A Battle Won
SEAN THOMAS RUSSELL
MICHAEL JOSEPH
an imprint of
PENGUIN BOOKS
MICHAEL JOSEPH
Published by the Penguin Group
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First published 2010
Copyright © Sean Thomas Russell, 2010
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All rights reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book
ISBN: 978-0-14-195837-8
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Afterword
Acknowledgements
This book is dedicated to the memory of three friends, all of whom departed far too young: Jean Kotcher, Jan Daley and Art Meck. Deeply mourned and terribly missed.
Nothing, except a battle lost,
can be half so melancholy as a battle won.
Arthur Wellesley,
Duke of Wellington
KEY
A Bay where the squadron first anchored and remained from the 7 to 18 February
B Landing place of the troops on 7 February
C Tower on Mortella Point taken 10 February (2 eighteen-pounders and 1 six-pounder mounted)
D Mortella Bay
E Convention Redoubt taken by storm the night of 17 February
F Tower of Fornali with the different batteries dependent on it, taken the night of 17 February
G Lieutenant-Colonel Moore’s encampment, with the 51st Regiment, from 8 to 20 February
H Upper Battery of 2 eighteen-pounders and 1 eight-inch howitzer against Convention Redoubt, at 800 yards distance and elevated 650 feet above the sea
I Lower Battery of 2 eighteen-pounders and 1 ten-inch howitzer against Convention Redoubt, at 1000 yards distance and elevated 450 feet above the sea
K Fornali Bay, where the French frigates Fortunée and Minerve were anchored beneath the batteries
L Battery of one eighteen-pounder, 2 nine-pounders and 1 eighteen-pound caronade against tower on Mortella Point
M Landing place of the guns. Distance to the upper battery about 2000 yards
One
It was a desperate progress. In the stern-sheets of a cutter, among his honour guard of marines, squatted a doughy paymaster, an ironbound box cradled in his ample lap. Trailing in his wake, a fleet of tawdry bum-boats, the hungry faces of the merchants eyeing the paymaster as though he were a scrap of food. And astern of these, a motley squadron of fishing craft and lighters of all descriptions, their rouged passengers clinging anxiously to the gunnels – non-swimmers, the lot.
‘Cleopatra’s barge carried no one as comely as you, darling,’ a grinning, pock-marked sailor called from the deck of a ship to one of the girls, only to find a bosun’s rattan smacking down around his ears.
Hayden gazed at the poor women who followed the paymaster, expecting to ply their trade among the briefly moneyed seamen. An hour earlier he had been in the company of Henrietta Carthew, and these fallen creatures who were being ferried out to slake the thirst of sailors seemed of a different species altogether. It occurred to him that if not for the luck of birth his own Henrietta… No, it was unthinkable. His spirits lowered ineffably, and Hayden looked away, gazing around Plymouth harbour. A drab, windless day, November chilled, sea leaden and heaving in a slow, ponderous rhythm. His boat passed into the Hamoaze and the midshipman in nominal charge tore his gaze away from the whores’ fleet, suddenly remembered Hayden, and smiled embarrassedly.
‘A sad metaphor of our English way of life, I fear,’ Hayden offered, nodding towards the paymaster’s progress, which disappeared at that moment behind the point, but the young gentleman did not seem to grasp the jest.
The powder hoy passed at that moment, and the midshipman turned his back to it, hunching his shoulders visibly, as though prepared to receive a blow. Hayden noticed the coxswain, an old seaman, suppressing a smile and Hayden did the same. If the powder hoy were to explode so near, turning one’s back would not offer protection.
Hayden gazed down the river where every kind of craft imaginable either lay to a mooring or made its way through the still water. War had shaken the dockyards and surrounding waters out of everyday dullness into a sudden fever of excitement and motion. The towns of Plymouth and Dock swarmed with sailors, with the massive drays of enriched victuallers, with marines, red-coated and red-faced. Herds of moaning bullocks blocked up the lanes stalling wagons from the Ordnance Board. And all about and underfoot campaigned delighted boys, waving wooden swords and firing imaginary muskets as the frenetic commerce of war spilled out of the offices of the Navy Board and into the noisome streets.
‘There she is, sir, the admiral’s flagship,’ the midshipman offered, with no trace of irony.
Hayden turned to gain a view of the Hamoaze and the eighty-gun guardship, Cambridge, from which the Port Admiral executed the duties of his office. It seemed a strange affectation that a Port Admiral must have a ship and not an office in a building ashore – certainly he had a rather elegant residence supplied by the Admiralty. The affectation was not carried so far as to cause him actual discomfort.
Hayden had, for some time, been contemplating the meaning of his summons but tried to put this worrisome activity to rest. All would be revealed in the fullness of time and worry would change nothing.
