Take, Burn or Destroy, page 24
Hayden tried to twist about and saw Smosh bleeding profusely from his scalp. “Mr Smosh, you are hurt, sir.”
The man nodded dumbly, clearly dazed and uncertain. The men either side had hold of him, for he was unable to fend for himself.
“Raft landed on him, Captain,” Griffiths called. “But I’ll see him put to rights as soon as we have made shore.”
Shore, however, was no nearer. The raft was being driven slowly south but never seemed to draw nearer the beach, as though the waves drove it shoreward but some invisible current drew it with equal force out to sea.
“Captain?” Archer called. “I believe we have passed through the worst of the surf, sir.”
Hayden looked about and after a moment began to think Archer was not wrong. The waves now were smaller, and though they broke often it was not with the violence of the seas they had just come through. Yet the raft remained too far from shore for any to swim; many no longer had the reserves to keep hold but lay near to senseless, the motion of the raft half rolling them one way, then another.
We shall all perish from exposure to the elements if we cannot get ashore soon, Hayden thought, but even so, his spirits lifted noticeably. Maybe they could survive!
“What are these men about, then?” someone asked.
Hayden twisted around and on the beach south of them he could see a knot of men, perhaps a dozen of them, bearing something down to the surf line.
“Is it a boat? Do they carry a boat?” one of the midshipmen asked.
“I do believe it is exactly that, Mr Hobson,” Hayden replied.
“But can they launch it?”
Hayden looked around. “I believe we have drifted inside a reef or perhaps a bar. The seas are breaking further out.” The seas the raft climbed now were not nearly so high, and though they did mount up and break almost as often as they had previously, they were less threatening. “I think we could bring a boat through such a surf,” he announced. “And if these men are fishermen, I am sure they will manage it.”
“I hope they are smugglers, sir,” Hawthorne said.
“Are smugglers notably better boatmen than are fishermen, Mr Hawthorne?”
“No, sir, but they might carry some brandy aboard.”
A few men managed a truncated laugh and a few more shook their heads. Many lay still as the dead, and Hayden feared they were exactly that.
The boat was soon skidding into the water, where men held it against the seas while the oarsmen clambered aboard. The men in the surf steadied the boat with difficulty against a series of waves and then, as one, gave it a great shove, the oarsmen setting to work that same instant. Quickly the boat gathered way and then met the first sea, which flung it up until it was lost to Hayden’s view behind a wall of water. A moment later it appeared again, waterspidering over the high-running sea. Across the long trough it would gather way, the men leaning back into their oars. And then they would meet the onrushing sea, and the boat’s way would be all but lost, so that when the sea finally rolled on beneath them, the boat would be dead in the water. The men would set to work again. In the stern of the squat little craft two men fed out rope, attached now and then to a small cask to buoy it up. These casks were swept off downwind and driven southwards by the seas. Hayden worried that they would make the boat impossible to steer in time, pulling her stern south, but the men appeared to know their business.
A high sea broke upon the raft, but there was little weight in the crest—all foam and little green water. Looking around at the faces of the men stretched out upon the planks, he thought that few would not live another hour. One by one they would be washed away by the seas. If this boat did not reach them, Hayden believed that he would die there, so close to his mother’s country—a British sea officer washed up on the shores of Bretagne in a French captain’s coat.
He could not hold himself twisted around for very long, and he lay back down, exhausted, gathering his reserves. When he felt the muscles in his back begin to unknot he forced himself up again. For a moment he could not find the boat, and then it rode up over a sea, its bow cast high. The men still bent to their work, driving the little craft over the hostile waters.
“Will they reach us, sir?” Gould asked, his voice dry and weak.
“I-I think they might. They are certainly not holding back, I can tell you.”
“They must not know we are English.”
“Perhaps . . . but you might be surprised at how men will work to save their fellows in such circumstances—even their enemies. It is as though our misfortune has reduced us to the same state—men in grave danger and not Frenchmen or Englishmen—just men who all want the same thing, to live through this day.”
