‘Thank you, Mr Barthe. It is always useful to know whom we are dealing with. Your knowledge in these matters in invaluable.’
‘I am most happy to do it, sir.’ Barthe stepped a little closer, his manner changing. ‘And as to the monies, sir. It was all returned, sir, and most ashamed I am for my part in that matter. I do hope you will not hold it against me, sir.’
‘No, Mr Barthe, but do be wary in the future. We shall need to keep a close eye on Mr Ransome, I fear.’
Barthe nodded vigorously. ‘Aye, sir.’
On the gundeck, Hayden found the armourer, his mate and several able seamen cleaning pistols and changing flints. Forward, in an area inspected to be clear of all powder, two men had been detailed to sharpening cutlasses on a wheel, one pumping the treadle to make it spin, the other grinding carefully at the cutting edge, a spray of sparks thrown out in a narrow fan.
As the man finished edging his weapon, Hayden caught his attention. ‘I shall send you my sword, Smithers. It might need to be touched here and there.’
Smithers made a knuckle. ‘It’s already sharp as a woman’s tongue, Captain Hayden. Perse… that is Mr Gilhooly took the liberty of bringing it to me, sir, and I lavished great care upon it, too, as you will see. It is sharp enough for Frenchmen, I’m quite certain.’ He smiled. ‘Mr Longyard has already seen to your pistols, sir.’
‘Thank you, Smithers.’
‘Not at all, sir.’
Hayden suppressed a smile as he turned away. Harold Smithers – Harry – without ever meaning to mimicked the airs of his betters, especially in address. He suffered much teasing over it, though very good-natured, for he was, for the most part, well-liked and a more than passable seaman. He was every bit as likely to say, ‘Why, think nothing of it’, when the proper response would be ‘Aye, sir.’ Hayden indulged it out of simple liking for the man and because everyone aboard was aware that Smithers did not mean the least disrespect.
All about the ship Hayden found his crew in a mood of excitement and expectation. Archer had not made all of the dispositions, yet, so it would be some little time until the uncertain looks would appear among the men – those who had been spared the duty would have neither the stories to tell afterwards nor the jealous admiration of their mates. They might, however, live as a result.
A moon, just past full, illuminated plaster-flat clouds pressed hard up against the starry vault. A breeze, frail and irresolute, barely rippled the open bay. In a whisper, Hayden ordered the coxswain to hold his position, muffled oars dipping, silently, dipping.
They were farther off the mouth of the bay than Hayden would have liked, but the white cutters Captain Winter had supplied could be perceived, faint and ghostly, at some distance. Hayden had ordered Winter’s lieutenant, a thirty-year-old officer by the name of Barker, to station his boats beyond Hayden’s so that they would be partly screened from the shore by the Themis’s cutters and barge.
Hayden took up his night glass and fixed it on the two ships anchored, bow and stern, in the narrow bay. The bow of the nearest, Fortunée, with her beak-head, sprit and rigging, was just visible against the darker shore, moonlight shining dully off wooden surfaces. With some regularity, a sentry would pass before one of the deck lamps, and Hayden tried to estimate how often this occurred.
The frigate anchored deeper in the cut, the Minerve, was obscured by Fortunée. Hayden could have ordered the boats to move to the south to open up his view of the bay, but the high tower and batteries on the hill there commanded such a view that he feared the boats would be perceived. Hayden swept his glass slowly over these positions, looking for any signs of activity. All remained quiet.
To the right of the bay stood the Convention Redoubt – Moore’s first objective – and it too was nearly silent. A careful examination of the hillside behind revealed nothing, much to Hayden’s relief. Moore would be moving his troops down that slope very soon, if he had not already done so. Even with the redoubt severely battered, the colonel would not want to lose the element of surprise. He and Hayden had debated this very thing for some time the previous day. Was it better that the frigates were attacked first or the batteries? Would Hayden’s assault on the ships warn the troops in the redoubt, and vice versa? And if so, which would be less to their disadvantage?
