A Battle Won

by Sean Thomas Russell

  Smosh cleared his throat loudly, awaiting the cessation of ‘shushing’ with great forbearance.

  ‘O most powerful and Glorious Lord God, at whose command the winds blow,’ he began, and Hayden glanced over at Hawthorne, whose surprise equalled his own, ‘and lift up the waves of the sea, and who stillest the rage thereof.’

  Hayden had been expecting a prayer for the sick, which would have been appropriate to their present situation, but this was a very well-known prayer to sailors for it was often recited in the midst of great storms at sea.

  Smosh’s pleasant voice echoed within the wooden church. ‘We, thy creatures, but miserable sinners, do in this, our great distress, cry out to thee for help: Save us, Lord, or else we perish. We confess, when we have been safe, and seen all things quiet about us, we have forgotten thee, our God, and refused to harken to the still voice of thy word, and to obey thy commandments; but now we see how terrible thou art in all thy works of wonder, the Great God to be feared above all; and therefore we adore thy Divine Majesty, acknowledging thy power and imploring thy goodness. Help, Lord, and save us for thy mercy’s sake in Jesus Christ thy Son, Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ repeated the miserable sinners in a manner most heartfelt.

  ‘There is aboard our ship, this day, a thing of great evil – a pestilence that has struck down our friends and spreads among us. Some say that this is a judgement of God, but I do not believe that our merciful God has sent this contagion as punishment. It is a thing of evil and therefore not of our Lord.’

  Archer appeared at that moment, all a-lather. He looked about in the lamplit gloom, spotted Hayden, and, circling behind Smosh, came immediately to his captain. ‘McIntosh has brought our physic, sir, but he asks to speak with you, Captain, on a matter of the greatest urgency.’

  Smosh had stopped speaking as Archer appeared, and he nodded to Hayden very slightly, and continued. Hayden was out of his seat and upon the ladder in a moment – up to the gundeck and then the quarterdeck, pulling on oilskins as he went.

  The wind moaned in the shrouds, and the ship heeled, decks streaming dark rivulets that collected and sloshed against the bulwark, gushing out scuppers.

  McIntosh stood at the rail of his schooner, head bent and half turned away from the wind, thinned brim of a threadbare sou’wester fluttering about his face. Seeing Hayden, he cupped hands to his mouth and called, ‘Sor, just as I took my leave of Captain Cole his lookout spotted a ship to the north-east. A frigate, he believes, and perhaps another in the cloud. As soon as he had made she out, she dropped back into the murk, sor.’

  Hayden muttered a curse. ‘No idea of its nationality?’ he shouted back.

  McIntosh threw up his hands and shrugged. ‘None, sor.’

  ‘They might explain our lost ship,’ Archer said loudly.

  A blast of wind luffed Hayden’s oilskins, and rain battered down with such force that for a moment no one attempted to speak over the rattle. As the gust eased, and the howl quieted, Hayden called, ‘I don’t think signals can be seen in this bloody gloom, McIntosh. Alert the other escorts that they must clear for action. I will exchange places with Stewart.’

  McIntosh, who Hayden was coming to appreciate was no fool, repeated Hayden’s orders and called his crew to man sheets. Hayden did not wait to see him go but turned to Archer.

  ‘I am afraid Mr Smosh’s prayers must be interrupted, Mr Archer. Call all hands. We will clear the ship but for my cabin which can be left standing for the time being. We will man sheets and braces, wear ship, and if we do not carry away our rig, exchange places with the Cloud. Lord knows how Stewart will come here.’ Archer turned to go when Hayden thought of something else. ‘Oh… and pass the word for Mr Wickham, if you please, Mr Archer. Ask him to fetch a night glass with him.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  A moment after Archer had hurried below, the men came pelting up, looking no less wicked to Hayden’s eye – if anything, inordinately pleased to have escaped Mr Smosh’s sermonizing. Without speaking they hurried to their stations.

  Barthe appeared, huffing out of the companionway, Archer and Wickham at his heels.

  ‘Where is Saint-Denis?’ Hayden asked, annoyed and not caring who knew it.