Hayden lay back down again, too exhausted to move. His hands would no longer answer, and he could do no more than hook his wrists over the edge of the plank. His left hand was cut, and a thin trickle of blood, diluted by seawater, washed down his fingers, though he felt no hurt at all.
Gould took a turn twisting about to look for their would-be rescuers and then collapsed back upon the raft. The boy pressed his eyelids together, and though it was impossible to distinguish tears from rain or spray, Hayden could see the boy’s shoulders shaking.
“Are you injured, Gould?” Hayden whispered.
The boy shook his head. “No, sir. The boat . . . it will never reach us, we are being swept past.”
Forcing himself up, Hayden turned as best he could. In a moment he found the boat, larger than it had been, but Gould was not wrong—the raft was being driven south more rapidly than the boat was making its way seaward. The two would not meet as the rowers had foreseen. Even as Hayden watched, the boat altered its course and began working its way south.
He remained in that position as long as he could, until a wave broke over him and drove him almost across the raft, where he fetched up between two French sailors, who took hold of his legs lest he slide into the sea.
Hayden muttered his thanks, but the French sailors were concentrating on the men in the boat and shouting encouragement and pleading with the men to row. At that distance Hayden doubted the men’s entreaties could be heard, but they did not seem aware of this.
Hayden was almost too thirsty to speak, his mouth so parched it stuck together and his tongue seeming swollen and drunken. Gathering himself, Hayden crawled on his belly back to his place between Gould and Archer.
“Sorry, sir,” Archer rasped, almost unable to speak. “We will take better hold of you.”
“It is impossible, Mr Archer, to hold fast to anything when your fingers will not close and you have no feeling in your hands at all. Do not blame yourself.”
Archer only nodded gratefully.
“Will the boat not reach us, sir?” he asked then.
“I cannot say. They might yet. We are drifting slowly and they are under oars. But they cannot turn directly south for fear of being rolled over and must quarter the seas, and are therefore coming after us crabwise. It will slow them considerably. We will soon know how great are their hearts, how strong their desire.”
“Very great and immensely strong, I hope, sir.”
Hayden passed again into a timeless torpor, a confused reverie where dream and reality mixed in ways he did not understand. The rough plank beneath his cheek was cold and slick, but he hardly took notice. He could be lying upon a bed of boulders and he would hardly have cared.
A distant shout penetrated this strange state, but Hayden thought it only fancy. Then he heard it again, calling out in French.
“Sir?” Gould nudged his arm gently. “Sir? Did you hear that?”
Hayden roused himself, confused. The day was wearing on—late afternoon, he thought. And the wind seemed to be taking off—now that the gale had done its job and destroyed Les Droits de l’Homme. Perhaps thirty yards away, he saw the French boat crest a wave, the men at the sweeps pulling hard, though their cadence had slowed noticeably since they began.
Hayden forced himself up to his knees, looking seaward to spot any large waves about to sweep down on them. But the sea was definitely going down, and though large waves remained they were not nearly so steep. It took all of his strength to remain there, upon his knees, helplessly watching the boat chasing after them. For a while it appeared to gain, and then he was not certain it was not falling behind. He dropped onto one thigh and buttock, bracing himself with his hands.
How utterly empty he felt, drained of desire, of strength and emotion. His thoughts were so spare—as though the noise of the mind had been drained away, leaving only a single, clear voice, though tired and confused. He watched the battling boat with utter detachment, as if it were not him whose life was dependent upon these Frenchmen reaching the raft. As though he were not upon the raft at all. As though he had drifted free of it, free of all the bonds that held him to this world, to this life.
Ten
Just before the dinner hour the entire family and houseguests all made their way to the withdrawing room upon hearing the pianoforte being exercised by Mrs Carthew. She was not as accomplished upon this instrument as at least two of her daughters, but she played with great feeling and chose her music to flatter those skills she did possess. The first piece was followed by a round of applause, and then, just as she was about to perform an encore, she stopped.
