Under Enemy Colours

by Sean Thomas Russell

  Hayden was taken aback. The numbers were Landry’s, which he almost explained, but then realized that Hart would likely know this already as the assessment had been written in the second lieutenant’s hand.

  “There is also the anchorage inside Île Longue, which we have not looked into at all. You can manage a much more thorough survey from the land. I will put you ashore this night and retrieve you on the morrow, one hour after midnight at the northern-most end of the beach below Crozon. Is that clear?”

  “It is, sir … but Brittany is hardly a safe place for Englishmen, even for those who can pass for French. If The Times is to be believed, the province was near to insurrection as recently as July. The people are said to be hiding priests who have refused to sign the civil constitution of the clergy. Not long before we sailed, I read that it was believed several bishops were being hidden near Brest.”

  Hart eyed him, pushing up the centre of his lower lip so that his chin dimpled oddly. “I will hear no excuses, sir. You will be put ashore and I will tolerate no arguments.” For a moment he struggled to find his train of thought, and then went on. “Mr Landry was clever enough to salvage some clothes from the French transport. We’ll put you and Lieutenant Hawthorne ashore once it is dark.”

  “Mr Hawthorne doesn’t speak French, sir,” Hayden blurted out.

  Hart fixed Hayden with the same glare over the top of his spectacles. “Some French money was found aboard the transport and I retained it for just such an excursion.” He unlocked a small iron box and took out some French monies that he then slid over to Hayden. “Tomorrow morning, one hour after midnight.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “That will be all.”

  Hayden found Hawthorne and spent the rest of the afternoon drilling him on a few words and phrases in the French language. If luck favoured them they would stay out of sight by day and speak with no one, but if they were unlucky it would be best, even if Hayden did all the talking, if Hawthorne could not appear to be a mute. He gave the marine lieutenant a French name and tried to explain the manners of their enemy. It was not an entirely successful exercise, though he did feel that Hawthorne’s “Bonjour,” if mumbled, would almost pass muster.

  After some hours of attempted French, Hayden sensed a respite was needed, and poured poor Hawthorne a glass of wine.

  “Tell, me,” Hayden said, passing the marine a glass, “what finally transpired with our little mutiny on the gun-deck?”

  Hawthorne closed his eyes and massaged his temples, as though their language studies had left a residue of pain in his overworked mind. He reached inside his jacket, which hung over the back of a chair, and removed a folded sheet of paper. “I have been trying to give you this.”

  Hayden unfolded it, and found two columns of names written within. He glanced up at the marine. “It signifies what, Mr Hawthorne?”

  “It seemed to me at the time that the gun crews had divided into two camps. No. That is not precisely true. Most of the men at the guns remained aloof from what was happening, but these two groups of men were at odds, though I know not why. It was nearly dark and the whole matter caught me off guard, I am ashamed to admit, so I was not thinking clearly nor were my powers of observation engaged as they should have been … but even so, I feel this list cannot be far wrong.”

  Hayden examined the list of men again.

  “But were they mutinous or just two factions who did not care for each other? I have seen crews where one group of men had greater hatred for some other than they ever had for the French.”

  “I cannot rightly say, Mr Hayden. They were at odds, and I think if you had not deployed my marines so quickly we would have had blood spilt, I truly do—even with an action looming.”

  “And you heard nothing said? No words shouted in anger, which would give us any indication of the nature of this dispute?”

  “Oh, there was a great deal of name-calling and damning each other to hell and the like, but it was the general sort of cursing such as you might hear at any time among provoked seamen.”

  “And Hart flogged some men this morning?”

  “Yes, a rather random collection after he had spoken to myself and a number of midshipmen and the master-at-arms. I’m quite certain that if any ringleaders were punished it was utterly by providence.”

  Hayden sat back, ran his fingers into his hair, and eyed the marine. “You say the majority of the men were not involved. That is a good sign, at least.”

