The great enemy on such crossings, where the sails were set and sometimes their sheets not touched for days at a time, was chafe, and the bosun and his mates were seemingly always at work aloft, renewing thrummed mats and scotchmen, the slush bucket in steady employ. It was a happy ship, Hayden thought, which gave him a small sense of pride.
There was, however, a pall hanging over his vessel – a palpable anxiety, if not a bridled fear. Its source was no secret: they were sailing toward the breeding ground of the Yellow Jack – the fever that killed without distinction of age, vigour or rank. It was well known among hands and officers alike that, once contracted, recovery was beyond rare. This disturbing knowledge was a weight balanced against the very real prospect of rich prizes, for the seas to which they sailed were a cruiser’s dream – provided one survived to collect. Hayden often heard the men whispering – stories of crew mates who had caught the Yellow Jack – the stories almost always ending the same. There was, however, one man aboard who it was claimed – and he did not deny it – had come down with the dreaded fever and, against all odds, survived. His name was Jimmy Walker, though he was known as ‘Yellow Jack’ among his mates – or just ‘Jack’.
‘Ask Jack about the fever,’ one of the men would say, and he would saunter over and regale them with his gruesome tale – how a dozen men in the sick-berth all perished while he lived – a miracle he attributed to an overly regular intake of sauerkraut, which was sometimes carried aboard ships as an antiscorbutic. As a result, the ship’s allotment of sauerkraut was diminishing at a rapid rate and the men continued to request it at almost every meal. Dr Griffiths was of the opinion it had no effect in warding off either the scurvy or Yellow Fever, but Hayden allowed it to be served regularly because it eased the fears of some of the men and he well knew that the men feared disease even above the dangers of battle.
The forenoon was a bustle of work about the ship, and Hayden found himself often in consultation with his lieutenants, who were yet unseasoned, and Mr Barthe, whose experience outstripped Hayden’s by more than two decades but who never acted beyond his station. The activity about the ship continued into the first dog-watch.
When the sun had made its way into the west, Hayden found himself alone upon his sacred stretch of quarterdeck, and was drawn to the stern by the sparkling wake and some flicker on the distant horizon – likely a crest caught by the sun. He stood with his legs braced against the roll of the ship – for with a quartering sea she did roll terribly – hands upon the taffrail, almost too hot to touch in the sun.
It was then that the voice drifted up to him – speaking ever so softly in Spanish. ‘Heavenly Father,’ Angel whispered, ‘I thank you for delivering Miguel and me from certain destruction. I ask your forgiveness for the terrible sin I have committed and for which I shall do penance all of my days. I do not know, Heavenly Father, why you preserved my earthly life. I pray it is to allow me to erase this dreadful stain. If it is your will, I shall offer my life in your service. But if it is your will, Heavenly Father, that I shall endure punishment for my sin, I will accept it without complaint as your obedient servant. Your will be done. Amen.’
Hayden heard a rustling below as Angel rose from where he knelt by the gallery window. It was only then that Hayden realized his shadow was very starkly cast down upon the sea astern.
Not a moment later Angel emerged at the head of the aft companionway, clearly hurrying. Hayden had not seen any point in rushing off or trying to conceal where he had been – his silhouette, with its distinctive hat, was unlikely to be mistaken for that of anyone else.
Angel came quickly aft and Hayden beckoned him on to the windward side of the deck – the small area reserved for the captain. He leaned over the taffrail, as though assuring himself of the distance to the open gallery windows.
As a commander in numerous actions, Hayden had learned it was best not to wait but to seize the initiative. In this case, however, he felt it best to ‘boldly’ retreat.
‘I do apologize, Angel,’ Hayden offered contritely. ‘I came to the rail just as you completed your prayer. It was not my intention to eavesdrop upon your conversation with God.’
‘You heard me, then?’ A wary look, sidelong.
‘Only at the very last.’
Angel stood, staring out to sea for a long moment, perhaps unable to find words or uncertain how he felt. Then he nodded.
