Two

A malformed moon drifted above the haze and cast a meagre light upon the deck. Beyond the rail, an inky, restive sea rolled and muttered in its bed.

‘It is an unwholesome sea.’ The sailing master appeared out of darkness, stomping the few feet to the bulwark where Charles Hayden stood with a night glass tucked into the crook of his arm.

‘Unwholesome? Whatever do you mean, Mr Barthe?’

‘It seems like a broth left to stand until it has gone thick and chill.’ Barthe shivered visibly.

Hayden hid a smile. ‘I believe you are becoming somewhat of a poet, Mr Barthe. It is just the usual April sea, to my eye. Though the night is too close by half.’ He raised his glass and swept it very slowly across sixty degrees of arc, then back again, before returning it to its place of rest.

‘Three hours, yet, Captain, before we have some light,’ Barthe observed, divining what was in his superior’s mind. ‘Time yet.’

Hayden did not think it was near enough time and wanted to be under sail even as they spoke.

‘I would rather see them returned sooner than later,’ Hayden replied. ‘And as for the other matter … That man might be in gaol or on his way to the guillotine. I shall not wait past the appointed time.’

A cutter, still painted black from their recent enterprise on the island of Corsica, had set out some hours earlier to enter the French harbour of Le Havre under cover of darkness. Whether the frigate Hayden was to destroy had gone out on the hunt that night, Hayden needed to know. There was no way to intercept it along the British coast, where it stalked its prey under cover of darkness – other than by matchless luck – so Hayden hoped to meet with Monsieur Benoît and then lie in wait for the frigate’s return. If, however, the French ship remained in harbour that night, Hayden did not want to lose the element of surprise by being observed lying in ambush. In that case Hayden would order the Themis to slip away long before first light to take no chance of being becalmed within plain sight of the French port.

But for now he must meet this damned Monsieur Benoît, who, if he had been discovered by the French, could easily give away the time and place of this rendezvous, in which case French ships might keep the appointment instead, which caused Hayden more than a little uneasiness.

‘Can you make out the coast, Captain?’ the sailing master wondered, his voice suddenly a bit thin. ‘I fear we are being set to the east. This is no place for a ship on such a dark night. When the Seine fills, upon the rise, the currents can shift inshore, and the duration of high water is often prolonged. I have seen currents set a ship counter to the best pilot’s predictions. It is a damned dangerous situation, and I am not pleased with it.’

‘We are of one mind in this, Mr Barthe, but we have no choice in this matter.’ Hayden turned about, gazed up into the rigging a moment and then called up in a low voice, ‘Mr Wickham? Can you make out the shore? Are we being set to the east at all?’

‘We are holding our position, most handsomely, Captain,’ Wickham answered, raising his voice just enough to be heard. ‘I can make out the lights ashore. Implore Mr Barthe to be at peace on this count. All is well.’

‘No sign of our cutter, then?’

‘None, sir.’

‘Any other boats?’

‘No, sir.’

Hayden cursed under his breath, gazed upwards a moment more, then turned back to the rail. Coils of tattered cloud flowed over an indistinct moon tearing apart any faint light that reached the sea.

‘Well, I am still not pleased with it,’ Barthe declared testily. ‘By your leave, sir …’

At a nod from Hayden he waddled off forward to see to the trim of the sails.

Hayden went to the binnacle, where the light had been dimmed, and took out his watch – five minutes shy of two. ‘Pass the word for the master-at-arms, if you please,’ he ordered a seaman.

Immediately, Hayden returned to attempting to part the darkness. For a moment he imagined he heard the measured dipping of sweeps into the cold Channel, but no boat materialized and the sound eventually blended back into the noises of night and sea.

‘Sir?’ The diminutive master-at-arms appeared out of the gloom.

‘We will show this single lamp for exactly one half of the hour,’ Hayden instructed.

‘Aye, sir.’

The signal intended for the French spy was lit, sputtered, then came to soft light. Hayden immediately felt a target for hidden guns or ships lurking in the darkness.

His mind, however, could not be kept on the present circumstances, but was ever drawn back to the troubles that had befallen him upon his recent return to England. Even more than his legal troubles, his estrangement from Henrietta weighed upon him causing constant distress and drawing his mind from his responsibilities. He needed to be in England, to find Henrietta and explain all that had happened. The discovery of Madame Bourdage and her daughter was of no consequence when compared to this one matter.

You have duties, Hayden reminded himself. The safety of two hundred souls is dependent upon you making decisions with a clear mind.

But his mind was not clear and lack of sleep from worry only reduced its powers more. Added to these personal concerns, he now fretted that, in his preoccupied state, he would commit some error of judgement that would put his crew in danger.

Archer appeared at the head of the companionway, looked about as though confused, spotted Hayden, and immediately crossed to him.

‘There you are, Mr Archer. Did you sleep?’ Hayden asked, trying to hide away his worries and concerns.

‘But poorly, sir.’

As Archer habitually appeared like a man just wakened, Hayden could not say if this was the truth.

‘No sign of Mr Ransome, sir?’

‘None.’

Archer considered this news a moment. ‘What will we do if he does not appear by first light?’

Hayden wanted to reply, ‘Roast him’, but instead paused to consider. ‘I fear we shall have to assume he had the ill luck of becoming a guest of the French, and we must hope he does not give away our intentions or reveal that the Themis was here at all.’

‘The French will know he did not row across the Channel. What will they assume, I wonder?’

‘Any number of possibilities, Mr Archer. That he has come ashore to meet a spy. Or that he has placed a spy among them. We can hope the French might think he planned to cut out some ship in the harbour, for if they think he meets a spy they might become determined to have him name the man.’ Only Hayden knew the name of the man they were to meet – and most certainly this was not the man’s real name.

Some bitter liquid was pressed up from his stomach into his throat and Hayden swallowed it back down only to be left with a burning sensation.

‘Capitaine?’ came a whisper almost under Hayden’s chin.

‘Who is it?’ Hayden whispered in French.

‘C’est moi. Benoît.’

‘Come aboard, monsieur.’

Hayden could just make them out now. Two men in a small boat, one at the oars, another in the stern. At the ladder head Hayden waited, two marines with muskets standing by. A small, well-made man came onto the deck, leaving the other to tend the boat. He was dressed as a fisherman but wore a large hat which cast his face entirely into shadow.

‘Shall we repair below, monsieur?’ Hayden asked in the other’s tongue.

‘Let us go to the stern,’ the other said, eyeing the armed marines. ‘I will be but a moment.’

He might have been dressed as a fisherman but Hayden knew by his refined manner of speech that he was anything but. When they reached the taffrail Hayden motioned the marines to keep their distance, allowing the two men to converse privately.

‘You speak French very well,’ Benoît observed, and Hayden could see this made the man rather anxious.

‘I spent some time in France when I was a boy – with relatives.’ As he said this, Hayden opened the signal light and extinguished the flame, feeling a great sense of relief to have done so.

‘You are French?’ the man asked apprehensively.

‘My father was English. A sea officer. I am loyal to that nation, though many of my sympathies lie with your people.’

The man digested this a moment.

‘Have you a letter for me?’ Hayden prompted.

‘I commit nothing to paper. It has been the undoing of too many.’ Benoît seemed to consider a moment, as though uncertain of Hayden, but then he pushed on. ‘A large force is being gathered in Cancale as I have previously reported. But I was wrong as to its objective … and to its size. More than one hundred and fifty transports, five, and now I believe six, ships of the line, two razees and five frigates are there. Presently there are only twenty-five thousand men but soon there are to be one hundred and fifty thousand.’

Hayden cursed aloud – he could not help it.

‘The Channel Islands might be the first objective of this armada, as I have informed your people, but their ultimate goal is to land an army on English soil.’

‘Are you certain of this? Is it not more likely to be Ireland?’

‘I cannot tell you how I know but this information is beyond doubt.’

It was Hayden’s turn to digest. ‘When is this invasion planned?’ he asked.

‘Soon. When your Channel fleet is at sea or perhaps if it can be defeated or significantly weakened so that the French fleet can gain control of the Channel for a short time. It requires only the right wind and a single day to transport an army to England.’

Hayden felt as though he had suddenly taken ill. Desperately he wanted to shed his coat and loosen his neckcloth. Sweat oozed out of his skin and he was so overheated as to feel dizzy.

‘You must convey this knowledge back to your Admiralty, Capitaine. Immediately.’

‘I agree, monsieur. Nothing is more important.’

‘Then I will leave you.’ Benoît made a small bow and went immediately to the ladder. As he went over the side he stopped. ‘Good luck to you, Capitaine,’ he said in English.

‘And you, monsieur.’

The man went down into the boat and in three silent strokes of the muffled oars the night absorbed him completely.

Hayden stood, staring blankly into the darkness like a man who has learned of a loved one’s death – mind empty of both thought and feeling.

Hayden’s servant appeared at that moment. ‘If you please, Captain, Rosseau has your coffee set out in the gunroom, sir.’

‘Ah … Find Mr Hawthorne and ask that he join me,’ Hayden instructed the boy. Archer was standing silently by the helmsman, watching Hayden. ‘You have the deck, Mr Archer.’

At the foot of the companionway ladder, Hayden was greeted by the sight of the gundeck cleared from bow to stern, including his cabin and all of its furnishings. Arrayed upon either side, rows of black-barrelled eighteen-pounders, loaded and ready to be cast loose. A moment the young officer stood there, trying to focus his mind, wondering if everything was in its place … and nothing more.

