“Oh, you know our Mr Hayden. He comprehends a great deal more than Captain Bourne or myself. So he has ignored his orders and is going to the aid of the Tenacious, as though a captain as capable as Bourne has need of him.”
“Shall we go after the brig ourselves?” Barthe asked. “I mean, if the Lucy will not?”
Hart shook his head and made a sour face, though he did not deem to look at his sailing master. “By no means. We will lie off here, to keep the transports at anchor, as was planned. I wonder what Bourne will have to say to his precious protégé after this?”
“There must be some reason for Mr Hayden to disregard his orders so,” Archer stated firmly. He had his glass fixed on the British ships approaching the French frigate in the lengthening shadow of Belle Île.
“Mr Hayden has nothing but disregard for orders,” Hart said disdainfully. “And now he is displaying his incompetence for all to see. Imagine, our fire-eating first lieutenant afraid to attack a little brig …”
Hart might have said more, but at that moment the French captain fired his broadside all at once. Smoke enveloped the anchored frigate and at that range the effect on the Tenacious was tremendous. Gear and sails fell, the main-topgallant mast toppled slowly over the side, and yet the ship only seemed to stagger, then bore on.
“You see,” Hart announced, waving a hand at the ships, “Bourne has not faltered. He has no need of Mr Hayden, whose efforts will only cause offence.”
The two frigates appeared to draw so near that surely they would soon collide, yet there was no reply from the British guns.
“Why does Bourne not fire?” Archer muttered.
“Because he knows his business thoroughly,” Mr Barthe answered. “He will wait until he can inflict the greatest damage—until the Frenchman is about to fire again, and then he will give them the whole weight of iron at once.”
“The Frenchman’s run out a gun,” Landry cried.
And as he said this the Tenacious herself was enveloped in smoke, the deep boom of the cannon echoing off the island, as though the first cannonade was followed immediately by a second.
“There, do you see, Mr Archer?” Barthe asked. “That is how it is done. Never for a moment would Bourne lose his nerve. Never for a moment.”
Tenacious ranged up past the frigate’s stern, but before her guns could be reloaded. Smoke veiled the French ship, only the tips of her masts visible through the dark cloud.
“There, too late for the Frenchman to fire again now. Bourne is by.”
Tenacious carried her way past the French ship’s gallery, backed sails, shifted her yards, and came through the wind. But instead of gathering way the backed sails pushed her down on the French frigate. For a moment she seemed to hang there, and then both ships fired their broadsides at once.
Barthe reeled back from the rail, lowering his glass. “My God! They cannot have been ten yards distant. The butcher’s bill from that broadside alone will be too painful to tally.”
“And look …” Hart pointed. “There is our foolish Mr Hayden, who cannot give up his misguided enterprise, now.”
The two frigates came together in a cloud of smoke, and the cheers of the crews carried over the water. Musket fire broke out, but little could be seen in the smoke. The Lucy, almost in Bourne’s wake, ranged alongside the frigates, passing into the cloud as it detached itself from the larger ships.
“Now Hayden will get his comeuppance,” Hart all but gloated. “A deck of eighteen-pounders at that range will teach him a lesson long overdue.”
The men on the quarterdeck all held their breath, watching the little brig-sloop half-obscured by the drifting cloud. But the French did not fire. The British sloop passed by, put her helm over, and came head to wind across the Frenchman’s stern.
“Well, he is either damned lucky or bloody astute,” Landry announced, half in admiration. “I cannot say which.”
Hawthorne, who stood a few paces back from the officers at the rail, felt a little smile spread over his face. Hart could barely contain his fury that Hayden had not suffered a cannonade at close range. What matter that the entire crew of the Lucy would have been slaughtered into the bargain?
As the smoke swept away, sections of the frigates’ decks were revealed, and an unholy melee was under way there.
“Sir,” Archer said, surprised. “There is infantry aboard that French ship! Do you see?”
“That is our explanation,” Hawthorne muttered, as surprised as Archer.
“Now, how in God’s name did Hayden know that?” Barthe asked loudly.