‘When we were cast adrift,’ he began, his voice tight, ‘there were three of us: my brother, myself and a seaman. He was an uncouth, brutal man but he kept us all alive through the storm when my brother and I were too ill even to bail. When the storm passed we all understood our true peril. We had no food and only a small amount of rainwater we had collected in a bucket.’ Angel stopped again, taking hold of the rail, as if the memories crept over him, too real to bear. ‘This seaman, he would not share the water but threatened us with a knife and let us go thirsty. I had, secreted in my jacket, a small package wrapped in oilskin. When this man realized it, he thought I was hiding food, or perhaps valuables. He demanded it and when I refused he attempted to wrest it from me by force. He and Miguel fought but the sailor was a large, strong man, and he threw Miguel into the sea and then turned on me. What I had hidden in my jacket was not food – it was a pocket pistol, carefully wrapped and still dry. I could not let him take it, so I …’ He closed his eyes and steadied himself. ‘I shot him … through the heart … and he collapsed upon me. That is why my shirt was soaked in blood. I helped Miguel back into the boat.’ Angel paused for a second. ‘Less than an hour passed before the seaman departed this life; we rolled him over the side. That is my sin, Captain Hayden. I killed a man.’
Hayden felt himself nod, trying to hide his utter surprise – he had been expecting a much more innocent sin from the likes of Angel Campillo. ‘Clearly, you acted in self-defence,’ Hayden assured him. ‘You and your brother might not be alive otherwise.’
Angel appeared to take no comfort from Hayden’s assertion. ‘It was proven to me, Captain, by the appearance of your ship that I was under the protection of God. Killing the man was not necessary. It was a moment of weakness … weakness of faith.’
Hayden did not quite know what to say to that. Having had men attempt to kill him on more occasions than he cared to remember, he had never waited for the intercession of divine forces. He acted to preserve his own life.
‘Sometimes, Angel, we must act on our own behalf rather than await the hand of God. To stand passively, expecting your enemy to be felled by lightning or to be struck down in some other manner when he threatens your very life – that might not be lack of faith but imprudence, if not outright foolishness. God does not intervene in all of men’s affairs, no matter how great the faith of those involved. Too often we must draw upon our own resources.’
Angel appeared to consider this.
‘Then you do not think I have committed a cardinal sin?’
‘The man threw your brother into the sea – to certain death. He likely intended the same for you. Your actions saved your brother’s life and almost assuredly your own. No court would blame you – not even a heavenly one, I am sure.’
Angel appeared to struggle to master his emotions. ‘Thank you, Captain Hayden. Your words give me comfort. There is no priest to hear my confession and to counsel me in this matter.’
‘There is the Reverend Smosh …’ Hayden suggested.
Angel looked at him and almost smiled. ‘Do you not know, Captain, that I should burn in hell for all eternity for consulting a heretic?’
‘It had slipped my mind,’ Hayden replied. ‘Do forgive me.’
‘I do not require the aid of Mr Smosh when I can speak with you, Captain. Was your mother not a Catholic? I am informed she was.’
‘She still is, to the best of my knowledge, but, like all sea officers in the Royal Navy, I am a member of the Church of England.’
‘Of course,’ Angel said. He was silent a moment but then glanced obliquely at Hayden. ‘Must
you report what I have told you to your commander when you reach Barbados?’ he asked softly.
‘It would be my duty to do so …’ Hayden replied.
Angel nodded. ‘Will there be a trial?’
‘An incident between Spanish citizens upon a Spanish vessel … I do not believe there would be. However, my commander would be obliged to report what occurred to the Spanish authorities.’
Angel nodded again. ‘I see.’ He made an awkward bow and took his leave then, thanking Hayden once more for his counsel.
As Hayden had been eavesdropping upon the young man’s private conversation with God, he felt a small pang of guilt at being thanked.
Well, he thought, what do I make of this? Certainly he was under an obligation to report the incident. No court would find Angel guilty of any crime. The only witness was his brother. There would be stigma, perhaps, but then being exonerated by a court might relieve the young man’s obvious burden of guilt.
