The Hawk (14 page)

The whistling rush of the shot, and a white column of spray
on the swell half a cable off the cutter's starboard bow.

A moment, then a stutter of flashes along the cutter's
starboard wales, and a nearly instant:

BOOM-BANG BANG-BANG-BANG-BOOM
BOOM-BOOM

Hawk
's helmsman was lifted in a writhing arc off the deck
and flung bodily against the lee rail, torn asunder in a spray of
blood. James felt his hat snatched off his skull, and his scalp
singed. Heard cracks and splintering thuds forrard. Saw
rigging whipped and torn. Saw his gaff snap, sag, dangle. Was
thrown off his legs by a snaking rope, fell hard and painful on
the deck – and heard dreadful screams. The deck shuddered
under him. He pulled himself up, blood streaming from his
neck, his head singing.

'Larboard battery! FIRE FIRE FIRE!'

A stunned, lagging moment, then:

BOOM BOOM BOOM-BOOM

James stumbled to the rail, and saw that all but one of his
carronade roundshot had fallen wide. That one shot had
struck the tafferel of the mystery cutter, and done only
minor damage.

'Reload your guns! Reload!' Richard Abey's voice, in the
waist. James turned groggily, glanced down at his shirt, and
saw his whole left side soaked in blood, and his breeches
spattered. He clutched at his neck, and felt the jagged end
of a splinter. Tried to pull it free, felt a piercing jab of
pain, and desisted. And now more screams, rending,
desperate, horrible, rang across the deck – his deck, his
ship, his people. Smoke drifted, and the sulphur stink of
powder.

Captain Rennie, in a crouch, half-covered by a drape of
torn canvas: 'They are firing grape and roundshot in alternate
guns, the bloody villains.' He scrambled nearer James, and
reverted to the formal language of the quarterdeck. 'You are
hurt, Mr Hayter. Ye'd better go below to Dr Wing.'

'No, no, I am all right. It is a scratch on my neck, nothing
more.' He turned, drew breath, and succumbed to a sudden
wave of dizziness. Clutched at the rail, missed his grip, fell in
a slewing tangle of arms and legs and lay still.

Hawk
, her helm untended, her mainsail slumped and unfit
to harness the wind, lost way, fell off, and wallowed on the
swell.

Captain Rennie stood up, flung remnants of canvas aside,
and bellowed:

'I am assuming command! Boatswain, there!'

No answer. More tortured screams from the waist, and
forrard.

'Boatswain!'

Mr Abey came aft, his face laced with blood, his coat torn.
He was limping. 'The boatswain is dead, sir. He was struck in
the chest with grape, and fell.'

'We must get Mr Hayter below, as soon as we are able.
Where is the sailing master?'

'I – I do not know, sir.' His voice cracking with shock. 'We
have took an awful pounding forrard.'

'We must reload, and take the fight to the enemy, damn his
blood. I will take the helm. You will take charge of the
gunnery.'

But now in the moonlight they saw the black cutter swing
smartly through the wind, mainsail haul, and come back at
Hawk
with a dreadful certainty of purpose. She bore down on
the stricken vessel on the starboard tack, and let fly a further
broadside. Flashes, thunderous detonations, smoke – and
shattering damage.

In a few seconds – slammed, battered, splinters flying the
whole length of her –
Hawk
was further crippled, and a dozen
men now lay dead and dying on her deck.

Rennie rose again from a defensive crouch, felt himself
gingerly all over, found no impediment, and saw the black
cutter running away to the north in a coiling trail of powder
smoke, virtually unscathed. Stared after her in wonder, fear,
and rage, and muttered – to anyone and no one:

'That ain't the
Lark
. That is bloody Beelzebub . . .'

Cloud slid silent across the moon, became a ragged silveredged
screen, then snuffed out the light entire.

Dr Bell stood at the bedside, and observed with baffled
disbelief the strewn evidence of his patient's returned appetite.
Sir Robert, propped up by cushions and pillows, was pale still,
but no longer waxy. He pushed aside an empty dish on which
a curled rind of bacon lay, and traces of egg yolk. He wiped his
lips with his broad napkin, added the pits of various fruits to the
empty dish, and reached for the tall coffee pot on the cabinet.
By the pot lay a plate covered in toast crumbs and a halfconsumed
roll of butter. Having filled his coffee cup, Sir
Robert briskly rang a silver table bell, and his manservant
appeared.

