“Why, then, does the Admiralty not order more of them to be built?” Landry asked, gazing at him darkly.
“Well, Mr Landry, that is a good question. I believe it is because they are not really heavy enough to stand in the line of battle, unlike the seventy-four, which makes them very high-priced frigates. I have been told that one can build two frigates for the cost of a sixty-four-gun ship, so that is your answer. I have often thought the natural employment for a sixty-four would be to carry a commodore’s flag in a frigate squadron. Three or four frigates and a sixty-four would make a formidable little fleet—fast and deadly.”
The midshipmen glanced at one another, all of them now persuaded of the admirable qualities of a sixty-four. Landry went sullenly back to his meal.
“If you please, Mr Hayden, tell them the story you told me,” Archer said, a little smirk appearing. “About the man on the mizzen gaff…”
Hayden had to smile himself, for the thought always amused him. “I was a middy at the time,” Hayden said. “On the North American station.”
“During the American War?” Wickham asked.
“In ’eighty-two. I was on the quarterdeck, and we were about to get under way with other ships of our squadron. Aboard a twenty-eight named the Albemarle, we all saw a man climbing out to the end of the mizzen gaff, apparently to clear a flag pendant. A visitor on the quarterdeck asked what the man was about and a lieutenant proposed that he was preparing to protect the flag with his own life, to which a wit responded, ‘It must be Nelson.’”
The middies laughed.
“Who is Nelson?” Stock asked, though he had joined in the mirth.
“Captain Horatio Nelson,” Archer said, rolling his eyes. “It is all well and good to have your faces stuck in books, but you should pay attention to events within your own service!”
“He is a fine officer,” Hayden said, “but known to be a little…zealous at times. He has a sixty-four now, I’ve been told.”
“Who is the finest captain you ever served with?” Williams asked.
“Bourne, without question,” and then Hayden quickly added, “not to disparage Captain Hart, whom I have only served for a day. We used to say that if the men aboard his ship had been allowed to elect their captain from among all the souls aboard, they would choose Bourne without a dissenting vote, he was that well-loved. You have never seen such a seaman, nor a braver man in action. I believe I learned the greater part of my trade from him, and one could not ask for a better master.” Hayden thought it was time to turn the conversation away from himself. “And you, Mr Landry…what was your favourite ship?”
“My service has been small compared to many: I was a reefer aboard an ancient seventy-four to begin, but she was condemned after my first real voyage, and later broken up; then I was aboard the Niger, a thirty-two-gun frigate; a little brig named the Charlotte; a ship-sloop; and our present ship. The Themis is by far the best, though I much liked the little brig as she was so very handy, and she bore us through a frightful winter storm in the Atlantic. We all lavished great love and care on her after that.”
No one seemed much interested in Landry’s career, and fell silent a moment. Hayden had never known a man passed for lieutenant who had served aboard so few ships, and wondered at it.
“Tell me what you’ve been reading,” Hayden said to the middies in general. “There seem to have been some lively debates in the midshipmen’s mess these past weeks.”
“Mr Burke, sir,” Madison offered, with a look of some pride; “Reflections on the French Revolution.”
“Have you read it, Mr Hayden?” Wickham wanted to know. The small midshipman peered at him intently in the lamplight.
“My friend Captain Hertle was kind enough to lend me his copy,” Hayden said. “Did you think well of it?”
“Mr Archer liked it overly,” the normally quiet Hobson answered.
Hayden turned to the young lieutenant, who concentrated upon his mutton. “Did you, Mr Archer? And what was your judgement?”
Archer patted his mouth with a napkin, taking a moment before answering. “I thought it contained more common sense than the writings of that man Paine, who is such a darling of the radicals—”
“Burke is a radical himself!” Landry interrupted. The second lieutenant drew himself up in his chair, glaring at Archer, who did not seem overly intimidated. “He supported the cause of the American colonists, and should have been expelled from England for his treason. Let him go live in America if he bears such love of the place, say I. If not for the success of the Americans the French would never have dared turn on their King. But now it is like a plague passing from one nation to the next, the French determined to spread it throughout the Low Countries, and even across the Channel. And the guillotine will travel with it, for the radicals are ever anxious to murder their betters. To murder anyone at all who dares speak out against their excesses.”