  ‘I have just learned the doctor has sent him into the sick-berth, Captain,’ Archer answered.

  ‘The sick-berth? Not the quarantine-berth?’

  ‘Pardon me, sir,’ Archer replied, shaking his head. ‘I misspoke. The quarantine berth, though much against his will.’

  ‘Ah.’ Would there be no end to his ill luck, Hayden wondered. Already he had too few officers and even to lose one as disliked as Saint-Denis would place a greater burden upon Wickham and Archer, not to mention himself. ‘Well, Mr Archer, congratulations, it would seem you are acting first lieutenant. Ease sheets and braces and pilot us through the convoy. We will take up station in the Cloud’s place.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Archer turned to Mr Barthe and repeated the orders.

  Hayden motioned to Wickham, leaning close so that he would be heard. ‘Mr Wickham, if you would search to the nor’east.’

  The boy nodded. ‘Cole saw a frigate, the men are saying. Is it true, sir?’

  ‘That is what I am hoping you will tell me.’

  Wickham went to the rail, steadied himself, and trained his glass to the north but in a moment the glass was lowered. He glanced at Hayden, embarrassed. ‘The lenses have fogged entirely, sir – within the tube.’

  ‘When do they not?’ Hayden replied. ‘Your naked eye shall have to suffice.’

  A very passable evolution with reduced sail gave Hayden hope that he would have, one day, a crack crew – or more accurately, some other captain would. The truncated November day waned as they made their way through the fleet, but Hayden was thankful even for the dull illumination that penetrated scudding clouds.

  The Themis took up position to leeward of the convoy and near to the transports that brought up the rear. The Syren was not too distant – Hayden thought he could make out the acting captain, Cole, standing by the mizzen shrouds.

  ‘No sign of frigates?’ Hayden enquired of Wickham.

  ‘None, sir.’

  ‘Then I shall retire below, briefly.’ Quite chilled, Hayden slipped down to his cabin, which, though hardly warm, was at least dry and out of the wind. He sent his servant for coffee, and stared for a moment at a stack of papers requiring his attention – all neatly contained in a small, purpose-built, open-topped box made of cast-off white oak. The contemplation of this was brief before he settled on the gallery window seat, his feet spread wide to brace against the ship’s motion. His situation never seemed to improve, but only grow worse with each day. Frigates to leeward, almost certainly not British, and given the proximity of the French coast, very likely of that nation. If his crew fell ill in equal proportion to the Agnus’s he would be very hard pressed to fight, and would almost certainly be reduced to bluffing, which would only work if the French force was roughly equal to his own. McIntosh’s fraudulent fighting ships might actually aid their cause in such a situation. But Hayden feared clear skies and good light would expose these little masquerading men-of-war to any observant enemy – a good reason not to hope for a short gale.

  Coffee arrived, and to Hayden’s surprise, so did the doctor. Griffiths was not merely grey before his time but, at least in appearance, prematurely aged. This day he looked even more time’s victim. About him hung an unwholesome air, as though proximity to the sick and injured had worn away at his own health. His face was powder pale, dry and flaccid. Across the yellowish whites of his eyes branched fine lightning bolts of crimson. A naturally stooped carriage and angular frame never, even at the best of times, bespoke vigour and as he entered, a vinegar-soaked handkerchief clapped over his mouth, he looked a figure of dejection if not ruin.

  Hayden stopped, his fingers about to find the handle of a cup. ‘Dr Griffiths, I fear this will be a terrible trial for you. May I offer you coffee?’

  Griffiths
stopped, held out a hand, palm out. ‘Come no nearer.’ He took the cotton from his mouth, closed his eyes a moment, both body and face twisting in a tight grimace. In a few seconds he mastered himself and then said in a consciously steady voice, ‘I must inform you, most regretfully, Captain Hayden, that I appear to have contracted this contagion.’

  Ten

  ‘I will continue in my duties as long as I am able,’ Griffiths said, ‘but if my judgement becomes clouded from fever I have ordered Mr Ariss to confine me to a cot in the quarantine berth. The sickness progresses rapidly, so I will be of service only a few hours more. I have given complete instructions to Mr Ariss for the care of the sick. I fear for Pritchard, who appears to have the pneumonia and is near to suffocating in his own fluids.’

