Griffiths appeared not to hear, but felt at the man’s throat for a pulse. A long moment as the others held their breath.
“He is not done for, at least. Bring the light closer.”
The lanterns were lowered to cast their faint glow upon the sailor’s bloodied face. The flesh appeared bloated to bursting, inky-dark and crimson. Eyes were swollen shut, jaw oddly displaced.
“Who did you say he was?” Hayden asked.
“Dick Tawney, sir. Foretop-man.”
“Who would have done this to him?”
No one had anything to say in response. The doctor gently probed the skull, and then, with Hayden’s help, turned him on his side.
“It is a wonder he has not drowned in his own blood,” the doctor observed, a barely controlled anger creeping into his voice. “Jump aft, David son, and fetch a cot from the sick-berth, if you please.”
Tawney moaned, stirring a little. Griffiths took hold of the man’s shoulder and hip, bracing against a shift in the man’s weight, keeping him on his side. Blood dripped from his shattered nose and mouth. A moment later David son and the surgeon’s mate, Ariss, appeared bearing a cot. Under the doctor’s direction they shifted the deadweight of the sailor onto the sail cloth-covered frame. Tawney muttered something unintelligible, then his head lolled to one side.
Bent low beneath the beams, they raised the cot, sliding it over the coils of anchor cable, waiting while Hayden and one of the seamen scrambled over, then bearing up the weight again. Tawney’s feet began a convulsive jig.
“Is it the death rattle, Doctor?” the marine asked, clearly unnerved by what he saw.
“No. It is like to a fit—from blows to his head. With luck it will not persist.”
In the sick-berth, the cot was slung from rings set into the beams. Gently it swayed forth and back and forth. One of the patients woke to see what went on, the fevered whites of his eyes peering out from beneath a thick dressing that swaddled his skull.
“It’s all right, Hale, go back to sleep.”
“Wot ’appened to ’im?”
“Exactly,” the doctor muttered. “Let us clean his wounds, Mr Ariss. Then cut open his shirt; there is blood, here, on his rib-cage.”
Hayden stepped out of the way, watching as the surgeon and his mate went about their work with a practised, dispassionate air, fingers moving mysteriously in the smudged light. Twice Hayden was called to help restrain poor Tawney as he was taken by another convulsive fit, but then the man would fall limp again, unmoving. The doctor checked his carotid pulse each time, as the man had gone so still.
Finally satisfied that he had done everything possible, Griffiths motioned to Hayden and the two stepped outside the sick-berth. Leaning, one against the bulkhead of thin deal-board, the other against the ladder, they pitched their voices low so as not to be overheard.
“Tawney looks to be a broad-chested, well-made fellow,” Hayden said. “I should say that he was not so badly beaten by one man—unless there is a veritable giant aboard, with a cruel disposition.”
“You are right, Mr Hayden. I should guess that such a beating would take four men or more. Tawney is nine and twenty, or perhaps eight, strong as the proverbial ox. I should have said he was well thought of among the crew.”
“Did someone say he is a foretop-man?”
“I believe that is so.”
“His mates won’t be liking this, I should think.” Hayden shook his head. The top-men were commonly the strongest, most experienced seamen—the cocks of the walk among the foremast hands. “I will have you inspect the crew after breakfast. A beating like that will leave some bruised hands, maybe a broken knuckle or two.”
“If they employed their fists. By the damage I would say he was cudgelled.”
Hayden shifted his weight against the stair. “One man murdered, another beaten half to death … As I worked today, raising the sheers, I sensed among the men such ill will. I have never witnessed so unobliging a spirit, so many little things done to impede another’s efforts. It is imperative that a ship’s crew pull together, for their own safety if for no other reason … Has this fractious mood arisen since Captain Hart departed? Certainly it cannot have been so when you were at sea?”
The doctor removed his spectacles and massaged each eye in turn with the heel of a hand. “It has, perhaps, become more pronounced since the captain quit the ship and the first lieutenant the service, but it is by no means new to the Themis.”