“If you took the time to read Reflections, Mr Landry, I think you would soon see that Burke is very far from being a member of the Revolution Club,” Archer offered in defence. “And I might remind you that there was no guillotine in America. Indeed, most of the loyalists were allowed to leave.”
“Oh, America will not prosper,” Landry predicted. “You will see. The colonies will turn on each other out of jealousy and greed. Without the English rule of law their precious solidarity will be cast aside at the first hint of imbalance of wealth or power and they will fall to warring among themselves.”
“I think they will prosper very well,” Wickham said. “And they will quickly rival the great powers of Europe.”
Landry waved this suggestion away as though it were a few buzzing insects. “Radicalism is a disease,” he pronounced firmly. “You all saw it yesterday aboard our own ship. Men do not jump to do their duties as once they did, but obey their orders in a desultory manner, a look of naked insolence upon their rum faces. We shall have mutinies aboard His Majesty’s ships. Mark my words. Men will have to be hanged, for that is the physic that cures the disease. Men will have to be hanged.”
There was a moment of silence, the lanterns overhead swaying, as a gust of wind shook the ship and moaned painfully in the rigging.
“You talk like a Frenchman,” Archer said, “prescribing a good course of hanging to cure the ills of the Navy.”
Landry did not much like the mirth that this caused.
“Paine has written a clear answer to Burke’s Reflections,” Madison offered into the silence.
“And was charged with sedition for it!” Landry said. “You have not been reading that tripe, I hope?”
Madison turned his attention to his dinner. “It was in the papers.”
An awkward silence settled over the cabin, and Hayden found himself listening to the wind, hoping to hear it moderating a little—but in truth it moaned as loudly as ever.
“And what of you, Doctor?” Wickham asked. “What has been your recent reading?”
“Medical texts, Mr Wickham. I have given up on finding a book that will give me pleasure as earlier volumes did. I do not know why authors can but repeat what others have done before. Shall we forever make new books, as apothecaries make new mixtures, by pouring only out of one vessel and into another? Are we forever to be twisting and untwisting the same rope?”
“Perhaps the difference lies in nuance, Doctor,” Archer answered. “A sonnet will always be a sonnet—the same metre, the same scheme of rhyme, perhaps much the same subjects—but in the hands of a man of genius each can be different from the other in subtle ways.”
“As sheep are different one to another,” Griffiths replied. “I prefer one book to be a sheep, the next a fish, then I should like to read a hawk.”
“Perhaps, Doctor, you can invent a new species of book,” Hayden suggested. “The authors of this world would like a new pattern to copy, I should think.”
The others laughed, and toasts were offered to the fortunes of their cruise.
“Is it true that Admiral
Lord Howe’s officers will not drink his health in their own wardroom?” Wickham asked.
“That is the truth,” Stock answered. “Pellin, a lieutenant aboard the seventy-four anchored off our larboard quarter, told me the same not two hours ago. They say Howe is shy and will not quit Spithead for fear of the French.”
“Do you think the admiral is shy, Mr Hayden?” Williams asked. The thought seemed to disturb him a little.
“No,” Hayden answered firmly. “I am uncertain of his tactics, but he is not shy.”
“What do you mean, ‘his tactics’?” Madison looked at him over the rim of his wine glass, the last few crimson drops disappearing down an indelicate chasm.
“He has chosen to keep the Channel Fleet at Spithead, trusting to frigates and smaller ships to watch the French fleet in the harbour of Brest. If the French put to sea, Howe will soon know and set out after them. But I believe these tactics will give way to a close blockade, such as has been arranged at foreign ports in times past.”
“He will preserve both men and ships by this method,” Landry said, “while keeping the sea is destructive of both, especially by winter. Men are ever too quick to call another ‘shy’ who have the good sense to apply a modicum of reason. Shy…!”
