Take, Burn or Destroy, page 6
“But when referring to the sides of the ship, you say ‘larboard’ and not ‘port’ . . . Why is confusion not as likely there?”
“In truth,” admitted Hayden, “it is, and I have seen it myself. There are some very respected officers who have argued that ‘larboard’ should be replaced by ‘port,’ but there are many more officers who do not like to see change, no matter how commonsensical it might be.”
“I am, myself, a great lover of traditions, Captain, but some do see their day pass and should give way.” Smosh took a sip of his wine. “So the wind is ‘hauling forward’?”
“So it would appear. If you will forgive me, I must return to the deck.”
All present rose and made more or less proper salutes, and Hayden let himself out. As the door closed behind him he heard Smosh saying, “I have come to find lying to in a small gale most restful. Once one has adjusted one’s thinking to the idea that a ship will not founder in such circumstances, the motion of the ship I find rather comforting . . .”
Night had settled over the Channel by the time Hayden emerged onto the deck. The French frigate remained in her place, unable to close the gap, but preventing Hayden from tacking if the wind should ever take off sufficiently to allow it. For a time Hayden watched the chasing ship, her lights winking in and out as she lifted, then settled between the seas. Brief squalls of rain would hide her entirely for moments at a time, but then these would pass and the dim little specks of light would appear.
“Pass the word for Mr Archer and Mr Barthe, if you please, Mr Gould.”
The young middy touched his hat, the blackness of the night hiding his expression entirely. A few moments later, the first lieutenant and sailing master hurried onto the quarterdeck.
“I have been observing the Frenchman,” Hayden informed them, “and she is quite hidden from us during these little squalls of rain that sweep through periodically. It is my intention to wear ship during one of these, and be upon the other tack before the French realise what we are about. Dispose the crew to wear ship, Mr Barthe.”
“Aye, sir.” The sailing master went off calling for Franks.
“We dare not open our gunports, Mr Archer,” Hayden said, “but we might have employment for our upper-deck guns. Man them and have them ready.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Although Hayden’s crew had become accustomed to such evolutions on their recent convoy, in even severer weather, Hayden still did not like to have men out on the yards in so much wind and with such a sea running. The mizzen must be brailed up and the mainsail taken in to allow the ship to turn, and in the wet and dark and cold the mainsail would feel like a sheet of iron, both stiff and weighty.
The hands went to their stations quietly, without any muttering. The import of this manoeuvre was not lost upon them.
And then they waited, the rain pelting down, wind stealing away the warmth of their bodies until hands became numb and fingers obeyed orders but poorly. For the better part of an hour the weather, though it did not abate, would not bring them the squall of rain they required. Hayden was wondering how much longer he could keep the men at their stations and began to think he had made an error, when the lights of the distant ship dissolved in a watery gloom. A moment later a wind, tearing the tops of the seas and tumbling them to leeward, heeled the ship and smothered it in rain.
Hayden gave the word to the sailing master, who called out through his speaking trumpet.
“Up mainsail and mizzen! Brace in the after-yards!”
The order was repeated by the bosun and his mates, who had stationed themselves at intervals along the deck, for on such a windy night orders were very easily blown to leeward. Protecting his face with a hand, Hayden attempted to gaze out into the gale, but beyond thirty yards all was streaming, liquid darkness.
The Themis, as though aware of her situation, answered her helm more smartly than usual and brought the wind across her stern with all speed. In a few moments she was shaping her course north-west by west, out into the Channel. Hayden went to the corner made by the taffrail and starboard bulwarks and gazed out into the darkness, but could see nothing, even though the squall was all but past.
“Aloft there,” he called up to the mizzen lookout. “Can you see the Frenchman? Do they wear ship?”
There was no answer a moment and Hayden was about to repeat his call, but louder, when a voice came from above. “Sir! I see them, off the starboard quarter. She’s not wearing . . . Wait, sir. I believe they have smoked us, Captain. Bloody frogs are wearing, sir.”
Being half a “bloody frog,” Hayden tried to not take the remark personally.
A call was heard on the forecastle, which was repeated along the deck.
“Ship on the larboard bow!”
“Ship on the larboard bow!”
Hayden dashed forward as quickly as the swaying deck would allow. There, not two pistol shots distant, was the second frigate about to pass to leeward.
“Stand by to fire,” Hayden called and the guns were traversed by crowbars and brute strength.
“Fire as she bears, Mr Baldwin,” Hayden ordered.
A moment, and then the first gun belched flame and smoke, the report assaulting all of Hayden’s senses. The assault was repeated until all the deck guns had been fired, and more than one had been fired twice. And then the sounds of nature prevailed, the wind and driven rain. Almost a silence, Hayden felt.
For the first time in twenty-some hours, Hayden took a breath that did not feel constrained. Their course was by far the most favourable they had managed in many hours—almost for Plymouth, the French had been taken by surprise, and he knew that his ship could keep the distance between them as long as the wind did not betray them. Their escape seemed, if not certain, at least very likely. Let the gale grow as severe as it liked; the blacker the night, the more likely they would shake off the French.
