“You could call it English, Mr Hayden. An officer named Marin-Marie.”
“Have Mr Hawthorne dress him in an officer’s coat and hat, and bring him onto the quarterdeck with an honour guard of two marines.”
With a look of only slight mystification, Archer went in search of Hawthorne, who was assisting the gunners on the forecastle. A few moments later, an apprehensive-looking Frenchman was brought onto the quarterdeck.
“Lieutenant François Marin-Marie,” Hawthorne announced. The man before him, slightly plump of face and form, could not have known the scrape of a razor, Hayden thought, for he was a mere boy—no older than Wickham. Even so, he made a graceful bow, and then stared at Hayden with a look of some disdain.
“Why ’ave you brought me ’ere?” he asked in English.
“I have need of your assistance, Lieutenant,” Hayden answered in French. He pointed toward the Themis. “That is a British ship under the command of British mutineers. They believe your ship is still in possession of the French, which is why we are so dressed.” He gestured to his clothes. “It is our intention to take back the ship from the mutineers, but as they are likely to recognize me and others of my crew, I would have you speak to them when we come within hailing distance.”
The boy drew himself up. “And why would I do that?” he demanded, in French. “It is no affair of mine.”
“Because your treatment when we reach England will depend on how well you have co-operated. It could be a very long war and I myself should not want to spend it in a hulk up some godforsaken backwater, my fate unknown to family and friends.”
The boy’s armour of disdain cracked a little, and he swallowed noticeably. He glanced around at the Englishmen surrounding him. “And what ship iz zat?” he enquired in English, nodding to the French frigate.
“Captain Bourne’s Tenacious, under French colours.” Another quick glance at the less-than-friendly faces. “What would you ’ave me say? My English eez…poor.”
“I will stand behind you and tell you what to say.”
A ball struck the hull forward. Their own chase-piece answered. Another cheer from the men.
“Why do you do this?” the boy asked quietly in his own tongue. “You are French. I hear it in your voice.”
“My mother was French, Lieutenant. I am an Englishman.” Hayden turned away. “Mr Hawthorne? Have your men keep Lieutenant Marin-Marie here, on the quarterdeck, out of everyone’s way. Unbind his hands. I will call for him at the appropriate time.”
Hayden went to the rail and looked forward. The Themis was without her mizzen topsail, which had been shot away. Even with guns traversed to their utmost degree, Hayden was sure they could not strike the mutineers on this point of sail. If they came up a little to bring their broadside to bear, the Themis would foot away, and unless their shot managed to bring down some sails, they would have to make up that lost distance. Better to stay their course, and wait until they could fire on this point of sail. A dull crash as the mutineers fired, and a ball touched the top of a wave and skipped off across the ocean, like a spinning stone on a pond.
A small group of sailors had gathered by the quarterdeck barricade, where they were conversing with the marine sentry.
“What’s this about, do you think?” Landry, who had found Hayden to report the gun crews standing by, nodded to the men. “Aren’t they Themis men? I sent them down to the guns.”
Hayden saw the sentry glance his way, and walked quickly down the deck, Landry by his side.
“These men are asking permission to speak with you, Captain,” the sentry offered as they approached.
“They should all be at their stations,” Landry observed pointedly. “What is this about, Lawrence?”
The gunner’s mate, Lawrence, made a knuckle, then looked quickly at the five men who accompanied him. One of them nodded, as if to say, You speak.
Lawrence, who did not look overly comfortable with his role, glanced down at the deck. “Begging your pardon, Captain. It’s just that we believe some of our mates aboard the Themis never meant it to go so far…to a mutiny, and all.” He produced a piece of paper. “Mr Martin writ down their names for us, if you please, sir.” He offered the scrap of paper to Hayden, who took it reluctantly.
“What do you expect me to do, Lawrence?”
“Well, sir…” He lost his train of thought a moment.
“Speak up, Lawrence. I’m not going to have you flogged, or even stop your grog.”
“Well, Mr Hayden,” he said in a small, dry voice. “It doesn’t sit well with a goodly number of the men to be firing on shipmates who never meant harm to any.”
