Hayden explained to Miguel that the admiral would send a letter to the Spanish merchant who acted as commissioner for his government when required, and he hoped this gentleman would aid them on their way.
Miguel took this in, watching all the while where he put his feet. This news did nothing to cheer him or put his mind at rest, Hayden thought. Indeed, it almost appeared to increase his anxiety.
“This news does not appear to have cheered you, Miguel,” Hayden ventured.
“My sister told you that two members of the crew on the Spanish frigate attempted to murder us?”
“Yes.”
“I fear that this commissioner you speak of will send word to the wrong people, revealing that we are alive, and we will be in danger again.”
“And who would the wrong people be?”
“I wish I knew. Our stepfather has many allies . . . more than I realised.”
Hayden wondered how much of this fear was real and how much imagined. He did believe that there had been an attempt on Miguel and Angelita’s lives by sailors on the frigate. That would be enough to make anyone distrustful, certainly.
“The offer of my aid still stands . . .” Hayden informed the Spaniard.
Miguel stopped abruptly. “Captain Hayden,” he said curtly, his voice shaking with suppressed anger, “you do not seem to comprehend what has happened. I cannot demand you walk out with me, as you have saved my life and the life of my sister, but do not think for a moment that I approve of your actions. No, sir, I believe you have betrayed my trust and acted as a . . . a bounder. The sooner I might pry my sister from your clutches, the better. I do not want your money, sir. I want nothing to do with you at all!”
With that, the Spaniard turned and set off down the beach. How he intended to get out to the ship when he had not a penny to pay a boatman, Hayden did not know.
Hayden’s own cutter waited, drawn up on the beach, the crew lounging in the shade of a nearby tree. The coxswain soon had them up and launching the boat.
“Where is the Spanish gentleman, Captain?” the coxswain asked.
“He was detained, Childers. You may return for him in one hour.”
“Aye, sir.”
As he was rowed out to his boat over water so clear he felt he sailed through the air, Hayden realised that the slaver was sending its human cargo ashore in lighters, some of the poor people so weakened and ill that they had to be helped down into the boats. The sight so distressed him that he had to turn away.
What else could I do? he thought. I could not leave them to drift in the Atlantic.
Yet the sight of them being carried ashore to be sold made it very clear that he had participated in this shameful trade. He had towed these poor creatures to Barbados and to a life of slavery. The truth that he could do nothing else without breaking the law was of little comfort.
Hayden clambered up the side of his ship, spoke briefly with the lieutenant who was officer of the watch, and then went below to his cabin, where he found Angelita sitting in a chair near the open gallery windows, her head bent over an open book. She looked up as Hayden came in and a joyous smile set her cheeks aglow.
“Charles!”
“My dear, you are up. Has the doctor allowed it?”
“Yes. I am following his very orders.” She rose from her chair stiffly and slowly for one so young. Her page was marked with a ribbon and the book placed gently on the seat, then, pushing on the back of the chair, she stood more or less erect, a grimace then a smile of determined triumph crossing her face.
Hayden began towards her, but she held up a hand to stay his progress.
“Let me cross to you. I am to walk about the cabin a little today.” Moving more like a puppet than a supple young woman, she made her way slowly across the six or seven paces that divided them and nearly collapsed against him.
Hayden put his arms about her lightly, so as to apply no pressure to her injured side. The feeling of her in his embrace, pressed against him, was intoxicating, and he breathed in the scent of her hair as though it were the finest perfume. The idea that she would soon be gone caused him such a feeling of loss that he could hardly bear it.
“The instant your brother believes you can be taken safely ashore he will have it done,” Hayden whispered.
“Then I should be back in my cot . . . immediately.”
Hayden told her that Miguel remained ashore for an hour and then relayed to her their conversation.
“He is trying to act in the place of my father, but I would rather he remained a brother,” she said quietly. “If we do not accept help from you, Charles, then who will it come from, and at what price?”
“The admiral tells me there is a Spanish merchant here who acts on behalf of the Spanish government when required. Admiral Caldwell promised he would write this man a letter. And certainly you could write to your uncle and ask him for aid?”
She pulled away from him so quickly that she was wracked by a spasm of pain. Finally, it faded enough that she was able to look up at him. “This merchant, he would write to my mother; I have no doubt of it. And then our whereabouts would become known to my stepfather. We cannot have this happen, Charles. I believe we would be in danger again—mortal danger. As to our uncle—he does not know we are fleeing to him. We planned to come to his house unannounced and plead our case before him. If he believed us, and we think he should, then he would not betray us to my mother. We dare not write to him lest he misunderstand and alert my stepfather where we are.”
Hayden nodded as she nestled into him again.
“Will you send me away, then?” she asked in a small voice.
Hayden took a long deep breath and leapt. “Not if I can prevent it by any means short of a duel. But your brother will never consent to us marrying.” There . . . it had been said. There was no other way to keep her near without compromising her honour, and he would not let her go. That much was clear to him.
