They floated on a sea of mercury, drowned in a milky haze. The air, cool and deathly still, was aglow with glistening droplets. Every surface of the ship was overlain and dripping with water condensed out of the haze. The creaking of cordage, men moving about, muttered conversation from below, and then the plaintive cry of a gull somewhere out in the fog – but where Hayden could not say. The sound could have come from aft or from out to sea or any point of the compass at all.
The hands went about their duties on tiptoe, their bare feet padding, almost silently, over the sopping deck. Every ear aboard strained to hear and every hand aboard feared the sudden explosion of a broadside from an unseen ship.
‘Mr Wickham?’ Hayden whispered.
‘Sir?’
‘Did you hear that? A voice, I think.’
Wickham stood by the rail two yards off, a glass, all but useless in this fog, in hand. He turned his head slowly to the right and then left. ‘I did not, sir.’
‘Pray you, listen …’
The two stood as still as hills, holding their breath, straining.
‘Yes,’ Wickham said, ‘I heard … something.’
‘What did it sound like?’
‘I cannot say, Captain. Voices. It sounded like voices.’
‘Were they speaking French?’
‘I do not know, sir. I could not even say with certainty that it was men at all. Birds, perhaps.’ The boy shrugged.
As if he had spoken words to conjure, a gull came gliding out of the fog, mewling its sorrows to an uncaring sea. It veered to avoid the Themis’s sails, which hung sodden and limp. Its cry was answered out of the mist, and then again from elsewhere.
A dull thud, distant and muffled, reached them.
‘There, sir!’ Wickham intoned. ‘There they are.’
‘But where away?’
Wickham raised a hand and indicated the west, more or less.
In such dense fog, sound seemed to come from everywhere at once – and from nowhere. Standing on the quarterdeck, as Hayden did, the bow of the ship was sometimes obscured by veils of mist that drifted ever so slowly over the deck. Even when these wafted off it was impossible to say how far into the mist his vision could penetrate for there was no object visible to judge by. Hayden guessed that they could seldom see more than two hundred feet, and often less.
Blind as they were, they listened intently. Constantly, heads turned, fearing the dark mass of a ship would drift out of the blear.
‘What was that, sir? Did it sound like an oar thumping against a hull?’
It was Hayden’s turn to shrug. Wood against wood – he could be no more certain than that. There was at least one ship out there … somewhere. ‘Samson bar, mayhap,’ he ventured.
The sails wafted overhead, a slow snaking movement, and then fell still again. It was as though the ocean had sighed once and then gone back to sleep. The ship lifted on the low swell – lifted and settled, hardly rolling at all. Sails hung slack, dripping onto the deck and the men gathered at the guns below.
A muffled laugh came from the foredeck and Hayden saw Franks hurrying towards the source, flexing his rattan. Hayden was glad to learn the bosun had the common sense not to beat the man – the sound would carry a mile, perhaps farther.
The sails wafted again, filled half-heartedly, and drew the ship forward. Hayden would have ordered the yards braced to take the greatest advantage of this little zephyr but he dared not allow the men to make the least sound. No, they would have to make what use of the wind they could.
He crossed to the man at the wheel – the quartermaster.
‘A spoke to larboard, Harvey. Let us fill the sails if we can.’
The sound of the wheel turning even so little and the wheel rope thrumming through its blocks, the creak of the rudder, all seemed to echo about the ship and then ripple out into the mist. The quartermaster grimaced as though the sounds caused him physical pain.
A moment later, as if in answer, voices came back to them.
‘What do they say?’ Barthe asked in an anxious whisper. The sailing master was seated on a little bench built into the taffrail, having hobbled there with a cane, against the doctor’s orders.
‘I do not know, Mr Barthe,’ Wickham answered.
‘But is it French, Mr Wickham? Can you not tell?’
‘I canno—’ but he stopped mid-word as more voices reached them, these seeming to come from some point aft.
Barthe went to speak again but Hayden made a motion for him to stay silent, and with some difficulty the master swallowed his words.
‘That sounded like English, sir,’ Wickham whispered, a look of utter surprise on his face. ‘Did you not think so?’
Hayden could not be certain and said as much. He motioned to another of the midshipmen who emerged from below at that moment. ‘You have good ears, Mr Gould. Come and listen.’
Gould stood, still as the air, for some minutes, and just when Hayden thought they would not hear any such sounds again, voices carried to them on a small breeze. The words seemed shattered into syllables, all echoey and distorted, as though they floated up out of a deep, deep well.
