Under Enemy Colours

by Sean Thomas Russell

  “There was no boat,” Hawthorne broke in indignantly, “at least not at the appointed hour.”

  “He must have sent a boat,” Hertle objected softly. “There were officers aboard, young gentlemen.”

  “It might have been sent to a different place,” Wickham said, looking up from his food, something he had barely done this last hour.

  “A misunderstanding …” Hertle said. “You’re suggesting it was a misunderstanding?”

  Wickham looked wary. “Perhaps, sir.”

  Hertle turned to Hayden. “What did Hart say you, Charles?”

  “That we would be met one hour after midnight, at the north end of the beach below Crozon.”

  A crease formed between Captain Hertle’s eyebrows. “To me he said ‘south,’ not ‘north.’ In fact he made a point of saying this twice, which I thought odd at the time.”

  “We were put ashore at the beach’s most northern end,” Hayden said, “and were to return to that spot.” He had been wondering about this very thing for some hours. What had become of the cutter that was to have met them?

  Hawthorne glanced at him darkly, raising an eyebrow.

  Hertle shook his head, as though unwilling to consider the possibilities, and continued his story. “After parting with the Themis, I ordered my ship on, determined to send a cutter ashore this night. And what strange sight should meet us as we closed on the coast south of Brest? A little lugger sailing away from the coast into the final gasps of a gale, and with what appeared to be a privateer in hot pursuit.” Hertle smiled. “I have heard it said that French privateers will go after anything that floats, but this prize seemed a bit inconsequential even for them. As we have no liking of privateers, we thought we might look into this matter. And here you are—not captives of the French after all, and there are three of you, not two, as Captain Hart had stated.”

  “That is another story,” Hayden said, glancing at the midshipman, who concentrated all his energies on his victuals.

  “Well, by whatever strange paths you have come, you are now guests of mine and I shall carry you back to England with me.”

  The guests having eaten and drunk their fill, servants cleared away. Hawthorne stood, hunching beneath the low deckhead. “Come along, Mr Wickham. I’m sure Mr Hayden and Captain Hertle would like to speak in private.”

  The two excused themselves, though not without profuse thanks to Robert Hertle for their delivery, and for the recent, much needed, meal. Once the cabin was empty, the two friends regarded each other a moment.

  “It would seem that good Captain Hart made very little effort to recover his first lieutenant and lieutenant of marines,” Hertle observed. “Only enough to satisfy any enquiries that might be made by the Admiralty.”

  “Neither Hawthorne nor myself have enough interest at the Admiralty to warrant any enquiries at all.”

  Robert sat back in his chair and stretched his legs out before him. “But one could not say the same of young Lord Arthur Wickham, whose father is a man of influence.”

  “Hart didn’t know Wickham had come ashore with us. The boy stowed away in the cutter, and only revealed himself when it was too late for me to send him back. His mates in the midshipmen’s mess were to conceal his absence, if it became necessary.”

  “I should like to see Hart’s face when he discovers that he abandoned the son of the Earl of Westmoor ashore without so much as a backward glance, let alone a concerted effort to learn what had become of him.” Hertle chuckled. “And now that I’ve recovered you, his lack of action shall look doubly derelict. I almost feel sorry for the man. Mrs Hart might have some influence among the Lords of the Admiralty, but I should think that an aggrieved Earl of Westmoor will have more. What say you?”

  “On deck,” came a call from above. “Sail, due south. A frigate, by the looks.”

  Hertle raised an eyebrow. “I will wager that is Captain Hart, in something of a lather, having discovered that he’s marooned the son of an earl on a French beach.”

  The two men went on deck, and after a cursory examination with a glass, agreed that this was the Themis, making all possible sail in her effort to get north. Hertle ordered his ship hove-to and the two friends retired below again, and as quietly as he could, Hayden related all that had transpired since he had gone aboard the Themis. Hertle heard him out, his face growing darker and more grave by the moment.

