Take, Burn or Destroy, page 15
“Were they speaking French?”
“I do not know, sir. I could not even say with certainty that it was men at all. Birds, perhaps.” The boy shrugged.
As if he had spoken words to conjure, a gull came gliding out of the fog, mewling its sorrows to an uncaring sea. It veered to avoid the Themis’ sails, which hung sodden and limp. Its cry was answered out of the mist, and then again from elsewhere.
A dull thud, distant and muffled, reached them.
“There, sir!” Wickham intoned. “There they are.”
“But where away?”
Wickham raised a hand and indicated the west, more or less.
In such dense fog, sound seemed to come from everywhere at once—and from nowhere. Standing on the quarterdeck, as Hayden did, the bow of the ship was sometimes obscured by veils of mist that drifted ever so slowly over the deck. Even when these wafted off it was impossible to say how far into the mist his vision could penetrate, for there was no object visible to judge by. Hayden guessed that they could seldom see more than two hundred feet, and often less.
Blind as they were, they listened intently. Constantly, heads turned, fearing the dark mass of a ship would drift out of the blear.
“What was that, sir? Did it sound like an oar thumping against a hull?”
It was Hayden’s turn to shrug. Wood against wood—he could be no more certain than that. There was at least one ship out there . . . somewhere. “Samson bar, mayhap,” he ventured.
The sails wafted overhead, a slow snaking movement, and then fell still again. It was as though the ocean had sighed once and then gone back to sleep. The ship lifted on the low swell—lifted and settled, hardly rolling at all. Sails hung slack, dripping onto the deck and the men gathered at the guns below.
A muffled laugh came from the foredeck and Hayden saw Franks hurrying towards the source, flexing his rattan. Hayden was glad to learn the bosun had the common sense not to beat the man—the sound would carry a mile, perhaps further.
The sails wafted again, filled halfheartedly, and drew the ship forward. Hayden would have ordered the yards braced to take the greatest advantage of this little zephyr, but he dared not allow the men to make the least sound. No, they would have to make what use of the wind they could.
He crossed to the man at the wheel—the quartermaster.
“A spoke to larboard, Harvey. Let us fill the sails if we can.”
The sound of the wheel turning even so little and the wheel rope thrumming through its blocks, the creak of the rudder, all seemed to echo about the ship and then ripple out into the mist. The quartermaster grimaced as though the sounds caused him physical pain.
A moment later, as if in answer, voices came back to them.
“What do they say?” Barthe asked in an anxious whisper. The sailing master was seated on a little bench built into the taffrail, having hobbled there with a cane, against the doctor’s orders.
“I do not know, Mr Barthe,” Wickham answered.
“But is it French, Mr Wickham? Can you not tell?”
“I canno—” But he stopped mid-word as more voices reached them, these seeming to come from some point aft.
Barthe went to speak again, but Hayden made a motion for him to stay silent, and with some difficulty the master swallowed his words.
“That sounded like English, sir,” Wickham whispered, a look of utter surprise on his face. “Did you not think so?”
Hayden could not be certain and said as much. He motioned to another of the midshipmen who emerged from below at that moment. “You have good ears, Mr Gould. Come listen.”
Gould stood, still as the air, for some minutes, and just when Hayden thought they would not hear any such sounds again, voices carried to them on a small breeze. The words seemed shattered into syllables, all echoey and distorted, as though they floated up out of a deep, deep well.
“Was that English?” Hayden asked softly. “Or was it French?”
Gould shook his head. “I do not know, sir, but it sounded like someone shouting orders—did it no—”
The fog lit orange to starboard, and the thunderclap of a gun swept over the Themis, silencing everyone utterly. Two more guns fired in quick succession.
“Have the French smoked us, sir?” Wickham whispered.
“I cannot imagine how they could . . .”
“Fog signal,” Barthe whispered. “I’ve heard it before. It’s how the French signal in a fog. A single shot, then two close together. Listen.”
