A Battle Won

by Sean Thomas Russell

  Wickham approached then, to report on some repairs. Hayden informed them both of the decisions he had made and the response of the other captains, not mentioning the resistance from Cole, but did relate the man’s fears that setting out west would make it less likely that Pool would find them.

  ‘Cole has a point, Captain,’ Barthe agreed, ‘but it is still the right and proper thing to do. Pool has only his own rashness to blame for what occurred. Had he kept his place in the convoy we could have made a better defence, as our numbers were about equal, though the French frigates were heavier than our own. Still, I think we could have driven them off or held them at bay as long as you like.’

  Hayden decided on discretion, for a change, and passed over Mr Barthe’s opinion without comment.

  ‘Pool might find us, yet,’ Wickham stated. ‘He must realize that we would change our course to confuse the French.’

  Barthe glanced at Hayden, a silent comment on Wickham’s youth and trusting nature. Hayden suspected that Mr Barthe thought as he did – assuming Pool drove off the French seventy-four, he would spend as little time as possible trying to locate the convoy but make all speed to Gibraltar, blame whomever had assumed control of the convoy for changing its planned course, and then proceed to Toulon to join Hood. Losing his convoy Pool would consider the greatest possible blessing. The senior admiral might admonish him for giving up the search for his charges so easily, but no more would come of it. There would certainly be no court martial. And if Pool took or even substantially damaged the French seventy-four he would very likely be congratulated if not rewarded.

  Hayden climbed aloft, partly to inspect repairs in progress, thus saving poor Franks from making the journey with his injured foot, and partly to scrutinize the surrounding ocean. From the topmast trestle-trees he swept his glass slowly around the horizon. There was a faint, almost imperceptible dot of ruddy brown to the north-east – perhaps a sail, perhaps nothing at all.

  Hayden called down to the men working below him. ‘Pass the word for Mr Wickham, if you please.’

  A moment later the converted middy clambered up beside Hayden, who passed him his glass.

  Hayden reached out and indicated an unfortunately large area of the Atlantic. ‘Can you see that spot to the north-east, Mr Wickham? A sail, do you think?’

  Wickham supported the glass on a hand clutched to a stay. For a long moment he remained very still.

  ‘I believe it is a sail, Captain Hayden, but its nature and nationality are hidden from me. I can tell you this, though; that ship has wind.’

  ‘Damn! If the wind carries it up to us we must hope it is Pool. But perhaps the wind will fill in before then and bear us out to sea. I wonder if he has seen us? You cannot make out her point of sailing, can you?’

  Wickham raised the telescope again, gazed into its glassy depths for yet another moment, then shook his head. ‘I cannot, sir.’

  ‘Pass your duties on to Archer and remain here a while, if you please. I should dearly like to know in what direction that ship shapes her course.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  Hayden took back his glass and examined each vessel of his much dispersed convoy, all of them rising and falling slowly on the swell, some rolling more than they had any right to. They numbered thirty transports – losses remained a single ship to collision – but they still had many sea miles to go. A nod to Wickham, and Hayden climbed down, examining the rig as he went. The bosun, Franks, had been promoted unwarrantedly and then prevented from adequately learning his trade under his former captain, Hart. It was one of the many ways that Hart had found to oppress his crew; keep them in ignorance and yet abuse them for it whenever it pleased him. If not for Barthe and his mates the Themis would more than likely have lost a mast and, as it was, had required replacements for the main and mizzen that had sprung as a result of her badly maintained rig.

  Franks might have not warranted his position as bosun but, ever since Hayden had come aboard, had done everything within his powers to learn his trade. It was unfortunate that Franks learned but slowly, and with his broken foot was hampered from going aloft. Hayden was of half a mind to replace him but, given the man’s good service and loyalty on the recent cruise with the despicable Hart, could not bring himself to do it. In fact, he could see the bosun on the deck watching him – worried that Hayden might find some deficiency that his mates had not seen or of which they had not made him aware.

  Upon reaching the deck he found poor Franks hobbling along the gangway, his unsmiling face set against the pain.