‘Was that English?’ Hayden asked softly. ‘Or was it French?’
Gould shook his head. ‘I do not know, sir, but it sounded like someone shouting orders – did it no—’
The fog lit orange to starboard, and the thunderclap of a gun swept over the Themis, silencing everyone utterly. Two more guns fired in quick succession.
‘Have the French smoked us, sir?’ Wickham whispered.
‘I cannot imagine how they could …’
‘Fog signal,’ Barthe whispered. ‘I’ve heard it before. It’s how the French signal in a fog. A single shot then two close together. Listen.’
The signal was returned, from somewhere out in the fog and then a third time.
‘All of our Frenchmen accounted for,’ Wickham said with some satisfaction.
But then a fourth ship answered from somewhere forward, and another off their larboard bow. Then yet another from astern, or so it seemed.
‘My God, sir,’ Gould whispered, ‘I thought we were to find British frigates here.’
‘Can those be echoes from cliffs?’ Hayden glanced over at the sailing master, who appeared very pale.
Barthe shook his head of greying red hair. ‘I’m quite certain we are too distant from shore. Six ships, sir. Very likely all Frenchmen – unless our own frigates are returning their signal to confuse the enemy.’
For a moment Hayden was tempted to do the same, though he could think of no practical purpose in doing so. He looked up at the sails, which fell limp at that moment.
‘Mr Barthe …’ Hayden turned towards the sailing master. ‘I believe this fog will burn off shortly. Are you of the same opinion?’
‘Most assuredly, sir.’
‘Then let us break out our French uniforms and ensign. If there are French ships all around we must appear to be one of them. Mr Gould, go down to my steward and tell him we must have the French clothing – for all the officers.’
Hayden was glad he had preserved the French uniforms they had employed aboard the prize frigate Dragoon, when he had been forced to masquerade as a French captain chasing an English ship. It seemed like half a lifetime ago. But now these uniforms might be the only thing that could preserve his ship.
He looked up at the sails, hanging limp and sodden. Even the pennant at the masthead stuck to the dripping mast and showed no sign of wind. He almost wanted to pray. A bit of wind, enough to put a little distance between these ships and their own – and hope that the French did not proceed in the same direction. A zephyr. A sigh. Anything …
Two seamen, accompanied by Hayden’s steward, bore a chest up onto the deck. It was quickly unlocked and uniforms distributed according to size rather than rank.
‘I am sorry, Mr Archer, but Mr Barthe shall have to impersonate my second-in-command. You would never fit this jacket.’
‘Not to mention the shoes …’ It was Hawthorne, smiling wickedly. He had arrived on the quarterdeck at that instant, clearly intent on joining the French navy – never wanting to be left out of any enterprise. But Hayden could not even manage a smile. Their situation was beyond desperate. If there were actually six French ships all in close proximity, it would be something of a miracle if they survived.
‘Gould? Jump down to the sailmaker and have him send up a sail we might hang over the stern to hide our transom. It will give us away, sure. Quick as you can. Tell him to waste no time in deliberation. Better too large than too small.’
‘Aye, sir.’ Gould went down the ladder at such speed Hayden was certain he must fall and break a bone, but he survived it.
‘Where is the French ensign? Let us have it aloft this moment.’
The ensign was spread out on the deck aft of the wheel and then run aloft, where it hung limp and all but unrecognizable.
Hayden shrugged off his coat and waistcoat, sliding easily into the French captain’s uniform. In a moment his officers were all clothed like Frenchmen, standing uncomfortably around the quarterdeck in their unfamiliar uniforms. But Hayden slipped out of his English skin and into his French one so easily he hardly noticed. People thought of him as being half French and half English, but what no one understood was that he was entirely English and entirely French at one and the same time. It seemed an impossible contradiction but was, nevertheless, the truth. He was not a half-breed but a dual-breed – a man of two nations and nationalities, two cultures and entirely opposing sensibilities, all housed within the same frame.
‘There you are, my French brothers,’ Hayden said, smiling. ‘I have missed you.’
A bell rang out in the mist, sounding so close it might have been their own. At that moment, the French flag wafted once to larboard, then a little breeze unfurled it and, at the same instant, filled their sails. The frigate gathered way, ever so slowly, then answered her helm; it was as though she had come back to life, resurrected by the sea god’s breath.
