A Battle Won

by Sean Thomas Russell

  Part of the satisfaction Hayden took in watching Smosh torture Dr Worthing was the little man’s mental agility. Worthing was invariably at a loss for an answer, simply because he had never been presented with such arguments before, and when he did manage to mount a defence – invariably a tottering and faulty one – Smosh easily kicked out the braces and it came tumbling down.

  Griffiths caught Hayden’s eye at that moment and smiled cheerfully. Witnessing the torture of Dr Worthing could not help but bring a little warmth to even the most compassionate heart.

  Hayden exited the gunroom, a bit befuddled by spirits. Wickham had gone before him and taken up a seat at the midshipman’s table, where he engaged in a conversation of such gravity that Hayden found himself stopping.

  ‘Is something amiss, Mr Wickham?’ Hayden enquired.

  The midshipmen looked one to the other.

  ‘I believe there is, sir,’ Wickham answered quietly, but appeared reluctant to say more.

  Hayden glanced around – a few feet behind lay the gunroom, its door ajar. Forward the crew slung their hammocks and made up their messes.

  ‘Come up to my cabin in a moment,’ Hayden said softly, nodded to the young gentlemen, and retreated up the ladder to the gundeck.

  His cabin was cheery, if cool. The gathered bodies in the gunroom had made it a place of warmth, if a little lacking in its usual cheer.

  He lit several more candles and a moment later the sentry let Wickham and the midshipmen into the cabin. Madison and Hobson deferred to Wickham, almost taking a step back.

  ‘Something would appear to be troubling all of you,’ Hayden began, looking at each of them in turn. ‘Mr Wickham, you seem to have been elected spokesman.’

  Wickham glanced at the others, who nodded, and he turned to Hayden. ‘It is Mr Gould, sir. A rumour has been spread among the crew that he is a Jew, sir, and has refused to take the sacrament.’

  Hayden felt his eyes close. Would Griffiths be proven right in this matter?

  ‘And what do the crew make of this?’ Hayden enquired, opening his eyes.

  ‘I think to most it means very little, but they are being… whipped up, Captain. Resentments are being…’ he searched for a word, ‘manufactured.’

  ‘And who is doing this?’

  The middies all glanced at each other. ‘It is hard to be certain, sir, but it seems to have begun with Dr Worthing. He has befriended some of the men – if you could call it that – and they, in turn, are spreading his… preachings to the others. It is causing something of a division, sir.’

  Hayden heard himself sigh. ‘Damn the man!’ he muttered. ‘And what about Gould? How is this affecting him? Where is he, by the way?’

  ‘On watch, sir,’ Hobson offered.

  ‘No man has refused to take his orders, Captain, but there are a few men who obey with some reluctance.’

  ‘We will have to flog one or two of them, Mr Wickham. The first time you apprehend a hand not jumping to when Gould gives them an order, put him on report. Let the men know what supporting Dr Worthing and his ideas will cost them. I will have a word with some of the older men – they should be talking sense to the others. And I shall speak with Worthing, as well.’ Hayden felt his frustration mounting. Smosh might find some amusement in Dr Worthing but Hayden thought him a dangerous nuisance. ‘I shall be forced to confine him to his quarters yet. Thank you for speaking of this with me.’

  The midshipmen, however, did not appear prepared to leave. There was an awkward shuffling and stalling feel about their manner.

  ‘There is something more, I gather?’ He raised an eyebrow at Wickham.

  Wickham hesitated, then straightened and looked Hayden in the eye most directly. ‘Some of the men are saying that you crossed yourself when you saw all of the dead Frenchmen floating, sir… like a papist.’

  ‘I am sure I did no such thing.’

  ‘And I am sure you are right, Captain, but everyone was dazed and had not their wits about them so no one can gainsay them. The men are suggesting that you had more sympathy for the dead Frenchmen than you had for our own injured, and that you should have gone back to search for the marines blown out of the tops.’

  ‘Blast this interfering clergyman to hell!’ Hayden said with feeling. ‘You all know those marines would never have been found alive. If I had been blown over the side I would surely have drowned with that sea running – and I am a strong swimmer. At the same time, there was Bradley engaged with a heavy frigate. We could save more men there than marines in the sea.’

