A Battle Won

by Sean Thomas Russell

  The other captains glanced slyly one to the other. Faint Hart’s crew, it seemed, had a reputation that its recent endeavours had not yet erased.

  Thirty-one transports made up the convoy along with Pool’s seventy-four, Bradley’s Syren, a twenty-six-gun frigate, and four other vessels – two schooners, an armed brig and, to Hayden’s dismay, the Kent. Her captain, a lieutenant recently promoted to master and commander, stood across the table from Hayden. He could have been a school mate of Wickham’s he displayed such a youthful appearance. A little smile of happiness would spread over his face at times, to be chased away by mock seriousness.

  He is utterly thrilled to be here, among his elders, Hayden realized, but they are men of experience – he is playing at war.

  ‘I understand your little schooner is a flyer, McIntosh?’

  ‘She is that, sor,’ McIntosh answered, unable to hide his pride.

  ‘Then you will carry my signals throughout the convoy when the weather is too close for them to be clearly seen.’

  ‘I will, sor.’ McIntosh, whom Hayden knew slightly, had been even more recently made master and commander, despite being a few years older than Hayden and most of his life at sea. It was always surprising to realize there were officers in His Majesty’s Navy with less interest even than he.

  Pool gazed down at the chart of Biscay, as though the hidden positions of privateers and French cruisers could be made out if one but stared long enough. His right hand rose automatically and massaged his temple in gentle, circular motions.

  ‘I will station the Kent to the west – probably to windward. Do not be alarmed, Jones; although French cruisers would almost certainly attack from windward, I expect to meet only small privateers and they will be on the lookout for stragglers, and position themselves to leeward and aft of the convoy. Captain Bradley shall take the leeward position, in Syren.’ He glanced up at the others. ‘In truth, gales shall be our greatest enemy. If the fleet is driven to leeward and any appreciable number of ships separated from it they will be in real danger of becoming prizes.’ He straightened and looked quickly around the gathered captains, his eye meeting that of each man in turn. ‘I have made myself clear, I hope?’

  Nods and sounds of agreement.

  ‘Hayden, if you would stay a moment, I wish to speak with you.’ He nodded to the others. ‘Keep a sharp watch for my signals, obey them without hesitation, and, God willing, we shall raise Gibraltar in a fortnight.’

  Shoes clattered on the wooden deck as the captains made their way out, each more gracious than the other insisting this officer or that go first. Pool watched them leave, his gaze thoughtful. He could stand beneath the greater deck beams, making him five feet and perhaps nine inches (Hayden, by contrast, could only stand between the beams). Women, Hayden guessed, would find him a handsome man, dark-haired and dark-eyed, face well formed, though slightly marked by the smallpox – less than many. An athletic manner of moving and build gave him great presence in a room. A man not to be trifled with, that was certain.

  ‘I will be perfectly candid, Hayden, and tell you that I would rather have a post captain in command of your frigate. I know you were Hart’s first lieutenant, but I expect you to take your place in the convoy and not to shrink from enemy ships, no matter their rate or weight of broadside. Is that understood?’

  Hayden felt his ears and neck suddenly flush with heat. ‘Perfectly, sir. And let me say that I was Hart’s lieutenant for a few weeks only. Before that I was Captain Bourne’s senior lieutenant, and he would be the first to tell you that I am neither fearful to meet the enemy nor lacking competence in the management of my ship.’

  The look on Pool’s face, barely controlled outrage, told Hayden that he had spoken out of turn.

  ‘Did I ask you for a history of your service, Hayden?’

  ‘You did not, sir.’

  ‘No, I did not. But I will ask you why Bourne, a captain very senior to me on the list, has command of a frigate, only? Why has he never been put into a seventy-four or a flagship?’

  ‘He has turned them down, sir,’ Hayden responded, jumping to his friend’s defence. ‘The first lord knows that he was made to be a frigate commander. The day Captain Bourne is given his pennant will be a great loss to the service – though he will make a very fine admiral, I am sure.’

