A Battle Won

by Sean Thomas Russell

  ‘No, sir. I recognized him. On occasion he would aid his father… when not in school. I am sure I am not the only one who will remember him, Captain.’

  ‘Do you anticipate a problem?’

  Wickham raised his cup and, gazing down into it, swirled the liquid. ‘Well, sir, his faith means nothing to me, but the Admiralty might feel differently.’

  ‘He is prepared to take the sacrament, if required.’

  ‘So he’s become Christian, then? There is no impediment to his service?’

  ‘You heard what Mr Smosh said at dinner – the church does not much care how people come to it. Like the good reverend, perhaps, Gould had more need of a career than a new faith, but I shall not sit in judgement.’

  ‘He is very bright and capable; I hope the men accept him.’

  ‘Yes, let us hope they do. Enquire of Saint-Denis what watch he would have you stand.’

  ‘Aye, sir. And thank you again, Captain.’

  Hayden waved a hand in dismissal. ‘You might as well join the play – acting captain, acting lieutenant. We are all actors here, it seems, and all the sea’s our stage.’ Thoughts of ‘Romeo’ Moat made Hayden smile.

  Outside the door, Wickham’s dignified retreat turned into a joyous gallop, the sound of his shoes clattering down the stairs like a colt released into a spring field.

  Having accepted a dinner invitation from the gunroom for the evening next, Hayden supped alone in his cabin, constantly listening to the sound of the wind and measuring the sea state by the motion of the ship. The northerly was holding and bearing them out towards the Atlantic, but it was a cold wind and Hayden was pleased to see his dinner arrive, steaming.

  When lids were removed from chafing dishes Hayden was surprised to find a meal in the French style, with exquisite sauces and cooked to a nicety.

  ‘Good God,’ he said finally to his steward, ‘did Jefferies produce this meal? It is exquisite!’

  The steward was suppressing a self-satisfied grin. ‘Not quite, sir. Childers and Dryden learned you didn’t have no cook, sir, so they found you one. I hope you don’t mind, sir.’

  ‘Mind? They are to be commended. I shall thank them myself. Who is this man – the cook I mean?’

  ‘Rosseau, Captain.’

  ‘He’s French…’ Hayden felt a sudden apprehension. ‘An émigré?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know, Captain, but I should think so.’

  ‘Well, I am happy such a man would agree to come to sea. I shall have to meet him. Would you bring him when I am finished? And Childers and Dryden too, if Saint-Denis can spare them.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  When Hayden had finished overeating, Childers and Dryden came trooping in, followed by a third: an oddly shaped, almost misshaped, face crowned by coarse, coal-dust hair. His eyes were astonishingly dark, large and fevered-looking. Skin pale and glossy, chin small, cheekbones high and overly large. Hayden hoped the man was not ill, for certainly, he looked it.

  Hayden rose from his chair. ‘This is the man who prepared the exquisite meal?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Childers answered. ‘He don’t speak much English but you’ll find his French is crackin’.’

  ‘And speaking of finding: wherever did you find such a man?’

  Childers and Dryden glanced at each other, oddly uncomfortable. ‘In Plymouth, sir.’

  ‘So he is an émigré?’ Hayden turned to the cook. ‘Vous êtes un émigré, n’est-ce pas?’

  The man looked confused. ‘Non, monsieur… le ponton.’

  Hayden’s smile melted. ‘A hulk…’

  The Frenchman nodded. ‘Oui, the ’ulk.’

  Hayden turned on Dryden and Childers. ‘Not a prison hulk…’

  Dryden threw up his hands and looked at Childers, alarmed. ‘We thought he was wandering around Plymouth looking for a position, sir. That’s what we were told.’

  ‘And who told you this?’

  Both Childers and Dryden looked flummoxed, now. ‘Well, sir, this fellow, uh… I don’t rightly know his proper name.’

  ‘Monsieur… Worth,’ Rosseau said, his comprehension of English clearly better than had been represented. ‘Monsieur Worth,’ he said again, nodding hopefully.

  ‘Worth…’ Hayden could not quite believe what he was hearing. ‘Our Worth? Speak up!’

  ‘Aye, Captain.’ Childers admitted

  Hayden turned to Rosseau. ‘How did you come to England?’ he asked in French.

  ‘I was the captain’s chef, monsieur, aboard the Dragoon.’