Hart swept up his glass and gazed at the terrible scene just as the Lucy fired a gun, and then another.
“Mr Hayden has not arrived a moment too early,” Archer observed. “Poor Bourne is getting the worst of it.” And indeed it was true; by sheer numbers, the blue-coated infantry were driving the British crew back onto their own decks.
Even without a glass, Hawthorne saw Hayden climb over the rail onto the deck of the French ship, cutlass in one hand, pistol in the other. Wickham was right behind, both officers in waistcoats, and then in their wake, a swarm of Lucies. A cheer went up from the crew of the Themis, and Hawthorne joined in before he knew it, earning a black look from Hart.
“Three cheers for Mr Hayden!” a crewman yelled from somewhere down the deck, and the rest of the men “huzzaed” with a will.
A ball from the battery on Belle Île chose that moment to tear a hole in the mizzen, not twenty feet above the officers’ heads. Hart all but dropped his glass, but Barthe looked up calmly, and then turned back to the battle on the frigates, his face an admirable mask of calm.
“And we’ve just restitched that sail from foot to peak,” he observed.
“Cut our grappling lines, Mr Philpott,” Hayden said, clearing his throat, struggling to master his reaction to the carnage on the gun-deck. “Make sail. We have a brig and some transports to chase.”
Axes were taken to the grappling lines, and the ship began to drift north-west, beam on to the wind. Hayden ordered the helm put over as the sail loosers scrambled aloft. In a moment the little ship began to make headway, her bow turning slowly to the north. Gulls passed over as they made their way out to sea, lamenting sadly. The smoke of twilight hung in the air; Belle Île, jagged and dark, silhouetted against the faint light still clinging to the western sky.
Hayden took his night glass and climbed the foremast shrouds. Bracing himself in the fore-top, he gazed into the gloom ahead. Far off, the lights of L’Orient glimmered, and in between the inky, rippled sea spread before the dying wind.
“On deck,” Hayden called just loud enough to be heard. “A point to starboard. I see a ship. Send the men to their guns, Mr Philpott—quiet as you can.”
“The wind is going light,” Philpott whispered, “shall I call for stun-sails?”
Wickham clambered onto the platform at that moment.
“If you please, Mr Philpott,” Hayden answered.
The midshipman gazed into the darkness with his glass. He was the only midshipman aboard the Themis to possess a night glass, and his eyes were famously sharp.
“There is a second ship, I think, Mr Hayden. Almost dead ahead, but further off than the first.”
Hayden searched the darkness. “Yes. I see it. Is that the brig, do you think?”
“Perhaps so, sir. I can’t make out a mizzen.”
Sailors scrambled up past them and onto the yards, running out the stun sail booms. The tip of Belle Île passed to larboard, and on the western horizon the last gasp of light was drawn in like a breath. Low across the sky, a few clouds charcoaled haphazardly. Overhead, stars winked into being, casting their cold, faint light down onto the darkened sea.
“Will these transports have infantry aboard, sir?” Wickham asked.
“I don’t know if the garrison on Belle Île is that large, but it is possible.”
“We haven’t enough men aboard the Lucy to carry ships so heavily manned.”
“No
.”
Wickham lowered his glass and turned to Hayden in the faint light. “Then what shall we do, sir?”
“We’ll try to bring them to. Force them to surrender.”
“But the Frenchman in the Goulet hauled down his colours then attacked our boarding party.”
“And now you see how ill-advised a course that truly was. We are far more likely to fire upon a ship until much of her crew is dead than trust them again. Damned, villainous master! He has put his own countrymen in peril.”
Hayden cupped his hands and whispered down to the deck. “Have you our blue flare in readiness, Mr Philpott?”
“I have, Mr Hayden. To be shewn for half a minute every five once darkness is complete. I’ll order it displayed now, sir.”
A blue flame appeared at the stern, the seaman who held it dimly illuminated in the garish light. And then it winked out.
Hayden raised his glass and searched all of the sea that was not hidden by the Lucy’s sails. “Bloody wind,” he whispered. “Just when the French run for port, it takes off.”
