Under Enemy Colours

by Sean Thomas Russell

  “Mr Hayden …” Henrietta regarded him with a tilt of her lovely head. “I dare say, this dressing about your head is not some nautical fashion?”

  “A rather ungrateful Frenchman struck me quite a blow, Miss Henrietta. I fear it has made me something of a dullard … though only temporarily, I hope.”

  “I am sorry to see you injured, Lieutenant Hayden,” she said, a strange look that might have been anxiety spreading over her face—though quickly mastered. “Our little circle would be much diminished by the loss of your thoughtful observations,” she added.

  “It is the kindest thing anyone has said to me in a month.”

  “The Navy apparently does not properly value your talents, Mr Hayden.”

  Hayden feared he did not hide his reaction to this statement well. “So I have often thought.” They had come to the wheel, and Hayden asked loudly, so that his voice would carry down the skylight, “Shall we join Captain and Mrs Hertle?”

  “I should like nothing better,” Henrietta answered almost as loudly.

  They made quite a show of laughing and other polite noises as they descended the aft companionway, and Hayden knocked on the door, even awaiting a summons, before opening it.

  “Is this your cabin, Mr Hayden?” Henrietta asked, looking around with a sense of approval, even surprise. “It is much more commodious than I expected.”

  “It is not my cabin, I regret to say, but the captain’s, which I am making use of as he has quit the ship and I am, very temporarily, the senior officer.”

  “It should be Mr Hayden’s cabin,” Mrs Hertle stated firmly. “I’m sure such a cabin will be yours one day, Charles.”

  Hayden bowed at this compliment, but then noticed his friend Robert’s face was quite dark.

  “Is something amiss?” he asked.

  Robert held out a copy of The Times of London. “You have not seen this, I collect—The Times of two days past?”

  “I have not.”

  “Nor had I. Mrs Hertle brought it. Perhaps we should all sit down to tea.”

  Indeed, there was a tea spread upon the table, a white table-cloth and the best china from the gunroom on apparent loan.

  Henrietta rather noticeably took on the duty of pouring tea, which would have pleased Hayden no end had he not been put into a complete state of alarm by Robert’s manner.

  Robert Hertle opened the paper and reduced the creases with a single shake. “Allow me to pass over the preamble,” he began. “‘There can hardly have been a more eventful cruise than that of His Majesty’s Ship Themis, a frigate of thirty-two guns sent this past month to harass the enemy upon her Atlantic coast. Under the able command of Captain Josiah Hart, the Themis began her cruise by taking a transport in the very entrance to the harbour of Brest, notwithstanding concentrated fire from the enemy’s shore batteries, pursuit by gunboats, and the threat of two French frigates that weighed anchor to give chase. The entire enterprise was witnessed by Captain Bourne of the frigate Tenacious, who wrote that it was “an exploit of great boldness carried out with a coolness and purpose that all true seamen must admire.”

  “‘The courageous Captain Hart was, a few days later, called upon by the able Bourne, who had chased four French transports, a brig, and a frigate into the lee of Belle Île, where they lay at anchor beneath the batteries. Not to be turned away by mere shore guns, the two dauntless captains devised a plan to cut out the ships. With the aid of the Lucy, a brig-sloop of twenty guns under the acting command of Lieutenant Herald Philpott, the two frigates set upon the French at dusk. Astutely observing a French infantryman, who appeared upon the French frigate’s deck only to be chased below by an officer, Hart deduced that troops had been carried aboard from the garrison on Belle Île and were waiting to surprise the British boarders. Unable to reach the French frigate before the Tenacious did so, Hart signalled the nearer Lucy, sending her to the aid of Captain Bourne. Without this timely assistance, Bourne admitted, he would have been overwhelmed, his ship lost, but with the aid of the Lucy he carried the enemy frigate.

  “‘The remaining French ships cut their cables and ran for L’Orient, escaping under the cover of darkness. As a French squadron put out from this port on a fair wind, the Lucy receiving a broadside from one, the British ships turned out to sea, but not before securing their prize, and taking the French frigate, Dragoon, as a spoil of war.