'Hot water, Fender, and razor. I wish to rise.'

'Rise, Sir Robert?' Dr Bell, raising his eyebrows. 'Are you
sure that – '

'In course I am sure, my dear Doctor.' A penetrating black
glance. 'Your diagnosis was perfectly correct.'

'Correct, Sir Robert . . . ?'

'You said it was costiveness, and that was indeed the truth
of it.'

'Ah. Was it? Ah.'

'I will not quite admit that you have cured me. However,
you made up my mind for me. Costiveness, you said, and
from that verdict has emerged the solution.'

'Ah. – Yes?'

'Indeed. A difficult, expulsive episode. Several such
episodes, overnight. And now here you see me, restored.'

'You – you took a purgative, Sir Robert?'

'I did, Doctor.'

'But – I did not give it you. I did not prescribe it.'

'Nay, y'did not.' Throwing off the covers.

'Then – then how – '

'I had it by me.' A bleak smile, and he swung his legs round,
and carefully stood up. 'And now I need trouble you no
further, I think. Pray send your bill to me, will you? Good
morning, Dr Bell.'

The doctor bowed, and retreated to the door.

'Fender! Ah, there you are, man. Have you brought my
small looking glass?'

'I have it with me, sir.'

Sir Robert beckoned his valet impatiently. The servant
brought a large ewer of hot water and poured it into the basin
in a cloud of steam. From his apron he produced a small oval
looking glass, and a razor, and placed them next to the basin.

Sir Robert waved away steam, and peered at his reflection in
the glass. He was gravely silent, then:

'If I am to face the world, Fender, I must improve upon
this.'

'I should not fret, sir. When a gentleman is fresh-shaved he
is always a new man, I find.'

'Do you? Do you, indeed?'

'Oh yes, sir.'

'You have brushed my clothes?'

'Everything is ready, sir, as always.'

'My shoes?'

'And your shoes, sir, yes.'

'Tell me something, Fender, will you now? – Have you at
any time . . . been married?'

'Married, sir? Oh, no. Certainly not.'

'You have never . . . contemplated that condition of life?'

'Never, sir.'

'You have never felt yourself drawn to a person of the . . .
to a female person?'

His servant regarded him blank-faced, drew breath, but
felt himself unable to answer without embarrassment.

'Oh, come. We are grown-up men. Let us not pretend.
Young men – all men – are attracted to women, are not they?'

Fender cleared his throat politely. 'Will you wish me to
shave you, sir, this morning? Or will you like to shave
yourself?'

'I shall do it myself, thankee.' A black glance. 'Y'may go.'

'Thank you, sir.' Fender bowed, and retired. To Mrs
Reese, downstairs, he said: 'I ain't never seen him like this, I
ain't. There is something strange a-going on in his head. He
talked of women, for God's sake. At his time of life.'

'It is the purgative I believe has caused it, it has discommoded
him,' said Mrs Reese. 'He has ate two full
breakfasts, that never in usual took more than coffee, in the
forenoon.'

'But
women
? At his age?'

Mrs Reese pursed her lips, and glanced at the valet.
'Gentlemen ain't dead, you know, until they are dead. That is
entirely certain.'

Lieutenant Hayter woke in his cot in a small, nearly bare
room at the Haslar Hospital. For a moment or two he
believed that he was in his bed at the Marine Hotel at
Portsmouth, and that his wife Catherine had gone into the
annexe, perhaps to admit a maid with a tray. And now he
heard a manservant address him.

'Mr Birch will be up directly, sir.'

'Mr Who-is-it?'

'Mr Birch, sir, that has come to see you reg'lar these past
sev'ral days, he has.'

'Why should he do that, I wonder? In my bedroom?' James
sat up, and found himself oddly stiff in his movements. His
head ached. Had he drunk too much wine last evening? The
manservant was not dressed as he should be, thought James,
peering at him.

'I think you has forgot where it is you presently lie, sir. In
an upper room at the Haslar.'

'What? Where is my wife? – Catherine!'

'Here is Mr Birch now, sir.' The man withdrew, and
Captain Rennie came into the room, dressed in coat,
waistcoat and breeches of plain civilian cut.

