Aloft there!” Hayden called up to the lookout. “Does she bear colours?”
“No, Captain. Not that I can see.”
Wickham, who stood by the rail, hatless, the wind ranging his gold curls about his face, handed Hayden his night glass. “Shall I fetch my glass and go aloft, sir?”
“If you please, Mr Wickham.”
“Immediately, sir.”
A moment later, Wickham was climbing slowly up the ratlines, his glass slung over his back. He settled himself on the main-top and fixed his glass upon the distant ship.
“She’s a three-master, Captain,” he called down. “Painted like a transport.”
In itself, this did not signify a great deal, as Sir William had ordered all his captains—including Hayden—to paint their ships a single colour so that they were not obviously Navy ships.
“Are there other ships, Mr Wickham, perhaps just behind the cape? Can you see?”
“Just a single sail so far, Captain.”
“A single French cruiser in the Windward Channel, sir,” Ransome observed quietly. “That seems improbable. Much more likely that she is either the transport her appearance claims or a Spanish ship. She might be British, but our cruisers have tended to sail in squadrons.”
“She is very likely a transport, Mr Ransome, and a most fortunate one as well, for these privateers will not dare harass her with our frigate so near.” Hayden glanced up at the sails, gauging the wind. “We will stand on for half an hour more and then wear ship, Mr Ransome. Once we have worn, we will send the men to their breakfast.”
“I shall send word to the Spanish cooks,” Ransome replied. “Though I do miss a good English breakfast,” he confided softly.
Hayden, who had grown up with French cooking, nodded. “What man, Mr Ransome, could find fault with the English breakfast?”
“My thinking exactly, sir.”
No other ships appeared around the cape, distant now only a few miles, and the strange ship bore off, hard on the wind on the starboard tack, prudently giving the unknown ships sea room.
“On deck, Captain!” Wickham called down. “She is sending colours aloft, sir—British colours.”
Hayden considered this a moment, and then summoned one of the English hands. “Pass the word for Reverte and Mr Gould.”
Hayden stood at the rail, gazing off towards the four ships. He could make out the British colours without a glass now.
The frigate taken by the privateers sent aloft colours at that moment, and these, Hayden was quite certain, were Spanish.
“Aloft, there! Is that the Spanish flag, Mr Wickham?”
“So it is, sir.”
Reverte and Gould arrived at the same instant.
“Who is your signal officer?” Hayden asked the Spaniard, uncertain of the proper term in Spanish and using a less-than-correct translation.
“He went with Captain Serrano on the prize, Captain Hayden,” Reverte answered.
“Do you know if you carry a British ensign?”
Reverte’s countenance did not change in the least. “I shall have the colour-chest carried up, but I believe that it is possible.”
Hayden refrained from commenting on allies bearing British colours. Of course, his own ship had carried Spanish colours—such was the fragile nature of the two nations’ alliance.
Hayden turned to the midshipman. “Mr Gould. Do I recall correctly that you committed much of the signal book to memory?”
“I did make an effort to, sir.”
“We may have need of signals. You might be forced to tear apart the Spanish flags and improvise, but you should stand ready.”
Gould looked a little perplexed. “What signal will be required, sir?”
“I wish I knew; we shall see what transpires.”
The colour-chest arrived on the deck, and to the slight embarrassment of the Spanish, there was indeed a British ensign therein. Hayden ordered it sent aloft.
Gould went through the Spanish flags, laying out those of different colours.
“On deck, sir!” Wickham called down. “The strange ship, sir—I do not find her so strange, after all. I believe she is ours, sir. I believe she is the Themis!”
Hayden called for a glass and quizzed the distant ship. French and British frigates were much alike and easily mistaken one for the other, but there was something about the proportion of this particular ship’s rig that did seem familiar.
As Hayden looked, the rig began to change shape.
“She is clewing up her mainsail, Captain,” Wickham called down.
“No, Mr Archer,” Hayden muttered.
