Under Enemy Colors (26 page)

“Aye, sir. I’m fully awake now.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Take only a half-turn around cleat and keep the sheet in your hand. You can’t see a gust coming in this darkness.”

The wind seemed to be increasing and the seas piled up now that there was no shelter from the land. Hayden wanted to hang on to as much sail as he could for as long as possible; the shore could not be far off in the dark. He was afraid they might even be losing their battle, and being set to leeward. Another dollop of sea slapped him across the face and chest, and he heard Hawthorne dutifully bailing. The lines holding his lee-board creaked loudly, and the wind moaned. Seas came hissing at them out of the dark, lifting them and carrying them a little to leeward, or so Hayden imagined. He hoped the little flax sail would hold.

In his mind the lieutenant was constantly calculating their position, keeping a running dead-reckoning. The speed of the boat could be estimated with reasonable certainty, and he knew their position when they passed Cap de la Chèvre. Their course he roughly guessed. Leeway must be allowed for—greater than he’d like. And this gave him a crude position. He feared that they were being pushed back toward the Goulet or the cliffs to its north.

Rain came hard on the wind, slatting against the planks, though the three sailors could not have been any wetter.

“I don’t think we’ll weather Ushant,” Wickham said, letting the sheet run as a gust struck them.

“No. In this darkness, we don’t even dare draw near.”

“Do you have any notion of our position, Mr Hayden?”

“Somewhere north and a little west of Cap de la Chèvre. I will be forced to go about soon, and with the leeway we are making we will be set toward the cliffs north of Chèvre or perhaps Pointe de Penhir. With a little ill luck we could be driven back into the bay from which we set out, though I don’t plan to go so far south.”

Seas began to break dangerously about them, and with some difficulty they tied the second reef in their sails, shifting tack and clew, for the sails were without booms. The clew of a thrashing sail struck Hayden on the cheek, and the side of his face immediately began to swell and pained him terribly. It did, however, draw his mind from the painful gash in his side.

“I think there were only two sets of reef points,” Wickham observed as the three men resumed their places.

“We shall have to try to scandalize the sails if the gale grows worse,” Hayden yelled over the wind.

They came about and ranged now south and a little east, heading back toward the long peninsula that made up the southern shore of the Outer Waters. It could not be helped; to the north lay shoals and islands, with the Island of Ushant some miles beyond. Their little boat would be dashed to pieces there. In these winds and seas, Hayden would not dare venture there even by daylight.

Twice crests broke over them, and they were forced to bail for their lives. They tacked again, setting course by wind—nor’west by north, Hayden guessed, and hoped he was not being too optimistic.

The world began to shade toward grey from black, pale crests now visible at a little distance. They were, all three, drenched and chilled by cool October wind. Hayden had them bail by turn, which warmed them a little. Wickham was a good helmsman, but Hawthorne could not keep them by the wind for all his efforts, and the two sailors were forced to share the helm between them, watch and watch. The little boat had no business out in such a sea, and was only kept afloat by the skill and vigilance of her crew.

“I think we shall have proper daylight within the hour, Mr Hayden,” Wickham observed. The midshipman wrestled with the helm, the scene being slowly revealed around them all of white-streaked seas, higher and steeper than they had guessed in the dark.

“I think you’re right,” Hayden said and twisted around to stare east. They were on the larboard tack now, heading roughly north-west. A dark shadow, jagged and ominous, could just be made out through the rain. It was impossible to be sure it was land, or to discern how distant it might be.

An hour saw the world change, the coast appearing, perhaps three miles distant.

“It’s blowing a full gale now,” Wickham called over the wind. His hair was plastered about his face, his skin glistening and translucent, a deep blue beneath. He looked cold and unwell, but the determination in his eyes had not diminished. Hawthorne was seasick, but kept to his bailing without a word of complaint. The motion of a small boat was so much different than that of a ship that many men who were never ill aboard a frigate would turn green aboard a cutter when but a little sea kicked up. Hayden had seen it many times and was thankful that mal de mer had never descended upon him.

