‘Only a little. Romeo and Juliet, of course; As You Like It, and the one with the magician … Prospero, I think.’
‘The Tempest,’ Percival declared.
‘That one was very difficult for my English.’
‘When you see the plays on the stage it seems that all is made clear. Is that not so, Captain?’
‘It does make a great difference.’
Without a hat, it was revealed that Percival’s hair on top consisted of lank little strands shot through with grey. Hayden did not know the man’s age – past sixty, he thought – and though the secretary was still moderately vigorous, his skin was dry-dull and his carriage leaning toward stooped.
He was, however, a man of great erudition, an amiable dinner companion and well informed on diverse subjects from literature to the production of cotton and sugar. He spoke several languages more than passably (though not so well as Hayden), and was widely travelled in his capacity of secretary to the admiral. He was not an unpleasant person to have aboard and, but for the recent awkwardness with one of the new midshipmen, Hayden considered him an excellent shipmate.
Hayden thought himself to be somewhat imperceptive in certain matters, but he was quite confident in this particular case that Percival had not climbed up to the maintop for Hayden’s company. It was the young Spaniard who had drawn him there, which made Hayden wonder if Angel had not made the ascent to escape the attentions of the admiral’s secretary. Angel, however, gave no indication of finding Percival an aggravation. Quite the opposite, in truth. The two chatted away amiably in both Spanish and English until a call from below caught their attention.
It was a rather distressed Miguel, who stood on the quarterdeck, staring up, hands planted on hips.
‘Come up!’ Percival called down.
Miguel, however, shook his head, appearing both angry and agitated.
‘Why will he not come up?’ Percival enquired of Angel.
The young Spaniard laughed. ‘He is fearful of … high up … like this.’
‘Afraid of heights?’ the secretary prompted.
‘Yes. That is it. He is afraid of heights. I must go down.’
‘Well,’ Percival replied, and appeared about to protest, ‘if you must.’
Angel scurried, crab-like, to the lubber’s hole and slowly lowered himself, his head disappearing with a last, tight smile, perhaps a little apprehensive about the climb down.
Ransome sent one of the topmen aloft to see that Angel reached the deck safely. Hayden and Percival watched the young Spaniard’s progress for a moment and then Percival looked at Hayden and smiled.
‘She is a very charming young woman, do you not agree, Captain?’
‘I do beg your pardon, Mr Percival … Do you refer to the young Spanish gentleman who just departed our company?’
Percival laughed pleasantly, and shook his head. ‘I do, Captain, but, for my money, she is no gentleman. I have seen many a comely young woman arrayed in the clothing of men – costume balls, you know – and she is not even one of the more convincing faux males.’ His brow wrinkled. ‘You did not know?’
‘I confess, I doubt it yet.’
Percival suppressed a smile.
‘You jest, Mr Percival, surely?’
‘I do not. Don Angel is a young lady dressed in the clothing of a man. I have not said a word of it to any other because I wanted to observe her and Miguel without them realizing I comprehended their deception. I did not know if you were aware of it.’
Hayden almost laughed, though he did not quite know why. ‘You have left me somewhat speechless. I will admit to difficulty crediting what you suggest.’
‘Do take a close look at Angel’s hands when next you can. They are very fine-boned and small, the skin both soft and femininely smooth. She has perfect little ears; hips, though hardly broad, broader than a young boy’s; and her shoulders are comparatively narrow. She blushes modestly, and slips away at any bawdy jest, laughs like a well-bred young woman, walks as young noblewomen are trained to, has a wonderfully full and sensuous mouth and eyes like no man. Her bosom has been wrapped to hide its swell, and – at the risk of sounding crude – her breeches are not quite as full as they should be. In sum, a handsome young woman in the clothing of a man. I believe she has deceived whomever she has because she is a Spaniard and the ship’s company does not quite know what to expect of a young Spanish nobleman and are not the least surprised to find him somewhat effeminate, as you must agree Angel is.’
