Under Enemy Colors (37 page)

“I will, sir.” The middy set off at a run.

Hayden stood for a moment, trying to regain his breath. It was a bold decision—and in very little time it might be proven foolish.

Wickham raised his glass again, but Hayden felt he was being regarded all the same.

“Is that not a dangerous game to begin, sir? The Frenchmen will almost certainly come to our aid.”

“But if we engage the
Themis
—without explanation, as it were—they will almost as certainly decide the chasing ship is British and come to the aid of the mutineers. We have no other choice but to sail away and let Bill Stuckey and his company take our ship into Brest Harbour. But confronted by two French ships I believe the mutineers will haul down their colours—their false colours. We will board and take possession before they realize we are their former shipmates.”

“But what will we do then, sir? That is what I wonder. That Frenchman will have a full muster. What do we do if she sends a boarding party to aid us?”

“There is a heavy fog. We will have to slip away or at least deceive them long enough to do so.”

Wickham hesitated, lowered his glass, and turned toward Hayden. “Your experience is beyond mine, Mr Hayden, and your judgement is proven. But I fear this Frenchman might penetrate our disguise”—a glance at his over-large coat—“which is rather thin. Not everyone can pass for a Frenchman as you can.”

Hayden turned to see Archer running up a hoist of signals. “We will have to keep some water between ourselves and this French frigate, then, Mr Wickham. Let us hope she is happy to stand off and let us do the fighting.”

They were silent a moment, staring into the roiling grey. The
Themis—
and Hayden was beginning to agree with Wickham regarding her identity—was under courses and topsails. This meagre suit of canvas was the only thing about her that would alert an observer to the truth that she was no longer a ship of His Majesty’s Navy—but for her false colours. Her course was true, her too-few sails trimmed to a nicety, there appeared to be order on deck—not a scene of drunken anarchy, as one might expect. Four pale, colourless dabs at the taffrail were, no doubt, mutineers—peering through officers’ stolen glasses.

“Are they clearing for action, Mr Wickham?”

“I believe they are. Starboard gunports are opening.”

“They’ve only enough men to fight one side of the ship, and even then the gun crews will be short at least a man.”

“What shall we do, sir?”

“Signal our sister ship to engage her starboard battery. We’ll engage her to larboard, let the French pour in a broadside or two, and then we’ll come alongside and board her, though I think she’ll strike before then.”

“They might strike and try to talk their way out of this—if they plan to turn themselves over to the authorities in Brest, why not do it at sea?”

“Because there is a very real danger that any French captain will claim them a prize anyway, and then it will be off to a French prison until the end of hostilities, whereupon they will be returned to English soil and an appointment with Jack Ketch.”

“I have no doubt you’re right, sir, but Stuckey and his gang are clearly not in the habit of looking so far ahead. Men are lying aloft, Mr Hayden…to set top-gallants, I believe.”

It was not managed in a seaman-like manner, but eventually the main top-gallant yards were raised and the sails loosed to belly in the breeze.

“Well, that is plain. They’re going to run for Brest and keep their French colours flying. Not an unwise decision. Do you still think this the faster ship, Mr Wickham?”

“Not to be disloyal to the
Themis
, but I do, sir.”

“We shall soon see.”

Hayden went quickly back to the quarterdeck, where he found Landry and Barthe in conversation with Hawthorne. “Mr Barthe, are you content with the speed we’re making? The
Themis
has decided to run for Brest. Can we overhaul her?”

“I shall have the stunsails reset in a moment, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr Barthe.” Hayden found Archer examining the French frigate through a glass. “Mr Archer, how goes our correspondence with the French?”

The second lieutenant lowered his glass and touched his hat. “Well enough, Mr Hayden. They hoisted their number a moment ago. They’re the
La Rochelle
, sir. Mr Barthe says she’s a new-built thirty-eight, but hasn’t been seen in these waters for a year. She’s been in the West Indies, he believes.”

Hayden raised his glass and inspected the French frigate again—for as the day brightened she was a little easier to make out. She did have the look of a ship that had just crossed the Atlantic: paint dull and flaking, some seams in her topsides in need of a caulking mallet.

“Excellent,” Hayden said to himself.

“Pardon, sir?”

“Let us hope Mr Barthe is right. If they’ve just crossed the Atlantic they likely won’t have heard about the taking of the
Dragoon
by British seamen, and her bottom will be fouled, as well. It might be too much to hope that her crew are ill or depleted, but a foul bottom will let us slide away, especially in this slippery maiden.” He patted the rail. “Let us hope the
Themis
does not outrun
La Rochelle
; I’m counting on her assistance.”

“Shall I make our number in return, sir? I found it in the book.”

“Yes. Do that, Mr Archer. We wouldn’t want them to stop believing in us.”

If
La Rochelle
’s bottom were foul there was little sign of it. She set as much canvas as Hayden’s prize, and held her place in the little triangle that the three ships made on the grey sea.

As the sun warmed it began to burn away the fog, revealing the
Themis
in all her mutinous glory.

“When we curse the damned fog, it will not leave us,” Barthe growled. “And now that we have need, it will abandon us.”

“Helmsman,” Hayden said, “half a spoke to larboard. Don’t allow the Frenchman to narrow the distance between us.” Wickham had planted a little worry in Hayden’s mind. He was willing to take this risk with the Frenchman because he could pass for one himself, but the rest of the crew were not so able. Perhaps the French would penetrate their ruse if they drew near enough. Now that the fog had left them, Hayden had no intention of letting that happen.