  “You have been deucedly lucky, Charles,” Hertle said when Hayden had finished. “First Bourne and now myself. You cannot count on a friend coming to your rescue again.”

  “I know that only too well.” Hayden gazed out over the now sunlit ocean, gulls and gannets swinging and wheeling in their wake. “I wish Hart had gone off south and you could carry us home.”

  “As do I, but it is not within my power.” Hertle sat at the small table, gazing at his friend, lost in thought.

  “Will you carry a letter back home for me?” Hayden asked.

  “Let me find you ink and paper.”

  Pen and ink were produced and a few clean sheets of hot-pressed paper. Hayden applied himself with a will, and before the Themis had ranged up and, at a signal from Hertle, hove-to, the lieutenant had completed his letter to “Mr Banks” detailing all that had happened and written in such a way that the First Secretary could hardly help but understand their stranding had been almost certainly intentional. When Hayden turned the letter over to Robert Hertle, his friend had the goodness to ask no questions.

  Joining his shipmates on deck, Hayden watched as Hertle’s crew quickly and expertly lowered a boat. Hayden could not help but wish his own crew were so adept. The three climbed down and in a moment were aboard the Themis. Hayden turned and raised a hand to his friend Robert as he stepped onto the deck of his own ship again. Robert waved back, and then turned to his duties.

  The crew of the Themis were gathered about, but there were no huzzas or indeed any words of welcome at all. Only an unnatural and uncomfortable silence. The men all knew what had transpired, and if Hayden needed any proof, this was it.

  He led his small party down the gangway to the quarterdeck, where Hart stood, a little distant from his officers. Only Barthe and the surgeon had a smile for the men returned. The others would hardly meet Hayden’s eye.

  Hart did not feign plea sure at his lieutenant’s deliverance. “What do you mean, sir!” he began, addressing Hayden in the most belligerent tone, “taking Mr Wickham on a dangerous sortie without so much as asking my leave?”

  Wickham stepped forward. “If you please, Captain Hart, Mr Hayden did not know I was ashore. I stowed away on the boat without any being aware of it.”

  Hart was taken aback for a moment. “Mr Wickham, your loyalty is misplaced. You cannot intervene. Mr Hayden must accept responsibility for your presence—”

  “I do accept it,” Hayden interrupted.

  Hart was surprised, but a little gleam of triumph glittered in his eye. The corner of his mouth raised just perceptibly. “Then you admit you knew of his presence …”

  “I was not aware, but it was my responsibility all the same. If Lord Westmoor wishes to hold anyone accountable, then it will be me. Mr Barthe may write it in the log and I will sign it.”

  Hart looked, for a moment, confused, as though Hayden must be playing him some trick. The first lieutenant tried not to smile. Wickham, he was sure, would tell his father the true story of their adventure—and Hayden would receive no admonishment from that quarter.

  “You might also write in the log,” Hayden continued, “that we were at the arranged rendezvous point at the proper time, but no boat appeared.”

  “What? Damn your eyes, sir!” Hart blustered. “What do you mean by that? Damn your impudence! Are you accusing me of … of—”

  “I’m making no accusations, sir,” Hayden said evenly, “only stating a fact. The boat did not arrive as it should—though I know not why.”

  “It was sent to the south end of the beach below Crozon, as we arranged!” Hart thundered. “A
nd no one can deny it. Childers will tell you the same himself.”

  “It was to have fetched us from the beach’s northern end, sir. That was our arrangement.”

  “You are mistaken!” Hart said. “Very much mistaken. Is that not true, Landry? Did you not hear me tell Mr Hayden to meet the boat on the beach’s southern extreme?”

  “That is true,” Landry said, meeting no one’s eye. “I heard it most clearly, sir.”

  “You were not even present,” Hayden said with disdain.

  “No, sir, but by happenstance I arrived at the captain’s door as he spoke his instructions. Realizing he had you with him, I went away, intending to have my word with the captain when he had concluded with you.”

  Hawthorne snorted, almost pawing at a plank with his foot, head shaking in disbelief.

