Take, Burn or Destroy, page 44
“Sir?” Archer said, and pointed off to the north. “Is that ship one of ours?”
Farthest from the centre of action lay a three-decker, dismasted and drifting north-east. Hayden fixed a glass on her a moment.
“Where is Mr Barthe?”
“Forward, sir,” Gould reported, “overseeing repairs to our rig, sir.”
Hayden proffered his glass. “Jump down to him, if you please, Mr Gould, and ask him if he knows that ship.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gould went quickly down the ladder and forward among the working crew. Hayden tried to count the disabled ships, but there were battles still being fought and smoke obscured much even yet.
“Captain Hayden, sir.” Gould came pounding up the ladder, glass in hand. “Mr Barthe believes it is the Queen, sir.”
“Does the king know that his queen is consorting with sailors?”
Turning about, Hayden found Hawthorne stepping awkwardly onto the poop, with Doctor Griffiths’s cane under employment. His white breeches were stained crimson.
“Mr Hawthorne, it would appear you have been wounded, sir,” Hayden observed.
“A musket ball in my leg. Mr Smosh has bound it up nicely and it hardly seeps at all. The doctor will remove the lead at some later time. Perhaps on the morrow when there are fewer pressing matters for him to attend.”
“Should you not be below in a cot?” Hayden asked.
“I believe I can be of use on deck—unless running is required. Give me a musket and corner to wedge myself in and I will put paid to the careers of a few Frenchmen, I am quite certain.”
“Mr Gould . . . fetch Mr Hawthorne a musket, if you please.” Hayden gestured aft. “You may wedge yourself in either corner against the transom, Mr Hawthorne. There are small benches there to sit upon, if you so desire.”
“Thank you, sir.” Hawthorne reached up to touch his hat—gone—and then limped aft.
Gould appeared a moment later bearing a musket, powder, and shot. He also took Hawthorne his own glass, for which the marine gave markedly heartfelt thanks, the thoughtfulness of this gesture affecting him greatly.
“Do you know, sir,” Archer began, “the French appear to be forming a line of ten or eleven ships. Lord Howe would appear to have no more than five or six, including our own ship, sir.”
“Can our own ships not see the signal? Look there.” Hayden waved his glass. “It is being dutifully repeated on a frigate.”
“So it is, sir. I believe a number of our ships are engaged in securing prizes.”
“Prizes they will be in danger of losing if the French can bring eleven ships against five.”
Hayden could see Queen Charlotte begin to stand down towards the approaching French.
“Make ready to wear ship, Mr Archer. If we cannot find a place in the line near to the flagship, we will take up the rear.”
Hayden watched as the men went to their stations. Exhaustion festered like poison in all their limbs, and every movement was a conscious and trying effort. Even his officers’ faces were blanched beneath the smoke stain, eyes red-rimmed. Hardly a soul aboard had slept more than a few hours at a stretch these five nights past, the hands lying on the deck at the guns. The excitement and fear of the battle had given them much energy, but now they were spent, utterly. And Hayden realised that he was little different—his mind was fogged, thoughts coming with difficulty, and he felt as though he dragged his limbs along, barely able to keep his feet beneath him. How much longer he could demand his crew fight he did not know. They were past the point of endurance now, functioning on nothing but desire and a sense of duty. Even so, the French could be little better off; his own crew could not shirk when the enemy did not.
Something caught his eye at that moment. “Mr Hawthorne? Can you see that ship?” Hayden pointed. “South of the two that still fire their guns?”
“With just the stump of a foremast showing, Captain?”
“The very one. Fix your glass upon her, if you please. Does she sit low in the water? I cannot be certain at such a distance.”
Hawthorne twisted around on the little bench, leaned an elbow upon the cap, and scrutinized the ship Hayden indicated.
The marine looked over at Hayden in surprise. “She appears to be almost up to her gunports, sir.”
“Is she one of ours?”