“What are they about, sir?” Mr Gould asked.
“They are heaving-to so that they might speak to one of these ships they believe to be Spanish. Can you make up ‘Chasing enemy ships,’ Mr Gould . . . this very instant?”
Gould looked over at the flags he had laid out on the deck. “It will be very makeshift, sir.”
“It does not matter. Do the best you can, and quickly as you can.”
Gould began tearing up the Spanish signal flags for the colours he would require. Reverte called for the sail maker and his mates, and they began furiously making up flags to Gould’s directions. The stitches were so far apart that Hayden wondered if they would hold together in the wind, but in a little more than a quarter of an hour, something that resembled the signal for “chasing enemy ships” went aloft. Hayden ordered a gun fired at the same time to draw the attention of the Themis, and prayed that their lookouts were not so focused on the nearby “Spanish” vessels that they did not notice.
“Mr Ransome. Lieutenant Reverte. Let us wear ship and run down upon our privateers.”
Hayden looked up into the rigging. “Aloft there, Wickham. Has Archer seen our signal? Can you see what they do?”
“He has heaved-to, sir. That is all I can tell you.”
“Have they gone to quarters, Mr Wickham?”
“I cannot be certain, sir. Gunports are closed.”
“Damn!” Hayden whispered. Archer was about to have three enemy vessels fire broadsides into him, and he seemed utterly innocent of their intent.
It occurred to Hayden then to wonder how the Themis had arrived at this place, but he decided Caldwell’s messenger must have found her. He kept hoping that Jones would round the headland in Inconstant, but no other ship appeared. There was only the Themis, hove-to some distance off the headland, with the three ships bearing down on her.
“Aloft, Mr Wickham?” Hayden called out. “How distant are the privateers from the Themis?”
“Not a mile, sir, I should not think.” Wickham raised his glass again. “Sir? Mr Archer is getting her underway. Mayhap, he has made out our signal, Captain.”
Getting a frigate underway could not be done instantly, even under the most pressing need, which no doubt Archer felt at that moment. Hayden watched as yards were braced around and sails loosed. Staysails jerked aloft, flailed for a moment, and then were sheeted tight.
The instant sails were set and drawing, he saw gunports open, and not, it appeared, an instant too soon. The nearest privateer began a turn to larboard and unleashed her broadside of twelve-pounders. Before Hayden could even wonder at the effect on Archer’s command, smoke erupted all around the Themis, and the privateer, whose deck canted towards the Themis on that point of sail, was a scene of carnage, sails torn and flailing and men strewn across the deck.
Immediately, the other privateers bore off, shaping their course to weather the cape.
“Mr Ransome!” Hayden called out. “We will pass that privateer to weather and give her a broadside.”
“Aye, sir!”
Ransome and Reverte went immediately about the ship, disposing the men to their proper stations.
Hayden stood at the rail, holding a shroud as the ship rolled on the quartering sea. A bit of rain rattled down around him, though Hayden hardly took notice but to note that powder must be kept dry, something of which the Spanish gun crews were cognizant.
Aboard the nearest privateer, men were scrambling about, trying to put their ship to rights. They dared not bear off, lest Hayden rake them, so they stood on, knowing that the Spanish frigate flying a British flag was about to bring ruin to them. Hayden wondered if they would strike, given that a much more powerful ship was about to engage them, but their false ensign continued to stream.
The Spanish frigate was the swifter vessel, but not by a great deal, so overhauling the privateer took half of the hour.
“On deck, Captain! The Themis is wearing, sir.”
“Climb down, Mr Wickham,” Hayden ordered. “I shall need you on the deck.”
The frigate finally drew abreast of the privateer, just beyond musket shot, and both ships fired their broadsides at almost the same instant. Smoke obscured all for a moment and then the wind carried the cloud away. The privateer was a ruin of dangling rigging and unmounted guns. Almost reluctantly, Hayden ordered the guns reloaded and fired, and then they passed the privateer by, leaving her bobbing on the waves, her wheel shot away and turning slowly broadside to the seas.