The cutter was laid expertly alongside the ship, and Hayden went nimbly up the ladder. He ignored the lowering of his mood and the anxiety that told him his ill-fated career was about to receive another blow. The First Secretary of the Navy had given him his commission, and the little ship-sloop Kent; certainly no Port Admiral could take these away.
The bosun piped him aboard, and a line of marines presented arms sharply, a ritual they must have performed fifty times a day given the
constant traffic in captains and even admirals visiting the ship. Lowly masters and commanders, such as Hayden, were most likely seen with less frequency.
Several turns about the deck were necessary while Hayden awaited his audience. He was not the only officer present, but the captains and flag officers were all strangers to him and they did no more than bob heads in his direction, hardly interrupting their hushed conversations. Hayden felt more an outsider than usual, and that was saying a great deal.
A guardship was not quite a vessel in ‘ordinary’ but a ship with spars standing and crewed to partial muster. Guardships were maintained in this state to provide the Admiralty with a reserve of vessels that could be readied for sea in mere days if there were a sudden need. The Cambridge, however, was not about to go to sea anytime in the near future for she neared the end of her days. ‘Receiving hulk’ would comprise the next stage of her natural life and then the ship breaker. His Majesty’s ships were rather like phoenixes, Hayden knew, rising from the ashes, for though the Admiralty might discard a ship it almost never abandoned a name – there would certainly be another Cambridge within a few years of this particular ship’s demise.
‘Captain Hayden?’
Hayden turned to find a pink-cheeked marine corporal touching his hat.
‘Yes.’
‘The admiral sends his respects and requests the honour of your company.’
A moment later Hayden was let into the admiral’s outer cabin by the marine sentry and met by a guarded secretary. No words were offered in greeting, only a quick leg, the man constantly glancing back towards the door which led to the admiral’s day-cabin. From beyond the door, the muffled thump of heavy footsteps sounded, paused, and then immediately resumed, traversing larboard to starboard.
The secretary beckoned Hayden, then hastened almost silently towards the inner door, hesitated, knocked, and, when no answer was forthcoming, steeled himself visibly and applied knuckle to wood with greater force.
‘Come in, dammit! Have I gone deaf now, as well?’
The secretary opened the door to let Hayden in and then, exposing only his arm to the glaring admiral within, pulled the door quickly but silently closed. Moments such as these Hayden found most difficult. He was not about to appear intimidated, yet to defy such an officer’s mood would do nothing to further his cause, as he well knew. But Hayden was simply not given to servility.
Admiral Rowland Cotton stood glowering after his secretary a moment and then turned his pinched and darkened countenance upon Hayden, who attempted to appear utterly neutral.
‘You do realize that my predecessor died of apoplexy?’ the admiral stated.
Hayden nodded – it was well known that Sir Richard Bickerton had died in a fit of frustrated rage the year previous, though in fact he was not Cotton’s precise predecessor – Admiral Colby, very briefly, claimed that honour.
‘Your ship – what is it named?’ the admiral began, without any further attempt at pleasantries.
‘The Kent, sir.’
‘It has not arrived…’
‘No, sir. Two days of sou’west gales and now a calm –’
But Cotton was not interested in meteorology; nor had he been making an enquiry. ‘You were Hart’s lieutenant, yes?’
‘I was, sir,’ Hayden answered guardedly. The mention of Hart’s name filled him with trepidation. He harboured a fear that he would always be associated with that officer and the infamous events aboard his ship and it seemed his fear was being borne out.
‘Then the Themis is familiar to you?’
‘That is correct, Admiral –’
Cotton began his pacing again. ‘No doubt you are cognizant of the fact that she was given to Captain Davies? Yes? But it seems the good captain has been seized by an attack of… some mysterious ailment, after a lifetime of unblemished health. The truth is, and I do not care who knows it, the man is busy making interest among his friends in London and in the Admiralty because he is too proud to take her. It appears that the Themis, a new-built frigate of excellent moulding and character, is beneath the captains of the fleet because to be given a ship so… notorious would be a sure sign that they were not held in high regard in Whitehall Street!’ The man shook his head, his face hardening with anger. ‘But you are in perfect health, yes? Not about to contract a sudden case of dyspepsia…? Good. I have been complaining daily to the Admiralty that the Themis swings to her mooring awaiting a competent officer, and after a number of missives they have finally condescended to allow me to assign a man to convey her to Admiral Lord Hood in the Mediterranean. Finding her a captain will then be Hood’s problem, not mine.’ He stopped and glanced at Hayden. ‘I don’t need to spell it out for you, I suppose?’
‘You wish me to deliver the Themis to Lord Hood, sir.’
The man leaned forward. ‘I do not wish it, Captain Hayden, I order it.’
‘But what will become of me then? What of the Kent?’