“I could not tell.” The marine lifted his glass and examined the ship again. “I cannot say, sir,” he informed Hayden after a moment, not lowering his glass.
“Does any ship come to her aid?”
“Not that I can tell, sir.”
“Captain . . . ?” It was Archer. “Should we wear, sir?”
Hayden glanced back to Lord Howe’s ship. “By all means, Mr Archer. Immediately.”
As the wind was brought across the stern and yards braced—perhaps not as smartly as commonly—Hayden took up his own glass and went to the rail beside Hawthorne.
“I do believe that ship is sinking,” Hayden observed after a moment.
“Not unheard of, I should think?” Hawthorne said.
“No, but almost so. Whatever could have happened to cause that, I wonder?”
“Will frigates not come to her aid?”
“So they should, but whose frigates? Ours or theirs?”
Hayden was forced to tear himself away to concentrate on slipping his ship into the line, which required some backing and filling. Fortunately, it was a line formed in haste and hardly a model of such endeavours, so the distance between ships was greater than seen commonly.
The small breeze carried the British ships down towards the French, though not swiftly. Every ship had some damage to sails and rig, and so were handicapped to a greater or lesser degree.
To the north, the French had worn and made sail towards the disabled three-decker Barthe believed was the Queen, and Howe was shaping his course to intercept them.
“This is an unequal fight, Captain,” Hawthorne observed.
“Howe will not abandon the Queen to the French.”
“But is he not in danger of losing even more ships? There are eleven French ships of the line, and we have but five.”
Hayden cast his gaze around the field of battle. There certainly were more British ships with their masts standing and not engaged in action. “If things turn against us, I believe the captains will see and come to our aid.”
“If they can take but a moment from lining their pockets with prize money.” Hawthorne looked around, his face blanched beneath the grainy grey of powder smoke. Hayden was quite certain the marine was in considerable pain. That he had come back onto the deck to take up a musket affected Hayden greatly. To have been blessed with such officers was a stroke of inestimable good fortune.
Hayden turned away from the marine and fixed his attention on what was clearly now eleven French ships bearing down on the crippled Queen. The five ships in the wake of Lord Howe sailed towards that same object and the two squadrons could not help but meet, though the French would almost certainly gain their prize first. Howe would never give up such a ship without a fight and Hayden would surely be expected to take part fully, and though he would not shy from it, the thought of the losses he would suffer could not be ignored.
And so the two lines of ships slowly converged, gunports open, men at their stations. Hayden’s own crew were barely standing, all of them stooping, shoulders sagged and arms hanging limp. They looked as if a small breeze would knock them all down. It was only meagre comfort that the French could be little better off. The battle had sucked the life out of his crew; they were little better than ghosts now.
“Two adversaries at a duel,” Hawthorne observed quietly.
“Neither can back away,” Hayden replied.
“Honour will not allow it.” Hawthorne looked over at Hayden, his face very grim. “Although Lord Howe will never be called shy, I fear he might be making a terrible error.”
Hayden could not say it but he believed the marine was more than likely correct. “Hold your musket ready, Mr Hawthorne, I believe you shall soon have employment for it.”
The leading French ship fired a gun at the disabled Queen, which had not struck, though she could hardly defend herself.
“That seems rather unsporting,” Hawthorne said, clearly offended. “Who is the captain of the Queen? Will he return fire?”
“That is Rear Admiral Gardner’s ship—Hutt is the captain. Perhaps, seeing us attempting his rescue, he will fire. Otherwise, he would have no choice but to strike, and would be a fool to attempt otherwise.”
“I do not much care for the odds.” Hawthorne stood—one-legged, supported on the rail—the better to see the nearing French.
Hayden did not reply. It seemed suddenly possible that the outcome of this battle might hinge upon this very action—and the British were outnumbered better than two to one. Hayden glanced around to see if other British ships were hastening to this spot and to his horror could not discover a single ship so engaged.
