A Battle Won

by Sean Thomas Russell

  ‘Mr Barthe,’ Hayden said on impulse, ‘I will ask you to stay with the ship. Mr Archer will need a sailing master should anything untoward befall me.’

  ‘But, sir…’

  Hayden raised a hand and Barthe’s protest died in his throat, a look of disappointment and frustration overspreading his face.

  When the cabin was empty, Hayden found himself taking out Henrietta’s letters and reading them all again – an unforgivable use of his time, given the circumstances. He could not forget his promise to return. An idle promise, he knew, even as he spoke it. Nor had Henrietta been so naive – she comprehended the dangers… as well as anyone could who had not been in an action at sea. Hayden tied all the letters up in a red ribbon and returned them to a box. He then took quill and ink and wrote her a long letter containing all of his hopes and none of his fears. This he sealed and delivered into the hands of Perseverance Gilhooly with instructions that it be delivered by an officer of the ship into the hands of Miss Henrietta Carthew should he not survive the voyage. The young Irish boy looked terribly alarmed by this, but Hayden felt a great sense of relief. This duty of the heart discharged, he made an effort to focus his mind on preparations for the cutting-out expedition.

  The one boat that was not being repainted was quickly manned to carry him ashore, where he went in search of Dundas and Moore. Upon learning that both men were at the nearby battery, Hayden set out to find them. The beaches north of the Mortella Tower were crowded with soldiers drilling and sailors bearing ashore all manner of stores. Supplying even a small army required great co-ordination and more men than Hayden had ever understood.

  A line of sailors snaked slowly back and forth across the rise to what Hayden thought of as Wickham’s battery. Each man carried a hundredweight of either powder or shot upon his shoulders, which was deposited in a cargo net at the trail-head. Using block and tackle, and the sheers, the net was raised up to the level of the battery and quickly emptied by artillery men.

  Hayden took the more direct route that the guns had travelled, and then clambered up the rocks with the aid of the ropes that had been established for this purpose. The smoke from the battery curled over the edge, carried on a gentle breeze, and stung his eyes. In a moment he was on the crest, enveloped in a caustic, black cloud. He tacked immediately to starboard, holding his breath, and as he came into the clear, found Moore, Dundas and General Paoli all standing uphill from the battery, field glasses in hand, Moore pointing with one hand and speaking in Paoli’s ear.

  One of Dundas’s aides spotted Hayden and informed the general, who glanced Hayden’s way and then raised his glass to quiz the French positions again.

  ‘Captain Hayden!’ Moore greeted him. ‘You have finally come to witness the effect of your guns upon the French. You shall not be disappointed, I will wager.’

  Moore offered Hayden his glass after the Navy man had greeted Paoli. Even a cursory examination revealed substantial damage to the works of the Convention Redoubt. Not a soul could be seen moving among the earthen walls, and one gun laid on the ground, its carriage smashed. Even as he watched, a ball buried itself in the side of a trench, throwing up a dark blossom of Corsican dirt. Everywhere he looked were small pits, many joined together to form substantial craters.

  He could not resist a quick glance to be sure the frigates had not moved, but only their masts could be seen from this vantage.

  ‘Have any of the works been abandoned?’ he asked as he returned the glass to Moore.

  Moore looked a little troubled by the question. ‘No. The French have dug themselves in, but we are still managing to kill more than a few and they must comprehend that we can keep this up indefinitely. It will sap their will to fight, I am certain.’

  One of the eighteen-pounders fired, the explosion tearing the air.

  ‘The works will still need to be carried,’ Paoli offered into the silence. ‘The French cannot, with honour, quit them.’

  ‘The general is, no doubt, quite correct,’ Moore told Hayden. ‘But you and your men hauled the guns up here at great cost; we shall do our part in driving the French from their positions. Your part is finished, Captain.’

  ‘Not entirely,’ Hayden replied. ‘Lord Hood has honoured me with the task of cutting out the frigates. This would be best accomplished by night. If our effort can be co-ordinated with the army’s assault on the redoubt, I believe there is an excellent chance of success.’