  ‘There you are, Mr Franks. The cheek block of the main topmast-staysail requires your attention, as the housing is cracked. And the same sail will soon need its spring stay renewed; best do it now while there is no wind and little sea. Your mates are not keeping you informed of the state of the rig, Mr Franks, and that cannot continue.’

  Franks looked much abashed by this, his face flushing. ‘It is not willingly done, sir. It is their poor understanding of such matters.’

  ‘It is an area in which poor understanding cannot be indulged. Let us consider a resolution to this problem, Mr Franks. We will speak of it again. Carry on.’

  Franks went off calling testily for his mates, and snarling at two men who suddenly were not working with enough energy; his rattan snapped down on the shoulders of one.

  Hayden called for Mr Barthe and awaited him by the taffrail. The master came waddling stiffly along the deck, touching his hat as he approached.

  ‘Mr Barthe, we cannot continue as we are with Mr Franks. It is intolerable that we haven’t a proficient bosun.’

  Barthe became very serious upon hearing this. ‘Mr Franks is very attentive to his duties, Captain.’

  ‘And I would never suggest otherwise, but he has not yet mastered his trade, and that is not acceptable aboard a man-of-war.’

  ‘He has made great progress in his learning, sir. I have been witness to it myself.’

  ‘Yes, and if he were a bosun’s mate that would be commendable, but he is not.’

  Barthe made a sour face. ‘He will take it very hard, sir, if you send him back before the mast.’

  ‘I realize that, and it is not my intention – for whom would we replace him with? No, I intend to disrate Gordon, his mate, whom I would never have rated ‘able’ had I been in command. I will put a competent man in his place, which is why I am speaking of this with you. It is a great shame we do not have Aldrich to make bosun’s mate, but is there not some other you would recommend?’

  Barthe pressed a fleshy hand to his temple. ‘There are some competent seamen, sir – no doubt of it – but men that I could see one day as bosun…? It is a position that demands much and returns little.’

  ‘Would you give up Dryden for a three-month, Mr Barthe? By then, certainly, Mr Franks will be walking properly again and Dryden could do much to complete the education of both Franks and his mate, for though I shall remove Gordon I will leave Coffey in place. It is an imposition, I realize, but sacrifices must be made for the good of the ship.’ Hayden thought of Admiral Cotton as he said this, and not without a little embarrassment. Hayden had not been too keen on making sacrifices for the good of the service when the admiral had demanded it.

  Barthe considered this a moment. ‘Who will you give me to take his place?’ Barthe asked reluctantly.

  ‘Who would you have?’

  ‘Mr Gould,’ the master replied without hesitation.

  ‘Gould? He has barely got his boots wet. There must be some other who will fill the position more ably.’

  ‘Gould might be newly aboard, Captain, but I have never been witness to anyone learning so quickly. You never tell him a thing twice. By the time we reach Gibraltar, I swear, he will be quite ready to pass for lieutenant – but for his sea years, of course. I have never seen the like.’

  It was Hayden’s turn to hesitate.

  ‘To be a good officer he must be proficient in all the duties of the sailing master,’ Barthe pointed out.


  ‘Then you may have him, Mr Barthe, but he will remain a midshipman, only temporarily under you.’ Hayden considered a moment. ‘It will be a good education for him, I think. I will inform Mr Franks of our decision and you may speak with Dryden. I will pass the news to Gould as well.’ Hayden glanced out at the horizon where he and Wickham thought they had seen a sail.

  ‘Is it Captain Pool, do you think?’ Barthe enquired.

  ‘That is my hope, Mr Barthe.’

  ‘That is mine as well,’ Barthe responded, then touched his hat. ‘By your leave, sir.’ The sailing master made his way forward.

  A rumour of wind from the north reached them, a darkening ripple spread southward, breaking up the surface into an irregular chop. Drying sails grew restive, wafted uncertainly, filled, fell slack, then bellied, the ship coming to life with a sigh. The usual disorganized scramble ensued as the masters brought their transports onto the same heading. The convoy began to make its way out into the Atlantic.

