Ransome smiled. “Yes, sir. And most peculiar, Captain . . . Fowler swears he recognises one of them. He says the man was an able seaman aboard this ship but was believed drowned, sir.”
“That is more than peculiar. Does this man have a name?”
“Aldrich, sir. Peter Aldrich.”
If Ransome had taken a pistol from his pocket and shot at him, Hayden could not have been more surprised . . . or horrified! He made every effort to hide his reaction to this news, but Wickham, who stood but a yard distant, actually twitched, he was so alarmed.
“Do you recognise the name, sir?” Ransome asked.
“Mmm. Let me see this man.” Hayden turned to Archer. “Have the American hold her station until I have had a look at these men.”
The newly pressed seamen came over the rail, looking very downcast, if not truculent, and, to Hayden’s distress, there among them was Peter Aldrich, a man once falsely accused of mutiny and aided in his escape by Hayden and some of his officers.
A few men began to gather about the pressed men. “Be about your business,” Hayden ordered them, rather peevishly, and they hastened off to their stations. “Which one is said to be Aldrich?”
A man was pushed forward, his head down so that his face was barely visible in the failing light. Even so, Hayden had no doubt of the man’s identity. It was Peter Aldrich, a man Hayden had warned never to go to sea again.
“What is your name, sir?” Hayden asked.
“Watson, sir. Archy Watson, second mate aboard the Mystic.”
“And from where do you hail, Watson?”
“Boston, sir. I was born there.”
Hayden beckoned Wickham nearer, hoping to God that the boy’s wit had not deserted him. “Mr Wickham, you were familiar with the late Peter Aldrich, were you not?”
“Very familiar, sir.”
“Do you recognise this man?”
Wickham, to Hayden’s relief, did not hesitate. “No, sir,” he replied, “I do not. He does bear a strong resemblance to Aldrich, sir, but it is no more than that.”
“I would concur . . . if I were allowed to give my opinion.” This was Hawthorne, appearing out of the gloom. “He does look a good deal like the late Peter Aldrich—could be his brother—but I have seen such things before. I once met a man who I mistook to be my cousin and was utterly astonished when he was not. There was not a hair difference between them.”
“Mr Wickham, take charge of the cutter, if you please, and return this man to his ship.” Hayden turned to Ransome. “See these new men settled on the lower deck. I will speak with them in the morning. The rest of you, about your business. We shall make sail the moment the cutter has been taken aboard.”
As the boat crew climbed down the side, Hayden beckoned Aldrich near. “I do apologise for the misunderstanding, Mr Watson, but you do resemble our late shipmate to a remarkable degree.” Hayden looked quickly around to be certain they were alone, then whispered, “Did I not warn you never to go to sea again?”
“You did, sir,” Aldrich replied, his voice shaking, “but I have no other trade, Captain.”
“British ships search American ships all the time, as you well know. If this happens again and you are recognised, you will be returned to England, where it is very likely you will be hanged, sir. I should think the life of a common labourer preferable to that.”
“Yes, sir.” Aldrich hung his head like a truant schoolboy.
“Climb down, sir. And do not ignore my warning twice.”
Aldrich went quickly down the ship’s side and into the boat, which was immediately away over the dark, restive sea. Hawthorne appeared at Hayden’s side. “That was unlooked for,” he said quietly.
“I shall invite Wickham and the doctor to dine with me this night, Mr Hawthorne. Might you join us?”
“I should be delighted to, sir.”
“Until then,” Hayden replied, and walked aft. He braced himself on the transom rail and for a moment closed his eyes, as though in pain. There had never been any doubt in his mind that Peter Aldrich was naive, but he had never thought him to lack wit. Yet here he was, returned to his former trade, where not only was he taking the great risk of being recognised as one of the Themis’ accused mutineers, he was putting Hayden and the others who had arranged his escape in almost equal danger. It could be more than their careers brought to an abrupt conclusion.
