Take, Burn or Destroy, page 2
Immediately, Hayden returned to attempting to part the darkness. For a moment he imagined he heard the measured dipping of sweeps into the cold Channel, but no boat materialized and the sound eventually blended back into the noises of night and sea.
“Sir?” The diminutive master-at-arms appeared out of the gloom.
“We will show this single lamp for exactly one half of the hour,” Hayden instructed.
“Aye, sir.”
The signal intended for the French spy was lit, sputtered, then came to soft light. Hayden immediately felt a target for hidden guns or ships lurking in the darkness.
His mind, however, could not be kept on the present circumstances, but was ever drawn back to the troubles that had befallen him upon his recent return to England. Even more than his legal troubles, his estrangement from Henrietta weighed upon him, causing constant distress and drawing his mind from his responsibilities. He needed to be in England, to find Henrietta and explain all that had happened. The discovery of Madame Bourdage and her daughter was of no consequence when compared to this one matter.
You have duties, Hayden reminded himself. The safety of two hundred souls is dependent upon you making decisions with a clear mind.
But his mind was not clear and lack of sleep from worry only reduced its powers more. Added to these personal concerns, he now fretted that, in his preoccupied state, he would commit some error of judgement that would put his crew in danger.
Archer appeared at the head of the companionway, looked about as though confused, spotted Hayden, and immediately crossed to him.
“There you are, Mr Archer. Did you sleep?” Hayden asked, trying to hide away his worries and concerns.
“But poorly, sir.”
As Archer habitually appeared like a man just wakened, Hayden could not say if this was the truth.
“No sign of Mr Ransome, sir?”
“None.”
Archer considered this news a moment. “What will we do if he does not appear by first light?”
Hayden wanted to reply, “Roast him,” but instead paused to consider. “I fear we shall have to assume he had the ill luck of becoming a guest of the French, and we must hope he does not give away our intentions or reveal that the Themis was here at all.”
“The French will know he did not row across the Channel. What will they assume, I wonder?”
“Any number of possibilities, Mr Archer. That he has come ashore to meet a spy. Or that he has placed a spy among them. We can hope the French might think he planned to cut out some ship in the harbour, for if they think he meets a spy they might become determined to have him name the man.” Only Hayden knew the name of the man they were to meet—and most certainly this was not the man’s real name.
Some bitter liquid was pressed up from his stomach into his throat, and Hayden swallowed it back down, only to be left with a burning sensation.
“Capitaine?” came a whisper almost under Hayden’s chin.
“Who is it?” Hayden whispered in French.
“C’est moi. Benoît.”
“Come aboard, monsieur.”
Hayden could just make them out now. Two men in a small boat, one at the oars, another in the stern. At the ladder head Hayden waited, two marines with muskets standing by. A small, well-made man came onto the deck, leaving the other to tend the boat. He was dressed as a fisherman but wore a large hat which cast his face entirely into shadow.
“Shall we repair below, monsieur?” Hayden asked in the other’s tongue.
“Let us go to the stern,” the other said, eyeing the armed marines. “I will be but a moment.”
He might have been dressed as a fisherman, but Hayden knew by his refined manner of speech that he was anything but. When they reached the taffrail, Hayden motioned the marines to keep their distance, allowing the two men to converse privately.
“You speak French very well,” Benoît observed, and Hayden could see this made the man rather anxious.
“I spent some time in France when I was a boy—with relatives.” As he said this, Hayden opened the signal light and extinguished the flame, feeling a great sense of relief to have done so.
“You are French?” the man asked apprehensively.
“My father was English. A sea officer. I am loyal to that nation, though many of my sympathies lie with your people.”
The man digested this a moment.
“Have you a letter for me?” Hayden prompted.