She pressed closer at these words. “Did I hear you ask for my hand, Captain Hayden?”
“I must get down on one knee to ask for your hand, officially.”
“Is that how it is done in England?”
“Yes. Is it not so in Spain?”
“In my country it is all arranged between families.”
“I do not believe our families, such as they are, will agree, so we must find another way . . . Are you weeping?”
“With happiness . . .” She did then bury her face in his chest and wept silently a moment.
“You should be back in your cot,” Hayden said when she appeared to recover from this excess of emotion. “You have been up and about enough for one day.”
Hayden aided her in every way, and not without considerable pain, she was settled again in her cot.
“Do we need my brother’s consent here?” she asked. “I do not know the laws.”
“Your brother’s consent . . . ? I am not certain. You cannot marry without your parents’ consent until you are one and twenty. And you are but twenty, you tell me?”
“Yes, until six months.”
“I will investigate. There might be a Presbyterian church here, and the Scots are more lenient in these matters.”
Hayden sat and held her hand awhile, talking of small things: the town, his meeting with the admiral. There was something odd about the meeting that he had not been able to comprehend until he began to speak of it aloud.
“The royalist who came in—this comte—he told me his family estates were in Burgundy, but his accent, though very faint, was not quite right. It was the way he said ‘dangereux.’ I have only heard it pronounced so in the south—in parts of Languedoc.”
“Why would he not tell the truth?”
“Perhaps he is not who he claims, my dear.”
“If that is so, then perhaps he is neither noble nor a royalist,” she said softly.
“The accent, you would know better than Miguel, but manners . . . We are both very familiar with the manners and attitudes of the French aristocrats, as so many fled to our country. I will ask him.”
Angelita began then to nod and muttered an apology for this before she fell asleep. Hayden went to his table and began looking over his stores lists. The ship would need to be victualled and watered before she could go to sea, and he wanted to be ready the moment he received orders.
However, even though he tried to fix his mind upon his stores lists, it would not be so confined. He had entered into an understanding with a young Spanish woman he knew hardly at all. Had he gone mad? He did not feel the least mad, but only a growing excitement and deepening affection. Her family, of course, would never approve. He was not certain his own mother would think it wise. But he felt so . . . at peace with her. He felt as though the sun had miraculously risen on a perpetual twilight and he was only now becoming aware that he had been living in near-darkness. It was the intimacy, the growing trust, the shared secrets that charmed him. Just the knowledge that she was sleeping nearby filled him with delight.
Well, Hayden thought, I am not the first man to be a fool in love.
When he had been at his paperwork an hour, Miguel returned, opening the door quietly.
Hayden indicated, silently, that Angelita slept. Miguel nodded. It was an odd association that had grown up between the two men; they were utterly divided over the connection between Hayden and Angelita, but united in their concern for her. This led to a strange and uncomfortable alliance, not so much of convenience as concern. Given that Miguel had informed Hayden several times that he wished to shoot him—and he meant this in its most literal sense—it seemed strange that they could cooperate in any way, but when it came to Angelita’s recuperation, they did.
Hayden forced himself to attend to his paperwork a little longer but then came to a decision and slipped out in search of Midshipman Lord Arthur Wickham, whom he found teaching spherical geometry to the cherub in the midshipman’s berth.
“Mr Maxwell,” Hayden addressed the new middy. “I need to have a word with Mr Wickham, if you please.”
The midshipman retreated quickly, leaving captain and protégé alone.
Wickham awaited whatever was to come with his usual uncanny focus.
“Mr Wickham, I should like to send you ashore on an errand of some delicacy . . .”
“Aye, sir.”
“I wish to know if there is a Scots Presbyterian church or priest of that faith on this island.”
“Certainly, sir,” Wickham replied without blinking. “When should I begin?”
“Immediately, Wickham.”
“Aye, sir. I shall go ashore this instant.”
“And Wickham . . . ?”
“Sir?”
“Not a word of this to anyone. Anyone at all.”
“You may count on my utter discretion, sir.”
“That is why I have asked you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Without another word or a single question, the young man hurried off.
Hayden then went in search of Reverend Smosh, whom he found instructing the ship’s boys—a task he had taken on with great relish. Hayden thought that if there were any among them with the least academic inclination, they would be prepared to go up to Oxford in but a few short years.
“Mr Smosh, might I interrupt your dissertation for but a moment?”
“Certainly, Captain,” the chaplain replied, then turned to his students. “Read on—one paragraph each, aloud—then pass the book to the next.”
Hayden and Smosh spent a moment finding a place to speak privately, and there the corpulent little minister stood, awaiting the captain’s pleasure.
“Mr Smosh, I might have need of your services—to perform a marriage ceremony.”
“Which service I should do most happily. Who, might I enquire, are the happy couple?”
“Myself, Mr Smosh, and Doña Angelita.”
Smosh hid any surprise he might have felt. “Ah. Is it possible, Captain, given this young lady’s nationality, that Doña Angelita is a member of the Church of Rome?”
