The day wore on, wind varying a point or two this way or that, making a little, then taking off. Rain, icy cold and hard as hail, stuttered down upon the deck like beads of glass. A confused north-westerly sea overlaid a long ground swell from the south-west, rolling the Themis in a strange, unnatural manner. Seamen easily adjusted themselves to a ship’s rhythm but this day it had none, rolling and rising in ways no one could predict.
Hawthorne and Barthe stood by the taffrail, eyes fixed upon the ominous frigate that maintained its distant vigil. Twice since the morning she had moved out nearer the western horizon and made signals to invisible ships, but then she would resume her place, two-thirds of a league distant, her course parallel to their own.
‘I have never known a groundswell to last so long without bad weather following,’ Hawthorne observed to the sailing master.
Barthe shifted uneasily. ‘No, and when it does happen it is commonly a sign of hard weather coming. Ah, Captain,’ he said as Hayden approached. ‘Do you think we are in for a harsh gale?’
‘This groundswell is making me fearful, that is certain.’ Hawthorne, who suffered a little illness in bad weather, did not look happy. ‘Well, we have come through many a gale,’ he said stoically. ‘I expect we shall do so again.’
‘No doubt, Mr Hawthorne.’
The schooner, Phalarope, appeared among the sails of the convoy, her course clearly set for the Themis. In a few moments she had rounded the Themis and ranged up alongside, a ship-length to leeward.
‘Captain Hayden!’ McIntosh called. The man stood at the rail, back to a sudden rain squall, his head drawn down beneath his sou’wester. ‘The commodore requests that you come aboard Majestic.’
‘Pass the word for Saint-Denis,’ Hayden ordered.
‘Aye, sir.’
Hayden reluctantly passed command of his ship to Saint-Denis and climbed down into the Phalarope’s boat. As the boat pushed off from the Themis, Hayden was hailed from aloft and looked up to see Wickham in the tops, hand cupped to his mouth, calling down over the sound of wind and sea.
‘Captain Hayden, sir! I believe I saw a sail on the horizon. Beyond the frigate.’
‘Are you certain, Mr Wickham?’ Hayden called back.
The midshipman hesitated a moment. ‘No, sir. ’Tis thick as mud out there, sir, but even so, it appeared to be a sail.’
‘Can you see it now?’
Wickham looped an arm around a stay, then raised his glass, sweeping it slowly across an obscure horizon. ‘No, sir, I cannot.’
‘Keep looking. If you perceive a sail, have Saint-Denis send word to Pool, immediately.’
‘Aye, Captain.’
The oarsmen dug in and a moment later Hayden was aboard the schooner and making his way among the ships of the convoy. Hayden was made uncomfortable by Wickham’s report and borrowed McIntosh’s glass to examine the horizon himself.
‘Do you think he really saw a ship, Hayden?’ McIntosh asked.
‘Many a time he has spotted vessels before any man aboard. It is not impossible.’
McIntosh gazed thoughtfully out towards the western mists. ‘If there were French ship’s over the horizon, why would they hide themselves away?’
‘I don’t know but I fear we will soon learn.’
Phalarope made the rounds of the escorting vessels and carried all the captains up to Majestic, where they went quickly aboard. Oilskins were shed and taken by servants before the gathered officers were let into the captain’s cabin.
Pool appeared as impatient as always, pacing across the cabin as they entered. He stopped as the officers filed in, and waved them to chairs gathered around his table.
‘We have no time for pleasantries,’ he began, taking his place, standing, at the head of the table. He leaned forward and put his hands on the back of his chair. ‘As you no doubt all know by now, one of Hayden’s middies saw a schooner hurrying north at first light. I have decided not to wait until it returns with a squadron. I propose to engage and take the lone frigate just before sunrise. Thus, if a squadron does overtake us, there will be one ship fewer for us to fight.’
Hayden could feel the excitement and anticipation among the gathered officers. He felt it himself, and hated to be the one to ruin this mood.
‘If I may speak, Captain Pool, the same midshipman thought he saw a sail on the western horizon just moments ago. Certainly the French frigate has been signalling as though to ships in that direction.’