Down the next ladder to the lower deck, where the watch below slumbered. Hayden suspected a goodly number slept not at all, but lay awake with the excitement and anxiety that the possibility of action produced. The midshipmen did not even pretend to sleep, but played at cards by a single lantern, jumping up to tip invisible hats as Hayden passed quickly by and into the gunroom.

Herein, seated at the table, he found the ship’s surgeon, spectacles perched upon a narrow bridge, a large, bound volume turned towards the lantern and encircled by thin arms. In the warm light his hair, prematurely grey, appeared silver.

‘Certainly, you might have another lamp, Dr Griffiths,’ Hayden offered. ‘No, no, Doctor, do not stand.’ Hayden had seen the poor man crack his head upon a beam more often than he wished.

‘I am all but finished, here, Captain.’ The surgeon removed his spectacles – they were for reading and such fine work as removing limbs – so that he might see Hayden more clearly.

‘Do not feel the need to leave, Doctor. It is your mess.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Griffiths kept his eye on Hayden. ‘Are you well, Captain?’

‘Apart from rather disturbing news just learned, I should say I am.’

As Hayden did not offer to share this news, Griffiths did not ask. For a moment neither spoke and then the surgeon nodded towards the open book. ‘I swear, I have now forgotten more physic than I presently command.’

Hayden was pleased to have the subject changed. ‘It is too vast a catalogue, Doctor. It would require more than one mind to retain it all.’

The surgeon rubbed his eyes. ‘You are being too kind, Captain. I fear it is merely age, in my particular case, and the common infirmity the reasoning organ begins to exhibit when it is always taxed to its small limit.’

‘Doctor, your mind seems as clear to me as the day we met. But perhaps a mild stimulant would not go amiss. Would you take some coffee?’

‘With more gratitude than I am able to express.’

Boots, thump-thudding down the ladder, were followed by the appearance of Marine Lieutenant Hawthorne, red-faced and overly cheerful given the hour and circumstances.

‘Do I understand that coffee is being served in the withdrawing room?’

‘In the morning room,’ the surgeon replied, ‘given the hour.’ He turned to Hayden. ‘Have you ever taken note of our lieutenant’s mood prior to an engagement? He would appear to be on his way to a ball and all aquiver with the anticipation of meeting young ladies.’ The surgeon fixed his gaze upon the marine. ‘One day you shall be carried down to the cockpit with a musket ball lodged in your thigh and I will tell you, you shall not be so cheerful.’

Hawthorne laughed. ‘I am certain you are right, Dr Griffiths, but, pray, what purpose would be served by my becoming dour and fretful before battle had even been joined? I will save all like emotions for such time as they are needed, and then I will be able to express them in full, for they shall not have been worn thin by unnecessary employment.’ The marine raised his cup to the surgeon in toast. ‘I do not think we shall see a great deal of action this night.’

Griffiths turned to Hayden. ‘Are you of the same opinion, Captain?’

‘I am always rather embarrassed at how poorly I predict the future. Everyone else seems to do it so well.’

‘And so often,’ Hawthorne added.

Griffiths did not smile but seemed to consider these sallies seriously. ‘Perhaps they should include predicting the future in the training of young officers,’ Griffiths noted. ‘Will this French vessel even return to harbour this night … assuming it ventured forth to begin with?’

‘I do not think it would risk meeting our cruisers by day, and it might very well have a prize or two it would hope to preserve at all costs. So, yes, if it set out to raid our inshore trade, I believe it will return by first light, wind allowing.’

‘As you have an unrivalled record of estimating what French sea officers will or will not do, I expect we will bring this ship to battle in very short order.’ The surgeon drained his coffee cup and then patted the volume he had been consulting. ‘There is nothing like agreement with authority to set one’s mind at ease. If you will excuse me, I must return to my patient.’ He rose, remembering to stoop beneath the beams, and went crouching out.

Hayden turned to the marine, who watched the doctor go with a smile of both affection and amusement. ‘Does his health seem improved to you, Mr Hawthorne?’

‘A little, yes. Even so, he is not himself. Not yet.’ Hawthorne turned to Hayden, his countenance changing. ‘Has he told you that his charge has sailed for England?’

‘Of what charge do we speak?’

‘The woman with one hand.’

‘Miss Brentwood?’

‘Yes, I believe that is her name.’

‘Griffiths has arranged this?’

‘And paid for it, I should imagine.’

‘Did he not procure a position in Gibraltar for her?’

‘Indeed he did, but he is of the opinion she will be more secure in England, where he might stay better informed of her situation.’

This gave Hayden pause. ‘I wonder if that is the whole of it?’ he ventured. ‘Has our good surgeon fallen under the spell of this unfortunate woman?’

Hawthorne shrugged, a look of concern wrinkling the skin around his eyes. ‘If you can overlook the lack of a hand, she was comely … did you not think?’

‘A very handsome young woman, Mr Hawthorne, but …’ Hayden decided against speculating further or passing judgement on the surgeon’s actions or motives.

‘I am sure my concerns are little different from your own,’ Hawthorne observed, nodding once. ‘Let us hope that nothing untoward befalls our surgeon, whose heart, I suspect, is more frail than his health.’

‘Hear,’ Hayden intoned, lifting his cup in toast to this sentiment.

Hawthorne sat back in his chair. ‘I understand we had a mysterious visitor this night?’

‘Is my conversation with this man known among the hands?’

‘No. Only that a Frenchman came aboard and had a private conversation with you, sir. There is, of course, much speculation as to the nature of this but it is nothing more.’

Hayden sat a moment trying to decide if he would take Hawthorne into his confidence, as he had in the past. The temptation was very great as he had to make a decision and was, truthfully, uncertain as to the proper course of action. ‘It would appear, Mr Hawthorne, that there is an army being gathered near Cancale for the purpose of invading England.’

‘That seems rather alarmist. We have known for some time that the French were planning an invasion of the Channel Islands.’

‘It would seem that the French would like us to believe precisely that … but their real intentions are far grander. My question is, should I collect Mr Ransome and make sail immediately for Portsmouth to convey this information to Mr Stephens or will that appear to be shying away from the object of my first orders, to destroy the frigate sailing from this port? Certainly if the claims of my French visitor are not given credence amongst the Lords Commissioners they might think me rather foolish, not to mention shy.’

‘I hardly think they will believe you shy, Captain. Not after all you have done in the past months. But why should it be either one or the other? Can we not take the frigate this night and sail for an English port immediately thereafter? How many hours would we lose?’

‘Very few, but one must always consider the possibility that we might be the ship taken. After all, if we were unlucky and lost a mast or two we could easily be the prize. The crew do not appreciate how much good fortune plays a part in every engagement.’

A half-amused smile formed on the marine’s lips. ‘I am very doubtful that you will lose such an engagement, Captain.’

‘But you will agree it is a possibility?’

‘A very unlikely one, but yes, I cannot deny it is possible.’

Hayden nodded. The odds could not be calculated but he had less faith in himself than Hawthorne, apparently. Being taken was more likely than the marine realized. The French frigate would very likely be of thirty-eight guns, no fewer than thirty-six, and she was not shut up in port like so much of the French fleet. In fact she was waging a very successful war against British commerce and her crew were well used to handling their ship and firing her guns.

‘What will you do, then, sir?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Sail for England … the moment we have retrieved Mr Ransome.’

Hawthorne nodded, as though he understood even if he had argued the opposite.

There was a little lull in the conversation, then, and Hayden believed he could sense the marine lieutenant contemplating the propriety of asking his commander about his personal life. Hawthorne glanced at him and then away, twice.

Determined to forestall any such enquiry, Hayden stood abruptly. ‘I must beg your indulgence, Mr Hawthorne, for I should return to the deck. I do not want this French frigate to arrive now and catch us unawares.’

‘Which will not come to pass if Mr Wickham has anything to do with it.’

Hayden nodded to his friend. ‘Mr Hawthorne.’

‘Captain,’ the marine replied, standing quickly.

Hayden let himself out, regretting not having more time in the warmth of the gunroom, but he was not willing to discuss his own situation. It was enough that he could barely tear his mind from it – and worse that his thoughts seemed to travel the same cycle, never once finding any sequence of events that he had not previously pondered, any outcome he had not imagined. Hayden was not about to compound this by drawing his officers into the matter. Better he disciplined his mind and put these things aside until the Themis was, again, safe in harbour … if only he could.

The night appeared unchanged when he took the deck – perhaps a little cooler, but still the same veiled moon and speeding cloud.

‘Is the wind making, Mr Barthe?’ Hayden asked the sailing master, who stood talking quietly with the helmsman.

‘I believe it is, sir, and will continue in this manner for some time yet. We are in for a bit of a blow, Captain. The weather glass is taking a plunge.’ Barthe looked around as though expecting a hard gale to break upon them at that very instant. ‘All is not well, sir.’

Despite himself, Hayden was unsettled by the sailing master’s predictions of impending cataclysm. He turned his head up, removing his hat lest the wind get under it. ‘Aloft there. Mr Wickham? Any signs of our cutter?’

‘None, sir,’ came the reply out of darkness.

‘Blast this night to hell,’ Hayden muttered. Whatever could have befallen Ransome? Had he somehow been unable to discover the Themis on this dark night? Mr Barthe had, rather miraculously, managed to keep the ship in position despite currents and a backing wind. Even an officer as unseasoned as Ransome should not find it difficult to return to this place. Something else had occurred to delay them and Hayden was beginning to suspect the worst – the cutter had been discovered and taken by the French.