  Hawthorne ground his teeth together. “I did say that, and it is more or less true, but … it seemed to me that the men who watched were weighing things up … I can’t rightly explain, but they looked like gents at a cockfight, trying to decide where they would lay their money.”

  “I had that same feeling at Plymouth, when it appeared the hands might refuse to sail; some were merely waiting to see which direction events might take.” Hayden applied himself to his wine. “The men don’t understand the risk they run, Hawthorne. ‘Mutinous assembly,’ ‘concealment of mutinous designs’—even ‘mutinous language’—can all be punished by death.”

  “What of cowardice in the face of the enemy?” Hawthorne countered. “How should that be punished?”

  “Our positions do not give us the luxury of seeking justice in all things, Mr Hawthorne, as you well know. It is our sworn duty to prosecute a war against the enemies of England, and a ship of war cannot be governed by elected assembly, no matter how much we might wish it could.”

  Hawthorne sat back and regarded him. “So, men might hang who are in the right, and officers might be promoted who have shied from the enemy at every turn?”

  Hayden wondered what perverse twist of fate had landed him in this position—defending a man like Hart. “If you want to live in a just world, Mr Hawthorne, you will have to remove to America, where I’m told all is now perfection.”

  Hawthorne smiled. “You sound like Aldrich, our fore mast philosopher.”

  “Yes, and Aldrich should learn to be more circumspect or he shall pay a heavy price, I fear.”

  The smile disappeared from the marine’s face. “I have told him the same thing, but Aldrich believes that if one speaks the truth any man capable of reason will eventually have to agree … bloody fool.”

  A little before sunset, Hart ordered the ship to fall in with the coast. The helm was put over, yards shifted, and sails trimmed with a certain alacrity. Men had been flogged that day for insubordination, but Hayden did not think that was what inspired the crew’s unusually efficient work. They had taken a prize, and not only was every man aboard materially richer, but their spirits had been enlivened as well. Granted, the prize was only a transport, but they had taken her under circumstances that any sea-going man would have to admit required bottom—many had heard Bourne himself say it. They no longer would be the butt of jests in any anchorage where British ships might gather, and such would raise the spirits of any man.

  The wind fell away until it was nothing but whispers of its former glory, and the little frigate barely disturbed the waters as it passed, lifting only a little on the breathing sea. When it became clear that they would not close the coast that night, Hart ordered a cutter over the side.

  “You will have to pull for shore,” he said. “Carry the French our compliments, Mr Hayden.” It was the only attempt at a jest Hayden had yet heard pass the man’s lips.

  “But we are several miles distant,” Hayden objected. “The boat will never make the beach and return to the ship before dawn. The French will suspect you’ve put men ashore.”

  “They will never guess it,” Hart said. “You can pass for a Frenchman, in any case. Get on with it. Don’t waste the night left you.”

  Hayden and the marine lieutenant went over the side and down into the cutter.

  “Away boat,” the coxswain said quietly, and the men bent to their sweeps.

  Hayden glanced over at Hawthorne, just visible in the stern-sheets.

  “How do I look?” Hawthorne inquired,
clearly uncomfortable in his French rig.

  “Like an Englishman decked over with a Frenchman’s clothing.”

  “I thought as much. Let us hope we meet no one.” He was quiet a moment, and in the faint moonlight Hayden could just make out the concern on his face. Leaning toward Hayden, he whispered, “Do you think this endeavour has been designed to be shut of us?”

  Hayden made a warning sign to the marine.

  “Oh, you needn’t worry about Childers.” Hawthorne jerked a chin toward the coxswain.

  The same thought had crossed Hayden’s mind, and secretly he wondered if Hawthorne was not right. “We chose duty in Plymouth. Can we choose differently now?”

  “Exactly so,” answered Hawthorne, and they fell silent.