The signal was returned, from somewhere out in the fog, and then a third time.
“All of our Frenchmen accounted for,” Wickham said with some satisfaction.
But then a fourth ship answered from somewhere forward, and another off their larboard bow. Then yet another from astern, or so it seemed.
“My God, sir,” Gould whispered, “I thought we were to find British frigates here.”
“Can those be echoes from cliffs?” Hayden glanced over at the sailing master, who appeared very pale.
Barthe shook his head of greying red hair. “I’m quite certain we are too distant from shore. Six ships, sir. Very likely all Frenchmen—unless our own frigates are returning their signal to confuse the enemy.”
For a moment Hayden was tempted to do the same, though he could think of no practical purpose in doing so. He looked up at the sails, which fell limp at that moment.
“Mr Barthe . . .” Hayden turned towards the sailing master. “I believe this fog will burn off shortly. Are you of the same opinion?”
“Most assuredly, sir.”
“Then let us break out our French uniforms and ensign. If there are French ships all around, we must appear to be one of them. Mr Gould, go down to my steward and tell him we must have the French clothing—for all the officers.”
Hayden was glad he had preserved the French uniforms they had employed aboard the prize frigate Dragoon, when he had been forced to masquerade as a French captain chasing an English ship. It seemed like half a lifetime ago. But now these uniforms might be the only thing that could preserve his ship.
He looked up at the sails, hanging limp and sodden. Even the pennant at the masthead stuck to the dripping mast and showed no sign of wind. He almost wanted to pray. A bit of wind, enough to put a little distance between these ships and their own—and hope that the French did not proceed in the same direction. A zephyr. A sigh. Anything . . .
Two seamen, accompanied by Hayden’s steward, bore a chest up onto the deck. It was quickly unlocked and uniforms distributed according to size rather than rank.
“I am sorry, Mr Archer, but Mr Barthe shall have to impersonate my second-in-command. You would never fit this jacket.”
“Not to mention the shoes . . .” It was Hawthorne, smiling wickedly. He had arrived on the quarterdeck at that instant, clearly intent on joining the French Navy—never wanting to be left out of any enterprise. But Hayden could not even manage a smile. Their situation was beyond desperate. If there were actually six French ships all in close proximity, it would be something of a miracle if they survived.
“Gould? Jump down to the sailmaker and have him send up a sail we might hang over the stern to hide our transom. It will give us away, sure. Quick as you can. Tell him to waste no time in deliberation. Better too large than too small.”
“Aye, sir.” Gould went down the ladder at such speed, Hayden was certain he must fall and break a bone, but he survived it.
“Where is the French ensign? Let us have it aloft this moment.”
The ensign was spread out on the deck aft of the wheel and then run aloft, where it hung limp and all but unrecognizable.
Hayden shrugged off his coat and waistcoat, sliding easily into the French captain’s uniform. In a moment his officers were all clothed like Frenchmen, standing uncomfortably around the quarterdeck in their unfamiliar uniforms. But Hayden slipped out of his English skin and into his French one so easily he hardly noticed. People thought of him as being half French and half English, but what no one understood was that he was entirely English and entirely French at one and the same time. It seemed an impossible contradiction but was, nevertheless, the truth. He was not a half-breed but a dual-breed—a man of two nations and nationalities, two cultures and entirely opposing sensibilities, all housed within the same frame.
“There you are, my French brothers,” Hayden said, smiling. “I have missed you.”
A bell rang out in the mist, sounding so close it might have been their own. At that moment, the French flag wafted once to larboard, then a little breeze unfurled it and, at the same instant, filled their sails. The frigate gathered way, ever so slowly, then answered her helm; it was as though she had come back to life, resurrected by the sea god’s breath.
An apparition loomed out of the murk, a featureless shadow. And then Hayden could make out rigging and sails. A ship—sailing in the opposite direction.
“What ship?” a man called out to them in French.
