‘Where am I to steer, Captain?’ Dryden asked.
‘We will go to Bradley’s aid.’ Hayden raised a hand and pointed forward, where the sterns of the two frigates could be seen. ‘We will run up to larboard of the French frigate and open fire.’
Hayden looked across the deck and found Smosh helping Barthe to his feet. The sailing master swooned and would have fallen but Smosh took him up, and, unaided, crossed the slanting deck and bore him below. Even confused as he was, Hayden knew this was no easy feat, as Barthe was a substantial man.
Archer came up then, fixing an inquisitive gaze on Hayden. ‘Are you injured, Captain Hayden? You appear… bewildered, sir.’
Hayden made an effort to speak with precision and clarity. ‘As are we all who were on deck when the frigate exploded.’ Hayden glanced up and saw there was still a marine either dead on unconscious in the tops. He pointed. ‘Send some men aloft to bring that marine down. All of his fellows were blown out of the tops and into the sea. I would go back but we will never find them, even if they lived, and Bradley has need of us. I am more angry than I can say that we abandon our own people to rescue Bradley, who should never have been prize hunting on convoy duty to begin with.’ Hayden looked up again. ‘Find Mr Franks. We will need to bend our spare topsails. How many men have we who can work the ship?’
‘All of the men on the gundeck were untouched, sir. But the men who were above deck are either injured or… stunned, sir.’
‘Yes, let us hope we all recover quickly. I’m better, Mr Archer, you needn’t look so concerned. You will not require Saint-Denis to take my place. We need to put our rig to rights and bend sails.’
Archer nodded, satisfied that Hayden was still in his right senses, and went off gathering a party of top-men. There was much work to be done aloft, for the explosion and the subsequent debris had played the devil among their rig. Franks could now be seen hobbling about, giving orders, securing the loose falls of ropes. Chettle and his mates were abroad with their tool boxes, mending here, lending a hand there. It was as though the crew had been all asleep and were just now stirring to find much to be done.
Hayden realized his shoulder and head throbbed from being hurled across the deck. He raised his arm and moved it in a painful circle. He could not turn his neck without a stabbing pain. A small price to pay. Two hundred-some French sailors had lost their lives in the blink of an eye. Perhaps there might have been a few survivors – men high in the rigging blown clear – but they would perish in a quarter of an hour in the icy sea.
Men were being carried down to Griffiths, who had retreated to the cockpit again. Some could walk with a little aid, but others were carried, some senseless, others appearing half awake, but dumb and not responding to the entreaties of their fellows.
Wickham appeared, sheet of paper in hand. ‘I am not finished with my muster, Captain, but it seems we lost nine marines out of the tops and three seamen who were aloft. It was the greatest good fortune that Mr Hawthorne had only just reached the deck when the frigate exploded or we would have lost him as well.’
‘And yourself, Mr Wickham?’
‘Good as gold, sir. I had ducked down to retrieve a dropped glass, sir, so was behind the barricade at the time. A bit of good luck.’
‘Indeed. Have you counted the men in the sick-berth?’
‘I have, sir, but the doctor is sending them out as they regain their reason. Most were merely stunned for a few moments and are recovering quickly. A landsman named Sterling was thrown into a gun, sir, and appears to have broken his collarbone. And the marine brought down from aloft was smashed against the mast and has only just come to his senses. Appears he has broken an arm.’
‘I am sad for the marines, but I fear they drowned before they could have regained their reason.’ Hayden shook his head.
An odd look came over Wickham’s face. ‘The Frenchmen who were thrown clear – did you see them, sir? They were, all of them, unclothed. Or perhaps I was bewildered a moment and did not realize?’
‘No, I saw it as well. I have heard of it before, men so near an explosion their clothes are torn off by the violence of it. What is more peculiar than that?’ Hayden had a sudden vision of the pale men, bobbing in the rising sea – like a nightmare.