  “‘After this auspicious beginning, Captain Hart’s cruise took a turn unlooked for by any, as his crew, no doubt influenced by French agents and republican sympathizers, mutinied during the night. Having put many of his best and most loyal sailors aboard the prizes, the noble captain was taken by surprise, and after a spirited fight and many wounded and killed, was forced to surrender his ship to a sorry collection of treacherous revolutionaries. Their passion for republican ideals was such that they flogged Captain Hart for the damage he had done to their chosen cause, and putting Hart and his loyal crew into boats, as had been done to the unfortunate Captain Bligh only a few years past, vowed to sail the Themis into the harbour of Brest and surrender her to the French authorities.

  “‘But Captain Hart could not be so easily undone. Despite the thirty-six lashes he had endured, he intercepted the French prize, Dragoon, as it sailed toward Plymouth, and taking command from a lieutenant, ordered the frigate to pursue the Themis. They managed to overhaul the mutineers the day next, and dressing themselves in French uniforms and flying the hated tricolour ensign, deceived a French man-of-war into offering some nominal support in the retaking of the Themis. With this French ship standing by to offer aid, Hart overhauled and boarded the Themis, taking the ship after a desperate fight during which all but twenty of the mutineers were killed. Hart then made fools of the French, whose captain never discovered that the Dragoon was manned by a British prize crew numbering only eighty men! Under cover of darkness, the Dragoon and Themis, again under British flags, sailed for Plymouth in a rising gale, which place they reached not without further adventures. Although it is the policy of the Admiralty to hold a court-martial over the officers and crew of any ship lost by whatsoever means, knowledgeable gentlemen assure that Hart’s hearing will be brief and he shall be exonerated of any blame in the affair, especially as the lost ship was taken back by his own efforts. There is much talk around London that the deserving captain will receive a knighthood for his efforts, and given the circumstances, His Majesty might not wait until the court-martial has been held, as its outcome is not in question.’ ”

  Robert looked up from the paper.

  “There is not a word of truth in the entire account!” Hayden protested, still stunned by what he had just heard. “Certainly, the public may be deceived by such invention, but the Lords of the Admiralty know better.” A thought occurred to him. “You don’t think this is in any way a reflection of Hart’s report to the Admiralty? There is the ship’s log, officers’ journals. Captain Bourne witnessed many of these events. He’d quickly put the lie to this.”

  “Captain Bourne is far away, Charles, and not likely to return before the attention of the public has been engaged elsewhere.”

  Some attempt was made to divert the flow of conversation into another channel, but to little avail. Hayden was unable to draw his mind from the damned litany of lies so recently recited, and the others were, all in their own ways, unsettled as well. After extending an invitation to dine that night, the guests excused themselves, leaving Hayden to watch the retreating boat. Mr Barthe emerged from the bowels of the ship, where he had been overseeing the shifting of several tons of shingle in an attempt to make the ship trim a little more by the stern when next she was stowed. Hayden invited the master down to the great cabin and spread the odious paper before him.

  As the sailing master read, a blush of crimson appeared on his neck. It radiated out to his face, growing, by the sentence, deeper in colour until finally his skin glowed beneath his fiery hair like an overheated stove. The master’s hands began to shake so that the edge of the paper trembled.r />
  Barthe slammed the paper down on the table, his choler boiling over into several moments of near-incoherent bluster punctuated by extremes of profanity: “The pusillanimous, cunt-ridden, goat-fucking …” But even the master’s encyclopaedic vocabulary failed to delineate adequately the character of Captain Hart and his unnatural villainy—at least Hayden assumed it was Hart to whom Barthe referred.

  After a few moments more of this volcanic outpouring, Barthe regained some semblance of sanity, and reverted to mild ejaculations of invective, interspersed throughout more or less coherent speech.

  “Never in this life, Mr Hayden, never in this life have I read such a self-serving pack of vile lies! Hart should be flogged again, the fart-catcher!” Barthe’s colour tempered so that it did not appear quite so alarming.

  “You dishonour the profession of valet,” Hayden said, for fart-catcher was a crude term for a gentleman’s valet, derived from the valet’s practice of walking behind his master. “But you assume this account had its origin with Hart. It might have been concocted by some Fleet Street flat who knit it together from rumours.”

