by Hunter, Seth
He was still not used to the informal ways of a merchantman—and an American merchantman at that. Tully was so much better at it: able to joke with a man one minute and bawl him out the next with a string of colourful abuse. This made Nathan uneasy, too, for they were officially a Navy ship—His Britannic Majesty’s hired vessel Speedwell—and subject to naval discipline. And yet a kind of discipline prevailed that was as impressive in its way as it was mysterious. Everyone seemed to know what they had to do without too much agitation from Tully or Keeble—even their obscenities did not sound agitated—and the two men appeared to get on well enough. They had all behaved well during the confrontation with the privateer. Possibly there were other ways of working as a team than the iron discipline enforced by the Navy. But then these were not pressed men, nor driven to the sea by a brutal, impoverished life ashore. And they were earning three times the rate of an able seaman in the Royal Navy with the promise of a bonus on completion of the voyage. Could you depend on men who worked for profit and each other as readily as those who served their country and feared its just retribution if they failed? Nathan’s natural instincts inclined him to think you could—but he had been in the service since he was thirteen and was accustomed to the formal, ordered life of a ship of war backed by the lash and the rope. On Nereus he was surrounded by an invisible wall of privilege and authority. I say to this one, go and he goes; and to another, come and he comes . . . No one dared question a single command, no matter how absurd or dangerous, on pain of death.
So which did he prefer? He pondered this now as he leaned back, seemingly as relaxed as any, upon the rail. Probably, for all the uncertainty, he was more at ease as a privateer or a blockade runner than he was as the captain of a King’s ship. Certainly he felt that the crew of the Speedwell accepted him as their commander far more readily than the crew of the Nereus, though his authority in the latter case was buttressed by all the majesty of his position, a phalanx of commissioned and warrant officers and a squad of armed marines. Perhaps this was his own perception of himself as the son of an admiral promoted beyond his abilities, resented by his first lieutenant and not entirely trusted by his crew. But why should it be any different now? He had arrived from nowhere, assumed command, taken them off on a wild gambit across the Channel, left them to stew in Le Havre, and now he was guiding them through mist and darkness to they knew not where. Yet they had seen him outrun and outgun a French privateer and apparently outwit a British ship of the line, and they had sailed in and out of French waters with impunity. Nathan sensed that they considered him “gifted”: blessed with mysterious powers, or at least uncommon good fortune. But this might have been wishful thinking on his part. Besides, he told himself, he must not count his chickens . . .
“Ship ahead! Two points off the starboard bow.”
“Port your helm!” Nathan, running to the starboard rail, saw the dark shape looming out of the mist. Heard more shouts, in French, but could not immediately take them in. He watched the distance narrow—Tully had half the crew lined along the rail to fend her off—but they were travelling so very, very slowly, barely sufficient to give them steerage-way and there was a good half-cable’s length between them as the bow came ponderously round. Nathan had seen the long row of gun ports in that first swift glimpse but they meant nothing—most merchantmen had gun ports painted on their sides even if they did not carry guns—but he saw now she was a true ship of war: a frigate of 28 guns or more and her sides filled with men. He could make out the officers now on the quarterdeck and his mind registered what they had been shouting at him across the water. He jumped up in the shrouds and leaning far out over the side he called back in a deliberately clumsy French: “Barque Américaine Speedwell. Depart à New York.”
The gap was closing and he could see that the Frenchman was moored at stem and stern—but with spring cables so she could bring her broadside to bear. And by God they were running them out already. He could see the glow of slow matches on the quarterdeck.
“Ne tirez pas, messieurs—Citoyens—nous sommes Américaines.”
He braced himself for the command to drop anchor and bring the ship’s papers for inspection; they might even send a boarding party to search the vessel and if they suspected him of trading with the enemy he would be back in Havre-Marat facing an interview with the man from Paris. The two vessels were almost level now and he could make out her name in gold lettering across the stern: La Vestale. Then came a voice in heavily accented English warning him that there was an English cruiser in the bay and he would be advised to wait for a wind.
“But then I will miss the tide,” Nathan objected.