  ‘The Dragoon!’

  The man nodded, a curious bobbing of his small head.

  Hayden turned back to his coxswain and master’s mate, both of whom stood ramrod straight, eyes fixed forward. ‘And Worth got him out of a hulk? Bloody hell, was no one thinking? The authorities will be looking for him.’

  ‘They’ll give it up after a few days… won’t they?’ Dryden responded softly.

  ‘We thought you might like to have a French cook, sir, as we know you’re fond of their victuals,’ Childers spluttered.

  ‘Indeed I would, Childers,’ Hayden said, ‘if he were not a prisoner of war!’ Hayden paced across the cabin. Worth would be involved in this – the man who had risked prison, at Hayden’s request, to steal back Barthe’s logbook. He was greatly in Worth’s debt… and now look what the man had done! ‘Well, there isn’t anything for it now. He can’t swim back to Plymouth and we will all be in some difficulties if we turn him in.’ Hayden stopped to stare at the two crewmen. No one returned his gaze. ‘We shall have to keep him, for the present.’

  ‘Shall he continue cooking for you? – he’s on the books, sir.’

  ‘What else would he do? Fight the French?’

  ‘I don’t imagine he’s much of a fighter, sir,’ Dryden offered meekly.

  Hayden almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation. ‘No, I don’t imagine he is. Back to your duties.’

  Dryden turned as he was about to pass through the doorway. ‘Is Worth in trouble, sir?’

  ‘You are all in trouble, Mr Dryden, I just don’t know exactly what kind or how to mete out punishment to men who intended me such a kindness. No more such gestures, Mr Dryden. Do you hear? And tell Worth the same.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  Hayden nodded to the chef, who looked confused by these strange Englishmen. ‘Excellent meal, Monsieur Rosseau. Très bon. Merci.’

  Five

  Winds, varied in strength and point of origin, carried the convoy fitfully across Biscay. Ushant was left, unseen, to larboard, as Pool hoped to slip out of the Channel and into the Atlantic without privateers being alerted to their presence. But the chops of the Channel was one of the busiest shipping areas on earth and sail were seen. He had no doubt that news of their convoy was speeding faster than they were. They would not outrun it.

  Unable to sleep, and suffering mild dyspepsia, Hayden took the deck at dawn of their third day. He found Wickham and Barthe on the quarterdeck, huddled in muted conversation. The night was very close, the decks wet from an earlier rain, but there was little weight in the wind – north-west by west. Before them he could see a few fitful lights of the convoy vessels, winking in and out of being.

  Hayden addressed the helmsmen loudly, to alert his officers to his presence. Many a captain had come on deck to hear himself being discussed, not always in the most flattering terms, and Hayden wanted to avoid that.

  ‘Captain,’ Barthe said, touching his hat.

  Hayden greeted them in return. ‘All is well, I hope?’ Their manner, serious, almost anxious, made him wonder if this were true.

  ‘We believe so, sir,’ Barthe replied, ‘but Mr Wickham thinks he saw a light about an hour ago, off our starboard quarter some two miles distant. And then again, more abeam just a few moments ago.’

  ‘It was just for an instant, sir, when the rain let up.’

  ‘Have we a straggler?’ Hayden turned and looked out to sea in the direction the light had been seen. Wickham
could discern more in the dark than any man aboard, so Hayden was inclined to take this seriously.

  ‘I hope not, Captain,’ Barthe said, ‘but it would not surprise me. Even so, we have had no signal, if a ship has fallen behind.’

  ‘It will be light soon, and then we shall know.’ Hayden made a tour of the deck, speaking with the sentries and some of the hands. He was trying to learn the names of the new men and make judgements as to their characters. A number had been sailors in the merchant fleet and were fitting in well, but among the landsmen, most of whom had been impressed, there was, if not discontent, despondency and confusion. Hayden had seen this before; men taken from their familiar world and thrown into a situation they neither aspired to nor understood. A hostile sea all around, enemy ships seeking them. It was enough to undermine the stoutest character. A little prize money would set them to rights, Hayden thought. But there would be little chance of that on convoy duty.

  By the time Hayden had completed his circuit of the deck, the eastern sky had paled to tarnished silver and the dull waters stretched, restive, to a near horizon. Stepping back onto the quarterdeck, Hayden found Barthe and Wickham standing at the rail, the corpulent sailing master beside the slender youth. Wickham was pointing to the west and they were both staring with some intensity.