“I commit nothing to paper. It has been the undoing of too many.” Benoît seemed to consider a moment, as though uncertain of Hayden, but then he pushed on. “A large force is being gathered in Cancale, as I have previously reported. But I was wrong as to its objective . . . and to its size. More than one hundred and fifty transports, five, and now I believe six, ships of the line, two razees, and five frigates are there. Presently there are only twenty-five thousand men, but soon there are to be one hundred and fifty thousand.”
Hayden cursed aloud—he could not help it.
“The Channel Islands might be the first objective of this armada, as I have informed your people, but their ultimate goal is to land an army on English soil.”
“Are you certain of this? Is it not more likely to be Ireland?”
“I cannot tell you how I know, but this information is beyond doubt.”
It was Hayden’s turn to digest. “When is this invasion planned?” he asked.
“Soon. When your Channel Fleet is at sea, or perhaps if it can be defeated or significantly weakened so that the French fleet can gain control of the Channel for a short time. It requires only the right wind and a single day to transport an army to England.”
Hayden felt as though he had suddenly taken ill. Desperately he wanted to shed his coat and loosen his neckcloth. Sweat oozed out of his skin, and he was so overheated as to feel dizzy.
“You must convey this knowledge back to your Admiralty, Capitaine. Immediately.”
“I agree, monsieur. Nothing is more important.”
“Then I will leave you.” Benoît made a small bow and went immediately to the ladder. As he went over the side he stopped. “Good luck to you, Capitaine,” he said in English.
“And you, monsieur.”
The man went down into the boat and in three silent strokes of the muffled oars the night absorbed him completely.
Hayden stood, staring blankly into the darkness like a man who has learned of a loved one’s death—mind empty of both thought and feeling.
Hayden’s servant appeared at the moment. “If you please, Captain. Rosseau has your coffee set out in the gunroom, sir.”
“Ah . . . Find Mr Hawthorne and ask that he join me,” Hayden instructed the boy. Archer was standing silently by the helmsman, watching Hayden. “You have the deck, Mr Archer.”
At the foot of the companionway ladder, Hayden was greeted by the sight of the gun-deck cleared from bow to stern, including his cabin and all of its furnishings. Arrayed upon either side were rows of black-barrelled eighteen-pounders, loaded and ready to be cast loose. A moment the young officer stood there, trying to focus his mind, wondering if everything was in its place . . . and nothing more.
Down the next ladder to the lower deck, where the watch below slumbered. Hayden suspected a goodly number slept not at all, but lay awake with the excitement and anxiety that the possibility of action produced. The midshipmen did not even pretend to sleep, but played at cards by a single lantern, jumping up to tip invisible hats as Hayden passed quickly by and into the gunroom.
Herein, seated at the table, he found the ship’s surgeon, spectacles perched upon a narrow bridge, a large, bound volume turned towards the lantern and encircled by thin arms. In the warm light his hair, prematurely grey, appeared silver.
“Certainly, you might have another lamp, Dr Griffiths,” Hayden offered. “No, no, Doctor, do not stand.” Hayden had seen the poor man crack his head upon a beam more often than he wished.
“I am all but finished here, Captain.” The surgeon removed his spectacles—they were for reading and such fine work as removing limbs—so that he might see Hayden more clearly.
“Do not feel the need to leave, Doctor. It is your mess.”
“Thank you, sir.” Griffiths kept his eye on Hayden. “Are you well, Captain?”
“Apart from rather disturbing news just learned, I should say I am.”
As Hayden did not offer to share this news, Griffiths did not ask. For a moment neither spoke, and then the surgeon nodded towards the open book. “I swear, I have now forgotten more physic than I presently command.”
Hayden was pleased to have the subject changed. “It is too vast a catalogue, Doctor. It would require more than one mind to retain it all.”
The surgeon rubbed his eyes. “You are being too kind, Captain. I fear it is merely age, in my particular case, and the common infirmity the reasoning organ begins to exhibit when it is always taxed to its small limit.”
“Doctor, your mind seems as clear to me as the day we met. But perhaps a mild stimulant would not go amiss. Would you take some coffee?”
