“We cannot let them release the prisoners or break into the armoury,” Hayden whispered. “I shall try to negotiate their surrender, but we might have to fight.
“Shall I raise the off-watch, sir?” Dryden asked.
“Only a few men you can trust, Dryden. Too much noise will tip our hand.” Hayden crouched down by the companionway, listening, then lay down and leaned his head and upper body into the opening. He could hear no sounds of men, see no lurking shadows or movement. The cockpit was below; forward, the cable tiers; various storerooms, including the armoury; and right forward, in place of the sailroom, the temporary prisoners’ lockup. Abaft this was situated the forward magazine.
There were two guards stationed there, though not necessarily marines, as there were so few of them aboard. From the deckhead between them, a lantern swung; a damnably sooty one, which cast only a frail circle of squalid light.
A grunt. The rasp of a strangled cry. Two bodies thudding dully to the deck. Whispers.
The Frenchmen would have two muskets now, and though the guards did not possess keys for the lockup, the locks or hinges could be prised, given time. The near-constant clamour of the gale would make such efforts almost undetectable. A sentry would begin his rounds at some point, the watch would change, but the Frenchmen would be free and likely have broken into the armoury by then. Once they were armed, the ship would be theirs.
Hayden found Hawthorne in the dark. “We must take them by stealth. If detected, we must charge. The doctor will have to look out for himself.”
Hawthorne put his mouth near to Hayden’s ear. “We must be mindful of the powder-room.”
“Inform your musketeers,” Hayden whispered, and led them down to the orlop.
They crept forward, around the hatchway to the hold, keeping low, hiding behind the cable tiers, over the coils of massive cable for the anchors, the stench of salt and mud. Hayden could see the escaped prisoners, bent before the lockup door. A clatter to his right.
“Merde,” a voice muttered.
Hayden found himself face-to-face with a dark shape and without thinking drove the heel of his sword hilt into the man’s temple, collapsing him like a tent. Hayden lowered the man to the planks and struck him once more to be certain he was gone.
They crouched behind the noisome coils, watching for an instant. A grating squeal as iron fittings were drawn through wood.
“As she lifts…” Hayden said, and as the stern began to rise, he vaulted over the cable. Crouching to clear the low deckhead, they crossed the few yards with as much stealth as speed would allow. The dim light, half hidden by the Frenchmen gathered about the lockup door, and the pounding seas, masked their attack. Only at the last second did they have the ill luck for one man to stumble, causing the prisoners to turn.
Hayden drove his blade into a man raising a musket, and it discharged harmlessly into the deck. Cries all around, both French and English. A desperate melee erupted as men were thrown forward by the motion of the ship.
Someone still prised urgently at the lockup door. Inside men threw their weight against it repeatedly. Another musket fired, dropping the sailor to Hayden’s left. He slashed at a man bent before the door.
An explosion of light and pain and Hayden staggered back, stumbling down onto his haunches. A confused moment when the world reeled and he lurched onto his side. Above, shadow men locked in struggle; he was dimly aware of a flash, and then another. Men dropped from above, beating down the French, crouching over them and driving hard, callused fists into chests and faces. Then a voice—Hawthorne—shouting, “Enough. Enough!”
“Mr Hayden?” a voice was saying, and not for the first time, Hayden suspected. “Mr Hayden? Are you hurt, sir? Are you bleeding?”
“No…I don’t believe so,” he mumbled, attempting to raise himself. “Just a bit…dazed. A blow to the head.” Hayden tried to stand on the rolling deck, but the darkness seemed to press in, and he lost balance.
“Catch him! Don’t let him fall.” And hands gripped his shoulders, lowering him gently.
“I require light!” a voice demanded loudly.
“Aye, Doctor.”
Hayden was laid on the deck, the world swaying and wobbling this way and that. He thought he might be ill. Dark shapes of men, some lying, others moving with exaggerated slowness. Men kept appearing from somewhere. Someone bent over him.
“Doctor! It’s Mr Hayden.”
