Under Enemy Colours

by Sean Thomas Russell

  Below, the first gun fired, shaking the deck and splitting the air. The Themis replied, and at such short range the report was terrible. Smoke ballooned up from between the hulls and hid the enemy. Through the cloud, musket fire fell, striking randomly. A ball found the blade of Hayden’s sword and sent it clattering to the deck, but he swept it up, apparently undamaged.

  Sail-handlers began letting go sheets, and down-hauls brought staysails rippling deckward. Upper yards were lowered so that sails hung in their gear, and the main and foresail were quickly brailed up to be clear of fire. It was a neat job, handled by the Tenacious’ crewmen, and those aloft came hand-over-hand down the stays to take up arms.

  The boarding party mustered on the gangway and quarterdeck. Hayden could not count them in the smoke, but he climbed up on the rail as grapnels were thrown aboard the Themis. There he found himself staring at men he had served with hardly more than a day before—Jarvis, Clark, Freeman, and a gunner’s mate named Pool.

  As each of the great guns came to bear, both ships fired almost at once, smoke blasting up on a wave of heat, the crash of splintering timbers deafening. There was soon no way an order could be heard as the two ships fired away at each other from a distance measured in feet. Men began falling in earnest on the deck, and Hayden drew one of his pistols and, through the smoke, found himself staring at William Pool—a kindly man who had invariably treated Hayden with respect. Pool raised a pistol, his look startled, and Hayden killed him with its single shot.

  The collision of the two ships propelled Hayden across the distance created by the vessels’ tumble-home. A heel caught up in the hammock netting and he landed awkwardly almost atop Pool, who had been thrown down in an unmoving tangle of limbs. Scrambling up, Hayden realized that the only reason he lived was that there were so few men on the Themis’ deck. But then they came streaming up from below, having fired their guns once.

  His own crew came over the barricades and Hayden was, immediately, in the thick of it.

  “We’ll not be taken by any poxy Frenchmen!” a man yelled and ran at Hayden with a pike.

  Throwing himself aside, Hayden felt the pike tear away the shoulder of his coat. He slashed horribly at the man’s throat, but cut across both his eyes instead. As the man fell, Hayden was beset by yet another. The mutineers fought with a fierce desperation, but the outrage of their former victims quickly equalled it. For a time the fighting see-sawed back and forth, but the mutineers’ surprise at finding they battled not Frenchmen but their former mates shook them a little. Slowly the exhausted Hayden began to realize they were pressing the attack. Mutineers retreated along the gangways, some leaping down to the gun-deck.

  “Mr Hawthorne!” Hayden called, finding the marine but two yards distant. “We must secure the magazines.”

  Hawthorne nodded, and began gathering a small party around him. Hayden ran along the gangway, sweeping up a group of men in his wake. They jumped down onto the gun-deck, where they found a scene of terrible ruin and death, the smell of smoke and blood thick in the air.

  As they approached the companionway, mutineers came pounding up the ladder. Hayden and his party threw themselves down behind the great guns as firearms were discharged and lead balls cracked and rang against iron and wood. Before the mutineers could reload, Hayden led his men in a charge. The mutineers retreated to the top of the companionway, but there made a stand, fighting with a savage abandon, hardly taking notice of wounds.

  “There you are, Franklin Douglas,” one of Hayden’s men called. “I owe you this, you bastard.” And he stretched out the mutineer Douglas with a single blow.

  Fearing his men were pressed back, Hayden found his second pistol and shot the most ferocious adversary—a topman named Michaels. His ball caught the man in the mouth, and toppled him down the ladder in a slump. The mutineers held their ground a moment more, then broke and fled below. Hesitantly, Hayden went down the steps—crouched to look into the dark corners, expecting at any second to be shot—but the mutineers had retreated or lay on the deck. The sound of fighting had ceased from all points. A strange, ominous silence pervaded the ship. A group of his own men from the Dragoon appeared in the midshipmen’s berth and signalled all-clear.

  Hayden led his men down onto the orlop-deck and the half-sunken magazine, which he found swaddled in wet blankets against sparks. It was nearly dark here, but a little glow spilled out a square of glass in the light-room door, which had been so placed to provide illumination for the powder-monkeys.

