Mr Muhlhauser was invited to join them, which he happily accepted. With the town of Plymouth almost within a pistol shot, they dined well that night, and would continue to do so until their fresh victuals were exhausted.
After their earlier gathering in this very cabin, when Hayden had presented the officers with the sketch discovered in his pocket, there was a general air of discomfiture, which the men did much to disguise with heightened spirits and false good-will. All were especially solicitous and respectful of the first lieutenant, perhaps to take the sting out of his upbraiding at the hands of the captain, or out of guilt at having lied to him earlier in the day, which Hayden remained convinced they had done. It mollified his doubly bruised feelings somewhat, though he wished they would not laugh so heartily at his attempts at wit, as it embarrassed him more than a little—the hilarity being far more than his small jests deserved. In truth, he was still out of harmony with his messmates and had not yet recovered from the great humiliation he had received at the hands of the notorious captain.
“Naval gunnery has shown little advancement over the years,” their guest said. “The Army has made better progress in the use of artillery.”
“It is uncommon for the Army,” Hawthorne suggested, “to use their guns upon ground which is heeled, rolling, pitching, and occasionally yawing, all at once. Claret, Mr Hayden?”
“And they don’t have to work their guns crouched like monkeys,” Mr Barthe added, his eyes involuntarily following the progress of the decanter as the marine raised it toward the first lieutenant.
“What Mr Hawthorne says is true,” Hayden said, holding out his glass so that it might be refilled, “but here I must agree with Mr Muhlhauser—thank you, Mr Hawthorne—our accuracy at a distance is poor. Most actions are fought at less than a cable-length—often considerably less—where rate of fire and weight of broadside are decisive.”
“That is my thinking almost exactly, Mr Hayden!” Muhlhauser enjoined with considerable passion. “The carronade is a wonderful weapon, and magnificently effective at very short range, but the long gun…I believe, is a weapon whose day has passed. Actions fought at one hundred to two hundred yards—that is what my new design is meant to address. It is shorter, so it will be quicker to run out and altogether easier to load. It can be readily traversed, making it more effective—to some degree one can aim the gun rather than aim the ship, if you take my meaning. The gun is elevated, like a carronade, by a screw through the cascabel. The carriage of iron and wood, by careful arrangement of its constituent parts, is not as heavy as one might think, and the slide and pulley system I have devised dampens the recoil and allows the gun to be run out with alacrity. Because of the use of wood in the slide, there need be no fear of sparks, which, of course, would be disastrous. With its robust pivot below the gunport, the carriage can never topple, with the injuries that commonly ensue, nor should one ever have a loosed cannon. Small improvements, but we must begin somewhere.” He leaned forward into the lamplight, his enthusiasm for his subject clear on his face. “What I imagine will happen one day is that the cascabel will open so that the gun can be loaded from the rear.”
“And how would that be managed?” Landry asked.
Their guest shrugged. “As of yet, I cannot say. I have thought that the cascabel might screw out, allowing the wadding, shot, and cartridge to be pushed into the afterbarrel, but I wonder if the explosive effect of firing powder would seize the threads, making it difficult to open. It is the recoil of the gun that most engages my curiosity, though.” He began to make descriptive gestures with his hands. “It has occurred to me that the recoil of one gun, through a lever arm and pivot, could be used to run out a second gun. Do you see? All guns would be mounted in pairs, each pair connected by an arm with a pivot at its centre point. The gun in the aft position would be loaded, and the firing of the forward gun would drive the other ahead and into the firing position. The great weight of one gun would dampen the recoil of the other, for there would be, if not quite an equal, at least an opposite reaction.”
Hayden was about to comment on the genius of this suggestion, though he might have also wondered about some of the more practical problems that would have to be solved, when the surgeon came in. The doctor had been called up to the captain’s cabin just as the meal commenced. Folding his tall but sparse frame onto a chair, his legs tucking under the table with some difficulty, he nodded to his gunroom companions.
“Dr Griffiths,” Mr Barthe greeted the newcomer. “I’ve kept your dinner warm and defended it from the ravenous hordes as best I was able.”
