Under Enemy Colours

by Sean Thomas Russell

  “If only all sea battles were so economically decided.” The surgeon went back down the larboard gangway, dodging among the hurrying men. The drumming of hammers taking down the bulkheads below echoed hollowly through the ship, and Hayden glanced quickly aft, half-expecting to see Captain Hart appear to stop this small endeavour. He searched aloft and found Landry there, his glass fixed on the inner harbour.

  Mr Barthe arrived back on the quarterdeck. “We shall have royals and stunsails directly, Mr Hayden.”

  “Thank you, Mr Barthe.” Hayden felt a strong sense of elation at having the cowardly Hart out of the way, at having an opportunity to take an enemy ship, even if only a transport. He had known Hart less than a sennight and already he felt an almost violent disdain for the man. Tyrant captains were not unknown in the British Navy, but the few Hayden had encountered were superb seamen and knew how to fight a ship—one had to respect them for that. They would never shrink from a battle or try to put themselves out of harm’s way in an action. Even their miserable misused crews had a grudging admiration for them. Hart did not inspire even that.

  The master gazed off at the slowly fleeing quarry, trying to gauge their speed. “Do you think there is any chance we’ll overhaul them?”

  “It is in the hands of Neptune, Mr Barthe. They are becalmed for a moment, now and then, while we have the wind, then the reverse is true. They might try to work into the Rade de Camara—there under the batteries, but I can see there is no wind within the little bay. We might overtake them just beyond range of the long guns.”

  A flock of wailing gulls swarmed after a small fishing boat that pulled for the harbour entrance, the fishermen eying the British frigate that had suddenly appeared around the headland, but Hayden paid it no mind. His eye and thoughts were fixed upon larger quarry, with only a glance now and then toward the opening into Brest Harbour, sensible to the fact that the port admiral would send gunboats out as soon as he was alerted to the presence of the Themis. These little craft, with their heavy gun, were more of a threat than he would admit to Landry.

  “Are there not batteries on the northern shore as well?” Barthe asked, sweeping his glass across the cliffs.

  “Further into the neck, Mr Barthe—the Goulet, as it is called. We will not venture so far.”

  A jet of smoke erupted on the nearest chase, followed quickly by the thunder of the gun echoing off the nearby cliffs.

  “Mr Hayden …!” Landry called down. “They’re firing at us, sir.”

  “Just trying to gain the attention of the port authorities, Mr Landry,” Hayden called. “No concern to us.”

  There was some muffled laughter among the crew, for it was clear to anyone watching that the gun had been fired toward the harbour, and therefore would not have contained shot. The men, formerly so sullen and fractious, now went about their duties with a quick, light step, aquiver with anticipation. An action was just the tonic they required, Hayden thought.

  Hayden glanced to westward. The sun was well set now, and the dusk would soon be upon them, rising, as he thought, like a dark mist from the lightless depths of the sea. He looked back anxiously at the transports. Their sails waved languidly as the breeze fell away. The Themis’ sails filled with a dull thup. Across the water’s surface, little cats’–paws could be seen scurrying, but without pattern that the sailor could discern.

  “Do you know,” the master said, “I think we make better speed than they when the wind touches us. These transports must have very foul bottoms.”

  “Thank God for our copper, Mr Barthe,” Hayden said, for the bottoms of British Navy ships were sheathed in thin copper plates, against worm and to keep them from fouling overly in their long months at sea. “Who is our cleverest helmsman?”

  “Dryden, sir. He’s at the wheel now.”

  “We’ll have to catch every puff, every zephyr if we hope to overhaul those transports. Once the ship is cleared, have the sail trimmers at their stations. We will send them down to the guns at the last possible moment.”

  “It is a curse that we are so undermanned, Mr Hayden.”

  “We shall have to make the best of it.” Their civilian guest arrived on the foredeck at that moment. “Ah, Mr Muhlhauser. I don’t know if you will have a chance to exercise your gun.”

  The inventor appeared very nervous, rocking from foot to foot, his face a little pale and taut. “Well, it is an education just to see a ship ready for action, Mr Hayden. All my years in the Ordnance Board and I have never seen a gun fired in anger.”