An apparition loomed out of the murk, a featureless shadow. And then Hayden could make out rigging and sails. A ship – sailing in the opposite direction.
‘What ship?’ a man called out to them in French.
All of Hayden’s officers looked to him but it was a question he had not considered. For a moment his mind seemed to go blank as he groped for the name of a French frigate of similar size. ‘Résolue,’ he called out.
Aboard the French ship he could hear the officers in hushed conversation but he could not make out what they said. And then the ship was gone, dissolving into the white not seventy-five feet astern. Gone as though it had been a ghost ship, the ghosts muttering among themselves. And then he heard a French voice call out orders, and the sounds of men running and ropes being coiled down and yards shifting carried to them on the cool, translucent air.
‘They are wearing, sir,’ Wickham whispered in French.
‘Yes.’ The words chilled Hayden right to his heart. He could hardly catch his breath. ‘Mr Wickham, climb the mainmast as high as you dare. Take another man with you – a steady man with good eyes. And order him not, for God’s sake, to call out in English!’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Mr Archer. Sail handlers to their stations.’
‘Will we stand in towards the coast, sir?’ Archer asked.
‘Only if we must.’
‘I shall muster the men silent as a prayer, sir.’ Archer hurried forward, sending runners off with his orders.
‘Harvey,’ Hayden whispered to the man at the wheel, ‘bring her up as close to the wind as you dare. We must keep the sails full at all costs. Do not let them luff.’
‘Aye, sir. You won’t see a shiver, Captain. I promise you.’
Barthe had got to his feet and leaned heavily upon his cane, agitated but unable to pace as he was accustomed. Even so hobbled he made his way close to Hayden.
‘That was a three-decker, Captain,’ he whispered. ‘Ninety-eight guns …’ The sailing master said this with such alarm it made the hair stand up on Hayden’s neck.
‘There is very little chance that they will find us again in this fog, Mr Barthe.’
Barthe bent back awkwardly and cast his gaze up. ‘They will if our masts are above the fog, sir.’
That was precisely why Hayden had sent Wickham aloft to the highest point he might reach. ‘Let us pray this fog can withstand the sun a little longer.’
‘There will be many a man praying for precisely that, sir, I will wager.’
‘Mr Ransome? I want men spaced at no more than a dozen feet all the way up to Mr Wickham aloft. He may send his messages to the deck one man at a time as quiet as may be.’ He turned to Hobson. ‘Who is our lookout on the jib-boom?’
‘I cannot say, sir.’
‘I will have you out there, Hobson. Send whoever is there back to his post.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Gould appeared at that moment with the sailmaker and several hands in tow lugging a heavy sail. Quickly, it was hung over the stern as if drying, though who it would confuse on such a day Hayden did not know as everything was dripping wet.
Wickham had reached the uppermost yard and sat astride it, hardly visible from the deck. The hands sent aloft to convey his sightings went scampering up after and in a moment a message came down – ‘No ships in sight. Not a mast to be seen.’
Hayden was more relieved than he could say. There was still some chance that they might slip away before the fog burned off. If only he might have a little wind – not enough to sweep the fog away, just enough to allow them to carry on. A few leagues and he would escape the French at last.
He went to the stern rail and looked down past the sail draped there at the wake his ship left – barely a little eddy line astern. Hardly a wave. It was enough to make a man weep.
Guns fired somewhere out in the distance. Answers again seemed to come from all around – muffled reports. No muzzle flash to be seen. Hayden put a hand on the rail and looked up to find Wickham, who had a glass to his eye and was slowly sweeping it in a long arc. The acting lieutenant stopped a moment and swung his glass back, seeking at one point of the compass. For a moment Hayden held his breath but then Wickham went back to his slow quizzing of the void.
Hayden returned his attention to the deck, where it seemed every hand stared at him, and then looked quickly away.
‘Sir?’ One of the men stationed at a carronade pointed into the fog astern.
Hayden turned but there was nothing. He looked back to the man who had spoken in time to see the gun captain punch the man ungently in the shoulder – he should never have spoken and knew it.
‘What did you see?’ Hayden demanded.
‘A … shadow, sir. Something … there, sir!’ His hand shot up.
Hayden spun about in time to see something dark and ghostly passing through the mist. It did resemble a shadow, though very faint, featureless and dusky. And then it too was gone.
‘Was it a frigate?’ Barthe asked. The pain in his foot had sent him back to his bench, where he twisted round to get a view of this apparition.
