Hayden had witnessed the man being dragged through the street to the nearest lamppost. A wreath of nettles had been clasped about his neck and a bouquet of thistles thrust into his hand by jeering sansculottes. His mouth forced open and stuffed with hay until he gagged, and then they hanged him, kicking, from the lamppost.
Hayden pressed palms to his forehead. The terror upon the man’s face could never be erased from memory. As he had been dragged past, Hayden imagined that he’d looked at him—l’Anglais in his French coat—appealed to him, even as Hayden had heard his own voice calling out to hang the man.
Doué’s son-in-law, who had been some kind of official in Paris—an Intendant, perhaps—had been treated much the same, and then their heads had been severed and paraded through the streets on pikestaffs. Every now and then the slack faces had been thrust together and the crowd had called out, “Kiss Papa. Kiss Papa,” as though this were some terribly funny jest. Three days later Hayden had been back in England, ashamed of what he’d done, horrified to find out that even he could be drawn into a mob.
Four
Hayden could not remember so much bustle and noise in Plymouth Harbour. The coach delivering him to that city had been held up more than an hour by insolent drovers with a herd of bullocks for the Victualing Yard. And now that he was upon the quay, the commotion was beyond all, the great harbour awash with boats plying to and fro among the ships as His Majesty’s Navy prepared for war.
Ships brought out of ordinary were having their protective shells removed, and the sheer hulk plied among them, raising spike-like masts for the riggers to practice their arts. A powder hoy upon its rounds called out for a ship’s fires to be extinguished, and all the boatmen gave it the widest possible berth.
“Mr Hayden, sir …”
Hayden looked down to find the young lieutenant—not so far removed from the midshipmen’s berth—waving a hand in his direction. He had disappeared a few moments before, promising to carry Hayden out to his new ship. In a moment several sailors had scrambled across a noisome lugger and up onto the quay to take his baggage in hand. Hayden followed them back across the narrow deck of the fishing boat and down into the stern-sheets of the cutter. Sweeps flashed out, and they set off into the fray, the coxswain straining to see over the heads of the oarsmen, ever alert in such a crush.
“It was a stroke of luck, to find you, Mr Janes,” Hayden said to the boy, whose face had only just met the razor, Hayden was certain. “And my congratulations. Have you had your epaulettes long?”
“I passed my examination in March, Mr Hayden.”
“Well, you’ve overhauled me, Lieutenant, and I remember when you first set foot aboard ship, I think.”
Janes all but blushed. “I may have equalled you in rank, Mr Hayden, but not in skill.”
“I would not be so sure of that,” Hayden objected, and then cast his eye toward the opening of the Hamoaze. “You are sure the Themis is still there?”
“She won’t have gone anywhere, sir. She had but one mast standing when I passed her this morning.” Janes was silent a moment, a bit awkward in the presence of his former superior officer, now his equal, which caused them both a little embarrassment. “Have you been aboard her before, Mr Hayden?”
“I’ve never laid eyes on her. An eighteen-pounder, thirty-two, I’m told—certainly something of an anomaly.”
“They have several more in frame, sir. One, I believe to be called the Pallas, in Woolwich, set to be launched before year’s end. The Themis is a handsome little ship, sir, despite all. Some say a bit undersized to carry a full deck of eighteen-pounders, but I’ve heard she sails well and is not at all overburdened.”
“She sounds like some Admiralty scheme to save half a crown. Surely a thirty-six-or thirty-eight-gun frigate will stand a better chance against the frigates the French are building.”
“I should take a thirty-two-gun frigate manned by Englishmen over a thirty-eight manned by French …” the newly passed lieutenant clearly remembered Hayden’s parentage at that moment and coloured terribly.
They came within view of the dockyards at that moment, and Hayden began to search among the moored vessels for his new ship.
Janes raised a hand and pointed. “There, Mr Hayden, before the seventy-four that is just crossing her yards.”
And there, indeed, she lay; one hundred, thirty-five feet on her deck, Hayden guessed. Bigger than a twenty-eight, but still a small fifth rate. Janes was right: she was a handsome little ship, even missing two of her limbs. For a ship only recently commissioned, however, she looked rather the worse for wear, and Hayden hoped it was the sign of hard service and a great deal more action than his friend Robert had hinted at.