  Very little time passed before Barthe had the men reducing sail to slow the Themis so the transports, heavily laden as they were, would not be left in their wake. Cole was signalled to tow the slowest of the transports – the Hartlepool – which had immediately fallen behind, to the fore of the convoy.

  ‘That tub will be the end of us, Captain,’ Barthe growled as he came onto the quarterdeck, waving stubby fingers towards the Hartlepool.

  ‘Nothing quite so dramatic, I hope, Mr Barthe, but she is going to slow our passage by several days.’ Hayden raised a glass and searched for the ‘smudge’ on the northern horizon.

  ‘Can you make her out, Captain?’ Barthe asked, the thinnest edge of anxiety entering his voice.

  ‘To be honest, I am uncertain.’ Hayden shaded his eyes and, looking up, called to the mizzen lookout. ‘Aloft there! Smithers. Can you make out a sail to the north?’

  Wickham had returned to the deck some time before and Hayden had to rely on the perception of others not so farsighted.

  ‘No, sir, Captain Hayden. She looked to be moving off to the east some time ago and now I cannot make her out at all.’

  ‘Well, that is good news, I think.’ Hayden turned to Barthe, who had now a glass trained on the distant north.

  The master lowered the brass tube. ‘Unless it was Pool.’

  ‘If it was he could not have failed to make us out. We could perceive him from a lower vantage than the tops of a seventy-four and we are many sail clumped together. Whoever it was they had no interest in us.’ Hayden stood a moment more staring towards the secret north, hoping his statement was true.

  The day wore on, the convoy making slow but certain progress westward. After a warm day the night arrived with an unexpected chill. A large, wooden frame was hauled aloft each night upon which lanterns could be lit in certain configurations to send signals to the convoy. It was an awkward bloody affair, too heavy by half, and heartily disliked by crew and officers. Hayden watched the men ready it for its journey up into the tops, the last light of a meagre sunset casting a cool, thin turquoise across the western horizon.

  ‘Man halyards,’ Mr Barthe ordered, overseeing the ascension himself. ‘Handsomely, Wilson. Handsomely!’

  Hayden turned away, took a single tour of the deck and then descended to his cabin. His steward, Castle, was lighting the lamps at that moment.

  ‘I will be a guest of the gunroom this evening, Castle, so you have an evening free.’

  The man nodded. He was not the oldest seaman aboard but was certainly twenty years Hayden’s senior, and had been at sea since he was a boy – an orphan, apparently. Words were not Castle’s medium, not if a nod or polite throat clearing would do. When he did dare speech it was whispered, halting, seeming wholly unfamiliar, as though he had only just learned, not just English, but any language, and was uncertain of its form. The man’s entire manner was so opaque that Hayden felt he did not know him at all, yet by his deeds he appeared good-hearted, even generous. ‘Slinking John’ the men called him, though his Christian name was Cyrus (if Cyrus qualified as a Christian name). Whenever Hayden spoke to him he appeared to draw back a little, without actually changing his position, and he listened like a man expecting, in truth knowing, that he would receive bad news.

  Slinking John’s place among the hands was difficult to understand. He shared a mess with Chettle and the carpenter’s mates, who appeared to accept him without judgement. The other older hands tolerated him, which led the younger men to vague imitation, and though they might have called him ‘Slinking John’ he was never mocked to his face – never bullied or practised upon. Being the senior officer’s steward, of course, granted him a certain immunity, even privileges, but even the captain thought him an odd presence – almost more animal than human. Griffiths once likened him to a good hound ‘that lurked about and occasionally fetched’. As a steward he was utterly efficient and unfailing but Hayden wished sometimes that he might learn to be a bit more human and less canine.

  ‘Rosseau knows I will not require dinner?’

  Again the man nodded. He waited a moment until Hayden dismissed him, and then went padding off.

  For a few blessed moments Hayden sat in his cabin, the day’s final light draining ever so swiftly from the eastern sky. The transition from daylight azure, through topaz, sapphire, indigo, violet then purple and finally inky black was a mystery he never tired of attempting to penetrate. Where did one colour begin and the other end? How could they bleed so seamlessly one to the other and alter so subtly that the eye could never really comprehend the moment of their transmutation?

