Take, Burn or Destroy, page 38
This caught Trotter’s interest. “I did hear about that and wondered if it was truly an influenza. I have never heard of one so deadly.”
“Nor had I, Dr Trotter,” Griffiths told him, “but I was afflicted with it myself and am quite certain it could be nothing else. No other disease, in my knowledge, would fit the bill so perfectly.”
The two medical men then fell into a discussion of the particular symptoms and course of the disease, Trotter listening with full attention, as though he might encounter the disease that very afternoon and should be as ready as possible to combat it. Hayden liked the man immediately.
The two medical men could have talked throughout the afternoon, and would have, had Hayden not gently cleared his throat after what he believed was an acceptable time.
Trotter accompanied them up to the deck, clearly a sign of his respect for Griffiths, Hayden thought.
“We get very little news aboard our ship,” Trotter said as they stood at the rail. “Has the convoy been intercepted?”
“Not that we know of, Dr Trotter,” Hayden replied.
The physician appeared very distressed. “Very many will starve if it does not get through. I know they are French and I should not care, but I would imagine a good number of the victims will be women and children. Starving women and children . . . that is no way to prosecute a war.”
And with that he bade them good-bye and safe voyage. Hayden and Griffiths were back aboard their barge and the oarsmen pulling for Raisonnable in a moment.
“Well, there was your Dr Trotter,” Hayden observed. “Were you pleased with him?”
“In every way. I do wish I could be the Charon’s surgeon for a sixmonth. I should learn a very great deal, I believe.”
Hayden was less certain. He held his own surgeon in the highest regard . . . and the modesty and desire to learn that he was presently displaying were two of the reasons he felt as he did.
“Do you think the grain coming from America is destined for the French Army?” Griffiths asked suddenly.
“Certainly some of it, but I believe Dr Trotter was correct in saying that the general population will suffer if we do manage to intercept it.”
“One hardly knows what to wish for,” Griffiths said so quietly only Hayden might hear.
Now you know how I feel at all times, Doctor, Hayden thought, but he did not give voice to this.
Upon Hayden’s return to his ship orders were given to take in the boat and then make sail. Very soon, Raisonnable gathered way and began to quickly overhaul the ships of the line, one by one. Hayden stood at the rail and admired the ships, some of them first-rates of a hundred guns or more. The stalwart of the fleet, the seventy-four-gun ship, was by far the most numerous and there were at least fifteen of these, though Hayden could not make out all of the ships in the leeward column. Many of the ships he knew by reputation, and more than a few by sight. “Billy Ruffian” sailed in the weather column—the venerable Bellerophon. He also passed Russell, Thunderer, Leviathan, Royal George, Invincible. The pride of the British Navy in two smart columns, sails drawing, a weight of broadside that Hayden could not even calculate lying within the ships’ bellies—pregnant with destruction. His own ship—an object of his greatest pride but a short time ago—seemed very small and vastly less powerful. He could not escape the feeling that if Howe did not see fit to put his ship into the line of battle it would reflect badly upon him—as if the failing were his own and not the vessel’s. And if the admiral did see fit to place Hayden’s ship in the line of battle, great loss of life would almost certainly be the result, if not the loss of his ship. Neither situation was to be hoped for, as far as he was concerned.
He had never seen or taken part in a fleet action, and despite his reservations Hayden above all things was anxious to acquit himself honourably if such a battle were engaged. There were many stories within the service of captains who, sometimes through no fault of their own, were unable to get into the action or only tardily engaged the enemy due to a sudden localized calm, and their careers never recovered. Hayden was determined that such an occurrence would not befall him if Lord Howe put him into the battle. There was no doubt in Hayden’s mind, however, that the price for this pride would be paid by his crew, and that knowledge unsettled him terribly.
For two days the horizon in all directions remained empty of sail. There was little communication among the ships, and Hayden felt a growing sense of disquiet; he even wondered if the French fleet had proceeded into the Channel to support an invasion. Given the recent intelligence he had delivered to Lord Howe, he wondered if His Lordship was not contemplating this same possibility.
Upon the third day after his joining the fleet, an outlying frigate made the signal for strange sail, and to his great satisfaction Hayden’s ship was detached immediately to discover what ships these might be. Orders to beat to quarters were given, and all sail made to support the frigates that lay less than a league ahead.
Sail did appear on the horizon very soon thereafter, though the ships were hull down for some moments longer. The swift Raisonnable managed to catch up with the two frigates as they drew near the unknown sail. These vessels immediately turned to flee but within the hour were forced to heave to, and proved to be part of a Dutch convoy.
This information was signalled to the flagship, and as the British fleet came up the order was given to heave to. Several of the masters of the Dutch transports were taken aboard Raisonnable and conveyed with all speed to Queen Charlotte. Although Hayden accompanied these gentlemen, he was not allowed into the presence of the admiral and was not privy to the conversation. Instead, he loitered on the deck in conversation with two of the flagship’s lieutenants, one of whom was something of an acquaintance of his from early days.
Not an hour passed before the Dutch masters reappeared, and Hayden took them again aboard his ship to convey them back to their vessels.
