The Hawk

by Peter Smalley

  'Aye, sir. A swivel?'

  'Be damned to swivels, Richard. We will fire our number one larboard carronade, and let the ball strike as near to her as y'please.'

  'Very good, sir.'

  The order passed and the lanyard pulled. A flash of powder under flint, and the gun spoke.

  BOOM

  The whistling rush of the shot, and a white column of spray on the swell half a cable off the cutter's starboard bow.

  A moment, then a stutter of flashes along the cutter's starboard wales, and a nearly instant:

  BOOM-BANG BANG-BANG-BANG-BOOM

  BOOM-BOOM

  Hawk's helmsman was lifted in a writhing arc off the deck and flung bodily against the lee rail, torn asunder in a spray of blood. James felt his hat snatched off his skull, and his scalp singed. Heard cracks and splintering thuds forrard. Saw rigging whipped and torn. Saw his gaff snap, sag, dangle. Was thrown off his legs by a snaking rope, fell hard and painful on the deck – and heard dreadful screams. The deck shuddered under him. He pulled himself up, blood streaming from his neck, his head singing.

  'Larboard battery! FIRE FIRE FIRE!'

  A stunned, lagging moment, then:

  BOOM BOOM BOOM-BOOM

  James stumbled to the rail, and saw that all but one of his carronade roundshot had fallen wide. That one shot had struck the tafferel of the mystery cutter, and done only minor damage.

  'Reload your guns! Reload!' Richard Abey's voice, in the waist. James turned groggily, glanced down at his shirt, and saw his whole left side soaked in blood, and his breeches spattered. He clutched at his neck, and felt the jagged end of a splinter. Tried to pull it free, felt a piercing jab of pain, and desisted. And now more screams, rending, desperate, horrible, rang across the deck – his deck, his ship, his people. Smoke drifted, and the sulphur stink of powder.

  Captain Rennie, in a crouch, half-covered by a drape of torn canvas: 'They are firing grape and roundshot in alternate guns, the bloody villains.' He scrambled nearer James, and reverted to the formal language of the quarterdeck. 'You are hurt, Mr Hayter. Ye'd better go below to Dr Wing.'

  'No, no, I am all right. It is a scratch on my neck, nothing more.' He turned, drew breath, and succumbed to a sudden wave of dizziness. Clutched at the rail, missed his grip, fell in a slewing tangle of arms and legs and lay still.

  Hawk, her helm untended, her mainsail slumped and unfit to harness the wind, lost way, fell off, and wallowed on the swell.

  Captain Rennie stood up, flung remnants of canvas aside, and bellowed:

  'I am assuming command! Boatswain, there!'

  No answer. More tortured screams from the waist, and forrard.

  'Boatswain!'

  Mr Abey came aft, his face laced with blood, his coat torn. He was limping. 'The boatswain is dead, sir. He was struck in the chest with grape, and fell.'

  'We must get Mr Hayter below, as soon as we are able. Where is the sailing master?'

  'I – I do not know, sir.' His voice cracking with shock. 'We have took an awful pounding forrard.'

  'We must reload, and take the fight to the enemy, damn his blood. I will take the helm. You will take charge of the gunnery.'

  But now in the moonlight they saw the black cutter swing smartly through the wind, mainsail haul, and come back at Hawk with a dreadful certainty of purpose. She bore down on the stricken vessel on the starboard tack, and let fly a further broadside. Flashes, thunderous detonations, smoke – and shattering damage.

  In a few seconds – slammed, battered, splinters flying the whole length of her – Hawk was further crippled, and a dozen men now lay dead and dying on her deck.

  Rennie rose again from a defensive crouch, felt himself gingerly all over, found no impediment, and saw the black cutter running away to the north in a coiling trail of powder smoke, virtually unscathed. Stared after her in wonder, fear, and rage, and muttered – to anyone and no one:

  'That ain't the Lark. That is bloody Beelzebub . . .'

  Cloud slid silent across the moon, became a ragged silveredged screen, then snuffed out the light entire.

