Under Enemy Colors (40 page)

Hayden looked forward, the two ships were converging, and although the expert fire from the
Tenacious
’ gunners had silenced the stern guns of the
Themis
, the crack of musket fire began in earnest. Hawthorne’s own men returned fire from the tops and from the forecastle.

“Have a care, Mr Dryden. Do not run our jib-boom into their stern or tangle it in the mizzen shrouds.”

“Baldwin is to alert me if I come too near, Captain.”

Hayden turned to the marine lieutenant. “Have Monsieur Marin-Marie brought on deck, if you please, Mr Hawthorne.”

A
t the last possible moment, Baldwin leapt up onto the gun-truck and waved a shirt to Dryden, who spun his wheel. The ship began a sluggish turn. Before them, Hayden could see the mutineers, armed and stripped to the waist, watching them with a mixture of outrage and dire apprehension. The second French frigate,
La Rochelle
, ceased to fire, as she was afraid of striking what she believed was another vessel of her own service. Even with her guns silenced, she was quickly ranging up to a position where she might unload her entire broadside into the
Themis
, and the mutineers could not have been insensible to it.

“Now, Monsieur Marin-Marie,” Hayden said to the prisoner, “repeat every word just as I say, and no tricks or Mr MacPherson will be obliged to put a blade in you.
Do you understand?
”

The Frenchman nodded once.

Hayden then turned to the others. “Not a word of English, now. And Mr Stock, kindly step behind the gunners, there, where you shan’t be recognized.” Hayden himself made a screen of Marin-Marie and the
Tenacious
’ gun-crew.

“You do realize that we both wear the uniform of a
capitaine
?” the Frenchman observed softly.

“These cullies will never know the difference. Mr Baldwin, can you bring your gun to bear upon that carronade?”

The man made a saluting motion, strictly observing the order to speak no English. He dug his Samson’s bar into the deck, and in quick little stages, pried the carriage to the right as far as it would go. Even so, it did not bear on the carronade, quite, but they would not now be killed by the carronade before they could fire. Hayden could see only a few men on the deck of the
Themis
—the rest certainly remained below at the great guns.

Hayden took hold of Marin-Marie’s shoulder. “Now, as loud as you can: ‘Surrender your ship. We know you have less than half a crew. Haul down your colours or we will board.’”

Marin-Marie played his part better than Hayden expected, his tone bold and commanding. And the words were not without impact. Mutineers on the quarterdeck began a fierce argument, but there was so little time.

One of the men—Jarvis—broke away from the group and came to the rail. “We are English mutineers,” he called through cupped hands, though the distance between the ships could be measured in yards. “We have removed our officers and wish to take our ship into Brest Harbour. We wish to join you. Do you understand? Join the revolution…”

“Say: ‘Lay down your weapons and we will talk,’” Hayden whispered to Marin-Marie.

“Lay down your weapons, monsieur, and we will parley,” the French officer called. Then aside to Hayden in French, “Pardon, monsieur, I said
parley
.”

But Hayden did not care. He could see the carronade coming to bear, the men bent over it. He knew the Jack who held the firing lanyard—a sailmaker’s mate named Dalford Black, his bald head shining with sweat. There was indecision on the
Themis
, no agreement on a course of action…and then it was decided.

“And find ourselves in a French gaol?” cried one of the mutineers. “Not in this life!”

Hayden found the big landsman, Stuckey, among the crowd, just as he levelled a pistol and fired. Marin-Marie spun around and stumbled to the deck, clutching his arm.

“Fire,” Hayden said to Baldwin, and the gun, hot from its work, jumped, blasting a section of the
Themis
’ bulwark to splinters. “Off the fo’c’sle,” Hayden ordered, pushing men before him and pulling Marin-Marie to his feet.

“Take him to the doctor,” Hayden ordered the marines.

The carronade fired at that instant, showering them with splinters, but they were out of its direct line.

“Fire as she bears,” Hayden said to Tristram Stock, who turned and gave the prearranged signal to a man standing on the gangway. The order passed below and to the gun crews on the quarterdeck. Hayden then drew his sword, raised it high, and repeated the same words loudly in French.