One of the masters surveyed the British fleet carefully and then reported to Hayden as they stood by the rail, “I believe you are of equal strength to the French, Captain, though we only observed them at a distance. They took some of our ships, but we escaped.” He then volunteered the position of the French fleet when it had last been seen, which meant Hayden was better informed than any captain in the fleet other than the commander of Howe’s flagship.
This short meeting heartened him overly, and he repeated the information to his lieutenants and Mr Barthe. A rumour passed around the ship that the French fleet was near at hand, escorting a convoy so rich that every man aboard would make his fortune from prize money. Hayden allowed this rumour to circulate freely, as prize money galvanized a crew and raised their courage more than any love of country or duty, though he hated to admit it. Given his own recent reversals, prize money would not go begging in his life, either, and he was sorry that the convoy was only a rumour.
No sail appeared again that day, and by the supper hour Hayden had the ship, which had been cleared for action the whole day, restored to its more domestic form so that men might eat and sleep, which were as necessary to the prosecution of war as any amount of arms.
The night passed uneventfully, and so did the morning. It was after the ship’s bell had rung the midday that the signal for strange sail was again seen upon a frigate and Hayden ordered to make all sail and support the British frigates in their inspection. Upon sight of the British ships, this vessel wore and ran downwind, crowding on sail. Behind her wallowed a dismasted vessel—much smaller—that had been in tow.
Wickham stood by Hayden’s side with a glass, as did several other officers, all with glasses raised. “She appears to be a seventy-four, sir,” Wickham announced, “and a Frenchman, too.”
“Signals on the flagship, sir,” Bell called out.
Hayden went quickly to the transom and examined the signal flags while the lieutenant consulted the signal book.
“We are ordered not to chase, sir.”
“Are you certain, Lieutenant?”
“Here it is, sir,” the young man said, holding up the book.
“Another hoist, Captain,” Gould reported.
And indeed a second hoist of flags appeared upon the lord admiral’s ship.
“Secure the vessel,” Gould said without consulting Bell’s book.
A moment later, Bell confirmed this to be true and Hayden ordered his sails trimmed and helm altered to approach the abandoned vessel, which turned out to be a small brig. The officers of this vessel were taken off upon one of the frigates and Hayden never knew what Lord Howe might have learned from them, but the remaining crew were taken off this brig and she was set afire. Immediately after this was accomplished, the course of the fleet was altered to north by west.
All eyes watched the great circle of the horizon, hardly willing to blink. The night passed quietly, and though Hayden had a foreboding that dawn would find the French fleet almost upon them, the sea proved empty yet again at sunrise. The day passed without a single sail to interrupt the vast acreage of blue that spread out to every point of the compass.
That night Hayden felt around him a sense of both disappointment and relief. Certainly, if the French fleet were still abroad they would have discovered it by now. It must have returned to Brest or sailed further south to meet the convoy and escort it . . . into Bordeaux, perhaps. The officers and crew did not know of the other possibility—that the French fleet had gone into the Channel to support an invasion. Hayden was very glad not to be the admiral of this particular British fleet, as any failure might be catastrophic and one’s name would be attached to the failure for ever.
Despite the obvious truth that not finding the French fleet might preserve many lives, the crew were also disappointed. An action with a chance for victory and prize money was the dream of many whose service had been less exciting than others. Men went to their hammocks that night speaking sadly of a return to England, perhaps as early as the morrow.
Even so, Hayden slept poorly and was upon the deck at two bells of the morning watch. Light had already begun to wash away the stars and only the brightest struggled to extend their light a little further into the morning.
Hayden’s steward and a servant had just brought him coffee when one of the new midshipmen pointed and called out excitedly. “Lieutenant! Signals on the Niger, sir.”
“‘Strange sail,’ Captain,” Bowen interpreted. “‘South-south-east.’”
Hayden went to the rail; he could see nothing but their distant frigates. Bowen had fetched a glass and stood beside him, aiming that instrument at the appropriate section of the ocean.
“Do you see a sail?” Hayden asked.
“I am not certain, sir.” And then, after a moment more: “I do not, but the frigates are much nearer than we.”
“Signals for us on the flagship, Captain.”
Hayden turned to see the flags stream in the small wind. He drained his coffee cup and passed it to the waiting servant. “We are to follow Admiral Pasley and inspect this sail, Mr Bowen. Sail trimmers to their stations. We will shape our course south-south-east and then beat to quarters.”
“Aye, sir. south-south-east and then beat to quarters.”
Orders were called. Barthe appeared buttoning his waistcoat, a boy hurrying behind with the master’s coat and battered hat. “We have sail, Captain?”
“We do, Mr Barthe, but over the horizon yet.”
“On deck!” came the familiar call from aloft. “Sail, Captain. South-south-east just as was said. More than one, I believe.”
“Mr Bowen. You have the deck. I shall go aloft a moment.”
Hayden’s glass had already been carried up for him, and he slung it over his back and clambered up to the main-tops, pleased that he did not need to climb further—he could make out sail from that vantage with his naked eye.