He did find several ships sailing towards disabled French vessels, apparently with intention of securing them as prizes.
Hayden turned back to the French ships, clearly going to win this race and take the Queen before Howe could intervene. Another bloom of smoke from the French ship, and the sharp report carried over the water. A gun was fired aboard the Queen Charlotte, merely a show of resolve, as the flagship was too distant to have any hope of hitting an enemy vessel. A hoist of signals was sent aloft on the French admiral’s ship, and suddenly they turned away, one by one in succession, bracing yards and sailing hard on the wind back towards their own disabled ships.
“They have broken off,” Hawthorne said, his voice hoarse with fatigue and perhaps disbelief. “Is it a ruse?”
“I do not believe it is. Villaret-Joyeuse has decided that preserving his own disabled ships is more important than taking a single British ship—even a first-rate. Now, can Lord Howe gather enough ships to give chase . . . ?”
But once he came up with the Queen, Howe made the signal to break off the chase. Hayden was about to order his ship hove to so that they could effect repairs, but was reminded of the ship he had seen that appeared to be settling down. Hunting over the sea of stricken ships and debris, he found the ship. A quick perusal with a glass confirmed his earlier impression.
Archer appeared at the stair head.
“Orders, Captain?”
“Bring us near to that ship.” Hayden pointed with his glass. “We will offer assistance.”
“Is she one of ours, sir?”
“I do not know, Mr Archer. I only know that she is sinking and many souls are in peril. Make ready to launch our boats, Mr Archer.”
Hayden looked once more around the scene of battle, the drifting, dismasted ships, bodies floating everywhere he looked, all of them given animation only by the sea, staring down into the depths where they would soon make their beds.
Upon his own deck he could see officers sorting among the wounded and the dead, bearing men down to the doctor, some of them limp, faces bloodless. Exhausted men cleared away the boats and rigged tackles to hoist them out. It was almost more than they could do—but hoist them out they managed, though dropping them heavily into the sea. The youngest men were not the least affected. Indeed, many an older seaman manned the oars, and Hayden sent marines and lieutenants down to man the boats. By the time they were near enough to send the boats away, the stricken ship—French—was down below her gunports and sinking fast.
Having witnessed the scene aboard Les Droits de l’Homme after she was wrecked, where panic had sunk a boat and seen the death of a hundred—including the ill-fated Franks—Hayden watched the boats approach the sinking ship with great apprehension. But the captain of this ship stood upon the rail without so much as a cutlass and ordered the men to board the boats in an orderly fashion. A second British ship had launched boats, which were rapidly approaching the sinking vessel.
Looking around the watery field of battle, Hayden saw the French line retreating, sweeping up what ships they could but leaving many behind. Miraculously, it was over. And he was alive and largely unharmed but for a fatigue so great he could barely stand.
Hayden’s boats bumped alongside, French sailors heaving themselves over the rail and then helping those behind. The ships’ boys had been sent away first, but Hayden saw no signs of wounded—they had been left until last, the captain choosing to save those most likely to survive. A hard choice.
The frightened French sailors slumped down upon the deck, and though the British marines trained muskets upon them, they were too exhausted to fight or even to stand.
Hayden went down to the quarterdeck, where he found the eyes of the Frenchmen upon him, as though they wondered what their fate would be.
Gould appeared at his elbow, and Hayden could not recall if he had been there all along or had come back just now. “It appears we will have a hundred prisoners or more, Mr Gould . . . Mr Gould . . . are you well?”
Gould covered his eyes with a hand and turned away; his shoulders heaved twice and then he recovered himself.
“Prisoners, sir,” he mumbled.
“Yes. What has happened?” Hayden demanded.
“It is Mr Wickham, sir. They carried him down to the doctor.”
“Wickham . . . ? How badly hurt?”
“I cannot say, sir. He was not sensible . . . and bled horribly.”
