Hayden had detailed a large sailor to make up the lashing that bound the head of the sheers, but soon realized neither the man’s skills nor his inclination were equal to the task.
“What is your name?” Hayden asked him.
The man raised a large, pock-marked face, all nose and brow. “Stuckey, sir. Bill Stuckey.”
Hayden guessed Stuckey was fourteen and a half stone, or thereabout, and taller than he by a good three inches. Ill-fitting slops, sweat-soaked, clung to his torso, and out the end of his sleeves thrust big, turnip fists.
“I will make up the lashing with you, Stuckey, for it is, I think, a task new to you.”
The man rose and stepped back. Around them the work stopped. “I’m a landsman,” the big man drawled, “taken from my chosen profession and forced aboard this bloody ship.” Stuckey eyed him insolently. “The sea is not my calling nor will I have it be … sir.”
Hayden faced the man full-on, despite the disparity in size, aware that every one watched. “I am pleased to hear it, Stuckey, for I am always on the lookout for a man to perform the myriad labours that are beneath the skills of seamen. You will begin by cleaning the heads.”
Hayden turned back to the gathering of men, all of whom had stopped their work to stare silently. “Where is the bosun?” Hayden called out.
The broken-nosed bosun stood up from among the men crouched over their work.
“Mr Franks,” Hayden said evenly, “have one of your mates follow Mr Stuckey with a knotted rope. If he is not about his work with a will, he should be started, sharply.”
“For how long, sir?” the bosun asked, looking perplexed.
“As long as it takes, Mr Franks.” Hayden turned back to the big landsman. “When you are ready to learn your new trade, Stuckey, come and speak to me. Now be about your duties.” Hayden turned away as one of the bosun’s mates approached, knotting a rope.
Hayden would assign the man the most back-breaking work on the ship as well as the most demeaning. Two days would either see him come to Hayden asking to learn his trade or he would become completely insubordinate and require flogging. But Hayden had run up his flag for the men to see. Now to convince them that he was both fair and reasonable, for it was not enough to be severe, not if one was to earn the crew’s respect—and no officer could expect to govern for long without it.
The men applied themselves to their tasks with renewed energy after that, and by nightfall, the sheers were raised and guyed in place, like a great, inverted V standing on the quarterdeck. Block and tackle and brute strength saw the mast positioned, ready to be raised. Hayden was confident they would get it in before the next day was very old.
He dined that night with the gunroom mess and invited guests. Mr Franks was so fagged by his afternoon’s effort that he perpetually nodded at the table, much to every one’s amusement.
“There was one among them that could take on any man aboard,” laughed Hawthorne, the marine lieutenant. “Laid out Smithers with a single blow. I think we should have kept her. Could lead a boarding party, that one. The French would not stand against she!”
The assembled men laughed.
“Will you not take a little wine, Mr Barthe?” Hayden asked, noting that the sailing master’s glass had not been filled.
The laughter dried up like paint in the sun, though a few half-suppressed smiles—smirks, in truth—remained.
“I hope you will forgive me if I do not, Mr Hayden,” Mr Barthe replied evenly. “You see, I have taken a vow of temperance from which, for all my honour, I dare not deviate … though it causes much amusement to certain of my messmates.” Smiles were further suppressed around the table. Barthe went on. “You need not be concerned, Mr Hayden; I will not be pressing temperance pamphlets upon you or recommending the works of Hannah More. It is entirely a personal matter. A defect in my character will not allow me to partake of strong drink, even wine or ale, without the most disastrous consequences. I hope you will forgive me, therefore, if I toast with plain water. No disrespect is meant.”
“By all means, Mr Barthe, forgive me for even bringing up the subject.”
“No need. I tell my fellows in the gunroom to make not the slightest allowance for my vow. Partake as usually you would and never for a moment worry about the effects of this upon me. To be always coddled and have our people drinking away from me would deprive me of much good company and in the end I would be only the weaker for it, for one must learn to resist temptation. One must drill just as men do at the guns. The longer I resist, the stronger I become.”