It occurred to Hayden that this death did not explain why Angel and his brother appeared to be lying about their identities. There was, for that, some other explanation.
Hayden found the doctor in the cockpit. Griffiths sat at a work table in a little stain of light cast by a single lamp, honing surgical blades upon a fine whetstone. Why he did not do this upon the deck in the brightness of day, Hayden could not comprehend, but the doctor displayed several small peculiarities of this nature – all speaking of a desire for privacy.
Hayden repeated to Griffiths what he had overheard and the subsequent revelation that Angel had made.
Griffiths removed his spectacles and examined them for some malignant mote that grew large in his vision and asked, rather bluntly, ‘And what if Angel was lying?’
‘What do you mean?’ Hayden wondered, somewhat stupidly, he realized.
Griffiths held his spectacles up to the dull light and squinted. ‘What if he was lying about killing the man – or about the reason he killed him?’
The very idea took Hayden by surprise. The confession had seemed so very genuine, so heart-rendingly difficult for Angel to own to. Even so, Hayden felt a little foolish. It certainly could have been a lie and he should have considered this possibility himself.
‘I doubt anyone would confess to killing another and have it be a lie. It seems rather more likely that you would lie to cover over such a murder.’
‘Yes, unless what you actually did was worse …’
‘Such as …?’
‘Cut the ropes holding the boat to the ship and then shot the man or men you must share your food and water with. We all saw what happened on Les Droits de l’Homme when men panicked and swamped the boat.’
Hayden sat down upon a stool. ‘Do you think this is possible? That Miguel and Angel are capable of such … treachery?’
‘We are, most of us, capable of more villainy than we suppose if we believe such villainy will preserve our precious lives.’
Hayden felt as though he had suddenly wakened from a rather pleasant dream into a less than pleasant world.
‘Miguel,’ Griffiths went on, ‘is a very amiable young man, Captain, but Angel … Angel has a kind of disingenuous charm that is difficult to resist. It is akin to the charm Mr Hawthorne displays, though of a much different nature. Mr Hawthorne’s charm serves very definite ends – at least when it comes to the female sex. I wonder if Angel’s charm, Captain, is not employed to some purpose as well …?’
He took up a rag lying on his small table and rubbed at the lenses of his spectacles.
‘You remain fast in your belief that our guests are criminals or frauds of some nature?’
‘We know they are frauds, Captain. You overheard them admit it.’
‘That is true, but it is possible they are hiding their identities in some cause that is not criminal. After all, not so long ago I was pretending to be a French sea captain named Gil Mercier.’
‘You were attempting to confuse our enemies, Captain,’ Griffiths stated, replacing his spectacles upon the bridge of his nose and moving his head from side to side to see if he had expunged whatever smudge had offended his vision. ‘As Angel and Miguel are lying to us, perhaps they are attempting to do the same.’
‘Confuse their enemies …?’
Griffiths nodded.
‘French spies …?’ Hayden said with some wonder.
‘Spaniards in the employ of the French.’
‘Do you truly think that is possible, Doctor?’
‘If they are not criminals? Yes.’ Griffiths reached up and stripped off his spectacles again, clearly frustrated that something still impaired his sight. ‘I should be careful what I told them, Captain. We do not know to whom they might repeat your conversations.’
Six
Hayden woke early and slipped out of his cabin and to the upper deck. He was avoiding his guests that morning, and he was not certain why. Unquestionably, it had to do with his conversations – first with Angel, and next with Griffiths.
His steward, Winston, brought his breakfast to the quarterdeck and Hayden ate it perched upon a small bench. He busied himself about the deck then, while the sweltering sun floated up out of the eastern sea.
Hayden climbed to the maintop, ostensibly to examine a check in the topgallant mast but largely to get up into the clear air and push back his horizon, as though doing so would allow him to see beyond the doubts and questions that troubled him.
