Under Enemy Colors (30 page)

“To the north-east, sir. Half a league or a little less. She’s still taking fire.”

“Difficult to believe they’ve spared any for her,” Hayden said. “I don’t think the Frenchman will let his ship go much beyond beam-on to the wind. By the time we reach her she should have the
Tenacious
alongside, and be in the process of boarding their attacker, much to Bourne’s surprise. I don’t imagine they’ll reload their larboard battery, which means we may pass by without much fear of their guns.”

“Shall we pour in a broadside as we pass?” Philpott asked.

“No, our little six-pounders can be better employed, I think. Let us luff up across her stern and fire, each gun in turn, the length of her gun-deck. If there is a company of French soldiers aboard we might do much damage. We’ll then throw our grapnels over the sterns of both ships and board the Frenchman over the taffrail. All more easily said than done. I shall ask you to bring the
Lucy
up along the Frenchman’s stern, as I do not know how far she will carry her way.”

“Leave that to me, Mr Hayden.” Hurrying immediately to the wheel, Philpott relieved the helmsman and bore off just a little.

A tremendous explosion, and the French frigate was enveloped in a dark, roiling cloud.
Tenacious
seemed to stagger, losing her rhythm with the sea, but then she bore up again, and pressed on, her rig and sails much shot away, spars hanging, shattered, in their gear, swaying forth and back. Hayden could see the men rising to their feet, throwing torn canvas and fallen cordage over the side so the guns could be worked. Two men gently slid the limp and bloodied body of a ship’s boy over the rail, and for an instant Hayden closed his eyes, though the sight did not go away.

When Hayden raised his glass, Bourne appeared amid the wreckage, gesturing, calling out orders, his hat gone and the left side of his face a smear of red. Tentacles of smoke wafted down on the
Tenacious
, but still Bourne held his fire. Hayden could see him standing on the gangway, his cutlass raised, gun captains bent over their cannon. The instant a gun was run out on the enemy frigate, the cutlass swept down, and the English broadside boomed, echoing back from the cliffs of Belle Île.

Splinters scythed up through the smoke, humming as they spun. Bourne was by before the French had recovered, and their ragged broadside was fired into the pall of smoke, striking nothing. Hayden could see the Jacks aboard
Tenacious
furiously swabbing, then ramming home powder cartridges.

Tenacious
swung slowly up into the wind, topsails shaking for a moment, then pressing back against the masts and rigging as the yards were squared. Quickly, the yards were shifted again and the ship came through the wind, and was blown down on the Frenchman’s starboard side. At less than ten yards the two ships fired their broadsides and the sharp
crack
of musket fire began. In a moment the two vessels thudded dully together, and the crews of both sides sent up a cheer. British sailors leapt the distance from rail to rail, brandishing their tomahawks and cutlasses. They fell upon the French crew just as blue jackets erupted from the companionways fore and aft. As the infantry massed, they began to push the British back, but they were hindered climbing out the companionways by the smallness of the ladders and lack of room on the deck. Hayden could see the crew of the
Tenacious
fighting furiously at the bulwark, but in a moment the blue jackets would be like a great wave, throwing them back, breaking over the rail and pouring onto the British deck.

Through his glass, Hayden could see the English Jacks being bayoneted, and falling upon their own mates. He lost sight of Bourne and wondered if the indomitable commander had finally overreached. Men on the
Lucy
’s fore-top began firing their muskets, and though Hayden was not sure of the effect, he did not stop them. To stand by and watch the slaughter was more than anyone could bear.

As the
Lucy
passed by the French frigate, Hayden braced himself to take a broadside, but only the muzzle of a single gun stood proud, and it did not speak. There was a deathly silence on the brig until they passed, and then a sigh seemed to course through the entire ship.

“I’m going to bring her up, sir,” Philpott announced, and spun the helm.

Hayden made his way quickly to the forward gun, saying to each gun captain as he passed, “Do not fire until I give you the command.”

He found Wickham a few feet behind and waved him up. The boy had a cutlass in one hand and a pistol in the other.

“Mr Wickham, if I am shot you must take command of our guns. Fire as the frigate bears, one gun at a time down the length of her gun-deck. Kill as many blue coats as you can.”

The boy nodded grimly, his face flour-pale. “Aye, sir.”

The little sloop carried her way for some distance in the failing wind, but Philpott knew his ship and she just barely maintained steerage as they ranged up along the Frenchman’s stern. Men stood on the rail with their grapnels in hand, ready to lock the ships together.

