A grim-looking second lieutenant glanced up at him. “Aye, Mr Hayden,” he answered softly.
“Where is our carpenter?”
“In the hold, Captain,” Stock reported.
“Just the man I’m looking for. Mr Stock, jump over to the Dragoon, if you please, and learn if she is making water.”
The boy set off at a run.
On the gangway, Hayden stared down onto the gun-deck, and found Chettle emerging from below. “What is the verdict, Mr Chettle? Do we sink or swim?”
“Swim, sir, for the moment. There’s a terrible mass of damage, Mr Hayden: smashed planking, hanging knees blown to splinters, cracked frames, and the like. But she’s making very little water, all the same.”
“All above the waterline, then. Have you seen to the Dragoon?”
The man squinted up at him. “I shall slide over there and have a look, Mr Hayden.”
“I have sent Mr Stock to find if she’s making water, but I would hear your more expert opinion.”
Chettle made a knuckle, and then, followed by his mates, wormed his way stiffly out one of the shattered gunports and into the ship lying alongside. Hayden went down onto the gun-deck to take stock of the damage himself, but found it difficult to see anything for the carnage. The two ships had been firing at each other from a few yards, and it looked it. Many of the gunports had been blasted and the rest ripped off in the collision. But the damage was not quite as bad as he had expected. The ship could be made more or less watertight. Enough to allow them to sail for England.
Wickham dropped down from the gangway, and could not hide his reaction to the sight.
“Where is Mr Franks, Wickham? Aloft?”
“He was taken to see the doctor, Mr Hayden.”
“Not too bad a hurt, I hope?”
“I don’t know, sir. I only just learned it myself from Holbek.”
“I shall have to stand in for Mr Franks as best I can.”
Hayden divided the crew, putting Landry, Barthe, and Archer on the Themis, while he did what he could with one of Franks’ mates, a handful of able seamen, and an only slightly larger group of landsmen and ordinaries. The two ships were pulled apart to stop them from thudding heavily together and to allow the hulls to be crudely repaired. A shortage of skilled seamen and the relentless westering of the sun meant the work could not be done to Hayden’s standards, but they had to slip away that night before any other French ships happened upon them. Hayden was not sure his yellow-fever bluff would work twice.
The sea, which had been almost calm, developed a noticeable lump originating from the south-west. A chill air reached them as a smoky grey spread from the western horizon across the clear blue vault.
“Pass the word for Mr Wickham, if you please.” Hayden sent a ship’s boy to find his only lieutenant.
A moment later, Wickham appeared, his overlarge uniform shifting about him oddly as he hurried along.
“There is a gale in the air, Mr Wickham, and the weather-glass appears to agree. Find the gunner and be sure all the guns are double-breeched where possible, and where the repairs will not allow it, lashed alongside. Coverings for all but the fore-hatch. We shall only have time to house the top-gallant masts, but the yards must be sent down. Lower the crossjack-yard. We shall double up tacks and braces, rig relieving tackles to the tiller, preventer braces to larboard on the lower yards.” Hayden stopped to run through his mental list.
“Heave in the boats, sir?” Wickham prompted.
“That, too. And the topsail yard parrel was contrived by a landsman; be sure it is well slushed, for we haven’t time to make it anew.”
“We’ll never have time to complete all the repairs before the gale strikes.”
“I fear you’re right.” Hayden thought a moment. “Go down to the French prisoners with some marines, if you please, Mr Wickham. Find out if their carpenter and bosun and any of their mates are still among the living. We will release them under Mr Hawthorne’s care. Better to have a skilled French seaman doing the job than a lubberly marine, who will be put to better use watching over them. I would let some of these prisoners up on the deck, a few at a time, for they have not had air the whole day, but that damned French ship is still too near.”
Wickham left Hayden gazing out over a darkening sea. He consulted the weather-glass again and found it still falling. Men were taken off the hull repairs and scrambled aloft with paunch and thrum mats. Rounding was made up to guard against chafe, and the upper yards sent down in a seamanlike fashion, the men from the Tenacious working as efficient teams hardly in need of an order.