  The little boat rocked over the low swell, and as the thole-pins had been muffled with rags, there was barely a sound to be heard but the water hissing past the hull and whirling off astern. Hayden was struck by the beauty of the unseasonably warm night—the moon waning toward new, stars hanging bright and crisp in the heavens’ dark depths. He felt a strange excitement at returning to France; excitement and trepidation—like meeting again a woman one still loved after a long separation. Feelings washed through him like a running sea, though he could not name them. In vain he tried to push these emotions down, to focus his mind on the task at hand; he had Hawthorne to keep safe, after all. The Brittany where they were about to set foot was not the land of his youth—it was a dangerous place now, and for many reasons.

  The pull to shore was long, and as Hayden had predicted, it was near to dawn when they finally slid up on the sand beneath the village of Crozon. Hayden had caused them to be landed at the northern end of the beach, as distant from the small jetty as possible. As Hayden and the marine lieutenant splashed ashore, sailors jumped over the side to push the boat off, knowing that if it were seen by morning and the French could guess from where they had come, a search would certainly follow.

  “Good luck to you, sir,” Childers whispered as the boat was pushed astern into the lapping waves.

  “And you,” said Hayden.

  The men shoved the boat bodily out until they were waist-deep, then clambered aboard. The long, shadowy oars flashed out against a moon-silvered sea.

  “Double time,” Hayden said, starting down the beach. “Sun will be up soon.”

  “Aye, sir,” came a voice from behind, “we’ve not a moment to lose.”

  Hayden spun around. “Wickham!”

  “Aye, sir. I thought you might need another who can speak to the natives. I found some French clothes that fit, do you see?” The boy’s face was barely visible in the moonlight, but even so, he looked terribly sheepish.

  “You are returning to the ship …” But when Hayden turned out to sea, the cutter was already beyond hailing without him calling out loudly. He rounded on the little midshipman.

  “Mr Wickham, this is the second time you’ve come away in the boats without anyone’s sanction. Hart will be in a fury when he learns of it.”

  “You needn’t worry, Mr Hayden,” Wickham said softly, and only slightly abashed, “the captain will never miss me. You’ll see. And last time I saved your life, or so you said.”

  “And this time we might all lose ours.”

  “There is nothing for it,” Hawthorne said, touching Hayden’s sleeve. “Come. We must be on our way. Perhaps Lord Arthur will be an addition to our little ruse da gar.”

  Hayden was torn between relief to have another who could pass for a Frenchman—or French boy—and his very real vexation at Wickham’s cavalier attitude toward discipline.

  “Ruse de guerre,” Hayden corrected as he began to trot along the margin of the sea where the sand was firmest and they could make the best time.

  “Just so,” whispered Hawthorne and fell in behind Wickham.

  They found the little jetty where a fire burned on the beach, illuminating boats drawn up above the tide line. There were, no doubt, men there, but they were asleep by the fire, Hayden was certain. The Englishmen struck the path that wound up the bank and hurried on.

  “Were those guards of some sort?” Wickham whispered as they stumbled up the path.

  “So I would guess. Some French variant of Sea Fencibles or Militia. Perhaps even soldiers. I hope we meet no more. Shh …”

  The noise of them tripping up the path had attracted attention, and someone challenged them in French.

  “Shall we make a run for it?”

  “Only if you can swim to the Themis.”

  Hayden answered the challenge in French, and led his companions forward.

  At the head of the path they were met by two men in matching tunics and round hats—local militia, Hayden suspected. They pointed their muskets at the strangers, though they did not seem to be overly worried that they would meet the enemy here.

  “And who are you?” one of the men demanded. “We don’t know you.”

  Hayden knew the accent immediately and answered them not in French but in the local language. At the mere sound of their own speech, the muskets were lowered.

  Hayden introduced his companions and rapid-fire conversation took place, some money changed hands, and the three Englishmen were off into the darkness.

  When they had gone a hundred yards, Wickham whispered, “That wasn’t French … was it?”

  “Breton,” Hayden answered. “They think you are my son, despite the fact that I would have sired you at eight, and they believe Mr Hawthorne is an English smuggler. They look forward to a long and lucrative friendship.”