“Wait until she loses headway,” Hayden cautioned them over the din. The sound of fighting was loud. Muskets cracked in the rigging and the clash of steel rang in the evening air.

Smoke still lingered on the decks and stung Hayden’s eyes and nose. He looked upon the scene before him—a frenzy of violence and brutality—and for a moment felt such utter repulsion he was almost ill upon the deck.

“We’re going to pass the Frenchman, sir,” the gun captain warned him.

“Be patient,” Hayden responded, clearing the images from his mind. He stared at the shuttered windows of the frigate’s stern gallery. When they were all but up with the last window, Hayden tapped the gun captain on the shoulder.

“Fire,” he shouted over the chaos.

The gun jumped back, its ball smashing the dead-light and glass beyond. Hayden moved to the next gun and waited a few seconds until the same window was open to them. Through the shattered frame he could see light stabbing down into the frigate’s waist, twenty yards away. Blue coats were still mustered there, but had been thrown into disarray.

“Fire,” Hayden ordered, and the second gun reared back, a deafening explosion battering his ears. The third gun came to bear and fired in its turn, shattering another of the stern windows.

The
Lucy
slowed to a near stop and Philpott put the helm over as the men threw their grappling hooks over the frigate’s stern, bringing the
Lucy
’s raised quarterdeck level with the frigate’s stern gallery. Due to the height of the quarterdeck, the guns mounted there could fire directly the length of the gun-deck.

“Load the guns with grape,” Hayden ordered. “Rake the gun-deck.”

In a moment they were climbing up over the rail and running along the deck. Hayden realized that Wickham and Philpott were to either side, and then they threw themselves on the rear of the mass of blue as the
Lucy
’s gunners fired again down the length of the gun-deck below. Hayden shot a man, who turned, startled to find the British behind him. Throwing away his pistol, Hayden dove into the fray, thrusting with his sword, feeling it slide horribly into flesh.

Hayden fought his way to the rail and clambered up, preparing to jump across to the
Tenacious
, when a gun sounded, and a crowd of Frenchmen before him were scythed down like wheat. Wickham leapt up on the rail beside him and pointed with a bloody cutlass.

“Our men have one of the quarterdeck guns,” the boy shouted. And sure enough, Hayden could see through the smoke members of his own crew madly loading one of the
Tenacious
’ guns. Hayden held up the man beside him, and the gun was fired again, to equal effect, though it reared back, smashed into the stern rail, and turned on its side.

Hayden leapt across the chasm, grabbing the frayed end of a broken shroud. Bounding down on the deck, he slipped and fell in the blood, and was dragged up by Philpott.

They dove into the fight, overwhelming the French soldiers and sailors, who were not expecting to be attacked from behind, and in a moment they were throwing down their weapons, though on the forecastle the fighting was still fierce and undecided.

In the growing twilight Hayden gathered some of the
Lucy
’s crew and charged into the melee on the foredeck. In five minutes they tipped the balance, and the enemy cast down their arms.

Leaving Philpott in charge of the forecastle, Hayden hurried back along the gangway, stepping over many fallen. The cries and moans of the wounded came to him now, as the sounds of battle were all but extinguished. Hayden found Bourne standing by the jury-rigged wheel, a cloth pressed to his bleeding face.

“Hayden! I thought you would be overrunning the French brig, but here you are…delivering us from certain destruction. However did you know to come?”

“Wickham observed a French regular stick his head up the frigate’s companionway only to be chased back down by an officer. I surmised they had reinforced the ships with troops from the garrison, and was fortunate to have been proven right.”

“You penetrated their deception when we did not. Wickham…Was he the young middy with whom we dined?”

“The very one.”

“I shall thank him most profoundly. Will you do me a service, Hayden? See if you can find if the French captain is alive. I desire the honour of accepting his surrender.”

“Mr Hayden!” It was Wickham calling from thirty feet up the shrouds. “The transports have cut their cables, sir. And so has the brig, I believe. They’re making sail.”

Bourne looked at Hayden. “Do you think Hart has the bottom to take on a little brig and some transports?” he asked quietly.

“Not if he thinks they’ve been reinforced by infantry.”

“How shot up is the
Lucy
?” Bourne asked, casting his glance over the rigging of the brig-sloop.

“She’s virtually untouched, as you can see.”

“Then let us quickly secure the prisoners and get you under way. My own ship is too damaged, I fear.” Bourne looked about the deck. “We’ve paid dearly for this Frenchman. If you can keep even a single transport from reaching harbour I shall regret it less.”

Hayden nodded. “Mr Wickham?”

The boy answered from the shrouds, where he was clambering quickly down.