'Good God, it is you, sir . . .' Surprised, bewildered, James
raised a hand to his neck, and felt there a heavy bandage. He
stared round the room, and the reality of his circumstances
bore in upon him.

'Am I ill? Am I injured? What has happened?'

And Captain Rennie told him. He told him all of it – or
nearly all – and when he had finished, James asked:

'Where is she moored, did y'say?'

'She ain't moored, James. Nay, she is presently in a slip at
a private yard at Bucklers Hard. Blewitt's. She is to be
surveyed there, as I understand it.'

'D'y'mean – repaired?'

'There is doubt, James, I fear, as to that.'

James frowned at him, and the manservant – the hospital
orderly – returned to the whitewashed room and threw open
the uncurtained window. Rennie waited until the man had
gone out.

'The surveyor has been sent from Portsmouth Yard, a
quarterman appointed by the Clerk of the Check. He will
make his report in a day or two, and then . . .'

'Yes . . . and then?'

'It will be determined whether or no she can be saved, or
must be broke up.'

James's mouth came open a little as he stared at Rennie,
then: 'Broke
up
?'

'James – it would be as well for ye to seek out an advocate.'

'Eh?'

'If she is broke up, or sold out of the service – there will
likely be a court martial.'

'Good God.' James looked at the opened window, felt the
breeze on his face, smelled the sea. 'I – I could be dismissed
the service.'

'Nay, James, never think that. Even was you found
wanting – '

'Found guilty, you mean.' Darkly.

'Even if the court found against you, I do not think Their
Lordships would be disposed to be harsh. Under the
circumstances, they could well decide to make little of the
court's findings.'

'Circumstances?' An unsmiling laugh. 'The circumstances
are that I was bested, sir, at sea, my cutter battered very
heavy, and many of my people killed and wounded.'

'Certainly, but I ask this. Will Their Lordships like to
acknowledge openly that such an action was fought? In home
waters? When we are not at war? When everything of this
commission has been dealt with quietly, half-concealed, in
the shadows? When the First Lord himself signed your
instructions, and yet revealed very little of what lay behind
this enterprise?'

James was silent.

'Naturally, given that you are confined here at the Haslar,
I would in usual seek out an advocate in your behalf, but my
own circumstances make that impossible. I am not here
official. So far as the navy is concerned I am at home in
Norfolk. When we brought
Hawk
in I straightway left her,
and retreated into my private self. All that I have learned
since has come from Dr Wing's intelligence, and from young
Richard Abey.'

James glanced at him, and remained silent a moment
longer, then:

'Are the wounded men cared for?'

'Indeed, they are well cared for. And the dead was decently
buried.'

'That is well.' A breath. 'Where is Catherine?'

'Catherine has gone home to Dorset, has not she, before
we sailed? You wish her to return?'

Another breath, deeper and more resolute. 'I wish to get
out of this damned cot, and out of this place altogether.'
Throwing off the covers, and making to rise. 'There is much
to be done if I am to save myself, and my ship.' He began to
unbutton and throw off his nightshirt.

'Now then, Mr Hayter.' A voice from the doorway, and Dr
Stroud came in, accompanied by the diminutive figure of
Dr Wing. 'You will do very well to stay where ye are, if
y'please.' The two medical men advanced and gently,
deliberately, their faces brooking no demur, pushed their
patient back on his cot, and drew up the covers round him.

'You are not yet ready to leave us,' said Dr Stroud. Irongrey
hair cut close to his scalp gave his long, strong face a
severe appearance. His spectacles reflected the light from the
window as he turned and nodded to Rennie. 'Captain Rennie,
good day t'ye. What have you said to excite my patient so?'

'I have said nothing.' Rennie, stoutly. 'Nothing above news
of his wife.'

'Ah, his wife.'

'And, Doctor – please to call me "Mr Birch" as we agreed,
hey?' Rennie was not going to allow himself to be put in his
place in a naval setting, even by so eminent a physician as
Stroud.

'Ah yes, in course, Mr Birch.' A further inclination of his
head, a hint of irony. 'We must not unmask you, not for a
moment – even in private.'

'I do not think you quite understand the gravity of my
position.' Rennie, bristling. 'It ain't a matter for jest – '

'Nor is the condition of my patient, sir.' Severely, and then
he countered that severity with a brief smile. 'We are all
concerned for him.'

'Indeed.'

'And should his wife be brought to him, d'y'think?'