  ‘He will never fly his flag, Hayden, believe me.’ Pool’s voice and manner altered but a little, the edge of outrage replaced by something else – firm conviction and a touch of concern. ‘The day Bourne leaves frigates will be his last day of active duty. Men like Bourne do not understand the workings of the Navy. He has condemned himself, foolishly, to a brief career, for he has never once proven himself capable of more.’ Pool shook his head in something like frustration. ‘I will grant Bourne his well-advertised bravery, and I hope this example has been well and truly learned by you.’

  ‘I will not disappoint you, Captain.’

  ‘Then be off to your ship,’ Pool responded, not unkindly. ‘We make sail immediately.’

  On deck Hayden found Jones lingering by the rail, and when he saw Hayden he crossed to him immediately. ‘It seems, Captain Hayden,’ Jones began, ‘that I have been given a ship meant for you. I was much concerned for any wound this might have caused, but see you have been put into a frigate. My congratulations!’

  ‘I am conveying her to Lord Hood, who will find her a post captain. But do not concern yourself. I hold no grudge against you for the actions of admirals and higher officials.’

  ‘Very decent of you.’ Jones paused. ‘Have you been on convoy before?’

  ‘Oftener than I would like. Yourself?’

  ‘One or two, in the North Sea. Rather boring business, commonly. I expect this will be the same… but for the weather, perhaps.’

  ‘I am sure that boredom, in this case, is a wish common to us all.’

  ‘Oh, not at all, Captain Hayden,’ Jones informed him. ‘Captains Pool and Bradley are hoping they might have the opportunity to take a prize!’

  Hayden smiled. ‘I am quite certain they were jesting.’

  The man looked slightly offended. ‘Not in the least were they jesting. They have both taken a number of prizes this year – small ones, admittedly – but they are hoping for greater things. I’m quite certain they meant every word.’

  Hayden went down into his cutter wondering what kind of people he had fallen in with; the commodore thought him a coward for no reason other than his service with Hart, and it seemed Pool and Bradley believed themselves on a cruise.

  ‘He has mistaken you for Landry,’ Hawthorne responded when Hayden related his meeting with Pool.

  ‘Perhaps, but I fear too many within the service have heard only Hart’s tale of our cruise and not got it from some more reliable source.’

  A knock on the door of the great cabin and then Archer thrust his head in at Hayden’s bidding.

  ‘We are ready to weigh, sir.’

  ‘I shall be on deck directly,’ Hayden replied. He retrieved a hat from his lovely table, and went out and up the stairs, stopping only for an instant on the gundeck to be sure that all the men were in their places.

  ‘It is a relief to see men both ready and willing to perform their duties,’ Hawthorne said as they ascended the ladder to the deck.

  ‘I was thinking the same.’ Hayden could not help but remember the day in Plymouth when half the crew had all but refused to sail. How many lives that might have preserved had they been successful? And why were they not? Because Hayden had intervened and convinced the men to sail, preserving Hart’s command and leading to all that followed. Performing one’s duty should not be so fraught with ambiguity.

  Hayden quickly surveyed the gathered convoy, a collection of ships of every size and shape. They anchored in no particular order, all streaming to a faint nor’east breeze, like so many horses straining at their tethers. Signals fluttered aloft on the flagship, visible against a dull sky.

  ‘We have permission to weigh and
make sail.’ Hayden turned to Saint-Denis. ‘Take her out, Lieutenant, if you please.’

  Saint-Denis touched his hat, his most charming smile in place – a smile that Hayden was already coming to detest. ‘This is an excellent opportunity for Archer to perform this duty, Captain. But I shall watch over his shoulder and be certain that everything is done handsomely. You needn’t be concerned for a moment about Archer’s inexperience.’

  Before Hayden could respond, Saint-Denis had gone off calling for Archer.

  Hawthorne, who had been standing but a few feet away, glanced over at Hayden, his eyebrows raising only a little. A slow fuse of anger had been lit in Hayden’s breast.

  At that moment a cutter under sail drew near. ‘Ahoy, Themis!’ her coxswain called. ‘Post.’

  Sitting in the stern-sheets by the coxswain was Griffiths’s assistant, Ariss, a number of packages balanced in his lap. The post came over the rail with the surgeon’s mate.