“Gather up our crew…and find Mr Philpott if you can.”

“I’m here, Mr Hayden,” Philpott called as he appeared in the after companionway.

Hayden cast his gaze around, assessing their situation in the gathering gloom as Philpott crossed the bloody deck to him.

“Are you uninjured, Mr Philpott?”

“Barely a scratch, sir.”

“I’m happy to hear it. We are swinging around head to wind, which makes me think the frigate’s stern cable has parted. Gather up all the men who are fit to serve. We will make sail and give chase.”

All the
Lucy
’s crew fit for action were collected from the decks of the two frigates. Hayden and Philpott led them down a boarding net onto the gun-deck of the French frigate, thinking it would be somewhat easier to climb aboard the
Lucy
through the stern gallery. Upon the gun-deck the effect of the
Lucy
’s fire could be seen. Their cannonade had caught a large company of French infantry unawares, and the blue coats lay everywhere, their bodies ripped apart. The Englishmen stopped, frozen by the sight.

A young infantryman moved, causing Hayden to whirl, raising the sword he still carried, but the man, hardly older than Wickham, only reached out silently, as though appealing for aid. Wickham turned aside to go to the man, but Hayden caught the midshipman’s shoulder.

“You cannot help him,” Hayden rasped, and then Wickham recoiled in horror.

The infantryman, partly covered by his fallen comrades, had been blown nearly in half, his glistening entrails spreading out from his blue jacket.

Wickham pressed a sleeve across his powder-stained mouth, eyes wide. “Good God, sir,” came his voice, muffled and choked. “How many widows have we made this hour?”

Gently, Hayden drew the midshipman away.

Philpott caught his eye. The lieutenant’s face was waxy-pale. “Our gunners raked the deck with grape,” he whispered. “Smashed the ladders. They had no place to hide.”

Hayden tried to fix his eyes to the fore, and stumbled toward the shattered stern gallery. He had ordered this terrible cannonade, had even directed its fire to inflict the most damage. The thought came to him that it was almost a sin for him to look away.

Afterward Hayden had no memory of climbing out the stern window and onto the bloodless deck of the
Lucy
. All he could recall was standing by the wheel, drawing in great draughts of clear air, darkness settling around them, the stench of carnage and powder smoke drifting down from the two frigates. He made his way to the wheel, and when he turned, discovered he’d left behind a trail of bloody footprints, growing less distinct with each step but never gone.

H
art flinched as a shot screamed overhead, half throwing up an arm as though it would ward off an iron ball. He recovered himself quickly and stared off toward the
Lucy
.

“What is Mr Hayden doing?” Barthe asked aloud.

The officers stood at the
Themis
’ rail, watching
Tenacious
converge on the anchored French frigate. To their amazement, the
Lucy
had changed course and appeared to have given up her intention to attack the French brig.

“Oh, you know our Mr Hayden. He comprehends a great deal more than Captain Bourne or myself. So he has ignored his orders and is going to the aid of the
Tenacious
, as though a captain as capable as Bourne has need of him.”

“Shall we go after the brig ourselves?” Barthe asked. “I mean, if the
Lucy
will not?”

Hart shook his head and made a sour face, though he did not deem to look at his sailing master. “By no means. We will lie off here, to keep the transports at anchor, as was planned. I wonder what Bourne will have to say to his precious protégé after this?”

“There must be some reason for Mr Hayden to disregard his orders so,” Archer stated firmly. He had his glass fixed on the British ships approaching the French frigate in the lengthening shadow of Belle Île.

“Mr Hayden has nothing but disregard for orders,” Hart said disdainfully. “And now he is displaying his incompetence for all to see. Imagine, our fire-eating first lieutenant afraid to attack a little brig…”

Hart might have said more, but at that moment the French captain fired his broadside all at once. Smoke enveloped the anchored frigate and at that range the effect on the
Tenacious
was tremendous. Gear and sails fell, the main-top-gallant mast toppled slowly over the side, and yet the ship only seemed to stagger, then bore on.

“You see,” Hart announced, waving a hand at the ships, “Bourne has not faltered. He has no need of Mr Hayden, whose efforts will only cause offence.”

The two frigates appeared to draw so near that surely they would soon collide, yet there was no reply from the British guns.

“Why does Bourne not fire?” Archer muttered.

“Because he knows his business thoroughly,” Mr Barthe answered. “He will wait until he can inflict the greatest damage—until the Frenchman is about to fire again, and then he will give them the whole weight of iron at once.”

“The Frenchman’s run out a gun,” Landry cried.