The admiral waved a hand dismissively. ‘Hood will have a use for you, I am sure. Or he will send you back to Mr Stephens.’ The admiral spun on his heel and resumed his pacing, clearly done with Hayden, who made no move to leave, even so.
Seeing Hayden still fixed to his place the admiral asked. ‘Is a frigate not better than a sloop, Hayden?’
‘It is better to have command of one’s own vessel. To be a job-captain is –’
The admiral rounded on him. ‘Too many officers think first of their careers and secondly of the service. They forget there is a war to be fought and sacrifices to be made.’
Yes, but I’m the one being sacrificed, Hayden almost said.
But the interview was over and Hayden was quickly ushered out by the fussy secretary, who placed in his reluctant hand both orders and commission, which clearly had been made out in advance of his arrival.
Hayden was on the deck in a moment, the gathered captains glancing his way with chilling disinterest, then back to their quiet conversations. Over the side Hayden went and down into the waiting boat, where he sagged onto a plank in the stern-sheets.
The midshipman ordered the boat away and then, when Hayden said nothing, enquired softly, ‘Plymouth quay, sir?’
‘Do you know where the Themis is anchored?’
‘The mutineers’ ship?’
‘The very one.’
‘You haven’t been sent into her, I hope.’
Hayden fixed the boy with a cold glare.
‘Cawsand Bay, sir. We’ll have you there quicker than you can say –’
‘Twice cursed?’ Hayden ventured, completing the sentence, but the middy thought better of offering a reply.
A whispering rain spattered the harbour as they left the protection of the river, dimpling the surface and sending dull silvered rings expanding all around. The oarsmen bent to their sweeps, breathing hard from the effort, and soon Cawsand Bay appeared, crowded with ships as it almost always was.
The black hull of the Themis could soon be seen among the vessels, all streaming to the tidal current – the runt among a fleet of larger ships of war. The midshipman ordered the coxswain to lay his boat alongside, where Hayden was asked, by the marine sentry, to wait, as he sent for the officer of the watch. Word quickly came back that Hayden should be allowed to board and as he ascended the ladder, a memory of first climbing the side of the ship came to him – she had been slovenly, then, her crew drunk and officers barely in control; the legacy of the tyrannical Hart. It seemed such a long time ago – not mere weeks. There were no sounds of revelry this day, but only the quiet pounding of a carpenter’s hammer somewhere inside, the tolling of the ship’s bell and calls of ‘All’s well’, though Hayden could not bring himself to agree. As he climbed over the rail, a familiar face emerged from below.
‘Mr Archer,’ Hayden greeted him, pleased to find aboard anyone he knew. When Hayden had quit the ship, all the officers and warrant officers were to have been sent ashore – no doubt at the insistence of the new captain, who had not wanted to serve with m
en who were in any way connected to a mutiny. ‘I am surprised to see you here.’
‘And I am just as surprised to see you, Mr Hayden. I should have thought you would never want to set foot aboard this ship again. We are awaiting our new captain, but it seems he has an aversion to our company.’
‘Hmm. Let us repair below out of this rain. Are you well, Mr Archer?’
‘Oh, quite well, sir.’ Archer smiled. He habitually looked as though he had just come, somewhat befuddled, from slumbering in his cot, and this day was no different. As they walked the deck he attempted, stealthily, to straighten his waistcoat, which had been fastened one button out of place so that it made an awkward angle across his chest.
‘Have your numbers been brought up?’ Hayden asked, by way of relieving the embarrassment. He pretended not to notice Archer in combat with his uniform.
‘Near enough, sir. We’ve been waiting on the press to bring us a few men, but I believe they have done with us.’
After the mutiny, the Themis’s crew had been reduced to a mere eighty men – at least 120 men shy of her compliment.
As they reached the companionway ladder Archer spoke down to a man below. ‘Look who has come to call, Mr Barthe – a newly minted master and commander, it seems.’ And then to Hayden. ‘I have neglected to offer my congratulations on your promotion, sir.’
At the foot of the ladder Hayden and the corpulent sailing master grasped hands. Mr Barthe was red-faced and puffing, as though he had run up stairs. ‘I thought it might be our new captain,’ Barthe laughed, clearly pleased to see Hayden, ‘and came at a run as not to appear lax. Come down to the gunroom, Mr Hayden, it is warmer there.’ Barthe stepped aside and let Hayden precede him down the ladder. ‘Will you not accompany us, Mr Archer?’
‘Just measuring the wind, Mr Barthe.’
‘Straightening his waistcoat,’ Hayden whispered to the sailing master, who answered with a knowing grin.
The master muffled his laughter, then cleared his throat. ‘The rumour is you have a ship, Mr Hayden. The Kent. Is that correct?’
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