The small clatter of cutlery on china, glasses raised and returning to the table.
“Did you see much action on your recent cruise?” Hayden asked, breaking the awkward silence.
It seemed for a moment that no one would answer—or that each waited for some other to speak.
“No, sir, Mr Hayden,” Landry said quietly. “We had no luck at all.”
“It goes that way sometimes,” Hayden said. “You lost a man, all the same, I understand?”
Again, an uncomfortable moment.
“Penrith,” Hawthorne said. “Rated able. A good seaman.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. They found the man that did for him, though?”
The men glanced one to the other.
“It’s a subject of some debate, Mr Hayden,” Lord Arthur answered.
“And what do you think, Wickham?”
The youthful nobleman’s dimples disappeared as he weighed the evidence, as solemn as a magistrate. “I think the man hanged was innocent, Mr Hayden.”
The other men shifted uncomfortably.
“And what say you, Mr Landry?”
“The captain believed McBride was guilty,” Landry answered, “and I’d never gainsay Captain Hart.”
“No,” Hawthorne said, “I am sure you wouldn’t.”
The look Landry gave the marine was not friendly.
“If it was not this man McBride,” Hayden said, bringing his gaze to bear on Hawthorne, “then, pray, who did for Penrith?”
“I have no proof, Mr Hayden, only my own suspicions, and it would not be fair to speak those in the event the man is innocent.”
“Do be careful, Mr Hawthorne,” the sailing master warned. “The captain would not take kindly to such criticism.”
“Certainly no one here would report gunroom conversation to the captain …” Hayden said, but the silence this brought told him that, indeed, someone would.
After servants cleared the table, Hayden found himself briefly alone while the other officers all saw to one duty or another. He hoped that the dinner had done something to acquaint the officers with his methods and outlook. There was, invariably, a brief period of uneasiness when a new first officer came aboard, and especially so in this case, with the captain away. Both crew and officers would be anxious to comprehend the standards and expectations of the new lieutenant. Many men, he well knew, would rather maintain the most disastrous situation than have change, whereas some smaller number would welcome it. His job was doubly difficult because the standards of Captain Hart were unknown to him and it was the captain of a ship who set the height of the bar that men must jump, not the first lieutenant.
Griffiths emerged from his cabin and nodded to the new lieutenant. Thin-boned and narrow-faced, the doctor stood a hand taller than Hayden, but two or three stone lighter. Prematurely grey, for he could not have been much over thirty, he appeared almost always serious, his scholarly demeanour seldom altering, even when he made a jest, which he did not infrequently.
“I feel rather foolish,” Hayden confessed, “pressing wine upon Mr Barthe when he is a temperance man.”
“No need for concern. It was the duty of his messmates to advise you, but we were remiss. Mr Barthe is not thrown out by such small things. He has been sober now these seven years, and shows no signs of returning to his former life of dissipation. You will find him a thorough, responsible officer, I believe.”
“I am certain of it.”
Griffiths regarded him a moment. “Our sailing master’s name is unknown to you?”
“Indeed, I had never heard it before stepping aboard.”
The surgeon took a seat across the table, leaning forward on arrow-head elbows that he might speak quietly. “Mr Barthe’s story is not a happy one, I fear. You see, he was once a young lieutenant of some promise in the King’s Navy, but was court-martialled. His ship was wrecked and though there was some evidence of incompetence by the captain, because some few aboard claimed Mr Barthe drunk at the time, he was convicted for dereliction of duty. He claims it is untrue. Unfortunately, at least for his family, that was not the greatest mischief that resulted from Barthe’s drinking. He had a tendency to gamble, though without a matching tendency to win. He was, at the time of his court-martial, much in debt. But not all his friends deserted him; Mrs Barthe, who must be a tower of saintly strength, did not abandon him to his dissipation but appealed to him again and again to change his ways, giving him opportunity after opportunity to redeem himself. And, surprisingly, given the history of many similar marriages, he did. A captain whom he had once served obtained him a master’s warrant and he sailed for several years with this officer until the poor man died of yellow fever. Barthe’s luck looked as though it had turned against him again, when Hart took him on, perhaps being unable to find another to fill the position.