“She looks as though she’s seen a bit of fighting,” Hayden observed.
Janes gave a stiff little nod and glanced over at the far shore so that his companion could not see his face.
Hayden was received aboard His Majesty’s Ship Themis without ceremony, met as he came over the rail by a single officer.
“Second Lieutenant Herald Landry, sir, at your service.” Lieutenant Landry was a man of small stature, perhaps five and twenty, of unremarkable appearance but for an abundance of freckles and a chin so small that one had to look twice to find it. He tipped a hat that, in contrast, appeared comically large. “You are the new first, I take it—Lieutenant Hayden?”
“Charles Hayden. Good to make your acquaintance, Mr Landry.”
“I shall introduce you to the other officers, Mr Hayden, then show you to your cabin.”
“I should like an audience with Captain Hart; as soon as is convenient to him, of course.”
“Captain’s ashore, sir. We don’t expect him to return much before we sail.”
“I see.” Hayden stopped a moment and surveyed the deck, which was in the most ungodly disarray he had ever witnessed aboard a ship that had not recently been raked by enemy fire. The deck itself was squalid, tobacco-stained, and fouled by gulls. There was but one mast standing: the foremast. Two others, obviously new, lay upon the deck like fallen giants. Men lounged here and there, eying him with suspicion. From the gun-deck he could hear a fiddle playing, and the laughter of what might be called the “fairer sex,” had he not met such women before.
“What orders did the captain leave you, Mr Landry?”
“To prepare the ship for sea.”
“Well, then we have a great deal to do. Assemble the officers, young gentlemen, and warrant officers on the quarterdeck, and ask the lieutenant of the marines to muster his men.”
“Aye, sir.” Landry swept off, not hiding a look of alarm.
A corpulent man made his way through the clutter and sailors on deck.
“Able Barthe, Mr Hayden, sailing master. Welcome aboard the Themis, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr Barthe.”
The master, hatless, his colour high, stood catching his breath, as though he’d been running. A man of indeterminate years, Mr Barthe had hair the red of new brick, though mixed with grey—ashes among the flames.
“I apologize for the state of the ship, sir,” the man went on, “with both captain and first lieutenant gone …” The sentence was never completed, and the man shrugged in embarrassment.
Men began appearing from out of the gangways, and emerging from the waist, where the merriment did not falter or even miss a note. Hayden followed the sailing master onto the quarter deck. In a moment, Lieutenant Landry reappeared, accompanied by another man in a lieutenant’s uniform. The young officer was clearly trying to shake himself awake.
“Third Lieutenant Benjamin Archer, Mr Hayden,” Landry said, presenting the man, who was somewhat less than presentable. “Mr Barthe you have met, I see. And … Where is Mr Hawthorne?”
“Forward, sir. Mrs Barber had need of his attentions.”
“Our goat,” Barthe explained, seeing the look on Hayden’s face. “Mr Hawthorne is quite an authority on animal husbandry. Mrs Barber has taken ill.”
“Ah, Mr Hawth
orne … our new first, Mr Hayden.”
Dressed in dirty sailor’s slops, Hawthorne looked anything but a senior officer of marines. Despite his dress, he made a graceful leg and swept off what was apparently a hat. “Your servant, sir. My company shall be ready for inspection at your plea sure, Mr Hayden.” He did not appear the least embarrassed by his dress—one would think, by his attitude, that the man wore his scarlet marines’ coat, the straps all pipe-clayed an immaculate white.
“The midshipmen,” Landry continued. “Lord Arthur Wickham, Mr Hayden.” A dimpled youngster tipped his hat, appearing for all the world like a cheerful schoolboy. “James Hobson, and Freddy Madison. There are three other middies, sir, all given leave to go ashore and visit their families.”
“Where are the bosun and the carpenter?” Hayden asked, making an effort to keep his voice even.
“Coming directly,” the master offered.