  Dundas glanced his way. ‘I have not yet decided upon the day of the attack let alone the hour, Captain.’

  Hayden tried not to show his annoyance at this remark. ‘I shall patiently await your decision, General Dundas – when you feel the success of an attack is most assured, and not before. I have only come to request that I will be given ample opportunity to arrange my assault on the frigates with your own upon the redoubt.’

  Dundas did not answer a moment and then nodded, rather grudgingly, Hayden thought. At no time did he take his eyes from the French positions to acknowledge Hayden.

  An awkward moment Hayden stood there, growing more angry and frustrated, when finally Paoli intervened.

  ‘Colonel Moore has kindly offered to escort me down to my mule, Captain Hayden. Perhaps you might walk so far with me?’

  ‘It would be an honour, sir.’ Hayden nodded to Dundas. ‘General.’

  The three men set off up to the crest of the hill, and then down the winding path. Hayden could see a band of Corsicans below, perhaps halfway down the slope, two tethered mules browsing halfheartedly among the scrub.

  The old general went very slowly along the path, often putting weight on the shoulder of one of his guards. The Corsicans treated Paoli with enormous respect – deference, in truth – which Hayden found touching.

  ‘We did not, Captain Hayden, share the glass of wine that we had intended,’ Paoli said, when they stopped for a moment to allow him to rest (Moore, seeing the old man’s state had asked if they could take a moment’s rest, claiming that he had earlier twisted an ankle).

  ‘We did not, General, but perhaps we may yet. After the French have been expelled; then we may all raise a glass.’

  The old man lowered himself down onto a rock with a sigh. He seemed shrunken and fragile at that moment, his entire manner uncertain – uncharacteristically so.

  ‘Yes,’ Paoli replied as he caught his breath, ‘we shall drink a toast to the Corsican and British island, but how long will your people stay, I wonder? Will the British leave and the Austrians come? – or the Spanish?’ He shook his head. ‘Do forgive me. I am easily fatigued now, and my mood can become very low at such times. I believe the French shall retreat from San Fiorenzo in a few days, and then Bastia and Calvi will fall. Who can see the future? For a time we shall be the subjects of His Britannic Majesty, and I believe Corsicans will know the greatest freedom they have will have had since the Bourbons came. I will hope it lasts many years.’

  He rose then, and kissed both Moore and Hayden on each cheek. ‘My people owe you a debt. They say that Corsicans never remember a good deed but cannot forget a bad one, but Paoli will not forget what you have done. As long as I am alive, your names will be spoken with great honour here and in the mountains and in the seaside towns. We are a poor people and cannot raise statues, but we can say your names and tell our grandchildren how you raised the great guns to the hilltops when everyone believed it could not be done, and drove the French from our shores to give us our freedom, however long it might last.’

  With that Paoli turned and continued his slow descent, stopping at the bottom of the hill to wave once before mounting his mule and riding off, soon lost in a stand of green.

  Returning to the beach, Hayden found a good portion of his crew, including midshipmen, practising armed combat, some with wooden cutlasses, others with musket and bayonet, still others with pikes. Hawthorne had, some time before, requested Hayden order the carpenter to make up wooden weapons so that the men might practise their small arms without risk of injury. He and his of
ficers had drilled the men relentlessly, when weather allowed (quarantine in Gibraltar had seen a flurry of this activity), and Hayden was very gratified with the results. He had always felt that this was one aspect of naval warfare that did not receive the attention it deserved. Losing a man simply because he was uneducated in the use of his weapon was unacceptable to Hayden. In truth, he would feel responsible in such a case, so Hawthorne’s dedication to drilling men under arms earned his complete approval.

  Among the middies, he found Gould, wooden cutlass in hand. The reefers were still youthful enough that they seemed more like boys at play than men learning to preserve their lives and take the lives of others. Gould, he noticed, was not the least bit cavalier about this exercise and lunged and parried with a ferocity that Hayden found surprising.

  Hawthorne noticed his captain and came striding over. He had doffed his scarlet jacket and was, rather jauntily, using a wooden sword as a walking stick. A slick of sweat made his face shine and his colour was high from exertion. ‘I hope they are as proficient at killing Frenchmen as they are at murdering each other,’ the marine officer commented.