“She is prepared to become a member of the Church of England.”
“Which of course is not something that can be accomplished overnight. Is there any reason to hasten such a union?”
“Not the usual reason but, in this case, a disapproving brother.”
“I see. So she would have to become a member of our church in some haste?”
“Mere minutes, I suspect.”
“Ah . . . well . . . I might enquire if she is a member of the Church of England, and if she were to answer in the affirmative, I would have no way of discovering if that were the truth or no.”
Hayden nodded. Smosh was not given to making decisions by the book—any book.
“Doña Angelita is of age?” he then asked. “That is to say, one and twenty or older?”
“I only have her word on this matter. Her brother, who opposes the marriage, would likely claim she was not.”
“I believe in this case that I would accept the lady’s word if my captain were to assure me it is true.”
“She is one and twenty, I am quite certain. Do we require a licence?”
“I can provide the licence. When would these nuptials take place, if I may ask?”
“Soon, but I must get her brother ashore first.”
Smosh nodded, and looked down at the deck a moment. “I wonder if this gentleman’s propensity to drink himself senseless might provide an opportunity.”
“Reverend Smosh, whatever are you suggesting?”
“It is merely an observation, Captain, that in the brief time he has been aboard, this Spanish gentleman has drunk himself into a stupor on more than one occasion. I suspect a man of such dissolute habits might find himself in a similar state again, given half an opportunity. If he were to fall into properly convivial company . . .” His eyes lost focus and he appeared to consider. “A certain officer of marines comes to mind . . .” The priest shrugged his heavy shoulders.
Hayden thanked the priest and went in search of Hawthorne.
“I thought you would be ashore, Mr Hawthorne,” Hayden said when he found the marine officer in the gunroom with a disassembled pistol lock laid out on a square of linen.
“I have been ashore and plan to return there on the morrow, if my captain will give me leave.”
“I believe he might be prevailed upon to allow that.” Hayden made a gesture to the cabins that lined both sides of the gunroom.
“We are alone,” Hawthorne informed him.
Hayden took a seat and leaned over the table to speak quietly.
“I wonder if it might be possible to get Don Miguel senseless with drink this evening.”
“I wonder if it is possible to stop him, given that wine is provided; the man has not a sou to his name.” Hawthorne regarded his commander. “Does the reason for this proposed drunkenness involve a young lady?”
“Indeed. Smosh would marry Doña Angelita and myself, but her brother will not allow it.”
“Ah. It is likely not my place to question my captain, but is this a somewhat precipitous marriage?”
“Entirely . . . and I do not care. Neither does she.”
Hawthorne nodded, his face very serious. He considered only a moment. “I might have need of involving others. Mr Archer, Barthe, perhaps Wickham . . . Ransome, possibly.”
“Involve who you will, but word must not reach Miguel or our opportunity will be lost.”
“I shall exercise all care. We mus
t have a supper in the gunroom to celebrate our successful crossing—an ancient tradition of His Majesty’s Navy.”
“Ancient traditions are to be upheld at all costs.”
“I agree. Leave this matter to me, Captain. Give it not another thought.”
Hayden rose to his feet. “Mr Hawthorne, were it within my power, I would make you captain of marines.”
“If it were within my power, sir, I should make you Admiral of the Blue. But only because I have grown rather tired of red.” He glanced at his coat.
Both men laughed, and it was not at their wit.
In a few moments Hayden was pacing back and forth across the quarterdeck by the transom, his excitement barely contained. Was he really about to marry? That very evening? Given how long he had known the prospective bride, he thought he should feel some trepidation, some doubts. He felt neither. And that seemed almost as remarkable as the fact that he was about to become a husband.
Henrietta came to mind at that moment. Was this headlong rush into matrimony a result of his failed suit for Henrietta Carthew? Had he hesitated because he had doubts about marriage to Henrietta, as his friend Robert Hertle always believed? Or had he shown wisdom then and was acting the fool now? He did not know. He was not about to let Angelita escape. He knew, somehow, that he would regret it the rest of his days if he did so. The rest of his days.
“As I regret the loss of Henrietta,” he whispered, as he stopped to look over the side. “I shall not make the same mistake a second time.”
Miguel accepted the gunroom’s invitation, though Angelita deemed herself not recovered enough to attend. The gunroom’s occupants were all present, as were Hayden and the senior midshipmen. It was a convivial atmosphere, though close, with only a little breath of air whispering down the gunroom skylight, which was itself under the cover of the quarterdeck.
“A toast to our crossing, gentlemen,” Mr Hawthorne proposed, holding aloft his claret glass. The marine was sitting next to Miguel and had taken on the duty of keeping the Spaniard’s glass fully charged.
The toast was drunk, and it was not the first. The King’s health had been toasted earlier, sitting, as was the custom in the gunroom, with its low deck-head. The health of wives and sweethearts had been drunk to, with only a few half-hidden smiles showing. The successful passing through the gale was toasted, as was Miguel and his sister’s miraculous survival.
Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead Page 13