  ‘None of us question your decision for a moment,’ Wickham assured him. ‘I am only telling you what is being said by the hands.’

  ‘Of course, do pardon my outburst. Do you know, when the mutineers were hung I thought that would be the end of trouble among this crew.’

  ‘There are a lot of new men, Captain,’ Wickham said, ‘and a man like Worthing… I think the crew are a bit afraid of him. No one wants to get on his bad side, sir.’

  ‘I am certainly evidence of that. Who are these men whom Worthing has… befriended?’

  Here Wickham’s reticence blossomed into near refusal. Seamen did not like to be known as peachers. Hayden was tempted to say, ‘You are a lieutenant now, Mr Wickham – no more schoolboy solidarity. Who are they?’, but instead he waited, certain Wickham would work this out for himself.

  ‘Weeks, sir, and Kitchen –’

  ‘Chettle’s mate?’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ Wickham replied.

  ‘He is awfully religious, sir,’ Madison added.

  ‘No doubt triply true.’

  ‘Bracegirdle, Elliot and Stephens.’

  Hayden was surprised that certain names were not included – troublemakers always seemed to find trouble. ‘Not too long a list. Bracegirdle and Stephens are new to the ship, are they not?’

  ‘They are, sir, but Stephens grew up in the south-coast fisheries and then served in merchantmen. He is well thought of and liked, Captain Hayden.’

  ‘Well, he is up for a flogging if he tries to undermine my middies. Thank you, gentlemen. You may be about your business. I will deal with this matter.’

  Left alone in the chilly cabin, Hayden gazed longingly at his swinging cot, made up by his servant. A quick glance at his watch convinced him it was too late to confront Worthing this night. Morning would be soon enough. He wondered if he should take the deck and assess the mood of the watch – where Gould was on duty – but general exhaustion, drink and repleteness pushed him towards his cot instead. All could be dealt with in the morning. That would be soon enough.

  A sound so distant, so faint – a deep-chested booming – that it hardly registered. One element of a jumbled dream. Hayden sat up in his swaying cot and listened a moment; just the common sounds of a ship at sea, though the wind did seem to be making. He laid back down, the swinging of his cot swaying him back towards sleep. Again, he was drawn back to the surface of a dream by a heavy, hollow report.

  ‘Thunder,’ he muttered, and let himself sink back down towards somnolence. Or was it the report of a gun? Again he sat up, calming his breathing so that he might listen. Feet came tapping, rapid-fire, down the companionway ladder outside his cabin. Before the sentry could knock, Hayden had swung out of his cot and was pulling on clothes, almost tumbling to the floor in his hurry.

  ‘One moment!’ he called, jerking on resistant boots. Snatching up a coat, he pulled open a door. Gould stood before him, looking perplexed if not worried, in the dim lamplight.

  ‘Did I hear a gun?’

  ‘We’re not certain, sir,’ the boy answered – a quick, worried blurting. ‘Mr Archer sent me to ask for you, Captain.’

  They went immediately to the aft companionway ladder and up two rungs at a stride.

  ‘Was it a signal?’ At night there was a prearranged signal code employing guns, lanterns and flares.

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  Hayden reached the deck a step ahead of the midshipman. A great distance
off, lightning illuminated a cloud for an instant. Muffled thunder burst upon them. ‘Have we a ship in trouble, Mr Archer?’

  Archer and Dryden, the master’s mate, now mate to Mr Franks, stood by the larboard rail, Archer with a glass to his eye.

  ‘We are uncertain, Captain Hayden,’ Archer replied. ‘Southeast by south – Mr Dryden and the mizzen lookout thought they saw a powder flash, sir, but as it occurred simultaneous with a thunder clap and lightning we cannot be sure.’

  ‘Did you see the flash, Mr Archer?’ Hayden asked.

  The young lieutenant handed him the glass. ‘I did not, sir’

  Hayden turned to Dryden, the young man half a head shorter than he. ‘Was it a gun or not, Mr Dryden?’

  ‘I wished I knew, sir. I just saw it out of the corner of my eye, like. If it were a signal, Captain Hayden, they’ve not repeated it.’

  Hayden began to lift the glass. ‘Where away?’

  Dryden raised a hand, chose a point in the distant darkness, and indicated carefully. ‘There, sir, but well beyond the convoy.’