  ‘They have shown marked improvement, Mr Hawthorne. My compliments to you.’

  Hawthorne lowered his voice. ‘In truth, they were as like to stab themselves before, but I think they will acquit themselves well enough now.’

  The two stood a moment, critically observing the thrust and parry.

  ‘Our Mr Gould appears to be becoming quite a warrior,’ Hayden observed.

  ‘Indeed. I believe it is born half out of desire to succeed in his profession and half out of desire to preserve his own young life.’

  ‘I applaud both,’ Hayden replied.

  ‘As do I. I fear these blockheads who rush into battle without the least trepidation. Men born without fear often seem bereft of conscience, as well.’

  Hayden was a bit surprised to hear Hawthorne give voice to this. ‘I have thought the same. But what does their footfall sound like, I wonder?’

  Hawthorne looked at him sideways, a foolish grin upon his face. ‘Well, I thought it a fruitful line of enquiry at the time.’

  Hayden laughed. ‘And so it was. Is there anything you require here?’

  ‘No, sir. We have come with water and victuals. I wondered when we would get back to fighting the French, Captain Hayden. I always believed hauling guns a waste of your particular talents.’

  ‘As did I! But I have just been up to observe the effect of our guns upon the French and I can report that it is considerably more than satisfactory. The enterprise was very nearly worth the hernias and injured backs.’

  Hawthorne laughed with pleasure. ‘I am sure the men in the sick-berths will be much fortified when they hear it.’

  ‘Carry on, Mr Hawthorne.’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  In a few moments Hayden’s coxswain had delivered him to the frigate Foxhound, and into the presence of Captain John Winter. Hayden could not help but take in the austere cabin with its few shabby furnishings. The ancient little table was such a contrast to the grand affair he had so recently been given.

  Winter rose from his chair as Hayden entered, a deluge of paper spread out before him. The man did not smile or look in the least pleased to be receiving Hayden.

  ‘Is it no longer customary to send a note in advance of such a visit, Captain Hayden?’ Winter enquired peevishly.

  ‘As I was certain we had both received orders from Lord Hood, I believed that you would anticipate such a visit, Captain.’

  Winter wore a uniform that was at least a season, if not two, past need of retirement, impeccably clean but visibly mended at the shoulder, both elbows and upon the cuffs.

  ‘I am to put a number of my men under your command, I am informed.’ The man’s apparent anger was growing by the moment.

  ‘If you please –’

  ‘I am not pleased! Why a man, who has not yet made his post, should be given such a command in place of a more experienced officer I know not.’ For a second, Winter appeared embarrassed by this outburst, but then a second wave of anger washed over him. ‘Why is it, Hayden, that you should be shown such favour? Are you a nephew of the admiral’s?’

  ‘I am no such thing, sir,’ Hayden said coolly. ‘I believe I have been given this command as a reward for my recent efforts – mounting guns upon the hills.’

  ‘Rewarded for service rather than parentage? Do such things occur?’ The man took a few steps towards the gallery windows, clearly trying to master his emotions. ‘How many men is it you require?’ he snapped at Hayden.

  ‘Eighty men, armed with pistols and cutlasses, with a few axes and pikes as well… and the boats to transport them.’

  ‘Eighty! I am informed, Captain, that the French frigates do not have their full muster.’

  ‘That is correct, sir, or so I believe. We have been observing them and believe they each have sixty to eighty men.’

  ‘Well, then, sixty Englishmen for each French ship will be more than adequate. I shall allow you sixty… and three cutters. And they shall be under command of my own lieutenant or I will not provide them at all.’

  Hayden was about to protest but realized the futility of such resistance. The man intended to co-operate with him to the least possible degree. This was very common in the service when officers were given orders of which they strongly disapproved. Hayden had quite likely been guilty of it himself – especially when serving under Captain Josiah Hart.

  ‘Sixty men under your own lieutenant,’ Hayden repeated. ‘We have painted our boats black to make them less easily observed by night.’