Clearly offended by Hayden’s impudence, the wind died altogether, to much muttering from the deck below. The Themis’ lieutenant slung his glass over a shoulder, swung out, grasped the backstay, and went, hand over hand, down to the deck. He found Philpott on the darkened quarterdeck.
“Extinguish all lanterns,” came the whisper. “Captain Hart’s orders. No lights to be shewn.” The master-at-arms stood at the head of the stairs leading down into the waist, and Hawthorne passed his order on without question. On the quarterdeck, however, the marine could hear an argument as he ascended the ladder.
“But it was agreed we would carry lanterns on the mainmast and burn a blue flare,” Barthe said firmly, his frustration barely in check.
“It was Mr Hayden’s idea,” Hart shot back, “and a bloody foolish one, as you would expect.”
Hawthorne could barely make out the captain and master in the gathering darkness. A glance overhead told him the stars were succumbing to a high overcast.
“But we might be fired upon by our own ships,” Barthe contended.
“Damn your eyes, Mr Barthe,” the captain swore. “The Tenacious and the Lucy have a French prize to deal with, not to mention substantial damage to hull and rig. We share these waters with four French ships, and lights and flares will only make us known to them. We shall be fired upon in the darkness, without warning. There will be no lights. That is my order.”
Hawthorne took himself forward along the larboard gangway. For a moment he gazed down into the darkened waist where the gun crews were at their stations. He wondered if there would be trouble down there beneath the cover of darkness.
A man bumped him, and the marine almost tumbled from the gangway. A knuckle was made, an apology muttered. Hawthorne had no idea who it was. He carried on, feeling his way along the bulwark, finding his sentries in their places.
“I thought I saw something, sir,” a corporal whispered to him. “There. Almost abeam. Perhaps a half-point forward.”
Hawthorne stared into the hushed dark. The distant light on Île de Groix provided the faintest illumination, but a fog appeared to be setting in from the sea, obscuring everything.
“Do you see it, sir? A light, maybe … ?”
“I’m not certain. Let me inform the captain.”
He hurried back to the quarterdeck and found Hart on the starboard side, pacing. The wind had died away to a whisper, and Hawthorne was sure they were all but stationary on the water.
“One of my sentries thought he saw a light—to larboard. Almost abeam. Maybe half a point forward.”
Hart crossed to the larboard rail, Landry in tow, or so Hawthorne thought. The night was becoming so close that almost nothing could be seen. The captain and his lackey stood gazing into the night, their anxiety palpable.
“I think it is a light,” Landry said. “For a moment I saw it.”
The fog crept in from the west, silent, unyielding. It cast itself over them like some amoebic creature, absorbing man and ship into its limpid mass.
“Do you think they know we’re here?” Landry whispered, his voice breaking.
“We will know if a six-pound ball cuts you in half,” came the sailing master’s voice out of the dark and liquid night.
“We will fire a broadside,” Hart announced suddenly.
“But Captain,” remonstrated Barthe, “we can’t be sure it is even a French ship.”
“We are in French waters,” Hart contended, “it can be nothing else. Mr Landry, prepare to fire the larboard battery.”
“But where is our target?”
“Helmsman,” Hart ordered, “give her a spoke to starboard. Our target will be directly abeam. Now jump to it.”
Hawthorne heard Landry stumble forward to give the orders.
“The sky grows hazy, Mr Hayden,” Philpott observed. A damp, cold mist washed slowly over the rail at that moment.
Hayden glanced up to find the stars reduced to blurs. “As if we weren’t having enough trouble finding our quarry.” He leaned close to Philpott and whispered so that only the lieutenant could hear: “Under any other circumstances I would put the men into boats and attempt to board that ship in the offing, but there is no way to know if they have infantry aboard. I must say, it seems unlikely. How many men could the garrison on Belle Île spare?”
Philpott nodded in the darkness. “That is the question. There were a goodly number aboard the French frigate: no fewer than an hundred, I should think. They can’t have reinforced four transports and the brig as well. It seems a defensible risk. I will lead the boarding party, gladly.”