Hayden paced the breadth of the deck, and then back and forth along the larboard rail, the length of the quarterdeck. The moon, though it appeared to be speeding from the cloud flying before it, actually traversed the sky at a pace so languid that Hayden began to wonder if the world no longer spun at its accustomed pace.

Hayden was about to tell Barthe that the moment Ransome was aboard they would make sail for Portsmouth when there was a soft call from aloft.

‘Captain Hayden, sir!’ came Wickham’s voice, urgently, from up among the rigging. ‘I believe there is a ship in the offing – almost perfectly abeam, sir.’

Hayden crossed quickly to the starboard rail, and peered into the murk. A dull black sea, lifting and easing, low, scudding cloud and perhaps a shroud of rain not so far off.

Archer appeared at the rail beside him.

‘Shall we beat to quarters, sir?’ the lieutenant asked, peering out towards the dark Channel, both hands tightly on the rail cap.

Although Hayden could see no ship he would not take the chance that Wickham was wrong. ‘But quietly, Mr Archer. No shouting, no drum.’

‘Aye, sir.’ Archer was off at a run.

In a moment, men streamed out of the hatches fore and aft and, at an order from Hayden, cast loose their guns. Below, on the gundeck, Hayden could hear the same being done, a little buzz of excitement and fear rising up out of the hatches.

Barthe hastened over to stand near Hayden. After a moment of staring intently into the night, his hand shot up. ‘Is that a light, Captain?’

Hayden swept the area with his night glass. ‘It is a ship, Mr Barthe. A frigate, if I am not mistaken. Let us hope they have not yet perceived us.’ Hayden looked about the deck. ‘Douse these lanterns, Mr Madison,’ Hayden ordered the midshipman. ‘And hang a lamp in the larboard quarter-gallery; Mr Ransome might find us, yet.’

Immediately, the lanterns were extinguished, faint moonlight descrying uncertain shapes upon the deck.

Hayden felt his muscles almost rigid with indecision. Certainly he must let this ship pass, as tempting a prize as it might be. He was more concerned that the French would discover the Themis. Would they run their ship under the guns of the shore batteries or would they make shift to take him?

‘I believe this ship will pass astern of us, Captain … About three cable lengths.’ Barthe was shifting from foot to foot in agitation. ‘If we can discern them, Captain …’

‘Yes, Mr Barthe, it is almost certain they shall discover us.’

What had Mr Stephens’s orders read? If this task conflicts with previous orders given to you by me, meeting Monsieur Benoît and reporting his intelligence to the Admiralty shall take precedence.

There was no lack of clarity in that sentence, yet … to let an enemy ship pass so near and make no attempt to engage her … It brought to mind his former captain, Hart, who shied from every action and never without an excuse.

‘If they comprehend that we are a British ship, Captain, they might rake us from astern …’

‘You are correct in every way, Mr Barthe. Just before she draws astern, I wish to put the helm up and shape our course to parallel her own.’

‘Aye, sir. Shall we close with them, sir?’ the sailing master asked expectantly.

Hayden’s honour and sense of duty wrestled over this but a few seconds. ‘That will not be necessary, Mr Barthe. We shall be nearer than I want to be as it is.’

‘Aye, sir. I shall have the men at their stations ready to brace our yards in a trice.’ He waved a hand at the darkness. ‘This Frenchman shall be afforded no opportunity to rake our ship.’

Hayden called softly up into the tops. ‘Mr Wickham? On deck, if you please.’

Hayden turned his attention back to the approaching ship. In the dark it was near to impossible to gauge her speed. For some moments he watched.

‘There you are, Wickham,’ Hayden observed as the acting-lieutenant reached the deck but a few feet off. ‘How distant is that ship, do you think?’

‘Half a mile, sir, no more,’ Wickham replied with a gratifying certainty. ‘And she is carrying the wind with her, Captain. I think she is closing rather faster than we might realize.’

Hayden touched a sailor on the shoulder. ‘Find Gilhooly and have him snuff the light in my quarter-gallery the moment we begin to turn.’

The man went off at a run.

‘Mr Wickham, stand watch to larboard, if you please, and alert me the instant Mr Ransome heaves into sight.’

‘He is some hours late, sir,’ Wickham said hesitantly.

‘Yes, but let us not give up hope.’ Where was that damned fool lieutenant? If the man had not been a protégé of Lord Hood’s Hayden would have been happily shot of him, but good men accompanied him – among them Childers, Hayden’s coxswain.

Rain reached them, carried on the making wind, and for a moment the French vessel dissolved into the blur. As the gun captains fumbled their lock covers into place, a gust struck the Themis, heeling her sharply to larboard.

Hayden took hold of the rail to steady himself, closing his eyes against the battering rain and wind. For a moment the gust mauled them, pressing the sails and wailing in the rigging. Just as suddenly, the wind eased and the ship regained her feet.

‘Where is the Frenchman?’ Hayden whispered. ‘Can any man see?’

The question was met by a silence that grew deeper and more disconcerting by the moment.

‘I see ’er, sir!’ One of the men at the gun pointed. ‘Starboard quarter. ’Alf a league. A mite less.’

‘I see nothing,’ Barthe complained. ‘That gust should have pushed her past us.’

‘I have found her as well, Captain!’ Wickham stood upon his tiptoe. ‘There a way. Not quite where I would have expected but the current must be setting us inshore.’

‘This bloody night,’ Barthe grumbled. ‘Can’t see naught for nothing, Captain Hayden, and that is giving the truth a little pull and a stretch.’

‘Are you ready to brace yards and ease sheets, Mr Barthe?’

‘In every way, sir.’

Some part of Hayden felt a vague sense of disquiet with their present situation. Despite the darkness and veiling rain, he had been certain this ship had been nearer before the squall struck. ‘Helmsman, what is our heading?’

‘East by nor’east, Captain.’

Unchanged, Hayden realized, so the slant of this approaching ship should not be different, even though it appeared to be.

‘May I order the helm put up, Captain?’ the sailing master asked.

‘You may, Mr Barthe.’

The helm was put over, sails sheeted, and slowly the head paid off until the backed topsail fluttered, then filled. More quickly, now, the wind was brought aft. This evolution, timed to a nicety, set the Themis on a parallel course to the ghostly frigate, whose lights winked and flickered through the drizzle.

‘Mr Gould! Have Mr Archer stand ready to open larboard gunports. Caution him not to let any man do so until I have given the order.’

‘Aye, sir.’ The midshipman went off at a run.

If the French captain discovered them and decided they were a British ship Hayden wanted to be certain his guns fired first.

The human silence upon the decks was covered by the sounds of wind, of the bow parting waves as the ship pitched in the small sea. Slowly the moon revealed the frigate, her sails and spars, the wide, pale stripe upon her topsides.

‘They must see us, Captain Hayden,’ Wickham observed in a whisper. ‘I can make them out most clearly.’

‘As can I.’

Nearer the ships drew to one another. Hayden could distinguish figures moving on the deck.

‘Shall we not fire into them, Captain?’ the sailing master hissed.

‘Mr Barthe, if you please!’ Hayden replied, not taking his eyes from the enemy ship. He was not adverse to suggestions or questions from his officers – but a man of Barthe’s experience should display better judgement than that.

Even through the blear, Hayden could discern an officer, leaning upon the rail and staring intently at the Themis. Perhaps he beckoned another, who appeared out of the darkness, affixing his attention upon the British ship with equal intensity. Suddenly that man turned and ran for the companionway.

Hayden did the same; at the head of the companionway he looked down to find Archer standing on the ladder’s bottom step.

‘Mr Archer! Open gunports and fire our entire larboard battery.’

‘Aye, sir.’

The bump and screech of gunports hinging up stole a little of Hayden’s breath. Apprehending the gunports opening, the French officers turned to shout the alarm but their calls were lost in the shattering report of British eighteen-pounders. There was no reply from the Frenchman. Musket fire cracked from the tops as Hawthorne’s marines began firing at the men scurrying about the enemy’s deck.

Immediately, to both left and right, the gun crews went coolly about reloading their carronades. Many were seasoned hands at this now, after their convoy to the Mediterranean. There was no hesitation or confusion, but only a well-greased axle, turning with precision and regularity. The balls and wadding were pushed in together. At the same time, the gun captain uncovered his lock, ran his pricker into the touch-hole, poured a measure into the pan, closed the lock and pulled back the cock with two thumbs. The carronades were run out on wooden slides, the gun captain made certain of his target and yanked the firing lanyard with a quick jerk.

Hayden had stepped back from the rail, turned away, and covered his ears just in time. A tremendous explosion tore open the darkness with the muzzle flash, and smoke plumed forth, blossoming up into a weeping night.

In the ensuing silence Hayden heard officers shouting orders in French. Gunports began to open on the enemy ship. As his own crews were running out their guns, an irregular fire erupted from the French frigate. The always horrifying sound of iron balls rending the air was immediately followed by the crash and splintering of wood reverberating through the Themis’s deck. A sheet carried away, and sail began to shake and snap.

As was ever the case, the English gun crews fired thrice for every two times the French fired; some crews doubled the enemy’s pace. Rate of fire, at short range, trumped accuracy, a fact that Hayden knew well and that had led him to manoeuvre his ship so near.

The next quarter of an hour saw an unrelenting fire kept up between the two ships, breaching the oak planking, tearing away shrouds and stays, and ripping through sails. Smoke mixed with rain and low mist to obscure the vessels from one another and hide the true damage being inflicted.

In the midst of this, Hayden glanced shoreward, fearing that they would carry on this battle until they came beneath the enemy’s batteries. He must finish this frigate before that could happen. He might yet be forced to lay his ship alongside and board.