Then a mischievous thought crossed his mind. He raised his voice for they were almost past. “Can you not escort us out into the bay?”
The response, when it came, was from another voice and in French.
“Mes regrets, Citoyen, mais le capitain il est au port avec la plupart du peuple. Vous êtes seuls.”
His final bon chance came from behind the falling curtain of mist. Nathan found his heart was pounding and there was sweat on his brow. He saw Keeble and several other of the crew grinning at him and managed a genuine grin back.
La Vestale. He turned to look back to where she lay in the stagnant haze. When he was with the Dover squadron, in the service of His Majesty’s Customs and hoping for better days, he had made an inventory of every ship in the French fleet above the rate of frigate. La Vestale, La Vestale . . . He delved in the neatly labelled catalogues of his mind—the comprehensive lists of guns, winds, dogs, horses, wild birds, stars, planets and other articles of greater or lesser import, filed there since early boyhood, and found her in a matter of seconds among warships, French, frigates . . . La Vestale, 32-gun frigate of the Magicienne class, built in the ’80s . . . Twenty-six 12-pounders and six 6-pounders on her quarterdeck, with a crew of about 250 officers and men. A complacent crew at that for there were no boarding nets rigged and if his French confidant could be believed, her captain ashore with many of the crew. How many? Nathan wondered. La plupart, he had said. Did that mean most of them or a small number? Then a ragged gap appeared in the mist and he saw her again and another vessel off her starboard quarter—a two-decker of 74 guns or more—and beyond this grim guardian the blurred outlines of the fort on the headland. No wonder they were complacent.
He felt a breath of wind on his cheek—the offshore wind that had torn a hole in the mist—and looked up to see the topsails twitching away from the mast, flapping back and then filling. Then the courses, with more reluctance, shaking themselves free of the clinging damp. But the wind was firm on his cheek now and the pennant at the mizzen above his head pointing to the east. No, not quite. He glanced at the compass. East-southeast. It could hardly be better. Already he could feel the barque responding, moving with a new purpose towards the open sea and almost at once they met the first hint of a swell. He considered his course by the light of the binnacle and instructed the helmsman to bring her round to nor’-nor’-west.
“Nor’-nor’-west?” By God, the man was questioning him and he almost laughed. Buchan, was it? Ned Buchan? Jed Buchan? Another Marblehead man. He caught Nathan’s eye and shrugged as if it was all one to him: “Nor’-nor’-west it is, then.”
They would know now they were not heading back down the Channel, not back to America, not even to Bristol. And so would any Frenchman who saw them. But there was no chance of that from the shore and precious little at sea. As for the British cruiser . . .
A cry from the lookout as the fog lifted and there she was: half a mile off their larboard bow, a wraith among wraiths; ten seconds more and she would vanish again but it was five seconds too long and the watch too sharp. He saw her start to wear as the mist closed round her and when he saw her again she was bearing down on him on the starboard tack with her guns run out. Instantly the flash and bang of her starboard chaser and the shot skipping across his bows.
/> “Merde!” he swore aloud in the French that had become second nature to him now. Having little choice in the matter he gave the orders to bring her up into the wind and counterbrace the yards. The men obeyed him glumly but he saw some expectation in the covert glances they gave him, waiting to see what rabbit he would pull out of the hat. But all he had was the First Lord’s letter in the locked box in his cabin. An awkward sod of a British captain might insist that as he could no longer claim to be delivering dispatches to the American Minister in Paris the least he could do was spare a few of his best topmen to serve King George. And, come to think of it, what was he carrying on his return to His Majesty’s former colonies . . . ?
Then he looked back at the cruiser, clear now of the lingering shreds of mist, and saw with a shock of recognition that she was the Nereus.
“I had orders to look out for you these past five days,” said Richard Jordan, “and escort you back to England.”
He made it sound like an accusation—and a threat.
They were in Nathan’s old day cabin on the Nereus—he supposed it must be Jordan’s now—while the man who must be Jordan’s steward made them coffee.
