Chapter 11
Bay of Biscay
Night fell early, the sky dull and pressing. The Wasp pitched and rolled, every timber groaning, the wheel almost wrenched from the helmsman’s grasp.
“Hold her steady, Mr. Trask!” Lanyon roared, his voice almost lost in the gale.
The midshipman nodded, face pale but set. “Aye, sir!”
For hours, the two ships were prisoners of the storm, driven south by a wind that cared nothing for flags or nations.
The men worked in darkness, hauling lines, adjusting sails, pumping out the water that sloshed in the bilge.
Once, Lanyon glimpsed the Hirondelle, her masthead light swinging wildly—then she vanished, swallowed by the spray.
The Channel was behind them now. The wind had veered, pushing them south, the shape of the French coast somewhere out there—unseen, unknown.
No one slept. The sea was too wild, the danger too near.
Lanyon moved among the men, shouting encouragement, checking on the injured, helping to secure loose gear.
His second, Finch, was everywhere at once, a steady presence, his hat lost to the wind hours ago.
Dawn broke, sullen and grey, the storm still raging. The Wasp was battered but afloat. The men were exhausted, faces hollow, but alive. The water was warmer now, the swell longer and heavier—a sign that they had entered the Bay of Biscay.
“Any sign of her?” Lanyon asked, scanning the horizon.
Finch shook his head. “Nothing yet, sir. She may have foundered.”
Lanyon’s jaw tightened. “Or she’s out there, waiting for us to give up.”
The morning wore on. The wind eased, the rain slackened, and the clouds thinned to tatters. The sea was still wild, but the worst had passed. The Wasp limped south, her course set by luck and stubbornness as much as by compass.
Around noon, a shout went up from the foremast. “Sail ho! To starboard, two miles off!”
Lanyon rushed forward, glass in hand. There she was—the Hirondelle, battered, but like the Wasp, still afloat. The French sloop was nearer now, close enough that he could see, through his glass, figures scrambling across her deck, reefing sails, fighting the same storm.
They were both fugitives, the hunter and the hunted, driven by a force greater than either.
Another day dawned with no letup, the sea a wild, foaming expanse.
The Bay of Biscay opened before them, vast and pitiless.
The Wasp’s timbers creaked, her masts groaned, but she held together.
The crew moved like ghosts, faces pinched and pale, eyes red-rimmed from salt and sleeplessness.
A man was lost overboard before noon, swept away in a white surge, his cry lost in the howling wind.
Lanyon stood by the rail, teeth bared in a silent snarl, and swore he would not lose the Hirondelle too.
They pressed on, battered, half-blind, sails reefed down to ragged patches. The French sloop was still there, stubborn, her Tricolor—which had replaced the false ensign—a splash of defiance against the storm. Lanyon admired her captain’s nerve, even as he longed to see him brought low.
The storm once again worsened. Thunder rolled across the sea, lightning splitting the sky.
The wind shrieked, tearing at the rigging, flinging spray like daggers.
Wasp clawed her way south, following the sloop’s desperate flight.
Discipline was fraying. Men muttered about the wrath of God, about French devils and cursed luck.
Lanyon silenced them with hard work and harder words.
“Stand to it, lads! She’s close now—she cannot last much longer. Hold fast, and the prize is ours!”
They rounded a headland late in the day, the coast of Spain looming through the rain, jagged cliffs like broken teeth. The French sloop was plainly in distress, her main topmast gone, hull low in the water. Lanyon felt a savage satisfaction. The ship was nearly in his grasp.
“Bring her in, Mr. Pym! We’ll run her down yet!”
The sloop struggled toward the shore, seeking shelter or surrender—Lanyon could not tell.
The wind drove both ships mercilessly, closer and closer to the rocky coast. He saw a flash of white water as the Frenchman grounded, her hull shuddering to a halt on a shingle beach.
Men leapt over the side, scrambling for the rocks, abandoning ship.
Wasp, too, was in peril, her keel scraping bottom as they edged into the shallows. Lanyon ordered the boats out, marines ready, pistols primed. The crew, exhausted but exultant, surged forward.
Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped forward. “Captain Lanyon, my apologies, sir, but I must take over now. You have done us proud. Take this, a report to the First Lord of the Admiralty—my name, and that of my father, Lord Matlock, is known to him. All England will know of your courage and that of your crew. You may not know it, sir, but today you have done England a great favour.”
“My pleasure, Colonel. I can stay, perhaps for two days while we repair the rigging, but this coast is patrolled by French frigates, which certainly outgun me. Best of luck, sir.” Captain Lanyon ordered his marines to stand down, reluctantly ceding the responsibility of continuing the chase to Colonel Fitzwilliam.
“Mr. Goulding, get your men to the boats, quickly now! With luck we may take the Frenchies on the beach!”
They waded ashore, boots sinking in wet sand, slipping on loose shingles, rain lashing their faces. But the French crew had gone, taking the women with them.
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