Around him, men fell and were carried below or slipped over the side if death were certain. To his surprise, Hayden realized he could now distinguish action upon the forecastle of his ship – dawn was not so far off.

‘Captain Hayden …’ came a call from somewhere forward. ‘A boat, sir. A cutter, it looks like.’

‘Not a gunboat?’ Hayden shouted to be heard above the din.

‘I don’t believe so, sir.’

Ransome would return at this moment – when it would be worth his life to even approach the ship.

Gould, who had conveyed Hayden’s orders forward, came running back along the gangway. ‘It is our cutter, sir,’ he called out. ‘They are pulling for us like madmen and shouting and waving.’ The boy was flushed and speaking almost too rapidly to comprehend.

‘What do they say, Mr Gould?’

‘We do not know, sir.’

No more explanation was required – the noise of battle was deafening.

‘Signal them to stand clear; they will gamble their lives to draw near, now.’

‘I will, sir.’ And the boy went hurrying forward apparently oblivious to the cannon balls that hummed over the deck and the musket balls lodging in planking with ominous ‘cracks’.

Dawn was not quite upon them but morning twilight was beginning to reveal a few shadowy shapes across the deck. From the quarterdeck, the cutter was not yet visible.

Smoke burned Hayden’s eyes, and his ears rang from the constant explosions. The French captain, despite being surprised, was putting up a spirited defence and Hayden feared he might yet make the cover of the shore batteries.

As if the French commander had been thinking the same thing, a hoist of signals jerked aloft, the flags mostly obscured by sails. The French officers were hoping there would be light enough for the shore gunners to make out their signals.

‘Where is Mr Gould?’ Hayden called out.

‘Forward, sir.’

‘Have him run up the French naval ensign and a hoist of flags to starboard. Let us confuse the enemy, if we can.’

‘Captain!’ Gould came running along the deck. ‘Mr Ransome is ignoring our signal to stand clear, sir.’

‘Well, then he must look to himself. A hoist of signals to starboard, Mr Gould, and the French ensign aft.’

‘Aye, sir.’

A young sailor came dashing up, making a knuckle. A blast of carronade fire completely smothered his words.

‘Why are you upon my quarterdeck and not at your station?’ Hayden demanded.

‘If you please, Captain,’ the young man began, looking more frightened of Hayden then the French, ‘Mr Barthe has sent me. Mr Ransome is yelling somewhat about a French frigate, sir.’

‘Somewhat? Whatever do you mean?’

The boy shrugged. ‘Those were Mr Barthe’s words, sir.’

Hayden hesitated a second, then made up his mind. ‘Mr Gould! I am on the forecastle.’

He hastened forward in the wake of the running sailor. ‘What is this about, Mr Barthe?’ he demanded as he reached the bow.

Only thirty yards off, Hayden could make out their cutter, the men pulling like they were running from gunfire not into it. Hayden leaned out over the barricade, half hidden by smoke, no doubt, and waved Ransome away. Spotting his captain, Ransome leapt up upon a thwart and began gesturing frantically towards the shore. Hayden’s eye was drawn towards France. Out of the mist and morning twilight the sails of a ship materialized, and then beneath these a jib-boom penetrated through the fog.

For the briefest second Hayden’s mind went utterly blank, and then he turned to the sailing master.

‘Sail handlers to their stations, Mr Barthe,’ he shouted almost in the master’s ear. ‘The instant Mr Ransome is aboard, we will bring the wind onto our starboard beam, gain way, then shape our course to the nor’west – hard on the wind, Mr Barthe. Do you understand?’

Barthe looked as though he did anything but. ‘W-We are going to run, sir?’

‘Yes, of course we are going to run. Two French thirty-six-gun frigates, sir. What else are we to do? With all haste, Mr Barthe.’

Barthe seemed to come suddenly awake to their situation. ‘Aye, sir.’ He went trundling off with a rolling run, shouting for Mr Franks to call the sail handlers.

Hayden cursed himself for not slipping off the minute the French ship had been spotted. Ransome could make England in the cutter. Men had gone much farther. He cursed himself again.

Hawthorne appeared beside him at that moment, hat gone, face powder-stained, a musket in hand. ‘Will the Frenchman not rake us, Captain?’

‘We are half hidden by smoke and mist. If we are quick we will have braced our yards and put over our helm before he comprehends what we are about.’

Men came running onto the deck and began coiling down ropes as quickly as hands could move.

‘With all speed! With all speed!’ Hayden called as he hastened down the larboard gangway.

Upon reaching the quarterdeck, Hayden positioned himself a yard from the helmsman. Even though he could see the crew working as quickly as human hands were able, and racing aloft at a dangerous speed, it still seemed that morning light would find them before the helm could be put over.

Defying his captain, the French gunners and all common sense, Ransome brought his cutter alongside and the men scrambled up to the deck. The first man over the rail staggered back into the man behind, and then fell on his side, bleeding from his chest. The others took him up and bore him quickly below to the doctor. Immediately, Ransome hastened to the quarterdeck, calling out orders to stream the cutter.

Almost out of breath he touched his hat and began, ‘I apologize, Captain, for disregarding your orders but we were trying to warn you, sir, about the frigate.’

Hayden nodded. ‘Yes. I see what you were about. But we must now run, sir, if we are to preserve our ship. Wickham and Archer are overseeing the guns. You will be the lieutenant of the watch until I order you relieved.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Mr Barthe’s voice came hollowly through a speaking trumpet. ‘Ready to brace our yards, Captain.’

‘Port your helm,’ Hayden ordered the two men at the wheel – one standing by in case his mate was felled.

The Themis was a handy ship, and answered her helm readily. Hayden realized that the second frigate would be within range of his eighteen-pounders as they made the turn.

‘Mr Gould. Jump down to Mr Archer and instruct him to fire upon the second frigate as she bears.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Hayden turned to watch the French frigate, and was gratified to see that he had caught them unawares. They might yet bring guns to bear upon Hayden’s stern, but there would be no devastating broadside raking his ship.

Finding the second ship in the murk, Hayden realized that his adversary would not dare to immediately change course to follow Hayden lest he run afoul of the ship emerging from Le Havre. It was a rare bit of luck that would see him jump ahead, for he was confident his crew could make sail more quickly than the French.

Aloft, the hands were making all possible sail, and the Themis heeled a little towards France, as though reluctant to let it go. And then she was lifted on the wind, slipping into the rain-fog and morning gloom.

When sails were set and drawing, the master came puffing along the gangway, speaking trumpet tucked under an arm, a hand crushing down his hat as the wind freshened.

‘We shall haul our bowlines, Mr Barthe. There is Pointe de Barfleur to be weathered, and do not tell me how distant it is. If we are forced to tack ship we shall have two frigates upon us.’

‘This wind will go into the north-east, yet, Captain. See if it doesn’t. We shall easily lay our course for Tor Bay. By midday, sir, I will wager.’

Barthe had been involved in sufficient wagering so Hayden did not take this up, but he did hope the sailing master would be proven correct; reaching England was more than urgent.

Archer’s head appeared in the companionway, followed by torso, waist, legs and running feet. He was gasping as he approached and only managed, ‘Your … orders, Captain?’

‘We shall race these Frenchmen back to England, Mr Archer, and hope we have the luck to meet one of our own cruisers so we might turn things round on them. If that does not prove possible we will attempt to fight these frigates off until we can reach the Channel Isles, though we must weather Barfleur to do even that. For now, we set everything she will carry and pray these Frenchmen do not know their business.’

The call ‘belay-o’ reached Hayden. ‘Bowlines hauled, sir’ came from the forecastle and Hayden went to the binnacle to discover their course.

‘Not even nor’west by west,’ Archer observed, following Hayden to the compass.

‘Let us hope this wind veers, as Mr Barthe predicts.’ Hayden turned his attention astern, into the drizzle and surface mist. A thin light began to penetrate the low-lying grey revealing a dull, uneasy sea. A cool, April northerly seemed to penetrate through his coat and whistled about his ears, which still rang from the blasting of the great guns.

Thin, grey daylight began to overspread the sea, revealing the coast of France, faintly charcoaled across the south and nearer than Hayden would have liked. In no direction was the horizon distant more than half a league. Beyond was obscured by rain and low, scudding cloud. Hayden went to the stern and, as he leaned his hands upon the taffrail, one of the French frigates emerged from a squall of rain. Aloft, French sailors could be seen setting top-gallants.

‘Is that not the height of folly?’ Archer wondered as he too came to the rail. ‘The horizon is less than half a league distant and there is every sign that the wind is making and the squalls growing worse.’

‘It is the height of folly, Mr Archer, I agree entirely. But if he overhauls us before there is another squall …’

‘Shall I order top-gallants, sir?’

A second of hesitation. ‘I do not believe we have another choice, Mr Archer.’

The second frigate appeared at that moment, a little aft of and to leeward of the first. She was making sail in emulation of her sister. For a few moments Hayden stood at the rail gauging the speed of the enemy ships. They were closing the gap, though there was some slight indication that the nearer frigate was a little faster than her sister – or so Hayden imagined. If he could but separate them by a league and a half he would luff and bring this nearer ship to battle. If he could inflict enough damage on her rigging he might gain some distance on them. But he hardly thought these Frenchmen would be so foolish. His only hope was that they would be separated by fog and he could act before they realized such distance had grown between them.