‘So it seemed – perhaps,’ Hayden whispered.
Voices were heard then, calling out in French.
‘What ship?’
A brief interchange in which Hayden clearly heard someone say, ‘… le comte’ twice.
The voices fell silent, and then the wind died, the sails swooning all around.
Barthe muttered an oath and then all was silent. Not even the call of a gull.
Gould put a hand to his ear and tilted his head. ‘Do you hear that, Captain? Is it the sound of sweeps?’
For a long moment Hayden listened. The restive sails hissing forth and back, rippling then falling still. And then so faintly he might have imagined it, the measured wash of sweeps dipping, then again. For a moment, the rustle of sails overcame it but then they fell still and he located the sound again.
‘They have launched boats,’ Hayden whispered.
‘Where away?’ Barthe came to his feet, both hands on the rail and his cane, leaning against the bench, rolled loudly sideways and crashed to the deck. Hayden put his foot on it instantly and one of the hands then took it up, returning it to the chagrined sailing master.
Hayden raised a hand to interrupt Barthe’s apology. He wanted silence so that he might listen.
‘Where away’ was indeed the question. Somewhere in the blear, but where, Hayden could not say. He turned his head from this side to that but the sound emanated from everywhere and nowhere.
A sound that might have been wind or voices whispering. And then, dead astern, a pistol shot. Hayden saw the muzzle flash but could make out nothing more.
‘Pass the word for Mr Hawthorne,’ Hayden said quietly. ‘Drag this sail clear of the chase pieces. We shall load one with grape and the other with cannister shot.’
Hayden turned to gaze up at the masthead. Wickham was turned aft, staring into the fog. Then he noticed his captain and raised both hands and shrugged.
Hawthorne came hurrying aft at that instant.
‘There you are,’ Hayden said to him. ‘Position your best marksmen – three here at the taffrail but clear of the gun crews. And four in the mizzen top. Tell them to fire at any ship’s boats they see but not a single shot at a ship. This boat is planning to stay close to us and signal our presence.’
‘But will we not be alerting the French to our position by firing guns, sir?’
‘Indeed we will but if we can drive this boat off we will alter course and fall silent again. If we fail to drive it off … we are lost.’ Hayden turned to his midshipman. ‘Mr Gould. Find Mr Archer and have him order a boat launched – as quietly as can be managed.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Hawthorne touched his hat and went off with Gould. A moment later Hawthorne was back with three marines in his wake, all stripped of their red coats.
‘If you send a boat may I go with it, Captain?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘Yes. I will send a few marines as well as the hands to man the oars and put Mr Ransome in command.’
‘That will answer, sir.’
Hayden turned in time to see the boat swing aloft. For a moment he stopped to admire the skill of the men who, with barely a whispered order or a nod from the officers, launched the boat as smoothly as could be done. They had become a good, steady crew in the few months since Hart had departed. For a moment Hayden felt a glow of pride in them as though they were all his sons.
He sent the word for Ransome, who appeared out of the mist that drifted over the deck. ‘Sir?’ The lieutenant touched his hat.
Hayden carefully explained what he wanted done.
‘Do not lose sight of the Themis, Mr Ransome, or you might not find your way back again. Do you understand?’
‘I shall have one man keep the ship in sight at all times, sir.’ Ransome went off to gather his crew and arms.
Without so much as a splash the cutter touched the Atlantic’s surface and settled, bobbing gently. Hayden nodded to Hawthorne, who hurried off to collect his own men.
Sailors and marines went over the side, stealthily as they could, and then without even an ‘Away boat’ the cutter appeared astern and then faded into the murk, the oarsmen rowing in a slow, quiet rhythm.
‘Can you make out the French boat?’ Barthe asked, staring astern.
‘I cannot—’ but Hayden was interrupted by a flash and then the report of a pistol.
Immediately his own cutter altered course towards the enemy boat. With every stroke the boat became less defined, the colours duller – then it was grey, dissolving into the murk. Hayden could see Hawthorne in the bow, a musket to his shoulder. They were almost out of sight when several flashes appeared at one time, the reports reaching him almost at the same instant. The French quickly gathered themselves and returned the British fire, but then all was lost in the blear and only the sharp crack of musket and pistol remained. And then silence.
‘Can anyone see them?’ Hayden asked. But all the men at the guns shook their heads. Not even the sound of oars could be discerned.
For a long moment nothing could be heard but the breathing of the gunners, none of whom shifted or moved in the least degree.