“With more gratitude than I am able to express.”
Boots, thump-thudding down the ladder, were followed by the appearance of Marine Lieutenant Hawthorne, red-faced and overly cheerful given the hour and circumstances.
“Do I understand that coffee is being served in the withdrawing room?”
“In the morning room,” the surgeon replied, “given the hour.” He turned to Hayden. “Have you ever taken note of our lieutenant’s mood prior to an engagement? He would appear to be on his way to a ball and all aquiver with the anticipation of meeting young ladies.” The surgeon fixed his gaze upon the marine. “One day you shall be carried down to the cockpit with a musket ball lodged in your thigh, and I will tell you, you shall not be so cheerful.”
Hawthorne laughed. “I am certain you are right, Dr Griffiths, but, pray, what purpose would be served by my becoming dour and fretful before battle had even been joined? I will save all like emotions for such time as they are needed, and then I will be able to express them in full, for they shall not have been worn thin by unnecessary employment.” The marine raised his cup to the surgeon in toast. “I do not think we shall see a great deal of action this night.”
Griffiths turned to Hayden. “Are you of the same opinion, Captain?”
“I am always rather embarrassed at how poorly I predict the future. Everyone else seems to do it so well.”
“And so often,” Hawthorne added.
Griffiths did not smile but seemed to consider these sallies seriously. “Perhaps they should include predicting the future in the training of young officers,” Griffiths noted. “Will this French vessel even return to harbour this night . . . assuming it ventured forth to begin with?”
“I do not think it would risk meeting our cruisers by day, and it might very well have a prize or two it would hope to preserve at all costs. So, yes, if it set out to raid our inshore trade, I believe it will return by first light, wind allowing.”
“As you have an unrivalled record of estimating what French sea officers will or will not do, I expect we will bring this ship to battle in very short order.” The surgeon drained his coffee cup and then patted the volume he had been consulting. “There is nothing like agreement with authority to set one’s mind at ease. If you will excuse me, I must return to my patient.” He rose, remembering to stoop beneath the beams, and went crouching out.
Hayden turned to the marine, who watched the doctor go with a smile of both affection and amusement. “Does his health seem improved to you, Mr Hawthorne?”
“A little, yes. Even so, he is not himself. Not yet.” Hawthorne turned to Hayden, his countenance changing. “Has he told you that his charge has sailed for England?”
“Of what charge do we speak?”
“The woman with one hand.”
“Miss Brentwood?”
“Yes, I believe that is her name.”
“Griffiths has arranged this?”
“And paid for it, I should imagine.”
“Did he not procure a position in Gibraltar for her?”
“Indeed he did, but he is of the opinion she will be more secure in England, where he might stay better informed of her situation.”
This gave Hayden pause. “I wonder if that is the whole of it?” he ventured. “Has our good surgeon fallen under the spell of this unfortunate woman?”
Hawthorne shrugged, a look of concern wrinkling the skin around his eyes. “If you can overlook the lack of a hand, she was comely . . . did you not think?”
“A very handsome young woman, Mr Hawthorne, but . . .” Hayden decided against speculating further or passing judgement on the surgeon’s actions or motives.
“I am sure my concerns are little different from your own,” Hawthorne observed, nodding once. “Let us hope that nothing untoward befalls our surgeon, whose heart, I suspect, is more frail than his health.”
“Hear,” Hayden intoned, lifting his cup in toast to this sentiment.
Hawthorne sat back in his chair. “I understand we had a mysterious visitor this night?”
“Is my conversation with this man known among the hands?”
“No. Only that a Frenchman came aboard and had a private conversation with you, sir. There is, of course, much speculation as to the nature of this, but it is nothing more.”
Hayden sat a moment trying to decide if he would take Hawthorne into his confidence, as he had in the past. The temptation was very great, as he had to make a decision and was, truthfully, uncertain as to the proper course of action. “It would appear, Mr Hawthorne, that there is an army being gathered near Cancale for the purpose of invading England.”
