Take, Burn or Destroy, page 36
At an unknown hour, Hayden drifted back into the conscious world and lay swaying in his hammock. He had not heard the ship’s bell ring the hour—seamen were never wakened by the bell any more than a household was awakened by its clock’s chime—so he did not know if it was late or nearing morning. For perhaps half of the hour he tried to find sleep again, but then gave it up and rose, suddenly fearing that his ship was in sight of a hostile fleet and the lookouts had not seen.
His sentry told him the hour—not yet four—and Hayden climbed to the upper deck just as a little light began to brighten the eastern sky. A breeze of wind blew out of the north, sweeping small seas before it. The officer of the watch was Lieutenant Ransome, who reported all well.
“We have seen but a single light all this night, sir, and she lay hove to, so we believed her to be a fisherman.”
“You did not speak this boat, I gather?”
“We did not, sir. I thought it might even be best if they could not give any information about us, as a fisherman in these waters would certainly be French.” Ransome now looked uncertain of his decision.
“That was the right thing to do. We have no time to waste. I wish to catch Lord Howe up by noon, if it can be done.”
Hayden took a tour of the deck, as much to stretch his legs as to inspect the ship. He stopped and spoke quietly with the men here and there, learning their names, enquiring into their service, and gaining a sense of their character. They seemed a steady lot, though few had been in anything one would call an action. His old crew had been little different when first he had come aboard the Themis. He would exercise them at the guns again that morning, though without powder and shot—no need to alert an enemy fleet to their position.
Just as the eastern sky began to gild, Hayden climbed to the tops with his glass, had a word with the lookouts, and then examined the sea at all points of the compass, finding not a single sail.
The head of Arthur Wickham appeared over the edge of the platform, and he seemed rather surprised to find his captain there before him.
“Excuse me, sir,” Wickham said, “I did not realise you were here.”
“It appears I am, Mr Wickham, but I am not so large that there is not room for you yet.”
Wickham had his glass slung over his back, but appeared now afraid to employ it lest this action be viewed as showing signs he did not trust his captain to act as lookout.
“Take a very good look at the Atlantic, Mr Wickham, if you please, and tell me what you find.”
The midshipman did not rush his assigned task but covered every quadrant with the greatest possible care. Finally, he lowered his glass. “Nary a sail, sir.”
“That is what I thought. If we have not discovered Lord Howe’s fleet by midday, I shall begin to wonder if His Lordship has not shaped his course elsewhere.”
Wickham raised his hand at that moment and pointed. “Is that a cloud, sir . . . there, on the horizon, south-west by west?”
Hayden raised his glass to examine this faint stain upon the morning sky, and Wickham did the same. “It is very dark, is it not?”
“Could it be smoke, Captain?”
“That is what I am wondering.” Hayden lowered his glass and called down to the deck. “On deck, there! Mr Ransome? Shape our course south-west by west.”
Hayden saw Ransome remove his hat so that he could see up into the tops.
“Aye, sir,” the lieutenant called back. “Is there sail, Captain?”
“Smoke, Mr Ransome. Once the hands have eaten, we will clear for action.”
“Aye, sir.”
Hayden could hear the buzz this caused among the hands, almost feel the excitement rise from the deck. The men jumped to their places to trim sails and shift yards before the orders had been called, and every eye went to the horizon where the smoke had been seen. Hayden raised his glass again, quizzing the distant blot upon the sky.
“I do think that is smoke, Wickham. Can you hear guns?”
Wickham turned his head a little this way and that. “I cannot, sir. How distant do you think that might be?”
“It is difficult to say; five leagues, at the very least.”
“This wind will be carrying sound away, sir, not to us.”
“Yes. Well, three hours will tell us something. Have you breakfasted, Wickham?”
“I have, sir.”
“Then remain here and see what you can. Do not neglect other points of the compass. I do not want to find a French squadron bearing down from astern.”
“Aye, sir. I shall not let such a thing occur.”
Hayden climbed down. As soon as he was on the deck, three midshipmen went racing up to Mr Wickham’s perch to see this miraculous smoke for themselves, as though smoke had just been discovered.
Upon the quarterdeck, Ransome and Bell were at the rail attempting to see forward, even as the ship turned to take away their view. They leaned out over the rail, each with a glass screwed into his eye.
“Or is it a cloud of the regular sort?” Bell was wondering.
“Captain on the quarterdeck,” the helmsman chimed, alerting the lieutenants who were otherwise occupied. They both left off quizzing the horizon, pulled their torsos back aboard, and touched their hats to Hayden.
“May we go forward to allow us a clear view, sir?” Ransome enquired.
“Are you not the lieutenant of the watch, Mr Ransome?”
“I am, sir.”
“Then you may go about the deck where your duty takes you. Otherwise your place is here, on the quarterdeck. You are not midshipmen who have never seen a puff of smoke before.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Mr Bell, you are at your leisure until the change of watch. You may go forward if you wish.”
“Thank you, sir.” But Bell was now embarrassed to go running forward and instead went below, hiding from his apparently irritable captain.