The mist astern of them swirled and a little breeze touched Hayden’s face, the sodden sails half filled. At a word from Barthe seamen ran to tend the mizzen, which threatened to back and gybe. The mizzen sheet running through its block, unnoticed under most circumstances, made the most unholy squeal.
Every eye was fixed astern. ‘If this wind carries us a hundred paces …’ Barthe whispered to Hayden, ‘Ransome may never find us.’
‘We can hardly anchor,’ Hayden said.
‘No, sir, and we will accomplish little by letting sheets fly, they are near slack as it is.’
Although that was true, the ship was moving.
‘I told Ransome to keep the ship in sight …’ Hayden wanted to pound a fist on the rail. If he waited for the lieutenant to find him he might lose his ship. He turned to the seaman who was running messages. ‘Pass the word up to Mr Wickham: can he see our cutter?’
‘Aye, sir.’ The man went off at a silent run and in a moment the word reached the midshipman aloft.
Staring up Hayden saw the boy look down at him and shake his head. The cutter had sunk into the fog.
‘Do you think the French might have taken them?’ Barthe asked.
‘Unlikely, unless there was more than one boat out there in the fog. Not impossible.’ Hayden’s indecision passed. ‘We cannot wait for them, Mr Barthe. I will not send every man aboard into a French prison to save a dozen men from the same fate. Let us make the most of this wind. Mr Ransome will have to look to himself.’
But there was little they could do but let the wind press them on. Hayden dared not send men aloft to loose sail, for silence was more important than speed. There appeared to be French ships all around. Their only hope lay in stealth, in slipping away under cover of fog. If only they could hear the French ships approach so that they might slip off before they were discovered.
The explosion of guns firing rent the air, the angry flashes visible in the fog not so far off. And then Hayden heard men crying out.
‘Is there a British ship out there?’ Barthe asked, almost breathless.
‘Perhaps, Mr Barthe, but I believe a Frenchman just mistook one of his own frigates for the Themis.’
This appeared to sober Barthe considerably.
‘Have we gunports open, Captain?’ Barthe asked.
‘And guns manned to larboard and starboard,’ Hayden replied.
A stain appeared in the fog aft. For a moment Hayden thought it was smoke from the guns, but then he saw movement.
‘There they are, sir!’ Gould whispered, and the word passed back through the ship, a muffled susurration that went all the way out to Hobson on the jib-boom.
Hayden shrugged his shoulders to work the knots out of them. ‘Yes, bring the men aboard and stream the cutter.’
The cutter caught them up and was brought alongside, the men tumbling over the rail, several wounded. Ransome and Hawthorne came immediately aft.
‘We drove the boat off, sir, but there is a ship in our wake – a first-rate it appears, sir.’
‘In this small wind we shall leave any three decker behind,’ Hayden assured them. ‘You had some wounded?’
‘Yes, sir. And they did for Greenfield, Captain. I ordered him put over the side. I am sorry, sir.’
Hayden nodded. ‘I am sorry as well.’ Seamen preferred to be buried at sea with words said over them, preferably by a parson. To be slipped over the side in the midst of an action was one of the men’s nightmares. There were numerous stories, most if not all apocryphal, of men found floating, alive, who had been put over the side because their mates believed them dead. Each story more horrifying than the last.
Ransome was powder-stained and looked shaken, as though something had happened of which he did not wish to speak.
‘You may repair below a moment if you wish, Mr Ransome.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And Ransome?’
‘Sir?’
‘Well done.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Ransome made his way, swaying, across the deck and disappeared below.
‘Is he injured, Mr Hawthorne?’ Hayden asked the marine.
‘No, sir.’ Hawthorne looked almost as out of sorts as Ransome, giving Hayden the impression that he might weep. ‘Greenfield was crying out and moaning, sir – from the pain of his wound, you see. The lieutenant ordered his mates keep him quiet … lest we be discovered.’ Hawthorne worked his jaw but no words came. ‘I believe they may have – without meaning to in the least – suffocated him, sir.’
‘Good God. Are you certain it was accidental?’
‘I was in the bow, sir, watching for the French. I cannot answer that with certainty.’
‘Who were the men?’
‘Again, Captain. I was removed from it … Ransome would know.’
‘Well, I cannot leave the deck to speak with him now. Why do you think they may have done for him?’
‘I believe they tried to muffle Greenfield’s cries with a shirt, sir, but they smothered him, instead.’