A simultaneous attack had been rejected out of hand. Such things were difficult to co-ordinate on land. There were too many unknowns to even begin to hope it could be managed by both land and sea. In the end, they had agreed that overrunning the batteries was essential to driving out the French, whereas taking the frigates would not affect that particular outcome in any appreciable way.
For that reason Hayden and his crews hung off the mouth of the bay, waiting for the first sounds of battle.
‘Can you make out anything, Captain?’ Hawthorne asked in a whisper.
Hayden shook his head. ‘No.’ Then shook his head again to discourage further conversation. He saw Hawthorne break into a grin and he did the same, both stifling the urge to laugh. Hayden did not need to ask why – the marine lieutenant looked as absurd, no doubt, as he did, with his face blackened by burnt cork, eyes shining out like a drunk’s in a mask.
Childers shifted his helm but a little to keep them head-to-wind, and the oarsmen dipped their long, black sweeps into the Mediterranean in a slow rhythm calculated to hold their position. Hayden could hear the men breathing, shifting as they pulled on the sweeps. He could almost sense the apprehension on the smell of their sweat. Waiting to go into battle was never good for morale. It gave the imagination too much time to magnify the strengths of the enemy, and to diminish one’s own advantages.
A black cutter moved out of position and drew silently abreast. In the stern, an officer leaned over the rail towards Hayden.
‘I just caught sight of Moore’s company descending the hill, Captain.’ It was Wickham speaking. ‘They are almost at the bottom, sir.’
Hayden waved a hand in acknowledgement. Who else but Wickham would be able to see that? Hopefully not the French, who were a damned sight nearer.
After their first, unfortunate, meeting, Winter had sent Barker to treat with Hayden. The man was too old by half to still be a lieutenant, and overly aware of it. In every little thing, he tried to have his way or appear to possess superior knowledge. Over a chart of San Fiorenzo Bay, in Hayden’s cabin, the two had argued how best to proceed. Various means of assault were considered, the only point of immediate agreement being that Hayden, with his black boats, should attack the Minerve, which lay deeper into the bay. Without admitting it, Barker was clearly concerned that his own boats might be seen and wished Hayden to draw the attention of the French crews.
The plan finally agreed to was that, upon hearing the first volley against the redoubt, Hayden would take his boats and slip down the southern shore of the bay, most distant from the redoubt and opposite where the ships anchored. This would allow him to come at the farthest frigate from astern, where the French would least expect an attack. Both officers hoped that the French would be prepared for assault from their starboard sides, and not from larboard which lay nearest the shore.
It was a simple plan and relied only on Hayden being able to approach unseen and draw the attention of the French crews, which would allow Barker and his men to approach the Fortunée’s bow, where cannon could least effectively be brought to bear. Once this plan had been formed, and Barker had imagined that it was his own, the two had parted almost amiably.
Hayden found himself straining for any sound that would indicate an attack. Moore planned to carry the works at the point of the bayonet but certainly the French would begin to fire the moment that they became aware of the British. Moore, too, was relying on surprise. Most of the guns in the redoubt had been rendered useless – but not all. Grape could still cut down many a British infantryman, and Hayden found himself hoping that Moore would not be among these. The colonel would certainly be at the front of his company and most likely to fall – which would be not only
the loss of a man Hayden had come to esteem as a friend, but, Hayden believed, a great misfortune to the British nation.
He tried to exhale in an even, quiet manner lest his own breathing mask the first noises of conflict ashore. Around him, the small sounds of the men, the low clearing of a throat, a hand scraping over an unshaven cheek, seemed impossibly loud. Knowing how the least sound travelled over water, they all cringed when the slightest noise escaped.
A dull little explosion, muffled and distant, carried to them over the rippled sea. A collective in-drawing of air was followed by every man there holding his breath, and remaining unnaturally still. The sound had been so faint, so indistinct, Hayden began to wonder if he had imagined it. Just as the men around him began to draw breath, two more reports carried to them.
‘Musket fire!’ Hawthorne whispered urgently.
‘Mr Wickham…’ Hayden raised his voice loud enough to be heard. ‘Follow us. In line astern.’
