Under Enemy Colours

by Sean Thomas Russell

  Dr Griffiths appeared at that moment.

  “Good morning, Doctor. How fare our sick and hurt?” Hayden was a bit embarrassed by his good cheer, for the doctor looked very grim and pasty with fatigue.

  Griffiths drew nearer and then spoke quietly. “We lost McLeod last night, Captain.”

  “Oh, I am sorry …”

  “And Captain Hart’s condition appears to be worsening. He needs a physician. A hospital. And physic that I do not possess.” The doctor glanced around, noting the other ships. “Have you taken into consideration what might happen if Hart were to die? He has many friends in His Majesty’s Navy, Mr Hayden. If it appears that he might have been saved but for your insistence—against Hart’s wishes—that you would attempt to take the Themis …”

  “We do not sail for England every time a man is injured, Dr Griffiths, as you well know—certainly Hart never made an effort to take a flogged man back to port. Men live or die according to the will of God and the skill of our surgeons. I will not make an exception for Hart when there is a British ship about to be turned over to the French.” He pointed forward. “Not when that ship is this close.”

  “Yes, Mr Hayden, I know we do not return to port every time a man is injured, but Hart is a captain, a man of considerable interest within the Admiralty. There is a … political facet to this situation.” Griffiths seemed a little ill himself—in humour as well as appearance.

  “I am aware of it, thank you, Doctor, but I believe I know where my duties lie. I will have Mr Barthe note your concerns in the log in the event that Captain Hart’s condition grows worse. You shall bear no part of the blame.”

  “I am less worried about my future in the navy than your own, Mr Hayden. Rushing Hart back to the care of a physician, and his loving wife, would do more to further your career than taking any number of mutinous vessels. But I will say no more.” He glanced again at the not-so-distant ships. “I don’t suppose Stuckey and his mates will surrender without a fight?”

  “If we can convince them we are French, they might, but even then I am not so certain. They don’t want their ship to become a prize and themselves made prisoners.”

  The doctor regarded him oddly. “There has been hardly a dull day since you found your way aboard our ship, Mr Hayden.”

  “Do you regret it, Doctor?”

  Griffiths regarded him with his clear, intelligent eye. “I do, as a doctor, for our lists of injured and dead have grown considerably, and much suffering has come to us. But as an Englishman, I am rather proud of what we’ve accomplished.”

  “Well, Doctor, I shall, as always, try to limit our wounded to the smallest number possible.”

  A cannon fired at that moment and a ball found the water not far off their starboard bow.

  “The Themis is firing at us, Captain,” Hobson called, and was hushed by half a dozen for speaking out in English.

  “I would say they don’t mean to parley, or end as a French captain’s prize. It will be a fight if we overhaul them, which I believe we will do in the next two hours.”

  Griffiths reached up to touch a hat that was not there. “I will ready my table. Send me as few as you can, Mr Hayden.”

  “I do not send any, Doctor, it is the French who perform that service.”

  Griffiths looked him up and down. “But are not you the French, sir? So it would appear.” A small smile appeared and the doctor retreated below.

  The forecastle gun crews were mustered and Hayden went forward. The Themis kept up a regular fire with her stern-chasers, balls landing very near.

  “We’re just out of range, sir,” the captain of the starboard bow-chaser said as Hayden reached the forecastle.

  “So it seems.” Hayden turned his glass on the stern of the Themis, and there he could plainly make out Bill Stuckey—a man he’d once imagined he’d reformed—wearing a cutlass and a brace of pistols. Chagrin and anger coursed through him.

  Hawthorne appeared, musket in hand. “Is that my darling Willy on the quarterdeck, sir?”

  “I believe it is, Mr Hawthorne.”

  “Sadly, out of musket range.”

  “At the moment …” Hayden looked east, gauging the speed of La Rochelle. She appeared to be holding position, to Hayden’s satisfaction. “Mr Hawthorne, when we come alongside the Themis I will put a few of your best marksmen up in the tops. Tell them to keep their faces hid as best they can. I want no one recognized until we are on their deck. The rest of your marines will be in the boarding party. I will need every man I can find if we hope to carry the Themis.”