And as he said this the
Tenacious
herself was enveloped in smoke, the deep boom of the cannon echoing off the island, as though the first cannonade was followed immediately by a second.

“There, do you see, Mr Archer?” Barthe asked. “That is how it is done. Never for a moment would Bourne lose his nerve. Never for a moment.”

Tenacious
ranged up past the frigate’s stern, but before her guns could be reloaded. Smoke veiled the French ship, only the tips of her masts visible through the dark cloud.

“There, too late for the Frenchman to fire again now. Bourne is by.”

Tenacious
carried her way past the French ship’s gallery, backed sails, shifted her yards, and came through the wind. But instead of gathering way the backed sails pushed her down on the French frigate. For a moment she seemed to hang there, and then both ships fired their broadsides at once.

Barthe reeled back from the rail, lowering his glass. “My God! They cannot have been ten yards distant. The butcher’s bill from that broadside alone will be too painful to tally.”

“And look…” Hart pointed. “There is our foolish Mr Hayden, who cannot give up his misguided enterprise, now.”

The two frigates came together in a cloud of smoke, and the cheers of the crews carried over the water. Musket fire broke out, but little could be seen in the smoke. The
Lucy,
almost in Bourne’s wake, ranged alongside the frigates, passing into the cloud as it detached itself from the larger ships.

“Now Hayden will get his comeuppance,” Hart all but gloated. “A deck of eighteen-pounders at that range will teach him a lesson long overdue.”

The men on the quarterdeck all held their breath, watching the little brig-sloop half-obscured by the drifting cloud. But the French did not fire. The British sloop passed by, put her helm over, and came head to wind across the Frenchman’s stern.

“Well, he is either damned lucky or bloody astute,” Landry announced, half in admiration. “I cannot say which.”

Hawthorne, who stood a few paces back from the officers at the rail, felt a little smile spread over his face. Hart could barely contain his fury that Hayden had not suffered a cannonade at close range. What matter that the entire crew of the
Lucy
would have been slaughtered into the bargain?

As the smoke swept away, sections of the frigates’ decks were revealed, and an unholy melee was under way there.

“Sir,” Archer said, surprised. “There is infantry aboard that French ship! Do you see?”

“That is our explanation,” Hawthorne muttered, as surprised as Archer.

“Now, how in God’s name did Hayden know that?” Barthe asked loudly.

Hart swept up his glass and gazed at the terrible scene just as the
Lucy
fired a gun, and then another.

“Mr Hayden has not arrived a moment too early,” Archer observed. “Poor Bourne is getting the worst of it.” And indeed it was true; by sheer numbers, the blue-coated infantry were driving the British crew back onto their own decks.

Even without a glass, Hawthorne saw Hayden climb over the rail onto the deck of the French ship, cutlass in one hand, pistol in the other. Wickham was right behind, both officers in waistcoats, and then in their wake, a swarm of
Lucies
. A cheer went up from the crew of the
Themis
, and Hawthorne joined in before he knew it, earning a black look from Hart.

“Three cheers for Mr Hayden!”
a crewman yelled from somewhere down the deck, and the rest of the men
“huzzaed”
with a will.

A ball from the battery on Belle Île chose that moment to tear a hole in the mizzen, not twenty feet above the officers’ heads. Hart all but dropped his glass, but Barthe looked up calmly, and then turned back to the battle on the frigates, his face an admirable mask of calm.

“And we’ve just restitched that sail from foot to peak,” he observed.

“Cut our grappling lines, Mr Philpott,” Hayden said, clearing his throat, struggling to master his reaction to the carnage on the gun-deck. “Make sail. We have a brig and some transports to chase.”

Axes were taken to the grappling lines, and the ship began to drift north-west, beam on to the wind. Hayden ordered the helm put over as the sail loosers scrambled aloft. In a moment the little ship began to make headway, her bow turning slowly to the north. Gulls passed over as they made their way out to sea, lamenting sadly. The smoke of twilight hung in the air; Belle Île, jagged and dark, silhouetted against the faint light still clinging to the western sky.

Hayden took his night glass and climbed the foremast shrouds. Bracing himself in the fore-top, he gazed into the gloom ahead. Far off, the lights of L’Orient glimmered, and in between the inky, rippled sea spread before the dying wind.

“On deck,”
Hayden called just loud enough to be heard. “A point to starboard. I see a ship. Send the men to their guns, Mr Philpott—quiet as you can.”

“The wind is going light,” Philpott whispered, “shall I call for stunsails?”

Wickham clambered onto the platform at that moment.