‘Aye, sir,’ Wickham answered, then whispered to the boat nearest, ‘In line astern.’ These three words were repeated, one boat to the next, until all were informed and in motion.
The men bent to their sweeps, visibly relieved to be moving.
‘Softly, now,’ Childers cautioned. ‘Softly.’
The men eased their cadence, and fell into an almost languid rhythm. Hayden divided his attention between the nearby shore and the frigates on the bay’s far side. If they were perceived at a distance, grapeshot and French musketeers would cut them up horribly.
Aboard the two frigates, a stirring could be heard, men erupting onto the decks. Hayden listened for the officer’s commands trying to get some sense of what they might do, but the French kept their voices so low Hayden could not make out the words. Men did not appear to be going aloft, which meant it was likely they would not try to sail out in the event of the redoubt falling to the British. Firing or scuttling the ships must be their intent.
The sound of a furious musket fire came from the redoubt now, and as the British boats entered the small bay, this sound carried to them more readily. Hayden could see the muzzle flash reflecting off the works. To his great relief, no great guns had yet been heard.
The sounds of battle began to increase, with much shouting and firing of muskets and pistols. Even the clash of steel could be heard at this distance, and, believing this would cover any small noise made, Hayden ordered the oarsmen to increase their pace.
The bay was very snug, and they had soon travelled to its narrow end.
‘Port your helm, Mr Childers,’ Hayden whispered. ‘Take us across her stern.’
The boat swung to starboard. The moonlight was so bright it cast a broad, unbroken path upon the glassy bay, and Hayden worried that the boats would be seen against this. He found himself ducking down a little, as though to hide and noticed others doing the same.
Hawthorne grinned at him. The marine was known for his desperate wit as they went into battle – a nervous response that Hayden had seen many times before – and must be finding it difficult to remain silent.
Hayden searched the deck of the French frigate, watching for anyone who might be looking their way. No one. Nor were there any signs of increased alarm aboard the Fortunée – though the crew seemed completely engaged in doing something… readying the ship for fire, Hayden suspected.
As they neared the stern of the Minerve, Hayden found himself holding his breath, waiting for a cry of discovery and a volley of musket fire. A moment he waited, hunching his shoulders and drawing his head down into his collar.
‘Les bateaux! Bateaux! Les Anglais!’
Hayden all but leapt to his feet, tore a pistol from his belt and pulled back the cock with two thumbs. With a slightly unsteady hand, he pointed it up at the taffrail, looming above. The call had come from somewhere forward.
A gun fired. A horrible splatter of grape into water and planking. And then a second.
‘They have spotted the Foxhound,’ Hawthorne whispered, utterly surprised but also relieved. ‘Bloody fool captain,’ he muttered. ‘Could not spare a bit of paint.’
At that moment, none of them had energy to spare in pitying the Foxhound. As Childers brought them around the frigate’s stern, oars were taken silently aboard, not raised where they might be seen. Balanced with a foot on the rail-cap, men reached the chains and pulled them forward. Three French boats laid against the hull, only a single boat-keeper present, and he was standing on the thwart, straining to see what went on aboard the Fortunée, his back to the approaching British.
Before Hayden could give an order, one of the hands crept forward, bare feet making no sound, and encircling the man’s throat with an arm, drove a blade down into the soft triangle aft of his collar bone. A moment of silent, gagging struggle and the man was gently lowered down into the dark boat.
Hayden went quicky forward between the oarsmen, Hawthorne and Gould behind. Over the bow into the French boat, then up the ladder until his head raised above the deck. Forward he could see a crowd, and then one of the forecastle guns fired. Drawing out his sword he cut through several ropes of the boarding net.
Hayden turned back to Hawthorne and whispered. ‘Not a sound.’
Up he went onto the deck, conscious that his boots were not nearly so quiet as unshod feet.
A staccato gunfire erupted now, on both ships, as quickly as cannon could be loaded. Hayden did not like to imagine the effect. Before he had gone a step, he realized he had made a terrible mistake. Half a dozen men were gathered along the quarterdeck rail, leaning out, to get a view of what went on forward.