The watch below was released, and even much of the watch on deck was allowed to huddle on the gun-deck at the foot of the companionway—reward for having been left out in the weather so long.
Hayden had kept the deck most of the long day and much of the night before, and felt burdened with fatigue, his thoughts tending to wander and then slide towards emptiness, his limbs thick and stiff and slow to respond to his wishes. Sleep, he knew, was required to keep his mind and body alert and decisive, but he could not afford it now. Not in this ever-changing situation where a mere shift in the wind might see two French frigates upon them in a trice. He called for coffee again and took it in the warmth of the gunroom with Lieutenant Archer, who had the good sense to leave him unmolested for a quarter of the hour.
Too soon he returned to the deck, the night seeming both colder and darker, the wind more penetrating. Rain slatted down upon the ship in hard-driven squalls, and the wind sang an unholy choir in the rigging.
Ransome was the officer of the watch, and he huddled in the lee of a carronade, his back to the wind.
“Where is our Frenchman?” Hayden asked him.
The young lieutenant straightened up at the sight of Hayden and pointed sharply out into the darkness gathered in the north-east. “There-away, sir. Her position is unchanged. She neither gains nor loses upon this wind, and as far as we know still has her top-gallants, though Mr Wickham swore he saw the Frenchman take them in some time ago. One of the lookouts has reported a second light which appears and disappears, not abeam but forward of our larboard quarter some ways off, sir. We surmise it is the second Frenchman, sir.”
This was not welcome news to Hayden, but the darkness allowed him to hide his reaction.
“And our wind?”
“It veers about somewhat, Captain. I cannot be sure of it, but I believe it is hauling into the west, which would be our luck this day.”
“Luck is for whist, Mr Ransome.” Hayden was about to ask their course but went instead to the binnacle to see for himself. Indeed, the wind was hauling into the west somewhat and already their course was not so favourable. Mr Barthe had retired to take some rest, so Hayden called for his mate, and Dryden was very quickly in attendance.
“What is your belief?” Hayden asked him. “Have we weathered Barfleur or no?”
“Mr Barthe is quite certain we have, sir,” Dryden assured him. “But we are no longer sailing for England, Captain, I am sorry to report. This course will take us out into the Atlantic.”
Hayden contemplated this information a moment. “Well, it is a large ocean; certainly we can get lost out there.”
“So one would hope, sir.”
Hayden looked at their position on the chart—not so very far north of the Channel Islands.
“Do you think we might get under the guns at St Peter Port, Captain?” Dryden asked, apparently considering the same options as Hayden.
“It is a risk, that is certain. If this ship to leeward can bring us to or impede us in any way, her consort would be upon us. Although I am sorely tempted, I think I will stand on into the Atlantic. We have frigates watching the entrance to Brest. That is our last hope if we cannot slip away on our own; we would have to elude this ship to leeward to turn south for Brest, but many things can change in a few hours. We shall see what the winds bring us.” Hayden did not want to get bottled up in Guernsey when he had such decisive information to carry to the Admiralty in London.
Hayden clambered back up the swaying ladder and took a turn about the deck, speaking to the men quietly, reassuring them with his presence and showing not the least concern for the French or their present position. The truth was, though, he did not like it or feel the least reassured by it. There were two frigates nearby, one somewhat to windward and on his quarter, the other preventing him from turning south. Come daylight they would, if they were able, bring his ship to battle—something Hayden knew he must avoid at any cost less than his ship. Escape by darkness was his best hope, but wearing ship would send him back towards Le Havre and there was nothing to be gained on that tack. The north wind had him pinned up against the coast of Normandy and made Hayden feel a little too much like a sheep being herded along by a pair of collies, each waiting to bite at his heels should he tarry.
At that moment the windward ship fired three guns in slow succession, the muzzle flash illuminating the rain with garish reds and coppery yellows. A moment later, this signal was answered by her sister with two guns, a pause of five seconds, and then a third.
Hayden returned to the quarterdeck.
“What are they saying, I wonder?” Ransome speculated aloud.
“Very likely that the chase is still in sight. I do not think they are planning to attack by night with this sea running and gusts sinking our gunports every quarter of the hour. They are waiting for daylight and a moderating wind. At least one of which we shall certainly have by and by.”
“If we cannot slip away this night, they shall have us, then, on the morrow?”
“We have some luck on our side. One of the Frenchmen lost her top-gallant masts and will probably not send up new ones until the weather moderates. We can keep ourselves ahead of her. The other frigate will not attack us alone.”
“But could she not attack us and either bring us to or hinder us enough for her consort to catch us up? Then we should have two frigates to fight and only a miracle might save us.”
“An English sea officer might chance that, for we commonly come out ahead when broadsides are of equal strength. But this captain is most likely well aware that our gunnery at close range might disable him and then we would escape altogether. No, I believe he will wait until both ships can be brought into action at the same time, or nearly so. After all, we have nowhere to escape to at the moment. We cannot reach England on this slant, and with the wind hauling into the west and perhaps west-north-west we will in all likelihood be driven towards France. Help might materialize.” Hayden turned and peered out into the darkness, just able to perceive a faint point of light that appeared and winked out. “I am of a mind, however, that this plan—if it is indeed what they are thinking—might, in the end, favour us, for there will almost certainly be British frigates lying off Brest, and if we are forced out into the Atlantic and have a wind that will allow it, we will shape our course towards that port and hope we can turn the tables on these Frenchmen.”