“I am grateful to you,” Nathan told him with a small bow, “and to whoever gave you the order, for I knew nothing of it.” It puzzled him still. “I cannot tell you how glad I was to see the old brig charging through the mist.”
“Well, it appears your mission has some priority,” Jordan acknowledged stiffly. He seemed to have grown a little older and greyer since Nathan saw him last. The weight of command? But he was still a lieutenant; he had no commander’s epaulette on his left shoulder, which might add to his discontent.
Nathan recalled what the First Lord had said to him in his office in Whitehall: the Nereus will be under temporary command until your return. Well, now he was back and might justifiably resume his command. But it would have to be handled with some delicacy. There was an ambiguity here—particularly as Jordan had instructions to escort him back to England—and he did not want to create a problem. Choosing his words with care, Nathan began to explain the plan that had formed in his mind the moment he saw the Nereus bearing down on him in the misty shoals of the Baie de Seine.
Jordan did not take it well.
“I have no orders,” he began.
“You have my orders,” Nathan reminded him pointedly. Then, in a more conciliatory tone, “Oh come, sir, we are at war. We must take every opportunity to strike at the enemy—and we will never get a better chance.”
Jordan shook his head. “It is too much of a risk.”.
“They watched us sailing past them in the mist,” Nathan pressed him with rising impatience. “The American barque Speedwell. Barely an hour since. And now she is running back. From the same British cruiser they warned us about. What are they going to do—fire on us?”
“They might,” Jordan argued, still shaking his head.
Nathan fell back on his authority. “It is entirely my responsibility. If you wish, I will give you the order in writing.”
“I do not like to insist,” Jordan said, “but if it goes wrong and you are no longer . . .” He spread his arms, not wishing to complete the sentence.
“Fetch me pen and paper,” said Nathan, tight-lipped. “I will do it straight way.”
He was far more accommodating to the crew of the Speedwell.
“Lads, this is well beyond the call of duty,” he told them as they gathered on the deck with the two vessels lurching side by side in the swell like two drunks in the Strand and the Nereids swarming across the rail behind them. “Any man who wishes it may step aboard the brig without disgrace, or loss of pay, and may rejoin us on our return.”
Some shuffling, an exchange of glances. Most of them seemed to look towards Keeble or the ex-Navy gunner Solomon Pratt. The silence felt uncomfortable. Nathan knew they would be reluctant to step aboard the Nereus for fear of being detained permanently.
“Needless to say you will have a share in the rewards.”
Nothing. Not so much as a grin. But no one moved towards the brig.
“Then you are with us?”
“Aye, I reckon we’re with you, eh, lads?” Keeble looked around at them and there were nods and something that was more growl than cheer but just as heartening. Nathan swallowed hard.
“Good,” he said and, in the emotion of the moment, “Then you will form part of my division in the bow.”
The other two divisions he gave to Canning, second lieutenant of the Nereus, and Tully, each with their own specific objective. Everything depended on taking the Vestale by surprise—and keeping the Nereids out of sight until they were close enough to board.
There was still plenty of mist in the mouth of the Seine, more than there was out in the bay, but it was patchier than before and swirling a little in the faint breeze off the shore, like wraiths dancing a reel. Nathan leaned out over the rail, straining his eyes to discern a hint of masts and rigging in the shifting phantom shapes. They were running under reefed courses and headsails only and as close to the wind as she could sail but the tide was on the flood and the barque was moving faster than he would have wished. If he had calculated right they would cross the frigate’s bow at a distance of about a cable’s length. But if he did not see her in the next half minute he would have to come about and he was dangerously close to shore.
He would have to wear. He opened his mouth to give the order and then the dancing wraiths moved apart and he saw her. Close. Christ, so close. And they had seen him. Shouts. The sound of running feet. And worse, far worse: the squeak and grind of them running out the guns. He leapt to the larbourd shroud, clinging with one arm and leaning out over the water.
“Speedwell barque,” he called, and then in his clumsy French with a sense of panic in his voice that was not entirely feigned: “L’Americaine. Nous sommes Americaines. Souvenez . . .”
