Take, Burn or Destroy, page 40
“Well, no one can say we have not done our part, Captain.”
“Let us hope that is true.”
The helmsman continued to work the ship up whenever the wind veered but a little—Hayden missed having Dryden at the wheel, for he had been the best helmsman aboard the Themis, after Mr Barthe, but Swain was quickly gaining his confidence in this. He stood with one hand upon the wheel, as far out from beneath the poop as he could reach, and quietly gave his mates orders. “Half a spoke to leeward. Up, up, bring her up now.”
Barthe, who stood with his hand upon the companionway railing, glanced up at Hayden and gave a nod of approval. Working a ship to windward was an art that not every sailor could master, Hayden had learned. Even though an excellent sailor such as Barthe might stand by and give the helmsman orders, there was no substitute for feeling the pressure on the wheel, watching the wind on the water, and keeping an eye upon the telltales and the set of the sails.
Before Bellerophon could bring her broadside to bear, Hayden managed a second raking fire.
“That will do for her mizzen, Captain, I would wager,” Mr Barthe called as the smoke cleared away. “It will not stand half an hour.”
Bellerophon opened fire then, and, at same instant it seemed, Révolutionnaire fired her three decks of guns. Smoke enveloped both vessels, and as it cleared away Hayden could see that both had inflicted much damage upon the other. Sails were flailing and thrashing on Bellerophon, and Hayden could see that her standing and running rig was much cut up.
It hardly seemed to have been noticed by the gun crews, for Hayden saw the muzzles run out, and before the French could do the same, a second broadside exploded, the sound itself violent and unnerving.
Gould came pounding up the ladder to the poop, touching his hat as he reached the top. “Signal for us on the lord admiral’s ship.”
Hayden turned to find Queen Charlotte. Indeed, Raisonnable’s number floated aloft.
“We are ordered to break off our engagement, sir,” Gould reported without reference to the signal book.
“Have Mr Archer confirm that signal, Mr Gould.” He did not for a moment believe the midshipman wrong—he appeared to have memorized all of the common signals—but this was not a matter in which a mistake could be made.
But a moment later, Archer, signal book in hand, informed his captain that they were indeed ordered to break off the engagement.
Barthe came up and stood by his captain. “We could easily have poured in another broadside, sir, if not more.”
“I agree, but a one-hundred-ten-gun ship is a formidable ship of war, Mr Barthe. Too much for a single seventy-four, in truth. I am sure the admiral would preserve us for our present duty—as we are much faster than any of his ships of the line.” Hayden also wondered if his apparent inexperience was the real reason he had been ordered back, but was not about to say so. Barthe, who knew the service as well as any, was no doubt entertaining the same thoughts.
Seeing Thunderer coming up astern under a press of sail with Russell and Marlborough in her wake, Hayden ordered his course altered so as to be well clear of them and to not impede them in any manoeuvre they might wish to perform.
Archer came up the steps to the aft deck. “Shall we return to the line and find our place, sir?”
“We will if we are so ordered, Mr Archer, but until such time I will hold our position here in the event that our assistance is required. Mr Barthe, arrange gear to take a ship in tow.”
As preparations were made to take a ship in tow, Thunderer came abreast and slowly passed, her captain taking his hat off to Hayden, who returned the gesture.
Archer looked around at the British ships engaged in the fight, or about to be so. “Is there a ship in need of our assistance, Captain?”
“Not at this time, Mr Archer, but let us be prepared for any eventuality.”
“Aye, sir.” And Archer went off with Barthe to arrange the gear for towing.
Thunderer drew abreast of Révolutionnaire and immediately opened fire, the French ship responding with her own massive broadside, both ships hidden in dense cloaks of smoke. Even before it blew off, a second broadside erupted from the cloud, flame boiling out of the rolling mass.
The men upon Hayden’s ship all stood transfixed by this, to a man wondering if the French would wear and come to the rescue of their besieged ship, which action would open a general engagement between the two powerful fleets.