  Hayden put the night glass to his eye and gazed at the horizon, the sea suddenly up, the stars below, as the night glass inverted everything.

  ‘Do you see anything, sir?’ Gould asked, not yet fully accustomed to naval etiquette – only Hayden’s senior officers or warrant officers of long standing would ask such a question while he was concentrating on a task.

  For a moment Hayden meant not to answer, but then remembering his conversation with Wickham and the other middies he relented. ‘No, Mr Gould. We might have to call Mr Wickham to penetrate this darkness.’

  A thunder squall blackened the horizon. The weather had changed. ‘What is our heading, Mr Archer?’

  ‘Sou’sou’west, sir. The wind has been veering slowly all this night. A gale would appear to be in the offing, Captain.’

  ‘Yes. Damn. I had hoped the northerly might hold for a few days.’

  The officers stood watching the spectacle, the night sky shattered by vague lightning, often buried deep within the inky blur.

  ‘Tonitrus,’ a voice intoned and a scarlet-coated figure appeared beside him.

  ‘If you insist on speaking Latin, Mr Hawthorne,’ Hayden said quietly, ‘the reverend inquisitor will have you court-martialled as a papist spy.’

  ‘And with my widely admired fluency in the French language I will no doubt be accused of serving the Convention as well.’

  Hayden smiled. Hawthorne’s abysmal French had almost got them killed on their last cruise. He lowered the glass.

  ‘Well, I can see nothing but the lights of our convoy ships,’ Hayden concluded. ‘Have we lookouts aloft, yet?’

  ‘We do, sir.’

  ‘Call them down, Mr Archer. If we have the misfortune to be struck by lightning I want no one aloft. How long have we had this squall in view?’

  ‘Some time, sir. It approaches but slowly.’

  Hayden continued to gaze into the darkness, hypnotized by the lightning. When it burst low and within the cloud it did resemble muzzle flash.

  ‘Was that a gun?’ Gould asked.

  ‘No. Almost certainly lightning,’ Hayden replied.

  ‘Should we clear for action, sir?’ Archer wondered.

  It was the very question Hayden was contemplating. Only a moment he wavered. ‘No, Mr Archer. As no one is certain they saw muzzle flash and the signal, were it one, has not been repeated, we will proceed as we are.’ Hayden looked back out into the darkness at the dim lights of the convoy ships. They undulated and guttered, floated up and fell, winking out here, blinking into being there – a field of drunken fireflies.

  The officers stood at the rail, silent and contemplative.

  ‘What is the meaning of Tonitrus?’ Dryden asked suddenly.

  ‘Thunder,’ Gould replied.

  ‘Well done, Gould,’ Archer said. ‘You soon shall be rivalling Mr Hawthorne for classical learning.’

  ‘Well, as Gould appears to have your classical education in hand,’ Hawthorne said, ‘I will return to the rather pleasant dream I was having. Captain.’ Hawthorne touched his hat and disappeared into the darkness.

  Archer went back to his duty as officer of the watch, and Hayden was left standing at the rail with Midshipman Gould. Hayden wanted to ask him if any difficulties had arisen from his father’s religion or his own race, but was reluctant to broach the subject – he knew not why. ‘How are you fitting in, Mr Gould? No problems, I hope?’

  ‘None, sir. Mr Wickham has been most attentive in teaching me my duties, and now I’m learning the skills of master’s mate. There is a great deal to take in all at once, but I feel I am making progress.’

  ‘ “Making progress” sounds a little modest, Mr Gould. The reports I’ve received tell me you are learning like no other.’ Hayden looked out at the swarm of lights again. ‘And how do you get along with the hands?’

  He could feel the boy’s hesitation in the dark.

  ‘Well enough, Captain Hayden,’ he said too confidently. ‘As in everything, I have much to learn.’

  ‘Mr Barthe is an excellent sailing master, and a great seaman, but if you ever have need of some guidance in dealing with the hands you might come to me.’ As soon as this was said, Hayden felt like a fraud. Was he not having his own problems with the crew – stirred up by Worthing? At least these had not yet become manifest in the running of the ship.

  ‘Why, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Do not be embarrassed to seek advice in this matter. Like making a splice, governing a crew is a learned skill.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘I will leave you to your duties.’