The remaining privateers disappeared behind the cape at that moment, and Hayden ordered their course altered so that he might sail within hailing distance of the Themis. Gunports were conspicuously closed, and he sent Wickham out to the end of the jib-boom with a speaking trumpet to hail Archer. There were a few moments of wary hesitation, and then the Themises recognised their shipmate and there was a great cheer aboard the British vessel.
The two ships drew abeam and Hayden found himself standing at the rail, looking over at his ship and officers, gathered at the rail, grinning like men in their cups.
“We were told to look for a schooner, Captain,” Archer called, “but it has been miraculously transformed into a frigate—a Spanish frigate.”
“I shall tell you the story entire at some time, Mr Archer,” Hayden called back, suspecting that his own grin was not immoderate. “For now you should know that we chase a privateer like the one you just dished, and a Spanish frigate bearing both bullion and Mrs Hayden—or so I believe.”
“Have you a plan, sir?” Archer asked.
“A very simple one. We overhaul them and disable the privateer first. We then range up to either side of the frigate and hope her master has the sense to strike.”
“Then we should not let them get any farther ahead, sir.”
“I agree, Mr Archer. Luck to you, sir.”
“And you, Captain.”
The two ships swiftly made sail and shaped their respective courses to weather the tip of Hispaniola, which lay less than a mile distant. Although the Spanish ship had the longer water line, Hayden was not displeased to see that the Themis kept pace with her. The two crews, Spanish and British, were immediately competing, and the lieutenants and sailing masters of both vessels were all about the deck, bracing yards and trimming sails to get every tenth of a knot from their respective vessels.
Hayden took a glass and went forward to the forecastle, where he might get a better view of their chases. The masters of these ships were not fools and gave the cape a wide berth, not wishing to be becalmed in its lee. The wind, which had been blowing north by east to north-north-east for some hours, chose that moment to shift to north-east by north, and the privateers found themselves in the lee of the hills all the same, where they rolled terribly in the quartering sea.
Reverte and Ransome came forward, and the three considered their best course for a moment, studying the dog-vane and pennants at the masthead and quizzing the sea all around.
Ransome pointed to a flight of white-feathered birds some distance before them. “Those gulls have wind beneath their sails, sir. Have they not?”
A quick look with a glass confirmed this observation.
“Perhaps this wind will carry us up to them, Captain,” Reverte observed.
“Perhaps, but in this sea a small wind will be rolled out of our sails in an instant, as you both well know.”
It was, perhaps, one of the most frustrating experiences of sailors—and not an uncommon one—to have seas greater than the wind justified. The wind would then be too small to steady the ship, and the seas would roll and throw the sails about so that they might flog themselves to ribbons. If the seas, however, were the proper height such a wind should make, this would not occur, and the ship would slip along happily.
It was decided to shape their course more to the south-west, trying to skirt the area of calms beneath the cape and hope the wind did not shift back into the north, sending their chases on their way east, while Hayden’s frigate and the Themis had gone farther west. It was a gamble, and Hayden could not guess how it might pay off.
All through the forenoon they made their way south-west, the lookouts aloft trying to discern the edge of the calm so as to keep their ships in wind, though the area of fickle winds grew and shrank without any apparent cause.
For half of an hour before noon, the privateers found wind and shaped their course south-east, but then the wind left them again and they rolled and slatted about in the seas, gear threatening to carry away, such was the violence of their motion.
By four bells Hayden’s two ships were some seven miles south-west of the privateers, which Hayden did not care for, but Ransome, Reverte, and Mr Barthe, aboard the Themis, all concurred that they might risk altering their course into the east. Yards were shifted and the helms put over, and the two ships, now broadside to seas blown out of the Windward Channel, rolled on towards the west at good speed.
When they had covered perhaps five miles, the two privateers found their wind and shaped their own courses to skirt the southern coast of Hispaniola.