  The magazine door hung slightly ajar, and Hayden tugged it open a crack. Inside, lit by the stained glow emanating through the light-room glass, he could see one man, hunched in pain. The boy-giant Giles leaned heavily against the wall, one hand pressed to his side, the other holding a pistol aimed down into an open powder barrel. Around him, illuminated by the faint light, slowly swirled a fine cloud of motes—powder dust.

  “Giles …” Hayden said, trying to keep his voice soft and reasonable. “What is it you do?”

  The boy could not hide his surprise. “Mr Hayden? Is that you, sir?”

  Hayden pressed the door open a few more inches so the two could see each other. Giles was contorted in terrible pain, he could see, his face pasty and slick with sweat.

  “It is, Giles. Stay calm, now.”

  “Have you gone over to the French, sir?”

  “Not at all, Giles,” Hayden said, trying to keep all fear out of his voice, though his mouth and throat were parched. “I am sailing the French prize we took at Belle Île and have dressed as a Frenchman to confuse the enemy. We found the Themis’ officers and some crew adrift in boats.”

  “They came to no harm, then?”

  “None at all,” Hayden said cheerfully, and smiled. “Mr Barthe told me that you did not join in the mutiny but Stuckey would not let you come away in the boats. He will say as much at the court-martial, and Mr Hawthorne will declare the same, for so he told me. You may put the pistol down. You will go free, I’m sure.”

  The boy shook his head, and in the saddest tone said, “Not the likes of me, Mr Hayden. Me they’ll hang. Look what they did to McBride, and he wasn’t even guilty …”

  Hayden did not like the way this was said—as though Giles knew McBride was innocent. “But you didn’t kill Penrith,” Hayden stated firmly. “Stuckey was lying.”

  For a moment it looked as though the boy would weep, his gaze falling away. “I didn’t mean it to go that way, Mr Hayden. I thought I could put a scare in him—get him to take me name off the petition—Stuckey told me I would hang for signing it—but Penrith pulled a knife …”

  “And you let McBride hang for it …” Hayden said without thinking, appalled.

  “He was a lying fucking landsman. No one mourned when he went up.”

  With difficulty, Hayden hid his revulsion. “Put the pistol up, Giles. You’ll kill every one aboard, yourself included.”

  “I’m shot through the gut, Mr Hayden. Blood and shit are leaking out of my arse.” For a second he closed his eyes. The hand holding the pistol began to tremble perceptibly.

  “I’ve seen the doctor patch up worse.”

  The boy shook his head. “Tell your men to lay down their arms, Mr Hayden, or I’ll blow the Themis to flinders.”

  “You killed Penrith by accident, and you’ve been tortured by it ever since; I can see that. Are you really willing to murder two hundred?”

  “I’m damned to hell already. What’ll a few more murders mean on my ledger?”

  Hayden saw him feel the lock with his thumb, assuring himself the gun was cocked.

  “Giles … ?” came a soft voice from behind.

  Hayden turned to find a gaunt and ghostly Aldrich making his way stiffly through the clot of men at Hayden’s back. Every motion caused him agony, Hayden could see, but his eye was clear and determined. Stepping aside, Hayden let him pass, as though he were a superior officer. He almost reached for his hat.

  “Haven’t we had enough killing? We never inte
nded this when we talked of sailing to America.” Aldrich pulled the low door gently open and then slumped down to sit with his feet on the inside step, leaning heavily against the frame, hardly able to support himself.

  “Mr Aldrich …” the boy said, and tears began to slip down his cheeks. “We are all dead men anyway …”

  “Not all,” Aldrich said softly, his voice filled with sadness, disappointment. “Not Mr Hayden or Mr Wickham, here. Not any number of your shipmates. I am not dead … yet.” He held out his hand. “There’s been enough killing among our own people, Giles.”

  The boy began to sob, his hand shaking terribly. A thrust of pain doubled him over and he cried out.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Aldrich … but this is what was agreed to. I swore to fire the powder if our ship were taken. We’ll all hang if I don’t …”

  Hayden realized that the sounds of fighting had ceased. A hollow, eerie silence pervaded the ship. Of an instant, he expected the silence would be shattered by an explosion more terrible than any he had witnessed, and Charles Saunders Hayden would depart this life.