French ships, Hayden well knew, were reputed to be more lightly built than their British counterparts and notably faster, though Hayden was aware of enough instances of British ships chasing and catching French ships of similar rate that this argument did not impress him overly. The frigates in his wake, however, were larger and longer on the waterline, and very likely did have a small advantage in swiftness. This advantage he hoped to overcome by seamanship and sail handling. In this, his father’s people did have an advantage, he knew, for the British ships and their officers and crews were at sea in all weather for much of any given year, whereas the French ships languished in harbour bottled up by the Royal Navy blockade. Though, as he had stated to Hawthorne, these particular French vessels might be exceptions to this, as at least one – and very likely both – had been raiding British commerce for some months, and doing it regularly.

For a few moments he stood at the rail, watching the chasing enemy, looking for signs of poor seamanship – poorly trimmed sails, an indecisive hand upon the helm, tardiness in the sail handlers, but he saw none of these things.

‘She appears crack, does she not, sir?’ Archer had reappeared at the moment after passing along the orders to Barthe and Franks. Clearly he was thinking along the same lines as his captain.

‘I am afraid she does, Mr Archer.’ Hayden turned in a slow revolution, examining the brightening circle of sea within which his ship sailed.

‘Mr Archer,’ Hayden began after a moment’s contemplation, ‘I do believe I have made a mistake.’

‘Sir?’

‘Order Mr Barthe to belay setting top-gallants.’

Archer stood a moment; Hayden could feel him hesitating. ‘Aye, sir.’ He went off at a run calling out to Mr Barthe and to the men aloft at once.

Although Barthe complied immediately he did not order the men down off the yards. He hastened aft to Hayden who remained at the taffrail, his eye fixed on the French frigates.

For a moment Barthe did the same, saying nothing, but then could not hold his peace. ‘They will be upon us in a trice, sir.’

‘Not if they are upon their beam-ends, Mr Barthe.’

Barthe turned his attention to the weather. ‘It is a gamble, Captain Hayden. There have been squalls in quick succession and then long lulls between.’

‘Let us hope I am not proven wrong. We shall luff through the squalls, Mr Barthe, and bear away the moment we are able. The French coast is too close for us to run off, and I do not wish to take in sail unless we must to save the ship.’ Hayden turned to eye the coast, which was almost obscured in the low cloud and mist.

‘Only the best helmsman shall have the wheel, sir, I will make certain they understand your wishes completely.’

‘Thank you, Mr Barthe.’

The sailing master went off, calling out the names of the men he wished to take the helm.

Hayden could never remember wishing for a squall, but it was his most fervent desire at that moment. For half of an hour he kept watch on the chasing ships and the northern horizon, willing a squall to burst out of the rain and scudding cloud … but none did.

Standing at the taffrail watching the chasing ships, Hayden felt chagrined to the point of mortification. He had made an unconscionable mistake. He should have doused his lamps and lain silently in the dark and hoped the French frigate had not seen or slipped off before the French discovered him. Returning Monsieur Benoît’s intelligence to Britain had been paramount and he had foolishly let himself be drawn into an action with the French. He even wondered if pride had not been at work in this and he had not wished to appear shy before his crew – had even feared the Lords Commissioners might question his resolve. He cursed himself silently.

A bloom of smoke – quickly swept off to leeward – appeared at the bow of the nearer ship. A hundred yards aft of the Themis an iron ball splashed into the sea.

Among the crew there was shifting if not muttering. At sea, Hayden almost invariably made decisions quickly and with confidence, but this day he second-guessed himself at every turn.

Like a corpulent angel of doubt, the sailing master reappeared at his elbow at that moment.

‘There is not a great deal of weight in this wind, sir,’ he observed.

‘Did you not tell me it would make and haul aft, Mr Barthe?’

‘I fear I might be proven wrong, sir,’ Barthe replied quietly.

‘Let us hope not, Mr Barthe. Let us hope we are both proven right.’

But the wind appeared to be defying both Hayden and Barthe; it was neither increasing in strength, altering its direction, nor sending the hoped for squalls and gusts that Hayden was gambling on. In the normal course of things, Hayden would never order top-gallants carried in such weather, but present circumstances could hardly be termed ‘normal’.

Again the French frigate fired her forward chase gun, the ball wounding the sea a little nearer than previously.

‘Do you make it fifty miles to Pointe de Barfleur, Mr Barthe?’

‘Nearer sixty, I should think, Captain.’

‘Nine hours, then? Perhaps ten?’

‘Just after dusk, sir, if this wind holds.’

‘Will we weather it?’

The sailing master turned to look west, as though he could gauge the distance to the invisible point of France. ‘On this slant, sir? It will be very close run.’

This only confirmed Hayden’s own reckoning.

‘I believe we could tack in this much wind, Captain,’ Barthe observed, staring fixedly at the chasing ship.

‘On deck!’ came a call from aloft. ‘Gust in the offing.’

Hayden turned to windward, and could see the tops of the waves being torn away in white spray, the sea rippling into fish scales as it did beneath a gust.

‘Let us hope this presages our squall,’ Hayden said quietly to the sailing master.

The helmsman gauged the progress of the gust, measured its moment of arrival to a nicety and luffed just enough to shake the wind out of the sails, but not so much as to have them thrown aback. Running off, downwind, was the safest way to meet squalls, but with the mizzen sheeted flat and the mainsail set, the ship would not steer off, and it was often necessary to hand those sails or at least let sheets fly, before such a turn could be made.

The sails shook and tossed their clews about, rattling the rigging. Even so the gust heeled the ship over to leeward. Hayden turned to see the effect on the French, and found them doing the same, though heeled much farther down.

The length of the Themis’s deck, men whose attentions were not taken up by the present evolution stared, with great hope in their faces, at the heeling French ship.

‘Carry away,’ Barthe muttered, apparently placing a curse on the enemy’s top-gallant masts.

In a moment the gust withered away, and the helmsmen put their respective ships back on course, hard on the wind, as close as they could come without giving away speed. All along the deck there was a moan from the hands, and they turned away, back to their labours, with shaking heads.

Out of the companionway, the Reverend Mr Smosh appeared, pushing one arm into a woollen coat, then the other, settling the garment around his shoulders with a shrug. The doughy clergyman asked permission to approach the captain’s private area of deck, and came to the rail beside Hayden and Barthe.

‘Have you come to take the air, Mr Smosh?’ Barthe asked.

‘Indeed, I have, and the sights, Mr Barthe. One should never miss the sights.’ He paused to reflect. ‘In truth, my reading class has been superseded by the call of all hands. As I have no willing scholars this morning, and the doctor had no further use for me, I thought I might venture forth and see these French frigates I have been hearing much about.’

‘Well, there they are, sir,’ Barthe answered him, ‘as fine a team as you shall ever hope to see, I would venture.’

The clergyman stared at the pursuing ships a moment. ‘Have they not more sails than we carry? Three tiers to our two?’

‘Courses, topsails and top-gallants, Mr Smosh, but the captain believes we shall have a squall by and by and then we shall be more evenly matched in sails, for some of theirs shall carry away.’ Barthe turned to Hayden. ‘I thought that gust would convince these Frenchies to take in their top-gallants, but I see they have learned nothing from it.’

‘I had hoped the same,’ Hayden replied.

‘Do they gain on us, then?’ Smosh wondered.

‘They do, Mr Smosh,’ Hayden informed him, ‘though so little in these winds that one can hardly measure it. I have been observing the speed of the vessels and it seems for a while they get a wind that carries them nearer and then, for a time, the wind will favour us. Only a few moments ago the farthest vessel appeared to be gaining on her sister, but now she seems to have fallen back somewhat. We could go on in this same manner until darkness finds us, or the wind could carry our enemy up to us within the hour. We will see who the winds favour.’ Hayden had almost said, ‘who the wind gods favour’ but was reluctant to display such paganism before the clergyman.

Within the hour the wind gods appeared to have made their decision in favour of the French, for the nearer ship began to lob shot very near the stern of the Themis, and Hayden had his own stern chase guns readied. Occasional gusts heeled the ships far over, though these were not so strong as to require luffing, though ships had a natural tendency to round up when so pressed. Squalls had ceased altogether but rain and gusts were common and the horizon never drew away beyond a league and it was commonly much nearer.

Noon saw the first French ball find the Themis, passing through the mizzen topsail, and then the main topsail in turn. No other damage was reported, unless it were to the spirits of the hands, who became undeniably disconcerted.

The day’s full light never seemed to arrive, a dull near-twilight prevailing, the hidden sun’s glow never growing nor lessening over the hours. Astern, the chasing ships appeared ominous and relentless, bearing down on them with a predatory determination. To Hayden, there seemed to be no human agency involved but only an unswerving, malevolent will. For someone who had commonly been the chaser, this was a feeling both singular and deeply unsettling.

A liquid bloom of grey-black enveloped the chasing ship’s bow. The iron ball howled by scant yards to starboard, the report pealing in its wake.

‘Mr Archer,’ Hayden addressed the young lieutenant, who hovered nearby, ‘let us return fire.’

The watch warned of a gust just then and the ship heeled to the wind, which whipped about them, pressing it over and causing the men at the helm to struggle with the wheel on a slanting deck. The sails appeared to stretch, tight as drum skins, pregnant and slick with rain.

‘Luff!’ Barthe ordered the helmsmen. ‘Luff! Let run the foresail’s leeward sheet!’

The ship heeled, pressed down by the wind. A cracking of timber and shaking of sail alerted Hayden, who turned in time to see the Frenchman’s main and fore top-gallant masts go by the lee at almost the same instant.

