A Battle Won

by Sean Thomas Russell

  The ship’s bell rang at that moment, and Hawthorne rose to his feet.

  ‘If you will excuse me, Captain, I have duties.’

  ‘By all means.’

  Hayden found himself alone, contemplating upon the deed of Dr Griffiths, and the observations of Mr Hawthorne, who in matters of the heart was greatly experienced, and clearly more thoughtful than Hayden would have predicted. Certainly, Hayden agreed that the doctor’s character was delicate in such matters, although he was not certain why he believed this, but he did. Even so, it was a noble and generous deed, assuming the woman’s story to be true, and Hayden honoured Griffiths’s sentiments. Still…

  Hayden gazed at the cold, muddy liquid remaining in the doctor’s coffee cup and the sight unsettled him in some way he could not explain.

  Twelve

  A late-December dusk blew in from the east, carrying with it a fleet of aggrieved gulls, mourning and grumbling pitifully in the ruins of the recent gale.

  ‘Fucking levanter,’ Mr Barthe pronounced the wind. He lowered his night glass but continued to stare into the darkness. ‘Can you make out anything at all, Mr Wickham?’

  Wickham, who stood at the forward barricade with a night glass pressed to his eye, answered softly, as though they approached the harbour of Toulon by stealth. ‘There are no ships in the roads, Mr Barthe.’

  ‘What said you?’

  ‘I do not believe there are ships anchored in the roads, Mr Barthe,’ Wickham repeated, raising his voice only a little.

  ‘Mr Wickham, either I am gone deaf or you are whispering.’

  Wickham raised his voice. ‘There are no –’

  ‘… ships in the roads. Yes, yes. I heard that. Ah, Captain Hayden.’ The sailing master touched his hat as Hayden mounted the forecastle. ‘There don’t appear to be any ships –’

  ‘… in the roads, or so I have heard. The eastern gale has no doubt made that anchorage untenable. They have all shifted their berths to the inner harbour.’

  ‘If I have learned anything of the bloody Mediterranean in winter it is that this weather is not done with us yet,’ Barthe offered. ‘A little calm means only that worse approaches. I am quite confident I can con us in, sir. The wind could not be better suited to such an endeavour and there is moonlight enough.’

  ‘If you are certain, Mr Barthe. With another gale in the offing and these confounding currents setting us first one way and then another, I do not mind telling you, I would rather be safely at anchor this night.’

  ‘Then we shall be, sir. Mr Wickham has volunteered to see through the dark for us and it is an excellent, spacious plot of water, sir. I shall have us all sleeping sound within the hour, Captain Hayden. See if I don’t.’

  ‘Then you are appointed pilot, Mr Barthe – take us in.’

  This simple proposition, however, was not so easily effected, as the east wind and confounding currents conjoined forces, the wind dropping away to a mere breeze and the current setting them in the same direction. Several anxious hours saw them weathering Sepet Point and even dropping anchor once to hold them off the shore as the wind died away altogether. It was nearing midnight when a small but steady breeze, originating in the east even then, began making. At the same time, the current appeared to subside, and, setting sail, the Themis passed slowly over a glassy, dark sea toward the entrance of Toulon harbour.

  Eight bells sounded as they crossed the outer roads, echoed distantly by a more numerous chiming within the nearing city – twelve bells upon the land.

  ‘Midnight,’ Hawthorne announced. ‘Will this wind carry us in, do you think, or will it leave us wallowing in the roads?’

  Hayden shrugged. ‘Despite all appearances, Mr Hawthorne, I am not the god of the seas. What the winds might or might not do is a mystery to me.’

  Hawthorne chuckled. ‘I do apologize, Captain. In the dark I mistook you for Neptune.’

  ‘Easily done, Mr Hawthorne. No need to apologize… except, perhaps, to Neptune.’

  A small presence materialized to Hayden’s left – Rosseau, his cook. ‘Toulon, Capitaine?’

  ‘Oui, monsieur. Toulon.’

  ‘If… if we fall into the hands of the… our people, Capitaine,’ Rosseau said hesitantly in French, ‘would you be so kind as to tell them I am a prisoner – not your cook.’

  ‘I will do that, monsieur,’ Hayden answered in the same language, ‘but do not be concerned. Toulon is yet in the hands of Lord Hood.’