All of Hayden’s officers looked to him, but it was a question he had not considered. For a moment his mind seemed to go blank as he groped for the name of a French frigate of similar size. “Résolue,” he called out.
Aboard the French ship he could hear the officers in hushed conversation, but he could not make out what they said. And then the ship was gone, dissolving into the white not seventy-five feet astern. Gone as though it had been a ghost ship, the ghosts muttering among themselves. And then he heard a French voice call out orders, and the sounds of men running and ropes being coiled down and yards shifting carried to them on the cool, translucent air.
“They are wearing, sir,” Wickham whispered in French.
“Yes.” The words chilled Hayden right to his heart. He could hardly catch his breath. “Mr Wickham, climb the mainmast as high as you dare. Take another man with you—a steady man with good eyes. And order him not, for God’s sake, to call out in English!”
“Aye, sir.”
“Mr Archer. Sail handlers to their stations.”
“Will we stand in towards the coast, sir?” Archer asked.
“Only if we must.”
“I shall muster the men silent as a prayer, sir.” Archer hurried forward, sending runners off with his orders.
“Harvey,” Hayden whispered to the man at the wheel. “Bring her up as close to the wind as you dare. We must keep the sails full at all costs. Do not let them luff.”
“Aye, sir. You won’t see a shiver, Captain. I promise you.”
Barthe had got to his feet and leaned heavily upon his cane, agitated but unable to pace as he was accustomed. Even so hobbled, he made his way close to Hayden.
“That was a three-decker, Captain,” he whispered. “Ninety-eight guns . . .” The sailing master said this with such alarm it made the hair stand up on Hayden’s neck.
“There is very little chance that they will find us again in this fog, Mr Barthe.”
Barthe bent back awkwardly and cast his gaze up. “They will if our masts are above the fog, sir.”
That was precisely why Hayden had sent Wickham aloft to the highest point he might reach. “Let us pray this fog can withstand the sun a little longer.”
“There will be many a man praying for precisely that, sir, I will wager.”
“Mr Ransome? I want men spaced at no more than a dozen feet all the way up to Mr Wickham aloft. He may send his messages to the deck one man at a time as quiet as may be.” He turned to Hobson. “Who is our lookout on the jib-boom?”
“I cannot say, sir.”
“I will have you out there, Hobson. Send whoever is there back to his post.”
“Aye, sir.”
Gould appeared at that moment with the sailmaker and several hands in tow lugging a heavy sail. Quickly, it was hung over the stern as if drying, though whom it would confuse on such a day Hayden did not know, as everything was dripping wet.
Wickham had reached the uppermost yard and sat astride it, hardly visible from the deck. The hands sent aloft to convey his sightings went scampering up after, and in a moment a message came down—“No ships in sight. Not a mast to be seen.”
Hayden was more relieved than he could say. There was still some chance that they might slip away before the fog burned off. If only he might have a little wind—not enough to sweep the fog away, just enough to allow them to carry on. A few leagues and he would escape the French at last.
He went to the stern rail and looked down past the sail draped there at the wake his ship left—barely a little eddy line astern. Hardly a wave. It was enough to make a man weep.
Guns fired somewhere out in the distance. Answers again seemed to come from all around—muffled reports. No muzzle flash to be seen. Hayden put a hand on the rail and looked up to find Wickham, who had a glass to his eye and was slowly sweeping it in a long arc. The acting lieutenant stopped a moment and swung his glass back, seeking at one point of the compass. For a moment Hayden held his breath, but then Wickham went back to his slow quizzing of the void.
Hayden returned his attention to the deck, where it seemed every hand stared at him, and then looked quickly away.
“Sir?” One of the men stationed at a carronade pointed into the fog astern.
Hayden turned, but there was nothing. He looked back to the man who had spoken in time to see the gun captain punch the man urgently in the shoulder—he should never have spoken and knew it.
“What did you see?” Hayden demanded.
“A . . . shadow, sir. Something . . . there, sir!” His hand shot up.