“If you please, Mr Philpott,” Hayden answered.

The midshipman gazed into the darkness with his glass. He was the only midshipman aboard the
Themis
to possess a night glass, and his eyes were famously sharp.

“There is a second ship, I think, Mr Hayden. Almost dead ahead, but further off than the first.”

Hayden searched the darkness. “Yes. I see it. Is that the brig, do you think?”

“Perhaps so, sir. I can’t make out a mizzen.”

Sailors scrambled up past them and onto the yards, running out the stunsail booms. The tip of Belle Île passed to larboard, and on the western horizon the last gasp of light was drawn in like a breath. Low across the sky, a few clouds charcoaled haphazardly. Overhead, stars winked into being, casting their cold, faint light down onto the darkened sea.

“Will these transports have infantry aboard, sir?” Wickham asked.

“I don’t know if the garrison on Belle Île is that large, but it is possible.”

“We haven’t enough men aboard the
Lucy
to carry ships so heavily manned.”

“No.”

Wickham lowered his glass and turned to Hayden in the faint light. “Then what shall we do, sir?”

“We’ll try to bring them to. Force them to surrender.”

“But the Frenchman in the Goulet hauled down his colours then attacked our boarding party.”

“And now you see how ill-advised a course that truly was. We are far more likely to fire upon a ship until much of her crew is dead than trust them again. Damned, villainous master! He has put his own countrymen in peril.”

Hayden cupped his hands and whispered down to the deck. “Have you our blue flare in readiness, Mr Philpott?”

“I have, Mr Hayden. To be shewn for half a minute every five once darkness is complete. I’ll order it displayed now, sir.”

A blue flame appeared at the stern, the seaman who held it dimly illuminated in the garish light. And then it winked out.

Hayden raised his glass and searched all of the sea that was not hidden by the
Lucy
’s sails. “Bloody wind,” he whispered. “Just when the French run for port, it takes off.”

Clearly offended by Hayden’s impudence, the wind died altogether, to much muttering from the deck below. The
Themis
’ lieutenant slung his glass over a shoulder, swung out, grasped the backstay, and went, hand over hand, down to the deck. He found Philpott on the darkened quarterdeck.

“Extinguish all lanterns,” came the whisper. “Captain Hart’s orders. No lights to be shewn.” The master-at-arms stood at the head of the stairs leading down into the waist, and Hawthorne passed his order on without question. On the quarterdeck, however, the marine could hear an argument as he ascended the ladder.

“But it was agreed we would carry lanterns on the mainmast and burn a blue flare,” Barthe said firmly, his frustration barely in check.

“It was Mr Hayden’s idea,” Hart shot back, “and a bloody foolish one, as you would expect.”

Hawthorne could barely make out the captain and master in the gathering darkness. A glance overhead told him the stars were succumbing to a high overcast.

“But we might be fired upon by our own ships,” Barthe contended.

“Damn your eyes, Mr Barthe,” the captain swore. “The
Tenacious
and the
Lucy
have a French prize to deal with, not to mention substantial damage to hull and rig. We share these waters with four French ships, and lights and flares will only make us known to them. We shall be fired upon in the darkness, without warning. There will be no lights. That is my order.”

Hawthorne took himself forward along the larboard gangway. For a moment he gazed down into the darkened waist where the gun crews were at their stations. He wondered if there would be trouble down there beneath the cover of darkness.

A man bumped him, and the marine almost tumbled from the gangway. A knuckle was made, an apology muttered. Hawthorne had no idea who it was. He carried on, feeling his way along the bulwark, finding his sentries in their places.

“I thought I saw something, sir,” a corporal whispered to him. “There. Almost abeam. Perhaps a half-point forward.”

Hawthorne stared into the hushed dark. The distant light on Île de Groix provided the faintest illumination, but a fog appeared to be setting in from the sea, obscuring everything.

“Do you see it, sir? A light, maybe…?”

“I’m not certain. Let me inform the captain.”

He hurried back to the quarterdeck and found Hart on the starboard side, pacing. The wind had died away to a whisper, and Hawthorne was sure they were all but stationary on the water.

“One of my sentries thought he saw a light—to larboard. Almost abeam. Maybe half a point forward.”

Hart crossed to the larboard rail, Landry in tow, or so Hawthorne thought. The night was becoming so close that almost nothing could be seen. The captain and his lackey stood gazing into the night, their anxiety palpable.

“I think it is a light,” Landry said. “For a moment I saw it.”

The fog crept in from the west, silent, unyielding. It cast itself over them like some amoebic creature, absorbing man and ship into its limpid mass.