“If my memory grows worse I shall forget all your names, and my own as well,” she declared, and began to search her pockets hurriedly until finally a letter was produced. “Ah! I do apologise, my dear Lizzie; this arrived with the post, and I have been carrying it about all afternoon meaning to give it you. It is from Captain Hertle, which makes my lapse even more unforgivable.”
Penelope retrieved the letter before any could rise and carried it straight to Mrs Hertle, who received it with both joy and trepidation. A small blade was produced by Mr Carthew, and the seal broken. Elizabeth held the letter up to the light, clearly hungry for every word, turned pale as milk, and could not catch her breath. Everyone thought she would topple from her chair.
“Elizabeth,” Henrietta cried, “what is it, my dear? What does it say?”
Elizabeth was unable to answer, tears streamed down her cheeks, unable to utter a word, and waved the letter towards Mr Carthew that he might read it himself.
“‘My Darling Lizzie,’” he read, taking the sheets of paper, “‘I have this hour received the worst possible news, and I must ask you to sit down and prepare yourself for it. Charles lost his ship to a French squadron a few days past. He and his officers were taken as prisoners aboard a French seventy-four, Les Droits de l’Homme. Not long after, this ship was chased by a pair of Royal Navy cruisers and Les Droits de L’Homme was driven ashore in a full gale, with great loss of life. We were informed by the captain of a lugger we captured this very day that only two Englishmen survived—a boy and an older officer with red hair—almost certainly Charles’s sailing master, Barthe. I am, as you can imagine, utterly desolate. I have lost my oldest, dearest friend and brother. This terrible, terrible news will come as a shock to you and I do hate to send it, but certainly Henrietta must be informed at the earliest possible moment. Poor Henri, and you too, my dear, for I know what high regard and warmth of feeling you held for my friend—’” But the reading was cut short. Henrietta stood up from the sofa, covered her mouth with a hand, and would have collapsed had not Wilder been standing so near that he caught her and lowered her back to the cushions.
Eleven
Asong, long and languid as a river murmuring among stones. Rippling through the leaves, a susurration, as the breeze ebbed and flowed. Night, Hayden thought, and a nightingale. Warm, dry air drifted in the window bearing the fragrance of a garden. Land. He was ashore . . . Somewhere.
When next he woke it was to the sorrowful cooing of doves, echoing from the far reaches of the afternoon.
Well, I am alive, Hayden thought. But he could not bring himself to move, as though enervation had overwhelmed the part of his mind that commanded his limbs. He did breathe—in and slowly out. And he was warm! Luxuriously so! For a few moments he lay, basking like a cat in the sun, feeling the warmth in all of his limbs. He had thought that no matter what the outcome he would never feel warm again.
Finally, and with great effort, he raised his eyelids. He was in a small, plain chamber, furnished with an ancient armoire, a battered trunk, a rush-bottom chair, and a chest of four drawers. Upon the chair perched a girl of perhaps seven years, her legs swinging back and forth, her gaze fixed upon him. When Hayden opened his eyes, the legs stopped swinging, she leaned forward, half in alarm, half surprise, and then she leapt down to the floor and went running out.
“Mama!” she called. “Mama. The gentleman has awakened! He is not dead!”
The sound of hurrying footsteps—heavier than the girl’s, but not heavy—and then a woman of perhaps thirty appeared in the doorframe, the girl clutching her skirts and peering out from behind.
“It is a miracle,” the woman muttered, and then spun and hastened off. “Jean!” she called. “Jean! You must bring the doctor.”
And then she swept back into the room and crouched by Hayden’s bed in a rustling of skirts.
“Monsieur? Monsieur? Can you hear me?”
“Perfectly, madame, merci vous.”
“I cannot believe he has lived,” she muttered as if he were not there. “God must love you, monsieur.” She stood up and then leaned over, speaking to him as though she thought him half deaf. “I will bring you broth, monsieur. Broth . . .”
