Under Enemy Colours

by Sean Thomas Russell

  “The French ships all have boarding nets rigged, Mr Hayden,” Wickham observed. He stood with his glass screwed into his eye, gazing toward the anchored vessels.

  “Bourne’s carronades will make short work of those.” Hayden raised his own glass. “Is that an anchor cable I see ranging from the stern quarter of the frigate?”

  Wickham shifted his attention to the southern-most ship. “I think it is, sir. Why have they done that?”

  “So they can veer more cable to their bower and let the head of the ship fall off, bringing their broadside to bear on Captain Bourne no matter how he approaches.”

  “That is clever, sir,” Wickham said. “Will Captain Bourne be aware of their design?”

  “I don’t know.” Hayden looked to the west, where the sun was quickly descending. Already Belle Île cast a long shadow out toward the anchored vessels. A single cable would soon be invisible, even at a short distance.

  The fortress guns on Belle Île, which had fallen silent briefly, began to fire, throwing shot beyond the anchored frigate, even though Bourne was not quite within their range.

  “They will not so easily scare off Bourne,” Philpott said confidently.

  “That is the oddest thing …” Wickham declared, still looking through his glass. “I could swear I saw a French regular, like the soldiers we met ashore, emerge from the frigate’s companionway, only to be chased back down by an officer.”

  Hayden fixed his glass upon the frigate but could see no sign of blue coats. “Are you certain, Mr Wickham?”

  “Most certain, sir.”

  “Damn!” Hayden lowered his glass. Tenacious was now only a few cable-lengths from the French frigate. “Alter course for the frigate, Mr Philpott, and make the signal to break off the engagement.”

  “Whatever are you saying, Mr Hayden?” Philpott stood staring at him, utterly confused.

  Hayden turned on the smaller man. “While Bourne was west of the island, French troops must have been ferried out to the frigate, and now lie hidden below, waiting for Bourne to board. They hope to carry the Tenacious by main force.”

  “But how can—”

  Hayden turned away from the lieutenant. “Who has charge of the signals?” he demanded loudly.

  A midshipman stepped quickly forward. “I do, sir.”

  “Make the signal to break off the engagement. Quick as you can!”

  “I shall fetch my signal book,” he said and ran for the companionway.

  Wickham went directly to the cabinet where the signal flags were stored, and began pulling them out, spreading them carefully in order. As if to make up for his obstinance, Philpott pulled the flag halyard from its pin and began attaching the flags himself.

  “Mr Harland?” Philpott called. “Make ready to fire a gun to larboard.”

  Hayden turned back to the frigate, now in shadow but for the tips of her masts. A sail ran up from the end of her jib-boom, luffed sharply, and then was backed to starboard, setting the ship’s head off on the opposite tack.

  “On deck!” a lookout called. “The Frenchman’s making sail, sir.”

  Philpott glanced up at Hayden from his signal flags.

  “Only backing a jib and paying off on the starboard tack,” Hayden told him. “They’ll veer cable and bring a broadside to bear on Bourne. Damn! Gun captains! Make ready to fire the larboard battery. Helmsman, I want to luff up off her stern and rake her the length of her gun-deck.”

  Philpott ran up the hoist of flags and ordered a single gun fired.

  Everyone watched the Tenacious anxiously.

  “She is ignoring our signal, Mr Hayden.”

  “I feared she would. Bourne is not one to give up a fight.”

  Tenacious had swung out to the east, planning to do as Hayden had intended with the Lucy—cut across the enemy’s stern, rake her, then luff up alongside, pour in a broadside, then grapple and board. The Frenchman had foiled him, though, paying out his bower cable.

  Shot from the fortress began to fall around them in earnest; the fearsome, unforgettable scream as it passed overhead. Hayden tried to ignore it. A ball either had his name on it or did not. Cowering would not change that.

  He wondered what Bourne would do now. The French captain was paying out his cable slowly, keeping his broadside aimed toward the approaching British ship. The man’s coolness was to be admired, as he did not waste his shot on a distant target.

  Philpott ranged up alongside. “It looks as if Tenacious will beat us to the Frenchman by a good five minutes.”