“We have more offing than I dared hope,” Hayden observed. He smacked the gunnel with the flat of his hand. “This little driver has done herself proud.”

“It was your lee-board that did the trick, Mr Hayden,” Wickham said.

Hayden stood, holding on to the mizzen, and peered out to sea, searching for a sail among the white crests.

“Any sign of her, Mr Hayden?” Hawthorne asked. He had slumped back against the side of the boat, taking a rest from his bailing.

Hayden scanned the great expanse of sea, and shook his head.

“I shall take my trick at the helm now,” Hayden offered, lowering himself to the aftermost thwart. He relieved Wickham of the tiller, exchanging mainsheet for mizzen sheet. The boy slipped forward and slumped down beside the marine. They were a sorry sight, and Hayden suspected he looked no better.

“I fear we are dicing with our lives out here,” Wickham said.

Hayden nodded. The boy was right. It would be safer perhaps to scud, but the land lay too close to leeward for them to run off.

“If we could gain a little more sea room we might slip in behind Ushant. There is a small nook there—the Baie du Stiff—in which a little protection might be found. It would not be without risks, for people dwell there and might offer us aid.”

“It seems a great risk,” Wickham said, “even if there were no people. There are islands and shoals aplenty between ourselves and Ushant.”

That stopped the conversation for a moment.

“What do you think has become of Hart?” Hawthorne wondered.

“That would be dependent upon his position before the gale struck. He would have tried to put as much distance between himself and France as he could if he found himself south of the Raz. If he were north of Ushant he would lie-to and try to preserve his westing.”

“If he did not cross the Channel, perhaps all the way back to Torbay,” Wickham said. The boy had the dull, blank look of exhaustion and chill. Men could die in such conditions. The wet and the cold wind drew off the heat from their bodies. There was little he could do for them, however.

“Both of you should eat,” the lieutenant ordered.

Hayden wondered if he should turn about and run back into Brest Harbour. Would they be noted as anything but fishermen returning from the sea? No doubt, it was known that the English spies had escaped in a fishing boat, so there was a danger that a cutter would be sent to question them.

They stood out to sea all that morning, bailing constantly, Hayden and the midshipman exchanging tricks at the helm. Mercifully, the rain abated, except for the occasional squall that would loom up to windward like a black ghost. The wind both chilled and dried them. Sitting at the tiller was the worst—in the full blast of the wind—but tending the mainsheet, even hunkered down in the boat, condemned one to inactivity, and the cold would get a hold of that man too. Bailing seemed to help, but after one’s turn at the bucket, they would soon be shivering. Hayden kept them all eating small amounts of food and drinking wine or water.

After one such refreshment, Hawthorne put his head over the lee rail and was horribly ill. He slumped back in the boat, wiping a hand across his mouth.

“Fish were hungry,” he offered, and closed his eyes. A moment later he roused himself and went back to bailing, fighting off the lethargy that he knew might be his death.

Late in the forenoon the wind began to take off, and the seas soon grew less steep and threatening, but a low, heavy swell still ran. Though the immediate danger was now much reduced, Hayden was still unsure of their course of action. Much of their bread had been ruined by the spray and the crests that broke aboard, and they would soon have no provisions at all. To sail back to the English coast at the three knots they would make under the best conditions would be an undertaking. A good nor’easter might blow them out into the Atlantic.

“Sail, Mr Hayden!” Wickham pointed sou-sou’west. “It looks like a two-sticker. A little brig, or a snow.”

Hayden had taken his turn with the bailing cup and raised himself up to look over the long, green swell. A patch of white could be seen, riding over the big seas, perhaps five miles distant.

“Do you think she’s one of ours?” Hawthorne asked, though his tone suggested he thought such a thing unlikely.