  “My marines are yearning to have a bit of revenge, sir.”

  “Good. They have the greater numbers, so we must use our guns and the guns of La Rochelle to even the odds.”

  Despite the gravity of their situation, Hawthorne appeared to be suppressing a smile.

  “What is it, Mr Hawthorne,” Hayden asked, “that you find so diverting in our situation?”

  Hawthorne’s smile blossomed fully, and he took hold of the lapel of his French officer’s coat. “When I told Muhlhauser that this crew would ‘wear motley,’ I did not comprehend my own wit.”

  Hayden shook his head, and laughed despite all.

  The Themis fired again and the ball landed so near that a fine spray reached the tip of the jib-boom.

  “I think it’s time to return fire, Mr Baldwin, when you are ready. If you can dismount a stern-chaser I shall give you a half a crown.”

  “That is handsome of you, Mr Hayden.” The gun captain made a knuckle and then turned to his crew. He bent over his gun with a great show of concentration, shifted it to larboard a few inches, sighted again, elevated the barrel a little, stepped clear, warned his crew, and jerked the firing lanyard.

  The French gun was no quieter than an English one, and Hayden closed his eyes both from pain and from the caustic smoke. Immediately he forced lids open in hopes of seeing where the shot fell. Like the others, he held his breath, waiting for the breeze to carry some of the smoke away, which it did very ineffectively on this point of sail, for the ship was always sailing into the smoke as the wind carried it with them.

  A white plume of water spouted in the wake of the Themis.

  “The line is very true, Mr Baldwin,” Hayden observed. “A little elevation and we’ll see if these mutineers will stand upon the quarterdeck or scurry like rats.”

  The gun crew went into their familiar routine, swabbing, inserting the cartridge, and ramming it down the barrel.

  “Home!” Baldwin announced, for he held a small wire in the prick hole to feel for the cartridge. He pricked it with a practised motion and waited for the wadding, followed by the shot, and then more wadding. Priming the pan and the shot hole was the work of a second. The lock was snapped-to, cocked, and the gun run out. Baldwin traversed it a little to starboard this time, pried the barrel up, and wedged it. A warning to his crew, and then a sharp tug on the lanyard.

  Again the terrible assault on the ears. Hayden squinted through the smoke, watching for the plume of water, or, better, a spray of splinters. A moment of confusion.

  “Through the mizzen topsail, Mr Baldwin!” Wickham announced. “Did you see?”

  “You’ve the eyes of a hawk, Mr Wickham,” Baldwin said in admiration. The gun crew jumped to their work, swabbing and ramming with a will. A jet of smoke at the stern of the Themis was quickly followed by the familiar, unnerving scream of a cannon-ball approaching. The fore-topsail dashed about, and there was the sound of shattering wood, splinters raining all around.

  Hayden looked up to see the fore-course flapping and thrashing about.

  “Mr Barthe. They’ve shot away the foreyard yardarm. We shall have to reeve a new brace and scandalize the sails. I should like to keep them set, if we can.”

  Sailors went aloft at a run, and before the Themis could fire again, a jury brace had been rove. The sails quieted, and there was near silence on the deck as the men waited for the next shot.

  The Themis did fire again
, but whether they had aimed wide or it was a trick of the sea, the shot landed in the water to larboard. Everyone aboard laughed, including Hayden, though he did not know why.

  Their bow-chaser bucked again, and again Hayden grimaced at the report. A second’s wait, and one of the Themis’ gallery windows exploded into shards. The men cheered.

  A distant shot drew Hayden’s attention, and he saw smoke wafting over the bow of La Rochelle.

  “Our countrymen are not shrinking from the fight, Mr Hayden,” Hawthorne noted.

  “They don’t want to waste this advantage, Mr Hawthorne—two frigates against one. Our little masquerade de guerre is serving.”

  But La Rochelle’s shot fell short by a cable-length.

  “Mr Wickham, I think it might be wise for you to climb to the fore-top and shout down to us in French as though you were the lookout.”

  Wickham grinned, touched his hat, and ran to the shrouds.