Out of the storm of smoke Thunderer materialized, falling off to leeward, her gear damaged.
“Bellerophon is signalling, sir,” Gould called up to Hayden. “She has a wounded mast, Captain.”
Indeed, Bellerophon was dropping back, her crew swarming aloft to effect repairs.
Russell, however, was quickly overhauling the damaged French ship, her gunports open. The ships were becoming silhouettes as the day’s light appeared to ebb into the west. Despite all British hopes, the French fleet showed no sign of coming to the rescue of its now isolated ship, which was unable to carry sail on the mizzen and had ruined gear hanging aloft and men working to clear whatever had fallen from the decks.
Russell ranged up alongside and tore open the air with her guns just as Révolutionnaire fired her own broadside. Through the pall of smoke Hayden could see the mizzen mast of the Frenchman slowly lean, accumulate speed, and then plunge into the drifting cloud of smoke. Hayden’s crew cheered.
A second broadside was fired by the Russell, and the mainsail yard of the French ship dropped to the deck. With her gear so cut up and sails torn away, Révolutionnaire lost way while the British ships attacking in succession were able to keep up an almost constant fire while sustaining less damage.
Marlborough was next to fire and then Thunderer took her place, the French returning fire, but each broadside was reduced in strength as her guns were dismounted and crew killed or wounded.
Audacious and Gibraltar overhauled the three British ships and opened fire on the French vessel, which to the credit of her officers and crew answered every three broadsides with two of their own. As smoke drifted off, Hayden saw the Frenchman’s mainsail yard swing down and then drop to the deck. A moment later, her main topsail yard did the same. She was still firing raggedly at the British ships, but she was almost wallowing and had lost steerage, her head blowing off.
Audacious and Gibraltar did not stop to see her colours struck but passed by in chase of the fleet stretched in line ahead.
“We are prepared to tow, sir,” Archer reported. “Though it appears that only a Frenchman will be in need.” Archer turned and gazed at the stricken vessel in the gathering gloom. “Will she not strike, Captain?”
As Hayden was about to reply that she had no flag left flying, Révolutionnaire’s guns fell silent. “It appears she has struck, Mr Archer.”
There was a moment of silence on the deck of Raisonnable while everyone waited for the French ship to fire again, and when she did not, three cheers erupted and were echoed across the waters from the other British ships.
Hayden went to the stern and in the sea dusk saw a hoist of flags float aloft on the Queen Charlotte, quickly repeated by outlying frigates and ships in the line. There was no need to consult a signal book—it called for a general recall and to form a line.
Hayden was about to transmit orders to this effect to his officers when a second signal appeared—and this was for his own ship and the frigates, which were ordered to maintain contact with the enemy fleet.
Hayden walked forward to the rail and called down to Archer, whose features were quickly being lost in the dimming light. “Do you see the signal, Mr Archer? We are to maintain close contact with the French fleet.”
“Are we to remain at quarters, Captain?” Archer called.
“Yes. We shall have to feed the hands at the guns.”
“I shall see it done, sir.” Archer went forward on the darkening deck. “Mr Barthe? We shall make sail and keep close contact with the French! Mr Huxley! We shall remain at quarters, but the men must eat.”
“I will go down to the cooks straight off, Mr Archer, and I will muster the mess stewards,” Hayden heard Huxley reply, though he could not make him out.
It was here that Hayden missed his former command—a frigate had a berth-deck where no guns were lodged. When a frigate cleared for action, the living space of the men was left unaltered. Aboard a sixty-four the men lived on the gun-decks, their mess tables taking up the places between the guns, their trunks stored there and hammocks hung in the same space. All of this must be cleared away to fire the guns, and to build it all again so the men might eat required no small amount of work. Men would have to remain at their stations and eat and sleep and live as best they could without the few comforts that frigate crews kept always to hand.