Below, the first gun fired, shaking the deck and splitting the air. The
Themis
replied, and at such short range the report was terrible. Smoke ballooned up from between the hulls and hid the enemy. Through the cloud, musket fire fell, striking randomly. A ball found the blade of Hayden’s sword and sent it clattering to the deck, but he swept it up, apparently undamaged.

Sail-handlers began letting go sheets, and down-hauls brought staysails rippling deckward. Upper yards were lowered so that sails hung in their gear, and the main and foresail were quickly brailed up to be clear of fire. It was a neat job, handled by the
Tenacious
’ crewmen, and those aloft came hand-over-hand down the stays to take up arms.

The boarding party mustered on the gangway and quarterdeck. Hayden could not count them in the smoke, but he climbed up on the rail as grapnels were thrown aboard the
Themis
. There he found himself staring at men he had served with hardly more than a day before—Jarvis, Clark, Freeman, and a gunner’s mate named Pool.

As each of the great guns came to bear, both ships fired almost at once, smoke blasting up on a wave of heat, the crash of splintering timbers deafening. There was soon no way an order could be heard as the two ships fired away at each other from a distance measured in feet. Men began falling in earnest on the deck, and Hayden drew one of his pistols and, through the smoke, found himself staring at William Pool—a kindly man who had invariably treated Hayden with respect. Pool raised a pistol, his look startled, and Hayden killed him with its single shot.

The collision of the two ships propelled Hayden across the distance created by the vessels’ tumble-home. A heel caught up in the hammock netting and he landed awkwardly almost atop Pool, who had been thrown down in an unmoving tangle of limbs. Scrambling up, Hayden realized that the only reason he lived was that there were so few men on the
Themis
’ deck. But then they came streaming up from below, having fired their guns once.

His own crew came over the barricades and Hayden was, immediately, in the thick of it.

“We’ll not be taken by any poxy Frenchmen!” a man yelled and ran at Hayden with a pike.

Throwing himself aside, Hayden felt the pike tear away the shoulder of his coat. He slashed horribly at the man’s throat, but cut across both his eyes instead. As the man fell, Hayden was beset by yet another. The mutineers fought with a fierce desperation, but the outrage of their former victims quickly equalled it. For a time the fighting see-sawed back and forth, but the mutineers’ surprise at finding they battled not Frenchmen but their former mates shook them a little. Slowly the exhausted Hayden began to realize they were pressing the attack. Mutineers retreated along the gangways, some leaping down to the gun-deck.

“Mr Hawthorne!” Hayden called, finding the marine but two yards distant. “We must secure the magazines.”

Hawthorne nodded, and began gathering a small party around him. Hayden ran along the gangway, sweeping up a group of men in his wake. They jumped down onto the gun-deck, where they found a scene of terrible ruin and death, the smell of smoke and blood thick in the air.

As they approached the companionway, mutineers came pounding up the ladder. Hayden and his party threw themselves down behind the great guns as firearms were discharged and lead balls cracked and rang against iron and wood. Before the mutineers could reload, Hayden led his men in a charge. The mutineers retreated to the top of the companionway, but there made a stand, fighting with a savage abandon, hardly taking notice of wounds.

“There you are, Franklin Douglas,” one of Hayden’s men called. “I owe you this, you bastard.” And he stretched out the mutineer Douglas with a single blow.

Fearing his men were pressed back, Hayden found his second pistol and shot the most ferocious adversary—a topman named Michaels. His ball caught the man in the mouth, and toppled him down the ladder in a slump. The mutineers held their ground a moment more, then broke and fled below. Hesitantly, Hayden went down the steps—crouched to look into the dark corners, expecting at any second to be shot—but the mutineers had retreated or lay on the deck. The sound of fighting had ceased from all points. A strange, ominous silence pervaded the ship. A group of his own men from the
Dragoon
appeared in the midshipmen’s berth and signalled all-clear.

Hayden led his men down onto the orlop-deck and the half-sunken magazine, which he found swaddled in wet blankets against sparks. It was nearly dark here, but a little glow spilled out a square of glass in the light-room door, which had been so placed to provide illumination for the powder-monkeys.