A squall of wind struck the speeding ships, shaking anything that was loose and whipping the pennants at the masthead so that they curled and cracked. Hayden saw the French cruiser rounding up into the wind, and then she was absorbed into the curtaining rain. Whether she had been caught aback he could not tell.

The crew of the Themis’s mainsail flailed the air, threatening man and ship, until the wind relented, and let the over-pressed and straining ship back onto her feet. She began to race on, the beam-sea lifting and lowering her in a plunging, ponderous rhythm.

The men on deck all cheered, as though they had been responsible for the enemy’s ill luck. In that instant, their spirits lifted notably.

Hayden left the taffrail, and went with the sailing master and Archer around the ship.

‘We are stretching these shrouds, Mr Barthe,’ Hayden observed as they came to the standing rigging which supported the main mast. ‘If we get upon the other tack, have Mr Franks employ his top-burton tackle and set them up properly again.’

For a moment all three looked up into the rigging, at the straining sails, the rain driving to leeward and splattering against sailcloth and wooden deck.

‘How much longer do you think we can carry our mainsail, Mr Barthe?’ Hayden asked so that only the sailing master and Archer could hear.

Barthe shaded his eyes from the driving rain and gazed up. ‘I would have it off now if we had no Frenchmen in our wake.’

Hayden was of the same opinion and Archer nodded agreement. ‘Do you think they were caught aback?’

‘The Frenchman?’ Barthe contemplated this a moment. ‘I couldn’t rightly say, Captain. The rain and mist closed over she just as her masts went by the board. Perhaps not. I could not see her companion at that moment. Certainly she might have all her masts standing yet.’

Hayden looked up at the straining sail with some misgiving. ‘Let us carry the mainsail as long as we dare, then.’

He was sorely tempted to tack, trusting to the lack of visibility to hide them from the enemy – and throwing them off his trail entirely – but he was afraid they would pass close enough to one or the other of the chasing ships that they would be seen, and tacking in so much wind carrying all this sail was a dubious endeavour. Keeping on as he was appeared to be the only sensible course of action, for France was still ominously close to leeward. The thought that he bore information that might prove critical to the defence of England weighed upon him. Above all things he needed to get into an English port, but he dare not let that push him into doing something reckless that might lead to the loss of his ship. He cursed himself now for engaging the enemy and not attempting to slip away. If what Benoît had told him was true then certainly that knowledge was worth a hundred French frigates. Before he had been concerned that the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty would think this reported invasion unlikely and judge him shy for not engaging the frigate; now he wondered if they would not think him a fool for not racing back to England with Benoît’s information and upbraid him for avarice and prize hunting when clearly the other matter was of critical importance.

‘Mr Archer, order the stove lit. Send the men down to breakfast forty at a time. Keep the other men at their stations. We are in French waters, yet, and the two frigates chasing us might not be the only enemy vessels we discover this day.’

‘Aye, sir.’ Archer touched his hat and hastened away.

Men had been stationed to watch on all quarters of the ship as well as aloft. The coast was distressingly near, and this poor visibility might lead to surprises Hayden would not welcome. Upon the upper deck, the enforced silence only made the subdued spirits of the men seem more unnatural and ominous.

When smoke began to drift up from the cooking-stove, the men’s spirits rose a little, and at eight bells, when the first men were sent down to break their fasts, there was a noticeable lightening of the mood.

The French ships had not appeared in their wake in almost two hours, and this, too, had its leavening effect. Mr Barthe ordered the log streamed, and recorded their speed as just exceeding six knots. Following a quick consultation with his charts, Barthe calculated that Barfleur would appear two hours after dark. What concerned the sailing master were the unpredictable tidal currents in that area of the Channel, and he clomped about the deck with a notable scowl upon his doughy face. The leadsman was set to work swinging his sounding lead but no bottom was found at twenty fathoms, which was information that neither granted comfort nor caused undue alarm.

Squalls continued to sweep down upon them at intervals, often materializing out of the blear not a hundred yards to starboard. The men standing watch and the helmsmen were ever upon the alert but the murk disguised these bursts of weather until they were all but upon them.

Hayden took a quick breakfast in the gunroom; his own cabin remained dismantled. Despite Hayden’s having been blessed with excellent and dutiful officers, they were, with the exception of Mr Barthe, relatively inexperienced and new to their responsibilities. Their judgement had not yet been tested in difficult situations. He only hoped his own, impaired as it was by an almost constant anxiety about his own troubles, would not prove lacking.

Over the course of the morning, the seas built and were soon striking the topsides and sending spray high up into the rigging, where it slatted against sails and slashed down upon the deck with such force it almost seemed not to be liquid at all. The bellying mainsail was watched with a particular fascinated horror. If it had not been of fairly recent vintage it would surely have let go by then, but its seams held up, and Hayden continued to carry it, breaking all seagoing conventions to reef the topsail to ease the strain on the ship while keeping the mainsail set.

There was no sun to allow a noon-sight, but this important hour – the beginning of the ship’s day – was marked, the glass turned, log streamed. Now that the Themis was apparently free of chasing ships, and the crew had been fed, the men’s mood lifted and became almost content, despite the disagreeable weather.

This was only temporarily altered when a black-hulled transport appeared almost under their bow and avoided collision only by some intercession of divine nature. Under normal circumstances Hayden would have chased it down and made it a prize, if possible, but today he watched it slip astern, trying not to think of the money it represented. He was even more concerned that it might encounter the chasing frigates and inform their captains that the Themis held upon her course.

The men, too, watched the little coaster disappear astern engendering much muttering and many an aggrieved look. How dare a prize appear at that moment? Had it no consideration at all?

The wind, which had remained remarkably constant throughout the morning, began to shift from north-north-east to north-north-west. Each time the wind went into the north-north-west Barthe would consult the compass and charts, stream the log and recalculate their position and likelihood of doubling Pointe de Barfleur. On one of these occasions, Hayden went below to look at the chart with the master, who was guarding this valuable paper from rain on a makeshift table at the foot of the aft companionway.

Hayden glanced at the little ‘cocked hat’ – the triangle within which Mr Barthe believed the Themis lay at that moment.

‘We get a better slant each time the wind backs into the east,’ the sailing master observed, ‘but I fear we are being driven below our course more frequently.’ He placed a blunt finger upon the chart, a small peninsula that shifted over the paper sea as he spoke. ‘There is a rocky shoal extending out from Barfleur Point to the north-east which we must avoid at all costs.’

‘Will we pass outside the shoal or not, Mr Barthe?’ Hayden asked. ‘Or will we be forced to wear her around, for we dare not tack in such a wind.’

‘I am most sorry, Captain Hayden, but the currents in this bay are not entirely predictable …’ He stared unhappily at his chart a moment. ‘I cannot say for certain that we shall.’

It was not the news Hayden wished to hear, but nor did he want an overly optimistic lie at that moment. ‘I appreciate your candour, Mr Barthe. Better we know the truth. Pointe de Barfleur is very low and in this foul weather will not be visible until we are upon it. I say we wear ship now while we have room, and hope the French are far enough behind that they cannot take advantage of us.’

‘I agree, sir.’ Barthe’s shoulders relaxed a little and there was less tension in his tone.

‘Then let us begin immediately.’

The two men went up the ladder but before they had emerged onto the deck a cry came from the lookout Hayden had positioned on the mizzen top.

‘On deck! Ship on our starboard quarter.’

Immediately Hayden and Barthe went to the rail and stood gazing at the vessel, which had top-gallant masts standing yet.

‘Can that be one of our Frenchmen?’ Barthe wondered aloud. ‘How could she get so far to windward of us?’

‘She might have had more east in her wind than we have received.’

Barthe unleashed a string of curses aimed, perhaps, at the French or the fickle wind or both.

Hayden called for a glass and fixed the French frigate in it just as a hoist of signals went up behind the sails of her main mast.

‘Signals, sir,’ Archer observed as he arrived at the rail.

‘Yes, but is there really a second ship or is she trying to make us think she is not alone?’

No one spoke a moment but stood gazing at the indistinct form of a frigate in the drizzle and mist.

‘Shall I give the order to wear ship?’ Barthe enquired.

Hayden did not reply but stood weighing all the possibilities, all the scraps of knowledge he possessed about their present position. They did not know precisely where they were, a dangerous point of land and shoal lay somewhere ahead, a single enemy frigate was stationed on his quarter and a second might not be too distant. If he wore, these ships might trap him in a corner. If he did not wear, his ship might be in danger of going ashore. There was also a slim possibility that they might weather Barfleur and its imposing shoal. Hayden had never felt so paralysed. There seemed to be no course that offered a better possibility of success. The part of him that made these decisions on gut instinct appeared to have abandoned him entirely.

‘I think it might be a danger to stand on, Captain,’ the sailing master observed quietly.

‘If we wear, we might end up in a corner fighting two frigates of superior strength, Mr Barthe. Is there any chance that we might double Barfleur? Can you not give me a more certain answer?’

Barthe would not meet his eye. ‘I regret that I cannot, sir.’

Hayden almost sighed. ‘Then we shall wear ship and prepare to fight if we must. All hands to wear ship, Mr Archer.’

‘Aye, sir. All hands to wear ship, Mr Franks!’

Although it took hardly a moment for the crew to find their stations, Hayden was barely able to retain his exasperation. The entire time, he observed the French ship through his glass, attempting to see if her captain had ordered his own men to make ready to wear.

‘Aloft there!’ Hayden called to the hand on the mizzen-top, preserving his hat with one hand as he looked up. ‘Does this Frenchman make ready to wear?’

The crewman stared a moment through his glass. ‘I cannot be certain, sir, but I don’t believe she does, Captain.’