Hayden did not know what to say. Much of what Percival catalogued, upon even the briefest reflection he knew to be true, but given that it had become the fashion among young men to display their finer feelings in public – weeping in the public theatre and at musical recitals – he would not have been in the least surprised to find a young man who blushed at the sailors’ bawdy humour. He did realize, however, that Angel never displayed his feelings in such a way that they would be noticed and admired for their intensity and purity, as the fashionable young men did. Angel’s refinement of feeling seemed quite natural and neither exaggerated nor affected.
‘Have you not noticed, Captain Hayden,’ Percival said, interrupting Hayden’s thoughts, ‘that Angel is often in your company? I have seen her lingering on the deck, waiting until you have concluded some business with your crew, only to feign surprise when she finds herself in your presence. She does hang upon your every word, and catches herself when she believes her feelings too transparent. You saved her life, and I am of the opinion that, given her beliefs, she thinks you were sent to be her rescuer and she sent to rescue you.’
‘I do not believe I am in need of rescue, Mr Percival,’ Hayden informed the secretary, trying not to sound scornful.
‘Are you not? Have you not suffered recently from romantic disappointment? Who better to rescue you than a young woman, who, I might add, has a great deal to offer? If one looks past her dress, she is comely and vivacious, her manner is both cultivated yet somehow simple and genuine, she is educated in the way of women of her class, she plays the pianoforte quite well, according to her brother, is a masterful conversationalist, charming in the extreme, and eminently sensible. All the men aboard value her company, even if they do not realize quite why, for most, like you, do not comprehend that she is a woman, and it is to her femininity that they respond.’ Percival paused a moment to look down upon Angel, who had reached the deck and was pulling back his hair to tie it with a ribbon. Suddenly, this seemed an utterly feminine motion to Hayden.
‘Do you know the story, Captain Hayden, of the natural philosopher who took aboard ship with him a “boy” who nightly shared his cabin? Upon arrival at their first South Pacific isle the natives immediately recognized this boy as a young vahine, though no one aboard ship had ever suspected. I wonder what it says about the English that we are so obtuse?’
Hayden felt some irritation at this, as clearly he was one of the obtuse Englishmen – unless, of course, Percival was wrong.
The admiral’s secretary appeared to read his thoughts, or perhaps his face. ‘Do not be embarrassed at this, Captain. No one else aboard has noticed that Angel is, in fact, a young woman. Any attraction they might feel to Angel would be a source of embarrassment and would be both suppressed and denied.’
Below, Angel put a hand lightly on the shoulder of his brother, who was clearly still angered and distressed that Angel had climbed aloft. But why should he be? Young men habitually sought thrills of one sort or another. The gesture, the hand so lightly on the shoulder, was at once familiar and appeared, suddenly, feminine.
‘Do you see?’ Percival asked quietly, his eyes drawn to the same scene. ‘She mollifies her elder brother. In a moment she will set her charm to work and very soon she will make him smile – even laugh. He is no more able to resist her charm than I am … or you are, if I may say it.’
Percival rolled up on to his knees from where he sat and went on hands and feet to the lubber’s hole. He lowered himself over the edge and said, ‘
It has been a pleasure speaking with you, Captain.’ He was about to disappear when his eyes narrowed and he pointed. ‘What is that speck … far off?’ he asked. ‘Or do my eyes deceive me?’
Hayden followed the secretary’s gaze, and there, just on the horizon, was an amber-brown smudge, so small it was almost undetectable. Standing, Hayden looped an arm around a shroud and raised his glass.
‘Mr Archer!’ Hayden called down to his first lieutenant.
‘Sir?’ Archer shaded his eyes and looked up.
‘Sail, off the larboard bow, just on the horizon.’
Hayden raised his glass again. The lookout, whom Hayden had sent down to give himself a moment of privacy aloft, came scrambling up.
‘Lambert!’ Hayden called to him as he climbed.
‘Sir!’
‘See our guest reaches the deck safely, if you please.’
‘Aye, Captain. That I will.’
Hayden lifted his glass and quizzed the distant sail once more.
‘Can you tell anything of her, sir?’ Archer called up.