“Yes, I see that, Mr Wickham, but I can also see that he is not bleeding to death, as is this man. I need anything that can be used for a tourniquet. Yes, that will do nicely. Hold this arm up like so. Do not swoon, sir. Think of it as red wine.”
The lights went dim and when they slowly swam back into focus Hayden felt himself borne up, passed man-to-man up the companionway, into the light. The men who bore him staggered like drunks along the berth-deck among the off-watch, who were all roused now, empty hammocks swaying, oddly slack and lifeless, like shed skins.
“I believe I might stand,” Hayden said, making some effort to form the words.
“Doctor said to carry you to your cot, Mr Hayden. He’ll be along by the by.”
He felt himself being handed again up a stair, then into his swinging cot. After a time he realized Hawthorne stood over him.
“Did you just recently pass for a surgeon, Mr Hawthorne?”
Hawthorne chuckled. “This very morning. Feeling better, sir?”
“A little, yes. The world is still swaying about, but I think these sways are natural, given the gale. We prevailed, I take it?”
“That we did, Mr Hayden, but at the cost of three wounded and two killed. The French fared worse. Marin-Marie will not put his English to our service again.”
Hayden propped himself more upright and felt the side of his head. There was a great, prodigious swelling behind his ear, and a sticky bit of blood. It was painful to the touch.
Hawthorne drew in a whistle. “You did catch one, didn’t you?” He parted Hayden’s hair so that he could see the wound. “I’ve had worse from a brother,” the marine observed.
“You must come of a genteel family—”
A knock and Wickham opened the door, peering in. “How fare you, sir?” he asked, clearly relieved to see Hayden sitting up.
“I have the blackest headache I have ever known, but otherwise, I am unharmed. Others did not fare as well, I am told…?”
“No, sir. Marshall and Burchfield are both dead, and Jennings and White have beastly wounds. Jennings has lost a terrible quantity of blood.”
“Then we shall delay flogging the man for sleeping on duty,” Hayden replied.
“Was he really sleeping?” Hawthorne asked.
“Yes. Asleep with enemy prisoners aboard. Unforgivable, I’m afraid, no matter how great his wound.”
Hawthorne cursed. “How did you know the Frenchmen were loose?”
Hayden pressed fingers to his forehead. He had not been exaggerating the ache in his skull. “It was the strangest thing…I was dozing fitfully. Do you know that odd state where sleeping and waking mix and dreams become confused with the real? I dreamt that someone was whispering in French—and then it occurred to me that I was not sleeping. For a moment I was unsure if I had dreamt it, and then I heard it again, or so I thought. I was out of my cot, grabbed my cutlass. It was then I discovered my sentry, Jennings, slumped in the corner, snoring peacefully.”
“There is no excuse,” Hawthorne declared. “Many were exhausted and still did their duty.”
“I sent him for reinforcements…” Hayden quickly told them the rest of the story. As he spoke, Griffiths came in quietly and examined his wound without interrupting.
“Why were you about, Doctor?” Hayden asked as he finished.
“I was worried about Freeman, and as the motion of the ship made sleep all but impossible, I decided to look in on him. As I left the gunroom I was met by Frenchmen, two bearing muskets.”
“They overpowered the two quartermaster’s mates who were g
uarding them as they worked the pumps,” Hawthorne said.
“Marin-Marie was among them,” Griffiths went on. “I fear he was not as badly wounded as I had supposed, and he must have slipped out of the sick-berth. They took me down to the orlop with them…and the rest you know. It was a miracle I was not killed in the action, but they had made me lie on the deck and as soon as the French were attacked I began shouting in clear English.”
“I do recall someone cursing and blaspheming…” Hawthorne mused, trying to keep from smiling.
“I cannot recall my exact words, Mr Hawthorne, but they were, by necessity, of an urgent nature.”
“We were fortunate not to have lost more men than we did,” Hayden observed. “And I am very happy to see you unharmed, Doctor.”
“Mr Hayden did twice warn all of us that you were prisoner,” Hawthorne said.
“Tell me the state of our ship,” Hayden said to Wickham.