  “I fear you’re right. It is my guess that Bourne will pass downwind of the Frenchman, exchange broadsides, luff up across her stern, fire again if time will allow, carry his way forward, turn to larboard, and let his ship drift down on the Frenchmen, intending to board.” He turned to find Wickham, who stood a few paces off. “Where is the Themis, Wickham?”

  “To the north-east, sir. Half a league or a little less. She’s still taking fire.”

  “Difficult to believe they’ve spared any for her,” Hayden said. “I don’t think the Frenchman will let his ship go much beyond beam-on to the wind. By the time we reach her she should have the Tenacious alongside, and be in the process of boarding their attacker, much to Bourne’s surprise. I don’t imagine they’ll reload their larboard battery, which means we may pass by without much fear of their guns.”

  “Shall we pour in a broadside as we pass?” Philpott asked.

  “No, our little six-pounders can be better employed, I think. Let us luff up across her stern and fire, each gun in turn, the length of her gun-deck. If there is a company of French soldiers aboard we might do much damage. We’ll then throw our grapnels over the sterns of both ships and board the Frenchman over the taffrail. All more easily said than done. I shall ask you to bring the Lucy up along the Frenchman’s stern, as I do not know how far she will carry her way.”

  “Leave that to me, Mr Hayden.” Hurrying immediately to the wheel, Philpott relieved the helmsman and bore off just a little.

  A tremendous explosion, and the French frigate was enveloped in a dark, roiling cloud. Tenacious seemed to stagger, losing her rhythm with the sea, but then she bore up again, and pressed on, her rig and sails much shot away, spars hanging, shattered, in their gear, swaying forth and back. Hayden could see the men rising to their feet, throwing torn canvas and fallen cordage over the side so the guns could be worked. Two men gently slid the limp and bloodied body of a ship’s boy over the rail, and for an instant Hayden closed his eyes, though the sight did not go away.

  When Hayden raised his glass, Bourne appeared amid the wreckage, gesturing, calling out orders, his hat gone and the left side of his face a smear of red. Tentacles of smoke wafted down on the Tenacious, but still Bourne held his fire. Hayden could see him standing on the gangway, his cutlass raised, gun captains bent over their cannon. The instant a gun was run out on the enemy frigate, the cutlass swept down, and the English broadside boomed, echoing back from the cliffs of Belle Île.

  Splinters scythed up through the smoke, humming as they spun. Bourne was by before the French had recovered, and their ragged broadside was fired into the pall of smoke, striking nothing. Hayden could see the Jacks aboard Tenacious furiously swabbing, then ramming home powder cartridges.

  Tenacious swung slowly up into the wind, topsails shaking for a moment, then pressing back against the masts and rigging as the yards were squared. Quickly, the yards were shifted again and the ship came through the wind, and was blown down on the Frenchman’s starboard side. At less than ten yards the two ships fired their broadsides and the sharp crack of musket fire began. In a moment the two vessels thudded dully together, and the crews of both sides sent up a cheer. British sailors leapt the distance from rail to rail, brandishing their tomahawks and cutlasses. They fell upon the French crew just as blue jackets erupted from the companionways fore and aft. As the infantry massed, they began to push the British back, but they were hindered climbing out the companionways by the smallnes
s of the ladders and lack of room on the deck. Hayden could see the crew of the Tenacious fighting furiously at the bulwark, but in a moment the blue jackets would be like a great wave, throwing them back, breaking over the rail and pouring onto the British deck.

  Through his glass, Hayden could see the English Jacks being bayoneted, and falling upon their own mates. He lost sight of Bourne and wondered if the indomitable commander had finally overreached. Men on the Lucy’s fore-top began firing their muskets, and though Hayden was not sure of the effect, he did not stop them. To stand by and watch the slaughter was more than anyone could bear.

  As the Lucy passed by the French frigate, Hayden braced himself to take a broadside, but only the muzzle of a single gun stood proud, and it did not speak. There was a deathly silence on the brig until they passed, and then a sigh seemed to course through the entire ship.

  “I’m going to bring her up, sir,” Philpott announced, and spun the helm.