As the daylight waned, a boat came off from the French frigate, now at some distance, and made its way over a dull sea. Careful not to fall downwind, a surprisingly mature lieutenant stood in the stern sheets.
“Capitaine,” he called from just within hailing distance. “My capitaine asks if you have the materials to make repairs, and if your doctor has all the medical supplies he will need.”
“Carry my most sincere gratitude to your captain, monsieur,” Hayden answered in French, “but we will certainly make do with what we have. It is better if you do not come near. Many men have died of the fever on the English ship.” Hayden pointed toward the distant coastline. “The Rade de Brest is not far.”
“A gale is nearing, Capitaine. Your hull was much damaged by the English. You should get under way as soon as you can make sail.”
“That we will, monsieur. That we will.”
It seemed for a moment that the man would say more; he waved. “Bonne chance, capitaine. May God be with you.” He found his seat and, to Hayden’s horror, he ordered his coxswain over to the Themis. Too late, Hayden realized he should have called out that the English ship was well provided for as well, but now the man rowed nearer to the Themis and asked the same question.
Archer appeared at the rail and answered in French that they were making repairs and warned them to keep their distance due to fever.
The man in the ship cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted louder, a volume calculated to carry over the rising wind. “Non, monsieur. I inquired if you had the materials you needed to complete your repairs and if your doctor required any medicines that we might possess.”
“We will make do, monsieur,” Archer called, but not too loudly. “Merci. You are very kind.”
Hayden breathed a sigh of relief. At a distance, and against the background of rising wind and sea, Archer’s voice had been difficult to make out—enough to hide his imperfect accent, Hayden hoped. But then he saw the French lieutenant conferring intensely with his coxswain.
Hayden called for his glass, and found the French lieutenant, bent near to the other man. “Pass the word for Mr Wickham, if you please,” he whispered to Tristram Stock.
A moment later the acting lieutenant appeared at his side.
“Mr Wickham, I fear we have been found out. Gather every man we can spare from the hull repairs and prepare to make sail. Bring aboard all stagings. Fire a gun and run signals aloft for the Themis—British signals. We must get under way at once.”
Wickham did not wait to ask questions, but tore down the aft companionway, the soles of his shoes beating to quarters.
In a moment, men came padding onto the deck, but not nearly enough. Planks used for stages by the caulkers and carpenters were hauled aboard and thumped on the gangways.
The ship was hove-to under much-reduced sail—just enough to ease her motion—an aid to the men working aloft. Getting under way with such a small crew was laborious and slow. Hayden himself helped shift the yards, heaving on the braces, one eye on the French boat making its way over the rising sea. Darkness was closing in quickly, aided by gunpowder-black clouds.
Yards were squared and what sail they could prudently set, filled. The motion of the ship changed as she began to gather way.
“North-west by north, Mr Wickham.”
“Aye, sir. I wonder if one of us shouldn’t glance below, Mr Hayden? The hull repairs are no
t finished, and I fear we will be taking on water.”
“I will do that, Mr Wickham. Have the pumps manned immediately.”
Hayden took a last look at the distant French ship. The boat, all but invisible on the darkening sea, had almost reached her. He could see the white oars flashing among the pale horses.
In the gathering dusk he clambered down a makeshift companionway ladder, and found himself in near-darkness, lanterns swinging here and there, or being held aloft by boys to illuminate some particular place a cursing carpenter was working.
“Captain on deck,” someone announced, and the men who did not have both hands full touched foreheads quickly. He had kept Chettle aboard the Dragoon, because her lighter structure had resulted in greater damage. A Frenchman, presumably a carpenter, was gesturing dramatically and speaking his own tongue at speed.
“I don’t know anything about any damned lay toop,” Chettle was answering, his tone not kindly.
“What seems to be the trouble, Mr Chettle?”
“This bloody Frenchman—begging your pardon, sir. This Frenchman, God bless his black papist heart, is shouting something that we can’t fathom, sir.”