  “They knew me as English!” Hawthorne whispered indignantly. “I said only a single word: bonjour.”

  “Yes, well …” Hayden responded, and led them on without further comment.

  The seaward side of the narrow peninsula was barren and treeless—a heath battered by winter gales off the cold Atlantic. But over the crest of the hill, facing Brest Harbour, the landscape changed to fertile pastures and luxurious woods, as though they had passed into another land entire.

  Cottages were avoided, as was the tiny hamlet of Crozon, its church spire visible among the stars. They kept to narrow lanes and fields whenever possible, stealing through the shadows of trees and hedges. Hayden’s boyhood memories let him down, now and then, but for the most part they served tolerably well, allowing him to guide his companions if not unerringly, at least tangentially to the place he wished to go. Unfortunately everything looked different by night—all moonlight and shadow. He was forced to stop frequently and match the stark shards of visible landscape with his store of memories.

  Dawn was upon them too soon, and they went to ground in a stand of trees, eating a little of the ship’s biscuit they bore. Hayden also carried a collapsible telescope and a pistol in his satchel. He had added a book he possessed, on the birds and other animals of eastern Europe, hoping it would suffice as explanation for the glass, if not the flintlock: a natural philosopher observing the miracle of botanical and avian life. By luck, the book had been written in Italian, not English.

  In truth the wood was alive with many examples of this miracle: chaffinch, wood lark, blue tit, wren. The men lounged in the morning sunlight, which swam over them, broken and dappled by wind-shivered leaves.

  “How much further might it be?” Wickham asked.

  “Not more than a mile.” Hayden shifted to one side to avoid a root that dug deep into his buttock, but landed upon another. “I think we should stay here most of the day. No sense wandering about in daylight more than is required. People here are curious of strangers, and we don’t want to set them to talking or asking questions. If we break cover an hour before sunset that will allow us to reach the point of land where we can reconnoitre Brest Roads, then make our way back toward Crozon through the dusk … and starlight, if need be. We shall bribe our friends, the French militiamen, and be on the beach before midnight.”

  “As easy as rolling downhill,” Hawthorne agreed, but his grin said otherwise. “I must say, I don’t
think much of their agricultural practices. Have they never heard of planting clover? Of rotation? Did you see that patch of abandoned cabbages? Runty and infested. A cobbler could grow better.”

  Hayden laughed. “We shall not have time for you to improve their methods along scientific lines, I’m afraid, Mr Hawthorne.” He looked around. “We are fairly well hidden here and should sleep by turns. It could be another long night. Mr Wickham—”

  “I will stand first watch, sir,” the midshipman interrupted.

  Hayden smiled, and lay down upon the hard ground. “And Mr Hawthorne? I strongly advise against snoring. It will give you away as English.”

  “I shall sleep like a Frenchman, Mr Hayden. You may count on it.”

  For a while Hayden lay awake, breathing in the forest scent, which kindled strangely powerful childhood emotions. He had spent a good part of his youth not far from this place, had once played in this very wood with his cousin. The happiness he had known then, the contentment and feeling that the world was both safe and just, flooded back. How much that world had changed! As a boy he had been either French or English by turn, depending upon which country he was in, but circumstances and age would no longer allow that. One must choose—but it was like a child choosing between one’s mother or one’s father, an unbearable loss either way.

  He remembered telling Henrietta that in France he felt like an Englishman masquerading as French. When had that begun? For the life of him he couldn’t remember. Of course he never expected it to be so true as it was that night.

  Hayden did not know how long he’d slept, but wakened from a deep slumber to a hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to find himself in a patch of unseasonably warm sun, overly hot in his French cloak. “Is it my watch?”

  “Not yet, sir,” Wickham whispered, “but there are people nearby.”

  Hayden sat up, boiling warm, muddle-headed, and dizzy. He shook his head and tore open his cloak, allowing the small wind to reach him.