‘Did you see this sail, Hayden?’ Pool demanded.
‘I did not, sir, but he was in the tops and I had just climbed down into McIntosh’s cutter.’
‘Was he certain?’ Bradley enquired.
‘No. I questioned him and he was not, but he has better eyes than any man I know so I think it is something that should be carefully weighed in any discussion.’
‘There is no discussion, Hayden,’ Pool stated firmly. ‘But you needn’t worry – Bradley and I will go after the frigate and you will stay with the convoy, so there will be no danger to you.’
Hayden almost rose to his feet, his anger was so immediate and immoderate. ‘Sir, I should gladly put myself in harm’s way if it is required, and no one has any reason to believe otherwise.’
‘Be at peace, Hayden,’ Pool said soothingly, but not without a little sarcastic smile. ‘Perhaps you shall yet have a chance to prove your courage. But not this day, nor tomorrow.’ He turned his attention back to the others. ‘Bradley and I will douse our lights and, just before first light, slip out to where the frigate has been holding position. If the Frenchman flies, Bradley will give chase and bring her to or harass her so that I may bring my guns to bear. We shall have a prize and all of you shall partake of the profit. I assume no one will complain of that?’
Hayden looked around the table. He thought he detected some doubt in more than one face but no one spoke. ‘I believe we shall have a gale from the south-east,’ Hayden said, forcing confidence into both his voice and manner, ‘and what if there is a French squadron just out of sight?’
Pool sighed, theatrically, almost throwing up his hands. ‘Captain Hayden, if there is a gale and we cannot open our gunports, then clearly we will not attempt to take this frigate. We are not fools. And if there is a French squadron why do they hide over the horizon? There could be no reason for it. This French captain is signalling to no one hoping to confuse us – hoping to keep us from doing exactly what we are about to do – sailing out to take him.’ He turned away from Hayden. ‘No one need move from their place in the convoy. Bradley and I shall take this Frenchman by surprise.’
A toast was drunk to the success of the action, and the gathered officers left, climbing quickly up to the deck. Hayden went down into the boat and then across to the Phalarope. None of the other captains spoke, as would be usual before an action, excitement and anticipation high. There was instead an awkward silence, most difficult to read.
Bradley was brought first to Syren, and once the boat was beyond hearing, Jones turned to Hayden. ‘Do you truly believe there is a squadron out there, Hayden?’
Hayden felt both oppressed and sullenly angry. ‘I only know what my midshipman said – a most reliable and enterprising young man. Certainly it was my duty to relate this to Pool.’
‘But why would they remain there, out of sight?’ Stewart asked.
‘Why, indeed. I cannot give an answer to that. I only felt that, as we are on convoy escort and not a cruise, that this information might be taken under consideration – which it was not.’ Hayden knew that he had said too much but anger and resentment were like an oil that loosened a man’s tongue – his tongue, anyway.
He was back aboard the Themis but two hours after he had left her. In the interval Saint-Denis had created conflict with Barthe over the sail being carried, and Worthing, Hayden learned, had applied to Saint-Denis to visit the hands confined to the sick-berth. Saint-Denis had prudence enough not to accede to this request; a surprise to Hayden as the lieutenant appeared to have
little common sense when it came to anything else.
Night was quickly upon them and the wind veered to the west, making noticeably until a high chorus sang in the rigging, slurring up and down a minor scale. Lights from the other ships winked in and out as the ships rolled and squalls of wintery rain soaked the canvas. An ancient mizzen topsail split from the mere weight of water.
Hayden invited Griffiths to dine with him, and the two made company in the great cabin, which had been reconstructed after having been cleared entirely away when they had beat to quarters. The rolling of the ship was such that only a little more and tables and chairs would need to be moved and secured, dinner eaten in some awkward arrangement that resembled a merry andrew juggling.
‘Thank you for sparing me another speech from the good parson on what a favourite of Lord Hood’s he happens to be.’ Griffiths, smiled and shook his head. ‘The man cannot secure a living ashore, and yet expects us to believe a personage of the eminence of Lord Hood has taken special notice of him. With such an amiable character and interest upon high it is a wonder he is not a bishop. Good Lord!’