Motioning to Hawthorne to take a group and deal with them, he counted out the first eight, placing a hand on each man’s arm and whispering near to his ear, ‘With Mr Hawthorne.’
Hayden had the men step clear of the ladder as they came aboard and crouch down so as to be less visible – given a little cover from the shadow of the bulwark. A moment they waited. Hawthorne and his men did not hesitate but went right at the men, dispatching them in the same manner as the boat-keeper. One Frenchman almost struggled free and managed a half-strangled cry, but no one forward heard over the firing of the guns.
Hayden stood and motioned to Hawthorne, who started down the starboard gangway as Hayden led his own party down the larboard. He hastened forward without raising a weapon or appearing in anyway threatening. It was his hope that his blue coat would appear merely dark in the moonlight, and an officer hurrying forward would hardly seem unusual, even if he were followed by a crowd of seamen. But he needn’t have worried. So intent were the French crew on driving off the English boats that no one thought to glance behind.
Hayden was twelve paces away before a French sailor looked around. The man watched Hayden approach a moment before realization struck.
‘They are upon us!’ he cried in French. ‘The English!’
Hayden rushed forward but Hawthorne was quicker, running the man through the body with his cutlass. Hayden’s first thrust into the uneven wall of men struck bone, the blade deflecting like a bow, but the second, almost instantaneous upon the first, slid terribly into flesh.
And then he was in the centre of a melee, pistols discharging, blades thrusting and parrying. An enormous Frenchman was throwing iron balls with tremendous force, taking down a Themis with each one. Hayden pulled out his pistol and shot the man in the chest from ten paces. The Frenchman, a near giant, lowered the ball he was about to throw, put a hand to the stain growing on his breast, looked up at Hayden, raised the ball, and with a bubbling cry charged. Hayden felt himself step back, but then raised his sword, certain nothing would stop the man.
At that instant, Gould stepped forward and shot the man again, which did not slow him in the least. Hayden ducked the ball, which whizzed past his head. A massive fist, drove into his shoulder and he was thrown down, hard, upon the planks, his blade clattering away. The Frenchman was upon him, fist drawn back, when suddenly he stopped, a look of confusion upon his face. He fell upon one hip, almost a
top Hayden. A blade was thrust through his neck so that the point appeared out the other side, and another had been run into his heart. Hayden realized it was Wickham and Gould, who let go of his cutlass, yanked out his second pistol, aimed it at the man’s temple from six inches distant, and fired. The Frenchman toppled heavily down and lay utterly limp, his hair in flame. Gould and Wickham dragged Hayden to his feet and some other pressed a blade into his hand.
‘Are you wounded, Captain?’ Gould yelled, his colour high, hat gone.
‘No…’ Was this true? His left shoulder was all but numb. ‘No. I think not.’
Wickham and Gould retrieved their blades from the dead Frenchman, and the three were immediately beset on all sides. Hayden knew not if they lost or prevailed. It was a desperate fight, the deck slick with blood. Men fell all around and soon they fought half-standing upon the bodies.
Out of the corner of his eye, Hayden realized that there was a substantial battle going on behind him, and wondered where these Frenchmen had come from. A man with a pike twice tried to run him through, which Hayden barely avoided both times. He then tried to strike Hayden on the skull, which Hayden again avoided, but the point cut through his coat and right down his front, slicing into skin. This gave Hayden an opening and in a quick step forward he put his blade into the man’s chest.
Hayden stepped back and touched a hand to his belly, half expecting his innards to come spilling out. He was bleeding, certainly, but had not been opened.
‘Too bloody near,’ he muttered.
A body careened into Hayden’s shoulder, staggering him to his knees. Leaping up, he saw two men crash to the deck in a tangle, wrestling and grunting, but in the poor light which was English and which French he could not tell. The man beneath was half hidden, his face in shadow – but was it cork-stained? Hayden drew back his sword but then hesitated.
A Battle Won Page 40