Hayden glanced at the list—about twenty names, he guessed. “Did these men participate in the mutiny or did they not?”
Hawthorne ranged up alongside him, and Barthe appeared behind the gathered men. Reaching over their heads, Hayden passed the list to the sailing master.
“Well, sir,” Lawrence stammered, “some participated more than others, but none of them meant to. Samuel Fowler stepped in and saved Roth’s life when two of the foretop-men were about to split his pate.” The man turned to Roth, who nodded concurrence, apparently. “And the same Samuel Fowler argued against flogging anyone, even Captain Hart, sir, though he got cuffed for it by some of his mates.”
Barthe held up the list, pointing at it with a stubby finger. “All of these men were in the thick of it at the end. Palley was one of the men firing his musket into the gunroom. I saw him myself. Mayhap he killed Williams, too. King was—”
Hayden held up a hand. “Mr Barthe…We cannot convene a court-martial here.” He regarded the men, who looked both unnerved and wretched. “It is not my place to grant anyone a pardon, Lawrence. Nor can I shirk my duty. You all had the good sense and loyalty to the King not to join the mutiny aboard the Themis. Do not start down that path now.”
Men raised their hands in protest, and Lawrence spoke quickly. “Mr Hayden, we never meant for this to appear in the smallest degree mutinous—”
“Never for a moment did I think that, Lawrence. But let me tell you this: we are woefully short of men and I can excuse no one because of their conscience. You must all take your places at the guns and do your utmost to inflict damage upon men who were not long ago your shipmates…my shipmates. I will take this list, and if there is finally a court-martial, I will see that it is given due consideration. You may all have your say then. But today you must fight. There is no choice for any man aboard.”
The Jacks all looked one to the other, faces drawn and lined from their suffering.
Lawrence gazed down at the deck, and nodded. “Aye, Mr Hayden, but it is a dark day. A miserable, dark day.”
“So it is, Lawrence,” Hayden replied. “Return to your places now, and no more will be said of this matter.”
The men hung their heads, made quick knuckles, and turned to go down to the gun-deck.
Hayden watched them go, wondering how keenly they would fight if it came to that—which it almost certainly would. With this in mind, he crossed to the young French lieutenant, who stood at the taffrail, feigning indifference to both events and danger.
“Monsieur,” Hayden said, touching his hat. “We shall stage a little play for these mutineers once we are within hailing distance, and you shall play the principal role—the only man aboard this French ship of war who speaks English.” He addressed the two marines who guarded him. “Take him below. We can’t afford to lose him to English fire, can we?”
“Monsieur,” the man addressed him quietly in his own language. “You have made a mistake, taking the side of the English. But it is not too late. The French navy would embrace you. Find a way to release my crew mates; let us take back our ship, and you shall be a hero to your true country. You deceive yourself, Capitaine; in your heart you are a man of France. Look at you…Are you not more comfortable in that uniform than in your threadbare English lieutenant’s jacket?”
“Take him below,” Hayden said again, but as
the man reached the companionway, he glanced back over his shoulder, a knowing look on his face. Hayden stood a moment, forgetting what he had been about, his hands finding the fabric of his crimson jacket.
A discharge of flame and smoke from the French frigate caught his attention. They were almost within range now, and their bow-chaser lobbed a ball that landed not far short of the Themis. That would give the mutineers pause, he thought; two French frigates chasing, and they with less than half a crew.
The Themis fired her stern gun at that moment, and sent an iron ball howling among the men at work in the rigging.
“Mr Landry. Pass the word to the forward gunner; tell him to load with chain shot and aim up into her rigging, if you please.”
“I will, Mr Hayden.” Landry found a middy to run his order forward; some of the reefers served on the quarterdeck in action to carry orders to disparate parts of the ship.
Wickham chose that moment to shout aloft in French, and Hayden called out in answer. He was not at all certain their voices would carry to the Themis, but the distance between the ships was growing small. Best to keep the ruse alive.