‘Let us hope he is correct,’ Hayden muttered to Archer.

‘Up mainsail and mizzen! Brace in the after-yards!’ A brief pause. ‘Up helm!’

The ship began to turn to larboard, seas and wind veering aft.

‘Lay the headyards square. Shift over the headsheets!’

Yards were braced, tacks and sheets eased and hauled. The stern of the ship came through the wind and the Themis settled upon her new course, which would take them more or less back to Le Havre on their present wind.

Hayden noted Barthe and Archer sharing a glance; both were unhappy.

The Frenchman had stood on less than a quarter of a mile before perceiving what his enemy was about, and he brought the wind across her stern, though not quite so quickly as the English. When both ships had settled upon their new course, the French were on the larboard quarter, but not so far to the north as they had been. Immediately, upon her new course, a bloom of smoke appeared to leeward of the French frigate, and a moment later the report reached the officers standing upon the Themis’s quarterdeck.

Archer turned to Hayden in surprise. ‘Certainly we are beyond the range of eighteen-pounders?’

‘Indeed we are, Mr Archer, but that gun was not aimed at us. They are merely trying to alert their sister ship.’

Hayden had sent the men back down to the guns and exchanged the lookout on the end of the jib-boom. If the second frigate appeared out of this murk, Hayden wanted to see it first. He had witnessed the calamitous results of collision at sea and never wanted that particular experience again.

Archer had positioned himself by the binnacle and sighted steadily across the compass at the chasing ship. ‘Sir,’ he said after a few moments, ‘we appear to be holding our own – not pulling away, but neither are we losing.’

‘I am happy to hear it, Mr Archer.’ Hayden fixed the enemy in his glass. ‘Let us hope this wind drops away, for we have our top-gallant masts standing and our top-gallants still bent, while one of the enemy ships has neither.’

This observation spread a little cheer around the quarterdeck, but over the next three quarters of an hour the wind only appeared to be making.

‘Ship!’ one of the forward lookouts called out. ‘Point an’ a ’alf off the starboard bow.’

Hayden hurried forward, as a ship appeared to take form out of mist and rain.

‘Open starboard gunports!’ Hayden called. ‘Run out the guns!’

The two ships were hard on the wind on opposite tacks and about to pass within a quarter of a mile. The sea running made opening gunports potentially dangerous, but Hayden had been paying close attention to this particular matter and thought they could risk it. Almost before they were aware, the ships drew within firing range. The British, though, were a little better prepared, and fired their broadside first, tearing through sails, and sending splinters whirling up into the wind.

The reply was not quite so effective; Hayden was certain only two thirds of the guns had fired, the remaining crews not recovering from the Themis’s broadside in time.

And then the ships were past. Hayden stood at the rail and watched the frigate being absorbed into the blear. That ship had no top-gallant masts. At the moment it disappeared – he was not certain but so it seemed – the ship began a turn to larboard.

‘Aloft there!’ Hayden called to the man upon the mizzen-top. ‘Do they wear ship? Can you see?’

‘I cannot be certain, sir … Perhaps.’

‘Perhaps’ was a particularly useless assessment of the situation, Hayden thought.

‘Certainly they will wear if they had not begun to do so,’ Archer observed, as he appeared from below where he had been overseeing the guns.

‘I was only hoping to ascertain how distant they might be by the time they were upon our course. It is always good to know where your enemy might be, Mr Archer, especially on days such as this.’

Archer nodded. ‘If I may, sir,’ he said quietly, ‘what shall we do now? Assuming the common allowance for leeway, our course will take us into the harbour of Le Havre, or very nearly.’

‘Yes, we are embayed. Unless the wind goes into the north-west we shall have to wear but I would rather wait until darkness is complete before I attempt it.’

‘It is nigh on eight bells, Captain. The sun will set in just more than three hours, and in this murk, darkness shall not be far behind.’ Archer leaned a little closer to Hayden. ‘But certainly the French captains will comprehend that we will attempt to elude them – will they not?’

‘I expect they shall, but as long as there is only one within sight, I think we might tack or wear and fight that one off if we must.’

‘We could set adrift a barrel with a lamp, sir.’

‘Have the cooper make up a barrel, Mr Archer, though I dare say the French have most likely done the same thing themselves at some time or other. It is an old dodge.’

The day wore on, the fickle wind making and taking off, originating from various northerly points of the compass. For a time the wind took off sufficiently for Hayden to have the reefs shaken out of his topsails, but an hour later they were all tied in again. Through the late afternoon the one visible frigate gained a little on the British ship, then lost a little, but overall held her position, the Themis proving her equal in speed and weatherliness.

Sometime, before the shy sun vanished, a dreary twilight settled, the sea turning dull as old coffee, the wind cooling noticeably. The men were sent down to their meals at intervals, and only the necessary watch kept the deck in the nasty weather. It was one of the advantages of a frigate; the lower deck – the berth-deck – was free of guns and dedicated to housing and feeding the crew. Messes, each with its own table and benches, were neatly arranged to starboard and larboard, and the men slung their hammocks there by night. It was, comparatively, a dry, and if not warm at least not uncommonly cold, place. Here the watch below could yarn or seek whatever diversions the ship could offer or sing and play upon Irish whistles and fiddles.

Hayden took a turn through the ship just before sunset and found the cooper, standing among three half-made barrels, a perplexed expression upon his face.

‘I am not heartened by your look, Pike,’ Hayden said to the man. ‘Is there some problem?’

‘I’ve made up three barrels – or started to – and they’re no great shakes, sir – none of ’em.’

Even Hayden could see the staves – what Pike was calling ‘shakes’ – were poorly fitted.

‘I don’t know who the coopers were who made these up, sir, but they did not know their trade, that is certain.’ He glanced up at Hayden. ‘But I’ll find one that will answer, sir. Don’t you worry.’

‘I shall refrain from worrying.’ Hayden did not put much faith in hanging a lantern on a barrel, anyway.

Upon concluding his tour of the ship Hayden put his head in the door of the gunroom. He found Smosh and Griffiths taking a glass of wine with Mr Hawthorne.

‘Will you join us, Captain?’ Hawthorne asked, rising more quickly than the others.

‘I thank you, Mr Hawthorne, but not at this time. I have decided to wear ship as soon as it is properly dark. The wind has finally decided that it will not back into the north-west, and shows a distinct inclination to do the opposite.’

‘We were, but a few moments ago, discussing this very matter, Captain,’ Smosh explained. ‘I have noted that winds appear to sometimes “haul” aft and at others “haul” forward. Winds also have a habit of backing in different directions making me wonder how one knows which way they are “backing” or “hauling”?’ The little clergyman was very red-faced, and to any other might appear to be in his cups, but Hayden well knew the man’s enormous capacity for drink. His mind would remain quite clear and his physical abilities undiminished when many another would be insensible.

‘When speaking of winds relative to the ship, Mr Smosh, they can haul either aft or forward, though when you hear it said that we shall haul our wind it always means that we shall sail as near to the wind as we are able. We say the wind is “backing” when it alters its course in a manner opposite to what would be common. In most cases, in the northern hemisphere, the wind changes from east by south to west and then into the north. When it does the opposite we say it is backing.’

‘Is it not … confusing to have the wind “haul” or “back” in different directions?’

‘Not to seamen,’ Hayden replied.

‘Well, I for one wish the wind would only “haul” in one manner. It is rather like the orders to put one’s helm to starboard, which is followed by the helmsman turning his wheel in what appears to be the opposite direction, to my understanding, and the ship turning to larboard.’

Hayden pointed at the massive tiller which swung below the deck beams aft of the table. ‘When the helmsman is ordered to put his helm to starboard we are referring to the tiller, Mr Smosh, not the wheel, which, as you say, is turned in what would appear to be the opposite direction. Thus the ship turns to larboard.’

‘The wheel is turned to larboard. The ship turns to larboard, and yet the order is to put one’s helm to starboard. It is rather contradictory, I find. And does one not say “port your helm”, which will then turn the ship to starboard? Why does one not say put your helm to larboard?’

‘The words larboard and starboard are very easily confused on a stormy night or in the midst of an action, so the term “port” is substituted for “larboard”.’

‘But when referring to the sides of the ship you say “larboard” and not “port” … Why is confusion not as likely there?’

‘In truth,’ admitted Hayden, ‘it is, and I have seen it myself. There are some very respected officers who have argued that “larboard” should be replaced by “port” but there are many more officers who do not like to see change, no matter how commonsensical it might be.’

‘I am, myself, a great lover of traditions, Captain, but some do see their day pass and should give way.’ Smosh took a sip of his wine. ‘So the wind is “hauling forward”?’

‘So it would appear. If you will forgive me, I must return to the deck.’

All present rose and made more or less proper salutes, and Hayden let himself out. As the door closed behind him he heard Smosh saying, ‘I have come to find lying to in a small gale most restful. Once one has adjusted one’s thinking to the idea that a ship will not founder in such circumstances, the motion of the ship I find rather comforting …’

Night had settled over the Channel by the time Hayden emerged onto the deck. The French frigate remained in her place, unable to close the gap, but preventing Hayden from tacking, if the wind should ever take off sufficiently to allow it. For a time Hayden watched the chasing ship, her lights winking in and out as she lifted then settled between the seas. Brief squalls of rain would hide her entirely for moments at a time, but then these would pass, and the dim little specks of light would appear.

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

The young middy touched his hat, the blackness of the night hiding his expression entirely. A few moments later the first lieutenant and sailing master hurried onto the quarterdeck.