But Hayden could not … A ship, nothing more, so distant as to be invisible from the deck. ‘I cannot, Mr Archer. We will alter our course to intercept. Call the sail handlers, if you please.’
‘Aye, sir,’ came up from the deck.
Hayden lingered a few moments more, his mind torn in two directions at once – wanting to consider the remarkable conversation he had just held with Percival, and drawn to this strange sail.
He forced his mind to his duty and went down the back-stay, hand over hand.
Archer stood waiting for him.
‘Shall we beat to quarters, Captain?’
‘The moment we have altered course, Mr Archer. Where is Mr Wickham? Send him aloft. Let us see if he can make out this ship.’
The sail handlers hurried to their stations, but there was no panic, no pushing, despite the palpable excitement. Mr Wickham appeared and went up the mainmast, a gaggle of off-duty midshipmen tailing behind, their shiny new glasses slung over their shoulders in imitation of Lord Arthur.
Wickham did not stop at the maintops but climbed on until he sat astride the topgallant yard. The ship was put on her new course, picked up her skirts and went surging over the trade-driven seas, which now struck the Themis abeam, sending heavy spray sometimes high into the rigging. The gun crews went to their places, but before they had cast off their guns a call came from aloft.
‘On deck!’ Wickham twisted about to find his captain. ‘She appears to be under jury rig, Captain. Only a stump of one mast standing.’
Barthe had come, and stood by his captain at the rail, where they had a view of Wickham. ‘Is she a Navy ship, Mr Wickham?’
‘I cannot be certain, Captain, but I do not believe she is. Transport, more like. No flag that I can see.’
‘Keep your glass on her, if you please,’ Hayden called up. ‘And be alert for any sign that she is not alone.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Gould stood a few feet off. ‘Sir? Shall I send aloft our colours?’
‘Not yet, Mr Gould. Have the French colours ready as well. We shall quiz this ship before we draw within range of her guns – has she any to speak of?’
‘Aye, Captain.’
‘Is she the other Spanish frigate, do you think, Captain?’ Barthe asked. The master stood, hands on the rail, squinting off to the sector of sea that hid this mysterious vessel.
‘I cannot answer that, Mr Barthe. Where is Miguel? Mr Gould, find one of our Spanish guests, if you please.’
Gould left his flags in the care of the cherub and scurried off. A moment later he returned, herding both Angel and Miguel before him.
‘The ship that struck the Medea,’ Hayden began, trying not to stare quizzically at Angel, ‘was she a transport or a frigate?’
Angel looked to Miguel. ‘We sailed in company with other frigates, Captain, but we did not see the ship that sank us.’
‘Well, we have a heavily damaged ship in the offing. I would like to know what she might be before I draw within range of her guns.’
Miguel and Angel glanced at each other again, and Angel shrugged. ‘I do wish we could offer more, Captain Hayden.’
‘We shall discover her origin soon enough,’ he replied.
It was, however, almost two hours before they could make her out. Hayden went forward, the only place from which this ship could be seen clearly on their point of sail.
Having beat to quarters, almost every hand aboard had a station, but those few who had no duties gathered on the forecastle. The doctor was there, as was Hawthorne, who might range about the ship as he was needed once he had his orders from Hayden. Smosh was there as well, minus his clerical collar, as he would aid the doctor in the cockpit, should that be required, and there was terrible superstition about priests in the sick-berth. Both the Spaniards were here, as was Mr Percival, chatting with Angel in Spanish.
The ship was not a mile distant, and Hayden could plainly see that she had only thirty feet of her foremast standing and had used spare spars or recovered yards to jury rig a mast that crossed but one yard.
‘On deck!’ came the call from Wickham. ‘I can make her out, Captain … She’s a slaver.’
Seven
It was not just caution that had the Themis hove to a hundred yards to windward – the horrifying stench of slavers was notorious. Even the brisk trade could not carry this odour away. Hayden had sent Archer across to the slave ship, and now he returned with the ship’s master in his cutter.