“Thank you, Mr Barthe. I shall ask the captain to mention your singular act of bravery in his next submission to the Admiralty.”
This brought laughter from the others.
“And how is our patient this evening?” Hawthorne wondered. “Down for a few days, do you think?”
Everyone looked hopefully at the surgeon.
“Perhaps. Difficult to know.”
“Well, I dare say Mr Hayden can command the ship, if need be.”
The others nodded eagerly, agreeing too heartily. Muhlhauser glanced at him, but Hayden was in new waters himself.
“Is Captain Hart often unwell?” Hayden asked, fearing that he sounded dreadfully uninformed.
“Often enough,” the surgeon answered, after it became apparent that no one else would. “He must pass a small stone. After that a day of rest will see him on his feet again. As you are new here, Mr Hayden, and do not know the signs, the captain is often at his most…bilious when he feels the onset of the pains that signal his body is about to pass a stone. One is best to do nothing to raise his ire during such times.”
“Advice I shall do everything to heed.” Hayden felt a small change in the ship’s motion. “Is the wind making, Mr Barthe, but in the sou-sou’west?”
“I’m not sure, sir. Shall I have a look?”
“Don’t interrupt your meal, Mr Barthe,” Landry said. “I shall send a midshipman up to take stock of the weather.”
“No need, Mr Landry.” Hayden rose from his seat, certain now that the wind had come up and not from a favourable direction. “I will see for myself.”
He excused himself, happy to be out of the atmosphere of forced good cheer, and made his way out of the musty warmth up to the deck. From the south, across the Channel, a breeze of wind bore landward the sea scent—the bitter iodine of salt and rot. A shadowy squall darkened the horizon, thin stalks of rain dangling down into the sea. Against this bruised sky, caught in a spike of light, the glittering wings of gulls scythed down the rain like so much blackened wheat.
The master appeared a moment later. “So it has come around, just when the tide has turned against us.”
“Yes, the weather glass is falling and the air has cooled noticeably.”
A vast acreage of woollen, grey cloud drew slowly over the blue and a pennant at the masthead began to flutter and snap.
“I believe we shall have a gale, Mr Barthe.” Hayden stood looking out to sea. “Will the hands sail, do you think, Mr Barthe, or will they come forward with a petition to be passed to the port admiral?”
Barthe slapped his palm on the rail cap—once, then twice more. “I don’t know, Mr Hayden.”
“Well, we have no choice but to find out.” Hayden hesitated only a second. “Call the hands to veer more cable. I fear this will soon become an uncomfortable berth, but the tide will be against us for some time yet and we have little choice but to sit here and take whatever the weather sends. The moment the tide turns slack we will call all hands to weigh and clear the sound. Then we will know what the crew plan, I assume.” Hayden looked around the sound. “A dozen other ships are preparing to do the same, and it will be to our advantage to be ahead of them and weather the headlands by dark.”
“And if the crew won’t sail, Mr Hayden?” Barthe asked softly.
There were too many possible answers to such a question, so Hayden confined himself to the most practical. “Then
we shall need another anchor. Prepare the small bower, Mr Barthe. I don’t know if we will be able to row it out if this sea gets up, but we might be forced to try.”
“Aye, Mr Hayden.”
Landry appeared on deck then. “Captain Hart wishes us to weigh and make sail, Mr Hayden. He wants us clear of Plymouth Sound before the gale freshens.” The little lieutenant appeared grey-faced in the failing light.
“But there is yet a strong flood against us, Mr Landry.”
“I made the captain aware of the tide, Mr Hayden. He was most emphatic in his disregard for it.”
“I’m sure he was,” Barthe mumbled.
Hayden took a long, calming breath. “Rig the capstan bars, Mr Barthe,” he ordered.
The master leaned over the rail to assess the tidal current. “With this wind and foul tide we’ll be lucky to hold our own, Mr Hayden.”
“You are remonstrating with the wrong man, I’m afraid. Are we coiled down? Chafing gear fitted?”