‘I have been observing the Frenchman,’ Hayden informed them, ‘and she is quite hidden from us during these little squalls of rain that sweep through periodically. It is my intention to wear ship during one of these, and be upon the other tack before the French realize what we are about. Dispose the crew to wear ship, Mr Barthe.’

‘Aye, sir.’ The sailing master went off calling for Franks.

‘We dare not open our gunports, Mr Archer,’ Hayden said, ‘but we might have employment for our upper deck guns. Man them and have them ready.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

Although Hayden’s crew had become accustomed to such evolutions on their recent convoy, in even severer weather, Hayden still did not like to have men out on the yards in so much wind and with such a sea running. The mizzen must be brailed up and the mainsail taken in to allow the ship to turn, and in the wet and dark and cold the mainsail would feel like a sheet of iron, both stiff and weighty.

The hands went to their stations quietly, without any muttering. The import of this manoeuvre was not lost upon them.

And then they waited, the rain pelting down, wind stealing away the warmth of their bodies until hands became numb and fingers obeyed orders but poorly. For the better part of an hour the weather, though it did not abate, would not bring them the squall of rain they required. Hayden was wondering how much longer he could keep the men at their stations and began to think he had made an error, when the lights of the distant ship dissolved in a watery gloom. A moment later a wind, tearing the tops of the seas and tumbling them to leeward, heeled the ship and smothered it in rain.

Hayden gave the word to the sailing master, who called out through his speaking trumpet.

‘Up mainsail and mizzen! Brace in the after-yards!’

The order was repeated by the bosun and his mates, who had stationed themselves at intervals along the deck, for on such a windy night orders were very easily blown to leeward. Protecting his face with a hand, Hayden attempted to gaze out into the gale but beyond thirty yards all was streaming, liquid darkness.

The Themis, as though aware of her situation, answered her helm more smartly than usual, and brought the wind across her stern with all speed. In a few moments she was shaping her course north-west by west, out into the Channel. Hayden went to the corner made by the taffrail and starboard bulwarks, and gazed out into the darkness but could see nothing, even though the squall was all but past.

‘Aloft there,’ he called up to the mizzen lookout. ‘Can you see the Frenchman? Do they wear ship?’

There was no answer a moment and Hayden was about to repeat his call, but louder, when a voice came from above. ‘Sir! I see them, off the starboard quarter. She’s not wearing … Wait, sir. I believe they have smoked us, Captain. Bloody frogs are wearing, sir.’

Being half a ‘bloody frog’, Hayden tried to not take the remark personally.

A call was heard on the forecastle, which was repeated along the deck.

‘Ship on the larboard bow!’

‘Ship on the larboard bow!’

Hayden dashed forward, as quickly as the swaying deck would allow. There, not two pistol shots distant, was the second frigate about to pass to leeward.

‘Stand by to fire,’ Hayden called and the guns were traversed by crowbars and brute strength.

‘Fire as she bears, Mr Baldwin,’ Hayden ordered.

A moment, and then the first gun belched flame and smoke, the report assaulting all of Hayden’s senses. The assault was repeated until all the deck guns had been fired, and more than one had been fired twice. And then the sounds of nature prevailed, the wind and driven rain. Almost a silence, Hayden felt.

For the first time in twenty-some hours, Hayden took a breath that did not feel constrained. Their course was by far the most favourable they had managed in many hours – almost for Plymouth, the French had been taken by surprise, and he knew that his ship could keep the distance between them, as long as the wind did not betray them. Their escape seemed, if not certain, at least very likely. Let the gale grow as severe as it liked, the blacker the night the more likely they would shake off the French.

The watch below was released, and even much of the watch on deck was allowed to huddle on the gundeck at the foot of the companionway – reward for having been left out in the weather so long.

Hayden had kept the deck most of the long day and much of the night before, and felt burdened with fatigue, his thoughts tending to wander and then slide towards emptiness, his limbs thick and stiff and slow to respond to his wishes. Sleep, he knew, was required to keep his mind and body alert and decisive, but he could not afford it now. Not in this ever-changing situation where a mere shift in the wind might see two French frigates upon them in a trice. He called for coffee again and took it in the warmth of the gunroom, with Lieutenant Archer, who had the good sense to leave him unmolested for a quarter of an hour.

Too soon he returned to the deck, the night seeming both colder and darker, the wind more penetrating. Rain slatted down upon the ship in hard-driven squalls, and the wind sang an unholy choir in the rigging.

Ransome was the officer of the watch and he huddled in the lee of a carronade, his back to the wind.

‘Where is our Frenchman?’ Hayden asked him.

The young lieutenant straightened up at the sight of Hayden and pointed sharply out into the darkness gathered in the north-east. ‘There-away, sir. Her position is unchanged. She neither gains nor loses upon this wind and as far as we know still has her top-gallants, though Mr Wickham swore he saw the Frenchman take them in some time ago. One of the lookouts has reported a second light which appears and disappears, not abeam but forward of our larboard quarter some ways off, sir. We surmise it is the second Frenchman, sir.’

This was not welcome news to Hayden but the darkness allowed him to hide his reaction.

‘And our wind?’

‘It veers about, somewhat, Captain. I cannot be sure of it but I believe it is hauling into the north, which would be our luck this day.’

‘Luck is for whist, Mr Ransome.’ Hayden was about to ask their course but went instead to the binnacle to see for himself. Indeed, the wind was hauling into the north somewhat and already their course was not so favourable. Mr Barthe had retired to take some rest so Hayden called for his mate, and Dryden was very quickly in attendance.

‘What is your belief?’ Hayden asked him. ‘Have we weathered Barfleur or no?’

‘Mr Barthe is quite certain we have, sir,’ Dryden assured him. ‘But we are no longer sailing for England, Captain, I am sorry to report. This course will take us out into the Atlantic.’

Hayden contemplated this information a moment. ‘Well, it is a large ocean; certainly we can get lost out there.’

‘So one would hope, sir.’

Hayden looked at their position on the chart – not so very far north of the Channel Islands.

‘Do you think we might get under the guns at St Peter Port, Captain?’ Dryden asked, apparently considering the same options as Hayden.

‘It is a risk, that is certain. If this ship to leeward can bring us to or impede us in any way her consort would be upon us. Although I am sorely tempted, I think I will stand on into the Atlantic. We have frigates watching the entrance to Brest. That is our last hope if we cannot slip away on our own; we would have to elude this ship to leeward to turn south for Brest but many things can change in a few hours. We shall see what the winds bring us.’ Hayden did not want to get bottled up in Guernsey when he had such decisive information to carry to the Admiralty in London.

Hayden clambered back up the swaying ladder and took a turn about the deck, speaking to the men quietly, reassuring them with his presence and showing not the least concern for the French or their present position. The truth was, though, he did not like it nor feel the least reassured by it. There were two frigates nearby, one somewhat to windward and on his quarter and the other preventing him from turning south. Come daylight they would, if they were able, bring his ship to battle – something Hayden knew he must avoid at any cost less than his ship. Escape by darkness was his best hope, but wearing ship would send him back towards Le Havre and there was nothing to be gained on that tack. The north wind had him pinned up against the coast of Normandy and made Hayden feel a little too much like a sheep being herded along by a pair of collies, each waiting to bite at his heels should he tarry.

At that moment the windward ship fired three guns in slow succession, the muzzle flash illuminating the rain with garish reds and coppery yellows. A moment later this signal was answered by her sister with two guns, a pause of five seconds and then a third.

Hayden returned to the quarterdeck.

‘What are they saying, I wonder?’ Ransome speculated aloud.

‘Very likely that the chase is still in sight. I do not think they are planning to attack by night with this sea running and gusts sinking our gunports every quarter of the hour. They are waiting for daylight and a moderating wind. At least one of which we shall certainly have by and by.’

‘If we cannot slip away this night they shall have us then, on the morrow?’

‘We have some luck on our side. One of the Frenchmen lost her top-gallant masts and will probably not send up new ones until the weather moderates. We can keep ourselves ahead of her. The other frigate will not attack us alone.’

‘But could she not attack us and either bring us to or hinder us enough for her consort to catch us up? Then we should have two frigates to fight and only a miracle might save us.’

‘An English sea officer might chance that, for we commonly come out ahead when broadsides are of equal strength. But this captain is most likely well aware that our gunnery at close range might disable him and then we would escape altogether. No, I believe he will wait until both ships can be brought into action at the same time or nearly so. After all, we have nowhere to escape to at the moment. We cannot reach England on this slant and with the wind hauling into the north and perhaps the north-west we will in all likelihood be driven towards France. Help might materialize.’ Hayden turned and peered out into the darkness, just able to perceive a faint point of light that appeared and winked out. ‘I am of a mind, however, that this plan – if it is indeed what they are thinking – might, in the end, favour us, for there will almost certainly be British frigates lying off Brest and if we are forced out into the Atlantic and have a wind that will allow it, we will shape our course towards that port and hope we can turn the tables on these Frenchmen.’

And so the night went on, wind and rain coming from the north, the wind backing and then veering, toying with the Themis and her crew. Deciding that dawn should be the time when he must be most alert, Hayden had a partial wall of his cabin re-erected and his cot slung there. Sleep eluded him for most of this time for his mind was overburdened with troubles both present and domestic. Brief reveries that verged on sleep would creep over him but then he would be startled awake by the news that Henrietta was married or by boarding Frenchmen forcing their way into his cabin and then he would lie catching his breath a moment only to fall back into a state of near sleep, or torpor perhaps, nightmares lying in wait just beyond sleep’s border.