  Hayden made his way quickly to the forward gun, saying to each gun captain as he passed, “Do not fire until I give you the command.”

  He found Wickham a few feet behind and waved him up. The boy had a cutlass in one hand and a pistol in the other.

  “Mr Wickham, if I am shot you must take command of our guns. Fire as the frigate bears, one gun at a time down the length of her gun-deck. Kill as many blue coats as you can.”

  The boy nodded grimly, his face flour-pale. “Aye, sir.”

  The little sloop carried her way for some distance in the failing wind, but Philpott knew his ship and she just barely maintained steerage as they ranged up along the Frenchman’s stern. Men stood on the rail with their grapnels in hand, ready to lock the ships together.

  “Wait until she loses headway,” Hayden cautioned them over the din. The sound of fighting was loud. Muskets cracked in the rigging and the clash of steel rang in the evening air.

  Smoke still lingered on the decks and stung Hayden’s eyes and nose. He looked upon the scene before him—a frenzy of violence and brutality—and for a moment felt such utter repulsion he was almost ill upon the deck.

  “We’re going to pass the Frenchman, sir,” the gun captain warned him.

  “Be patient,” Hayden responded, clearing the images from his mind. He stared at the shuttered windows of the frigate’s stern gallery. When they were all but up with the last window, Hayden tapped the gun captain on the shoulder.

  “Fire,” he shouted over the chaos.

  The gun jumped back, its ball smashing the dead-light and glass beyond. Hayden moved to the next gun and waited a few seconds until the same window was open to them. Through the shattered frame he could see light stabbing down into the frigate’s waist, twenty yards away. Blue coats were still mustered there, but had been thrown into disarray.

  “Fire,” Hayden ordered, and the second gun reared back, a deafening explosion battering his ears. The third gun came to bear and fired in its turn, shattering another of the stern windows.

  The Lucy slowed to a near stop and Philpott put the helm over as the men threw their grappling hooks over the frigate’s stern, bringing the Lucy’s raised quarterdeck level with the frigate’s stern gallery. Due to the height of the quarterdeck, the guns mounted there could fire directly the length of the gun-deck.

  “Load the guns with grape,” Hayden ordered. “Rake the gun-deck.”

  In a moment they were climbing up over the rail and running along the deck. Hayden realized that Wickham and Philpott were to either side, and then they threw themselves on the rear of the mass of blue as the Lucy’s gunners fired again down the length of the gun-deck below. Hayden shot a man, who turned, startled to find the British behind him. Throwing away his pistol, Hayden dove into the fray, thrusting with his sword, feeling it slide horribly into flesh.

  Hayden fought his way to the rail and clambered up, preparing to jump across to the Tenacious, when a gun sounded, and a crowd of Frenchmen before him were scythed down like wheat. Wickham leapt up on the rail beside him and pointed with a bloody cutlass.

  “Our men have one of the quarterdeck guns,” the boy shouted. And sure enough, Hayden could see through the smoke members of his own crew madly loading one of the Tenacious’ guns. Hayden held up the man beside him, and the gun was fired again, to equal effect, though it reared back, smashed into the stern rail, and turned on its side.

  Hayden leapt across the chasm, grabbing the frayed end of a broken shroud. Bounding down on the deck, he slipped and fell in the blood, and was dragged up by Philpott.

  They dove into the fight, overwhelming the French soldiers and sailors, who were not expecting to be attacked from behind, and in a moment they were throwing down their weapons, though on the forecastle the fighting was still fierce and undecided.

  In the growing twilight Hayden gathered some of the Lucy’s crew and charged into the melee on the foredeck. In five minutes they tipped the balance, and the enemy cast down their arms.

  Leaving Philpott in charge of the forecastle, Hayden hurried back along the gangway, stepping over many fallen. The cries and moans of the wounded came to him now, as the sounds of battle were all but extinguished. Hayden found Bourne standing by the jury-rigged wheel, a cloth pressed to his bleeding face.

  “Hayden! I thought you would be overrunning the French brig, but here you are … delivering us from certain destruction. However did you know to come?”