Turning his attention to the French frigate, Hayden made his way forward and ordered the starboard chase gun readied. Not too far off he could see Bradley sailing for the transport fleet, the French frigate on his larboard beam. They fired at one another with deck guns, to little effect as the motion of the ships was now so violent upon the rising sea.
‘I think we should fire a shot at the Frenchman, Mr Morris,’ Hayden said to the gun captain. ‘Let him know we are here.’
‘Aye, sir. It will be a miracle if we hit her, sir.’
‘Perhaps, but let us make our presence felt.’
The gun was hastily aimed and, as the bow passed over a crest, fired. Hayden peered through a glass his servant had brought him, and could just make out the French officers upon the quarterdeck, staring back. Three more shots were fired at Bradley, and then the French ship sheered off, and ran towards the north-east. For a moment there was silence, and then the distant echo of a gun, and then another. The two seventy-fours were not finished yet.
‘Pass the word for Mr Archer,’ Hayden ordered, and scanned the sea in all directions.
The convoy was spread over a large area of ocean and was in danger of scattering. He could see the transports labouring in the growing gale, men aloft reducing sail. They should have come about onto the offshore tack before the wind had grown so strong, but there had been no one to make the decision, as Pool and Bradley were both prize hunting. Bradley would have to order it now, and hope all the ships could wear safely. Hayden guessed the fleet would need to heave to immediately after wearing, and ride the gale out, trusting no French squadron could reach them in this weather.
Debris dotted the seas to the west, all of it doused now, and beyond it, a dark, threatening horizon.
Archer approached, touched his hat and waited.
‘House the guns. Call all hands to prepare for this ill weather. Have the helmsman bring us into Bradley’s lee, and find me Mr Barthe’s speaking trumpet. I will have a word with Captain Bradley.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Archer went off at a run, calling out orders as he went. Removed from the command of Captain Hart, the lieutenant was showing an uncharacteristic interest in his profession. Hayden was very gratified to see it.
It took a few moments for them to overtake the Syren, and when they finally did Hayden was distressed to see the damage that had been wreaked upon her. Her rig was torn apart, her sails cut to rags and her hull and deck had been shot through in many places.
Hayden took Barthe’s speaking trumpet and called out to the officers on the quarterdeck. ‘Where is Captain Bradley?’ Hayden called. ‘We have much to do if we are to preserve our convoy.’
‘Captain Bradley is dead, sir,’ a lieutenant called back. The man stood at the rail, his jacket torn, face powder-stained, his manner entirely distressed. ‘Had you come but a little sooner you might have preserved his life for he was killed by one of the Frenchman’s last shots.’
‘I am very sorry to hear it,’ Hayden called through the trumpet. ‘We were almost thrown upon our beam-ends by the explosion. Our sails were blown away and we lost many of our own people. I could not reach you sooner. We must signal the convoy to wear, and collect them on the offshore tack. If this gale lasts a few days they could come to grief as they are.’
‘Captain Pool is in charge of this convoy, Mr Hayden, and if he does not return Captain Bradley has given command to me.’
Hayden could not quite believe his ears. ‘Captain Bradley has no business giving the command of the fleet to a lieutenant. I am the senior officer here.’
‘You were a lieutenant yourself but a few weeks past. Neither Captain Pool nor Captain Bradley had faith in your abilities, for so they both stated. I will
obey the orders of my captain.’
‘Sir, we have no time to argue. We must preserve our convoy. I will order them to wear and heave to on the offshore tack.’
‘No, sir. It was just this kind of malingering that Captain Pool wished to avoid. We shall not heave to but force our way on. I will not end up back in Plymouth because of foul weather.’
Saint-Denis appeared by Hayden’s side.
Hayden spoke to him quietly. ‘Man the starboard battery, quietly. We will open the starboard gunports and run out the guns.’
‘You cannot be serious.’
‘I am deadly serious. This is mutiny and I will not stand for it. They cannot open ports on this tack, but we can… just. Do it now.’
Saint-Denis did not move. ‘Mr Hayden, I must protest at this action.’
‘Mr Archer!’ Hayden called.