‘You do not think he died of his wounds?’
‘Perhaps the doctor could say, Captain, but I do not possess such knowledge.’
‘We will never know, now,’ Hayden said softly. ‘You may go, Mr Hawthorne.’
‘Thank you, sir’, but the marine stood a moment more.
‘Mr Hawthorne?’
Hawthorne nodded, groping for words. ‘They were all good men, sir. Not a blackguard among them.’
‘I have no doubt of it, Mr Hawthorne. I am certain it could never have been done a-purpose but …’ Hayden looked up at his lieutenant. ‘But murder without intent is … murder under the law … God save them, if that is the case.’
The marine lieutenant retreated, and left Hayden standing at the rail, alone. Despite the near flat sea he reached out and took hold of the rail. He swore under his breath. There had been a murder aboard this very ship before Philip Stephens had sent him aboard. Maybe she was a bad luck ship, as many said. Hayden muttered another curse. He would have to enquire into this matter most carefully – there would almost certainly be a court martial. And Ransome … he should have spoken up. Hayden should not have heard it first from Hawthorne. He found this possibility of murder more distressing even than their present situation. Certainly it must have been an accident – certainly it must.
Hayden tried to turn his mind from this matter. It would be dealt with in its own time. There was far more pressing business before them.
Again guns were heard out in the fog. A series of three evenly spaced shots, a pause and then two more.
He glanced at Barthe, who twisted about on his bench every few moments, first looking this way then that.
‘What are they saying, I wonder?’
Barthe shrugged. ‘I wish I knew, sir. That is a different signal to what we heard before.’
From all points of the compass, the signal was answered.
‘Six ships,’ Barthe counted. ‘And all of them too near, sir … wherever they are.’
The Themis sailed, ever so slowly, into a thick bank of fog, the air seeming to cool all around. At almost the same instant the sails fell limp, and barely rippled as the ship rolled ever so slightly, forth and back.
‘Can this little wind not hold for half of the hour!’ Barthe muttered.
The bow of his ship was devoured by the fog, until Hayden could not make out his foremast. They could have been floating through the sky, the world far below them for even the sea immediately aft was lost in fog.
‘I’ve never seen fog so thick, sir,’ Barthe whispered.
‘Nor I, Mr Barthe.’
A few moments they drifted, unable to tell if they made way or lay becalmed or even made stern way. And then, in the depth of silence, a muffled running of bare feet, and one of the hands shot out of the fog, running like he was pursued by devils.
‘Ship off the starboard bow, Captain!’ the man said, trying to pitch his voice low.
‘Helm to starboard,’ Hayden ordered the helmsman and then cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, in French, up into the rigging. ‘Ship on the starboard bow!’
Wickham took up the call and repeated it as loudly as he was able. Hayden grabbed the pull and rang the ship’s bell madly. All the while he stared into the fog, thinking for a moment that Hobson had made a mistake, there was no ship, or it was not so near as he’d thought.
But then a jib-boom thrust through the cloud, not ten yards to starboard, drawing in train the bow of a ship. The bow seemed to be moving so slowly that it was minutes until the rest of the ship was revealed – a two-decker, not thirty feet distant, two rows of gunports open. And there she lost all way, her crew and officers staring down at the British frigate from their higher deck.
‘Praise to God,’ Hayden called out in French, ‘we did not collide … even going so slowly …’
The French captain came and leaned over the rail, looking down at Hayden. ‘Capitaine,’ he said, ‘we know you are an English ship. Do not attempt to claim otherwise. Surrender or I shall fire into you. At this short range I don’t think even your gunnery will preserve you, Capitaine.’
Hayden was looking directly down the barrel of a French gun. All around he could feel his men holding their breath. He was about to claim his innocence again, and argue that he was French but he fixed his eyes upon the French captain standing at the rail and realized that the man was not going to be bluffed – he knew the truth.
‘I regret, Capitaine,’ Hayden answered in French, ‘that I cannot, with honour, surrender without firing a shot.’
The French captain – a man of middle years – nodded. ‘Fire your larboard battery and strike your … our colours, Capitaine. And then, please, prepare to surrender. I will send my lieutenant aboard.’
Hayden turned to find Archer standing in the companionway, a look of utter shock upon his face.
‘Mr Archer. Fire the larboard battery, if you please.’
Archer nodded dumbly, touched his hat and went below. A moment later the larboard battery fired as one, a horrible explosion, and then the smoke blossomed up covering the deck. The silence that followed seemed so utterly profound and complete, as though the entire world had lost its voice.
