Under Enemy Colors (18 page)

Landry looked around sulkily. “I see little choice now. We cannot break it off and let the crew think we are afraid of them. It would never do.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Hayden agreed. He waited, but Landry offered no more. “Will you take command of the ship, then?”

Landry nodded unhappily.

“Mr Barthe?” Hayden called. He quickly drew a sketch of the narrows that led into the harbour of Brest, indicating where the rocks lay in the entrance. Hayden suspected that Landry did not have the mettle to see the thing through if anything at all went awry; he would turn the ship out to sea the first chance he got, perhaps even if it meant leaving the boats and their crews behind. Hayden would then be relying on Barthe to support them.

What a position he was in—and he felt a fool for it. Never for a moment had he thought that the men would shy from action or that they would turn on their officers in a crisis. This was a far cry from signing a petition or even refusing to sail.

Hayden directed his gaze to the transports. The far ship had moved ahead, almost certainly beyond their reach now, but the near ship lay becalmed on the dark sea. Hayden looked down into the inky water, trying to gauge his ship’s speed. Hardly two knots, he thought. But the chase was almost within range.

“How distant is that transport, Mr Barthe?” he asked the sailing master.

“Five hundred yards, Mr Hayden. Perhaps five hundred fifty. It is difficult to be sure in this light.”

“I think you’re right. Closer to five and fifty, I should think. I don’t imagine they’ll deem us a threat at this distance, even if we could put a shot across their bow.”

“I fear you’re right. It will be a close-run thing, Mr Hayden. They are almost beyond our reach.”

Hayden turned to find the third lieutenant. “If you please, Mr Archer, embark the boat crews. And hold a place for me in a cutter.”

Overhead, the stars began to appear in the last dispersed light of the sun. Hayden could still make out the transports—silhouettes against the dark cliffs. The nearest had her boats out before, men straining at the sweeps to pull the ship out of the calm that gripped them. The second transport had abandoned her sister and was making for the harbour entrance, perhaps catching the eddy that ran beneath the cliffs on the outgoing tide. Beyond her, the gunboats had tacked again, and still further into the bay the frigates awaited the change of wind and tide.

Perseverance appeared in the dim light with Hayden’s night glass, taking his ordinary glass under an arm. “Thank you, Perse,” Hayden said.

“Can you make out the rocks in the narrows with that?” Barthe asked.

Hayden lifted the instrument and gazed into the gathering dark, the world suddenly upside down, for the night glass inverted everything and took some familiarity of use. “Just.” He pointed. “Our present course will see us pass to seaward of them.”

For a few moments they carried on, the fitful breeze bearing them over the dark, glassy waters. Hayden turned and could still distinguish the marines standing over the men in the waist, muskets raised. Even in the near-dark he could discern the fear and tension by the attitude of their bodies. Lanterns were lit, and the ship’s bell rung. Along the deck, one of the sail-trimmers whispered to another, and a bosun’s mate smacked the offender with his rattan.

A powder monkey, an orphan of ten or eleven, carried a cartridge up onto the forecastle, but the gun captain, Baldwin, turned the lad around. “That is for the carronades, Lytton,” he whispered, and sent the boy off with a pat on the shoulder, as though he were his own child.

They were good men, most of them, Hayden thought. But the rest were a mystery: secretive and cunning. Murderous, too, perhaps.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to judge the distance to the chase, which was still utterly becalmed and barely making headway with the boats hauling.

“Baldwin? Aim your gun, if you please. We will put a shot across her bow. Try not to kill the men rowing.”

“Aye, sir.”

A handspike was used to shift the chase-piece, and the gun captain elevated the barrel, sighting carefully along its length.

“Ready, sir.”

“Wait a moment yet…” Hayden held up his hand. As if that were a sign, the wind died away completely.

“Damn!” Hayden swore.

Still, the great mass of the ship meant that she would carry her way for some distance.