And so the night went, wind and rain coming from the north, the wind backing and then veering, toying with the Themis and her crew. Deciding that dawn should be the time when he must be most alert, Hayden had a partial wall of his cabin re-erected and his cot slung there. Sleep eluded him for most of this time, for his mind was overburdened with troubles both present and domestic. Brief reveries that verged on sleep would creep over him, but then he would be startled awake by the news that Henrietta married or by boarding Frenchmen forcing their way into his cabin, and then he would lie catching his breath a moment only to fall back into a state of near sleep, or torpor, perhaps, nightmares lying in wait just beyond sleep’s border.
Three
The library was her sanctuary. It was not that the members of Henrietta’s family did not read—they read ceaselessly, in truth—but each member of the Carthew clan had their own favoured hideaway where they indulged this cherished pastime. Her father read in his study, half reclining—and sometimes fully asleep—upon an ancient divan. Her mother preferred the morning room for its light, though she read at a small table, her book flat, ankles daintily crossed. Her sister, Penelope, read on a window seat upon the main staircase landing where she could note all the comings and goings of servants, guests, and family. Anne read always in her own chamber, propped upon pillows on her bed—a practise much disapproved of by their mother, who thought it implied laziness if it was not downright slovenly. The inglenook by the fire was Cassandra’s preferred place, and then only in the evenings. Like everyone else in the family, she detested cards and games in general; conversation was the main entertainment of the Carthew family. During the daylight hours Cassandra was invariably to be found out of doors, even in the most inclement weather. If she was not upon her horse—and commonly she was—then collecting birds with one of the huntsmen, her poor maid for chaperon, would be her next choice. The Carthew family birdskin collection was said to be second to none and no one thought anything of setting off for some distant corner of England to seek a rare species. Their only regret was that the present war made collecting journeys abroad so difficult.
The library, therefore, was left to Henrietta. Here she read, kept up with her extensive correspondence, and worked away on her secret novel—which everyone in the family knew about.
If Henrietta had a second sanctuary it was within the novel itself, for she travelled there often, her imagination, both rich and fertile, fashioning a place almost as real as her own home. Her world within a world. At least in that world there was hope that things might work out to someone’s advantage. Heartache was followed by redemption, the virtuous were rewarded for constancy and nobility of action. The untrustworthy and the weak of will, if not punished, did not prosper in the long run—not within the length of the novel, at any rate. The world of the novel had order. Beyond the library, or at least beyond Box Hill, lay chaos. A world not under the control of one Miss Henrietta Carthew. In such a place some undeserving French refugee might steal away the affection of a man she had believed constant and noble above all other men.
She looked down at the page she had been writing and realised that tears had dribbled down upon the words and spoiled them here and there, running the ink into tiny pools. Snatching up a hanky she kept to hand for just such emergencies, she dabbed at her eyes, sat back in her chair to assess the damage to her page, and released something that was half a laugh, half a sob.
“You are absurd,” she scolded herself in a whisper. “Weeping upon your precious book and ruining the pages. It is something your heroine might do.” She took up a sheaf of paper and began fanning the spoiled page, attempting to dry the little pools in which minute veins of ink roiled slowly.
There was, at that moment, an unholy clatter beyond the door and then it burst open, revealing the red face of her youngest sister, Penelope, who had apparently run from some distant part of the house.
“She is here!” Penelope announced much more loudly than Henrietta thought necessary.
“And who might ‘she’ be, pray?” Henrietta responded.
“Elizabeth, of course; who else have we been awaiting these three days past? She’s speaking with Mama.”
Henrietta began to rise. “Well, I must come, then, mustn’t I.”
Penelope glanced over her shoulder and then backed up against the doorframe. “Here she is! Here she is!” she literally sang out, then gave a little quiver of excitement.
Elizabeth swept through the door at that moment.
“You will not stay shut up here all day with Henri, will you, Lizzie?” Penelope pleaded. “She is terribly morose, you know . . . on account of . . . well, we are not allowed to say his name. But she is awfully dreary and not good company at all.”
“You may rest assured, my dear Penelope, I will visit with everyone who can tolerate my company.”
“Promise?”
“With all my heart.”
Pen gave another little shiver of anticipation, glanced at her sister, curtsied, and went out as quickly as she had entered.
Elizabeth Hertle drew the door closed behind her. The two women embraced. In truth, they nearly threw themselves into each other’s arms, and Henrietta found her tears flowing again and bit her lip in an attempt to staunch them.
“How do you fare, my dear?” Elizabeth enquired as they pulled themselves apart.
“Poorly, if I am to be honest.”
They sat down upon the sofa, turned towards each other, Elizabeth gazing into her cousin’s face. “You do not look well. I am sure you have not been out of doors in a week. We will go for a long walk this very afternoon. I insist upon it.”