  “Pass the word for Mr Barthe,” Hayden said and then called out an order in French, expecting no one to understand or obey. Barthe appeared at the forward mast, speaking trumpet under his arm. “I hope you don’t plan to use that—unless you speak French?”

  “No sir, my mate brought it me and I took it out of habit.”

  “We are too swift. I don’t wish to reach the Themis before the French frigate. Can you slow us a little without it seeming too overt?”

  “I’ll slack some sheets, Mr Hayden, and make ready to clew up our courses and take in our top-gallants.”

  “You can do that, Mr Barthe, but I don’t believe the mutineers will offer battle. They will run until we disable their ship; that is what I think. Courses and top-gallants will be needed yet.”

  Barthe nodded, and was just turning away as something occurred to Hayden.

  “Mr Barthe? You must find a hat, sir. Your red hair is far too distinctive. Tuck it away, if you please.”

  Barthe nodded, and sent his mate scurrying for a hat.

  The next ball passed so close that Hawthorne swore he felt the wind from it. Striking the deck at a low angle, it bounced once and thundered the length of the deck, hitting no one and nothing, before sending up a spout in their wake.

  Hayden turned and looked aft, where all the men stood at their stations, faces pale and grim.

  Wickham called out something in French and Hayden answered at the top of his lungs only to have his words drowned by Baldwin’s gun firing. The shot sailed just wide of its target and the gun captain looked up at Hayden, embarrassed.

  “My apologies, Captain Hayden. The ship yawed a little unexpectedly.”

  “So it did, Mr Baldwin. I am on my way to the quarterdeck and I will have the helmsman relieved.”

  The gunner touched his forehead, and Hayden left them to it, making his way without hurrying along the gangway, showing no signs of fear to his men, even though there was a broken plank where the ball had struck the deck. Hayden stepped over the spot, exhibiting more indifference than he actually felt.

  Hayden called for a new helmsman and the master’s mate came to take the helm, though he was red-eyed and pale of face.

  “Have you had any relief at all from this wheel, Mr Dryden?” Hayden asked him.

  “A little, sir. Not to worry. She’s very easy on the helm and keeps a true course with the least effort.”

  “I hope we shall take back our ship and return our crew to their stations by and by. Then I shall have Mr Barthe relieve you of duty for a watch to let you rest.”

  The man looked entirely grateful and made a quick knuckle, only taking a hand from the wheel for an instant. Hayden was certain that there were many men as tired as Dryden, and felt a wave of guilt that he had spent time in his cot earlier.

  “Have we had any more signals from our sister ship, Mr Archer?”

  “She acknowledged your request to engage the enem—the Themis, to starboard, sir.” The usually recumbent Archer stood with a glass in his hand, the signal book tucked into his belt. “I’ve been watching them for signs of suspicion, sir. An officer does quiz us, now and again, with a glass, but so far I believe they have not penetrated our disguise.”

  The gun fired forward, a moment of anticipatory silence, and then a cheer from the men on the deck. Hayden turned his glass to their forward quarter and among the strands of fog he found a scene of chaos on the quarterdeck of the Themis.

  “It would appear that I owe Mr Baldwin half a crown,” Hayden observed with satisfaction.

  The Themis’ undamaged stern-chaser lobbed a ball that passed through all of their topsails without doing any other appreciable damage. The Dragoon’s mizzen topsail, however, tore almost in two.

  “Mr Barthe?” Hayden called, barely raising his voice.

  “I will see to it, Mr Hayden,” the master replied as he came hurrying along the gangway.

  They were, ever so slowly, drawing up on the stern quarter of the Themis. Hayden could see the mutineers plainly now, and with his glass he could make out their individual faces—drained of colour and filled with apprehension. They set the stunsails in a manner Hayden could only call lubberly, but it did not matter; the Dragoon was overhauling her and the mutineers knew it.

  “If the Themis sheers to larboard, Mr Dryden, we must do the same. We cannot allow them to loose a broadside on us without being able to reply.”

  “I have my eye on her, Mr Hayden. I won’t let a lubber like Stuckey put one over on me.”