The magazine door hung slightly ajar, and Hayden tugged it open a crack. Inside, lit by the stained glow emanating through the light-room glass, he could see one man, hunched in pain. The boy-giant Giles leaned heavily against the wall, one hand pressed to his side, the other holding a pistol aimed down into an open powder barrel. Around him, illuminated by the faint light, slowly swirled a fine cloud of motes—
powder dust
.

“Giles…” Hayden said, trying to keep his voice soft and reasonable. “What is it you do?”

The boy could not hide his surprise. “Mr Hayden? Is that you, sir?”

Hayden pressed the door open a few more inches so the two could see each other. Giles was contorted in terrible pain, he could see, his face pasty and slick with sweat.

“It is, Giles. Stay calm, now.”

“Have you gone over to the French, sir?”

“Not at all, Giles,” Hayden said, trying to keep all fear out of his voice, though his mouth and throat were parched. “I am sailing the French prize we took at Belle Île and have dressed as a Frenchman to confuse the enemy. We found the
Themis
’ officers and some crew adrift in boats.”

“They came to no harm, then?”

“None at all,” Hayden said cheerfully, and smiled. “Mr Barthe told me that you did not join in the mutiny but Stuckey would not let you come away in the boats. He will say as much at the court-martial, and Mr Hawthorne will declare the same, for so he told me. You may put the pistol down. You will go free, I’m sure.”

The boy shook his head, and in the saddest tone said, “Not the likes of me, Mr Hayden. Me they’ll hang. Look what they did to McBride, and he wasn’t even guilty…”

Hayden did not like the way this was said—as though Giles knew McBride was innocent. “But you didn’t kill Penrith,” Hayden stated firmly. “Stuckey was lying.”

For a moment it looked as though the boy would weep, his gaze falling away. “I didn’t mean it to go that way, Mr Hayden. I thought I could put a scare in him—get him to take me name off the petition—Stuckey told me I would hang for signing it—but Penrith pulled a knife…”

“And you let McBride hang for it…” Hayden said without thinking, appalled.

“He was a lying fucking landsman. No one mourned when he went up.”

With difficulty, Hayden hid his revulsion. “Put the pistol up, Giles. You’ll kill everyone aboard, yourself included.”

“I’m shot through the gut, Mr Hayden. Blood and shit are leaking out of my arse.” For a second he closed his eyes. The hand holding the pistol began to tremble perceptibly.

“I’ve seen the doctor patch up worse.”

The boy shook his head. “Tell your men to lay down their arms, Mr Hayden, or I’ll blow the
Themis
to flinders.”

“You killed Penrith by accident, and you’ve been tortured by it ever since; I can see that. Are you really willing to murder two hundred?”

“I’m damned to hell already. What’ll a few more murders mean on my ledger?”

Hayden saw him feel the lock with his thumb, assuring himself the gun was cocked.

“Giles…?” came a soft voice from behind.

Hayden turned to find a gaunt and ghostly Aldrich making his way stiffly through the clot of men at Hayden’s back. Every motion caused him agony, Hayden could see, but his eye was clear and determined. Stepping aside, Hayden let him pass, as though he were a superior officer. He almost reached for his hat.

“Haven’t we had enough killing? We never intended this when we talked of sailing to America.” Aldrich pulled the low door gently open and then slumped down to sit with his feet on the inside step, leaning heavily against the frame, hardly able to support himself.

“Mr Aldrich…” the boy said, and tears began to slip down his cheeks. “We are all dead men anyway…”

“Not all,” Aldrich said softly, his voice filled with sadness, disappointment. “Not Mr Hayden or Mr Wickham, here. Not any number of your shipmates. I am not dead…yet.” He held out his hand. “There’s been enough killing among our own people, Giles.”

The boy began to sob, his hand shaking terribly. A thrust of pain doubled him over and he cried out.

“I’m sorry, Mr Aldrich…but this is what was agreed to. I swore to fire the powder if our ship were taken. We’ll all hang if I don’t…”

Hayden realized that the sounds of fighting had ceased. A hollow, eerie silence pervaded the ship. Of an instant, he expected the silence would be shattered by an explosion more terrible than any he had witnessed, and Charles Saunders Hayden would depart this life.