A brawny, broken-nosed man led another onto the quarterdeck, and was subsequently introduced as the bosun. The carpenter was an ancient seaman who appeared to have been constructed of wood himself—all angles and heavily sparred. His clothes hung limp, like sails in a calm. Landry named them Franks and Chettle, respectively.
“What is the hour, Mr Landry?” Hayden asked.
“About half-two, I should think.”
“Then the day is yet young. Send all women ashore. There will be no women aboard by day, and none aboard at night if I am not satisfied with the day’s efforts.”
The lieutenant hesitated. “That won’t be popular with the men, Mr Hayden,” he said quietly.
“It is not my custom to make decisions according to what is popular with the men. Did Captain Hart tell you when he is expected to return? When we are to go to sea? For what duty we are to prepare?”
There was an embarrassed silence. “Captain Hart doesn’t commonly take us into his confidence, Mr Hayden,” Landry confessed.
“He did tell you we’re at war with France, did he not, Mr Landry?” Hayden said, his temper getting the better of him.
The little second reddened. “Sir, we’re well aware of it.”
“Good. How long have the masts been waiting upon your deck?”
“A week, sir.”
“And what has become of the sheer-hulk?”
“The bosun of the sheer-hulk said he would get to us by and by.”
“Very kind of him. Have you not materials necessary for the work?”
The two lieutenants glanced at the bosun, who hesitated.
“Everyone seems to be looking to you, Mr Franks,” Hayden said, addressing the bosun.
The man appeared to grimace, revealing a dark gap in the row of yellowed teeth. “We have all blocks and cordage, Mr Hayden, but I’m not sure how the captain will want it done,” the bosun admitted.
“In his absence, and without specific orders, to the common practices of the Navy, Mr Franks.”
There was another awkward silence.
“What Mr Franks is trying to say, if I may be so bold,” offered Lord Arthur, “is that no matter how the work is managed, Captain Hart will find much to criticize, Mr Hayden.”
“Thank you for that, Wickham,” Hayden said, “but I assume Mr Franks can speak for himself.”
The bosun looked at the deck. “I’ve been … tarrying, Mr Hayden, for fear of the captain’s displeasure.”
“I would imagine that finding the masts on the deck when he returns will earn even greater displeasure. We shall begin with the mizzen. Have you spars we can use for sheers?”
“I do, sir.”
“Then gather your mates and begin preparation. Mr Landry, a crew will be needed to raise the sheers.”
Landry looked to the bosun, who grimaced as he spoke. “Most of the men are half seas over, Mr Hayden,” he said apologetically.
“Drunk, I assume you mean? After the women have been put into boats, take the men who are insensible and pile them in the waist. The firemen can douse them, assuming we can find anyone sober enough to man the pump. Any able seamen who can walk a single deck plank unaided, send aft to assist Mr Franks. Everyone else will set to and clean ship.” Hayden glanced around. “This deck is a disgrace, Mr Landry.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll have it scrubbed immediately.”
“No, I want to keep the quarterdeck dry so we can work. Have it swept clean, and everything properly stowed. I would like to get the sheer legs up by nightfall.” He turned to the third lieutenant. “Let us make a quick inspection of the mizzen step, Mr Archer.”
The third lieutenant and two of the mids led Hayden below, down into the darkness. The step for the mizzen proved solid, as one would expect on a ship so recently commissioned, but still something of a surprise to Hayden, given the neglect apparent every where. The Themis clearly had been honestly built to begin. Blessedly, the mast partners were also free of rot.
An ugly scene awaited them when they returned to the deck. Drunken seamen struggled with the marines as the visiting women were pried bodily from their clutches. An hour’s battle was engaged, by which time the women had been slung into the boats, and the foremast hands subdued, though not without many a hard beating. There was a moment when Hayden thought the entire thing would get out of hand, and had been on the verge of ordering the armourer to fetch pistols for the officers and warrant officers.
It took some time to subdue the mob, and then set them all to work, cleaning and stowing. The surgeon cleared his table, and the wounded were carried to him, many so drunk they did not feel their injuries and only wondered later that a seamstress appeared to have been at work upon their battered derma.