Hayden laughed. The ship rolled heavily to leeward and Hayden preserved the wine bottle and a salt shaker, Griffiths the gravy boat. A fork slid away and clattered across the floor.
‘We are carrying too much sail,’ Hayden observed, and began to rise, but at that moment he heard hands being called. ‘Ah, Barthe must have taken the deck.’ He returned to his chair.
Griffiths took a sip of his claret. ‘I understand our Frenchman is a royalist?’
‘To which Frenchman are we referring?’
‘The cook. Or should I say chef?’
‘Rosseau. He’s hardly going to claim himself a Jacobin aboard our ship, is he?’
‘No, but Wickham informed me the man only just learned that the queen had been guillotined – if you can believe it. Wickham claims the Frenchman wept like a baby. Rosseau apparently told Wickham that he once served a noble family and cooked a meal attended by Louis and his queen.’
‘I suppose it is possible. A man of such talents would hardly have been cook for a shoemaker.’
‘From what the French claim of English culinary skills you would think the cook of a French shoemaker would be fit for the king of England.’
‘Actually, Doctor, according to the French, a French shoemaker would be fit to cook for an English king.’
Griffiths laughed. ‘I’m sure he would have some excellent sole recipes. Ha ha!’
Ever since Hawthorne had told him that Griffiths had had his hopes disappointed, Hayden had thought the doctor rather more melancholy than usual. His laughter seemed forced, his pleasantries mere formalities, with even less sincerity than was common. But then he had not known the doctor before his misfortune; perhaps he had always been thus. Or perhaps Hayden was merely reading more into Griffiths’s manner than was reasonable. It had been two years since his suit had been rebuffed; perhaps he had put the past out of mind and looked only forward.
‘I hope we survive having this man aboard,’ Griffiths said, his manner suddenly grave. ‘Worthing, I mean.’
‘He is froward, there is no doubt, but I hardly think he is a danger to the ship’s company. No one likes him.’
‘That is true, but I wouldn’t underestimate the trouble such a man could cause. His kind have great capacity for creating conflict. I have seen it before. He cannot be happy unless he is stirring the pot of others’ emotions, setting one man against another, and taking insult where none is intended or could be perceived by a man of more moderate character. No, he will cause us trouble, you will see. Already he has tried to undermine your authority by going to Saint-Denis when you refused him entry to the sick-berth. He and your first lieutenant can make common cause as Worthing is… reverential of his social betters and both feel they have been valued beneath their worth. But I will say no more and hope to be proven wrong.’
‘In this particular matter, Dr Griffiths, I will hope the same.’
‘I am told we are going after a prize at first light.’
‘No. We are to observe this action, and perhaps admire, but in no way are we to be involved, though, of course, we will stand by ready to offer assistance should it be required.’
Griffiths considered his wine glass a moment, the stem caught between two fingers, palm flat on the table. A small circle of the hand swirled the wine up the sides. ‘You know I claim no particular knowledge on such matters, but is this prudent?’
Hayden drew a long breath. ‘Perfectly so, if the French ship is alone.’
‘But if it is not?’
‘Then it is not.’
Six
Hayden rose before first light, ate a meagre breakfast, and then ordered his cabin cleared, the guns moved back into position. Chettle and his assistants appeared, quickly taking down the bulkhead panels, his few possessions whisked away by servants.
‘Take care with that table,’ he ordered the hands.
Hayden climbed up a dimly lit ladder to the quarterdeck; a fresh wind, harsh and dense with spray, almost took his hat. Hawthorne and Wickham stood at the starboard rail, gazing out into the darkness. They ducked behind the bulwark, and turned their backs as spray dashed over the rail, then up again.
‘Mr Wickham,’ Hayden said, ‘do you never sleep?’
‘Apologies, Captain, we didn’t see you,’ the youth replied.
‘No need. Can you make out Bradley and Pool?’
Wickham shook his head, his youthful face pale with worry. ‘It is too close, sir. But we should have some light, by and by, and then, mayhap, I will know what goes on.’