“Mrs Barthe has a brother who has made a great success of himself in some branch of trade, and he eliminated all of Mr Barthe’s debts, allowing the sum to be paid back slowly and at no interest, which our good sailing master has been diligently doing these many years, to the great impoverishment of his family, I fear. Did you know that Barthe has six daughters? They all, very happily, have taken after their mother where it comes to their looks, and are beauties from the eldest to the youngest. Mr Barthe is at great pains to keep our good lieutenant of marines away from them.” Griffiths laughed.
“Has Hawthorne a bad reputation, then?”
“It depends upon whom you ask. Among the crew he is much admired. Mr Hawthorne has the same weakness for women that Mr Barthe had for drink; he is constitutionally unable to resist. And, happily for him, the female of our species cannot more easily resist the dashing Hawthorne. Much trouble has come of it. Hawthorne has fought two duels, with great misfortune on the other side.”
“Every ship must have at least one rake. It is good to know we have our quota …”
“Hawthorne is as far from villainy in his heart as a man can be, I am convinced, but he is no more in control of his actions regarding women than an opium-eater is where it comes to his pipe. I have seen him in great distress over his conduct and the heart-break it has caused, but it does not long check his actions. He was blessed with too pleasing a countenance, I fear, and in both manner and address he lacks nothing. He is the most agreeable man aboard, and a great favourite in the gunroom, but if there is a woman to whom you are particularly attached do not introduce her to Hawthorne. You have been given fair warning.”
“I shall heed your words, Doctor; the fairer sex show no signs of being unable to resist my charms. In truth, they manage it with very little effort, I fear.”
“In this you have many a brother, Mr Hayden.” The doctor’s mouth turned down slightly at the corners—as though he had tasted something bitter. “You will find this crew an odd collection of misfits and fumblers, I fear.”
Hayden was not quite sure what to say to that, but knew full well it reflected badly upon the captain.
“The middies seem first-rate,” Hayden observed.
“Indeed they are. Outside of the service Captain Hart has a different character, I am told, and through Mrs Hart, many an influential friend.”
“Which explains the presence of Lord Arthur Wickham …”
The doctor nodded. “But not all of the ship’s people have landed here because of incompetence. Some of us merely have no interest.”
Hayden glanced quickly at Griffiths, wondering if the doctor referred to him, but then decided the comment was not meant so. “I am sure there is many a good man aboard ship, Doctor. I shall not tar the entire crew with one brush.”
Griffiths made a small bow of acknowledgement, or perhaps of thanks. “I must see to my charges, if I may, Mr Hayden.”
“By all means, Doctor, do not let me detain you.”
Mr Landry had assigned him a servant, a boy of twelve who went by the name of Joshua. He’d served the previous lieutenant in the same capacity and seemed to know his duties tolerably well. A “writer” was also assigned to him: a young Irish boy with the unlikely name of Perseverance Gilhooly. He was known as Perse, and seemed too alert for his station in life.
As Hayden was arranging his cabin, a space about eight feet square, there came a knock at the open door.
“Ah, Mr Hawthorne,” he said. “Is there some service you require?”
The marine lieutenant slouched under the low deckhead, at his hip a heavy book resting upon the crook of one hand.
“I just wanted to report that I have stationed reliable men by the boats. No one will get ashore this night except they swim.”
There were no women aboard that night, and no doubt this was causing some men to reflect upon the relative proximity of the shore. From what the doctor had said, he might be led to suspect the marine of being one of them. “Thank you, Mr Hawthorne.”
But the man continued to hover outside the door.