  ‘Will you open it, Mr Hawthorne?’ Hayden asked. ‘Saint-Denis’s summons might be within.’

  ‘God willing,’ the marine lieutenant muttered. Hawthorne opened the bag and began quickly sorting through letters and packages. ‘Here is a letter for him… and another.’

  The first lieutenant had paused on the gangway and was looking back towards the quarterdeck, his attention captured by the call of mail. Hayden motioned to him and Saint-Denis jogged quickly back.

  ‘Letters for you, Lieutenant.’

  Saint-Denis took them from Hawthorne with barely a nod, and walking away a few feet tore open the first. He read, squinting at the creamy square, then turned his back before opening the second. There was no mistaking the fall of his shoulders, his long arms dropping away, the letters shivering loosely in the muted breeze. Hastily he shoved them into his coat, a long-fingered hand massaging his brow absently, then he walked silently back down the gangway to observe the anchor being catted, his buckled shoes making no sound.

  ‘Apparently he has not been recalled to glory,’ Hawthorne whispered.

  ‘No. Davies has very deftly avoided command of the Themis and shed his first lieutenant in the same stroke.’

  ‘His cunning is almost admirable,’ Hawthorne said.

  ‘Isn’t it, though?’

  Hayden walked forward a little, watching his crew work. The new men were fitting in well, and Franks was unable to find a soul to start, but limped about flexing his rattan and scowling threateningly. Forward, Wickham was explaining the evolutions to the new midshipman, pointing here and there, Gould attentive to his every word and gesture. Archer quietly gave orders to Mr Barthe and Franks that were passed along sharply to the men. The somnolent lieutenant appeared surprisingly confident, even cheerful.

  To avoid thirty ships all weighing at once, Pool had ordered the most leeward ten to make sail to be followed immediately by the next decade, and then the last eleven. Tor Bay was crowded and they would more easily make their sailing formation – the transports in a rough square surrounded by their escorts – out in the Channel.

  Mr Barthe came and stood by him, speaking trumpet under his arm.

  ‘My compliments to you and Mr Franks.’ Hayden nodded to the sailing master. ‘The hands appear to know their business very well.’

  ‘They will take a fair amount of working up, sir,’ Barthe allowed, ‘but we will make a crew of them, yet. Like many who have not served in His Majesty’s Navy, they show a marked increase in enthusiasm when we exercise the guns, but they have yet to fire a single shot.’

  ‘I think they will make a crack crew, Mr Barthe. In fact, I have no doubt of it. We are short a lieutenant and a middy or two but we will make do. I believe I shall promote Wickham to acting third lieutenant. Do you think he can manage it?’

  ‘He is already more competent than several lieutenants I have sailed with.’ Barthe did not glance toward Saint-Denis, though he did not need to. ‘But he is barely sixteen – three years shy of the age such responsibilities would normally be given.’

  ‘If I had a midshipman of eighteen or nineteen years I would give the position to him, but we are deficient in several ways – a mere master and commander for a captain, one lieutenant short, fewer middies than I would like, a ship no captain will take, and a crew no one will have. What am I to do?’

  Barthe laughed. ‘When you state it so, Captain, I cannot argue. It is Mr Wickham for third lieutenant.’

  ‘I am pleased you agree.’

  Sail was made with an alacrity that pleased Hayden even more, and the frigate gathered way and set out into the Channel. Much of a fair wind was wasted forming up the transports, but finally the convoy shaped its course down-Channel and for the distant ocean. Sail was soon reduced to allow them to keep pace with the slowest transport – the vessel that would set the speed for their passage, which, despite Pool’s constant signals to make all sail, was going to be very slow indeed.

  Leaving Archer as officer of the watch, Hayden went below to his cabin. Passing by the scuttle over the gunroom he heard laughter and conversation within and imagined Hawthorne pouring wine for all and sundry. His cabin seemed both empty and damply cool when he entered, despite the lamps his servant had lit. For a moment he stood in the centre of this vast space – many times the size of his cabin off the gunroom – and felt a strange sense of separation.

  ‘You aspired to it,’ he muttered aloud, then peeled off his coat and hung it on the back of a chair. The ship heeled but little to the small wind, bobbing over the short sea kicked up by flooding tide and outbound wind.