  “We shall be lucky if we get to fire a chase-piece in warning, but I hope we will fulfill your desire in the near future.”

  “On deck,” came the cry from above. “Sail in the Roads, sir.”

  “Gunboats,” Landry called down from his perch.

  Hayden turned and found his second lieutenant in the fore-top, among red-coated marines bearing muskets.

  “How many, Mr Landry?”

  The little lieutenant gazed through his glass a moment, then lowered it and called down. “Three that I can see, sir, but there are other sail in the Inner Waters—I can’t tell what they might be other than a Chase Mary.”

  “And what in this world would that be?” asked Muhlhauser.

  “A chasse-marée; ‘chase-tide’ in English. Boats used for fishing, coastal trade, and a little privateering, when the opportunity presents itself. They’re luggers, and quite fast when well sailed, which usually they are.”

  “The gunboats do not concern you, I take it?” Muhlhauser said, attempting to sound casual.

  “It will be difficult for them to beat through the Goulet in this little breeze. When tide and wind turn, they will carry us as well as them.”

  “Where are the shoals in the Goulet?” Mr Barthe asked. “I cannot make them out.”

  Hayden pointed. “They are barely awash on this high a tide. I know them well, Mr Barthe. Do not fear. If the captains of our chases know their business they will try to put Les Fillettes, the black rocks, between their ships and ours. Try to draw us onto the rocks, but we are sensible of their design.”

  “Surely you will not go in so far?” Muhlhauser blurted.

  “Just inside Les Fillettes, no further. I do not want to expose us overly to their batteries.” Hayden looked around. “Oh, give us a wind! It is a race between snails! The wind is dying. The transports have distance and darkness on their side, and we must overcome both.” He looked around for the gun captain. “Ready the starboard bow-chaser, Baldwin. We might hope to bring one of these transports to.”

  The breeze teased them, pushing them forward for a moment, then dying away. Filling the sails of the transports, then leaving them slatting in a calm.

  The Goulet opened before them, and the masts of the distant French fleet stood out in the last light like strangely angular, barren trees.

  “Mr Hayden, it is a very substantial fleet!” Wickham observed. He was crouched, steadying his glass on the barricade beside the bow-chaser. “A number of three-deckers, and a passel of seventy-fours, not to mention the frigates.”

  “It would seem the French fleet has returned, then. The word in Plymouth was that it had been discovered anchored in Quiberon Bay.” Hayden fixed his glass on the enemy fleet and felt a little wave of apprehension—the great ships so near and only his little frigate to stand against them.

  “Will they send frigates after us when the wind turns, Mr Hayden?” Wickham asked.

  “It is unlikely. The darkness will be complete by then, and it would be too easy for us to slip away, or for them to be separated, which might leave one alone for us to prey upon. They don’t like to fight when the odds are even, Mr Wickham.”

  “That is rather cowardly, sir.”

  Hayden found this offended him, to his surprise, and he tried not to let it show. “Well, the French have great armies, and we a superior navy.” Hayden lowered his glass. “It makes for a strange war.”

  The wind left the transports then and Hayden could see that the
area around the enemy ships was mirror-calm.

  “They’ve fallen into a wind hole!” Mr Barthe said, his voice rising a little in excitement. He glanced up at the sails, then out to windward. “If we can just carry this breeze up to them.”

  Hayden was trying to estimate the distances. “What do you make them out to be, Mr Barthe? a league from the Goulet? Perhaps two miles from the protection of the batteries above Camara Bay?”

  “I believe that is so, sir. And somewhat more than a mile from our present position.”

  “We might just overtake them, yet,” Hayden muttered softly, almost afraid to say it aloud. He felt his heart pounding, and his breath was just a little short—excitement, not fear. He kept expecting to hear Hart take the deck and break off the engagement. What excuse would he make, Hayden wondered?

  “Shall I whistle, sir?” Wickham asked, a little smile appearing on his youthful face.

  “Never on a lee shore!” the master warned.

  Deep in the Goulet, Hayden could see the gunboats tacking to the north. They still had wind, which, the lieutenant knew from experience, gained in strength as it funnelled between the high cliffs.