When Hayden’s little squadron was due south of the Cape Tiburon, the fetch grew so short that the seas went down to a low, long swell and the ships suddenly surged forward, their motion eased so that the worst landlubber aboard could dance a jig upon the deck without fear of falling.
The two ships raced on, carrying every sail they could safely send aloft. Wickham asked permission to climb to the foremast tops, where his view would not be impeded by sails, and there he watched their chases for half an hour before leaning over and calling down to Hayden on the forecastle.
“Sir, we are gaining on the privateer, but the frigate ranges ahead.”
Hayden turned to Reverte. “Will the frigate reduce sail to protect her consort, or will she abandon her and run?”
Reverte shook his head. “I cannot say what the master will do. This frigate and the one we chase were built from the same draught. One is as swift as the other.”
“Then it might come down to which has the cleaner bottom,” Hayden replied.
“Or the better seamanship,” Reverte observed.
“This is your ship, Lieutenant,” Hayden said. “Can she be made to sail faster?”
“Perhaps, if I might suggest a few small things? She is like every ship and has her own little likes and dislikes.”
“By all means, do with her as you will.”
For the next hour, it seemed the master of the frigate could not make up his own mind as to what to do, but then he began to crowd on sail and left the other privateer to her fate, a rather cowardly act, all aboard the chasing ships agreed.
Hayden went back and forth between quarterdeck and forecastle, trying not to look as unsettled as he felt. After chasing these ships for so many days it now appeared he might actually overhaul them, which forced him to consider another matter. His bride was aboard one of them . . . and he might be forced into battle with the ship that bore her, endangering her life.
Upon one of his visits to the foredeck he found Reverte standing at the forward barricade.
“I realise I have asked this before, Lieutenant,” Hayden began, taking his place beside the Spaniard, “but you are quite certain no bullion was transferred off the frigate?”
“I am quite certain.”
“And the lady you saw—the woman I believe was Mrs Hayden—she is aboard the same ship?”
“Certainly, she was at the time our ships were taken.” Reverte paused. “Even privateers would put such a woman down into the deepest part of the hold so that she would be in no danger in the event of a battle.”
“I have seen ships explode—more than once—catch fire, and even founder. I have witnessed vessels sinking after collisions, and I have been aboard a ship wrecked upon the coast with great loss of life. There is no place aboard a ship that is truly safe.”
“There is no place in this life that is truly safe, Captain Hayden. I once saw a man run down by a carriage that had escaped and rolled down a hill. He later died of his injuries. Mrs Hayden will be as safe as is possible. I cannot say, ‘Do not worry’—you are her husband, so that would not be possible—but I am quite certain all of your concern shall be for naught. Mrs Hayden will not be harmed. You might ask yourself how many times you have seen a ship’s surgeon wounded in a battle.”
“I have never seen it, unless the ship itself was destroyed.”
“Because he is down in the cockpit, deep in the ship where Mrs Hayden will be.”
Hayden felt himself nod, his anxiety very slightly eased but not erased.
It became apparent that the course set by the privateers would not take them to Guadeloupe but to the north of it. It did not take Hayden long to realise that de Latendresse and his allies were likely steering for one of the neutral islands that lay nearer. At the speed they were presently sailing, St Croix was not four days distant, and that island’s port would shelter them from the British more than adequately. Hayden could not let the enemy ships reach that island.
The wind gods seemed to have taken the side of the privateers that day, providing them wind when Hayden’s ships were left floundering in near-calms that appeared ever to impede them. Day gave way to darkness and the lookouts were on the alert for any attempts by their chases to slip off in some other direction. Hayden slept as poorly that night as he could remember, and was on deck often, assuring himself that neither frigate nor converted transport had disappeared but remained always before them.
Well before first light, he gave up sleep altogether and found himself on the forecastle when dawn began to brighten in the east, silhouetting the enemy vessels as they dipped their bows into each sea.