‘Strike the French colours,’ Hayden ordered into that terrible void.
Seamen hurried to do as he bid.
At that instant Hayden heard the sound of a gallery window opening and then a splash – the British signal book in its lead covers had gone into the sea. Perse had performed this last duty flawlessly, as always.
A strange numbness had crept over Hayden, as though he had breathed in the cold fog and it had frozen his heart. His mind seemed very clear and uncluttered, with no extraneous thoughts creeping in.
He had lost his ship … He had lost his ship!
Turning, he gazed along the deck at all the men mustered at their guns or waiting to handle sail. They stared back, pale-faced, their thoughts impenetrable. No doubt they had all heard stories of French prisons. There were no illusions on that score.
The French flag came down to the deck – though Hayden was not sure why. It would be raised again in a moment.
Hayden ordered the starboard guns run in and secured and the gunports closed, and then he mustered the men on the foredeck and along the larboard gangway.
‘Offer no resistance,’ Hayden said to them. ‘I believe we shall not be treated unkindly. It is no dishonour to surrender here, to a much superior ship, becalmed and unable to effect an escape. You have all performed your duties in a manner that would make any captain proud. Not once have you shied or failed out of fear. It has been an honour to be your captain.’ Hayden saluted them and the men all returned that salute.
A boat from the French ship came alongside and a young lieutenant clambered quickly up the side, looking both apprehensive and excited at the same moment, though the former he tried to hide. Hayden met him at the rail. The young man – hardly more than twenty – saluted and Hayden returned it. He had never expected to do what next he must do. He offered up his sword.
‘My captain has instructed me to inform you that you may keep your sword, Capitaine. My boat will carry you over. Do not be concerned, your crew will be fairly treated.’ The young man gestured, and with a single look back at the anxious faces of his men, Hayden climbed down into the waiting boat.
The boat pushed off, and someone on the deck called out, ‘Three cheers for Captain Hayden!’
And the men huzzaed three times with such energy that it must have carried for miles – and though Hayden was more moved than he could say he thought it was also a shout of defiance. His crew had lost their ship but would not so easily give up their pride.
Ropes were being carried from the French ship to the Themis, and armed men ferried across by boat. His ship, lifting and falling on the swell and adrift in curling mist, appeared utterly forlorn to him. A prize of the enemy. A symbol of his failure. It even occurred to him to curse Stephens, who had informed him that there was but a single French frigate sailing from Le Havre. He knew, however, that the failure had been his. Bad luck might have played a part but he had made poor decisions. He could see a few men watching him go. Upon their faces looks of utter hopelessness. Hayden had always pulled them through before, no matter what the circumstances, but this time there was nothing he could do. They were prisoners of the French and the French were killing each other by the thousands – how would friendless British sailors fare in such a world?
Some of the hands were stirred away from the rail and sent aloft – to take in sail, no doubt.
That was all the time Hayden was allowed to gaze at his ship or even worry about the fate of his crew, for he was alongside the French seventy-four and climbing up the side. As he came over the rail he was met by the same officer who had demanded his surrender. The man saluted him and Hayden returned the gesture.
‘So,’ the captain said in cultivated French, ‘at last I am allowed the honour of meeting le comte.’
Hayden could not have been more surprised. ‘I must disappoint you, Capitaine,’ Hayden protested, ‘for I am no count, nor a nobleman of any kind. Charles Hayden, a mere master and commander. Not even a post captain.’
‘Raymondde Lacrosse, capitaine of Les Droits de l’Homme.’
‘The Rights of Man,’ Hayden repeated.
‘Oui, Capitaine. Exactly so.’
‘I offered my sword to your lieutenant.’
‘I require only your word that you will not use it against my people while you remain our guest.’
‘You have my word.’
‘Come, there is a meal awaiting in my cabin.’
As they passed along the gangway Hayden realized he was the object of the greatest fascination to the hands and officers alike, as though they had never seen an Englishman before. Certainly they had not seen many who had just surrendered their ships.
Down they went to the gundeck below. Hayden could not help but notice that there appeared to be no shortage of men aboard this ship, unlike British ships, which commonly sailed short of their proper complement. Here each gun had its correct number.
He was led into the captain’s cabin, which had not been disassembled as would be the case on a British ship. Here a table was spread with simple serving dishes and servants stood silently by.