Hayden waited for the doctor to say more and, when he did not, said: “I have never seen the like, Doctor. How an officer would take a ship from anchor and get under way with such a crew is a mystery to me. How do the officers tolerate it?”
The doctor shrugged. For a moment he remained silent, but then leaned closer to Hayden. “You were asking earlier about Penrith. I cannot tell you who was responsible for the man’s death, but on the night he went missing I overheard one of the hands say to some others, ‘They’ve done for Penrith,’ or words to that effect. Before the finger was found the next morning members of the crew already seemed to know it was a murder, though it was initially thought by the officers to have been misadventure.”
“Who said this, Doctor?”
“I know not. It was dark, most of the crew were too ill to stand, and we were caught in the most dreadful gale. I confess, my thoughts were elsewhere. I was frightened and not thinking clearly.”
Ariss, his mate, rounded into view at the moment. “If you please, Doctor; Tawney has taken to convulsing again.”
With a perfunctory nod, Griffiths disappeared back into his lair. For a moment Hayden stood dumbly, then climbed the stair and slipped silently into the gloom of the gunroom, where he found Barthe in the light of a single candle, alone at table, staring fixedly at a glass of wine set out before him.
Hayden was not sure what to say, or even if he should acknowledge what he saw. But the sailing master tore his gaze away from the glass and regarded Hayden, apparently unembarrassed.
“No doubt you are wondering what I am about …?” Barthe whispered hoarsely.
In truth, Hayden was not—the master was apparently drinking.
“I am testing my will.” He nodded to the full glass, the wine lead-dark in the dim light. “I must do this from time to time—face the temptation. Today I could hardly focus my thoughts for want of drink, and now I must make my penance. I know it must seem passing strange, but I have been sober these seven years and have my own way of remaining so. If I can manage this tonight, tomorrow I shall feel no want of it.”
“Do pardon my intrusion, Mr Barthe,” Hayden offered, and went immediately to his cabin, pulling the door to behind. Even as he did so, the image of Barthe appeared in the small opening, softly aglow in his nightshirt, eyes fixed upon the glass, hands laid gently on the table to either side, and on his face, a tormented resolve.
Six
A sullen and sickly crew appeared the next morning, and Hayden put them to work. A frigate named for the goddess of order should make a better showing, he thought. His subsequent inspection of the ship, however, was enough to dishearten the most stolid officer. The bosun’s stores were in disarray. There was but one useable cable in the cable tier—the others having been allowed to rot. The quarterdeck leaked and required repitching, and there was every where a general want of cleanliness and order.
The captain of the hold seemed to know his business, and smartly reported the state of their stores, though the reclusive purser did not know it himself. Hayden’s most disastrous find, however, was in the forward magazine. By the dim illumination, which came through a pane of glass in the light room, he examined the powder—but it was the smell of it that truly angered him.
“Who is the gunner, Mr Landry?” Hayden asked. He’d met the man but the name now escaped him.
“Mr Fitch is acting gunner, Mr Hayden.” Landry, who the day previous had been most obliging, was now sullen and resentful of Hayden’s presence, as though the first lieutenant interfered in th
e running of the frigate. Having been found with his ship in such disarray was perhaps at the root of it, but Hayden did not care for the man’s manner.
“Would you call for him, Mr Landry?”
Landry hesitated by the door a moment, as though he might refuse, but when Hayden turned and faced him, he touched his hat. Before he could comply, however, Lord Arthur, who had become Hayden’s shadow, interceded.
“I’ll fetch him directly, Mr Hayden,” the boy offered, and was off at a run.
Landry walked out onto the orlop, bent low, as though he would examine the cables.
Hayden watched him, with more detachment than he would have expected of himself. He had known his kind before. Landry was a sad little fellow, he had decided, awkward and ungracious in both manner and address—the boy whom every one picked on at school.
A moment later the acting gunner, the bald and tattooed Mr Fitch, shuffled into the magazine, followed by the second lieutenant. He glanced nervously at Landry as he made his way down the three steps.