“What is it you read, Mr Hawthorne, if you will permit me to ask?”
“A Course of Experimental Agriculture, Mr Hayden, written by Mr Arthur Young.”
“That would seem an interest greatly removed from the sea.”
“It is my hope to have a farm one day, Mr Hayden, though it causes my fellows in the gunroom no end of amusement.” He hesitated a second, colouring a little. “I published, a year ago, in the Annals of Agriculture, a brief treatise entitled ‘Observations on the Practice of Keeping Productive Laying Hens at Sea.’”
Hayden could not help but smile at this surprising bit of information, delivered with rather poorly concealed pride.
Barthe entered the gunroom just then, appearing behind the marine, moving a chair as he made his way past the table. “Is he telling you about the great estate he will one day own, Mr Hayden? How he will apply principles of scientific farming to make a great success of it all.”
Hawthorne did not appear the least offended but pretended to be put upon, rolling his eyes. “It is a terrible burden, Mr Hayden, the petty jealousy of the uninformed.”
“It is the price of being ahead of one’s time. My mother’s family have extensive lands in grapes, so I have witnessed scientific agriculture up close, for good and ill.”
Hawthorne gazed at Hayden closely, no doubt trying to see if it were true that he had differently coloured eyes. “Not in England, surely?”
Hayden knew the truth would come out eventually; the service was a paradise for gossips. “France, Mr Hawthorne.”
“France …” the marine echoed, clearly caught aback.
“A large nation beyond the English Channel, Mr Hawthorne,” Barthe observed as he stepped into his cabin. “Most recently they’ve had a revolution. Have you not heard?” The master’s cabin door ticked closed, obscuring a wicked smile.
Hawthorne laughed to hide his embarrassment. “You’re half-French, then, Mr Hayden?”
“That’s right, but I am an Englishman at heart. My father was a post captain in the King’s Navy.”
“It was not my intention to question your loyalties, Mr Hayden. If it seemed so I do apologize.”
“No need, Mr Hawthorne; it is me that feels an explanation is required.”
Hawthorne made a small bow of acknowledgement and continued to stand outside Hayden’s door, clearly uncertain of what to say. Or perhaps he had intended to tell Hayden something more than the title of his single piece of published wisdom.
“Is there something else, Mr Hawthorne?”
&nb
sp; The marine opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, then smiled. “Nothing, sir.”
The marine lieutenant slipped away to his own cabin, leaving Hayden bemused, wondering. Perhaps Hawthorne would say whatever it was he had meant to when he knew Hayden better—or so the new lieutenant could hope.
He rolled into his cot some time later, but lay awake, listening to the burble and cant of water, to a small breeze whispering among the shrouds.
Five
Hayden woke to a distant whisper.
“Doctor? Doctor Griffiths?” The urgency of the voice reached deep into his sleep and drew him to the surface, where he sat, twisting knuckles into eye-sockets and shaking his head.
From the other side of the gunroom he heard Griffiths, apparently none too happy with being wakened. “What is the matter?”
“It is Tawney, sir. A sentry found him in the cable-tier, bloody and not able to be roused. He appears to have been beaten, sir.”
Hayden rolled out of his cot and began pulling on clothes.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph …” the doctor muttered, and Hayden heard feet strike the deck.
The first lieutenant emerged from his cabin at the same moment as Griffiths, and both set off at once for the orlop-deck, the marine who had called them scurrying before, lantern in one hand, musket in the other. They pummelled down the steps and made their way quickly forward.
They saw two shadowy figures, one bent beneath the low deckhead, a lantern clutched in his fist, the other crouched in the waist-deep darkness created by the thick rounds of anchor cable. Hayden scrambled over the hawser after the doctor, who pulled spectacles from his pocket.
A man lay crumpled on the dark planks, limp as a sleeping child, mouth slack and swollen.
“We’ve not moved him, Doctor,” one of the men said. “Left him as he was, just as you always say.”
Under Enemy Colours Page 5