Hayden addressed the Frenchman in his own tongue. Hayden almost laughed when the man finished.
“Well, I’m happy the man was only making a jest,” Chettle grumbled.
Hayden turned to the carpenter. “He says your oakum—l’étupe—is driven too hard, and when the planks swell it will be pressed out.”
“Mr Swinburn has been a caulker these twenty year, sir; I think he knows his business. He did drive it very hard, sir, but these particular planks were near green and won’t swell enough to notice. We then payed with pitch and spiked batons over the seams. On the berth-deck we did the same, but we laid tarred canvas over the new planks and then batons over—an unholy mess, sir, but the best method under the circumstances. Plugs simply would not answer in some places, for the two ships being so close the damage was very great. She will seep a little, Mr Hayden, until the dry planks take up. Then I reckon she’ll be as tight as any ship can be, given the time and materials at hand.”
“As long as she’ll see us through the gale.”
Chettle gave something between a nod and a shrug in answer, which did not fill Hayden with confidence.
Quickly, he went down to the berth-deck, holding aloft a lantern. Half an inch of water was sloshing across the deck and water seeped in around the few plugs every time the boat began to lift to a sea.
“If this water on the deck increases, we will have to address it, Mr Chettle. Even a few inches of moving water can present a danger to a ship’s stability.”
Quickly, Hayden walked around the deck, examining what could be seen. The repairs had largely been effected to the outside of the hull, though shattered frames—roughly sistered—could be clearly seen. The work was crude, but Hayden thought it adequate.
They descended to the orlop and into the makeshift sick-berth. Hayden found his way among the swinging cots to find the hull untouched but water dripping down between the shrunken planks of the deck above. Buckets were scattered about to catch the drizzle, some hanging from the deckhead, but even so, the deck beneath was wet, and sailcloth awnings had been rigged over some of the cots.
“Can nothing be done about this water, Mr Hayden?” Griffiths enquired.
“She’ll take up yet, Doctor,” Chettle answered for Hayden. “Don’t you worry.”
“I believe Mr Chettle is right, Doctor. The wood will swell as it becomes soaked with water and the seams will grow tight. Until then, I will send men with moppats and buckets.”
“Let us pray this swelling does not take all night,” the doctor replied. “Are we in for a gale?”
“I’m afraid we are. How goes your work?”
Griffiths had made his way closer, and now said quietly: “All the worst is over, but we have so many wounded, with all the mutineers as well. Even with two surgeons—and Dr Bordaleau is very competent, especially with a bone-saw and amputating knife—we have all we can manage. More, in truth.”
“We are all taxed to our limits at this moment. I have a gale coming and hardly enough crew to reef the mainsail. I trust you will do your utmost, and we shall all do the same. How fares Mr Franks?”
“In a great deal of pain. He had his foot crushed by a falling spar. I will almost certainly have to amputate but will wait for the swelling to diminish before I decide. If the foot can be saved, we shall do it.”
“Poor Franks. I will try to visit him later, if I can. I must complete my inspection, if you don’t mind, Doctor.”
As he turned to go he saw a man seated in a chair with his head and half his face bandaged. A carefully dressed hand raised stiffly.
“Mr Muhlhauser?”
The man nodded. “I’ve been the victim of my own invention, Mr Hayden. I’m certain it was my very own gun that fired into the side near me, and look”—he gestured to arm and head with his good hand—“it was a smashing success!”
“So it appears. Not too serious, I hope?”
“Just a scratch, sir, thank you for asking. I shall be ready to man a gun on the morrow, if you require it.”
“Let us hope that won’t be necessary.” Hayden could not help but think the man looked rather pleased with his wounds and having served in an action. He’d be wanting a knighthood next. Hayden refrained from telling him that his invention had been destroyed in the battle—or more likely had destroyed itself, the metal carriage having proved too brittle, as many had predicted.
He had the prisoners’ berth opened, where the French were being held, and inspected the damage here as well. The prisoners looked frightened and angry, he thought. Hayden offered a few reassuring words in French, the men glancing one to the other when they heard their own tongue spoken without accent. Someone whispered, “traître” and then another, “renégat”—turncoat. Hayden stepped out of the lockup, his face burning, temper barely in check.