Hayden followed not long after and ate his breakfast upon his rough plank table. In the brief interval between being given command of Raisonnable and setting sail, Hayden had procured what food he could, but that had been little enough, so his diet was going to remain rather primitive until they again made port. This did not help his disposition that morning, which was decidedly peevish, largely from lack of sleep and recent disappointments. Food and coffee ameliorated this condition somewhat and he felt the smallest remorse at his berating of Ransome—not that the man did not deserve it . . . and quite likely more.
He wondered now if Ransome had managed to pursue his suit of Wickham’s sister. Certainly, Lord Sanstable would see through Ransome’s intentions quickly enough. Fortune hunters must be rather common in Wickham’s world.
Immediately Hayden had finished his meal, the carpenters began taking down the bulkheads and removing all the mess tables and benches. Shot and powder were carried up from the hold, and magazines and the guns were cast loose and their tompions removed. When this was done, Hayden toured both the gun-decks and was very satisfied with what he saw—everything in its place, men at their stations, nervous but excited at the possibility of action.
Returning to the quarterdeck, Hayden gathered his officers. “Mr Archer and Mr Bell shall be on the quarterdeck. Mr Bowen, forecastle. Mr Huxley, you will have the lower gun-deck, and Mr Ransome the upper. We have some very green reefers, so you will have to watch over them and be certain they give their gun captains the proper orders at the correct time. We do not know what we might find ahead, and we should be prepared for any type of evolution. There is a powerful French squadron and the Brest Fleet abroad, and we do not want to draw too near either. Mr Wickham reports that the smoke appears to be blowing off and we have heard no reports, so I do not think Lord Howe has engaged the French fleet, but we will see.”
Although Raisonnable made good speed on the fair wind, the fading smoke did not appear to draw nearer—in truth, Hayden wondered if they were not chasing after it and never gaining.
Before the beginning of the new ship’s day—which commenced at noon—a lookout called, “On deck! There is somewhat on the water, sir.”
“‘Somewhat’?” Hayden replied. “Would it be better described as a ship?”
“I don’t think so, sir. It disappears behind each wave.”
“Mr Wickham, up to the tops with a glass, if you please.”
“Aye, sir.”
Hayden walked forward to see if he could spot this “somewhat” the lookout had seen.
“On deck, sir,” Wickham called out a moment later. “It might be debris, Captain.”
Wickham left the foremast tops and went scrambling higher for a better vantage. Hayden watched him fix his glass upon the ocean before them. A moment later, he leaned out so that he might see his commanding officer. “I do believe that is what we have here, Captain—debris.”
“Any sign of sail, Mr Wickham?”
The midshipman raised his glass again and could be seen to scrutinize the ocean in a slow circle. Then his arm shot up. “Sail! West-north-west.”
No one could make out this ship from the deck, and Hayden went aloft with his glass and caught just a glimpse as it disappeared over the horizon.
“No colours, I do not imagine, Mr Wickham?”
“No, sir.” Wickham came climbing down to the platform, where Hayden stood with an elbow crooked around a shroud.
Hayden turned his glass back to the south-west. “That is debris, Wickham; you were not wrong.”
“Then a ship has been sunk, sir?”
“I should think that most likely . . . But was she one of ours or one of theirs?” Hayden lowered his glass. “Mr Archer!” he called down to the deck. “West-north-west, if you please.”
The sail handlers were called and yards were braced round to chase the glimpse of sail that had slipped below the horizon.
“How distant did you judge that sail, Wickham?”
“You could not make it out from the deck, sir?”
“We could not.”
“And I caught only a glimpse of half a top-gallant. Four leagues, perhaps five.”
“Then we will be most fortunate to come up with them by dark.” Hayden raised his glass and stared in the direction of the disappearing ship. “If it is a fleet, they will have outlying frigates. I do not want to find myself fighting a running battle with three or four French frigates.” Hayden lowered his glass. “If we cannot come up with them before dark, we will hang back and make the private signal in adequate morning light. Mr Wickham.”
Wickham touched his hat. “Sir.”
In a moment Hayden was back upon the quarterdeck, where he found Barthe staring up at the sails bellying overhead. “She would almost take royals, sir.”
“I have thought the same, Mr Barthe. Will this wind make, do you think?”
“It has shown signs of such an inclination.”
“Then let us wait and see if the wind can make up its mind.”
“Aye, sir.” Barthe shaded his eyes with a blunt hand and examined the debris, now on their port side and still some distance off. “If a ship had exploded, sir, I believe we would have heard it.”
“I agree, Mr Barthe.”
“If it were a ship of war, then all of the powder was removed before it was burned.”
“Or it was not a ship of war.”
“And if either were the case, why would it not be made a prize, sir?”
“Well, Mr Barthe, that is an excellent question. A transport would have surrendered to a warship, so it should not have sunk from being fired on. And the magazine of a ship of war would have exploded, as you say. So this burned ship is a mystery.”
“I agree, sir.”
Hayden found himself staring off towards the area of sea where a few dark objects bobbed low upon the waves, as though something there might suddenly enlighten him.