“It is now or never, Mr Baldwin.”

“Aye, sir.” The gun captain took one more look along the length of the barrel, moved clear of the recoil, and pulled the firing lanyard. The report of the six-pounder broke the stillness, sending up a flock of seabirds. The smoke vomited out before the bow, and slowly the boat drifted into the cloud.

Wickham ran out to the end of the bowsprit, stood a moment in the cloud of smoke, and then pulled off his hat and cheered. “They’ve struck, sir! They’re hauling down their colours.”

Hayden felt himself sigh. “The ship is yours, Mr Landry. But you must support us until the prize is secured. Do you understand?”

The sour little lieutenant nodded; he glanced resentfully over his shoulder at the distant British frigate—witness to all that would occur.

“The tide will turn of a moment, and soon there will be a breeze from out of the bay. We must get the prize away before the frigates can reach us.”

Again Landry nodded, and just as sourly.

Hayden returned the gesture, then hurried along the deck. “You have this in hand, Mr Hawthorne?” he asked as he passed.

“Not to worry, sir. Just secure our prize.”

“That I will, Mr Hawthorne.”

Hayden took his cutlass from his servant and scrambled over the side, finding a place in the bow of the cutter instead of in the stern-sheets by the coxswain. He would be at the back of the men at the sweeps, who could not see him unless they turned; an advantage, given the state of affairs.

“Away boats,” he called. “Make for the prize, Mr Childers.”

The boats pushed off and the sweeps flashed out. Hayden stared into the gloom a moment, the prize a dusky mass against the cliff.

“These Frenchmen might play us a trick yet,” Hayden said to the men, “especially now that the
Themis
has lost her wind and might be unable to bring her guns to bear. We must be prepared for them to attempt to repel boarders.”

“They would never—” but then Childers caught himself. “Would they, Mr Hayden?”

“If they were French Navy I would trust them to be honourable, Childers, but the masters of these ships could also be the owners, and they might be a little more desperate, and not think through what resistance might mean. But let us hope that is not the case.”

Hayden looked up toward his own ship, almost still upon the calm sea. A voice broke the evening quiet.

“What the bloody hell is this? Landry, damn your eyes! Who fired that gun?” A second’s silence. “Mr Hawthorne…what is it you do, sir?”

The marine’s answer was too quiet to understand.

“I feel unwell…” came Hart’s voice, travelling freely over the water. “Give me your arm, Doctor. Landry…?”

“Sir,” Landry answered, the quaver in his voice clear at two hundred feet.

“Steady on, lads,” Hayden said quietly. “There is no turning back now. Our prize money is there for the taking.”

Would Landry have the sense not to tell Hart the boats were away?

“Are these the cliffs of Brest?” Hart asked. His voice was heavy, the words slurred.

“Damnation!” Hayden whispered.
“Pull!”

“We were reconnoitring the French fleet when the wind died, Captain,” Hayden heard Barthe announce loudly.

Good man, Hayden thought. Draw the captain’s attention away from the prize and the boats. It was now so dark that Hayden thought the boats might be all but invisible from the deck of the frigate.

He turned to see if the prize showed signs of resistance. The barge was to starboard of them and pulling hard—gaining on them, actually. The second cutter was just in their wake, but keeping station. With a little luck, the master of the transport would not know how many men came from the English ship, which might make any thought of resistance less appealing.

Hayden stood up in the bow, cupped his hands to his mouth, and called out with the greatest confidence he could muster:
“Préparez-vous à être abordés! Au moindre signe de résistance, notre navire ouvrira le feu.”
*

He waited, wondering if a musket ball would be the answer, but there was only hushed conversation in French.

“Mr Hayden!” came Landry’s voice out of the dark. “Captain Hart requires that you return to the ship at once.”

“Fucking poltroon!” one of the rowers muttered.

“Silence, there,” Hayden snapped. He looked back at the
Themis
, barely visible in the gloom.