They had to believe him. They would not fire into an American. Not when they had seen her barely an hour since. The words of Lieutenant Jordan returned to taunt him.
They might.
“Nous avons retrouvé votre Anglais, mes amis,” he shouted, forgetting to stumble over the words. “Mais nous l’avons perdu dans la brume.”
She was swinging at the cables and he saw the long row of guns, the glow of the slow matches at the tubs. A broadside of 168 pounds. He wondered that he could call this to mind as he clung to the shrouds, staring at Death.
A voice in English.
“Come about and bring her into the roads.”
Thank Christ.
He heard Tully repeat the order, inwardly exulting, watched the bowsprit coming round, turning with painful slowness into the wind. Did they have enough way to complete the manoeuvre? The sails feathered and for one awful moment he thought they were taken aback. Then they filled on the opposite tack and the crew were hauling on the braces to bring the yards round, bringing them on a course that would take them past the frigate’s stern and into the roads under the guns of the two-decker and the fort on the headland. Nathan ran to the opposite rail and watched the gap narrow. Closer, closer . . . He could see the pale faces watching him in the light of the stern lantern, smell the smoke of the slow matches at the tubs. He glanced to right and left. The Angel Gabriel was at his side, back to his wicked ways with a pistol in each hand and a cutlass at his belt, Keeble behind him with a pistol and a tomahawk—a weapon favoured by many of the Speedwells; then the grumbling gunner, Solomon Pratt, with a boarding axe muttering to himself in an undertone—it might be a prayer; the cook Small with his cleaver . . . Then a string of orders from Tully at the con, the courses coming up and the helmsman spinning the wheel and the bows coming round, farther, farther. Frantic shouts from the frigate as they saw her heading straight for their stern instead of passing beyond it. And then the Speedwell’s long bowsprit pierced their mizzenmast shrou
ds like a lance and there was a terrible grinding and splintering as they struck. With a great yell Nathan led his Americans over the bow. He ran straight up the bowsprit through the torn rigging, dropped down on to the quarterdeck on all fours, pistolled the gunner as he was bringing his match to the sternmost 6-pounder and struck out with his cutlass to right and left. One of his own men jumping down from the bowsprit crashed into him and sent him sprawling. He struggled to his feet, saw Gabriel livid in the light of the stern lantern, his face a demon mask of blood-lust and rage, firing both pistols.
“Take the wheel, take the wheel,” Nathan yelled at Keeble. A French officer came running at him with his sword. Nathan turned it with his own and slashed back across the man’s chest; saw the almost comic expression of dismay and the thin red line appearing at his white waistcoat before he fell away. Ran to the companionway as a marine popped up with fixed bayonet, knocked the bayonet aside with his sword and kicked him back down again, turned and saw the marines from the Nereus pouring up from their concealment below decks.
The two vessels were locked together at the Speedwell’s bow and the Vestale’s stern, swaying like two great stags with locked antlers. And the tide was pushing the barque’s stern round laying her alongside the frigate. Nathan looked up and saw the ghostly shapes of Tully’s topmen through the mist, running along the yards to lash the two vessels together. And now the Nereids were pouring up from the hold, yelling like demons and flinging grapnels across the diminishing gap.
The frigate’s gun crews, frozen like so many tableaux, finally sprang into life. But the Nereids were already swarming over the rail, driving them back from the big guns. Nathan saw Lieutenant Canning among them, a small almost doll-like man, lashing about him with his sword. Two of his men had run straight for the bows and were hacking at the cable with axes. And then the main course came down with a rush blocking Nathan’s view and he saw Tully up there with his division, lowering the topsails, and the frigate began to move from her moorings, dragging the Speedwell with her, still locked by the head. He peered through the murk to starboard but there was no sign of the 74. They must have heard the noise of battle though, through the mist. No time to be lost. The Speedwells held the quarterdeck now and Keeble was at the helm but the waist was still filled with struggling figures and there were more of the Vestale’s crew pouring up from below, marines among them with fixed bayonets. How many were there? How many had the captain taken ashore? Not many by the look of that hoard streaming through the open hatches.