“If I were about to fight a battle, Mr Barthe—even a single-ship action—I might choose not to reduce my crew by sending hands aboard a prize.”
“That might answer, sir. But it does not tell us if the burned ship was French or British.”
“Does it not? Would the French fleet, which has lain in Brest Harbour most of this past year, be in pursuit of the British or would we be pursuing them?”
“More likely the latter, I should think.”
“Then that would mean we have Lord Howe before us.”
“We shall certainly know by morning, Captain.”
“Unless the French fleet is before His Lordship and a battle about to begin.”
“Then let us listen for the sound of the great guns, sir.”
They heard no guns that long afternoon; nor did the lookouts discover ships upon any point of the compass. Hayden began to think that the sail they had seen slipping beneath the western horizon was not one of a fleet but only a single vessel, for surely Raisonnable, with all her speed, would be within sight of a fleet in a few hours . . . But no fleet appeared.
The day’s light was drawn over the western horizon and night was mysteriously upon them. The wind had gone into the north, and upon Raisonnable bowlines were hauled and the ship put on the wind as close as she would manage.
Hayden stalked the poop, resisting the desire to call up to the lookouts every quarter-hour to ask if they could not see a light . . . and to be certain they did not sleep. Instead, he swept the sea with his night glass at regular intervals—which the lookouts certainly did not miss. Not wanting their captain to discover something from the deck before they had seen it from aloft would keep them alert.
Finally, Hayden left Ransome the deck and went below.
He took to his cot quickly, believing he would be called on deck shortly, as ships must surely be seen. Darkness brought doubts and he began to wonder if he should have not held his course—that Howe went south yet and the sail he had seen was but a single vessel. What seemed more likely to the reasonable part of his mind was that Howe had taken some ship or ships, learned from them the position or course of the French fleet, and had put about to chase it. That they could outdistance Hayden’s ship could only be explained by the variability of wind strength over an area of sea; Howe must have better wind than Hayden, at least for the time being.
As he was not yet fully recovered from his ordeal on the wreck, Hayden slept through the night, but rose before first light and went on deck. The wind had taken off considerably during the darkness and royals had been set.
“Mr Bell. What is our course?”
“North-north-west, sir. But the wind has not held steady from any point, sir, and we have been forced to steer as much as three points south and two north from our present heading. Mr Archer advised me to wake you, Captain, if we were forced three points off our course, but we were not.”
“And you have seen no lights?”
“The sea has been most empty, sir.”
“Often the case when you wish it were not.”
Hayden went to the rail and stared north. The eastern sky grew pale blue-green, pressing back the darkness. Coffee arrived, borne by Hayden’s steward, and the newly minted post captain took it braced against the taffrail, where he allowed himself a moment to survey his command with some satisfaction. Making his post had seemed as possible as swimming the ocean not so very long ago, and here he was upon his first command as post captain and it was not a frigate but a sixty-four-gun ship! The thought that it was most likely a temporary command did cross his mind then, and he felt the briefest moment of vertigo.
Hawthorne appeared at the head of the quarter-ladder and at a nod from Hayden walked aft. As he was about to speak, a voice from aloft sang out, “On deck! Sail, three points off the larboard bow!”
Hayden returned his cup to the tray balanced on a little bench, took up his glass, and crossed quickly to the larboard side, pressing his hip against the hammock netting. He focused on the area of ocean indicated by the lookout. For a moment he could find only dark ocean, and then a lighter patch of familiar dimensions.
“That is, indeed, a sail.” Hayden went to the ladder head and called down to the quarterdeck. “Do you see it, Mr Bell?”
“No, sir . . . Ah, there she is. Cannot say what she might be, Captain.”
“Three-master. That is all I know.” Hayden lowered his glass. “Mr Bell, we shall beat to quarters. Who knows what ship this might be.”
The watch below was turned out and the drummer began his roll. Hayden took up his coffee again and watched the men make the ship ready for action. Archer hurried up the companionway, found Hayden in the poor light, and climbed up to him immediately.
“Have we found Lord Howe, sir?”
“We have found a ship, Mr Archer, and we do not even know what species.” Hayden twisted around to look east. “A little more light will tell us something.”
“Shall I prepare to make the private signal, sir?”
“Yes. But we will wait awhile yet.”
As the eastern horizon turned molten gold, the lookout called again. “On deck! Sail to the north of the first. She’s hull down, Captain Hayden.”
This sail was barely visible from the deck, and only as the ship lifted to a crest.
“Two ships do not a convoy make,” Hawthorne intoned. “Is that not an old sailor’s saying?”
“It is an old marine’s saying, I believe, Captain Hawthorne,” Wickham answered as he mounted a few steps of the quarter-ladder to gain a better view.
Hawthorne gazed down on his young friend. “Rather like, ‘Pipe-clay your belt in the morning, sailors take warning’?”
“Very much like that, Mr Hawthorne, only one can comprehend the meaning.”
“Third sail!” came the call from aloft. “Dead ahead.”
Barthe had arrived, standing at the foot of the ladder. “We have at least a squadron, Mr Hawthorne,” he informed the marine. “Assuming these are ships of war and not transports.”