  “Oh, you give our glorious captain too much credit, Mr Hayden. Hart or some confederate fed this yarn to a cully at The Times.” He jabbed the paper with a finger. “Do you see here? They quoted Captain Bourne, and assuming those were the good captain’s own words, they could have come from no other source but the Admiralty. No, Hart wanted to get his broadside in first, before the court-martial might bring any guns to bear. Hard to find guilty such an ink-and-paper hero. Captain Sir Josiah Hart will be exonerated of all responsibility for the loss of his ship, and heartily praised for his sudden dedication to heroism, after a lifetime of infamous shyness. Bloody, craven martinet. And to think he has taken credit for all your enterprises, Mr Hayden; capturing the transport at Brest when he ordered the boats back to the ship, even spotting the infantry aboard the Dragoon, which he certainly did not. I stood on the quarterdeck beside him and heard him say about you the most infamous things! He all but named you a coward for going to Bourne’s aid.”

  “Well, it is only a newspaper account, after all, Mr Barthe. No one gives such things much credence, for they are inaccurate more often than not.”

  “I will be glad of my chance to address the captains of the court, for my log and memory are accurate in every detail, you may be sure. Hart shall be exposed at least there, if not in the popular perception.”

  “Do not count on that, Mr Barthe. You recall the court-martial of Breadfruit Bligh? The captains who sat in judgement wished only to ascertain that each officer and crewman had resisted the mutineers as best his situation allowed. And though no one appeared to have offered any resistance at all, they were acquitted, even so. When you consider all the men killed and wounded during the Themis mutiny, the judges of the court will be sure to hold no one responsible for the loss of the ship. Hart’s contribution to the crew’s resentment and disaffection will not be spoken of, nor will it be allowed to be spoken of. You may count on it.”

  Hayden set out for the home of Robert’s aunt in good time, not wishing to be a moment late. It was here that Mrs Hertle and Miss Henrietta resided while in Plymouth, an arrangement of great happiness to all, for Robert Hertle’s aunt, Lady Wilhelmina Hertle—known as Aunt Bill, though not to her face—was the widow of Admiral Sir Sidney Hertle and lived alone but for a sickly, spinster cousin upon whom she had taken pity. To her great sorrow, Lady Hertle’s children had all predeceased her: a daughter in extreme youth; another of some unnamed fever; and her only son—Robert’s older and much-admired cousin—who died at sea, a promising young lieutenant whose service was cut short while trying to secure a gun that had broken loose in a gale.

  Hayden was much surprised and relieved by the material improvement in his spirits at finding not only the Hertles in Plymouth, but also the engaging Henrietta Carthew. All recent confusion and resentments were pushed aft in his thoughts, and his mind, for the most part, was given over to the contemplation of far more pleasant matters.

  Aunt Hertle stood in odd relation to both Robert and his wife, as well as Mrs Robert Hertle’s cousin, Henrietta Carthew. Admiral Sir Sidney Hertle had been the eldest brother of Robert’s father, thus Lady Hertle was Robert’s aunt. Lady Hertle’s father had, in addition to the future Lady Hertle and her siblings, several children by a second and much-younger wife. Of these, one daughter married a certain Mr Carthew and brought the lovely Henrietta into the world. Another bore a daughter who grew up to marry Hayden’s good friend, Robert Hertle. Divided by both blood and geography, Robert and Elizabeth lived in complete innocence of one another until the age of twenty, when they met by chance on a country house outing.

  Thus Aunt Bill had the plea sure of counting among her nieces and nephews Robert, Elizabeth, and Henrietta.

  Aunt Bill lived upon the rise above Plymouth Hoe, in a fine house with an overlook of the entire sound. Hayden found the address, and was greeted by a footman whom he recognized immediately as an old seaman, likely a servant who had attended the admiral. His hat was taken, and Robert Hertle came out to greet him.

  “Charles, we are so happy you could escape your duties. Do come in; Aunt Bill awaits. I related the narrative of your recent cruise and she is very keen to make your acquaintance.”