The cutter returned quickly from its errand and was lifted directly aboard. A course was set that would see the frigate catch the other ships up in a few hours. Hayden took a turn about the deck, then repaired below, where he measured the small distance across his cabin again and again, like a caged beast.
As they had but left port that day, supper was a rather grand affair—though grand in the English way, as Rosseau had remained behind. The meal, however, was not jolly and the conversation was, at best, strained with unusual and slightly awkward silences. It was not until the servants had cleared away and port had been brought out that the diners were left alone.
“It was Aldrich, then?” Griffiths asked quietly, with an anxious glance at the open gallery windows.
“You may speak freely—though softly—Doctor,” Hawthorne informed him. “I have a trusted marine on the quarterdeck ensuring our privacy.”
“Yes, Dr Griffiths,” Hayden said, “it was Aldrich.”
“Does he not realise he could sink us all?” Griffiths almost hissed. “Surely, he must.”
“I had only the briefest moment alone with him,” Hayden explained, “and he excused his foolishness with the claim that he had no other trade.”
“Be that as it may,” Griffiths said, still distressed, “he has spent much of his life in the Navy and served aboard who knows how many ships . . . He has very likely been aboard British vessels that stopped and searched neutrals, so he comprehends how commonly this occurs. There must be hundreds of British seamen who would know him by sight. This is a very great risk he is taking.”
“And not just to himself,” Hawthorne added.
“Where was he bound?” Griffiths asked.
“Barbados, Doctor,” Wickham replied.
“Barbados!” Griffiths all but reared back in horror. “Will he go ashore?”
“He will if the ship’s master sends him there.”
Griffiths pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. “We take substantial risk to preserve his life, and this is how he repays us? By placing us all in even greater danger! I wish I had him here; I would skin him, I swear!”
“I understand your passion, Doctor,” Hayden answered, “but I do not think there is much we can do about it, other than to hope he does not give us up in the event that he is recognised and taken back to England.”
“Would he not face a court-martial here, in Barbados?” Wickham asked thoughtfully.
“It is an excellent question, Mr Wickham,” Hawthorne replied pushing his mouth into a sour, thoughtful rose. “What think you, Captain?”
“I am no barrister . . . but I suppose Caldwell might very well decide, since many of the principal witnesses to the events are present, that we could try the matter here.”
“And this could be to our very great advantage,” Griffiths said. “Without Landry or Hart to spread their slander and defame him, there would only be the opinion of the officers, and we all believed he had no part in the mutiny.”
“He did run,” Hawthorne observed, “which does make him look less innocent, I think.”
“He did not so much run as he was pushed—by us,” Hayden answered him, “but even certain captains of the panel thought it very likely he would be found guilty—and falsely so. We acted to preserve his life.”
“Desertion is a far less serious offence, especially as he was facing persecution and possible execution.”
There was a moment of very contemplative silence, and then Wickha
m said softly, “My concern is this. Mr Aldrich has always had a most trusting nature. It is entirely possible that, under close questioning by a panel of captains, he might—without ever meaning to—reveal who helped him escape. Even if it were only a single name . . . that would be enough to condemn one of us. And I do not know what the punishment would be for aiding the escape a man who faced court-martial.”
The four looked one to the other, then Hawthorne surmised with surprising calm, “Such a thing might be without precedent in the history of courts-martial. Officers would not commonly take such a risk for an able seaman.”
“Aldrich was unusual in almost every way,” Hayden remembered. “I have never known a hand to be addressed as ‘Mister,’ even occasionally by officers, but somehow Aldrich garnered such respect. And he was falsely accused by Hart, who never cared for him because the men respected him so while Captain Hart had the respect of no one.”
“Old Faint Hart—I do so miss him,” Hawthorne declared.
“What is to be done about Fowler?” Griffiths wondered. “He claimed, and rightly so, that he found the late Peter Aldrich alive and hale aboard an American transport. He is not likely to change his mind, and even less likely to keep his peace.”