  In the vague moonlight Hayden could see the man – could even perceive his anxiety. The administration of Toulon had, some months previously, invited Admiral Lord Hood to assume control of the city and port – and the French Mediterranean fleet which was lying there. As in other parts of southern France, the citizens were in rebellion. Hayden had been told Lord Hood had demanded the city fathers swear allegiance to the Bourbons, but that they had done so reluctantly. It appeared that the citizens of Toulon were in rebellion against the excesses of the Convention and the Committee of Public Safety rather than rebelling because they favoured the former royal family. It was, Hayden thought, a tremendous gamble they took, but the benefit to the British could hardly be overstated. The French Mediterranean fleet on a platter! Despite the clear advantages to Britain, Hayden could not help but feel some concern for the people of Toulon – despite the war, the French people remained dear to him. If the revolutionary government took the city back there would be reprisals, and everyone, even his cook, understood what form these would take.

  Hayden and Barthe returned to the quarterdeck, leaving Wickham on the forecastle to part the darkness.

  ‘Turn up the hands, Mr Franks,’ Hayden ordered, ‘let us hand all canvas but topsails, and then make ready to bring the ship to anchor.’

  The crew took the deck at a trot; bringing the ship into a new harbour was always an event of interest, and doubly so in this case as it was a French port in British hands – a sight not often to be seen.

  To starboard the Grand Tower could be made out, looming over the entrance. A few lights were most likely from the city, almost due north. The wind kept backing until it bore down on them from Toulon.

  ‘Do you smell that?’ Barthe inhaled deeply. ‘An old, smoggy stench of charred wood and powder smoke? They have been under terrible siege, I would venture.’

  Hayden could smell it – rain somehow brought out the pungent odour of burned wood. He felt for the people of Toulon. If the revolutionary army took back the city, Hood would never be able to remove them all.

  Leaving Barthe on the quarterdeck, Hayden went forward. Even though he knew Wickham had far better sight in the darkness, he was becoming anxious about the situation.

  ‘Why are the siege guns silent?’ he muttered to himself as he hurried along the gangway.

  ‘There are ships at anchor nearer the quays, Captain,’ Wickham reported, ‘and a little brig not so distant before us. We will not weather her, sir.’

  ‘Let us pass beneath her stern, Mr Wickham,’ Hayden replied, ‘and work our way up towards the town where our own ships will have come to anchor.’ Hayden turned to Gould, who, as usual, was acting as Wickham’s shadow. ‘Mr Gould, would you pass the word to Mr Barthe to set foresail and driver. We will tack as we pass beyond the two-sticker.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ Gould answered crisply and hastened off towards the stern.

  Out of the darkness came a voice, speaking French. ‘What ship?’ a man called from the brig.

  ‘We are His Majesty’s Ship, Themis.’ Hayden replied in the same language.

  Over the still waters voices drifted, conferring in his mother’s tongue, but the words were torn apart on the little breeze and arrived in slurred syllables, shattered vowels; he could not splice them back together.

  Mr Barthe came hurrying along the gangway, giving orders for sails to be set. Hayden was not reassured by his manner, which seemed suddenly to lack its former resolution.

  ‘What is this about a Frenchman…? Ah.’

  As the ster
n of the brig grew more distinct Hayden called out in French, ‘Where does the English admiral anchor? Where is Lord Hood?’

  A muffled conference seemed to take place. ‘You are an English ship?’ someone called. Hayden could almost make out a shape at the taffrail.

  ‘Oui. Une frégate anglaise.’

  More talk, incomprehensible to Hayden.

  ‘Can you make out what they’re saying?’ Mr Barthe asked, attempting not to reveal his growing anxiety.

  ‘I cannot. Can you, Mr Wickham?’

  ‘Somewhat about sending a boat to the admiral, sir. “Amiral ” must mean ‘admiral’, does it not?’

  ‘Luff!’ came a cry from the French brig. ‘Luuuff!’

  ‘Helm hard down!’ Hayden cried along the deck. ‘Dryden! Hard down! Let us have the lead… handsomely.’

  The Themis began a slow turn in the little zephyr. Hayden could hear the men aboard holding their breath, as everyone made thwarted little gestures, a strained twist to the right, as though they could help bring the ship’s head around.

  ‘She will not tack in this small wind, sir,’ Barthe whispered.