  “Have you something to say, Mr Hawthorne?” Hart demanded.

  “Yes, sir. Mr Landry was on deck seeing to some small damage done to one of the boats in the taking of the prize. He did not leave the deck until Mr Hayden emerged from speaking with you. I was present myself, as were others, and can attest to this.”

  Hart’s face turned crimson. Hayden thought he might strike the marine with his balled-up fist. “Are you calling Mr Landry a liar, sir? Clearly you misapprehend what occurred.”

  “I am not mistaken, sir. Mr Franks and one of his mates were with Mr Landry at the time. You might ask them.”

  “It is not necessary for me to ask them,” Hart bellowed. “I know what I said, sir! Mr Hayden misheard me, and almost brought his shipmates to ruin as a result. Now get about your duties. I shall have you question me no more!” Hart spun around and retreated below, muttering to himself.

  Landry started to back away.

  “Running off, Landry?” Hawthorne asked quietly. “Just when I think you can sink no lower, you surprise even me with your cravenness.”

  Having nothing to say for himself, and being too cowardly to challenge Hawthorne, the second lieutenant slunk off. Hayden and his companions slipped below to wash and change into uniform.

  Barthe came in almost immediately, shaking his head, his lips pressed into a tight line, manner stiff. “It is an outrage,” he hissed, “the way the man treats you, Mr Hayden. Strands you on the beach and then, when you have the audacity not to be captured and executed as spies, he assails your dignity and all but accuses you of insubordination.” Barthe threw himself down in a chair and raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  “Mr Barthe,” Hayden entreated the master, “I might remind you to be more circumspect.”

  “This is very good advice, I’m sure,” the master said, “and I should heed it, were I not offended beyond all—”

  Wickham burst in at that moment without even a knock on the door. His face was pale and though he opened his mouth to speak, no words came.

  “Lord Arthur,” Hayden said, concerned. “What has happened, sir?”

  Wickham worked his jaw soundlessly for a moment and then managed, “He flogged Aldrich while we were ashore, sir.”

  “Aldrich …! Whatever for?”

  “For having possessed Mr Paine’s pamphlets,” Barthe interjected, “and for preaching unrest among the crew.”

  Hayden sat down hard in a chair. “But what proof had he of that? I have the pamphlets in my trunk.”

  “Hart had no proof at all,” Barthe said, “but he questioned Aldrich and the man admitted to having possessed the pamphlets.”

  Hayden reeled back as though struck. “Has Aldrich no sense at all?”

  “He is an honest man, poor fool. Two dozen lashes he took for it. The best able seaman aboard. He’s in the care of Doctor, for his back was slashed to ribbons.”

  Hayden hurried down to the orlop and into the small space partitioned off for the use of Dr Griffiths. Half a dozen cots swung here, their occupants all but invisible behind weather clothes. The surgeon’s apothecary-chest stood against one bulkhead, its locking doors ajar, squeaking softly as the ship rolled. In the dim light, Hayden could see Griffiths bent over a cot, his mate holding aloft a smoke-stained lantern.

  “Doctor,” Hayden said softly, and Griffiths looked up, nodded perfunctorily, and went back to his ministrations. The mate made a knuckle with his free hand.

  Drawing near, Hayden found Aldrich, stretched out upon his stomach, eyes closed and face bathed in sweat. Even in the poor light, Hayden could see Aldrich’s cheeks were crimson, almost glowing. Very gently the surgeon tugged free the dressing, revealing a back that appeared to have been slashed with a razor. Hayden recoiled from the sight, then regained his self-possession.

  “May I help in any way, Doctor?” Hayden asked.

  “Is that you, sir?” Aldrich asked between teeth clamped tight.

  “It is, Aldrich, and terribly distressed I am to see you in such a state. It was not my doing in any way, Aldrich. I want you to know that.”

  “I never thought for a moment that it could be, sir. Never for a moment …” He grunted to cover a cry of pain.

  “Mr Hayden,” Griffiths said. “If you would be so kind …”

  Hayden nodded, retreating quickly from the sick-berth.