‘I will do it,’ Saint-Denis, said, ‘but I wish it noted in the log that I protested.’
‘Noted.’
Hayden raised the speaking trumpet. ‘What is your name, sir?’
‘Cole. I am acting captain of the Syren.’
‘Lieutenant Cole, I consider your refusal to obey orders as mutinous. I demand you comply or I will be forced to take action against your ship. Do you understand?’
‘You would not dare, sir! I will see you court-martialled.’
Hayden turned to Gould. ‘Have Mr Saint-Denis open ports and run out the guns.’
‘Aye, sir.’ The boy ran off.
Even with the ringing in his ears Hayden heard the ports open and the sound of gun carriage wheels.
‘Mr Cole!’ Hayden called. ‘Will you comply with my orders?’
The men on the Syren backed from the rail, looking one to the other. Cole conferred with his fellow officers, urgently.
‘This is not an idle threat, sir!’ Hayden called. ‘I will fire into you.’
Cole broke away from his fellows. ‘I will comply. But I will have your coat when we reach Gibraltar. And that is no idle threat.’
Hayden turned away from the rail. ‘House the guns,’ he ordered. ‘Make sail. Mr Wickham, we must signal the convoy to wear, leeward ships first. Then signal McIntosh to draw near. I will have him relay my orders lest they are misapprehended. I will also make certain he understands who gives the orders until Captain Pool returns.’ Hayden looked about. ‘This gale is going to become a great deal worse before this day grows old. I am certain of it.’
Seven
Three days the gale lived, forcing the convoy slowly west-north-west. Hayden and the other escorts had all they could manage to keep the ships together, and even then they tended to disperse by night. Two transports lumbered into one another in the midst of a squall, one so heavily damaged that her crew was taken off before she foundered. Hayden had watched her fall beneath the waves, jade sea washing over her decks, and then only her masts thrusting up, the banner at the truck flicking once, like a whip, before sounding. Hayden imagined her gliding, ever so slowly, down onto the hidden, lightless mud of the Atlantic floor.
The escort captains and the masters of the transports all worked mightily to keep the convoy together when the ocean tried to tear them apart. Cole played his part but Hayden could almost feel the man simmering upon his distant ship. No doubt he was hoping for Pool’s return that he might have immediate redress – and Hayden feared, given Pool’s opinion of his character, that he would comply only too happily.
Finally the wind dwindled, and left the ships pitching and rolling awkwardly upon an unquiet sea. A liquid sun wavered up through a distant mist to deliver a surprisingly warm day. ‘Drying out’ turned the ship into a laundress’s nightmare. Hayden ordered the captains of the escorts to attend him, and watched the approaching cutters water-spider over the low swell.
In the course of half an hour all four officers heaved themselves over the Themis’s rail, piped shrilly aboard by Mr Franks, who, to judge by his manner, appeared prepared to fire into any of their ships if even the slightest sign of disrespect was offered to his captain.
Hayden seated the officers and his first lieutenant around the newly acquired table but chose to stand at the head, gallery windows to his back, an unseasonally fair Biscay day glittering beyond. The irregular thumping and calling of men repairing the ship and renewing her rig filtered down the skylight, open to the warm, damp day. A gull swung by the stern windows, casting a slick shadow across the cabin sole and up over the faces of the gathered men.
All five appeared pasty-faced from fatigue, the strains of keeping the convoy together and afloat through the gale showing, but only Cole appeared sullen. He had cornered Saint-Denis upon coming aboard, a whispered conversation of such familiarity ensuing that there could be little doubt the two lieutenants shared a previous acquaintance.
Hayden cleared his throat, and when everyone’s attention turned to him, began, ‘Thank you all for attending so promptly –’
Cole snorted. ‘And what choice had we? We should have been fired into had we refused.’
Hayden noticed that the other men did not nod or show signs of agreement. They, at least, accepted the necessity of Hayden assuming command.