  The gun captain unstopped his powder horn and primed the bow-chaser, anxious to fire the shot that might bring a prize. Hayden could almost see the greed shining in the men’s eyes. He glanced back at the enemy transports and his heart sank a little. They appeared to be in shadow now, as though dusk had overtaken them as they lay becalmed.

  “I think they’re lowering boats, Mr Hayden,” Wickham announced.

  “They’ll try to tow her into harbour,” Hayden speculated, “or at least into some wind.”

  “That is a bit of desperation, isn’t it?” the master said.

  “It is, and we should be prepared to man our own boats. If we can get close enough to bring our guns to bear we will need boats to take our prize, in the event that we are becalmed. Mr Archer? I want enough men to handle sail and fight one side of the ship left aboard, but everyone we can spare should be armed and ready to go into the boats.”

  Archer tipped his hat and hurried aft, calling out orders as he went.

  “Begging your pardon, Mr Hayden,” the gun captain said, touching a knuckle to his brow. “Shall we fire a shot now? Put a scare into ’em, sir?” The man had a trunk with no waist, skinny arms and legs fastened in a haphazard fashion, like an ill-made child’s doll.

  Hayden suppressed a smile. “Patience, Baldwin. I think we’ll scare ’em more if we’re in range. Don’t you?”

  The man looked a little sheepish. “Aye, sir.”

  They continued to creep across the bay, barely leaving a ripple astern. The tension on the ship was palpable, men standing at their stations, peering off at the distant transports, which drew ever so slowly nearer. Hayden glanced seaward, as he had every so often over the last hour, making certain that they were not surprised from that quarter. A French seventy-four or frigate appearing around one of the headlands would turn his little enterprise into a debacle. He did not want to give Hart that satisfaction, or turn his chase into desperate flight.

  He raised his glass again. Even in the failing light, Hayden could now make out the anxious faces of the officers and crew of the transport. They were watching the Themis with the same intensity that Hayden’s shipmates watched them, though with differing emotions, the lieutenant was sure. Wind rustled the near transport’s sails, and every one’s gaze went aloft, but the canvas only slatted a little and did not fill. Hayden could almost see the disappointment in the candle-pale faces.

  “How many guns will they have?” Muhlhauser asked.

  “A handful,” Mr Barthe said. “Likely six-pounders. They’re no match for us, and know it well.”

  “Mr Hayden!” Landry called. “Frigate preparing to heave her anchor and make sail.”

  Hayden turned his glass toward the anchorage. “I see it, Mr Landry. Thank you.”

  “Is that one of the French thirty-eights?” Muhlhauser asked, professional interest overcoming his nerves.

  “Difficult to be sure from this angle,” Barthe said, “but very likely.”

  “Eighteen-pounders, then?”

  “Yes, but they will never reach us.”

  “On deck!” called the lookout. “Second frigate preparing to weigh, sir!”

  A little buzz passed among the crew, as they all seemed to shift positions at once.

  “Thank you, Sparrow,” Hayden answered loudly. “They will not weigh with tide and wind against them, but keep me informed.”

  Barthe smiled, then said quietly to Muhlhauser: “That was for the benefit of the crew. Best to keep their mind on the prize and not on the frigates.”

  “Mr Hayden, sir?” A distressed-looking Madison hurried onto the forecastle. “There is trouble on the gun-deck, sir.”

  Hayden continued to peer through his glass, but a cold wave passed through him. “What is the nature of this trouble, Mr Madison?”

  “The gun crews are … quarrelling among themselves.” He paused as though unsure what to say. “And insubordinate, sir.”

  Hayden lowered his glass. “Call Mr Hawthorne and a dozen marines. Have the armourer issue all the officers pistols and cutlasses. Mr Hobson: there is a brace of pistols in my sea-chest. Would you have my writer fetch them out, load, and bring them me?” Hobson raced off. Handing his glass to Muhlhauser, Hayden followed. “Mr Barthe, overhaul those transports, if you can.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Hayden was on the larboard gangway in a moment, noise from the gun-deck becoming louder. Men were arguing and petty officers shouting, but the situation was no longer under their control.

  Hawthorne and the marines came pounding along the deck, and Hayden relieved a marine of his weapon. In the fading light he could just make out the gun crews below in open confrontation.