  Gould touched his hat and slipped quietly away. Much to his frustration, Hayden no longer felt the call of sleep – not that he wasn’t fatigued, but he knew sleep would elude him this night. A desire for coffee came over him, but the stove would not be lit for some hours. Instead he paced the after quarterdeck, larboard to starboard, stopping occasionally to sweep his glass over the dark, southern sea. No one would approach him there unless upon a matter of absolute necessity. In a ship crammed full of over two hundred souls he was blessed to have a cabin and the after quarterdeck as his own private estate. Even so, he missed the camaraderie of the gunroom, a place he had become terribly familiar with since passing for lieutenant had granted him access to that little club. He missed the conviviality, the intense discussion, the wit of men like Hawthorne. He had passed out of that particular brotherhood. Dinner in the gunroom had brought that home to him. He was not only a guest, no longer privy to the discussions that had been taking place, but he was the captain – at least temporarily – the man upon whom everyone depended for their futures in the service. Even more unsettling, he was undoubtedly a subject for discussion around the table. Unlike that scoundrel Hart, Hayden wanted no spies reporting such conversations to him. Better not to know. Far better.

  The wind veered uncertainly southward, then steadied in the south-west, sending the watch to sheets and braces, and the ship sailing obliquely back towards France. Perhaps two hours before first light sleep drove Hayden to his cot, but he was back on deck before dawn.

  Wickham was officer of the watch and the midshipmen and Mr Barthe were readying to take the morning sight once the sun lifted a little higher. The squall had passed over them that night and left them rolling in a small wind with a little more west in it. Broken cloud bedraggled the sky, and the morning remained chill, the wind eating into his woollen coat.

  Across the eastern sky, a featureless band of pearl grey cloud slowly blushed rose. The sun pushed upward into this miasmal haze, and day overspread sky and sea.

  ‘Aloft there,’ Hayden called when he judged the light adequate. ‘Have you a count of our ships?’

  Hayden could see the man sitting astride the top-gallant yard, a glass slowly sweeping east to west. Lowering the glass and steadying himself, the lookout peered down towards the deck.

  ‘I can’t be certain, Captain. Twice I’ve
tallied twenty-nine and once thirty.’

  ‘Blast,’ Hayden muttered, refraining from saying, ‘Damn your eyes.’

  ‘I’ll go aloft, sir,’ Wickham offered and immediately clambered up onto the rail and began climbing the weather shrouds. Out to the end of the top-gallant yard he went, so sails would not obstruct his view. In a moment he lowered his glass and called down.

  ‘I make it twenty-nine transports, Captain. All our escort vessels are in place but McIntosh is beating towards us.’

  ‘You cannot see a ship in our wake, Mr Wickham, blown down to leeward, perhaps?’

  ‘No, sir, but there is a low mist obscuring the horizon.’

  Hayden muttered another curse. Once the sun rose a little higher his missing ship might be revealed, but it seemed now that there had been a gun fired and it was, of all things, most likely a request for assistance.

  McIntosh was soon sailing along within hailing distance.

  ‘We have lost a transport, Captain Hayden.’

  ‘So we thought. What is her name?’

  ‘The Hartlepool, sir.’

  ‘I knew that little tub would get herself into trouble,’ Mr Barthe complained. ‘Never was she fit for sea.’

  Hayden ignored this outburst. ‘Has anyone reported a signal from her? A gun fired about two bells?’

  ‘No, sir, Captain. Shall I sail back and search for her?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I see no choice. Will you carry my surgeon to the Agnus as you go? I’ll lower a boat and you can take the crew aboard and tow it behind.’

  ‘Gladly, Captain Hayden.’

  Hayden motioned one of the middies over. ‘Pass the word for Dr Griffiths, if you please.’

  The boy bobbed his head and set off at a trot.

  It always seemed odd to Hayden that the bosun – the boatswain – was not the officer who had charge of the boats; that duty fell to the carpenter. Chettle and Franks were now in the process of launching a small cutter from a rolling deck onto a rising sea. Of necessity, some rather inexperienced men were involved in this endeavour and their mates were schooling them in the usual genteel manner favoured by seamen. How Hayden missed Aldrich. He would have taken these bewildered landsmen in hand and with infinite patience turned them into sailors. Hayden would trade any ten of his present crew to have another Aldrich aboard.