“I will deal with Fowler,” Hawthorne assured the others.
“Fowler is not the wisest man aboard our ship,” the surgeon pointed out, “or certainly he would have comprehended that revealing Aldrich’s identity could send him to the gallows.”
“There are men on the lower deck, Doctor, with much greater understanding than Fowler,” Hawthorne explained to the surgeon. “I will have one of them explain to Fowler that he was very much mistaken in believing he had recognised Peter Aldrich, who is most regrettably, but certainly, dead. Do not concern yourself with Fowler a moment more. He shall realise the error of his ways this very night, I am quite certain.”
Seventeen
Upon the sun rising, Hayden found that only a single frigate remained in view—that of Sir William Jones. As the moon had been all but full the previous night, this seemed near to impossible.
“Do you think, Mr Barthe,” Hayden asked the sailing master, “that they could have lost sight of us when the night had grown so clear?”
“I do not, Captain.”
“Perhaps they went in pursuit of a strange sail in the night and we did not take note of their signals?”
Mr Barthe made a growling sound in his throat. “I think the explanation will be that they did not believe Sir William quite interested enough in prize money.”
“Perhaps they will return before the day grows much older.”
“And perhaps I will begin to grow again and finally attain the stature that my circumstances merit.”
“You loom large in the opinion of all who know you, Mr Barthe,” Hayden said.
“You refer to his girth, I assume?” It was Hawthorne, making his usual entrance.
Hayden smiled. “Not at all, Mr Hawthorne. You slept well, I trust?”
“After my mind was put at ease over a certain matter, I slept like a child.” Hawthorne lowered his voice so that the sailing master, who had wandered a few paces off to stare up into the rigging, could not hear. “Fowler has admitted that he made an asinine mistake yesterday—claiming poor Aldrich had risen from the dead—and feels rather the fool for it.”
“Who among us has not made a mistake?” Hayden observed.
“On deck!” the lookout called down. “Land ho! Land three points off the larboard bow!”
“Martinico,” Barthe announced, his attention drawn away from the rig. “The current has set us more to the west than I had allowed for, though not by a great deal.”
Hawthorne turned to the sailing master, his look quizzical. “Was I not informed that the tides in this part of the world were all but imperceptible?”
“So they are, Mr Hawthorne,” the master told him, “barely a foot or two, but there are powerful ocean currents here not caused by tides. A very strong current flows in through these very islands, but there are countercurrents along the coasts and narrow passes where the current flows north, while not so far off it flows south. Most islands have eddies behind them where the current is strong.”
“But you have been in these waters before, Mr Barthe,” Hawthorne almost insisted. “You must know these currents well.”
“Only the local men know them, Mr Hawthorne, and then commonly only in their own localities. Ships run aground in these waters with greater frequency than any place on earth, I think.”
“I shall not sleep well again, I am sure,” the marine said, and he did look distressed to a small degree.
Hayden called for his glass and went to the larboard rail. There, upon the horizon, appeared a jagged, green island beneath a bonnet of pure white cloud. In reality, Hayden knew this was the top of a tall volcano—4,600 feet, if he remembered correctly—and the great mass of the island was below the horizon yet. He had a sudden desire to explore this place, for he dearly loved to go ashore in new lands.
“Captain?”
Hayden turned to find the surgeon emerging from the companionway in some haste.
“Doctor,” Hayden replied, “we have raised the isle of Martinico.” He offered the doctor his glass, which the doctor hardly seemed to notice.
“Might I have a word, Captain?”
“Yes, of course.” Hayden beckoned, and they crossed to the windward side and all the way aft to the transom. The two had been shipmates long enough that Hayden had learned to read the small signs of distress in the doctor’s face—signs that most others did not see.
“What is it, Doctor?” he enquired quietly.
“I believe we have fever aboard, sir.”
Hayden shut his eyes for a second, as though he had felt a quick stab of pain.