  Giles closed his eyes again from the pain. And Aldrich stepped silently forward, a pale hand reaching for the gun.

  Hayden plunged into the magazine after the seaman.

  Aldrich grabbed the gun, but Hayden knew that in his weakened state he was no match for Giles.

  Clenching his fist, Hayden drove it into Giles’ abdomen, doubling the boy over. He grabbed the giant with both hands and hauled him bodily out of the magazine, Aldrich still clinging tenaciously. They tumbled down in a heap and Hayden searched for the gun in the tangle, but Aldrich rolled free, lying still, exhausted, the pistol in hand, resting across his chest.

  Someone had the sense to shut the magazine door. Hayden pushed the boy off him and scrambled to his knees.

  Giles lay twisted, his shoulders heaving. Crouching quickly, Wickham rolled the giant over where he convulsed terribly, eyes rolled back. But then he lay still, releasing a long, slow sigh, as though he had found some unexpected satisfaction in the last second of his life.

  “Aldrich? Are you hurt?” Hayden asked.

  The man shook his head, paused, then nodded. He began to weep, releasing the pistol so that it bumped gently to the floor. He covered his eyes and rolled onto his side, his flayed back coming to view.

  No one knew what to say, but stood mutely, embarrassed, moved by the grief of this man they all respected. It was a hard but brief squall, and then Aldrich staggered to his feet, wiping away tears with callused fingers. Men jumped forward to assist him.

  “That was a great chance you took, Aldrich,” Hayden said.

  “I jammed my finger behind the trigger, Mr Hayden. He nearly crushed it, but the gun would not fire.”

  “It was a brave thing to do, and but for it we might all be dead.” Hayden could see Aldrich was swaying on his feet. “Please take Mr Aldrich back to the sick-berth. And ask the doctor to attend him as soon as he is able.” Like the crew, Hayden found himself calling Aldrich “Mr.”

  Hayden set three men as sentries over the magazine, climbed the stair, and made his way aft along the berth-deck. Near the gunroom he met Hawthorne emerging from the aft companionway.

  “Have you secured the magazine, Mr Hawthorne?”

  “I have, Mr Hayden, and an easy task it was, as there was no one near it.”

  “You’ve left some men you trust to stand sentry over it, I suppose?”

  “So I have.” The marine’s hair was glued to his forehead from sweat, and one hand was wrapped in a crude bandage.

  “Then will you take a company of men and search all the decks from stem to stern, and chase out any rats still hiding or they might do us some mischief yet.”

  “I will, sir.”

  Hayden returned to the deck, only to be met by a French officer climbing over the rail, naked sword in hand. The Themis men all stood about in dumb bewilderment. Thrusting down his sheer surprise, Hayden reached into his pocket, tore out a handkerchief, clapped it over his mouth, and said loudly in French: “Monsieur! Monsieur! You must not board this ship. These English have the fever, the yellow fever. That is why they are only half a crew; all the rest are dead. Get off! Get off!” He waved his free hand to chase the man from the deck. “Back into your boat—immediately!”

  The officer hesitated only a second while his startled brain caught up with the meaning of the words being shouted at him, and then he scrambled over the rail, chasing the men who followed him back down the ladder.

  Hayden went to the bulwark, and looked down at the Frenchmen in their boats.

  “The fever,” they were saying. “They have the fever.” And these words galvanized them, set them to flight in a clumsy scramble of backing oars and thumping hulls.

  As the lead boat cleared the Themis’ stern, Hayden heard a lone voice call out in French. “They are English! You must listen. It is a ruse. They are English!” And then the voice was muffled. Hayden turned to find Marin-Marie being hauled bodily from the rail of the Dragoon, though he clung tenaciously to the shrouds.

  “Return that madman to the doctor!” Hayden shouted in French. “Have we not enough troubles without his foolish delusions?” Hayden turned to the French officer. “We will do what we can here, and then tow the English ship into a quarantine berth. Will you go ahead and alert the harbour authorities so that no boats approach us, please?”