“The gale has not grown worse this two hour, sir, and we hope it will soon begin to abate. Mr Chettle’s repairs have taken up and barely weep a tear now. Constant pumping is no longer the order, as we pumped the wells dry and the water flows in now but slowly. I think we shall see the wind begin to take off before sunrise. If the wind does not back, we might see England on the morrow.”
“Let us hope that is true, Mr Wickham. Perhaps I will take a tour of the deck…”
“I don’t think that would be advisable, Mr Hayden,” the doctor said firmly. “All appears to be in hand. It would be best if you rested for a few hours. Let us see what comes of the pain in your skull. After such a blow as you received, there can be bleeding within the cranial cavity, and exercise will only increase the flow.”
“Yes, no need to keep the ship flying,” Hawthorne commented. “Once home we shall all face the court-martial, anyway…for the loss of our ship. No need to hurry that.”
Twenty–three
An odd, hollow silence, indescribable in nature, had invaded Hayden’s mind. Or perhaps it was a want of the usual patterns of thought, the normal business of the mind. Certainly the blow to his skull had altered whatever process of reason had normally occurred, though Griffiths assured him this would not be a permanent state. The order of his mind would return in the fullness of time.
His mental state was not helped by a repeating dream that he walked through the streets of Plymouth dressed in the French captain’s silk coat, which he had only recently shed. Everywhere he went people would stop and stare in silent loathing. Waking from the dream was little relief as the feelings it engendered lingered, and like as not, he would fall into the same dream when he slept again. Dr Griffiths had no physic for this, and Hayden could only hope that the dream would cease when his mind recovered.
The Themis swung to her anchor in Plymouth Sound among the men-of-war, transports, and merchant vessels—a constant traffic of small boats, under both oar and sail, swarming among the great ships. Lighters and luggers weaving their wakes among the hoys and barges, cutters and smacks.
Their prize, the French frigate Dragoon, had been warped into a dry-dock and was undergoing repairs as well as being carefully surveyed. There were great hopes that she would be bought into the service, and Hayden was rightfully joyful because of it.
His report to the Admiralty of the voyage of the French prize, Dragoon, had, in his present mental state, been something of a trial, and his long letter to his particular friend, Mr Banks, had been more difficult still. How to write such a missive preserving the truth while not appearing to disparage Hart and serve his own cause was a dance whose steps only the most adept could master—and he was not feeling particularly light of foot.
Hayden was in temporary command of the Themis, as Hart had gone ashore some days before to be admitted into the care of a noted physician. The frigate was only lightly manned—the Jacks who had been aboard the prize with Hayden at the time of the mutiny, and those loyal to Hart (or perhaps Britain) who had been put off in the boats. Eighty men in all, twenty of whom would be returned to the Tenacious as soon as was practical. Landry and Archer had begged leave to go ashore, and Barthe was on and off the ship, as his wife and daughters had taken rooms in the town—an impossible luxury ordinarily, had it not been for the prize money that would almost certainly be his. During the day the sailing master came aboard to see to the work being done on the ship.
Most of the middies, including Wickham, had been allowed to visit their families, though all visits would be brief—there was to be a court-martial as soon as Hart was deemed recovered enough to bear it.
A few of the sick and hurt were taken ashore to be seen by a physician, but most were under the care of Dr Griffiths, including Franks, who still had his foot, though the doctor believed there were several fractured bones, and the bosun was in not-inconsiderable pain.
“Captain approaching!” one of the sentries cried.
Hayden picked out a barge being smartly rowed toward them, an officer of apparent post rank sitting in the stern sheets. He called for his glass and in a moment had fixed a beaming Robert Hertle in the lens.
Hayden had him piped aboard, a hastily gathered line of marines presenting arms sharply.
“I see you have made your post in fact, now,” Hayden said, doffing his hat and shaking his friend’s hand.
“The Lords of the Admiralty have seen fit to honour me with the command of a new frigate. She is anchored in the Hamoaze at this very moment, being fitted for sea.”