  ‘This is the worst possible news,’ Hayden managed. ‘Mr Ariss cannot care for so many alone.’

  ‘I was about to say the same. We will need someone to act as his assistant. An intelligent man of steady nerve and kindly disposition. A young man is to be preferred as influenza will compromise such a person’s health less drastically, should he be so unlucky as to contract it.’

  ‘More than that, we need someone who is not afraid of the contagion.’ Hayden thought a moment. ‘Did Gould not claim his brothers were doctors?’

  ‘I am not sure having a brother – or even two – in medicine is a qualification, Captain.’ Griffiths covered his mouth with the square of cotton and emitted a small, shocking cough, followed by a wheezing breath, indrawn.

  ‘It might be the best qualification on offer, I’m afraid. Have you any other objections to Mr Gould?’

  The doctor shook his head, his face at that moment turning red. He coughed again more violently. ‘None.’ He fought for a breath and then pressed out. ‘He is, in every other way… ideal.’

  Hayden resisted the urge to clap the man on the back. ‘Then I will speak with him, but I am not certain that compelling a man against his wishes will give you the assistant you need.’

  ‘Let us hope that compulsion will not be necessary.’

  As he let the doctor out, Hayden spoke to the sentry. ‘Pass the word for Mr Barthe, and then after I will speak to Mr Gould.’

  Hayden threw himself down on the bench, gales and phantom frigates pushed out of his mind. The crew had been counting on Griffiths to see them through – he had been counting on it; how would they react when they learned that their surgeon had himself been afflicted with this sickness? For the most part they were a steady lot but contagions had a way of creating a silent kind of panic that seemed to seep into men’s hearts over time.

  The stomping of Mr Barthe could be heard on the steps – even over the moans of the wind – and in a moment a rap on the door. The little sailing master hurried in, and stood expectantly.

  ‘Mr Barthe. I must take back Mr Gould, I am afraid. He is much needed elsewhere.’

  ‘But, sir, he has only begun to learn his duties.’

  ‘I know it, but Dr Griffiths has more need of him than you, I fear.’

  Barthe looked confused. ‘What good could he be to the doctor?’

  ‘The men will hear of it soon enough, but let us keep this quiet as long as we can. Dr Griffiths has been taken with the influenza. I need Gould to assist Mr Ariss, as strange as it may seem. His brothers are both physicians, you will remember, and he once contemplated taking up the study of medicine. I know it seems absurd to be employing a green midshipman in the sick-berth but he is intelligent and level-headed and I hope his acquaintance through his brothers has made him less fearful of disease. The truth is, Mr Barthe, we are rather desperate.’

  The sailing master contemplated this a moment and then nodded. ‘What of Dryden? May I have him back?’

  ‘Who needs him more, in your honest opinion, yourself or Mr Franks?’

  It was difficult for the master to admit but finally he said, ‘Franks.’

  ‘My feelings exactly. I will ask Gould if he will assist Mr Ariss. God knows I will understand if he does not wish to.’

  ‘He will not say no, Captain Hayden. So intent is he on succeeding in the service I believe he would go into a flaming magazine if you asked him.’ Barthe turned to go, remembered himself and said. ‘Is there anything else, sir?’

  ‘Try to keep yourself away from the sick, Mr Barthe. I might be master and commander in rank but prefer not to be so in truth.’

  ‘I will do my best, sir.’

  ‘Good. Send Gould in. I believe I heard him arrive outside.’

  A moment later Gould came through the door, made the proper salute, and stood waiting Hayden’s pleasure.

  ‘Mr Gould, I have a rather difficult, perhaps even dangerous position for you.’

  The boy nodded, waiting.

  ‘It seems that Dr Griffiths has contracted the influenza and Mr Ariss has need of an assistant. The men who are ill need much care – more than Ariss can manage – and another steady pair of hands is required.’

  The boy seemed perplexed for a moment. ‘You want me to be surgeon’s mate?’