“Well done, Mr Chettle,” Hayden mumbled, as they mounted the ladder to the berth-deck. “Sound the pump wells at each bell and report the depths to the officer of the watch, if you please. I will be on deck.”
Hayden emerged into a harsh wind, the sea gathering and cresting about them. Darkness was not quite complete. He could see the dark bulk of the Themis on their port quarter, perhaps a few cables distant. Aloft, the men were finishing their gale preparations, and on deck the boats were being covered and lifelines stretched fore and aft.
“Where is our Frenchman, Mr Wickham?” he asked the middy.
Wickham pointed to the south-west. “I can just barely see her, sir. A lantern flickers now and again, if you watch carefully. She fired a gun and made a signal as we got under way: ‘Heave-to.’ I thought it best not to acknowledge, sir. I hope I didn’t overstep my authority.”
“I would have made the same decision. There is little she can do to us with this rising gale and night coming on, but if she is still with us by morning and the wind and sea take off, she might cause us some mischief yet.”
Wickham gazed to windward and then made a slow circle. “I think this gale will carry us clear to England. Are we sound enough to weather it? That is what I wonder. I have never had to frap a ship, sir, but I suppose we can manage it even with so small a crew.”
Hayden was glad the darkness hid his smile. “She is a sound, new-built vessel, Mr Wickham. Damaged, yes, but still strong. Frapping will not be necessary, I think.”
“No, sir. I’m sure you’re right.”
“How often are you relieving the men at the pumps?”
“Every bell, sir. We haven’t enough to do more than that.”
“I think we shall have the Frenchmen man the pumps, Mr Wickham. Detail marines to watch over them, and have them relieve the Frenchmen often, for we have a goodly number and all might benefit from a spell of exertion.”
“Aye, sir.”
Hayden stood by the helm for a time, and rain began to fall, beating against
his back. Perse appeared out of the darkness, bearing oilskins. “The cook has made some foreign-looking victuals for you, sir,” the boy said in his soft Irish brogue. Hayden could almost see the scowl of disapproval in the dark.
Hayden pulled the coat on, thankfully. “Has he, now?”
“Aye, sir. I don’t fathom what he’s saying, but he made me to understand by pantomime that he thinks it will spoil if ’tis not eaten right smart, sir.”
“I shall be down the moment Mr Wickham returns to the deck. Make certain no light escapes my cabin window, Perse, if you please. There is a French frigate out here and I do believe he’s smoked us.”
“I have it trussed up tight, sir, as Mr Hawthorne told me. And the quarter gallery windows are shaded as well.”
“Well done.”
As Hayden stood waiting for Wickham, Dryden appeared out of the darkness. He held an arm up against the wind-driven rain, and hunched over like a man trying to stay warm.
“I’m concerned for our mainsail, Mr Hayden,” he hollered over the gale. “The yard is split for a fifth of its length. We fished it proper, sir, but I don’t think it will take this.” He waved a hand into the wind. “Perhaps if we reef the mainsail it might stand …”
“No, Mr Dryden, let us take it in. I don’t want to send men aloft to reef, and then, an hour later, send them aloft again to take in the sail. If the yard gives way at an unpropitious moment, men will be killed. Take the sail in smartly, if you please, and then reef the main topsail as well.”
Dryden’s nod was barely visible in the dim lamplight. “Aye, sir. I took the liberty of rigging a quicksaver on the foresail. I hope that meets with your approval?”
“It does indeed, Mr Dryden.”
The young master’s mate hurried forward, searching out the acting bosun. For the next three quarters of an hour, Hayden found himself staring upward into the impenetrable gloom, worried that the yard would give way and the yard men would be tumbled into the sea or down onto the deck. But finally the task was managed by the too-small crew, and Hayden breathed a sigh.
“Shall I take the deck until you have eaten your dinner, sir?”
Under Enemy Colours Page 37