“Is it not your duty, Mr Fitch, to keep this storeroom aired and dry at all times?” Hayden asked.
The man did not answer but nodded dumbly.
“Then how do you explain this?” Hayden reached into the powder barrel and removed a handful of tacky powder, which he let fall in doughy dollops back into the barrel. The acting gunner winced.
“What became of the gunner whom you replaced?”
“He died, Mr Hayden,” Landry offered. “The surgeon said his heart gave out. We slipped him over the side some weeks ago.”
“You are relieved of your duties as gunner, Mr Fitch,” Hayden stated. “I will leave it for the captain to decide your fate when he returns.”
“It was Captain Hart who appointed Fitch, Mr Hayden,” Landry said, eyeing him with poorly concealed hostility.
“So I assumed, Mr Landry, but I will put another man in his place until the captain returns. We cannot have our powder thus neglected. Can we?” He gestured to the door. “You may go, Mr Fitch. Mr Landry will find you other duties. Count yourself lucky that I am not captain, here, for I would have you flogged this very day for negligence such as this.” The man made an awkward knuckle and then backed up the stairs, retreating into the dimness, the quick padding of bare feet marking his flight.
Hayden turned to Landry. “Although there is little point, let us test this powder before I write to the Ordnance Board for more. Have a few cartridges made up for the carronades, if you please, Mr Landry.” Hayden went out and left the lieutenant to suffer his resentments alone. Wickham followed quickly behind.
A few moments later they were on the quarterdeck, the tompion removed from a thirty-two-pounder carronade. The first cartridge did not fire at all and had to be drawn out with a worm—a long, corkscrew-like rod—a task no one relished for obvious reasons. The second made a dull thump, though much debris was left in the barrel. They managed to fire a ball after two more misfires, but as Mr Barthe observed, he could “throw it further himself.”
Lieutenant Hayden would now have the unenviable task of requesting powder to replace that which had been spoiled. The quantities of powder in the magazines, however, did beg another question.
“How often do you exercise the great guns, Mr Landry?” he asked after the final cartridge was drawn out, split, and its contents spilled over the side.
“Never, Mr Hayden. At least not since I’ve been aboard. Gun drills are done without powder or shot.”
Hayden felt his eyes close, and it took some effort to keep his face impassive. He turned quickly away. “Ready to raise the mast, Mr Franks?”
Men placed at the capstan put their chests against the bars and pushed, drawing taut a line running through the leading block to the sheer pendant. It creaked like an old door as it stretched, and the mizzen lifted a few inches.
“Stand clear!” Hayden ordered.
When the mast was raised a little more, it slewed suddenly to one side, swinging heavily back and forth.
The men at the capstan bars continued to turn until the mizzen attained an angle perhaps fifteen degrees shy of vertical. The back line, reeved through a block made fast to one of the sheer heads, was then hauled. It had been attached to the mast under the bibbs, and this brought the spar almost to vertical. Hayden and some of the larger men put their shoulders against it, and with the help of a tackle, wrestled the heel of the mast over the aperture where it would step through the deck. Slowly the great spar was lowered. It did not want to pass cleanly through the lower deck, but was finally coaxed and cajoled upright enough that it passed, the heel tenon seating neatly in the step beneath.
“ ’Tis home, Mr Hayden!” came a call from below.
“Well done!” Hayden said to the men around him, then the same to the men at the bars. “We shall make up the shrouds, Mr Franks,” Hayden ordered. “Perhaps Aldrich can assist you.” He was sure that Aldrich would soon have the job in hand, if Franks did not get too much in the way, but Franks surprised him. Despite the man’s obvious lack of proficiency in his trade, he exhibited a great capacity to learn, and was not embarrassed to do so, though many in his position would have attempted to bluster their way through, hoping to hide their defects. It raised Mr Franks considerably in Hayden’s opinion. A man willing to learn was never a cause lost.
He assigned Stuckey another day of demeaning work, and set the bosun’s mate to chase him about. Such an act could backfire, Hayden well knew, if the crew sympathised with the offender, but it seemed that Stuckey had little sympathy from the others, though no one had the nerve to mock him either, a fact Hayden took note of.