“I can’t tell,” Hayden admitted. “If she is French they’ll likely think us fishermen caught out in a blow. Not a common occurrence in a little boat like this, but not unheard of either. I’ll beg some food, if they draw near.” Hayden began a careful search of the surrounding waters, and then he swore.

Wickham twisted around to look nor’east. “Looks like a Chase Mary, sir.”

Hayden dropped his tin cup into the bilge. “Yes, and she’s a damn sight nearer than the brig.”

“You don’t think she’s after us…?” Hawthorne looked up from his place, hunkered down out of the wind, his head drawn down into his collar like a turtle.

“What shall I do, sir?” Wickham asked, his hand holding the tiller a little tentatively.

“Stay your course, Mr Wickham. If the brig is English she might make for the
chasse marée
, hoping to catch a privateer. Then we’ll know whether to try to reach her or stay clear.”

“Has the brig seen the
chasse
yet?” Wickham wondered.

Hayden estimated the distance of the two ships. “I don’t think so. The
chasse
is closer but the brig has the wind in her favour. It will be a close-run thing, that is certain. Come up a little, Mr Wickham, as close to the wind as you dare. We shall try to intercept the brig…and hope.”

For some time it seemed the brig would reach them first, though whether this would prove good or ill they still could not know. But when half of the hour had passed Hayden began to think that the
chasse marée
would win the race. Clearly, she was intent on catching them.

“That’s a fast lugger, Mr Hayden, and that’s for sure,” Wickham observed. “I dare say, those are cannon on her deck.”

“I believe you’re right,” he said, turning toward the brig, which was making sail in an attempt to reach them first, suggesting to Hayden that perhaps she
was
English. “The
chasse
is hoping to snatch us, go about, and make all sail possible to gain the harbour before the brig can effect our rescue. Mr Wickham, would you mind very much if I took a trick at the helm?”

“No, sir,” and the midshipman gave up the tiller with obvious relief. Both reefs were shaken out as the wind fell away, and the boat picked up a little speed, bobbing over the long, emerald swell.

The
chasse marée
was directly astern of them now, close enough that Hayden could make out the faces of the French crew gathered on the foredeck. The little ship was painted a deep blue, and as she rode over each swell, arcs of white were thrown from her bow. Her canvas was full and taut, as they sailed her by the wind, heeled well down. A mushroom of smoke appeared before her, and a ball splashed into the sea two dozen feet to windward. The report of the cannon was ominous on the empty sea.

Wickham raised one of the muskets he had been busy loading and returned fire, to little effect, apparently, as no one left the foredeck or even recoiled.

The English ship—they could see her colours now—fired a warning shot, the ball holing a wave between the
chasse
and the fleeing Englishmen.

“‘Lodged in the middle’ has taken on new meaning,” Wickham observed. “If the French don’t sink us the British might.”

“But who do the British think we are?” the marine lieutenant wondered aloud. “Three men in French kit in a French boat…but pursued by a privateer.”

“They might not be giving us much thought. It is the privateer that interests them.”

A second shot was fired by the French and this one sailed so close overhead that Hayden and his companions threw themselves down.

“Bloody hell!” yelled Hawthorne.

A musket cracked then, and the Englishmen all kept themselves low; only Hayden had his head up to steer. Hawthorne overcame his sore arm and he and Wickham began firing back, though found the little fishing boat an unstable gun platform. Another ball was fired and the yard on the mizzen was shattered, the sail thrown down over the men, splinters spinning everywhere.

The boat yawed terribly, but then Hayden recovered and kept her going, though he was forced to pay off, for the balance was lost. Their speed was reduced to a crawl, and the crew of the privateer gave out a shout. The lugger was almost upon them.

“Don’t fire!” Hayden warned Wickham as the boy emerged, flailing, from beneath the fallen sail. He had a musket in one hand and more than a little rage in his eye. “If we shoot now they will return fire and almost certainly kill us.”