‘I have observed these cliffs so often, Mr Barthe, that I believe I know them better than I know my own countenance.’ Hayden lowered his glass.
The sailing master leaned upon the forward barricade with one hand and held the doctor’s cane in the other. Like Hayden he stared off towards the cliffs that lay to either side of the entrance to the inner waters of Brest. ‘I am more pleased to see them this time than many another, sir.’
Hayden lifted his glass again, watching the stern of the last ship as it entered the Goulet. One by one, the entire French fleet – what remained of it – was swallowed into the long shadows of late afternoon.
Lowering his glass, Hayden stared but a moment more. Lord Howe had sent Raisonnable in company with two frigates to be certain the French fleet returned to port, which it had now done.
‘Well, Mr Barthe, that is our part completed. The frigates will stand watch and we,’ he took a deep breath, ‘are for England.’ He turned to the midshipman hovering three paces behind. ‘Pass the word for Mr Archer,’ he ordered.
‘I am here, sir.’ Archer was standing in the foremast chains, observing the retreating French fleet. Quickly he clambered back over the rail.
‘We will round Ushant before dark, Mr Archer, and then shape our course for Portsmouth.’
‘Aye, sir,’ Archer responded, approaching his captain. ‘And what becomes of us then, I wonder?’
Hayden felt himself shrug. ‘That is for the Lords Commissioners to decide, Mr Archer, not mere mortals such as ourselves.’
‘I do know,’ Barthe growled, ‘that we shall arrive in Portsmouth after Lord Howe has carried his prizes there in state and he and his captains have been awarded jewelled swords and even knighthoods … as though we had no part in it.’
The same thought had occurred to Hayden but then he had so little to draw him back to England – disappointment, threatening bankruptcy, legal troubles … He hoped that he would be sent back to sea – and the sooner the better.
‘At least we can tell our grandchildren that we fought in the first great sea battle of the war,’ Archer observed.
‘And had nothing to show for it,’ Barthe added.
‘Mr Archer …’ Hayden prompted.
‘Round Ushant and shape our course for Portsmouth, aye, sir.’ The lieutenant went off at a run, passing a limping Hawthorne as he made his way forward along the gangway.
‘Have I missed the French retreating into Brest?’ the marine officer enquired.
‘I am afraid you have, Mr Hawthorne.’
‘Damn. I had so wanted to see what an admiral looked like with his tail tucked between his legs.’
‘Should you really be walking, Mr Hawthorne?’ Hayden asked. ‘Did the doctor not order you to stay in your cot?’
‘Were those his orders? I must have misunderstood …’ Hawthorne gazed a moment at the last French ship disappearing between the cliffs. His face became more serious of a sudden. ‘Do you ever wonder, Captain, how many lives were lost on both sides?’
Barthe eyed the marine oddly. ‘You have been in your cot too long, Mr Hawthorne, if your thoughts have taken such a melancholy turn.’
‘I suppose …’ Hawthorne said quietly.
The hands came hurrying to their stations in preparation to shift yards and wear around. None of them spoke as they did so, but only went to their places and set soberly to their duties. There was something in their faces, illuminated by the golden light of the westering sun. They, all of them, appeared older, Hayden thought. Not aged, but older in some mysterious way.
‘I do not know how many died, Mr Hawthorne,’ Hayden finally replied. ‘A very great number, I fear.’
‘The Lord knows.’ It was Smosh, just arriving on the quarterdeck. He waved a hand out towards the open sea. ‘And now they await His mercy.’
Hayden looked out towards the horizon where the sun was just settling into the vast ocean. ‘“Until the sea shall give up her dead …”’ he said softly.
No one responded for a moment.
‘Amen,’ Mr Smosh intoned.
‘Amen,’ Hawthorne whispered thickly. ‘Amen, sir.’