Take, Burn or Destroy, page 43
The sterns of the ships were hardly visible then. Hayden threw up an arm as though it would ward off the sight-burning smoke. Le Jacobin, Hayden realised—when he had seen the musket man the name of the ship had been visible—Le Jacobin.
The guns aft fired and Hayden could make out the crews below him, swabbing and ramming cartridges home. The first ship passed, but the second he could not find in the searing smoke, not helped by the fact that his eyes watered terribly, but he dared not wipe them for fear of making matters worse. A bit of gilded rail, perhaps a square of gallery window appeared in the blear—the Queen Charlotte, Hayden thought.
He thumped quickly down the ladder to the quarterdeck and fell over a powder-monkey in the smoke; picking himself and the child up at once, he sent the boy on his way. He pushed forward to the edge of the gangway, where for a moment he could not find Archer in the gloom. But there he was, standing in the chains, one hand grasping a shroud, the other atop the anchor stock, leaning out and trying to distinguish the transom of the enemy. Suddenly, he vaulted back over the barricade, waved to the men at the forward gun, and ran to the pin-rail in the waist. He called down to Wickham, whom Hayden could just make out, and immediately Raisonnable’s forward guns began to fire—the first, then the next, then the next again, all the length of the ship, the tolling of a thunderous bell.
The damage inflicted was lost in the pall, but then Raisonnable sailed free of it, only a few ghostly swirls eddying behind the sails. Hastening to the rail, Hayden leaned out and gazed back at the battle still in progress, though the French ships certainly were firing less frequently since being raked. Their topmasts were almost all that was visible, and then one of these went by the board—Queen Charlotte’s, Hayden realised—and the French flagship surged slowly ahead. In a moment, the French ships had both outdistanced Lord Howe’s vessel, and stood on.
Hayden called for a glass, and when he fixed it on Queen Charlotte’s quarterdeck, he found Admiral Lord Howe, his hat gone, but standing undaunted near the helmsmen, surveying the scene at all quarters.
“There is the admiral,” Hayden said, surprised at how relieved he was to see the man—a near stranger.
The hands around him gave three mighty “huzzahs,” a few leaping up to the rail so that Hayden ordered them back to their stations. Archer returned along the gangway with all haste.
“Sir,” he said as he came onto the quarterdeck, “what shall we do now?”
“We have lost our opposite number,” Hayden replied, trying not to sound relieved at this, “so, Mr Archer, we shall employ our guns elsewhere. Let us make a quick survey of our enemies and who among our friends might need us most.”
Hayden went up the ladder to the poop with Archer and Gould, who was running Hayden’s orders, upon his coattails. The fighting was not concentrated in any one place; nor was there any semblance of “a line of battle” to be found anywhere. Spread over a few acres of heaving blue were any number of small actions, few involving more than two ships or three. Here and there unengaged ships, like Raisonnable, appeared headed for one action or another, and yet more ships lay wallowing, their masts gone or slanting half over the side, guns silenced.
Hayden fixed his glass upon the French admiral’s flagship, which appeared to be gathering a small squadron in its wake. Queen Charlotte was already engaged in another action with what appeared to be an eighty-gun ship.
“Shall we go to His Lordship’s aid, sir?” Archer wondered.
“I do not think he requires our assistance as much as some others.” Hayden pointed. Although he would not shy away, engaging another larger ship, broadside to broadside, Hayden thought would be their undoing. His ship answered her helm but was in ruins, many dead and injured, guns thrown out of their carriages.
“Sir?” Gould said nervously. “Captain . . . ?”
Hayden glanced aft, where the midshipman stood staring.
“Are these French ships, sir, bearing down on us?”
Archer gave a start as he turned. “Where in blackest hell did they come from?”
All three moved quickly aft. Two ships of the line—seventy-fours, Hayden believed—appeared to be making directly for Raisonnable; indeed, one fired a chase gun at that moment and the crow-jack yard fell to the deck where Hayden and Archer had been standing but an instant previous.
“We will scud,” Hayden said to Archer. “It is our only hope.”
Archer flew to the smashed rail, clambering over the crow-jack yard and its gear.
“Mr Barthe! Call hands. Make all possible sail. Helmsman, put her dead before the wind.”
Hands came welling up from the gun-deck and yards were quickly braced and sail made. Hayden watched this evolution anxiously, praying the rig would stand, but it did, and they were heading slowly downwind, not the swiftest point of sail, but the converging seventy-fours left Hayden no choice.
One of the helmsmen appeared from under the afterdeck, looked around for Archer, who had gone forward, and then spotted Hayden.
“Sir, there is a dismasted Frenchman dead ahead. Shall we leave it to larboard or starboard?”
Hayden turned and looked back at the chasing ships, measuring their speed and the speed of his own vessel. Both French ships were bracing yards and drawing the wind aft, sailing perhaps sixty yards apart. Hayden turned back to the helmsman.
“Leave the hulk to larboard. Where is Mr Archer?”
“On the starboard gangway, sir.
Hayden turned to his runner. “Mr Gould, go to Archer and tell him I want twenty men on the poop the instant yards are braced and sails trimmed.”