Hayden oversaw raising the sheers, and was soon aware that Mr Franks was a sad excuse for a bosun, and his hapless mates had learned their trade from him. It said much of Hart that he could not find good men to serve aboard his ship. What young Lord Arthur Wickham was doing there was a mystery, for he came from a good and influential family.
“You need a block for a girt line, Mr Franks,” Hayden said, as the bosun stood gazing dumbly at the recumbent mizzen mast, a horny finger scraping a scab on his ear. “Tail-tackles must be rigged fore and aft at the foot of the sheers, and the feet should stand on stout planks that span at least three beams, and four would be preferred. Shore the beams from below. Then a leading block must be positioned so we can take a line forward to the capstan.” He turned to find Landry, who stood looking on, unsure what to do. “We’ll need hands to man the capstan in about four hours, Mr Landry. Will we have enough sober by then?”
“I’m sure we will.”
“How goes the deck cleaning?”
“I’ll see for myself, Mr Hayden.” The lieutenant picked his way forward, careful to get in no one’s way.
Hayden took the measure of each man as he worked. An able seaman named Aldrich was the only man who took any initiative. He clearly had been at sea long enough to have learned his trade thoroughly, and had raised a mast before. Young Wickham was every where, watching, studying the way tasks were managed, holding the fall of a rope, fetching a block.
The crews of his respective ships had long been Hayden’s special province of study, partly out of fascination with mankind in general but also because the crew was the instrument through which an officer accomplished the tasks bestowed upon him by the Lords Commissioners. Hayden had seen both good crews and bad, and spent much time considering how any given collection of men could become either one or the other. He’d seen bad crews evolve into the most willing under the tutelage of good officers, and he had witnessed an apparently willing crew turn sour and froward by the introduction of a single foremast hand. He thought of a crew as being like gunpowder, a mixture of elements that, in the right proportion, produced the desired effect, but in the wrong proportions was of no use whatsoever. The greater the proportion of experienced seamen, especially those who had fought in several actions, the better, for these men would be looked up to by the younger and less experienced Jacks, and their manner and habits emulated. H
ayden could see few if any such men among the crew of the Themis, and this was a cause of some concern.
“Damn your worthless hide, Manning,” Hayden heard one of the hands mutter, “take up the strain on that line. Put your fat arse into it.”
To Hayden’s great surprise, some pushing ensued among the men, and Franks, the bosun, took up his rattan, which brought order, though the damning and muttering continued.
Stepping back, Hayden asked a servant for water, and stood observing the crew muddle through their work. It was not just the spirit of cooperation that was lacking; the men appeared to actively thwart one another, moving to impede another’s efforts, tossing a marlin spike beyond the reach of the man who required it, watching men struggle with some task that clearly required more hands, yet not jumping to and aiding where a willing crew would. Hayden also observed men labouring at some chore too great for them but never asking help—knowing none would be forthcoming, he suspected. Dark looks and glares, mouthed curses and warnings, jostling a man precariously balanced. He had never seen the like. He wondered if Philip Stephens had any idea what went on aboard this unlucky ship.
Aldrich appeared to have his acolytes—men who deferred to him, who seemed to surround him almost protectively—yet it appeared he did not desire to be placed in such a position. Gently, he turned aside all attempts to raise him up or to distinguish him in any way—a curious phenomenon to the new first lieutenant, who was quite aware that he himself had always craved responsibility and recognition.
He reminded himself that among this gathering of men, there was at least one murderer, and, witnessing the animosity that existed between the hands, it no longer surprised him.
The officers’ orders were heeded to the least degree possible—the smallest increase in disrespect and negligence would have seen the crewmen flogged, but they had found the greatest degree of insolence that the officers would tolerate and this was now their habitual manner.
Doffing his coat and hat, Hayden weighed into the fray, attempting to bring order to the confusion. Usually he enjoyed such a challenge, but among these men, and the palpable hostility, he felt like a stage actor pretending to be at ease, to relish the task at hand. In the past he had often found that his enthusiasm would spread to others, but these men did not seem to notice and treated him with suspicion if not hostility.
Under Enemy Colours Page 4