Take, Burn or Destroy, page 5
“Mr Archer, order the stove lit. Send the men down to breakfast forty at a time. Keep the other men at their stations. We are in French waters yet, and the two frigates chasing us might not be the only enemy vessels we discover this day.”
“Aye, sir.” Archer touched his hat and hastened away.
Men had been stationed to watch on all quarters of the ship as well as aloft. The coast was distressingly near, and this poor visibility might lead to surprises Hayden would not welcome. Upon the upper deck, the enforced silence only made the subdued spirits of the men seem more unnatural and ominous.
When smoke began to drift up from the cooking-stove, the men’s spirits rose a little, and at eight bells, when the first men were sent down to break their fasts, there was a noticeable lightening of the mood.
The French ships had not appeared in their wake in almost two hours, and this, too, had its leavening effect. Mr Barthe ordered the log streamed and recorded their speed as just exceeding six knots. Following a quick consultation with his charts, Barthe calculated that Barfleur would appear two hours after dark. What concerned the sailing master were the unpredictable tidal currents in that area of the Channel, and he clomped about the deck with a notable scowl upon his doughy face. The leadsman was set to work swinging his sounding lead, but no bottom was found at twenty fathoms, which was information that neither granted comfort nor caused undue alarm.
Squalls continued to sweep down upon them at intervals, often materializing out of the blear not a hundred yards to starboard. The men standing watch and the helmsmen were ever upon the alert, but the murk disguised these bursts of weather until they were all but upon them.
Hayden took a quick breakfast in the gunroom; his own cabin remained dismantled. Despite Hayden’s having been blessed with excellent and dutiful officers, they were, with the exception of Mr Barthe, relatively inexperienced and new to their responsibilities. Their judgement had not yet been tested in difficult situations. He only hoped his own, impaired as it was by an almost constant anxiety about his own troubles, would not prove lacking.
Over the course of the morning, the seas built and were soon striking the topsides and sending spray high up into the rigging, where it slatted against sails and slashed down upon the deck with such force it almost seemed not to be liquid at all. The bellying mainsail was watched with a particular fascinated horror. If it had not been of fairly recent vintage it would surely have let go by then, but its seams held up, and Hayden continued to carry it, breaking all seagoing conventions to reef the topsail to ease the strain on the ship while keeping the mainsail set.
There was no sun to allow a noon-sight, but this important hour—the beginning of the ship’s day—was marked, the glass turned, log streamed. Now that the Themis was apparently free of chasing ships, and the crew had been fed, the men’s mood lifted and became almost content, despite the disagreeable weather.
This was only temporarily altered when a black-hulled transport appeared almost under their bow and avoided collision only by some intercession of divine nature. Under normal circumstances, Hayden would have chased it down and made it a prize, if possible, but today he watched it slip astern, trying not to think of the money it represented. He was even more concerned that it might encounter the chasing frigates and inform their captains that the Themis held upon her course.
The men, too, watched the little coaster disappear astern, engendering much muttering and many an aggrieved look. How dare a prize appear at that moment? Had it no consideration at all?
The wind, which had remained remarkably constant throughout the morning, began to shift from north-north-east to north-north-west. Each time the wind went into the north-north-west Barthe would consult the compass and charts, stream the log, and recalculate their position and likelihood of doubling Pointe de Barfleur. On one of these occasions, Hayden went below to look at the chart with the master, who was guarding this valuable paper from rain on a makeshift table at the foot of the aft companionway.
Hayden glanced at the little “cocked hat”—the triangle within which Mr Barthe believed the Themis lay at that moment.
“We get a better slant each time the wind backs into the east,” the sailing master observed, “but I fear we are being driven below our course more frequently.” He placed a blunt finger upon the chart, a small peninsula that shifted over the paper sea as he spoke. “There is a rocky shoal extending out from Barfleur Point to the north-east which we must avoid at all costs.”
“Will we pass outside the shoal or not, Mr Barthe?” Hayden asked. “Or will we be forced to wear her around, for we dare not tack in such a wind.”
“I am most sorry, Captain Hayden, but the currents in this bay are not entirely predictable . . .” He stared unhappily at his chart a moment. “I cannot say for certain that we shall.”
It was not the news Hayden wished to hear, but nor did he want an overly optimistic lie at that moment. “I appreciate your candour, Mr Barthe. Better we know the truth. Pointe de Barfleur is very low and in this foul weather will not be visible until we are upon it. I say we wear ship now while we have room, and hope the French are far enough behind that they cannot take advantage of us.”
“I agree, sir.” Barthe’s shoulders relaxed a little and there was less tension in his tone.
“Then let us begin immediately.”
The two men went up the ladder, but before they had emerged onto the deck a cry came from the lookout Hayden had positioned on the mizzen top.
“On deck! Ship on our starboard quarter.”
Immediately, Hayden and Barthe went to the rail and stood gazing at the vessel, which had top-gallant masts standing yet.
“Can that be one of our Frenchmen?” Barthe wondered aloud. “How could she get so far to windward of us?”
“She might have had more east in her wind than we have received.”
