There is enough shadow left. When you are in place, I shall walk out and speak to them in Breton, as though I have just come down the path from Crozon. When I have their attention, come at them from behind and train your pistols on them. Are we in agreement?”

  “Aye, sir,” Wickham said, and Hawthorne nodded. The two crept off, leaving Hayden crouched at the cliff base, watching the men by the fire. He fervently hoped there were no more asleep on the ground but reasoned the French soldiers had taken most of the guards with them down the beach, and any who remained would be awake and either too wary or too ashamed to go back to sleep.

  Waiting what he hoped would be the proper time, Hayden went to the path leading to Crozon, slipped up it a dozen feet, and called out in Breton, emerging from the path a moment later. The silhouettes by the fire raised their fowling pieces and aimed them at the stranger. Hayden dearly hoped these were not the men he had met at the head of the path the previous night.

  “Where have they cornered these foolish English spies?” he asked jovially. “I promised madam I would shoot one and bring her home a fat reward.”

  The guns were not lowered, nor were the men reassured by his Breton. He guessed they had been warned that there was a Breton-speaking Englishman abroad in their little corner of Brittany.

  “You’ll take her home your fat ass,” one man said. “They have been cornered down the beach, or so they say. Who are you?”

  “Pierre Laviolette,” Hayden said. “And behind you are my two friends.”

  The men glanced back, confused, and found Wickham and Hawthorne aiming guns at their backs.

  Hayden raised his own pistol, and the three Frenchmen looked suddenly very anxious.

  “Put your muskets on the ground, if you please,” Hayden said civilly. “We will need your help to launch a boat.” Hayden looked at the boats drawn up on the sand and chose the largest one he thought could be launched by five men—twenty feet or so, bluff-bowed and deep-bodied with a sweet curving sheer and a square little transom. It lay with its stern already in the water, a short, deep little fishing boat that looked much like an English pilchard driver and with a similarly proportioned two-masted rig. A brisk inventory indicated that she had all her gear aboard, and to this was added a quarter-cask of wine from the beach and all the guards’ food.

  The Frenchmen went sullenly to work, Wickham and Hayden helping while Hawthorne stood with a musket to his shoulder. It was a risky venture, the odds even and only one man holding a gun, but none of the Frenchmen seemed willing to risk their lives over another man’s boat.

  The burdensome little boat resisted their efforts to make it waterborne, but finally broke free of the sand and slid into the shallows. Hayden put his shoulder to the hard planking, and pressed the boat up and out into the lapping waves.

  “Take up all the weapons and load them aboard,” Hayden ordered the marine, who complied swiftly. “And now you, Mr Hawthorne.”

  The man tumbled over the side, quickly training his musket on the Frenchmen again. Wickham went aboard next, then Hayden. He forced the men to push the boat until the water was around their shoulders, then sent them back. Oars went into place and the three Englishmen pulled out into Douarnenez Bay. They had not gone thirty yards when they heard the guards calling out, and then there was a crack of gunfire and a flash of powder near the beach fire. The shot struck the topsides with a thwack.

  “My apologies, Mr Hayden,” Hawthorne said, putting his back into the work. “I thought I had accounted for all their weapons.”

  Wickham unshipped his sweep, snatched up one of the muskets, and returned fire, emptying all the guns before setting his oar between the thole-pins again. There were no more shots, and they were soon lost in the darkness, small rollers sweeping under them. As the others manned the oars, Hayden sorted out and bent the sails, shipped the rudder, and soon had them under way.

  He glanced back once at the dark shore, receding quickly, and felt such a terrible sense of loss—utterly at odds with his situation. A father leaving behind a child could hardly have been more disconsolate. For a moment he thought he might weep. But their circumstances would not allow this, and he turned his mind away.

  Hawthorne breathed a long, audible sigh. “That was a little closer than I would have liked,” he said. And then: “Do you think it would be an inappropriate time for a meal?”

  “I think we shall suspend etiquette for the moment, Mr Hawthorne,” Hayden said from the helm, forcing a jocular tone, “and perhaps indulge in a small luncheon—nothing immoderate, just enough to break our fasts.”

  “Just so,” Hawthorne answered, “a small repast. I wonder what our hosts have so kindly provided?” He began to search through the foodstuffs, some wrapped in paper, some in small satchels. “Bread we have, of the French variety. Some small portion of cold pork, wine, a few stunted apples, and quite capital carrots. Hardly a feast, but …”

  “Well, it is a beggars’ banquet, Mr Hawthorne, so we cannot properly complain. I have a prodigious thirst, if there is a cup of wine to be had?”

  They ate and drank beneath the starlight, as Hayden piloted them out of the bay toward the open sea. The little craft was not weatherly, and making considerable leeway, much to Hayden’s distress. They were actually sailing back into the bay on this sou’ west wind, though the next board would allow them to shape a course seaward. He sensed a change in the weather coming. A gale from the south-west, he expected. The wind was already making.

  When Hawthorne remarked upon this change in weather, both Hayden and Wickham were suitably grave, which gave the marine pause.

  “Is this cause for concern?” he asked, apprehension appearing where there had previously been elation at their narrow escape.

  “We need to gain some sea room,” Hayden said. He pointed with a stick of bread. “If we can weather Cap de la Chèvre in good order, cross the Outer Water, and slip by Ushant, we will have the entire Channel before us and all the sea room we shall likely need. But if we are blown back on the shore here,” he waved his bread toward the cliffs, “we might be in some difficulty. This little tub makes such terrible leeway, and the tide does not favour us … yet.” He looked around the boat. “Mr Wickham, would you be so kind as to take the helm?”

  A small fish room was roughly formed by boards tree-nailed to frames athwart ships. Hayden managed to kick the longest plank free, and with a liberal use of the available rope fashioned a crude lee-board and thrust it vertically down
into the water.

  “Why, Mr Hayden,” Wickham marvelled, “that eased the helm wonderfully.”

  “You may thank the Dutch,” Hayden said, “who, as far as I know, contrived the first lee-boards, though others make the claim for the Chinese.”

  Exhausted by their flight across country, Wickham and Hawthorne lay down upon the nets and fishing gear and were soon fast asleep. Hayden, who knew they must escape the bay, kept to the helm, shaking his head often and even pinching and slapping his cheeks in an attempt to stay awake. Overhead, the stars began to founder in the blear, their light much diminished. The sou’wester grew in strength and though they were still within the protection of a long peninsula to the south, the fetch of some six miles allowed the seas to mount, small crests soon breaking around them.

  Hayden stood several times to peer into the darkness, and finally woke Wickham to help put the boat about. The main was a dipping lug and could not be readily tacked by one man. Wickham was fuzzy-headed and stiff, but managed his part of the little evolution all the same. He took the helm while Hayden transferred the makeshift board to the starboard side, doubling the lines as he did so. They decided then to tie reefs in both sails, and woke Hawthorne to help. It was not an easy task on a strange boat in utter darkness, and took some little while.

  “There!” Hawthorne declared, and then, showing a frightening disregard for sailors’ superstition, added, “Now damn the wind!”

  The midshipman lay down and was asleep immediately, indeed Hayden was not certain the boy had been awake. Even reefed, the little boat lay over on her side with every gust, and Hayden kept the mainsheet in his hand in the event it must be cast off to avoid a knockdown. Hawthorne sat with his back to weather, still as ballast. Hayden could sense the heavy exhaustion that weighed the marine down.

  Spray came over the rail, soaking the lieutenant and sloshing about in the bottom. Wickham was wakened by the cold slap of a wave and sat up, shaking his head. He cursed with an eloquence Hayden had seldom heard from one so young.