“Do you see, sir?” the lookout asked. “Beyond the first ship? More sail.”
“Indeed I do, Goodwin. Indeed I do.” Hayden grasped hold of a shroud and leaned over the side of the platform. “Mr Bowen!” he called down to the deck. “It would appear we have discovered a fleet—if not a convoy.”
This produced a great hum of excitement over the main deck.
Hayden took another long look—more sail appearing as the day brightened—and then climbed swiftly down to the deck. He was on the quarterdeck in a moment. Only the top of a single sail could be seen from this height, but everyone strained towards the south-south-east, trying to conjure up a French fleet or a richly laden convoy.
“Mr Bowen, do not overhaul Bellerophon; the admiral will not like it.”
“Aye, sir.”
Hayden glanced up at the pennant streaming from the masthead. The wind was too light for his liking, though once they had closed with the enemy ships, it would be better to have calm seas, but at the moment it was carrying them towards their quarry at the frustrating pace of a leisurely walk.
“Will they meet us, Captain,” Bowen asked, “or will they fly?”
“If it is a convoy, it will most certainly fly from us. If a fleet—I cannot fathom the French admiral’s thinking, Mr Bowen, nor can I guess what his orders might be. I do believe, though, that his intentions will be made clear in very short order.”
The intentions of the French admiral, however, remained somewhat mysterious for the next three hours until about nine of the morning, when the entire distant fleet wore and went upon the larboard tack, which would bring them in contact with Pasley’s squadron by noon or not much beyond, Hayden believed. Not long after that the two fleets would converge.
One thing did become clear—this was not a convoy—three-deckers could be seen, and Bellerophon signalled as much to Lord Howe. This news spread from the quarterdeck throughout the ship like a shiver of anticipation.
As the distance between the fleets remained about three leagues, Hayden took the time to inspect his command and be certain all was in order. He had placed the green midshipmen with one of the more experienced young gentlemen so that they might witness at first hand how to command a battery of guns in the midst of the noise and confusion and under enemy fire. These boys were as pale as clouds and silent as pallbearers, but they all stood their places, and Hayden believed their nerve would hold when they saw the experienced men around them staying to their work even under fire.
Mr Hawthorne had instructed them all to carry the buckets bearing their names to the gun-deck with them, and these had been hung prominently, to the mirth of all the hands and the disquiet of the green reefers. Hayden ordered these taken down and assured the boys that they would not be needing their buckets that day or anytime in the immediate future.
All appeared to be in order, wet blankets hung about the magazines and every man knowing his duty most thoroughly. Hayden returned to the deck to find the French fleet heaving to.
Hawthorne was standing between carronades, watching this evolution when Hayden appeared beside him. “What are they about, Captain?” he asked.
“Preparing for battle, Mr Hawthorne. The admiral is no doubt communicating his intentions to his captains, for, as you know, once the enemy has been engaged it can be near to impossible to make out signals.”
“Will Lord Howe do the same?”
“It would surprise me. His Lordship’s plan will be very simple—engage the enemy at close quarters and pour in broadside upon broadside until they strike.”
Hawthorne laughed gently. “We English do lack subtlety when set beside the French.”
“Indeed we do, Mr Hawthorne; fortunately, war is not a subtle art.” They both stared off at the distant ships. “Did you really believe it necessary to send the new midshipmen to their stations bearing their buckets?”
“I thought it would be a comfort to them to know their remains would not be lost, should they have the misfortune to be blasted to hell by a cannon ball.”
“Mmm. They appeared so frightened as to be nearly paralysed. I had the buckets taken down and hidden away.”
A grin overspread the marine’s face. “That is why you are a captain and I am not.”
“You are a captain, Mr Hawthorne—an acting captain of marines.”
“So I am. Clearly, I had forgotten, or I should never have practised so cruelly upon those poor lads. I do hope they all live to see their dear mothers again.”
“I wish that for all of us, Mr Hawthorne.”
Hawthorne nodded. “How like you our new lieutenants? They seem a likely enough bunch to me.”
“We will certainly know their character most thoroughly by the day’s end, but I do not expect to be disappointed. And your marines?”
“There is not a man among them who can, from the main-tops, kill a barrel floating twenty yards off.”
“Then the enemy barrels may breathe a sigh of relief.”
“You make jest of it, sir, but if a boarding party of French barrels comes over the rail we are all done for.”
Hayden laughed. He often wondered if Hawthorne felt obliged to make light of battle now that he had gained such a reputation and the obvious admiration of officers and crew for his drollery under fire.
“Sir, there is a great deal of talk among the crew of whether or no we will be put into the line of battle. If not, I believe the men will expire of shame; if so, I understand we are all to expire at the hands of a hundred-gun ship that will blast us to hell with a single broadside.”
“Both, I dearly hope, are exaggerations, Mr Hawthorne. Neither will be good for the crew, for they will not want to be left out of the battle, but I dare say, once in it, they will wish themselves elsewhere.”
“And what do you hope for, if I may ask, Captain.”
“I believe you know me well enough to answer that question yourself.”