He examined the sea at all points with a glass – a desert of watery dunes all moving in train toward the south-west. He heard a laugh below and looked down to find Angel climbing tentatively up the ratlines with Midshipman Gould and a top-man as escort. Upon the rolling ship this was an unnerving exercise for a landsman, and it became even more so as he climbed, for the roll became more pronounced with each rung. Still, the young Spaniard bore up and climbed on, clinging, white-knuckled, to the ropes, face flushed. His hat had been left below and his hair escaped its ribbon to stream in the wind and whip about his sun-browned face. With some instruction, he made his way around the futtock shrouds, and then his head appeared in the lubber’s hole. Hayden offered him a hand.
‘Captain Hayden!’ he cried. ‘I did not realize you were here. Am I imposing?’
Hayden shook his head. ‘In no way, Angel. I am merely taking in the view. Clap on there. You do not want to be thrown out of the maintop.’
Gould and the top-man retreated, mortified that they had led Angel up into the tops when the captain was there.
‘You might find it best to sit,’ Hayden said. ‘Loop an arm around a futtock, there.’
When the young Spaniard was settled and safe to Hayden’s eye, he sat down by the aftmost futtock and looped an arm around this.
Angel gazed out over the wind-driven blue and smiled broadly, exhilarated, if a little frightened.
‘You never climbed aloft on the Spanish frigate?’ Hayden asked.
‘I did not, Captain Hayden.’
‘When I went into my first ship as a midshipman I was aloft at any excuse. The poor lieutenants – they could hardly keep me out of the tops.’
‘You take pleasure from danger, Captain,’ Angel said. ‘Is that why you would not give up the service for the woman you spoke of … the one who disappointed you so?’
The question caught Hayden by surprise. ‘The thought of giving up the service never entered my mind.’
‘But if you had – this woman you cared for – would she have accepted your suit?’
The ship rolled to starboard so that Hayden was all but staring down into the sea racing by, inducing a moment of vertigo. ‘I do not know. I … I do not.’
‘Perhaps she was waiting for you to make such an offer – to give up the sea and make a life safely ashore with her.’
At the end of the roll, as the ship lurched slowly back to larboard, Hayden’s shoulder was pressed hard against the shroud and he thought, how easy it would be to slip off the maintop and plummet into the cold, fathomless sea. ‘Perhaps … I cannot say.�
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He closed his eyes. Maybe she was waiting for just that … and he had been obtuse and not seen.
Henri, Henri, he thought. Is that what you stood waiting to hear?
For a long moment he stared off toward the veiled horizon, his last meeting with Henrietta perfectly recalled – a play he had attended a thousand times. She had been waiting for him to say something, he thought, but he had never understood what. Nor had it occurred to him that the ending could have been altered had one player but spoken a different line.
‘Have I said the wrong thing, Captain?’ Angel asked gently.
‘I fear you have said exactly the right thing, but I never saw it myself – the more fool I.’
Hayden might have said more, but there was a call from below.
‘May I join you, Captain?’
It was Mr Percival, the admiral’s secretary, his foot already upon the ratlines. Hayden beckoned him on. ‘Indeed, Mr Percival, climb up – but take a strong hold upon the shrouds. We do not want you swimming to Barbados.’
One of the hands standing near beseeched the secretary to leave his hat in his care, lest it blow into the sea, and the hat was duly passed down. It took some little time for Percival to climb into the tops. Each time the ship rolled so as to throw him out over the sea, he would stop and thrust his arms through the shrouds, pressing himself to the tarred ropes as though to a long-absent love.
Finally, though, he managed to squeeze himself through the lubber’s hole and emerge on to the platform, out of breath and crimson-faced.
He took a seat between Angel and Hayden, clinging to the futtock shrouds like a man staring out of a gaol. As soon as he caught his breath and looked around at the great expanse of straining canvas, he said, ‘“We have laughed to see the sails conceive/And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind …”’
‘Is it Shakespeare?’ Hayden asked, his conversation with Archer coming to mind.
‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream,’ Percival replied. ‘One of my favourite speeches. Do you know Shakespeare, Angel?’ he asked of the young Spaniard.
Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead Page 5