  ‘Back the foresail as she luffs, Mr Barthe,’ Hayden ordered, but the wind fell away to nothing even as he spoke.

  Before the sailing master could repeat Hayden’s order the ship shuddered once, heeled a little to starboard and abruptly lost all way.

  A foul oath escaped Mr Barthe. ‘There is no shoal on my chart.’

  ‘Send the men aloft with all speed,’ Hayden ordered. ‘Clew up and hand the sails. We cannot be very hard aground with so little way on. Mr Franks! Swing out two cutters, if you please. Mr Landry, the kedge and two hawsers for the boats; we shall warp ourselves off.’

  Men began hurrying this way and that but Hayden was pleased to note that there was no panic. Men waited in silent expectation for orders and then went coolly about their business.

  ‘A boat is away from the brig, Captain.’

  ‘Perhaps they have gone for help,’ someone offered only to be silenced by Archer, who had come forward.

  ‘Kedge and hawsers on the way, sir,’ Archer reported. ‘Boats will be afloat in but a moment.’

  Hayden looked aloft. Sails were being handed with dispatch, the crew galvanized by their predicament – aground by night in a strange harbour. A pennant at the mast-head began to waft at that moment.

  ‘There is a bit wind coming down the harbour, sir,’ Barthe said, hope present in his voice.

  Hayden went to the forward barricade and stared down into the water. ‘Drop the lead to the bottom and tell me if we make stern-way,’ Hayden called to the man in the chains.

  Only a moment did he wait for an answer.

  ‘Making stern-way, Captain,’ the leadsman called.

  ‘Hoist the mizzen-staysail and driver, Mr Barthe, if you please. Keep the sheets to windward so we might be carried away from this shoal.’

  Hands jumped to the halyards before orders were given, sails flashing aloft in the miserly light of a haze-hidden moon. The wind lasted only a moment, blowing a few loose strands of hair about Hayden’s ear.

  ‘We must not, now, drift onto another shoal. Let go the best bower, Mr Archer, and we will discover our situation here.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  The forecastle men hurried to their places to drop the anchor.

  ‘Mr Archer. We have no time for niceties. Let go the shank painter. We will make repairs to the planking at another time.’

  The shank painter was let go, whipping about the anchor shank with buzzing sound and snapping against wood. The upper anchor fluke scraped down the topside planking, men grimacing all around.

  ‘Let go the ring stopper,’ Archer ordered and the anchor plunged down into the water with an unmanageable splash. The cable flashed out through the hawse hole on the gundeck, a crewman pouring water on it as it passed so that it would not cause fire. But before a few fathoms of cable had been veered, the anchor found bottom. Hayden let only a little more cable run – not really enough – and ordered it checked.

  The leadsman began sounding by the bow.

  ‘Five fathoms and one half, Mr Archer,’ he called.

  A general relieved murmuring flitted around the deck but the motion of the ship did not comfort Hayden.

  ‘Sound the stern, if you please,’ Hayden ordered the leadsman, who quickly coiled up his line and went trotting aft, lead swinging from his right fist.

  ‘Sir,’ Gould called as he bustled down the gangway from the quarterdeck, ‘the helm does not answer. It is seized fast, sir.’

  Barthe swore.

  ‘We are aground aft, I am sure, Mr Archer,’ Hayden announced, then went to the starboard rail to see if the kedge and hawsers were aboard the boats.

  ‘Mr Archer, you will go with the boats, if you please. Set the anchor there,’ Hayden pointed to the north-west, ‘so that we might pull free of this shoal. Sound as you go so you will know how much cable to veer. The anchor must hold, Mr Archer. Five times our depth in cable at the least – seven would be better.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ Archer replied, going down the side at a dangerous pace.

  ‘Away boats.’ And the boats went off into the cool darkness. At that same instant and from the same direction a boat appeared, hailing them as the ‘frégate anglaise’. Immediately it came alongside and a party climbed over the rail, two apparently naval officers, though in the darkness it was difficult to be certain.

  Introductions were brief, most of the French party not brought forward. None of them spoke English and were clearly relieved when Hayden responded in flawless French.

  ‘Capitaine Hayden,’ one of the officers began, ‘it is the order of the Commanding Officer that you perform ten days’ quarantine. With us we have a pilot who will guide you to the quarantine berth.’