  For a few moments he lingered at the foot of the ladder, pacing back and forth, his rage barely under control. The doctor finally came to him, wiping his hands on a cloth.

  “What is his condition, Doctor?” Hayden whispered.

  “You saw, Mr Hayden,” Griffiths answered, his tone almost hostile. “Two dozen lashes. Cut near to the bone in places.” He removed his spectacles and leaned back against the ladder stringer, his anger dissolving visibly. “He is in much pain, though makes every effort to hide it.” Griffiths spoke so low Hayden could barely make out his words, and the lieutenant answered in kind.

  “And this was over pamphlets that Aldrich did not even have in his possession?”

  The surgeon looked up at him sharply. “You must not misunderstand this, Mr Hayden. Hart did not give a damn about Aldrich and his pamphlets. This was a message to the crew. Any who supported you will be at pains to hide it now, for Aldrich’s punishment will be fresh in their minds.” He drew a long breath. “And it is a message to you. Any man whom you befriend is in danger. That is the corner he has you in.”

  “How did Hart even know about these pamphlets?”

  Griffiths raised an open hand, his gaze moving just perceptibly toward the gunroom.

  Hayden should not have needed to ask. “Please, keep me informed of his condition, Dr Griffiths.”

  The surgeon nodded, and Hayden climbed up to the berth-deck, where the young gentlemen regarded him with troubled, silent faces. As he entered the gunroom, Hayden slammed the door behind him. He spotted Landry in his cabin, the door half-open. Barthe and Hawthorne sat either side of the table.

  “I should like a word with Mr Landry,” Hayden said, and the two men scrambled up from the table, retreating quickly toward the door. “Mr Barthe? Ask the middies to find themselves some duty upon the deck.”

  “I will, sir.”

  Landry looked as though he would bolt after the master, but Hayden blocked his way.

  “You know that Aldrich is the finest able seaman aboard this ship, and yet you had him flogged …”

  Landry looked left and right, then stepped back against the wooden bulkhead. “The captain had him flogged. Not me.”

  “Only because you’ve been reporting gunroom conversations to him, Landry.”

  The little lieutenant drew himself up. “Sir, I am a gentleman—”

  Hayden snorted. “You are an embarrassment to the service, running to the captain with every little thing that’s said, currying his favour at any cost. Have you never thought what becoming Hart’s protégé will mean to your career?” The letters to Mr Banks came unaccountably to mind—a dash of cooling rain on Hayden’s rage.

  Landry’s indignation dissolved visibly and he sank into one of the chairs. “I do not have a career, nor do you, Hayden. We both gave that up the day we stepped abo
ard the Themis.” His gaze flicked toward the deck beams, the captain’s cabin overhead. For a moment Hayden thought the man would weep. “He … he is the ruin of us, with his shyness and his petty tyranny. But what am I to do? No other captain will have me now. And yet the sea is all I know. I am not fit for any other life. Hart has taken everything from me, and I can do nothing now but acquiesce to his every bidding, submit to each indignity, for without him I am lost.” He glanced up at Hayden almost imploringly. “I am like a man fallen into the sea, clinging to some bit of wreckage, knowing that in but a short time even that will fail and I shall go under. And that is you, as well, Hayden, though you do not know it yet. Hart will break you. I see a crack in your pride already, where Hart applied his lash to Aldrich. The captain knows your weakness now. The crew will be held hostage, and if you dare defy him he will flog another innocent man, and yet another after that, until you come to heel. And then one morning you will gaze into your looking-glass, Mr Hayden, and find me staring back.”

  The first lieutenant was at a loss for words. Was there a man buried deep inside Landry, after all?

  He leaned closer to Landry. “Does Hart not know how close this crew is to mutiny?”

  Landry shook his head. “He believes the lash protects him.”

  Hayden slumped down in a chair. “Aldrich was the voice of moderation before the mast. Flog another like him and Hart will find the deck beneath his feet is paper-thin.”