“That is true, Mr Landry,” Hayden responded. “None can deny it, but if the French fleet slips away on a fair wind and the Channel Fleet is becalmed, as could well happen, the French might do terrible damage before they are found. But I do not mean to criticize Lord Howe, who I believe is a brave and able commander and should not be excoriated so by men who ought to know better.”
“Then let us drink his health,” Wickham said, raising his glass. “Lord Howe.”
“Lord Howe!” the others echoed.
Glasses clattered back onto the table.
“We are to look into the harbour at Brest and assess the strength of the French fleet,” Landry said, retrieving his fork.
Hayden clamped his jaw shut, trying to hide his anger. Hart should have told him of their orders before Landry.
“And then will we return to England or continue to cruise?” Williams asked.
“We are to trace the coast of France south,” Landry said, “looking into every harbour large enough to warrant inspection, and to cause all annoyance to the enemy as we go.”
“Let us hope we cause more ‘annoyance’ than last we managed,” Madison said.
“We were unlucky, that is all,” Landry pronounced too loudly.
This brought a troubled silence in which everyone became interested in their suppers, faces a bit flushed.
Landry seemed to take this as criticism. “You cannot go about firing upon neutrals or taking on enemy squadrons. We have only a deck of eighteen-pounders, I should remind you. It is all well and good to be a fire-breather when you are a midshipman, but a captain has to weigh each situation to a nicety and preserve his ship and crew…or face court-martial. Is that not so, Mr Hayden?”
“Indeed it is, Mr Landry,” Hayden answered. “Indeed it is.”
Twelve
My dear Mr Banks:
We are presently anchored in Torbay, awaiting a change in the weather. Plymouth Sound was left in our wake at nightfall yesterday, though not before an unsettling incident as we prepared to weigh anchor. Many of the crew would not, to begin, answer the orders of the officers. As Captain Hart was too ill to take the deck, I was forced to call each man to his station by name. With the assistance of some of the officers and crew we carried the day and the crew all went reluctantly to work. I reported this incident to the captain, but he seemed to think it was due to his recent absence from the ship and the resultant loss of discipline. I was not allowed the opportunity to assure him that discipline had not been lacking in his absence.
Second Lieutenant Landry informs me that our Orders are to cruise down the French coast assessing the strength of the enemy in various ports and to annoy the French wherever possible. Captain Hart remains laid up, waiting to pass a stone, the Doctor says. I am also told the poor man suffers from persistent migraines. I thank the Lord for my good health.
It seems that the recent endeavours of the Americans and the French have spread even to His Majesty’s Navy. Two of Thomas Paine’s pamphlets were discovered in the possession of one of the crew. The Midshipman who found them was reluctant to take this matter to the Captain, I think due tothe recent hanging of McBride, whom the Midshipman believed innocent. The crewman involved is without doubt the best of our able seamen, and the most diligent in the performance of his duties. I spoke with the man and he expressed a desire to one day live in America—the new promised land for seamen, apparently. I don’t think he is in any way a danger to the ship or her officers. There is no doubt in my mind, however, that there is a great deal of disaffection among the crew, and if the situation were to be mishandled, the consequences could be severe.
I remain as always, sir,
Your humble servant.
With a strong feeling of distaste, Hayden pressed his seal into the wax and gathered up the rest of his correspondence.
“You don’t want the last letter copied, Mr Hayden?” Perseverance asked. The boy was standing by the door to his cabin, waiting to take the lieutenant’s mail, his face serious, freckled, contemplative.
“Thank you, no, Perse. It is of a personal nature, and I copied it myself.”
The boy nodded, apparently disappointed. It was one of his several qualities that Hayden had come to admire; he never shirked his work or complained of it. In this, he lived up to his name.
Hayden passed his letters to the boy, who hurried out to add them to the shore-going mail. For a brief moment Hayden almost went after him. What would Stephens do if Hayden refused to send in his hated reports? But Hayden let the boy go, fully aware of his promise to Stephens—his word was worth something, even if it was in such a disreputable cause.