  Aunt Bill was something of a revelation, for she defied her years with astonishing vigour. Despite having passed her eightieth year, her dark hair was barely streaked with grey, and one had to look more closely than was polite to discern the almost invisibly fine lines around her mouth and eyes. She was tall, though to Hayden’s eye too thin, not given to plumpness either in figure or in face, and her posture was almost military in its erectness. She had a clear, measuring eye, which she fixed upon Hayden.

  “Lady Hertle,” he said, making a leg. “It is a great plea sure to meet you at last.”

  “And I you, Lieutenant, though I am much distressed to learn of your foul treatment at the hands of the Lords Commissioners.”

  Hayden did not want to appear a grumbler, and so smiled and waved a hand. “A few gales are common in every voyage, Lady Hertle. I cannot complain of mine when so many have met with evil weather before me.”

  “But gales are made by God, Mr Hayden, and therefore serve a divine purpose. Nepotism and interest are contrivances of men, and serve only the narrow designs of a few, not even the wider aspirations of a nation.” She led him to a chair and took the seat next. “My late husband, Admiral Hertle, valued capable, enterprising officers above all things and did much to promote their careers. Were he alive now he would come to your aid, I am certain, for injustice was abhorrent to him.”

  “The good opinion of such a respected officer would be reward enough, Lady Hertle.”

  She favoured him with a youthful smile.

  “He is not habitually so charming,” observed a voice, and Hayden turned to find Mrs Robert Hertle and her cousin returning from the terrace. “He has no small talk at all, I warn you.”

  “I am very used to Navy men, Elizabeth, and know their ways as well as any. It should be noted that I have very little small talk myself, thank God, nor have either of you.” She apparently referred to the younger women.

  “Why, Aunt, I am shocked to hear you say it. I can talk a great deal about fashion, carriages, events of no importance, engagements, foibles—”

  “‘She said this’s; he said that’s,’” added Henrietta.

  “And I know all the latest court gossip.”

  “There is a false claim if ever I have heard one.”

  Henrietta threw herself down in a chair. “I feel quite exhausted by all this small talk.”

  “Oh, so do I,” agreed Mrs Hertle. “Shall we ever have supper, Aunt, or do you mean to starve us?”

  “Is my niece’s behaviour not quite scandalous, Lieutenant Hayden? And Henrietta, to whom I am related in some vague and distant way, is just the same. In my day such behaviour would have begun the whispering. Do you know what they call me
behind my back?”

  “I do not, Lady Hertle,” Hayden lied.

  “Aunt Bill! Can you believe the impertinence? I, the widow of an admiral who had the honour of being a Grand Commander of the Order of the Bath!”

  “Shocking.”

  “Oh, Aunt,” Mrs Hertle managed, laughing. “Henrietta tells me that the ton, the ladies within the circle of the Prince of Wales, are completely brazen. Why, they wear gowns so revealing that every man in London knows what only a husband once knew. You cannot name our behaviour scandalous when weighed against what has now become … common.”

  Lady Hertle fanned herself affectedly. “I am so glad to have retired to my small house far from such spectacles.” A servant entered, bowing to the mistress. “Apparently I do have a supper for you, after all, Elizabeth. Starvation has been staved off once again.”

  The dining room was capacious, though fell well short of being grand. Even so, it was a comfortable, elegantly appointed room, with a large dining table of teak wood, clearly brought back from somewhere in the Far East. A sizeable glass case displayed silver plate, much of it bestowed upon the late admiral for his many services.

  Dinner was rather typically British, or more specifically English, something Hayden had learned to endure. Certainly, it was better than Navy food; soup, a course of fish, a roast duckling served with asparagus and peas, venison, plovers’ eggs in aspic jelly—all served à la russe. Sherry. Madeira. A chocolate confection. Coffee. Walnuts.

  The footmen varied in their skill, and Hayden suspected one was actually the gardener dressed in livery for the occasion. The party was so small that there was little chance for a tête-à-tête, though he had happily been seated beside Henrietta, whose presence he could actually feel, as though she glowed like coals.

  Lady Hertle was a skilled and gracious conversationalist, and clearly had been a Navy wife, for she soon revealed a great store of knowledge regarding the character of Lords Commissioners and admirals; more than Hayden could ever hope to know. When Hart’s name came up she tactfully steered the conversation away.