  A respectful knock interrupted his contemplation of nature’s palette. Hayden called out for the marine to open the door.

  ‘Dr Worthing wishing to speak with you, sir,’ the marine said.

  ‘Send him in.’ So much for being a poet, Hayden thought. Blast.

  The look of sour injury that Worthing habitually wore was, if anything, more embittered and indicative of greater injury than usual. The man could press his lips together so that all blood appeared to be forced away, leaving them empty, hardened, thin.

  ‘Dr Worthing. I hope I may be of some service.’ In truth Hayden hoped the man would announce his complaint – petty as it might be – and be gone as quickly as possible.

  ‘Mr Hayden, I hope, sir, that you were not party to this… contempt for church and crown.’

  ‘And what contempt might we be speaking of, Doctor?’ Hayden asked innocently, sounding, he realized, too much like Smosh.

  ‘You do realize that you have a Jew among your officers…’

  ‘I do not. Of whom do we speak?’

  ‘Mr Gould, sir, as you well know.’

  ‘Mr Gould’s mother is a Christian from a Christian family. Gould has attended church all his life.’

  ‘His father is a Jew. I have it on good authority.’

  ‘And what authority is that?’

  But Worthing was not about to answer that question. ‘Do you deny it, Mr Hayden?’

  ‘No. In fact I do not, but the religion of Gould’s father is of no consequence. The Test Act requires only that Gould belong to the Church of England and I assure you he does.’

  ‘Well, I am not reassured. Has he taken the sacrament – publicly taken the sacrament?’

  ‘That is a question I cannot answer, Doctor, and nor is it a question I am prepared to ask.’

  ‘Not prepared to ask! Then I will ask it. I will see him take the sacrament before witnesses.’

  Hayden’s temper flared. ‘Not aboard my ship. Only the Admiralty has the right to impose such a demand – and you are not the admiralty.’

  ‘You refuse it?’ The man’s outrage attained new heights.

  Hayden levelled his gaze at the parson and spoke with a clarity and firmness that he hoped would carry all the weight of his conviction. ‘There will be, Doctor, no Inquisitions aboard my ship.’

  ‘And what of you, Mr Hayden? Do you refuse it? Are you yet a papist as the men are saying?’ />
  ‘I do not think it is a matter of concern to my crew – nor even a matter of interest.’

  ‘In that you are wrong, Mr Hayden.’

  ‘Dr Worthing, if you sow dissension among my crew I will confine you to your cabin for the duration of our passage.’

  ‘You would not dare! Do you not comprehend what the consequences would be?’

  ‘I comprehend what they would be if I did not. There has been one mutiny aboard this ship; there shall not be a second. Provoke my crew no more, or I shall be forced to –’

  Worthing interrupted this declaration. ‘I will not sit at table with a Jew.’

  ‘Then you may dine alone.’

  ‘I’m sure there are others who will join me.’

  ‘Not if they wish to remain officers aboard the Themis.’

  The two men stood, glaring at one another, their impasse complete. It infuriated Worthing beyond measure that he could not impose his will upon Hayden, and Hayden was not about to bend on a single measure, no matter how small. He had known Worthings before – petty tyrants; given a county they would demand a province. Worthing, unlike Hart, had only his ecclesiastical authority, which counted for very little aboard ship. ‘Thank God,’ Hayden almost added.

  The man stepped suddenly a little nearer. ‘I believe, Mr Hayden, that you are a papist and I will let this be known among my friends in the Admiralty.’

  ‘I am sure your influential friends within the Admiralty will be deeply shocked by such a revelation. The war against France will seem footling by comparison. No doubt all of their energies will be turned from defeating Britain’s enemies and focused where they should have been all along – on rooting out the secret papists and Jews in the Royal Navy.’ Hayden waited for the man to respond and when he did not said, ‘Do not come to me with such matters again.’

  For a moment Hayden thought Worthing would speak – or scream – but instead the man assumed the battered dignity of the solitary oppressed, and went almost silently out.

  Griffiths was standing beyond the door, no doubt awaiting his turn, and the marine hesitated, not certain whether to announce the doctor at such a juncture or not.