  Winter appeared to have been freshly offended. ‘I have never painted my boats black for any reason – not in twenty years of service. I do not intend to begin, now. They will remain white.’

  ‘There will almost certainly be moonlight,’ Hayden informed him.

  ‘White.’ Winter fixed him with a look of such firmness that Hayden knew he would not alter his decision in the least way.

  ‘I believe the attack will take place the evening next, though it is dependent upon the army and they will not yet commit themselves to any hour.’

  ‘My men could be ready with very little notice.’

  ‘I will send word the moment I know more.’

  Winter merely stared at him; he did not acknowledge that Hayden had even spoken. Making a slight bow, Hayden retreated from the cabin, his considerable temper heating towards white-hot. He was in his boat and being carried across the glassy bay when he realized that he could very easily become Winter in a few years. A man clearly without a patron in the Admiralty or among the flag officers. Whether he was competent Hayden did not know – perhaps not – but surely he was unlucky. Even his post captain’s wages should have seen him in better circumstances than he apparently lived in. And to think, he had been resentful of Hayden’s connection with Lord Hood, whom he had only just met and was the first man outside of Philip Stephens who had ever shown the least interest in him (and certainly Stephen’s patronage had proven more useful in theory than in practice). Hayden’s anger dissolved away; he almost laughed. Either he was without a patron and struggling to make his way in the service, or his patrons were attaching him to a captain like Faint Hart or having him haul guns up to hilltops for which ‘less fortunate’ captains resented him. It was all rather ironical.

  Climbing over the rail of the Themis, Hayden discovered Mr Chettle and his mates busily applying a second coat of black to the boats, which already appeared coal-dust dull. Upon stained tarpaulins, imperfect rows of sweeps had been arranged. Thick paint was splashed upon these by hasty ship’s boys, who splattered paint upon each other in equal proportion.

  ‘Hey, you lot!’ Franks called when he spied Hayden coming over the rail – previously he had been watching with great amusement. ‘I find a spot of paint on our clean deck and you’ll all be hanging from the topsail yard by your ankles until the blood rushes to yer heads and yer eyes pop out.’

 
The boys made a show of applying the paint judiciously, each stroke slowed to a deliberate wobble.

  ‘Mr Archer. It seems you have everything in hand.’

  Archer touched his hat and smiled. ‘I hope so, sir. You saw Mr Hawthorne drilling the crew? I gave him permission, Captain. I hope I did not overstep…’ The lieutenant’s sentence drifted and died away.

  ‘I approve of your decision most heartily, Mr Archer,’ Hayden informed him kindly. Archer was still finding his way as first lieutenant and Hayden tried to support him in every way possible. ‘Don’t forget about blackening the men’s faces.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ Archer said with some relief. ‘I’ll have all the men looking like the ship’s boys.’

  They both laughed. Spotting Mr Barthe on the quarterdeck Hayden went aft. ‘Mr Barthe, might I call upon your superior knowledge of the service? Are you familiar with a post captain named Winter?’

  ‘That rum bastard?’ Barthe growled. ‘I had heard he was in command of the Foxhound. What have we to do with him?’

  ‘He is supplying the rest of the men for the assault upon the frigates. I have just had a less than satisfactory meeting with him.’

  ‘There isn’t a meaner officer in the service, Mr Hayden. Can’t keep a purser because they claim his practices are very sharp and cost them money. Can you imagine? His practices are sharper than a purser’s!’

  ‘I was in his cabin and it is…shabby, I must tell you. The man was wearing a very ancient coat that had been mended, and in numerous places, too.’

  ‘That is him, sir. But it’s not due to ill luck with investments or straitened circumstances, or even economy, as we would think of it. No, it is simply meanness. He possesses every farthing he has ever earned, sir. All cunningly invested. Men say he is as rich as a lord. I’ve heard tell that his wife and children live in penury, Captain Hayden. They even jest that he sends his children out to beg, but I wonder if it is a jest at all. After you have employed his men he will be sending you a reckoning, I would warrant.’ Barthe laughed at his own wit.