Wickham and Reverte came up to the barricade, where Hayden stood with a night glass tucked beneath his arm. The Spaniard pointed towards their chases.
“The frigate was not so far ahead at sunset,” he observed. “And look . . . we are drawing up to the privateer.”
Hayden nodded. Even in the thin light he was certain Reverte was correct; they would overhaul the aft ship before midday.
“I do not think that the frigate has any intention of protecting her consort. She is more than a mile ahead, perhaps a mile and a half.” Hayden turned to Wickham and Reverte. “We will beat to quarters but keep the fire in the galley stove yet. Send the hands down for breakfast a few gun crews at a time. I want a well-fed crew ready to give battle.”
Hayden crossed to the starboard rail, where he found the Themis, almost a mile distant on their quarter. Archer was not risking collision by night—he had been witness to that variety of calamity—but now he would almost certainly have to tack to bring his ship up to Hayden’s.
Apparently, the privateers came to this same realisation, for at that moment the lookout called down, “On deck, Captain! The frigate is making ready to tack, sir.”
Ransome came running along the gangway at that moment, coatless and shaking off sleep.
“Ah, Mr Ransome,” Hayden said to his lieutenant. “Call sail handlers to their stations and coil down. We shall wear ship upon my order.” He turned to his other officers. “Mr Wickham. Lieutenant Reverte. You have the gun-deck.”
The two touched hats and hurried off at the same moment as Hawthorne appeared, bearing a musket.
“What are the French about now?” he asked as he passed Ransome, who was calling orders as he went.
“They were hoping to catch us unawares, Mr Hawthorne,” Hayden informed the marine, “and pass us to either side, allowing each ship to fire at least one broadside. I suspect they would target our rig, and then hope to do something similar to the Themis.”
“But the second ship does not appear to be tacking.” Hawthorne pointed.
“No, Mr Hawthorne, but we shall soon see how deeply he comprehends the situation—the master of the privateer, I mean. He should allow the frigate to pass ahead of him, for if they approach us at the same time we will wear and rake the privateer—unless she also wears, of course. If the frigate is allowed to range ahead, then we will not dare wear ship for fear of being raked ourselves.”
The crew, both Spaniards and Englishmen, came streaming onto the deck and began immediately to coil down ropes in preparation to wear ship. Ransome stationed himself on the gangway just forward of the quarterdeck so he could relay Hayden’s orders to the hands who would brail up the mizzen, allowing the ship to turn downwind.
The distant frigate came through the wind, sails flailing and beating the air a moment, and then calming as they were set to drawing properly. The second ship was doing as Hayden’s command was, sail handlers at their stations, ropes removed from their belaying pins and coiled down on the deck so that they might run freely.
“It would appear that this captain comprehends the situation well enough,” Hawthorne said, clearly disappointed.
“I expected no less,” Hayden replied.
“Shall we wear ship, then, sir?” Gould asked anxiously.
“Mr Gould, are you not assigned a station at this time?” Hayden enquired peevishly.
“Most certainly I am, sir. The forecastle, Captain.”
“Then see to your duties, Mr Gould, and I shall see to mine.”
“Aye, sir. My apologies, sir.”
Although it was Hayden’s policy to allow his young gentlemen to ask questions of him, on the principle that this would aid them in acquiring their trade, there were, clearly, some questions that served only to vex him, and these he felt should be discouraged . . . sharply, when necessary.
He turned to find that Archer was tacking the Themis in an attempt to get to windward so he might bring his ship into the action. The privateer’s frigate was now coming towards them on a slant that would take it to windward of Hayden’s ship.
“Mr Ransome,” Hayden called. “Open the larboard gunports, if you please.”
“Larboard gunports, Captain,” Ransome called back, and relayed the order to Reverte and Wickham.
There was a moment of utter silence on the forecastle. The gun crews had released their guns, removed tompions and run them out, and now they waited.