“What shall I do, sir?” the coxswain asked over the heads of the men.

Hayden hesitated only a second. “Row on. They can court-martial me if they wish. I will do my duty, even so.”

One of the men at the oars spoke up. “I’m sure Lieutenant Landry said, ‘Return
with
the ship at once.’ He must mean the chase, sir. Return with the chase.”

“Wickham…?” Hayden said. “Is that you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How did you get aboard?”

“I thought you might need some help, sir.”

Hayden almost laughed. “Are you sure Landry said ‘with the ship’?”

“Quite certain, sir.”

“Then I’m sure you’re right. Row on!” he ordered, and was gratified to see the other boats did not hesitate but stayed their course.

“Mr Hayden…!” Landry called.

The steep topsides of the transport loomed out of the dark, and the sharp report of a musket and a tongue of flame greeted them. The ball struck the oarsman nearest Hayden, who grunted once then slid limply down.

Raising his pistol, Hayden fired at the dark form above, and a man toppled into the sea not a yard distant. The boat came alongside with a thump, and gunfire cracked all around as his own men brought their weapons to bear. Hayden threw a grappling hook at the shrouds and scrambled up the side of the ship. He fought a man off with his cutlass as he came over the rail, but a second man managed to run a bayonet through his jacket. Wickham shot the Frenchman as he pulled back for a second try, tumbling him to a deck turning rapidly bloody.

Gunfire quickly gave way to the clash of steel, the English sailors grunting and cursing as they went to work. It was all over in a moment, or so it seemed, the crew of the transport unwilling to give up their lives for their cargo. Many escaped in the boats, and the few who remained were herded together on the forecastle.

Wickham appeared out of the dark, flushed with excitement. “Are you hurt, sir?”

“A scratch. Mr Franks? Are we secure below?”

“Aye, Mr Hayden. Flushed a few Frenchies out of their hidey-holes.”

“Well done.” Hayden stared along the deck, barely visible in the cold starlight. A few men were down, tended by their fellows, and some others were being slid over the side—he hoped they were not his. “Wickham? Spin the wheel, if you please, and see if the helm answers.”

The boy jumped to the helm.

Hayden knew if the French master had disabled the steering they would be in trouble. Walking quickly about the deck, Hayden assessed the situation. The sails were still set, though they wafted about with every roll of the ship, no wind to make them sleep. The brief altercation had done no damage to the ship that he could see. As he came onto the quarterdeck, Wickham spotted him.

“The helm answers, Mr Hayden.”

“Then we have a chance of slipping away. I want a lookout aloft. Price—up you go.” One of the crew jogged to the shrouds and ran lightly up. “Can you see the gunboats?”

There was a moment of silence. “Lanterns in the necks all, sir.”

“That will be them, I think. The French frigates…can you see them?”

“No, sir, but there’s a mass of lights in the anchorage, Mr Hayden.”

“I’m sure there is,” Hayden said to himself. “Can you make out the
Themis
?”

Silence from aloft.

“There she is, sir!”

Hayden suspected the man was pointing, but he could barely make him out in the dark.

“Where away?”

“Nor’west by north. A mile or more, sir.”

“Tide’s turning, Mr Hayden,” Franks reported.

Hayden stood a moment, aligning the top of the nearby cliff with a distant star. “So it is, Mr Franks. Let it carry us out to sea.”

Hayden took the wheel. “Mr Wickham, will you make a count of our wounded…and any we’ve lost.”

“I will, sir.” The boy went to the nearest gathering of men all crouched about a comrade, and Hayden heard him whispering. The boy had a good touch with the men. There was sincerity in his manner that could not be feigned. The men sensed his concern was genuine.

Hayden lined up another point on the cliff and a star, gauging their speed. A breeze rustled the sails. He felt it on his face—a warm, fragrant wind off the land. A fair breeze. Whether it would also carry gunboats, he didn’t know. It blew a moment, then died away.