The midshipman touched his hat and climbed over the fallen yard in such haste that he stumbled down the ladder, catching himself at the bottom. Hayden found an axe and began cutting away ropes on the crow-jack, though he left anything he could. Archer and two dozen men came onto the poop as Hayden was sorting out a fallen rope.
Thrusting the rope at one of the hands—a man named Pierce—Hayden said, “I need a run of ten fathoms—mind all of it is sound. Mr Archer, we will slide this yard over the side in but a moment.”
“Fifteen fathoms, sir,” Pierce quickly reported.
Hayden took one end and tied it off to the tip of the fallen yard. “Take the end and run it outside of all to starboard, outside the transom, back inboard to larboard, and make fast. You,” Hayden pointed at a man he did not know, “feed the rope to Pierce.”
The starboard brace had torn away from the forward shroud, and Hayden sent two men down onto the quarterdeck to sort it out, coil it, and carry it up to the poop.
“What are you intending, sir?” Archer asked.
“It is a desperate plan, Mr Archer. We will let this French ship on our larboard quarter—the swifter of the two—all but catch us. Just as we pass by the dismasted ship—which I pray has struck and will not fire into us—I intend to push the crow-jack yard over the side with all of its attendant gear. It will drop astern and pull up short on these ropes, which will check our speed. The ship to larboard will be forced to pass the hulk to larboard. As our speed is checked it will shoot past, and we will cut away the crow-jack, turn to larboard across the bow of the hulk, and rake the Frenchman as he passes.”
Archer considered this only a second. Hayden half expected him to express doubts, but instead he asked, “What of the other chasing ship, sir?”
“If we catch him by surprise, he will not turn quickly enough and we will be away. If he does make the turn. We must either luff and rake him from forward or run. I hope he will not make the turn in time and we will be away.”
Archer nodded. “Shall I cut away the hammock netting so it does not interfere?”
“By all means, Mr Archer, do so at once.”
Hayden realised then that Barthe was standing on the ladder head, listening over the firing of guns all around.
“Mr Barthe, we must slow our speed a little. For this plan to work, we will almost certainly have to take a broadside. Once we are up with the hulk, sufficient hands to brace yards and make our turn to larboard will be required. It must be handsomely managed.”
“Aye, Captain.” He glanced down at the fallen yard. “I shall let some sheets run, sir, to slow us a little.”
“If you please, Mr Barthe.”
Barthe climbed stiffly down onto the quarterdeck and took up his speaking trumpet.
Hayden watched the French ships in their wake. His plan depended so much on timing and accurately measuring the speed of each vessel to a nicety that he could hardly bear to think of what would occur should he fail. Two seventy-fours would be on them of an instant, and though his crew would not lose their nerve, the larger ships would destroy them. He had struck his colours once in the last weeks; he did not intend to do so again.
“Captain Hayden . . . ?” It was the one of the bosun’s mates calling from forward. “Ship forward of us, sir, is displaying a Union Jack.”
And indeed it was, laying the flag over the stern to indicate it had struck.
“Do you trust them, sir?” Archer asked.
“I cannot see that we have any choice, Mr Archer. Trust does not enter into it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hayden turned to the men, who awaited his orders. “Take hold of this yard. We will slide it out to starboard but keep the outboard end up; if it catches in the water it will cant aft and the inboard end will swing forward and make a great deal of mischief, I fear.”
The French seventy-four to larboard fired its forward guns at that moment, balls screaming overhead through the poor mizzen and several burying in the oaken hull below. Hayden could feel the tension of the men around him. One cursed under his breath.
If the French managed to take down one of Hayden’s masts now his plan would come to nothing, but there was no choice. The spar over the stern would only check Raisonnable’s speed to a degree. If the French ship was not almost abeam when they reached the hulk, slowing their ship would not work and they would be broadside to broadside with the powerful seventy-four with a second bearing down astern.
They were very quickly coming up on the dismasted vessel, and Hayden was relieved to see that the chasing ships would split, just as he had assumed, the faster taking the opposite side to Raisonnable, hoping to fire a broadside as they sailed clear of the bow.
“Handsomely, now. Slide it out.”
A second report from the French ship and the rail at the forward end of the poop shattered not a yard from Hayden. All of his men held their places.
The heavy yard resisted a moment but then began scraping slowly—too slowly—over the side.
“Push, men! Push!”
And push they did, the yard finally releasing its hold on the deck.
“Everyone aft of the yard!” Hayden ordered. “Put your weight on it.”
They all pushed down as they could, but finally the yard tilted down, caught the water, and swung round, even as it slid overboard, and though it struck the mizzen backstays it did not tear them away.
The yard floated clear of the ship, falling aft. First the larboard rope came taut, then the starboard. The spar was not quite square to their travel, but even so it did check the ship’s speed. Hayden glanced right and found the crew of the dismasted vessel watched their passing in sullen silence.
“Take up this axe, Pierce. When I tell you, cut the yard away.”
“Aye, sir.”
The chasing ship, which had been all but abreast, now surged ahead down the other side of the drifting vessel.