“At the risk of sounding like a green reefer,” Hawthorne said quietly to his captain, “do you plan to stand on or wear ship?”
“That depends, Mr Hawthorne, on what our enemies do. I will order whichever seems most advantageous, but it will be determined by the arrangement of the enemy’s vessels and when each will reach us. Do have a little patience, Mr Hawthorne. I have not gone to sleep.”
“Aye, sir.”
Hayden assured himself of the Themis’ position and then estimated the speed of the approaching captured frigate. It had the wind more or less on the quarter and was closing with them at what appeared to be great speed, for the combined velocity of the converging vessels was easily eleven or twelve knots, he was certain.
The second privateer began to turn into the wind, but her master seemed to have incorrectly estimated the speed of the other vessels and was making his turn too soon.
“There,” Hayden announced. “Mr Ransome! We will alter our course to pass to leeward of the first privateer.”
Ransome repeated his orders and went immediately to the helmsman.
“Do you see, Mr Hawthorne? We shall attempt to manoeuvre the privateer between ourselves and the captured frigate, which will not be able to turn downwind to rake us, for fear of running afoul of his consort. If he wishes to come after us, he must tack, which I intend to do myself the moment we have passed the privateer.”
Hayden turned and made his way back along the gangway so that he might be upon the quarterdeck before the ships met. The helm was put up a little and the bow of the ship fell off the wind. Hayden could see the privateer tacking.
“Will she not try to force us up by sailing below us, Captain?” Ransome asked quietly.
“I do not think she can tack so quickly.” Hayden exchanged his night glass for one made for the day and quizzed the nearest ship. “Does it not appear, Mr Ransome, that she is undermanned?”
Hayden passed his glass to the lieutenant, who gazed into it a moment. “Could he have manned both batteries, Captain?”
“Perhaps, but I wonder if much of the crew has not been transferred to the other ships.”
Ransome brightened noticeably. “I do hope you are correct, sir.”
“Let us prepare to fire our larboard battery as we pass, Mr Ransome.”
Ransome moved immediately to the break in the deck so that he might relay his captain’s orders to the gun-deck.
Marines and other men with muskets were settling themselves on the tops, preparing to fire on the enemy’s deck as she passed. Hayden would not, under different circumstances, have left his lower square sails drawing where they might be set afire accidentally from sparks blown back by the wind, but he had need of all the speed he could manage. Ransome had ordered the hands to wet down the sails with buckets, but the trade would dry them in a moment. It was simply an unavoidable risk.
Despite the number of actions Hayden had been through, he still felt both his heart pounding madly in his chest and a shortness of breath. A sea officer might steel himself to stand upon the quarterdeck in the midst of gunfire, but fear could never be eliminated. It was elemental, he believed, more animal than human.
As the sun broke free of the horizon, the enemy vessels appeared to grow larger, the light picking out the details of the ships and casting long, stark shadows. The privateer came through the wind just before her sister ship reached her, and just as Hayden’s own vessel passed her to leeward. Had she tacked a moment sooner, she could have turned downwind and raked Hayden’s ship, but as it was, she was forced to pass him beam-on, and almost dead in the water after tacking. Her gunports, however, were open.
“Mr Ransome, we will fire our larboard battery all at once,” Hayden said, loud enough for the lieutenant to hear. There was silence all along the deck at that moment.
The two ships came up to each other, and their respective guns fired almost at the same instant, a great, jarring explosion of fire and smoke. All about Hayden there was a rending of timbers and shouting. Shards of wood and deadly slivers spun by in the pall of smoke. Hayden picked himself up and began tugging slivers out of his coat, some with bloody ends.
He wondered that he remained whole and could still stand. The smoke blew off quickly, revealing the damage all around and men thrown down on the deck, twisted into unnatural positions and some still as stones.
He tore his eyes from this horrible scene and looked aft to the enemy ship, which was in far greater ruin than his own. Hayden had half expected her to turn downwind in an attempt to rake him from astern, but she did not.