He turned a slow circle, subjecting the sea to a cold scrutiny. The coast of France formed an undulating blue line to the east; a headland, he was certain, must be Pointe du Raz. Beyond
La Rochelle
, a few flecks of white and oak bark stood out against the azure sea—the sails of fishermen and small transports. The breeze was filling in a little from the south-west, though there were still no whitecaps to be seen—seven knots, he reckoned. Before them the
Themis
rocked gently on the Biscay swell, her top-gallants billowing. It was too soon to know if the
Dragoon
was gaining on her, but he imagined she was.

Dr Griffiths appeared at that moment.

“Good morning, Doctor. How fare our sick and hurt?” Hayden was a bit embarrassed by his good cheer, for the doctor looked very grim and pasty with fatigue.

Griffiths drew nearer and then spoke quietly. “We lost McLeod last night, Captain.”

“Oh, I am sorry…”

“And Captain Hart’s condition appears to be worsening. He needs a physician. A hospital. And physic that I do not possess.” The doctor glanced around, noting the other ships. “Have you taken into consideration what might happen if Hart were to die? He has many friends in His Majesty’s Navy, Mr Hayden. If it appears that he might have been saved but for your insistence—against Hart’s wishes—that you would attempt to take the
Themis
…”

“We do not sail for England every time a man is injured, Dr Griffiths, as you well know—certainly Hart never made an effort to take a flogged man back to port. Men live or die according to the will of God and the skill of our surgeons. I will not make an exception for Hart when there is a British ship about to be turned over to the French.” He pointed forward. “Not when that ship is this close.”

“Yes, Mr Hayden, I know we do not return to port every time a man is injured, but Hart is a captain, a man of considerable interest within the Admiralty. There is a…
political
facet to this situation.” Griffiths seemed a little ill himself—in humour as well as appearance.

“I am aware of it, thank you, Doctor, but I believe I know where my duties lie. I will have Mr Barthe note your concerns in the log in the event that Captain Hart’s condition grows worse. You shall bear no part of the blame.”

“I am less worried about my future in the navy than your own, Mr Hayden. Rushing Hart back to the care of a physician, and his loving wife, would do more to further your career than taking any number of mutinous vessels. But I will say no more.” He glanced again at the not-so-distant ships. “I don’t suppose Stuckey and his mates will surrender without a fight?”

“If we can convince them we are French, they might, but even then I am not so certain. They don’t want their ship to become a prize and themselves made prisoners.”

The doctor regarded him oddly. “There has been hardly a dull day since you found your way aboard our ship, Mr Hayden.”

“Do you regret it, Doctor?”

Griffiths regarded him with his clear, intelligent eye. “I do, as a doctor, for our lists of injured and dead have grown considerably, and much suffering has come to us. But as an Englishman, I am rather proud of what we’ve accomplished.”

“Well, Doctor, I shall, as always, try to limit our wounded to the smallest number possible.”

A cannon fired at that moment and a ball found the water not far off their starboard bow.

“The
Themis
is firing at us, Captain,” Hobson called, and was hushed by half a dozen for speaking out in English.

“I would say they don’t mean to parley, or end as a French captain’s prize. It will be a fight if we overhaul them, which I believe we will do in the next two hours.”

Griffiths reached up to touch a hat that was not there. “I will ready my table. Send me as few as you can, Mr Hayden.”

“I do not send any, Doctor, it is the French who perform that service.”

Griffiths looked him up and down. “But are not you the French, sir? So it would appear.” A small smile appeared and the doctor retreated below.

The forecastle gun crews were mustered and Hayden went forward. The
Themis
kept up a regular fire with her stern-chasers, balls landing very near.

“We’re just out of range, sir,” the captain of the starboard bow-chaser said as Hayden reached the forecastle.

“So it seems.” Hayden turned his glass on the stern of the
Themis
, and there he could plainly make out Bill Stuckey—a man he’d once imagined he’d reformed—wearing a cutlass and a brace of pistols. Chagrin and anger coursed through him.

Hawthorne appeared, musket in hand. “Is that my darling Willy on the quarterdeck, sir?”

“I believe it is, Mr Hawthorne.”

“Sadly, out of musket range.”

“At the moment…” Hayden looked east, gauging the speed of
La Rochelle
. She appeared to be holding position, to Hayden’s satisfaction. “Mr Hawthorne, when we come alongside the
Themis
I will put a few of your best marksmen up in the tops. Tell them to keep their faces hid as best they can. I want no one recognized until we are on their deck. The rest of your marines will be in the boarding party. I will need every man I can find if we hope to carry the
Themis
.”

“My marines are yearning to have a bit of revenge, sir.”

“Good. They have the greater numbers, so we must use our guns and the guns of
La Rochelle
to even the odds.”

Despite the gravity of their situation, Hawthorne appeared to be suppressing a smile.

“What is it, Mr Hawthorne,” Hayden asked, “that you find so diverting in our situation?”

Hawthorne’s smile blossomed fully, and he took hold of the lapel of his French officer’s coat. “When I told Muhlhauser that this crew would ‘wear motley,’ I did not comprehend my own wit.”

Hayden shook his head, and laughed despite all.

The
Themis
fired again and the ball landed so near that a fine spray reached the tip of the jib-boom.

“I think it’s time to return fire, Mr Baldwin, when you are ready. If you can dismount a stern-chaser I shall give you a half a crown.”

“That is handsome of you, Mr Hayden.” The gun captain made a knuckle and then turned to his crew. He bent over his gun with a great show of concentration, shifted it to larboard a few inches, sighted again, elevated the barrel a little, stepped clear, warned his crew, and jerked the firing lanyard.

The French gun was no quieter than an English one, and Hayden closed his eyes both from pain and from the caustic smoke. Immediately he forced lids open in hopes of seeing where the shot fell. Like the others, he held his breath, waiting for the breeze to carry some of the smoke away, which it did very ineffectively on this point of sail, for the ship was always sailing into the smoke as the wind carried it with them.