  Muhlhauser was standing by the taffrail to larboard, appearing like a deer about to spring to flight. Hayden realized that the man had placed himself such that the masts were between himself and the cannon fire of the Themis. It seemed a little odd to the acting captain that the man from the Ordnance Board, whose function it was to create guns more able to inflict damage and carnage, was so frightened to be on the receiving end of his own creations.

  “How fare you, Mr Muhlhauser?” Hayden asked solicitously.

  “The ball that struck the deck almost did for me, Mr Hayden. Had I taken another step I would have been in its path, I’m quite certain.”

  “Ah. Many a sailor can tell a similar story, Mr Muhlhauser. It forces one to contemplate how narrow the river between death and life.” Hayden tried to smile in a kindly way. “It occurred to me that a man with your particular knowledge would be of great assistance on the gun-deck. I’m sure any of the gun captains would welcome your aid, and we are, as you know, terribly short of able-bodied men.”

  Muhlhauser nodded. “I shall be happy to do what I can, Mr Hayden.” He started away and then stopped. “It takes more nerve to stand on the quarterdeck when the great guns are firing than anyone can know who has not done it.” He tipped his hat to Hayden and went briskly down the companionway.

  Archer, who stood not far off, also tipped his hat to Hayden. “In the midst of an action, that you would have a kind word for a landsman …”

  “It is not much of an action,” Hayden answered. “Not yet, at least. Mr Archer, is there not, among the prisoners, a man who speaks a little English?”

  “You could call it English, Mr Hayden. An officer named Marin-Marie.”

  “Have Mr Hawthorne dress him in an officer’s coat and hat, and bring him onto the quarterdeck with an honour guard of two marines.”

  With a look of only slight mystification, Archer went in search of Hawthorne, who was assisting the gunners on the forecastle. A few moments later, an apprehensive-looking Frenchman was brought onto the quarterdeck.

  “Lieutenant François Marin-Marie,” Hawthorne announced. The man before him, slightly plump of face and form, could not have known the scrape of a razor, Hayden thought, for he was a mere boy—no older than Wickham. Even so, he made a graceful bow, and then stared at Hayden with a look of some disdain.

  “Why ’ave you brought me ’ere?” he asked in English.

  “I have need of your assistance, Lieutenant,” Hayden answered in French. He pointed toward the Themis. “That is a British ship under the command of British mutinee
rs. They believe your ship is still in possession of the French, which is why we are so dressed.” He gestured to his clothes. “It is our intention to take back the ship from the mutineers, but as they are likely to recognize me and others of my crew, I would have you speak to them when we come within hailing distance.”

  The boy drew himself up. “And why would I do that?” he demanded, in French. “It is no affair of mine.”

  “Because your treatment when we reach England will depend on how well you have co-operated. It could be a very long war and I myself should not want to spend it in a hulk up some godforsaken backwater, my fate unknown to family and friends.”

  The boy’s armour of disdain cracked a little, and he swallowed noticeably. He glanced around at the Englishmen surrounding him. “And what ship iz zat?” he enquired in English, nodding to the French frigate.

  “Captain Bourne’s Tenacious, under French colours.”

  Another quick glance at the less-than-friendly faces. “What would you ’ave me say? My English eez … poor.”

  “I will stand behind you and tell you what to say.”

  A ball struck the hull forward. Their own chase-piece answered. Another cheer from the men.

  “Why do you do this?” the boy asked quietly in his own tongue. “You are French. I hear it in your voice.”

  “My mother was French, Lieutenant. I am an Englishman.” Hayden turned away. “Mr Hawthorne? Have your men keep Lieutenant Marin-Marie here, on the quarterdeck, out of every one’s way. Unbind his hands. I will call for him at the appropriate time.”

  Hayden went to the rail and looked forward. The Themis was without her mizzen topsail, which had been shot away. Even with guns traversed to their utmost degree, Hayden was sure they could not strike the mutineers on this point of sail. If they came up a little to bring their broadside to bear, the Themis would foot away, and unless their shot managed to bring down some sails, they would have to make up that lost distance. Better to stay their course, and wait until they could fire on this point of sail. A dull crash as the mutineers fired, and a ball touched the top of a wave and skipped off across the ocean, like a spinning stone on a pond.