  “Train your weapons down into the waist,” Hayden ordered the marines, then, pulling back the cock, fired the gun out to sea.

  The men all looked up and found the muzzles of a dozen muskets pointed at them. Hobson appeared with Hayden’s pistols just then, and the first lieutenant seized one, turning it on the nearest man standing below in the gloom.

  “You will return to your appointed stations.” Hayden hardly raised his voice, but the tone of it left no one in doubt. “Any man who refuses to fire his gun when ordered or who does not work smartly to follow the officers’ commands during this action will be deemed in open mutiny and shot where he stands.” The men hesitated scarcely a second and then hastened to their guns. Only one or two men were slow to comply or glared up at the lieutenant as they went back to their places. In the gathering gloom Hayden could not be sure who they were, though he suspected one of being Bill Stuckey.

  “Lieutenant Hawthorne, I will leave this situation to you. Cry out if you require more men.”

  The armourer and his mate stood aft of the gangways, about to arm the boat crews but hesitating. Hayden knew immediately what went on—the armourer was afraid to surrender weapons to men who might be insubordinate.

  “Mr Hawthorne?” Hayden called out. “The rest of your marines will join the boat crews, if you please.”

  Hawthorne began calling out the names of men for the boats, and Hayden went to the armourer, a steady, sober man who he was sure knew the Jacks better than he. “Arm those you trust, Mr Martin,” Hayden said quietly, “tell all the others they are wanted for the ship.”

  He heard Barthe calling orders to the sail-trimmers.

  “Have you a pistol, Mr Hobson?” Hayden asked.

  “I have, sir,” the midshipman answered smartly, his voice a little thin.

  “Yourself and Mr Madison will take charge of the forward guns on the gun-deck. If any man tries to take your pistol, you must shoot him. Can you do that?”

  The boy looked a bit disturbed but not frightened—at least not overly. “I think so, sir.”

  “Don’t think so. Your life will depend on it, as will the lives of many of your shipmates.”


  “I will do it, Mr Hayden.” The boy gripped his pistol tightly.

  “Good for you, Hobson.”

  The midshipman called to Madison, and the two of them descended the stair into the waist, and though they might have walked a bit too closely together, they were admirably resolute, given that the Jacks were almost, to a man, larger than they.

  “Mr Landry!” Hayden called out as he returned to the forecastle. “I will require your presence on the deck, if you please.”

  Something caught Hayden’s eye at that moment: there was a sail beyond Île de Beniguet!

  “Where in deepest hell did that come from?” Hayden said, pointing. “Look sharp aloft! Is that not a sail in the offing?” The lieutenant’s heart suddenly began to race.

  “Frigate to the west!” the lookout sang out, but he was in trouble now, as the lookouts aloft always were if any man on deck discovered ships, land, or any other object of interest, before they did.

  “Damn!” Barthe said under his breath, wheeling around to gaze out to sea. “We are for it, now.”

  “Aloft, there!” Hayden called, forcing his voice to sound calm for the sake of the crew. “Is she one of ours, can you see?”

  Landry was standing in the tops, his glass trained out to sea.

  Smoke bloomed from the distant frigate, and a hoist of flags floated aloft—the private signal. At the same time, British colours broke out at the mizzen.

  Hayden closed his eyes for a second and uttered a silent thanks. If the frigate had belonged to the enemy, they might have been ending their day in a French gaol. “Well, I shall be happy to share our prize money, if there is any to be had, just to know that isn’t a Frenchman to the west.”

  “We shall not let Landry forget that!” Barthe declared. “Even if he was detailed to count the fleet.”

  “Everyone had their eye on the prize money, I think,” Wickham said.

  “Who is midshipman of the watch?” Hayden asked.

  “Williams, sir,” one of the crew answered.

  “Have him answer the private signal and hoist ‘Chasing.’ ” He turned back to the transports. “Let the French frigates see that we have an ally.” It was unlikely that the distant English ship could reach them in the failing wind, but Hayden still felt a strong sense of relief just knowing the ship was there. If nothing else, his crew would be unlikely to mutiny knowing a British frigate lay in the offing.