Wickham then pointed at La Rochelle, now near enough that she was emerging from the mists. A shaft of sunlight brightened her sails, and threw her black hull into relief against a tract of jade-green sea. “She is overhauling us now that we’ve had some sail shot away, Mr Hayden.”
“Yes, I think she will catch the Themis almost as we do.” Hayden turned to find his first lieutenant. “Mr Landry, I think we should steer to come right up alongside the Themis, load our deck-guns with grape, fire a broadside, grapple, and board her.”
Landry considered a moment. “What about your English-speaking Frenchman?”
“I will have him call out for their surrender as we draw near. If they refuse we will board. There will be time to fire one broadside as we bear up alongside, then the men at the guns must take up their arms and join us on deck.”
“Aye, sir. Shall I put Wickham on the gun-deck?”
“I would keep him with me, if I could. It will aid our cause to have orders shouted in French. Mr Archer shall have command of the gun-deck, and turn the signals over to Wickham.” He turned to find the converted middy. “Mr Wickham? Did you hear?”
“Aye, sir.”
The signal book was dutifully passed from Archer to Wickham, and Landry and the second lieutenant repaired to the gun-deck, from where Landry appeared but a few moments later.
Shot from the Themis continued to do small amounts of damage, but Bourne’s gunners at the forward chase-piece were far more deadly. Hayden actually found himself a bit chagrined that his own men were so deficient—the result of Hart exercising his guns so infrequently, and firing them in anger never. He wondered how the captain fared—flogged by his own men. Hayden couldn’t think of another incident like it. When word of it reached England great infamy would befall the Themis, her crew, and officers.
Hayden wondered if this was not what was driving him to attempt this mad venture—retaking the Themis, with a French frigate a few cable-lengths away. If he returned to England with the mutineers in irons, and the Themis again under the British flag, there was some paltry chance he might save his career. He glanced down at his French uniform. If Philip Stephens could see him now. So much for becoming Hart’s nurse-maid. He could also put paid to the notion that the First Secretary would become his patron!
“This ship is a flyer, sir,” Wickham pronounced from atop the rail, where he clung to the shrouds.
“Mr Wickham,” Hayden responded, “I do appreciate your exuberance, but if you fall into the sea the French signal book will surely be lost. If you please, sir…”
Wickham leapt down from the rail, landing with a thump on bare planks.
“Is it not a curious and ironic fact, sir, that we came to sea to fight the French and here we are on a French ship, dressed as French officers, about to engage the English?”
“Exceedingly curious. Mr Dryden?” He turned to the man at the helm. “How fare you, sir?”
“Well enough, Captain,” he said, one of the few who appeared to use the title without any hint of the self-conscious.
“Captain Bourne’s gunners seem to be shooting away the Themis’ rigging as quickly as it can be renewed, so we are gaining rather handsomely, I note. What I want you to do is come up on her stern quarter, but be prepared to luff if she attempts to do so. Come up on her stern quarter, then simply run us alongside.”
The master’s mate pulled his eye from the Themis for a second to glance quizzically at Hayden. “Carrying all this sail, sir?”
“Aye, the sea is small and we are barely making four knots as it is. We shall take some fire from their chase-stern, but we will have to endure it. Once alongside, no doubt, both ships shall fire a broadside, but then it will be cutlasses and pistols. It is possible we might convince them to surrender, unless they realize we are terribly undermanned or are not what we appear. But that will not change our tactics, we shall run our ship alongside even so. Is that perfectly understood?”
“It is, sir.”
Hayden stood upon the quarterdeck with Landry and Wickham, watching the slow convergence of ships on the great, foggy sea. The small wind on their stern quarter appeared to be taking off, slowing the ships even more. Hayden ordered the crew fed, one gun crew at a time. Then a few men from the upper deck, followed by a few others. He, Landry, and Wickham would not leave the deck and plates were brought to them where they stood, which they addressed without ceremony or even much notice of what they ate.
The sun lifted and arced westward, but the snowy fog appeared to resist its warmth, and still clung to the sea in silvery patches. As they neared the Themis, her stern guns began to cause more damage and put everyone on deck and aloft into a state of nervous apprehension.