  ‘Is this the order of Lord Hood?’

  ‘It is the usual procedure for foreign ships entering Toulon. I apologize for the inconvenience.’

  ‘Will you carry a letter to Lord Hood for me? I must alert him of our arrival at the earliest possible moment.’

  ‘Certainly. It will be our pleasure.’

  ‘Captain,’ Wickham whispered, touching Hayden’s sleeve. ‘Look at their hats, sir. They wear national cockades, I am certain…’

  Hayden turned back to the party of Frenchmen, all of whom looked unsettled or out of sorts, though they made great effort to hide it. The poor light turned all colours to near greys, but Hayden was sure, after a moment, that Wickham was right; the Frenchmen wore tricolour cockades. The feeling in his heart at that moment was not unlike the feeling he had known when first his mother had informed him of his father’s death. An overwhelming, numbing distress.

  ‘I believe I will send my own boat to Lord Hood,’ Hayden announced, watching the reaction of the visitors carefully.

  The two French officers glanced at one another and nodded.

  ‘Soyez tranquille,’ one said, ‘les Anglois sont de braves gens, nous les traitons bien; l’amiral anglois est sorti il y’ quelque temps.’

  Wickham cursed – which Hayden hardly ever remembered him doing.

  The men at the capstan bars began to strain at that moment, hauling taut the cable which led to the kedge.

  Hawthorne leaned close to Hayden and whispered. ‘What did they say, sir?’

  Hayden spoke equally quietly. ‘We are their prisoners. Toulon has fallen.’ A cooling, little breeze touched Hayden’s face at that moment as it rippled the waters all around. ‘Gather your sentries, Mr Hawthorne. I will endeavour to get us out of this predicament.’

  Several of the visitors, sensing that things were not going as they had hoped, began to draw swords, only to find themselves surrounded by a party of sailors, many hefting belaying pins threateningly. Hawthorne’s marines were quickly there in support, muskets levelled.

  ‘Take them all below, Mr Hawthorne, if you please,’ Hayden ordered. ‘Mr Barthe, send the hands aloft. Prepare to make sail.’

&nb
sp; ‘Aye, sir. Lay aloft if you don’t want to rot in a French gaol.’

  The hands ran to the shrouds as though they raced for a gold piece. The men at the capstan strained, veins bulging at their necks as they stamped and ‘humphed’, forcing the bars around and the ship forward by brute strength and will.

  ‘Mr Saint-Denis, set two men to cut the bower cable this instant. We will cut the kedge hawser upon my command.’ Hayden made a silent prayer to no god in particular that their rudder might not be damaged.

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  Barthe was ordering yards braced around and was disposing of the crew to set the most sail possible as quickly as could be humanly managed.

  Hayden was using the French brig to gauge the Themis’s progress but noticed now there was a bustle aboard the enemy ship – they were readying their guns.

  ‘Mr Barthe, we cannot haul ourselves much farther. Loose sail.’

  ‘Loose top-gallants and clear away the jib,’ Barthe ordered. ‘Man top-gallant halliards and sheets.’

  ‘Lieutenant,’ Hayden called, ‘cut the kedge hawser. If this breeze holds we will have way on immediately.’

  Sails came rippling down or shot up their respective stays – a display of seamanship that any officer would admire. Sails filled, the ship answered, swayed a little to leeward, then gathered way.

  ‘Mr Wickham, have you sight of our cutters?’

  The boy hesitated a second, searching to the north-east, then his hand shot up. ‘There! Not too distant, sir, and pulling like they are being chased by the French navy entire.’

  ‘Lieutenant Saint-Denis!’ Hayden called, and found his first out on the beakhead, crouched, making certain the kedge hawser did not foul.

  ‘Sir,’ Saint-Denis replied smartly, though he struggled over the barricade, still weakened by his illness.

  ‘As soon as the hands are off the yards we will clear for action. The brig will bring her guns to bear as we pass. I should like to return fire.’ Hayden looked up at the sky, which appeared almost empty of clouds for the first time in three days. ‘Bloody moonlight,’ he muttered, ‘it will see the end of us.’ Hayden turned a slow circle, examining the French positions bearing on the harbour. In a moment the Themis would be under fire from both sides of the harbour mouth. If the wind died away at that point – as it had several times this night – they would be at the mercy of the French guns.