“We are, sir.” Barthe glanced at him, his manner suddenly guarded, shoulders round, his commonly ruddy face grown pasty.
“Then make ready to loose sail as the anchor breaks free. Larboard tack, Mr Barthe. Mr Franks?” He looked about and found the bosun six paces off. “I can have no tardiness among the sail-handlers. I want to lose as little ground as possible when the anchor heaves.”
Franks made a knuckle, then nodded to his mates, leading them forward, though his common swagger was not apparent this evening.
Hayden took stock of the situation in the sound, marking the positions of other ships, gauging the distances with a practised eye.
“Helmsman? Have you spun your wheel?”
“I have, Mr Hayden. She runs free, the rudder answers, and I inspected the tackles and tiller-rope meself.” The man at the helm—a master’s mate named Dryden—raised a knuckle to his brow, tipping the invisible hat. “If I’m not speaking out of place, sir, this wind freshens. The sea will get up before you can say Jack Ketch.”
“It will be a wet beat, that is certain. Cawsand Bay is filling with ships. We must be ready to come about. Do you hear, Mr Barthe? We will have to tack smartly at Cawsand Bay. We must shift our yards and trim sail with all speed.”
The wind continued to freshen until white horses streaked across the bay, breaking now and again against the bow, spray flying up into the rigging.
The gentleman from the Ordnance Board appeared on deck and took hold of the rail to steady himself. “Your gun is secure, Mr Muhlhauser?”
“It is, Mr Hayden.” He looked a little pale, suddenly. “We are beginning to plunge about…”
“Hardly a ripple. We shall see much worse in an hour’s time.”
Hands were called. Some came at a run while others lagged behind, a look of resentment clear upon their faces. Hayden had found some followers among the crew—men who were deeply displeased with the way their ship was run and who took pride in both her handling and appearance. These men were not in the majority, however. Hayden could see them setting to work around the deck, everywhere thwarted in their efforts by the shiftless and embittered. It was almost a contest—those who worked with a will and those who strove against them. Some men stood openly engaged in no duty whatsoever. But no party came forward with a petition or even a list of grievances.
“Shall I muster the marines, Mr Hayden?” Hawthorne had appeared at his side, and he too was unsettled by the scene unfolding.
“That will be the captain’s decision, not mine.”
“Captain Hart is in his cabin. In his cot, in fact, too ill to take the deck, I should think.”
“Nonetheless, it is the captain’s decision, so let us wait and see what transpires. There appears to be no unity of purpose among the men.”
“That might be so, Mr Hayden, but some are clearly choosing not to hear orders.”
The other officers and a few young gentlemen appeared on the quarterdeck, having abandoned their suppers. Upon their pale faces both anxiety and hope mixed, though they said nothing, gathering in a silent, waiting knot of blue coats.
Hayden felt his one chance to return to sea, to prove himself, slipping away, for certainly if Hart were removed the First Secretary would recall him as well. But Hayden had been trained never to vacillate, and began to make his way purposefully forward. He could see that the men were not all of one mind at this moment, and Hayden knew he must exploit that before the insubordinate faction got the upper hand.
“Ship the capstan bars,” he ordered, making eye contact with one man after another. “Starr. Freeman. Marsden.” He made certain to call them by name so that they must refuse the orders of an officer directly before witnesses. If it came to a court-martial this would weigh heavily against them.
“You heard the lieutenant,” a deep voice growled. “Ship the bars.” It was Stuckey, and Hayden turned in time to see the landsman give an ungentle shove to a seaman named Green.
“Mr Barthe?” Hayden said loudly. “Whom else have you detailed to the capstan? Call their names.”
The master began a roll of names. Hayden found each man as Barthe named him.
“Smyth. Marshall,” Hayden repeated. “Take your places.”
Slowly, the men fell into place. Hayden noted that there were a few among the crew who pressed men forward. Threats were muttered. Clearly the crew was divided. A man stumbled to his knees, certainly shoved from behind, but he rose and went to his place. The carpenter and his mates came forward, for they had their parts to play.