  Dr Bell stood at the bedside, and observed with baffled disbelief the strewn evidence of his patient's returned appetite. Sir Robert, propped up by cushions and pillows, was pale still, but no longer waxy. He pushed aside an empty dish on which a curled rind of bacon lay, and traces of egg yolk. He wiped his lips with his broad napkin, added the pits of various fruits to the empty dish, and reached for the tall coffee pot on the cabinet. By the pot lay a plate covered in toast crumbs and a halfconsumed roll of butter. Having filled his coffee cup, Sir Robert briskly rang a silver table bell, and his manservant appeared.

  'Hot water, Fender, and razor. I wish to rise.'

  'Rise, Sir Robert?' Dr Bell, raising his eyebrows. 'Are you sure that – '

  'In course I am sure, my dear Doctor.' A penetrating black glance. 'Your diagnosis was perfectly correct.'

  'Correct, Sir Robert . . . ?'

  'You said it was costiveness, and that was indeed the truth of it.'

  'Ah. Was it? Ah.'

  'I will not quite admit that you have cured me. However, you made up my mind for me. Costiveness, you said, and from that verdict has emerged the solution.'

  'Ah. – Yes?'

  'Indeed. A difficult, expulsive episode. Several such episodes, overnight. And now here you see me, restored.'

  'You – you took a purgative, Sir Robert?'

  'I did, Doctor.'

  'But – I did not give it you. I did not prescribe it.'

  'Nay, y'did not.' Throwing off the covers.

  'Then – then how – '

  'I had it by me.' A bleak smile, and he swung his legs round, and carefully stood up. 'And now I need trouble you no further, I think. Pray send your bill to me, will you? Good morning, Dr Bell.'

  The doctor bowed, and retreated to the door.

  'Fender! Ah, there you are, man. Have you brought my small looking glass?'

  'I have it with me, sir.'

  Sir Robert beckoned his valet impatiently. The servant brought a large ewer of hot water and poured it into the basin in a cloud of steam. From his apron he produced a small oval looking glass, and a razor, and placed them next to the basin.

  Sir Robert waved away steam, and peered at his reflection in the glass. He was gravely silent, then:

  'If I am to face the world, Fender, I must improve upon this.'

  'I should not fret, sir. When a gentleman is fresh-shaved he is always a new man, I find.'

  'Do you? Do you, indeed?'

  'Oh yes, sir.'

  'You have brushed my clothes?'

  'Everything is ready, sir, as always.'

  'My shoes?'

  'And your shoes, sir, yes.'

  'Tell me something, Fender, will you now? – Have you at any time . . . been married?'

  'Married, sir? Oh, no. Certainly not.'

  'You have never . . . contemplated that condition of life?'

  'Never, sir.'

  'You have never felt yourself drawn to a person of the . . . to a female person?'

  His servant regarded him blank-faced, drew breath, but felt himself unable to answer without embarrassment.

  'Oh, come. We are grown-up men. Let us not pretend. Young men – all men – are attracted to women, are not they?'

  Fender cleared his throat politely. 'Will you wish me to shave you, sir, this morning? Or will you like to shave yourself?'

  'I shall do it myself, thankee.' A black glance. 'Y'may go.'

  'Thank you, sir.' Fender bowed, and retired. To Mrs Reese, downstairs, he said: 'I ain't never seen him like this, I ain't. There is something strange a-going on in his head. He talked of women, for God's sake. At his time of life.'

  'It is the purgative I believe has caused it, it has discommoded him,' said Mrs Reese. 'He has ate two full breakfasts, that never in usual took more than coffee, in the forenoon.'

  'But women? At his age?'

  Mrs Reese pursed her lips, and gla
nced at the valet. 'Gentlemen ain't dead, you know, until they are dead. That is entirely certain.'

  Lieutenant Hayter woke in his cot in a small, nearly bare room at the Haslar Hospital. For a moment or two he believed that he was in his bed at the Marine Hotel at Portsmouth, and that his wife Catherine had gone into the annexe, perhaps to admit a maid with a tray. And now he heard a manservant address him.

  'Mr Birch will be up directly, sir.'

  'Mr Who-is-it?'

  'Mr Birch, sir, that has come to see you reg'lar these past sev'ral days, he has.'

  'Why should he do that, I wonder? In my bedroom?' James sat up, and found himself oddly stiff in his movements. His head ached. Had he drunk too much wine last evening? The manservant was not dressed as he should be, thought James, peering at him.

  'I think you has forgot where it is you presently lie, sir. In an upper room at the Haslar.'

  'What? Where is my wife? – Catherine!'