  ‘There! Did you see?’ Wickham clapped the master on the arm.

  ‘No. But I cannot think that one of our transports has climbed so far to windward. Ah, Captain,’ Barthe said as Hayden approached. ‘Wickham has found sails out in the murk. One ship on our beam and maybe a schooner hurrying away to the north-east. Shall we signal Pool?’

  Hayden leaned his hands on the wet rail and felt the chill bite into him. ‘Have the flags readied, but let us wait a moment. Perhaps we can discover what manner of ship this is.’

  Light penetrated the clouds slowly, revealing the myriad shades of grey. For a moment it appeared to grow darker, but finally the brightening sky, and a momentary break in the distant murk, revealed sails and a dark, unmistakable hull.

  ‘Not one of our transports,’ Hayden pronounced, and felt his breath suddenly grow short. He raised his hands but instead of slamming fists down on wood, slapped them down gently.

  ‘I could not make her out,’ Barthe said, still squinting into the distance. ‘What manner of ship?’

  ‘A frigate, Mr Barthe,’ Wickham informed him. ‘Shall I make the signal, Captain?’

  ‘Yes. It is likely Pool has seen her himself, but let us not count on that. Call all hands, Mr Barthe. We shall beat to quarters.’

  A moment later the remaining middies tumbled out on the deck, the officers in their wake. Hawthorne, pulling on his pipe-clayed straps, crossed to Hayden.

  ‘Privateers?’ he wondered, finding Hayden with a glass held to his eye.

  ‘It is a frigate, Mr Hawthorne,’ Hayden replied, not lowering the glass. ‘Very likely French, though she has not the courtesy to show her colours.’

  He passed the glass to the marine lieutenant, who steadied it against a shroud.

  ‘We were not expecting that,’ Hawthorne said. ‘She is raising her colours, Captain. Do you see?’

  ‘On deck! A hoist of flags going aloft,’ the lookout called from above.

  A train of massive flags, twelve feet broad, became barely visible between the sails.

  ‘She’s signalling,’ Hawthorne said, confused. ‘To whom?’

  ‘Well, Mr Hawthorne,’ Hayden ventured. ‘We have differing possibilities; she has confederates just over the horizon whom we cannot discern, or she is signalling to no one at all but hoping we will believe she is not alone.’

  ‘But which is it?’ Hawthorne asked.

  ‘If I knew that, Mr Hawthorne, I should be a seer, not a sailor.’ Hayden nodded to Saint-Denis, who came up at that moment. ‘We have a consort ship, it seems, Lieutenant, feeling a bit lonely on the great ocean.’

  Saint-Denis raised his glass, his mouth drawn in a thin line, skin pallid. ‘How many others are there, I wonder?’

  ‘We will know by and by,’ Barthe said, appearing beside them. ‘If there is a squadron, the ships will soon show themselves.’

  ‘Signals, captain!’ Wickham called out, pointing to the convoy ships which ranged out before them. Wickham clambered up onto the rail, took hold of the shrouds and leaned out to gain a better view. His shadow, midshipman Gould, stood on the deck, gazing forward.

  ‘I believe Captain Pool wishes us to exchange places with the Kent,’ Gould said to Wickham. ‘Or have I got it wrong?’

  Wickham swung around and smiled at his protégé. ‘It is right in every way – and without a signal book to hand. Well done, Gould!’ He turned to Hayden. ‘Did you hear, Captain? We are to exchange our place with the Kent.’

  ‘Yes. Mr Barthe, make sail. If the wind shifts into the sou’west, which I believe it will this day, we shall have a nasty turn to windward to catch the Kent.’ Hayden turned and found the bosun a dozen yards away in the midst of men releasing the quarterdeck carronades. ‘Make all speed, Mr Franks. Let us show Pool that we know our business.’

  Archer and Wickham knew their jobs well and sped the men in their work. In the midst of the ship being cleared for action, sail was made, yards braced, sail trimmed and the helm put over. They began to overtake the convoy, sailing out towards the western edge of the ragged formation and the ship that was once to have been Hayden’s. A long groundswell from the south-west reached them, and the sound of the Themis rising and parting each low sea would have gladdened Hayden’s heart if the groundswell had not been a harbinger of bad weather – and from an unfavourable point of the compass, too.