Barthe unleashed a string of curses aimed, perhaps, at the French or the fickle wind or both.
Hayden called for a glass and fixed the French frigate in it just as a hoist of signals went up behind the sails of her mainmast.
“Signals, sir,” Archer observed as he arrived at the rail.
“Yes, but is there really a second ship or is she trying to make us think she is not alone?”
No one spoke a moment as they stood gazing at the indistinct form of a frigate in the drizzle and mist.
“Shall I give the order to wear ship?” Barthe enquired.
Hayden did not reply but stood weighing all the possibilities, all the scraps of knowledge he possessed about their present position. They did not know precisely where they were, a dangerous point of land and shoal lay somewhere ahead, a single enemy frigate was stationed on his quarter, and a second might not be too distant. If he wore, these ships might trap him in a corner. If he did not wear, his ship might be in danger of going ashore. There was also a slim possibility that they might weather Barfleur and its imposing shoal. Hayden had never felt so paralysed. There seemed to be no course that offered a better possibility of success. The part of him that made these decisions on gut instinct appeared to have abandoned him entirely.
“I think it might be a danger to stand on, Captain,” the sailing master observed quietly.
“If we wear, we might end up in a corner fighting two frigates of superior strength, Mr Barthe. Is there any chance that we might double Barfleur? Can you not give me a more certain answer?”
Barthe would not meet his eye. “I regret that I cannot, sir.”
Hayden almost sighed. “Then we shall wear ship and prepare to fight if we must. All hands to wear ship, Mr Archer.”
“Aye, sir. All hands to wear ship, Mr Franks!”
Although it took hardly a moment for the crew to find their stations, Hayden was barely able to retain his exasperation. The entire time, he observed the French ship through his glass, attempting to see if her captain had ordered his own men to make ready to wear.
“Aloft there!” Hayden called to the hand on the main-top, preserving his hat with one hand as he looked up. “Does this Frenchman make ready to wear?”
The crewman stared a moment through his glass. “I cannot be certain, sir, but I don’t believe she does, Captain.”
“Let us hope he is correct,” Hayden muttered to Archer.
“Up mainsail and mizzen! Brace in the after-yards!” A brief pause. “Up helm!”
The ship began to turn to larboard, seas and wind veering aft.
“Lay the headyards square. Shift over the headsheets!”
Yards were braced, tacks and sheets eased and hauled. The stern of the ship came through the wind and the Themis settled upon her new course, which would take them more or less back to Le Havre on their present wind.
Hayden noted Barthe and Archer sharing a glance, both unhappy.
The Frenchman had stood on less than a quarter of a mile before perceiving what his enemy was about, and he brought the wind across her stern, though not quite so quickly as the English. When both ships had settled upon their new course, the French were on the larboard quarter, but not so far to the north as they had been. Immediately, upon her new course, a bloom of smoke appeared to leeward of the French frigate, and a moment later the report reached the officers standing upon the Themis’ quarterdeck.
Archer turned to Hayden in surprise. “Certainly we are beyond the range of eighteen-pounders?”
“Indeed we are, Mr Archer, but that gun was not aimed at us. They are merely trying to alert their sister ship.”
Hayden had sent the men back down to the guns and exchanged the lookout on the end of the jib-boom. If the second frigate appeared out of this murk, Hayden wanted to see it first. He had witnessed the calamitous results of collision at sea and never wanted that particular experience again.
Archer had positioned himself by the binnacle and sighted steadily across the compass at the chasing ship. “Sir,” he said after a few moments. “We appear to be holding our own—not pulling away, but neither are we losing.”
“I am happy to hear it, Mr Archer.” Hayden fixed the enemy in his glass. “Let us hope this wind drops away, for we have our top-gallant masts standing and our top-gallants still bent, while one of the enemy ships has neither.”
This observation spread a little cheer around the quarterdeck, but over the next three quarters of an hour the wind only appeared to be making.
“Ship!” one of the forward lookouts called out. “Point an’ a ’alf off the starboard bow.”
Hayden hurried forward, as a ship appeared to take form out of mist and rain.
“Open starboard gunports!” Hayden called. “Run out the guns!”
The two ships were hard on the wind on opposite tacks and about to pass within a quarter of a mile. The sea running made opening gunports potentially dangerous, but Hayden had been paying close attention to this particular matter and thought they could risk it yet. Almost before they were aware, the ships drew within firing range. The British, though, were a little better prepared and fired their broadside first, tearing through sails and sending splinters whirling up into the wind.
The reply was not quite so effective; Hayden was certain only two-thirds of the guns had fired, the remaining crews not recovering from the Themis’ broadside in time.
And then the ships were past. Hayden stood at the rail and watched the frigate absorb into the blear. That ship had no top-gallant masts. At the moment it disappeared—he was not certain, but so it seemed—the ship began a turn to larboard.
“Aloft there!” Hayden called to the man upon the mizzen top. “Do they wear ship? Can you see?”
“I cannot be certain, sir . . . Perhaps.”
“Perhaps” was a particularly useless assessment of the situation, Hayden thought.