Hayden felt himself sag down onto a carronade slide. For a moment he could not speak; nor could he seem to think. And then he saw the eyes of all the French sailors upon him—haunted as though they had just peered into the underworld, and then been drawn back from the edge.
“Be at peace,” Hayden heard himself say to them. “You are safe. Be at peace.”
Twenty–two
I have observed these cliffs so often, Mr Barthe, that I believe I know them better than I know my own countenance.” Hayden lowered his glass.
The sailing master leaned upon the forward barricade with one hand and held the doctor’s cane in the other. Like Hayden he stared off towards the cliffs that lay to either side of the entrance to the inner waters of Brest. “I am more pleased to see them this time than many another, sir.”
Hayden lifted his glass again, watching the stern of the last ship as it entered the Goulet. One by one, the entire French fleet—what remained of it—was swallowed into the long shadows of late afternoon.
Lowering his glass, Hayden stared but a moment more. Lord Howe had sent Raisonnable in company with two frigates to be certain the French fleet returned to port, which it had now done.
“Well, Mr Barthe, that is our part completed. The frigates will stand watch, and we,” he took a deep breath, “are for England.” He turned to the midshipman hovering three paces behind. “Pass the word for Mr Archer,” he ordered.
“I am here, sir.” Archer was standing in the foremast chains, observing the retreating French fleet. Quickly he clambered back over the rail.
“We will round Ushant before dark, Mr Archer, and then shape our course for Portsmouth.”
“Aye, sir,” Archer responded, approaching his captain. “And what becomes of us then, I wonder?”
Hayden felt himself shrug. “That is for the Lords Commissioners to decide, Mr Archer, not mere mortals such as ourselves.”
“I do know,” Barthe growled, “that we shall arrive in Portsmouth after Lord Howe has carried his prizes there in state and he and his captains have been awarded jewelled swords and even knighthoods . . . as though we had no part in it.”
The same thought had occurred to Hayden, but then he had so little to draw him back to England—disappointment, threatening bankruptcy, legal troubles . . . He hoped that he would be sent back to sea—and the sooner the better.
“At least we can tell our grandchildren that we fought in the first great sea battle of the war,” Archer observed.
“And had nothing to show for it,” Barthe added.
“Mr Archer . . .” Hayden prompted.
“Round Ushant and shape our course for Portsmouth, aye, sir.” The lieutenant went off at a run, passing a limping Hawthorne as he made his way forward along the gangway.
“Have I missed the French retreating into Brest?” the marine officer enquired.
“I am afraid you have, Mr Hawthorne.”
“Damn. I had so wanted to see what an admiral looked like with his tail tucked between his legs.”
“Should you really be walking, Mr Hawthorne?” Hayden asked. “Did the doctor not order you to stay in your cot?”
“Were those his orders? I must have misunderstood . . .” Hawthorne gazed a moment at the last French ship disappearing between the cliffs. His face became more serious of a sudden. “Do you ever wonder, Captain, how many lives were lost on both sides?”
Barthe eyed the marine oddly. “You have been in your cot too long, Mr Hawthorne, if your thoughts have taken such a melancholy turn.”
“I suppose . . .” Hawthorne said quietly.
The hands came hurrying to their stations in preparation to shift yards and wear around. None of them spoke as they did so, but only went to their places and set soberly to their duties. There was something in their faces, illuminated by the golden light of the westering sun. They, all of them, appeared older, Hayden thought. Not aged, but older in some mysterious way.
“I do not know how many died, Mr Hawthorne,” Hayden finally replied. “A very great number, I fear.”
“The Lord knows.” It was Smosh, just arriving on the quarterdeck. He waved a hand out towards the open sea. “And now they await His mercy.”
Hayden looked out towards the horizon where the sun was just settling into the vast ocean. “‘Until the sea shall give up her dead . . .’” he said softly.
No one responded for a moment.
“Amen,” Mr Smosh intoned.