  'Here is Mr Birch now, sir.' The man withdrew, and Captain Rennie came into the room, dressed in coat, waistcoat and breeches of plain civilian cut.

  'Good God, it is you, sir . . .' Surprised, bewildered, James raised a hand to his neck, and felt there a heavy bandage. He stared round the room, and the reality of his circumstances bore in upon him.

  'Am I ill? Am I injured? What has happened?'

  And Captain Rennie told him. He told him all of it – or nearly all – and when he had finished, James asked:

  'Where is she moored, did y'say?'

  'She ain't moored, James. Nay, she is presently in a slip at a private yard at Bucklers Hard. Blewitt's. She is to be surveyed there, as I understand it.'

  'D'y'mean – repaired?'

  'There is doubt, James, I fear, as to that.'

  James frowned at him, and the manservant – the hospital orderly – returned to the whitewashed room and threw open the uncurtained window. Rennie waited until the man had gone out.

  'The surveyor has been sent from Portsmouth Yard, a quarterman appointed by the Clerk of the Check. He will make his report in a day or two, and then . . .'

  'Yes . . . and then?'

  'It will be determined whether or no she can be saved, or must be broke up.'

  James's mouth came open a little as he stared at Rennie, then: 'Broke up?'

  'James – it would be as well for ye to seek out an advocate.'

  'Eh?'

  'If she is broke up, or sold out of the service – there will likely be a court martial.'

  'Good God.' James looked at the opened window, felt the breeze on his face, smelled the sea. 'I – I could be dismissed the service.'

  'Nay, James, never think that. Even was you found wanting – '

  'Found guilty, you mean.' Darkly.

  'Even if the court found against you, I do not think Their Lordships would be disposed to be harsh. Under the circumstances, they could well decide to make little of the court's findings.'

  'Circumstances?' An unsmiling laugh. 'The circumstances are that I was bested, sir, at sea, my cutter battered very heavy, and many of my people killed and wounded.'

  'Certainly, but I ask this. Will Their Lordships like to acknowledge openly that such an action was fought? In home waters? When we are not at war? When everything of this commission has been dealt with quietly, half-concealed, in the shadows? When the First Lord himself signed your instructions, and yet revealed very little of what lay behind this enterprise?'

  James was silent.

  'Naturally, given that you are confined here at the Haslar, I would in usual seek out an advocate in your behalf, but my own circumstances make that impossible. I am not here official. So far as the navy is concerned I am at home in Norfolk. When we brought Hawk in I straightway left her, and retreated into my private self. All that I have learned since has come from Dr Wing's intelligence, and from young Richard Abey.'

  James glanced at him, and remained silent a moment longer, then:

  'Are the wounded men cared for?'

  'Indeed, they are well cared for. And the dead was decently buried.'

  'That is well.' A breath. 'Where is Catherine?'

  'Catherine has gone home to Dorset, has not she, before we sailed? You wish her to return?'

  Another breath, deeper and more resolute. 'I wish to get out of this damned cot, and out of this place altogether.' Throwing off the covers, and making to rise. 'There is much to be done if I am to save myself, and my ship.' He began to unbutton and throw off his nightshirt.

  'Now then, Mr Hayter.' A voice from the doorway, and Dr Stroud came in, accompanied by the diminutive figure of Dr Wing. 'You will do very well to stay where ye are, if y'please.' The two medical men advanced and gently, deliberately, their faces brooking no demur, pushed their patient back on his cot, and drew up the covers round him.

  'You are not yet ready to leave us,' said Dr Stroud. Irongrey hair cut close to his scalp gave his long, strong face a severe appearance. His spectacles reflected the light from the window as he turned and nodded to Rennie. 'Captain Rennie, good day t'ye. What have you said to excite my patient so?'

  'I have said nothing.' Rennie, stoutly. 'Nothing above news of his wife.'

  'Ah, his wife.'

  'And, Doctor – please to call me "Mr Birch" as we agreed, hey?' Rennie was not going to allow himself to be put in his place in a naval setting, even by so eminent a physician as Stroud.

  'Ah yes, in course, Mr Birch.' A further inclination of his head, a hint of irony. 'We must not unmask you, not for a moment – even in private.'