Hayden’s congratulations were both effusive and heartfelt, with barely a trace of envy. The two men repaired below to the captain’s cabin. Hart had sent for all his belongings, clearly having no intention of setting foot on the Themis again.
“So, you are hanging your cot in the great cabin, in anticipation of promotion, I collect?” Hertle took one of the chairs.
“No, I’m still in my cabin in the gunroom. If Hart returned he would deem it an unpardonable trespass if he were to find I occupied his cabin. Even though he has called for all his belongings, I should never presume. I have, however, been using it for ship’s business.”
“I am most anxious to hear your tale, Charles,” Hertle said, lowering his voice and glancing up at the open skylight. “Plymouth is awash in rumours; mutiny, murder, captains flogged, enemy frigates taken, revenge, and confusion to the French. Last I saw you we had plucked you out of the jaws of a French privateer, and you were returning to an uncertain welcome from your captain. Pray, what followed?”
Coffee was delivered by the gunroom steward, and Hayden waited until he had gone before beginning his tale.
“We had hardly set out south to continue our cruise when an old-fashioned brig-sloop appeared, carrying all sail, intending to intercept us. Immediately Hart named her an enemy vessel, outlier to a French squadron, but his officers protested just enough to delay his flight, and allow the brig to make the private signal. She proved to be under the command of a lieutenant, having lost her commander the previous day chasing stragglers from a French convoy scattered by the recent gale. Bourne had sent her in hopes of finding us or some other British ship that might help him take the transports which had sought refuge beneath the guns inshore of Belle Île.”
Hayden told his coffee-fuelled story, leaving out no relevant detail. When he was done, Hertle smiled.
“So you were not even aboard the Themis when the mutiny took place?”
“I was in command of the prize.”
“Then you will not be part of the court-martial at all,” Hertle said in obvious relief.
“It is possible that I will be called to give evidence, but neither Wickham, the midshipman who went with me into the prize, nor myself will be named in the proceedings, for which I am greatly thankful. Even though Hart and his officers will almost certainly be acquitted of any wrongdoing, such an incident can’t help but tarnish a man’s career, even so.”
“Hart’s career is already tarnished. His character within the service could hardly be lower. One would hope that even
his patrons in the Admiralty will withdraw their support at last, else they be stained themselves for championing such a man.”
“So do I hope.” Hayden’s mind turned for an instant to the despised correspondence with “Mr Banks.”
His friend regarded him a moment. “You look out of sorts, Charles; I would say melancholy, if I did not know you better.”
Hayden tried to smile and failed. “I do feel…strange. Perhaps it was the blow to the head, but I feel oddly removed from things, as though I have sunk a little deeper into my own poor mind.” For a moment words failed him. “It was a peculiar cruise. I began as an English lieutenant contending with my captain for the privilege of making war on the French; then, for a time, I was a French capitaine chasing and taking an English ship of war; and now I am, once again, a mere lieutenant with no future in the British Navy.” He shook his head, glancing at his friend, who regarded him thoughtfully. “I would be happier about my return to British cloth if the British themselves showed the slightest signs of welcome. Instead, I am a traitor to my mother’s people, and spurned by my father’s. But here I am, all the same, the only officer in the fleet who celebrates an English victory while at the same instant mourning the French defeat. I am torn in half, Robert, and don’t know how long I can bear it.”
Robert shifted in his chair, leaning forward and placing an arm upon the table. “You cannot make a decision to side with the British with your head alone, Charles—your heart, for want of a better word, must do the same. It is rather like choosing a wife—one might make the most reasonable, intelligent match in the world, but if your heart is not engaged as well you will never be happy. In truth, I believe you will always be in misery.”
“Perhaps you are right, but how does one make one’s heart follow? That is what I do not know. The heart—at least my heart—has never been much governed by what my mind thought it ought to do.”
A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Hobson stuck his head in.
“Begging your pardon, Mr Hayden. A boat bearing two ladies lies alongside. It appears one is Mrs Hertle, sir. I have ordered them to be brought aboard. I hope I have done the right thing.”
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