“We shall tack, Mr Ransome.”
Immediately, the lieutenant began calling out orders.
The privateers’ captured frigate stood on, and Hayden wondered if she would tack. But then he realised that the Themis was tacking, even as he did, and would be on a course to intercept the frigate in but a moment.
The master of the captured frigate must have come to the conclusion that his ships would be overtaken and so had chosen to turn and fight, likely hoping to inflict damage on Hayden’s rig, but the captain of the second ship had not perfectly understood his intentions and came about too soon, allowing Hayden to avoid the heavier broadside of the frigate. Ship handling and tactics would now come to the fore, as the privateers had no hope for escape but to run off downwind, into the great expanse of the Caribbean Sea, where there was no land to impede them for a hundred leagues.
Hayden watched the two ships, fascinated. What would they do now that their plan had failed?
“We appear to have taken no damage below the water line, Captain,” Ransome called out.
“And how have the men on the gun-deck fared?” Hayden enquired, not taking his eyes from the enemy.
“We have lost some men and we have one gun dismounted, sir, but it is no danger to us.”
Hayden’s ship came through the wind with a shaking of sails and gear, and then the sudden, percussive thup! of sails filling. Yards were shifted and braced, sheets drawn home. The frigate gathered way and set off in the wake of her sister ship—the ship carrying Hayden’s bride, or so he prayed.
Hawthorne trotted along the deck to where Hayden stood at the rail, watching his adversaries and trying to divine what they might do.
“I do not know how best to station my musket men, Captain,” he said. “Will Mr Archer come up into the wind and attempt to rake the frigate?”
“I do not believe he will, Mr Hawthorne—not with two ships bearing down on him. I believe he will stand on and exchange broadsides.”
“Two knights riding along the barrier . . . ?”
“It is very much like that. Rate of fire will count for nothing, as there will be opportunity for only a single broadside. There is, however, a very great change in our situation. In a few moments, our ships will lie between the privateers and any French or neutral islands to which they might reasonably sail. They have, I think, made a very grave error.”
“If you were the master of the French frigate, Captain, what would you do?”
“I would run off downwind and hope to slip away by darkness.”
“That sounds like an act of desperation,” the marine lieutenant stated. “The Frenchman made an error turning to fight.”
“The master of the converted transport made an error. He tacked at the wrong moment and allowed us to use him as a shield. Now they are in a difficult situation, as our two ships have the greater weight of broadside.”
The gun crews and sail handlers on the upper deck all stood silently at their stations, eyes fixed upon the three ships before them. The frigate and the Themis were closing on each other rapidly. Gunports of both ships were open, and on the upper decks the gun captains could be seen elevating or lowering their weapons. The Themis was not going to pass as near to the French ship as Hayden had, he could now see, but even so, they would be close enough that much damage could be inflicted.
Hayden’s own ship was being put to rights by the Spanish sailing master, the bosun and his crew, who hurried about the decks and climbed aloft, shouting to one another in rapid Spanish.
The two combatant ships came abreast of each other, and Hayden was sure every man on deck held their breath an instant. At such short distance the flash of powder and the sound of the explosion were simultaneous. Dense, roiling smoke enveloped both vessels. Immediately, it began to blow off in long tendrils, even as it swirled into the back eddies of the sails.
The ships emerged from this darkness, and Hayden could see that the enemy frigate had much damage to her sails and rig.
Hayden pointed. “I believe Mr Archer has fired bar and chain, Mr Hawthorne. Do you see the ruin he has made of the Frenchman’s rig?”
As the Themis emerged from the veil of smoke that clung to her, the second French ship—the converted transport—sheered off, shifting her yards to run dead before the wind.
“At least that privateer has mastered rudimentary sums,” Hawthorne observed. “A dozen twelve-pounders opposed to a broadside of eighteen-pounders . . . Clever lad.”
“And his rig has less damage than Mr Archer’s, so he will have the advantage for a short while.”