Hayden lay, listening to the bird sounds outside the open window, smelling newly mown grass. Cattle lowed off in the distance, and then he heard feet pounding on the ground—running as though someone’s life depended upon swiftness.
He felt no desire to move and remained still, half upon his side, his chest turned down upon the mattress. Several times, he noted, his eyes blinked. Someone entered the room, but Hayden was slipping away—back into the all-enveloping darkness and the song of the nightingale.
A distant bell rang the hour, but Hayden did not tally it. His eyes opened once again, only to find the same small girl, swinging her legs upon the chair and singing almost silently to herself.
“Mademoiselle,” Hayden croaked, his mouth so dry he could hardly prise it open.
The girl was off the chair and running from the room, calling as she went, “Mama! He spoke! Mama!”
Footsteps returned, grew louder, but instead of Mama, a gentleman strode in. He settled a pair of spectacles upon his nose, pulled the chair over near to the bed, seated himself heavily, and took up Hayden’s arm by the wrist. Fishing a watch from a pocket by its chain, he thumbed it open and very studiously took Hayden’s pulse.
“Do I live?” Hayden enquired in French.
“So it seems, though I do not know how. You were ice water when you came ashore, and could barely draw a breath. Many thought you dead on the beach. You were lucky I was present, for I found you were alive and ordered you carried here, to the house of Charles Adair. For three days you have hovered in that dark place between death and life. In truth, you were so close to death I wonder if you saw the gates of heaven? Some do, you know.”
Hayden shook his head—the smallest motion, but all he could manage. “I have been wandering in a dark wood, full of mist and shadow . . . following the call of a nightingale. I awoke here with a small girl watching over me. Perhaps she is an angel.”
“So she would wish, but not yet.”
The doctor let go of his wrist and sat back, hands on his ample knees. “Your pulse is not yet strong, but I believe you will live. Capitaine?”
But Hayden had slipped away, and wandered again among the shadowy trees, shafts of faint moonlight illuminating a low mist. The nightingale began to sing.
When Hayden woke again it was to warm sunlight playing over his face. He rolled onto his side and covered his eyes with a forearm. Where was he? Had there really been a doctor or had he dreamt that as well? There had been so many dreams, all run together into nonsense.
Hayden glanced towards the chair pushed up against the wall. His little guardian angel was not there. With effort he sat up, but immediately became so dizzy that he slumped down again. He must have made some noise, for a woman appeared at the door, paused, then came in.
“Are you finally awake, Capitaine?”
“Yes. How many survived the wreck, madame? Can you tell me?”
“Very few, I am sorry to tell you. I have heard one hundred to one hundred twenty, more or less. And a few Anglais—prisoners.”
“Five hundred dead . . .” Hayden said hoarsely. “May I have water?”
“Yes, and some broth and bread at least. You have hardly eaten in more than three days, nor have you taken much drink.”
“I ate?” Hayden was surprised. “I do not remember.”
“You have been wandering along the borders of the land of the dead, Capitaine.” She smiled. “I think you have only now returned.”
Hayden noticed a French captain’s coat hanging on a hook.
“I washed it, Capitaine,” she said, noting where his gaze had gone. “It was filthy and needed mending. You will not have reason to criticize my work, you will see.”
Hayden tried not to show his reaction to this. “I am certain you are right, madame. Merci.”
She curtsied and slipped out.
They believe I am a French officer, Hayden thought. A captain!
In his present reduced state he could not decide if there was any advantage to this or if it was a terrible gamble—a danger to him. Certainly, if he were delivered to the French Navy he would be found out in a moment—and more than likely deemed a spy! But if he could have a few days to recover . . . He and Wickham and Hawthorne had stolen a boat and sailed from here before. It was not impossible. His exhausted brain took hold of this idea. Perhaps there was still a chance he could carry Benoît’s warning to the Admiralty. They were not far from Brest when Les Droits de l’Homme went ashore. The British frigates he had so desperately hoped to find must be there. A small boat would be all he required to reach them.