  “Wickham observed a French regular stick his head up the frigate’s companionway only to be chased back down by an officer. I surmised they had reinforced the ships with troops from the garrison, and was fortunate to have been proven right.”

  “You penetrated their deception when we did not. Wickham … Was he the young middy with whom we dined?”

  “The very one.”

  “I shall thank him most profoundly. Will you do me a service, Hayden? See if you can find if the French captain is alive. I desire the honour of accepting his surrender.”

  “Mr Hayden!” It was Wickham calling from thirty feet up the shrouds. “The transports have cut their cables, sir. And so has the brig, I believe. They’re making sail.”

  Bourne looked at Hayden. “Do you think Hart has the bottom to take on a little brig and some transports?” he asked quietly.

  “Not if he thinks they’ve been reinforced by infantry.”

  “How shot up is the Lucy?” Bourne asked, casting his glance over the rigging of the brig-sloop.

  “She’s virtually untouched, as you can see.”

  “Then let us quickly secure the prisoners and get you under way. My own ship is too damaged, I fear.” Bourne looked about the deck. “We’ve paid dearly for this Frenchman. If you can keep even a single transport from reaching harbour I shall regret it less.”

  Hayden nodded. “Mr Wickham?”

  The boy answered from the shrouds, where he was clambering quickly down.

  “Gather up our crew … and find Mr Philpott if you can.”

  “I’m here, Mr Hayden,” Philpott called as he appeared in the after companionway.

  Hayden cast his gaze around, assessing their situation in the gathering gloom as Philpott crossed the bloody deck to him.

  “Are you uninjured, Mr Philpott?”

  “Barely a scratch, sir.”

  “I’m happy to hear it. We are swinging around head to wind, which makes me think the frigate’s stern cable has parted. Gather up all the men who are fit to serve. We will make sail and give chase.”

  All the Lucy’s crew fit for action were collected from the decks of the two frigates. Hayden and Philpott led them down a boarding net onto the gun-deck of the French frigate, thinking it would be somewhat easier to climb aboard the Lucy through the stern gallery. Upon the gun-deck the effect of the Lucy’s fire could be seen. Their cannonade had caught a large company of French infantry unawares, and the blue coats lay every where, their bodies ripped apart. The Englishmen stopped, frozen by the sight.

  A young infantryman moved, causing Hayden to whirl, rais
ing the sword he still carried, but the man, hardly older than Wickham, only reached out silently, as though appealing for aid. Wickham turned aside to go to the man, but Hayden caught the midshipman’s shoulder.

  “You cannot help him,” Hayden rasped, and then Wickham recoiled in horror.

  The infantryman, partly covered by his fallen comrades, had been blown nearly in half, his glistening entrails spreading out from his blue jacket.

  Wickham pressed a sleeve across his powder-stained mouth, eyes wide. “Good God, sir,” came his voice, muffled and choked. “How many widows have we made this hour?”

  Gently, Hayden drew the midshipman away.

  Philpott caught his eye. The lieutenant’s face was waxy-pale. “Our gunners raked the deck with grape,” he whispered. “Smashed the ladders. They had no place to hide.”

  Hayden tried to fix his eyes to the fore, and stumbled toward the shattered stern gallery. He had ordered this terrible cannonade, had even directed its fire to inflict the most damage. The thought came to him that it was almost a sin for him to look away.

  Afterward Hayden had no memory of climbing out the stern window and onto the bloodless deck of the Lucy. All he could recall was standing by the wheel, drawing in great draughts of clear air, darkness settling around them, the stench of carnage and powder smoke drifting down from the two frigates. He made his way to the wheel, and when he turned, discovered he’d left behind a trail of bloody footprints, growing less distinct with each step but never gone.

  Nineteen

  Hart flinched as a shot screamed overhead, half throwing up an arm as though it would ward off an iron ball. He recovered himself quickly and stared off toward the Lucy.

  “What is Mr Hayden doing?” Barthe asked aloud.

  The officers stood at the Themis’ rail, watching Tenacious converge on the anchored French frigate. To their amazement, the Lucy had changed course and appeared to have given up her intention to attack the French brig.