Archer came up, then, and touched his hat. ‘We are cleared, Captain Hayden. I have the men at their stations and no drum was beat, sir, as you ordered.’
‘Well done, Mr Archer. I think this Frenchman will lower his flag after firing a single broadside,’ Hayden observed, forcing confidence into his voice, ‘especially when he sees both a frigate and a seventy-four appearing out of the darkness.’
‘It appears our gale is finally going to arrive, though.’ Archer peered into the darkness. ‘The weather glass is falling, and the wind continues to veer. I fear our transports will not be able to lay their course if the wind goes even a little further south.’
‘You are right – they will not. We’ll wait for Pool’s signals but I expect we will heave to on the larboard tack. He will not like it much but there will be little choice.’
Hayden took a turn of the deck, both to stretch his legs and to be sure his ship was ready for any eventuality. Ducking his head he went down to the gundeck, stopping to speak with the gun crews, being certain there was shot and powder enough. Many of the landsmen had never heard the great guns fire but had only participated in exercises without shot and powder. Still they knew the drill well enough, even if they were utterly innocent of the result. There was, about the men, an air of anticipation and anxiety, all of them sober-faced in the poor light.
‘Do you think we’ll be in an action, Captain?’ Hobson asked.
‘I do not, Mr Hobson, but we must be ready in case our assistance is required. I believe a frigate and a seventy-four-gun ship can manage a French thirty-six quite well. We need only watch and cheer.’
He could see the men relax a little as they heard this. They were also a little disappointed, Hayden sensed.
On deck the sky seemed as dark as ever, and time dragged by as though dawn would not come that day.
Rain began to fall, swept against the topside planking and the decks, clattering like a dropped box of lead balls. The gun captains covered the locks of the carronades with lead covers, and powder cartridges were hurried below. It was all but impossible to look to windward, and Hayden gave up, hoping the squall would pass.
Forty minutes the deluge lasted, then it began to abate. Light seemed to follow, the sky growing brighter by the instant.
‘On deck,’ the lookout called. ‘Sail two points aft on the starboard beam.’
‘There she is, sir, Majestic.’ Wickham pointed.
A two-decker appeared, gun ports open, her course parallel to their own. And then a frigate, only two ship’s lengths before.
‘Is that Bradley or the Frenchman?’ Barthe demanded. ‘I cannot tell.’
‘Nor can I, Mr Barthe,’ Wickham answered.
‘You’re a lieutenant now; we expect you to see things when they need to be seen,’ Barthe observed.
‘My apologies, Mr Barthe, I shall endeavour to see better.’ Wickham’s hand shot up. ‘There is a second, frigate, I think.’
‘Where?’
‘Beyond, Majestic, Mr Barthe.’
For a moment no one spoke, but all gazed anxiously into the gloom, grey wisps of fog, obscuring rain, and dark, rolling seas.
‘Well, this will be a surprise for the Frenchman,’ Hawthorne observed with satisfaction.
‘That ship seems very large for a frigate,’ Hayden said, trying to make out the vessel beyond Pool’s seventy-four. ‘That can’t be Bradley…’
‘Damn my eyes,’ Wickham declared, straightening. ‘She is a two-decker as well.’
Before anyone could frame a reply the more distant ship unleashed a broadside on the one nearer, several balls passing over the decks and holing the waves nearer the Themis.
‘Is it a Frenchman?’ Barthe demanded. ‘Jesus! Can you not see, Wickham?’
‘One of them is a Frenchman,’ the boy replied, even his keen eyes unsure in this murk.
The nearer ship fired her broadside and then the frigate fired into the gloom, to be answered by a phantom. And then all the ships began firing, an incessant, random booming echoing across the rolling seas. A British flag was hoisted on the nearer ship.
‘That is Pool,’ Hawthorne announced unnecessarily.
‘Yes, caught by surprise!’ Barthe called over the noise. ‘Where did that fucking French seventy-four come from?’
Another ship ranged out of the fog, and to cries of dismay from the crew of the Themis, ranged across Majestic’s stern, raked her once, and then bore up alongside.
A Battle Won Page 8