“That seems rather alarmist. We have known for some time that the French were planning an invasion of the Channel Islands.”
“It would seem that the French would like us to believe precisely that . . . but their real intentions are far grander. My question is, should I collect Mr Ransome and make sail immediately for Portsmouth to convey this information to Mr Stephens, or will that appear to be shying away from the object of my first orders, to destroy the frigate sailing from this port? Certainly, if the claims of my French visitor are not given credence amongst the Lords Commissioners they might think me rather foolish, not to mention shy.”
“I hardly think they will believe you shy, Captain. Not after all you have done in the past months. But why should it be either one or the other? Can we not take the frigate this night and sail for an English port immediately thereafter? How many hours would we lose?”
“Very few, but one must always consider the possibility that we might be the ship taken. After all, if we were unlucky and lost a mast or two we could easily be the prize. The crew do not appreciate how much good fortune plays a part in every engagement.”
A half-amused smile formed on the marine’s lips. “I am very doubtful that you will lose such an engagement, Captain.”
“But you will agree it is a possibility?”
“A very unlikely one, but yes, I cannot deny it is possible.”
Hayden nodded. The odds could not be calculated, but he had less faith in himself than Hawthorne, apparently. Being taken was more likely than the marine realised. The French frigate would very likely be of thirty-eight guns, no fewer than thirty-six, and she was not shut up in port like so much of the French fleet. In fact, she was waging a very successful war against British commerce and her crew were well used to handling their ship and firing her guns.
“What will you do, then, sir?” Hawthorne asked.
“Sail for England . . . the moment we have retrieved Mr Ransome.”
Hawthorne nodded, as though he understood even if he had argued the opposite.
There was a little lull in the conversation then, and Hayden believed he could sense the marine lieutenant contemplating the propriety of asking his commander about his personal life. Hawthorne glanced at him and then away, twice.
Determined to forestall any such enquiry, Hayden stood abruptly. “I must beg your indulgence, Mr Hawthorne, for I should return to the deck. I do not want this French frigate to arrive now and catch us unawares.”
“Which will not come to pass if Mr Wickham has anything to do with it.”
Hayden nodded to his friend. “Mr Hawthorne.”
“Captain,” the marine replied, standing quickly.
Hayden let himself out, regretting not having more time in the warmth of the gunroom, but he was not willing to discuss his own situation. It was enough that he could barely tear his mind from it—and worse that his thoughts seemed to travel the same cycle, never once finding any sequence of events that he had not previously pondered, any outcome he had not imagined. Hayden was not about to compound this by drawing his officers into the matter. Better he disciplined his mind and put these things aside until the Themis was, again, safe in harbour . . . if only he could.
The night appeared unchanged when he took the deck—perhaps a little cooler, but still the same veiled moon and speeding cloud.
“Is the wind making, Mr Barthe?” Hayden asked the sailing master, who stood talking quietly with the helmsman.
“I believe it is, sir, and will continue in this manner for some time yet. We are in for a bit of a blow, Captain. The weather glass is taking a plunge.” Barthe looked around as though expecting a hard gale to break upon them at that very instant. “All is not well, sir.”
Despite himself, Hayden was unsettled by the sailing master’s predictions of impending cataclysm. He turned his head up, removing his hat lest the wind get under it. “Aloft there. Mr Wickham? Any signs of our cutter?”
“None, sir,” came the reply out of darkness.
“Blast this night to hell,” Hayden muttered. Whatever could have befallen Ransome? Had he somehow been unable to discover the Themis on this dark night? Mr Barthe had, rather miraculously, managed to keep the ship in position despite currents and a backing wind. Even an officer as unseasoned as Ransome should not find it difficult to return to this place. Something else had occurred to delay them, and Hayden was beginning to suspect the worst—the cutter had been discovered and taken by the French.