The shrouds were made up and the tops got over the mast. Attending to some job of work, Hayden lifted his head to glimpse something large plunging from above. A tumbling man grasped at the shrouds, his fall checked, lost his grip, fell, then caught hold of the still-slack shrouds once more, burning his hands as he slid too quickly the last thirty feet to the deck, landing with an awkward thump. Somehow on his feet, the boy—for it was a boy, despite his massive size—leaned against the rail a moment, shaken. Wickham approached him.
“Are you injured, Giles?” the young nobleman asked.
The boy shook his head, unable to quite catch his breath. “No, sir,” he whispered. “Begging your pardon. I’ll be all right in a moment, sir.”
Hayden crossed the deck and realized the lad, who still trembled, was a good half a foot taller than he, and much broader across the shoulders and chest. “Giles? Is that your name?” Hayden asked.
“Aye, sir,” the lad answered. His face had turned pale as a fish belly.
“Sit down on the deck and put your head between your knees. Someone bring the boy some water.”
Giles slid down the bulwark and hung his head, great forearms thrown over his neck, elbows on the knees, none of this structure too steady. “Sorry, sir,” the boy whispered, his voice barely audible.
“Don’t apologize,” Hayden bid him. “You’ve had quite a fright.”
“If I hadn’t grabbed the shrouds …”
Hayden crouched down, trying to get a glimpse of the boy’s face. The lad lolled to one side and would have slid limply to the deck, but Hayden and Wickham caught him and supported his ample weight. The doctor appeared then, fetched from his charges by Mr Archer.
Griffiths bent over the boy and felt for the carotid pulse. “What happened?” he asked.
“He fell from the mizzen top,” Hayden reported, “but managed to catch hold of a shroud or he would have come to much harm.”
“He didn’t fall to the deck, then?” the doctor asked.
“No. He slid down the shroud,” Wickham said, “but then turned ashen and light-headed.”
“Got the vapours,” one of the crew whispered and the men laughed.
“Well, he’ll come round in a moment, I’ll venture,” Griffiths said, and the boy did move at that instant, one eye slitting open. “There you are, Giles. All of a piece, I see. Nothing broken, no severed ar
teries, not even a modest contusion. I think you’ll live. No, don’t try to sit up. Lay still a moment and let the blood find its natural level.” Griffiths looked up at Hayden and nodded. “He’ll be perfectly hale in a moment. Saved the deck a nasty bashing, I should think.”
Hayden retreated with Wickham in his wake, and a servant called them for the midday meal.
“That was a bit of luck that he saved himself that way,” Hayden said, as they reached the top of the companionway. “You know him, do you?”
Wickham nodded. “I do, sir. We are the same age but for three days.”
Hayden must have shown his surprise.
“He has great size for his years, doesn’t he?” Wickham stated.
“For any tally of years, I would venture.”
Wickham looked around rather furtively and then leaned closer to Hayden, pitching his voice low. “Did you hear the men whispering, sir? saying that Giles didn’t fall?”
“What did they mean, he didn’t fall? We saw him come tumbl—” But then he realized what was meant. “They believed it was not an accident?”
“That’s what I assume, sir.”
Hayden pressed a palm against his forehead, appalled. “Did anyone see what happened? Did they see someone push the boy?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Send young Giles down to me.”
A moment later Giles descended the companionway stair and Hayden met him outside the gunroom. Not being captain, he did not have a cabin suitable for private interviews, so he led the boy down to the orlop and ranged forward of the sick-berth—the nearest thing to privacy they would find at that time of day. Giles’ big, simple face could not hide the apprehension he felt, and Hayden wondered how much of that was just being young and called by a superior officer.
“Feeling better, Giles? No harm done?”
“I’m perfectly hale, Mr Hayden.”
Hayden fixed his gaze on the boy-man, trying to read his doughy, rather inexpressive face. “Tell me honestly, Giles, did you fall from the mizzen top, or were you pushed?”
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