Hayden spun about in time to see something dark and ghostly passing through the mist. It did resemble a shadow, though very faint, featureless and dusky. And then it, too, was gone.
“Was it a frigate?” Barthe asked. The pain in his foot had sent him back to his bench, where he twisted round to get a view of this apparition.
“So it seemed—perhaps,” Hayden whispered.
Voices were heard then, calling out in French.
“What ship?”
A brief interchange in which Hayden clearly heard someone say, “. . . le comte” twice.
The voices fell silent, and then the wind died, the sails swooning all around.
Barthe muttered an oath and then all was silent. Not even the call of a gull.
Gould put a hand to his ear and tilted his head. “Do you hear that, Captain? Is it the sound of sweeps?”
For a long moment Hayden listened. The restive sails hissing forth and back, rippling then falling still. And then, so faintly he might have imagined it, the measured wash of sweeps dipping, then again. For a moment, the rustle of sails overcame it, but then they fell still and he located the sound again.
“They have launched boats,” Hayden whispered.
“Where away?” Barthe came to his feet, both hands on the rail and his cane, leaning against the bench, rolled loudly sideways, and crashed to the deck. Hayden put his foot on it instantly and one of the hands then took it up, returning it to the chagrined sailing master.
Hayden raised a hand to interrupt Barthe’s apology. He wanted silence so that he might listen.
“Where away” was indeed the question. Somewhere in the blear, but where, Hayden could not say. He turned his head from this side to that, but the sound emanated from everywhere and nowhere.
A sound that might have been wind or voices whispering. And then, dead astern, a pistol shot. Hayden saw the muzzle flash but could make out nothing more.
“Pass the word for Mr Hawthorne,” Hayden said quietly. “Drag this sail clear of the chase pieces. We shall load one with grape and the other with cannister shot.”
Hayden turned to gaze up at the masthead. Wickham was turned aft, staring into the fog. Then he noticed his captain and raised both hands and shrugged.
Hawthorne came hurrying aft at that instant.
“There you are,” Hayden said to him. “Position your best marksmen—three here at the taffrail but clear of the gun crews. And four in the mizzen top. Tell them to fire at any ship’s boats they see, but not a single shot at a ship. This boat is planning to stay close to us and signal our presence.”
“But will we not be alerting the French to our position by firing guns, sir?”
“Indeed we will, but if we can drive this boat off we will alter course and fall silent again. If we fail to drive it off . . . we are lost.” Hayden turned to his midshipman. “Mr Gould. Find Mr Archer and have him order a boat launched—as quietly as can be managed.”
“Aye, sir.”
Hawthorne touched his hat and went off with Gould. A moment later, Hawthorne was back with three marines in his wake, all stripped of their red coats.
“If you send a boat, may I go with it, Captain?” Hawthorne asked.
“Yes. I will send a few marines as well as the hands to man the oars, and put Mr Ransome in command.”
“That will answer, sir.”
Hayden turned in time to see the boat swing aloft. For a moment he stopped to admire the skill of the men who, with barely a whispered order or a nod from the officers, launched the boat as smoothly as could be done. They had become a good, steady crew in the few months since Hart had departed. For a moment Hayden felt a glow of pride in them, as though they were all his sons.
He sent the word for Ransome, who appeared out of the mist that drifted over the deck. “Sir?” The lieutenant touched his hat.
Hayden carefully explained what he wanted done.
“Do not lose sight of the Themis, Mr Ransome, or you might not find your way back again. Do you understand?”
“I shall have one man keep the ship in sight at all times, sir.” Ransome went off to gather his crew and arms.
Without so much as a splash, the cutter touched the Atlantic’s surface and settled, bobbing gently. Hayden nodded to Hawthorne, who hurried off to collect his own men.
Sailors and marines went over the side, stealthily as they could, and then without even an “Away boat” the cutter appeared astern and then faded into the murk, the oarsmen rowing in a slow, quiet rhythm.