In the very last light of the day, against an opalescent sky, Raisonnable overhauled Révolutionnaire, which lay rolling to the swell, her mizzen gone, yards shot away. At that very moment, a group of Frenchmen came to the hammock nettings bearing something between them, and then with a slight heave sent a body tumbling limply through the air where it plunged into the dark, unfathomable sea.
Until the sea shall give up her dead. The words came unbidden to Hayden’s mind. He had a vision of the dead, rising out of the ooze and floating towards the surface through the dim waters, like sleepers slowly waking. His own father would be among them—perhaps even Hayden might find a place in such a corps.
Révolutionnaire looked beyond forlorn. A few hours ago, she had been both formidable and awful—a machine of ruinous beauty. And now she was silent, drifting with the small wind, falling and sending at the sea’s whim. Had it not been for the men moving slowly about her decks, she could have been a hulk, lifeless and hollow. How swiftly her ruin had been effected.
“If you please, sir . . .” It was Wickham at the ladder head.
“Come up, Wickham.”
“Audacious sails on, Captain. I wonder if she did not see the lord admiral’s signal?”
“Fire a gun to leeward and repeat the signal.”
“Aye, sir.”
Wickham went quickly down to where Gould and the new midshipmen were already laying out the flags to be hoisted. The forward chase gun was fired—devoid of iron ball, and the signals run up into the damp, night air.
Hayden had little hope of Audacious seeing this but thought it likely someone aboard would realise that other ships were returning to the line or reducing sail to allow the fleet to come up to them.
Guns began firing aboard Audacious at that very moment—as she had drawn within range of the aftermost French ship.
In the east, stars came into existence, blotted by a thin haze. Night was victorious. Lanterns were lit around the ship and festooned the British fleet.
Twenty–one
The men lay scattered among the guns. By the scant light of lanterns they appeared insensible rounded mounds upon the unmerciful planks. It almost pained Hayden’s heart to see one man of every crew sitting upon the gun carriage, hands upon knees, arms limp, staring blankly, barely conscious, hardly able to keep himself from falling, but somehow willing himself to remain awake for his watch.
Hayden stood a moment in the shadow of the afterdeck, the men at the helm unaware of his presence. Four days and four nights they had remained at quarters—neither hands nor officers having refuge to their hammocks or cots. Even Hayden laid on a paltry mat upon the gun-deck planks. His own exhaustion had crept into his mind, breaking off his thoughts often so that they began with purpose but then lost all way and drifted into a void as featureless as a flat, calm sea.
He found Lieutenant Bell slumped down on the quarter-ladder, his head hanging.
“Mr Bell?” Hayden whispered as he emerged from the shadows.
The young lieutenant staggered up, startled. “I was not sleeping, sir.”
“Indeed you were not—unless you can perch upon a ladder and sleep without falling. Are the French still in sight?”
“A thin haze has settled all around, Captain, but Niger has signalled at every bell—fired a gun, sir—indicating that they have the fleet yet in sight.”
“But we have not?”
“No, sir.”
“Then we will make sail.”
“Shall I call all hands, sir?”
“No, we will make do with the hands upon the quarterdeck and the forecastle. Have them stirred, though I am loath to do it.”
The men were stirred, and not easily, coming dully to their feet, surly and truculent. Hayden took charge of this evolution himself, sending men to unfamiliar stations. Slowly it was managed by the limited numbers, but sail was made, and the ship pressed forward in the small breeze. When yards were braced, sails trimmed, and all the ropes coiled, Hayden allowed the men to return to their unwelcoming beds, and he climbed up onto the afterdeck to stare into the liquid darkness.
It was the type of haze that could almost not be detected on a moonless night. Overhead the stars were only very slightly obscured, and the thin mist hanging low over the sea blended into the darkness, only raising the horizon a little.
He could just see the lights of the most forward vessels in Lord Howe’s roughly formed line, and before his own vessel the lanterns of two frigates that had been ordered to remain in close contact with the French fleet. His own ship was to support these and relay signals were it to become necessary.