“Who is it?”
“Drury and James, sir.”
“Two men!”
“I fear so.”
“How ill are they?”
“Not so bad at the moment, but Yellow Fever commonly progresses with great rapidity.”
Neither man spoke for a moment. Hayden could hardly have imagined less welcome news. Yellow Jack was almost invariably fatal.
“Let us hope it spreads no further. We have physic for this, I trust?”
“There is much that is recommended, but I have little faith that any of it will effect a cure. Bark, I believe, helps with the fever.”
“You are too honest, Doctor. Others of your profession are more prone to overstating what they can accomplish.”
“I should never say as much to the crew, sir, but I thought you would prefer the truth.”
“I do, and I thank you for revealing it. Let us hope that these men heal apace.”
Griffiths nodded but said nothing. He touched his hat and returned to the companionway, where he disappeared down to the secret decks below.
Hayden crossed to the leeward rail, where he stood for a long time, observing the distant green hill, made dramatic by sunlight and shadows. How this drew him, as though it were some promised, mystical isle where man lived at peace with both nature and himself. An isle free of war and disease, and even death itself.
He shook his head. The rest of that long day he found himself glancing often towards the companionway, wondering if the surgeon would emerge again with news. The crew were unsettled to learn that the Yellow Jack had crept aboard, but the older hands kept assuring the others that after a week at sea the fever would be gone—it came out to the ship from the land and clung to it for only so long. Several times over the course of the day Hayden wondered if he was sweating unnaturally. Each time he decided it was only the heat and nothing more, but even so, he was as unsettled as his crew, even if he was at pains to hide it. The invisible terror, which chose its victims by some process men could not fathom, was as frightening to an educated officer as
it was to an illiterate seaman.
Perhaps two hours before darkness fell there was a sudden call from aloft.
“On deck! Sail! Sail, dead ahead!”
Hayden took up his glass and hurried forward, where he found several officers gathered around Midshipman Wickham, who was standing at the barricade, a glass to his eye.
“A little two-sticker, I think, Mr Ransome,” he said, not realising Hayden was there.
Ransome looked rather uncomfortable. “Mr Wickham believes it to be a small brig, Captain.”
Wickham quickly lowered his glass and touched his hat. “My apologies, Captain, I did not know you were there.”
“It is quite all right, Wickham. I am certain you meant no disrespect. Is she an armed brig or a transport?” Hayden asked.
“I cannot say, sir. She is too distant yet.”
Hayden raised his own glass just to be certain they were not looking at one of the missing British frigates. “Make the signal for strange sail to the north, if you please,” Hayden ordered. “Mr Ransome, I believe she will take more sail.”
“I agree, sir. There is not as much weight in this trade, as we have often seen.” Ransome turned and began calling out orders.
“Could you make out her point of sail, Mr Wickham?”
The midshipman shook his head. “I could not, sir, but perhaps from the foretop I might see more . . .”
“Then lay aloft, Mr Wickham, with all speed.”
Wickham clambered up the ratlines with two of the newer middies at his heels. They were soon all in the foretop, where only Wickham showed the sense to sit and clap on while he used his glass, the other two bouncing about like excited children.
“On deck!” Wickham called down. “I should think she is making for Guadeloupe, Captain, and crowding on sail.”
“How distant is she, Mr Wickham?”
Wickham raised his glass again, then looked down to Hayden. “Two leagues, or a little less.”
“Mr Ransome!” Hayden called out, setting off towards the quarterdeck. “We will shape our course to intercept.”
A gun was fired and signals run aloft. Almost immediately, Inconstant altered her course to converge with Hayden’s at some not-too-distant point. There was a great deal of murmuring around the deck and the watch below came streaming up to see this strange sail. Nothing excited the crew more than the promise of prize money with little or no danger involved, for even an armed brig was no match for a thirty-two-gun frigate and would almost certainly strike if she could not escape.
Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead Page 17