Wickham moved among the men, prompting them, warning that he would take down their names if they refused. Hayden glanced aft to find most of the other officers and young gentlemen gathered by the taffrail—officially off-watch unless called. Landry had come forward to offer his aid, but the hands often ignored his orders and waited until either Hayden or Wickham had called them instead.
Hawthorne gathered up all the marines on sentry duty and led this small company, under arms, onto the gangway—only half a dozen men, but the mustering of red coats did not go unnoticed.
Even when the capstan was completely manned, the hands stood passively, none putting their chests against the bars. Hayden approached them.
“I have called you all by name,” Hayden said, keeping his voice calm but firm, “and will do so again if you refuse to follow orders.”
Franks steered for them, brandishing his rattan, but Hayden raised a hand to stop him.
“Mr Franks, if you please.” Hayden turned his attention back to the men at the capstan. “If it comes to a court-martial, and you have refused to answer orders, I will be forced to give your names to the president of the court. You have all been read the Articles of War. Be sure your cause is worth your lives, for that is the gamble you take.”
It was a decisive moment. A completely united crew would likely have their demands met—the Admiralty had done it before, usually removing unpopular officers—but part of a crew in revolt almost certainly would be dealt with most harshly and the men were well aware of it. Hayden had to prey upon the men’s fears, though it shamed him to be driven to such methods.
“Mr Franks, prepare a boat. I will send Mr Archer to the nearest ship. We must inform them that we approach a state of mutiny here.”
“Aye, Mr Hayden.”
This had the desired effect. The hands began glancing one to the other, Hayden’s words finding their mark.
“Who wants to be hauled aloft like Mick McBride—kickin’ and squirmin’?” Stuckey asked. “That’s where you lot are headed. Shall I tell Mrs Starr and the wee ones that you died in a good cause, eh, Jimmy boy?”
Hayden could almost feel the collective will of the hands vacillating. The wind chose that moment to die completely and ominously away, leaving only a little breeze wafting this way and that across the deck. The hands looked only straight ahead—not at their mates—each man seeing himself flying aloft, rope about his neck. Stuckey nodded to Cole and the two pressed their chests against the bars, bracing them
selves to push. For a moment no one followed, and then Starr joined them…and then another did the same, then another. The men stamped bare feet on the planks and began to press the bars forward—stamp and go. With an eerie creak the cable stretched, and the wind, redoubled, returned, a gust lifting a mist of spray over the rail.
Hayden heard himself exhale—a long-held breath. Around him the men went, one by one, to their places, looks of fear and frustration upon their faces. Wickham appeared at his side.
“You’ve done it, Mr Hayden,” the boy said quietly.
“We are not out of the sound yet.” Hayden caught the bosun’s eye. “Mr Franks? Thrashings will not aid us at this moment; indeed, they might work against us. Order your mates to start no one. And tell Mr Archer there is no need to go off to another ship—at this time.”
“Aye, sir.” Franks hurried across the deck, waving at his mates.
Hayden gazed up toward the sail-handlers waiting above.
“They will have the common sense to loose sail when the anchor heaves, will they not?” Wickham asked.
“That is my hope, Mr Wickham. If they do not, we will be ashore in a moment.”
The capstan turned and in due course the anchor broke free, streaming a dark trail of mud as it reached the surface. It was fished and catted by sullen hands, many an accusation and whispered threat among them. Under any other circumstances Hayden would have called for silence, but this situation was more volatile than gunpowder dust. He dared not inflame the men’s already simmering anger.
To Hayden’s lasting relief, sail was made, the ship fell off, then gathered way. Yards were braced sharply around, and they began the short board toward Cawsand Bay.
Hayden turned and made his way aft past Hawthorne’s marines. “Thank you, Mr Hawthorne. I think you might return these men to their duties now.”
Hawthorne touched his hat. He looked as relieved as anyone aboard, for he realized how close they had come to lowering muskets and taking aim at their own fellows.
Hayden approached the wheel as the off-duty officers retreated below, hardly glancing his way, involved in their own whispering and recriminations. Barthe, Hawthorne, Wickham, and Hayden collected by the larboard rail, gazing out to sea.
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