‘I am still hopeful that Captain Pool will find us,’ Hayden continued, ‘but until such time we must make our own preparations. My midshipman is certain he saw a schooner hurrying north the morning we first perceived the French frigate. If it returns with a French squadron we will be in a bad situation – especially if Captain Pool does not happen upon us.’ Hayden hesitated only a second, wondering if he should offer his plan as a suggestion, and hear the opinions of others, or if he should state it as the course of action he had chosen. A brief look around at the attentive faces and the single resentful countenance made up his mind. ‘The French will expect us to take the most direct route that weather will allow and shall seek us upon that course. For that reason we shall shape our course out into the Atlantic, at least thirty leagues, and proceed to Gibraltar so.’
‘Have you not considered, Captain Hayden,’ Cole asked, ‘that such a course of action will make it exceedingly unlikely that Captain Pool shall ever discover us? Or perhaps that is your intention?’
‘Mr Cole, my intention is to preserve the convoy and to proceed to Gibraltar with all speed. We are, however in a difficult situation, now; we have lost our most powerful ship. Our best hope lies in not being discovered by the French. There are few other courses open to us.’
Heads nodded again.
‘If I may, sor,’ McIntosh said, his manner unaltered from their previous gathering. ‘Perhaps we should disguise some few of our transports as armed vessels. We count in our convoy a number of ships of the very type the Admiralty have, even recently, purchased and armed for just such employment. I am certain we can obtain enough uniforms to outfit their quarterdecks and then impress sailors from the other ships to give them numbers enough to speed their sail handling. They may not quite match our own vessels for sharpness, but they might fool a Frenchman.’
‘I had considered this, Captain McIntosh, but wondered if such a commonly used ploy would not be too easily detected. The French might take this as an indication of our true strength and be emboldened.’
Stewart leaned a little forward, better to be seen. ‘If we could keep our Trojan Horses distant from any French ships that appear it might answer, Captain Hayden.’
Hayden was uncertain of the descriptor ‘Trojan Horses’ but not unimpressed by the argument. ‘So it might,’ Hayden conceded. ‘Let us enter three of our transports into the Royal Navy, temporarily. This was your idea, McIntosh; will you see it done?’
‘I will, sor, if I might beg some old uniforms from yourselves – enough to outfit the quarterdeck of each ship.’
The other officers nodded, even Cole agreeing at least on this – though Hayden suspected it was because the idea had not come from him.
‘I shall write a letter and have copies enough made to send to each master. Best they understand our intentions perfectly. We wil
l continue as we are; Captain Stewart shall remain whipper-in, McIntosh will convey messages and relay signals. Captain Cole, I shall ask you take up the rear position, and Jones, you shall assume the forward. I will remain to weather where the Syren will join me if the French appear. Let us hope that a wind will find us this day and allow us to make some westing.’
Transports were selected to masquerade as His Majesty’s ships and some other small business quickly concluded before the officers returned to their vessels.
Hayden took the deck to see the captains off and stood at the rail watching their boats lurch back to their respective vessels. The Themis’s cutters were dispatched to carry Hayden’s letter to each captain and to enquire of any damage from the recent gale – the calm was too fortuitous not to be used. Mr Franks and Mr Chettle were sent off in the ship’s barge to aid the vessel that had survived the collision and two injured men were sent aboard the Themis and into the care of Dr Griffiths. All in all there was much coming and going among the vessels of the convoy.
Surrounded by attentive midshipmen, Mr Barthe took the noon sight and reported their position, which had not been precisely known for the three days of the gale, though Hayden was pleased to see that the master’s dead-reckoning had not been far off the mark.
‘How fare you, Mr Barthe?’ Hayden asked him.
The sailing master pressed an open hand against the small of his back, having suffered some hurt when hurled across the deck by the explosion.
‘My poor old frame was not made for such gymnastic manoeuvres, Captain, but it mends. Does your ear heal?’
‘It causes no pain at all, Mr Barthe; bless your kindness for asking. The doctor assures me my hearing will return, by and by, though for the time being my good ear is doing the duty of two.’
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