  ‘It is more a loblolly boy, I think, but certainly you will be nursing the sick. It is not without danger as you know – one man has died on our ship and more on the Agnus, but it must be done and you at least have the benefit of having read something of your brother’s medical texts.’

  ‘I am most likely as ignorant as the next seaman, sir, but yes, certainly, if you need me to do it I will.’

  ‘Report to Mr Ariss, immediately. I have informed Mr Barthe that he will have to do without you… for the time being.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ With only the smallest hint of hesitation, the boy went out. Hayden hoped he hadn’t sent him to his death – a hope he held oftener than he would like.

  There were, however, equally pressing matters requiring Hayden’s attention. The unidentified ships seen in the fog, which had slipped back into the murk, were very probably not friendly, and unless they had, in the haze, mistaken Hayden’s convoy for a fleet it was not likely they had flown. No, they were out there, he felt, and perhaps accounted for the missing transport.

  What to do about them, that was the thing. He stopped before the windows and looked out onto a dark chaotic sea. Failing light made it all appear more ominous and threatening, but Hayden was no stranger to that. In truth he thought the wind was taking off a little and with luck the gale would blow itself out in a few hours. Mind made up, he went to the door and spoke to the sentry beyond.

  ‘Pass the word for Mr Archer and Mr Wickham, if you please.’

  ‘When Captain Pool suggested a similar plan, Mr Hayden, you opposed it, yet when it is a result of your own penetration, it is now a splendid strategy?’

  A disgruntled Captain Cole hovered by the rail on a weeping deck, a dark and resentful silhouette. Hayden had sent him a summons and Cole had come aboard with only the greatest reluctance, refusing to go below out of the weather. Fear of contagion was great among seamen of every rank.

  Though the wind had taken off noticeably a heavy sea still ran and clouds would, intermittently, release their entire burden of rain upon the wildly moving ship. An indistinct, pale apparition sixty feet to larboard was a cutter from the Syren, holding position, that action being easier than trying to lie alongside a ship that both pitched and rolled.

  Hayden had suffered one too many affronts from this man. ‘Captain Cole, I will take this opportunity to inform you that I find your tone offensive. You might not be pleased that I am in command of this convoy but it is the case and I believe that the Admiralty will uphold this. I do not wish to report that you were insubordinate but I will do so. Is that understood?’

  The man’s face was invisible but his frame appeared to contract a little. ‘It is, sir.’

  ‘I will explain why I have chosen to proceed in this manner, Captain Cole, if you will do me the honour of hearing me out.’ Hayden did not wait for the man to assent but went on. ‘Circumstances have changed utterly. Dr Griffiths visited the Agnus and that unlucky ship
had half her crew down, too ill to stand watch. If the same fate befalls the Themis that will leave your frigate and a collection of sloops to protect the convoy. Your own lookout saw a frigate and perhaps a second – not British I would think as they skulked back into the fog immediately. I have no proof of it, but I suspect they took the Hartlepool last night and will be looking to manage the same caper tonight, as the gale moderates. Last time it was the French who surprised us. This time we must surprise them. We have no choice; we must damage or drive the French off before my crew becomes too ill to fight.’

  In the pitchy night, Cole could hardly be distinguished, but Hayden was certain he perceived the man’s carriage loosen, as though some of the inflammation of resentment drained out of his very joints.

  ‘I do take your point, Captain Hayden,’ he conceded, his tone moderated, ‘but we have seen conclusive evidence that this course is not without risks. What will be the result if these two ships are the French frigate and the seventy-four-gun ship that engaged our ships but recently?’

  ‘Is it not true that your lookout thought the second ship to be a frigate, as well?’

  ‘And he might have been right but it was a ship in the fog, Captain. We cannot be utterly certain.’

  Hayden did not like the sound of this. A slight disorientation swept through him, as though he fell. ‘The only reason they would be hiding from us would be out of fear that Pool had rejoined the convoy. They were more than likely trying to discern that very fact.’ Suddenly the risk involved in his planned action grew substantially. He hesitated, weighing all factors.