Madison appeared at his door. “Captain requests your presence on the quarterdeck, Mr Hayden.”
The lieutenant slipped on his coat and, out of respect for the low deckhead, tucked his cocked hat under an arm. In a moment he was on the quarterdeck, where Landry, Barthe, and Archer all stood awkwardly by the captain. Several of the midshipmen attended at three yards’ distance.
“Ah, Mr Hayden,” Hart said as his lieutenant appeared, “kind of you to join us.”
“My apologies, sir,” Hayden said quickly, tipping his hat. “I was unaware that I was wanted.”
Glancing up at the sky, Hayden could see that the gale had almost blown itself out, great blue tears appearing in the woollen cloud. The wind remained in the south-east, but had moderated, and the rain stopped, though the decks were still dark from it. Beads of water hung from the mizzen boom, where they swelled until plucked by gravity. A cold drop struck Hayden on the neck as he tipped his hat.
Hart regarded his first lieutenant with a squinty gaze, eyes hazy-blue, almost hidden beneath a slightly bulging brow. The man’s face was lined and waxy, and glistened with a thin film of sweat. Hunching a little, as though the pain had not entirely abandoned him, he reached out and took a spoke of the wheel in hand.
“This wind will fall away shortly,” Hart said, pressing his words out. “And I anticipate it will veer to the north or nor’east. Let us quit this berth while there is yet light. Whose watch is it, Mr Hayden?”
“Dryden’s, sir.”
The captain glanced up at him, his face turning a little red. “Dryden? The master’s mate?”
“Yes, sir,” Hayden said.
“Who are the officers of the watch, then?” Hart demanded brusquely.
“Lieutenant Landry, Mr Archer, and Mr Dryden, sir.”
“You do not stand out of watch on my ship!” Hart growled. “Where did you ever get such an idea?”
“It was so upon every frigate I served aboard, sir.”
“Well, it is not so on my ship. You will stand watch like the other lieutenants. Get us under way, Mr Hayden. Shape our course for Brest.” He rel
eased the wheel and motioned for Landry, who hurried to him so that the captain might put a hand on his shoulder. “Try not to foul another’s anchor,” Hart snapped at Hayden. “I shouldn’t like the good name of my ship tarnished by your incompetence.”
Griffiths, who had been hovering nearby, came to Landry’s assistance, and the two of them helped the captain down the companionway.
“Well, Mr Barthe,” Hayden said, fists clenching, thoughts of violence hovering about the edge of his consciousness. “Let us prepare to get under way.”
“Aye, Mr Hayden,” the master said, giving him what he thought was a look of sympathy, “and let us hope that the hands are more willing than when last we weighed.”
“It is the officers I worry about, yourself and a few others excepted, Mr Barthe. Where is Mr Franks?” Hayden asked, looking around the deck for the broken-nosed bosun.
“He took the mail over to the Captain, sir. It was his intention to view our masts from forward as he returned.”
Orders were called, and to Hayden’s relief, men began to bustle about the deck, coiling down halyards and sheets, rigging bars to the capstan and readying the messenger line to weigh anchor. The hands did not appear happy in their work, but had returned, at least, to their former level of deficiency. Franks came over the side in the midst of this, ordering his boat taken in.
“How stand our masts, Mr Franks?” Hayden called out to him.
“Straight and true, Mr Hayden.”
“Will you see to the paunch mat on the main-course yard? It all but chafed through in the gale, and I should not want it to do so again.”
“It will not, sir!” Franks took one of his mates and Aldrich aloft to see to the paunch mats and hanging mats that protected various parts of the rigging from chafe.
The boats came over the side and were stowed on the reserve spars. A tackle was readied to cat the anchor, and men took their places at the capstan bars.
“It is a wonder to me that order can be brought to such goings-on,” a voice opined, and Hayden turned to find Muhlhauser before the binnacle, regarding the spectacle with a mixture of awe and amusement.
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