Tristram Stock appeared on the quarterdeck, having traversed the gangway at a brisk, purposeful trot. “If you please, Captain Hayden, the chase-gun captain asks permission to fire at the stern guns on the Themis.”
“That seems a good bet, given his recent record. Carry him my permission, Mr Stock, but tell him also that I regret I cannot give him another half-crown if he succeeds.”
Stock smiled. “He has been telling everyone about his ‘half-crown shot.’ He was very pleased about it.”
“I’m sure he was, but I cannot be giving out half a crown to every gun captain who makes a lucky shot.”
“You needn’t worry, sir, the men have their prize money, and very content with it they are.” Stock touched his hat and hurried forward.
The bow-chaser began a relentless cannonade of the Themis’ stern, Bourne’s gun-crew putting on a display of both accuracy and rapidity of fire. The stern gallery was soon a ruin and the quarterdeck a place of great danger. It became difficult to see through the clouds of smoke enveloping the stern of the mutineer’s vessel and the bow of their own, but the guns finally fell silent on the Themis to a cheer from the men.
A solemn Perse delivered Hayden his pistols and cutlass. “Have you a station, Perse?”
“Mr Landry sent me down to run powder,” the boy answered in his soft Irish brogue, “though I’m as strong as some who man the guns, sure.”
“We all play the part asked of us and do not protest.”
“I was not protesting, Mr Hayden…well, not much.” The boy gave him a small bow, and slipped away.
Hayden pulled his sword from its scabbard and was pleased to find it polished to a high sheen.
“Cultellus,” Hawthorne observed from two yards distant.
“Pardon me?” Hayden responded.
“Latin, sir. The word from which cutlass was derived. Cultellus.”
Hayden smiled. “Your scholarship is a constant source of inspiration, Mr Hawthorne.”
The marine laughed, as did Hayden.
“I hope to drive my cultellus into the arrogant throat of Mr William Stuckey,” Hayden said.
“Do you find his throat arrogant?”
“Terribly. Do you not?”
“Not so much as his hair.”
“Ah. Your marines are ready?”
“That they are, Captain.” Hawthorne paused and met Hayden’s eye. “I must tell you, Mr Hayden, it gives me great pleasure to call you captain.”
“I am only a prize-captain, Mr Hawthorne, and with my prospects, you shall be addressing me as lieutenant by week’s end.”
“Captain Hayden, sir?” Dryden said from his place at the wheel. “I’m almost ready to bring her up, sir.”
Hayden looked forward, the two ships were converging, and although the expert fire from the Tenacious’ gunners had silenced the stern guns of the Themis, the crack of musket fire began in earnest. Hawthorne’s own men returned fire from the tops and from the forecastle.
“Have a care, Mr Dryden. Do not run our jib-boom into their stern or tangle it in the mizzen shrouds.”
“Baldwin is to alert me if I come too near, Captain.”
Hayden turned to the marine lieutenant. “Have Monsieur Marin-Marie brought on deck, if you please, Mr Hawthorne.”
Twenty–two
At the last possible moment, Baldwin leapt up onto the gun-truck and waved a shirt to Dryden, who spun his wheel. The ship began a sluggish turn. Before them, Hayden could see the mutineers, armed and stripped to the waist, watching them with a mixture of outrage and dire apprehension. The second French frigate, La Rochelle, ceased to fire, as she was afraid of striking what she believed was another vessel of her own service. Even with her guns silenced, she was quickly ranging up to a position where she might unload her entire broadside into the Themis, and the mutineers could not have been insensible to it.
“Now, Monsieur Marin-Marie,” Hayden said to the prisoner, “repeat every word just as I say, and no tricks or Mr MacPherson will be obliged to put a blade in you. Do you understand?”
The Frenchman nodded once.
Hayden then turned to the others. “Not a word of English, now. And Mr Stock, kindly step behind the gunners, there, where you shan’t be recognized.” Hayden himself made a screen of Marin-Marie and the Tenacious’ gun-crew.
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