The two British ships converged in but a few moments, and Hayden climbed up on the rail, holding onto the mizzen shrouds. He pointed off at the retreating privateer. “That ship is yours, Mr Archer,” he called.
Archer waved back and nodded, turning to call out orders. The two ships passed of an instant, and Hayden’s vessel held her course, quickly gaining on the frigate that Archer had partially disabled.
Hayden went striding forward onto the forecastle, where he might see his chase more clearly. Gould was there with a glass screwed into his eye, though the ship was so near Hayden had to wonder why.
One of the hands quietly warned the midshipman that the captain approached, and he hastily lowered his glass and touched his hat. “There is a great deal of damage to her rig, sir,” he reported. “I think her topmasts might carry away with but a little more encouragement, and they are taking in all sail above the topsails.”
Even without a glass, Hayden could see that this was true. He could also see that they would overhaul this ship in but a few moments.
“Mr Gould, go down to the gun-deck, if you please, and inform Ransome that I intend to range up to windward of this frigate and engage her at close range. Pass the word for the Spanish officers.”
“Aye, sir.” The midshipman went off at a run.
A moment later, sailing master and junior lieutenants hurried onto the deck.
“We will overhaul this Frenchman in a moment,” Hayden informed them in Spanish. “Let us clew up our courses. We will be to windward of her, so she will be in much smoke, but I do not want to give them an opportunity to board, as I believe they have numbers.”
The Spaniards nodded approvingly and immediately began sending men to stations. Hayden took one last look at the frigate before them and strode back to the quarterdeck. Two ships built to the same draught and identically armed were about to engage each other at short range. Around him, Hayden could see a smouldering and determined anger. These were the Spaniards who had fallen victim to and been made fools of by these same French privateers. The opportunity for redemption, if not revenge, was welcomed most heartily.
Hayden’s frigate slowed just as they caught up to the privateers, the Spanish sailing master estimating the speed of the two vessels precisely, and clewing up sails at the appropriate instant.
Hayden returned to the quarterdeck, where he could stand near the helmsman and where Ransome could both relay his orders to the gun-deck and take his place should he fall. As his ship drew near the privateer, Hayden found himself hoping above all things that Angelita would be deep within the ship, as Reverte had suggested, and would remain untouched by the violence.
As the bow of Hayden’s ship came abreast of the privateers’ aft-most gun, it fired, and then the next. Clearly, the French hoped to do damage and kill members of Hayden’s gun crews before his ship could fire a broadside—and it was certainly worth trying, in Hayden’s view.
“Mr Ransome,” he called out between shots, “order Mr Wickham to fire as she bears, if you please.”
Immediately, the forward guns spoke and then each gun aft of that in order. It took a moment for Hayden’s ship to come abreast of the Frenchman, as the difference in their speed was so small, but then they were firing guns as quickly as they could be loaded and run out.
Around Hayden, chaos erupted. Splinters from the bulwarks spun past, even as musket fire and iron balls from the deck guns murdered his crew and tore away his rigging. When men of the larboard battery fell, others stationed at the starboard guns took their places, sometimes pulling the dead or wounded clear, and sometimes leaving thick smears of blood upon the planks.
The binnacle exploded not a yard from Hayden, and he picked himself up from the deck a second later, dazed and uncertain if he was injured. A moment he stood, searching his side, where he felt pain, but decided he was bruised only.
For a quarter of the hour the two ships battered each other from close range, until it became clear that the guns on the privateer spoke less and less frequently, and then they fell silent altogether. The enemy vessel was half hidden in smoke, but Hayden ordered his own crew to leave off firing, and in a moment, the wind cleared away the great cloud. There lay their sister ship, her rig in ruins, her decks littered with bodies and debris, her guns blasted from their carriages.
Men draped a flag over the ruined bulwark of the quarterdeck, but it was not, as Hayden expected, a British flag to signal their surrender—it was a yellow ensign. The Yellow Jack.