“Is this going to work, sir?” Archer asked suddenly.
“I do not know, Mr Archer. Go quickly down to the helmsman and be certain we make our turn the instant I give the order.”
Archer went down the ladder without so much as touching his hat. He took up position where he could see both Hayden and the men at the wheel.
The stricken French ship appeared to slide aft, and very quickly they were up to its bows.
“Cut it free, Pierce!” Hayden called out and took his own axe to the rope, but made a poor job of it on the first try and had to cut again. The rope slid quickly aft and was gone. He ran forward a few steps.
“Helm to starboard, Mr Archer.”
Archer gave but a nod to the men at the helm, and Hayden felt the ship begin a quick turn, Mr Barthe calling out orders to sail handlers. To his horror, Hayden saw the French ship only a little ahead and immediately they began firing into Raisonnable’s bow.
“Down on the deck!” Hayden yelled over the din. “Have the men lie down on the deck!”
Hayden went quickly down the ladder to the quarterdeck and stood some yards before the helmsman, ready to take the place of either man at the wheel in the event that one was shot. Archer was yelling through his speaking trumpet down at the lower deck, and around him the men threw themselves flat between the carronades; many covered their heads with their arms.
Raisonnable slowly turned. Hayden could see the men handling braces and sheets, all crouched down as low to the deck as they might, but hauling on ropes all the same. His ship continued its turn, the tip of its jib-boom threatening to tangle in the enemy’s shrouds. Fewer of the Frenchman’s guns could be brought to bear now, but even as Hayden turned to larboard, the French ship began a turn to starboard.
Hayden’s jib-boom all but tore into the other ship’s mizzen sail, they came so close to collision.
Going himself to the wheel, Hayden began to turn the ship now to starboard, that he might cut squarely across the other ship’s stern.
“Up, Mr Archer. Back to stations. We will fire the starboard guns as the enemy bears.”
Archer went running along the gangway calling down to the decks below. Reaching the forward gun, he pointed to the gun captain and it reared back in a torrent of smoke. The guns below began to fire at that instant, one by one by one. Hayden continued to turn his ship to match the manoeuvre of the French seventy-four. Overhead he heard someone let the mizzen sheet run.
The transom of the French ship was being methodically destroyed, and Hayden could but imagine the destruction along the decks, the lives being lost.
Hayden handed the wheel back to the helmsmen. “Continue your turn,” he instructed, and he went forward to where he could see what transpired. As he did so, he realised that French ships were going to run afoul of one another and the ship that had been in Hayden’s wake was turning to avoid collision.
And then they were past, the main and mizzen masts of the French ship toppling slowly to leeward.
“Luff and touch her, Bullfinch.” And then to the men on the poop, “Sheet the mizzen close; we go hard on the wind now.”
Hayden climbed back up to the poop and surveyed the field of battle, ships still engaged here and there, many others drifting with masts gone or lying over the side. To the west, ships were forming what appeared to be a line. Finding his glass, Hayden fixed it on this gathering.
“Mr Archer!” Hayden called.
“Sir?” Archer had just returned to the quarterdeck.
Hayden raised what he realised was a painfully stiff arm and pointed. “The French are forming a line. Do you see?”
Archer took a moment to find a glass but then replied, “It is their flagship, Captain. She is signalling.” The lieutenant climbed up to the poop.
Other French vessels were shaping their courses to join their admiral’s ship.
“What are their intentions, sir?” Archer wondered.
“They will wear and return to the action.” Hayden made a quick count of ships in the French admiral’s line and those sailing to join him. “Eleven sail of the line, Mr Archer.” Hayden began searching among the field of ships, fearing that he would find Lord Howe’s vessel disabled. But then he saw her, just as signals were being hoisted.
“Mr Gould? There you are.” Hayden thrust a glass at the midshipman. “Do you see the admiral’s signal?”
The midshipman raised the glass for only a second. “‘Form a line as convenient, sir, astern of the flagship.’”
“Mr Archer, we will hold this course until the lord admiral’s intentions become clear. We dare not tack—our rig will not bear it—but if needs be we will wear to join his line.”
“Aye, sir.”
They both stood watching Lord Howe’s ship and the few British ships that appeared to be making for her.
“Have you been down to the gun-decks, Mr Archer?”
“I have not, Captain.”
“Do you have any idea of our losses?”
“It will not be a small number, sir. L’Achille did a great deal of damage, and we were all but raked in this last action.”
Hayden was silent a moment. “Water in the hold?”
“The carpenter reports we took no shot below the waterline, sir.”
“We have had some luck this day.”
“Both good and ill, sir.”
“I have seen luck run ill out of all proportion, Mr Archer; I shall gladly accept an equal share of either. And even more gladly on a day such as this.”
“I agree, sir. Ill luck is like the intermittent fever—once it has its hooks in you, it returns again and again. Few men shake it off.”
Hayden did not much like this diagnosis, as he had certainly endured his share of poor luck—more than his share, he often thought.
Across the watery field cannon fire reverberated yet, and dense creatures of smoke rambled low over the waves. Ships with all masts standing, if not engaged, were making their way towards their respective flagships.