Hayden was impressed with the younger man’s pluck. There was no hesitation there. This was no Captain Hart in the making.
“If I am to send men to fight a shipload of French infantry I will lead them myself. You will assume command of the Lucy in my absence.”
Philpott nodded, genuinely disappointed, Hayden thought.
“I shall put all your own men from the Themis in the boats, and as many as I think we can spare.”
“Mr Hayden?” came Wickham’s whisper from above. “Is that a ship to starboard? Do you see? Half a point aft of amidships.”
Hayden went to the rail and peered into the thick night. “Can you make her out, Philpott?”
The lieutenant’s answer was lost in an explosion of long guns, and Hayden was hurled to the deck. For a moment he lay, dazed, debris spread both over and around him. Propping himself up on an elbow, he shook his head.
“Mr Philpott?” he whispered, then looked up at the ruined rigging. “Wickham, there?”
“I’m here, sir,” Wickham called down, “but I think the rigging is badly damaged, sir.”
“I’m sure it is. Are you whole, Mr Wickham? Can you climb up and extinguish the lanterns?”
“I can, sir.”
Hayden searched the shadowed deck with his eyes. “Mr Philpott?”
Someone moved a few feet away, and Hayden scrambled over and found Philpott on his back, limbs writhing unconsciously. He saw another shape rise up a few feet away—the helmsman, he guessed. “Find the surgeon,” Hayden ordered. “Mr Philpott has been wounded.”
A moment later, Wickham appeared at his side.
“Are you injured?” he asked the middy.
“A splinter or two. Not worth a surgeon’s attention.”
Hayden forced himself to stand, dizzy. “Those were not the brig’s six-pounder guns,” he declared. “Look at the ruin they made of us …”
A second broadside roared, but only a single shot struck forward. The rest screamed off into the darkness, holing the sea some distance off.
A man began to cry out in pain.
“Silence that man,” Hayden ordered. “Quiet on the deck.”
“Mr Hayden … ?” Philpott tried to sit up but was unable to.
“Carry Mr Philpott below,” Hayden whispered to two men who appeared out of the darkness.
“No …�
� Philpott breathed. “No. I don’t believe I’m injured. Just … dazed.” In the blackness Hayden could make out the lieutenant’s pale hands brushing limbs and torso, searching for wounds. “I appear to be whole, as remarkable as that seems.”
The two men helped him to his feet, where he stood a moment, wavering like a stalk of wheat in the wind, but then he found his balance. “What in hell’s name was that?” the man managed.
“Eighteen-pounders,” Hayden whispered. “Or so I would judge.”
“Where did a French frigate come from?” Wickham asked.
“It’s not French,” Hayden said firmly. “I’ll wager it’s the Themis.”
Someone cursed in the darkness, and low muttering spread forward.
“Then we should hail her,” Philpott said quickly.
“No,” Hayden answered just as quickly. “If we’re wrong it would invite another broadside.”
Guns boomed again, lighting up the water two hundred yards away, illuminating for an instant the rigging of a ship. The report rolled across the water, like a wave, but the shots were aimed some distance ahead of the Lucy now.
“What do they shoot at?”
“Phantoms,” Hayden said. “Shadows. We must not show a light that any can see.”
“But we are much damaged and the starlight is quickly fading.”
A little breeze from the east touched them then, backing the rolling sails.
“Asleep at last,” Philpott whispered, looking up as the sails pushed against the mast and rigging.
Hayden went to the helm, spinning it quickly. “We are caught aback, Mr Philpott. We must shift our yards.”
“What course shall we make?”
“I should still like to catch us a Frenchman—north toward L’Orient.” He stared off into the darkness. “Send men aloft to survey the damage. We shall make what repairs we can. Is there water in the hold, Mr Wickham?”
“I will go down and see for myself, Mr Hayden.” And Wickham disappeared toward the companionway.
Sailors padded quickly around the deck, throwing aside torn sails and broken gear. Others went aloft as fast as darkness would allow. Whispers began to seep down from above.
Under Enemy Colours Page 28