Hayden wandered back to the stern rail and leaned heavily against it. He would have given all he possessed to be allowed to lie upon the deck and sleep. It took all of his will to keep his feet beneath him. The ship’s bell counted seven—half three of a morning. Daylight was not distant.
Thinking that he might find wakefulness easier to maintain if he moved, Hayden set off to tour the decks, beginning down the starboard side. Slowly, he went down the ladder and padded quietly forward, stepping, here and there, over somnolent men who were not stirred by his passing. The men seated upon the guns rose as he advanced and made a knuckle, whereupon Hayden motioned them to resume their seats. Once or twice he paused to whisper quietly with a waking man and to speak with the lookouts posted upon the ship’s four quarters. Almost painfully he hauled himself aloft onto the foremast top and, after consulting with the lookout, gazed out over the misty sea, hoping to discern the rear of the French fleet—but could not.
With equal difficulty, Hayden returned to the deck and continued his rounds. Upon the larboard gangway a gaunt figure approached.
“Dr Griffiths. Is it not early to be abroad? Is there some errand upon which you are called?”
“I am habitually awake at eight bells—four of a morning. I am taking a turn around the deck to clear my mind.”
“As am I, Doctor. Shall we continue together? I will reverse my orbit and accompany you.” They walked only a pace before Hayden enquired, “How fare you, Doctor? Have you found a little sleep, I hope?”
“More than many, I should think,” the surgeon answered quietly. “My mates and myself have slung cots on the orlop, where we have moved the sick-berth—but the hands, Captain . . . They cannot bear up to this much longer. Human endurance has limits.”
“I agree, Doctor. If only this damned French admiral would stand and fight, but instead he remains just beyond our grasp. Each time we appear to have finally forced an action, he finds some way to slip out of our hands and we are back to chasing after him—waiting. For ever waiting.”
“I do not claim any particular knowledge of such matters, as you well know, but I am surprised that we have been four days since the French were sighted and yet there have been only skirmishes and not a general action.”
“It is peculiar,” Hayden agreed, “and I am most confused by it. It is almost as if the French do not try to escape yet they will not give battle. I do wish they would do one or the other. But if the wind holds, I believe we shall finally have the weather gauge and then Lord Howe may force an action at his pleasure—assuming the sea fog does not again intervene.”
Griffiths removed his hat and ran fingers through his grey hair. “I hold less enthusiasm for a general action, I fear, as all of the wounded come down to me.” He waved his hat out towards the distant fleets. “Think of the great number of men who could be killed or maimed. I almost wish the French could slip away.”
“The war will most likely only last that much longer if battle is averted,” Hayden replied, and not without some sadness. “There is no war to be wished for, but a short one, no matter how violent, will always see fewer lives lost than a war that drags on for years. Perhaps a significant naval defeat will put an end to the Jacobin government’s designs to spread their revolution across all of Europe.”
“Perhaps.” The surgeon considered this a moment—very sadly, Hayden thought. “The Jacobins are fanatical, Captain, and fanatics make decisions based on belief, not reason.”
“I spent half my young life among the French, Dr Griffiths, and I can tell you that the Jacobins cannot last for very long among such a civilised people. They are an anomaly—almost an abomination.”
Griffiths shrugged as if to concede the point, which Hayden had stated with more passion than he intended.
The actions of the present government were a deep source of shame to Charles Hayden—which, as an officer in His Majesty’s Navy, he could not admit. But it was true—the Jacobins and their infamous Committee of Public Safety caused him many hours of mortification. He thought of Madame Adair, coupling with a stranger in hopes of eluding the guillotine. Of the sound of the men coming for her in the night—and then, at the last instant, being persuaded to go elsewhere by the doctor who certainly was about to be condemned to the guillotine himself.
“On deck!” The familiar call from above stopped both men. “Sails, north-north-west, two leagues.”