  'I do not think you quite understand the gravity of my position.' Rennie, bristling. 'It ain't a matter for jest – '

  'Nor is the condition of my patient, sir.' Severely, and then he countered that severity with a brief smile. 'We are all concerned for him.'

  'Indeed.'

  'And should his wife be brought to him, d'y'think?'

  'Why not ask the patient himself?' said James now. 'He is here in the room, ain't he?'

  'In course he is, in course you are,' said Dr Stroud. 'Do you wish it, Mr Hayter?'

  'No, thank you, unless I am permitted to leave the hospital. I will not like to receive her here.'

  'I don't think that will be advisable, you know,' said Dr Wing, moving round the bed to stand on the other side. He took James's pulse, nodded once to Dr Stroud, and asked James to put out his tongue.

  'Eh? Why ain't it advisable? I am nearly hale again.'

  'Tongue – if you please.'

  James sighed, and put out his tongue. Dr Wing peered at it, made a face, and shook his head. 'Costive, I should say. What say you, Doctor?' Dr Stroud leaned, peered, and made a face of his own.

  'Costive,' he said. 'And he must be bled, don't you think so?'

  'Now then, look here,' began James in alarm. 'I will not like to be bled, merely because I am confined to this damned place, d'y'hear? Why am I not to be permitted to rise and dress, in least, and take the air? Where the devil are my clothes?' To Dr Wing, accusingly.

  'Your shirt had to be cut off, and your waistcoat, that was very bloody. Your breeches, I fear, are similarly irrecoverable. It was not simply the large splinter in your neck, that came within half an inch of killing you, but other splinters that had penetrated the cloth up and down your person. Blood leaked from you in alarming quantity. You nearly died of that, leave aside the splintered wood. Had I not come to you when I did, I think we would not now be engaged in this happy conversation.'

  'Ah.'

  'Instead, we three here would have been required to stand beside your open grave, and listen to the gloomy tones of a clergyman, as he – '

  'Yes, yes, very well, I understand you, Thomas. Thank you. I am – I am very much obliged to you for saving my life.'

  'Never think of it. It is my proper work. Captain Rennie – that is, Mr Birch – will ye like to wait outside sir, or will you stay and observe?'

  'Observe?'

  'While I bleed the patient. Some men find it a matter of indifferen
ce. No doubt you are such a one, sir, since you have often to my knowledge witnessed dreadful blood-letting at sea, and terrible injury. You are welcome to stay at my side – '

  'Nay, nay, thankee, Dr Wing.' Hastily. 'I – I shall go out. I am in need of a little air, myself.'

  When Rennie had stepped out of the room, Dr Wing said to James: 'Perhaps, after all, I will not bleed you, James. That is, if you will undertake to remain quietly here in your cot a day or two longer.'

  And then James did agree, acknowledging that Dr Wing would not oblige him to be obedient simply out of a desire to impose his will, but on sound medical grounds alone. Dr Stroud now departed, saying that he must attend on his many other patients, among them several of Lieutenant Hayter's people.

  'There is a young ordinary seaman who will lose a leg, I fear. We must have it off this day, else lose the poor fellow himself to gangrene.'

  When he had gone, leaving James to think on those parting words, Dr Wing began to change the dressing on his neck. James allowed him to work, and then to examine his other bodily wounds, apply salve, and strap them up. When he was done, James thanked him, and:

  'Thomas, you are aware certainly of my difficulty. The longer I am detained here, the shorter grows the time I will have to restore my good name. My cutter is to be surveyed for damage, and very possibly condemned.'

  'So I had heard from young Mr Abey.' Nodding.

  'Either condemned, or sold out of the service. I need to discover the way to prevent such a calamity, Thomas. If she is broke up it is the same as losing her at sea, and I shall face a court martial, and the end of my career.'

  'What can I do to help?'

  'You can persuade Dr Stroud to release me.'

  'Nay, James, you have just now agreed that we detain you here for good sound medical reason.' Beginning to be agitated, and vexed.

  'Yes, yes, so I did. But I wonder – if I did rise today, and got myself dressed, and went out into the air, and the world, and walked about a little, and perhaps took a ferry a short distance, and so forth . . . would I die, d'y'think?'

  'I do not think you would die, exact. You would likely set yourself back, however. You would likely make my care of you infinitely harder, and longer, if your wounds should begin to bleed, or grow infected.'