  “Will you not require our assistance?” the officer called out, standing up in the stern sheets of his boat.

  “No, thank you, Lieutenant. We will manage. I only hope you have not carried this terrible fever away with you.”

  Hayden thought he could see the man go pale even at that distance.

  “Good luck to you,” the man called, found his seat, and ordered his boat swiftly on.

  “Mon Capitaine,” Wickham addressed him in French. “What are your orders?”

  “Round up the English prisoners, and separate the sick from the healthy. The wounded English must be kept apart from our wounded. Let their own doctor attend them.” Hayden’s eye found Mr Barthe. “We must make repairs and prepare to tow the prize into Brest.” And then quietly in English: “We must repair the two ships, Mr Barthe, but not before nightfall. It is my intention to slip away as soon as darkness is complete.”

  Hayden looked around the deck for the first time. It was a scene of shocking carnage, dead and wounded lying in grisly tableaux here and there. A few cowed-looking mutineers, clutching bloody wounds, were held by Hawthorne’s marines and armed seamen. Archer moved among the prostrate men with a pair of midshipmen, terribly dividing the dead from the living.

  Ascertaining the distance to the French boats, Hayden spoke quietly in English: “What are our losses, Mr Landry? Do we know?”

  “Mr Archer is making the tally, sir.” The first lieutenant hesitated, his demeanour disintegrating a little, but then he mastered himself. “I fear it will be a terrible butcher’s bill, sir. There aren’t twenty mutineers left alive, and I dare say, they are all wounded, for they fought until they were killed or we subdued them. Not a one laid down his weapons of his own doing.”

  “They didn’t intend to be taken prisoner—by anyone. We interrupted Giles, about to fire the magazine.”

  Landry ran his fingers back into his hair, this bit of news shaking him utterly. “And I felt lucky to have survived the fight …”

  Hayden glanced up. “If you please, Mr Landry, send men aloft to quiet those sails or they shall flog themselves to rags.”

  Landry reached for the hat he’d lost in the fight, and then went rushing off.

  With the Dragoon grappled to her larboard side, the Themis had swung slowly so that the wind now lay on her beam, causing her sails to slat about in their gear. Fortunately, both sea and wind were small.

  Wounded were borne past to the doctor still aboard the Dragoon. A knot of sullen mutineers had been assembled just off the quarterdeck, and every few minutes another of their kind was added, flushed ou
t of some hiding place below. Splinters lay every where, and the rigging hung in tatters.

  “Captain Hayden!” The rather urgent tone of Wickham’s voice interrupted his assessment of damages. Hayden found the acting lieutenant, not surprisingly, standing at the stern rail with a glass held up to his eye.

  “The French captain still has his ship hove-to, and he’s signalling, sir.”

  Hayden shaded his eyes and regarded the ship, which was not nearly as distant as he would have liked. “What has become of our signal book, Mr Wickham?”

  “I’ll fetch it, sir.” In a moment, Wickham returned, quickly thumbing through the open signal book. “Here it is!” He jabbed a finger triumphantly at the page. “It is the signal for ‘standing by to provide assistance.’”

  “Damned interfering Frenchman,” Hayden heard Hawthorne mutter, which expressed Hayden’s sentiments with precision.

  “Shall I make an answer, sir?” Wickham asked.

  “Just acknowledge the signal. Set a man to keep watch on the French frigate, as well. I should like to think that they are only being helpful, but that damned Marin-Marie might have kindled some doubt in their minds—perhaps some little detail that struck them as being false, as being ‘un-French.’” Hayden swept his eyes over the scene, wondering what it could have been.

  But he had no time to dwell on that, or on the French ship hove-to nearby.

  “Pass the word,” he said. “No shouting from the tops or from the deck. Sounds can travel a great distance over water, as you all well know. Mr Barthe, you will have to make do with quiet commands or by sending men aloft with your orders.”

  Mr Barthe saluted.

  “Mr Hawthorne, I think our mutineers deserve to be in irons.”

  To which Hawthorne grinned and nodded.

  Hayden strode quickly forward. “When you are quite finished there, Mr Archer, we must see to the gun-deck. Men still lie there—too many—though I fear they have all departed this life.”