  Hayden fixed the French frigate in his glass and watched her put a little sea room between them, perhaps thinking the Themis was being sent out to challenge her.

  ‘She is keeping her distance, Captain,’ Hawthorne observed. ‘I would say her people are a bit shy of us, though they boast thirty-six guns to our thirty-two.’

  ‘Her captain is merely being prudent, Mr Hawthorne, fearing Pool’s seventy-four might be brought into any action.’ Hayden called for Wickham.

  ‘Sir?’ Wickham replied, hurrying onto the quarterdeck and touching his hat.

  ‘How certain were you of this sail going north?’ Hayden asked the boy.

  Wickham peered off north, as though he might yet catch a second glimpse of this phantom. ‘Quite certain, sir. A schooner, I think, shaping her course for Brest.’

  Hayden nodded. ‘I will send a message to Captain Pool. It is not news that will improve his humour, but if there will soon be a French squadron hunting us he should be apprised of it. I will write Pool a note. Signal McIntosh that I have a letter for Captain Pool.’

  Before Hayden could go below to his desk the clergymen appeared on deck, Worthing red-faced and in obvious illhumour. He glared about, spotted Hayden, and stomped across the deck to him.

  ‘Mr Hayden, not only have I been insulted by your surgeon, but I am being prevented from exercising the duties of my office! I demand you discipline this man immediately.’

  Smosh followed meekly behind, though Hayden thought he saw just a hint of pleasure flicker across the pudgy face.

  ‘Whatever do you mean, Dr Worthing?’ Hayden asked. ‘What duties of your office?’

  ‘Mr Griffiths will not allow me to visit in his sick-berth, to which place I had gone to bring comfort to the sick and hurt.’

  ‘Ah,’ Hayden said. ‘Did Dr Griffiths not explain that the seamen believe that a clergyman visiting in the sick-berth is a sure sign that one of them will die?’

  ‘Are we to run our ship on superstition!’ Worthing thundered. ‘It is no wonder that you are not a proper captain.’

  A sudden urge to throw this pompous ass into the sea came over Hayden, and he stepped back, clasping his hands behind his back less they failed to resist this temptation.

  ‘I do not give way to superstition when it comes to the running of my ship, Doctor, but in this one matter there is n
o choice. The men will not go to the doctor if a clergyman is allowed to visit them, and then all manner of illness can spread before Dr Griffiths is even aware of it. So, I am sorry, but I must insist that you – both of you – not enter the sick-berth.’

  But Worthing was not about to concede this point and if anything became angrier. ‘What kind of heathens are these men that they will turn their backs on the god of the Christians when they are ill?’

  Hayden’s temper got the better of him, but he managed to speak evenly. ‘No offence, Doctor, but I do not believe you are the god of the Christians.’

  Smosh turned away, his shoulders shaking silently.

  Worthing drew himself up. ‘I did not for a moment suggest that I was. You are aware, Mr Hayden, that my presence was requested in the Mediterranean fleet by the Lord Admiral himself.’

  ‘A very impressive credential, I am sure, but I can tell you with authority that the parson aboard the Victory does not visit in the sick-berth; Lord Hood would not allow it.’

  ‘That cannot be true.’

  ‘It is, if I may say it, God’s truth. Ask any officer aboard. It is a tradition of the Royal Navy, Dr Worthing, and I must ask that you respect it.’

  ‘Well, it is a foolish, apostatical tradition and I am not pleased by it. I have half a mind to bring this before Commodore Pool – if he is a commodore and not some crossbreed of a master and a lieutenant whom Navy tradition demands I address as “Lord High Admiral”.’

  ‘I can assure you that such an action will not endear you to Captain Pool; nor will it improve your situation aboard this ship. I am to convey you to the Mediterranean, Doctor, but you have no official capacity aboard the Themis. You are a guest and I expect you to conduct yourself accordingly. Now, I am in the middle of clearing this ship for action and must ask that remove yourself from harm’s way for the time being. Excuse me.’ And Hayden turned away. He would never have spoken thus to Worthing if the man had not insulted him so – and upon his own quarterdeck! Had the man no common sense at all?

  Hayden soon caught the Kent, and the little ship dropped back into his position in the convoy’s wake and then exchanged places with Bradley’s frigate so that the Kent was on the opposite side of the convoy to the enemy ship.