‘Forgive my table, Capitaine,’ Lacrosse said. ‘Since the Revolution it is no longer acceptable to display too much silver.’
Hayden was shown to a chair which a servant pushed in behind him.
‘Pardon me, Capitaine Lacrosse, but I must ask what will be done with my crew and officers?’
‘They will all be fairly treated, you need not trouble yourself in the least in that regard. As long as they cause no trouble, that is. But once they are ashore they will be sent who knows where and I will have no influence over their treatment, I am sorry to say. I doubt they will be treated worse than the French sailors you have locked up in your hulks. Of course, your officers will be exchanged, and quickly, I should think.’
‘Thank you, Capitaine,’ Hayden said. ‘Why did you call me the count?’
Lacrosse smiled charmingly. ‘It is said, because of your command of our language, that you are a Frenchman. An émigré captain from the French navy, in fact a nobleman and a royalist.’
Hayden felt a little shudder of apprehension and realization, as though he had been cast into the winter sea. Unwilling to admit his heritage for fear of reprisals against his mother’s family, Hayden responded, ‘When I was a small child my nursemaid was a lovely French woman. You see, my mother was an invalid and had very little to do with raising me. She died when I was a boy. As a result, I spoke French before I learned English, or so I am told. My father was a post captain in the Royal Navy – Captain William Saunders Hayden.’
‘I am very sorry to hear of your mother’s misfortune, Capitaine. My condolences. You are aware, Capitaine Hayden, that certain factions within France are causing … a hysteria within our borders?’
‘I am, yes.’
‘You might be accused of being a Frenchman and a royalist. In short, a traitor.’
‘But I am neither.’
Lacrosse shrugged, pressing his ample lips into an inverted U. ‘That may be so but you might have need to prove this and rather quickly, too. The Committee of Public Safety does not require a great deal of evidence to send a man to the guillotine. Have you anyone in France who might identify you? Preferably someone of influence …’
‘No – no one,’ Hayden said, hardly able to draw breath. Was it not enough that he had lost his ship? Now he would be accused of being a traitor … to France! ‘You must know, Capitaine Lacrosse, that we have so many British officers awaiting promotion. We have no need of French sea officers at this time.’ Hayden wanted to say that British sailors would be shot before they would take orders from a Frenchman but thought better of it.
‘May I trust you not to repeat what I am about to say, Capitaine?’ Lacrosse enquired, very quietly and speaking perfectly acceptable English. ‘I cannot stress enough that private conversations, such as the one we are now engaged in, have been all the evidence required to see a man guillotined.’
‘You have my word as an officer.’
Lacrosse nodded. ‘I am aware that French officers seldom serve in your service but the Committee of Public Safety, well, I caution you again, Capitaine, all they would require is a single citizen to point a finger at you and say, “Yes, I know him. He is le comte de Periger”, or any such name, and that would be adequate. Men have been executed on less evidence. Far less.’
‘But I am an Englishman …’ Hayden protested, sitting back in his chair, stunned by what this man was suggesting.
‘Not if Robespierre decides otherwise.’
Servants brought in the first course but Hayden felt so ill at that moment he was afraid to eat. Then he decided he must lest he offer insult to Lacrosse, who would have the treatment of Hayden’s crew under his control until France was reached.
‘The Admiralty would certainly vouch for my nationality. Admiral Hood knew my father. Philip Stephens, the First Secretary, knows all the details of my parentage and service. I could write to him …’ Certainly Stephens would have the common sense not to reveal the identity of his mother? The man was brilliant; he would never make such a blunder.
There was a knock upon the door and a whispered conversation between an officer and Lacrosse’s steward.
‘Excuse me, Capitaine Hayden.’ Lacrosse rose and went out of the door. Hayden could hear his voice beyond but pitched too low for him to comprehend the words.
A moment later he returned, and to Hayden’s horror set a wooden box upon the table. The box that held Hayden’s letters.
‘It would appear, Capitaine Hayden, that there are letters here, addressed to you, that begin, “My Darling Son”. These letters are all written in French.’
‘It was a scandal at the time,’ Hayden said quickly. ‘After my mother died, my father married my nursemaid. She was much younger than he, and her family in reduced circumstances. My father was lost at sea. My stepmother removed to Boston, where she married again – a shipowner. An American.’
Lacrosse stared at the opened box, the letters so neatly folded and arranged. ‘These letters represent a very grave danger to you, Capitaine Hayden. A very grave danger.’