  The marine sentry let his servant in and Hayden asked for coffee.

  The sentry made a knuckle and cleared his throat as the servant passed. ‘One of the men asked me give you this,’ he said, holding out a sodden square of paper. ‘He found it on the deck, sir.’

  Hayden took the sheet of paper and held it up to the light. The ink had blotted and run over most of what was apparently a letter and was only barely legible here and there.

  … ese debts, accrued against my express wishes, will not be honour…

  And then, near the bottom,… make your own way in th…

  Hayden attempted no more, but sent for Saint-Denis. The lieutenant arrived a moment later, his colour high, from drink, no doubt.

  ‘You wished to see me, sir.’

  Hayden proffered the sodden letter. ‘This was found on the deck. I wondered if it might belong to you?’

  Saint-Denis took the letter, glanced at it, folded it quickly and hid hands and letter behind his back. ‘Does everyone aboard know what it says, then?’

  Hayden shook his head. ‘The man brought it to me because he could not read, and it is all but blotted, anyway.’

  Neither knew what to say.

  Saint-Denis looked like a man who had been told his wife had died. ‘No flagship, it seems,’ he said, attempting a little self-mockery.

  Hayden shrugged, unsure how to respond.

  Saint-Denis nodded – at the ship, Hayden guessed. ‘Only this.’

  ‘It is possible to work one’s way up through the service without interest.’

  ‘As you have done?’

  Hayden tried to muzzle his offence at this remark. ‘It is not the quickest route, I admit, but still possible… for a competent officer who distinguishes himself.’

  ‘Good to learn it is not hopeless. Will there be anything more, Captain?’

  ‘Yes. One thing.’ Hayden paused to choose his words. ‘When I give you an order, I do not expect you to pass the duty on to Archer. You will perform it. Do you understand?’

  Saint-Denis gazed back at him with ill-concealed resentment. ‘I am the first officer. Am I expected to scamper aloft and take in sail?’

  Hayden’s not inconsiderable temper flooded up. ‘You know precisely to what I refer. If you do not feel equal to the duties of first lieutenant, please tell me so. I am quite certain Archer can perform them competently.’

  The man shook his head, glancing away. ‘That will not be necessa
ry.’

  ‘As we are short a lieutenant, I will have to ask you to stand watch. Wickham will be acting third until a new officer is sent aboard. That will be all.’

  Saint-Denis went stiffly out, the sound of his footstep echoing back through the door, as the soles of his shoes bumped slowly down the stairs, stopped, and then continued.

  Coffee arrived and the acting captain poured himself a cup with a hand trembling from anger.

  ‘Send word for Mr Wickham, if you please,’ he said to his servant. At least he would have good news for someone.

  The coffee, steaming and strong, had the effect of an elixir. It turned his mood and changed his view of the world. Wickham arrived and Hayden offered the youngster coffee.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ The boy sat expectantly, waiting to learn the cause of his summons. There was such a contrast between Wickham’s will to please and to excel in his duties and the character of Saint-Denis – a dilettante if Hayden had ever met one. Wickham would make his way in the service if his father were a tradesman. His connections were helpful but not necessary.

  ‘Can I assume, Mr Wickham, that if I offered to make you acting lieutenant you would not refuse?’

  ‘No, sir, I would not! Thank you, sir! It is a great honour.’

  ‘It is a great necessity. You are yet sixteen and should not be thrust into such a position for several years, but we have need of a lieutenant and I believe you will fulfil the position admirably.’

  ‘I will do everything within my power not to disappoint you, Mr Hayden. I mean Captain.’

  ‘I have no doubt. I regret you cannot have a cabin in the gunroom but the clergy have taken two. I’m sure you will be very welcome in the mess, however.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘How is our new middy adapting to life afloat? Not seasick, I hope.’

  ‘Not in the least, sir. No, he has a great store of knowledge about ships and the Navy, Captain. Far more than I could claim when first I came aboard. But then he has been around ships most of his life.’ Wickham paused. ‘His father is a bum-boat man.’

  Hayden was surprised. ‘He told you?’