“Certainly they will wear if they had not begun to do so,” Archer observed, as he appeared from below where he had been overseeing the guns.
“I was only hoping to ascertain how distant they might be by the time they were upon our course. It is always good to know where your enemy might be, Mr Archer, especially on days such as this.”
Archer nodded. “If I may, sir,” he said quietly, “what shall we do now? Assuming the common allowance for leeway, our course will take us into the harbour of Le Havre, or very nearly.”
“Yes, we are embayed. Unless the wind goes into the north-west we shall have to wear, but I would rather wait until darkness is complete before I attempt it.”
“It is nigh on eight bells, Captain. The sun will set in just more than three hours, and in this murk, darkness shall not be far behind.” Archer leaned a little closer to Hayden. “But certainly the French captains will comprehend that we will attempt to elude them—will they not?”
“I expect they shall, but as long as there is only one within sight, I think we might tack or wear and fight that one off if we must.”
“We could set adrift a barrel with a lamp, sir.”
“Have the cooper make up a barrel, Mr Archer, though I dare say the French have most likely done the same thing themselves at some time or other. It is an old dodge.”
The day wore on, the fickle wind making and taking off, originating from various northerly points of the compass. For a time the wind took off sufficiently for Hayden to have the reefs shaken out of his topsails, but an hour later they were all tied in again. Through the late afternoon the one visible frigate gained a little on the British ship, then lost a little, but overall held her position, the Themis proving her equal in speed and weatherliness.
Sometime before the shy sun vanished a dreary twilight settled, the sea turning dull as old coffee, wind cooling noticeably. The men were sent down to their meals at intervals, and only the necessary watch kept the deck in the nasty weather. It was one of the advantages of a frigate; the lower deck—the berth-deck—was free of guns and dedicated to housing and feeding the crew. Messes, each with its own table and benches, were neatly arranged to starboard and larboard, and the men slung their hammocks there by night. It was, comparatively, a dry and, if not warm, at least not uncommonly cold place. Here the watch below could yarn or seek whatever diversions the ship would offer, or sing and play upon Irish whistles and fiddles.
Hayden took a turn through the ship just before sunset and found the cooper, standing among three half-made barrels, a perplexed expression on his face.
“I am not heartened by your look, Pike,” Hayden said to the man. “Is there some problem?”
“I’ve made up three barrels—or started to—and they’re no great shakes, sir—none of ’em.”
Even Hayden could see the staves—what Pike was calling “shakes”—were poorly fitted.
“I don’t know who the coopers were who made these up, sir, but they did not know their trade, that is certain.” He glanced up at Hayden. “But I’ll find one that will answer, sir. Don’t you worry.”
“I shall refrain from worrying.” Hayden did not put much faith in hanging a lantern on a barrel, anyway.
Upon concluding his tour of the ship, Hayden put his head in the door of the gunroom. He found Smosh and Griffiths taking a glass of wine with Mr Hawthorne.
“Will you join us, Captain?” Hawthorne asked, rising more quickly than the others.
“I thank you, Mr Hawthorne, but not at this time. I have decided to wear ship as soon as it is properly dark. The wind has finally decided that it will not back into the north-west, and shows a distinct inclination to do the opposite.”
“We were, but a few moments ago, discussing this very matter, Captain,” Smosh explained. “I have noted that winds appear to sometimes ‘haul’ aft and at others ‘haul’ forward. Winds also have a habit of backing in different directions, making me wonder how one knows which way they are ‘backing’ or ‘hauling.’” The little clergyman was very red-faced, and to any other might appear to be in his cups, but Hayden well knew the man’s enormous capacity for drink. His mind would remain quite clear and his physical abilities undiminished when many another would be insensible.
“When speaking of winds relative to the ship, Mr Smosh, they can haul either aft or forward, though when you hear it said that we shall haul our wind it always means that we shall sail as near to the wind as we are able. We say the wind is ‘backing’ when it alters its course in a manner opposite to what would be common. In most cases, in the Northern Hemisphere, the wind changes from east by south to west and then into the north. When it does the opposite, we say it is backing.”
“Is it not . . . confusing to have the wind ‘haul’ or ‘back’ in different directions?”
“Not to seamen,” Hayden replied.
“Well, I for one wish the wind would only ‘haul’ in one manner. It is rather like the orders to put one’s helm to starboard, which is followed by the helmsman turning his wheel in what appears to be the opposite direction, to my understanding, and the ship turning to larboard.”
Hayden pointed at the massive tiller which swung below the deck-beams aft of the table. “When the helmsman is ordered to put his helm to starboard we are referring to the tiller, Mr Smosh, not the wheel, which, as you say, is turned in what would appear to be the opposite direction. Thus, the ship turns to larboard.”
“The wheel is turned to larboard. The ship turns to larboard, and yet the order is to put one’s helm to starboard. It is rather contradictory, I find. And does one not say, ‘port your helm,’ which will then turn the ship to starboard? Why does one not say put your helm to larboard?”
“The words ‘larboard’ and ‘starboard’ are very easily confused on a stormy night or in the midst of an action, so the term ‘port’ is substituted for ‘larboard.’”