All along the deck the men stared at the drifting ship, which was stuffed to the gunnels with a cargo of Africans – men, women and children. The slavers had allowed a few of these poor creatures out on to the deck to stand upright and take the ocean air – not from compassion, Hayden guessed, but in an attempt to bring a greater portion of their cargo to market alive and in a condition to be sold. These dusky men, all but naked, stared back at the crew of the Navy ship, perhaps uncertain if they were saviours or presented an even greater danger.
‘Poor buggers,’ Barthe pronounced by Hayden’s elbow, though whether he meant the men being carried into slavery or the crew of the stricken ship he could not say.
Smosh was positioned at the rail beside the master. ‘These men trade in souls,’ he declared.
Percival glanced at him. ‘You do not believe, Mr Smosh, that the inferior races were put here to serve men?’
‘I do not believe any race was put upon this earth to be worked and sold like cattle.’
The cutter came alongside at that moment and the master of the slaver – a ship out of Bristol – clattered up the side, Archer at his heels.
Archer touched his hat. ‘Richard LeClerc, Captain Hayden, Master of the Orion.’
Hayden shook the man’s hand. ‘Are you the owner, Captain LeClerc?’
‘No, sir. She’s owned by a syndicate. All Bristol men of good standing.’ The man looked over at Archer, clearly unsettled. ‘We lost our masts in the gale, Captain. No doubt you went through it yourselves … though you fared better than we. I can likely make port under jury, sir – not Port Royal, where I was bound, but some port – the problem is I won’t have half a cargo when I arrive, for I didn’t set out with water or victuals for such a slow crossing.’
‘I can tow you into Barbados, to which port I am bound,’ Hayden offered. ‘It will not be fast, but quicker than you are sailing now and you shall not end up on a reef – I will see to that. Have you stores for a fortnight?’
The master shifted from one foot to the other, creases wrinkling up his forehead and appearing around his eyes.
‘A fortnight … Mayhap. We will be on tight rations, though. I cannot grant you salvage rights – not when there is the least chance I can make port on my own. I can offer you a portion of the profits, sir.’
‘There are seldom “profits” when such arrangements are entered into, Captain LeClerc.’
‘A portion of the sale of my cargo, then. Five per cent,�
�� the master said. ‘We have seven hundred alive yet, and I expect to have nearly that many when we arrive.’
Hayden wished he were anywhere but on his deck having this discussion, for he wanted nothing to do with this man’s trade, but he could not leave a ship to sail on under her scrap of canvas, all but unmanageable, a sea of reefs and islands before her, not to mention her shortage of victuals and water. The human suffering would be beyond comprehension.
Behind the slaver, Barthe was making small motions with his head and half gestures with limp hands.
‘Allow me to consult with my officers, Captain LeClerc.’
Barthe and Hayden immediately retreated to a place where they could speak privately.
‘That man is offering half what we should be due,’ Barthe whispered. ‘He is in a fix, Captain, for he could lose half his cargo, even if he did bring his ship into a port – which we both know would be a feat of seamanship that would see the man a legend.’
‘We are talking about a large number of lives, Mr Barthe. And I do not mind saying that the entire business … unsettles me.’
‘I do realize we are speaking of lives, and I am of the same opinion as you, sir: trade in human souls is revolting, but … There is right and wrong, sir, and 5 per cent of the sale of his slaves is an insult, sir. We should not take less than 10 per cent, and half that again would not be unfair, sir.’
Hayden could feel the eyes of his officers upon him, for they would all share, should the ship be considered salvage. Even if they settled on a commission to tow the slaver into port, they would certainly expect – and deserve – a portion of the moneys.
The Reverend Smosh came and hovered two yards distant, his doughy face drawn and dark.
‘Mr Smosh,’ Hayden addressed him, ‘do you have a question, sir?’
‘I do apologize, Captain, but as the guardian of human souls, sir, I feel I must intercede on behalf of the hundreds entombed upon that ship.’ He shook his hand in the slaver’s direction. ‘I believe that to profit from the sale of these poor people will put a stain upon your ledger that can never be erased. It is a base evil, sir – and you know I am not prone to making such pronouncements.’
Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead Page 6