Under Enemy Colors (11 page)

“That was a near-run thing,” Wickham breathed.

“Too damned near,” Hawthorne intoned. He gripped the rail with both hands, rocking back and forth twice. “And where was our brave captain during this affair? In his cot! Had you not stepped forward, Mr Hayden, I think it would have gone against us. I really do. Thank God Mr Franks and his mates did not shirk. They, and a few of the hands, made all the difference.” The marine was suddenly very still, a look of dumb surprise on his face. “I never thought I should be the one trying to preserve the rule of Captain Josiah Hart.” He shook his head. “Duty is a strange mistress.”

Hayden glanced over at Mr Barthe. The man had done his duty and supported him as he should, but he now looked like a man who’d lost a child. Such misery spread over his face, Hayden thought he might weep.

Landry hurried onto the quarterdeck then, whipped off his hat, and combed fingers through his thinning hair. He was so agitated he could not stand still. “Well!” the little lieutenant said. “Well! That was as near a mutiny as I shall ever want to see.”

“Yes, Landry,” Hawthorne answered, eyeing the officer with dislike, “we preserved your hero from the consequences of his own folly.”

“Mr Hawthorne,” Hayden cautioned. “All our passions are running high. Let no one speak words he later will regret.”

The anger and pent up frustration of the men around him was palpable, but they had not given in to their feelings and had instead chosen reason and duty.

“Mr Hawthorne speaks the truth,” Barthe growled. “We have saved Captain Hart so that he might damn our eyes and abuse us at every turn. That is what loyalty to England will bring you.” He spat over the side. “God save the King.” The master turned away and crossed the deck to speak with the helmsmen.

“We all have duties to attend.” Hayden watched the master go, a little shocked by his oath. “I will keep the deck until we are in the Channel. Stay alert, this matter is not behind us yet.”

The
Themis
was a weatherly ship, but her new rigging stretched a little, and she did not hold her own against wind and sea. By the turn she had lost ground, and then she was among a dozen ships beating out of the bay in a small gale, white-maned seas streaming across the sound and breaking against Hawkers Point. Slowly, board by board, they gained against the rising wind. Penlee Point passed beneath their lee with the last dim light, and a hard rain began to batter them as they stood out into the Channel under reduced canvas.

Hayden felt the muscles of his back release. “Your watch, Mr Landry.”

“Aye, Mr Hayden.”

“Keep the lookout sharp. At least a dozen ships fled the sound as we did. Mr Hawthorne has stationed more of his men about the ship than is usual, but keep your wits about you this night. We have had enough ‘accidents.’”

The little lieutenant touched his hat, a mechanical gesture. Even in the growing darkness Hayden could see the fear.

Below, Hayden found Muhlhauser in the gunroom with Hawthorne and Griffiths, the surgeon, who sharpened an amputating knife upon a small stone. The marine lieutenant raised a decanter. “I am no medical man, Mr Hayden, but I believe our doctor might prescribe a small restorative…?”

“God, yes…if the doctor recommends it,” Hayden answered, and Hawthorne filled a glass. Hayden shed his dripping coat, Perseverance taking it forward to hang by the ship’s stove.

“A little perseverance goes a long way,” Hawthorne said as the boy disappeared.

Hayden actually laughed as he sank down on a chair. “Well, with a little help from the ebbing tide, we weathered, and are in the Channel proper. Are your marines all with us, do you think, Mr Hawthorne? I fear there will be much recrimination and ballyragging among the hands. We don’t want it to break out into a brawl.”

“I believe my men are loyal, Mr Hayden.”

“Even so, put those you trust most to watch over the arms chest and the magazines.”

“I’ve already done so, sir.”

Hayden nodded his thanks, then turned to the civilian guest, who sat looking out of sorts and ill.

“How are you feeling, Mr Muhlhauser?”

“Better, sir, thank you.”

“He fed the fishes,” Hawthorne offered, “and that set him up.”

Finding the gunroom excessively warm after the gale on deck, Hayden excused himself and retreated to his cabin to shed his waistcoat. As he unbuttoned it, someone came into the gunroom, huffing and stamping—Barthe, Hayden assumed. The rustle of clothing being shed, and then the laboured complaint of a chair.

“Four boards we made against a flooding tide,” he heard the master protest, “and lost ground on every one. You do not gain a crew’s confidence by such seamanship.”

This brought an awkward silence.

“Has Landry run to the captain to tell what transpired?” Barthe wondered aloud.

“Be wary, Mr Barthe,” Hawthorne warned.

“The little snitch isn’t here,” Barthe responded. “Well, Doctor, what do you say now? Did I not warn you that we would have such capers before long?”

A whispered warning, uncertain in its source. Hayden emerged from his cabin and Barthe all but jumped in his chair at the sight of him.

“What do you mean, ‘such capers,’ Mr Barthe?” Hayden asked directly.

Barthe glanced around at the others as though appealing for help.

“Mr Barthe has a theory that our crew has, for some time, been on the edge of mutiny,” the doctor said, scraping steel over stone, “just waiting their moment. Then they will murder all their officers and…and…Well, I’m not quite sure what they will do then, other than hang.”

“And did we not just have a near-mutiny, Doctor?” Barthe demanded. Rising from his chair, the master began pacing back and forth along the length of the table opposite Hayden. The slow pitch and roll of the ship hardly seemed to matter to him, he had been so many years at sea.

“I was below seeing to my patients, Mr Barthe. I heard no sounds of fighting. Did I somehow miss those?”

“Mr Barthe,” Hayden interrupted, “how is it that you did not speak out when I gathered all the officers in the gunroom this very day?”

Barthe continued his pacing, hands tucked behind his back like thin wings—his arms could not quite encircle his substantial girth. “The disaffection of the crew is no secret, Mr Hayden; you have spoken upon the subject yourself. It can be witnessed at almost any hour of the day by those who choose to see it. Perhaps I should have spoken up when you quizzed us, but I possess no more evidence than any observant man might gather himself in a few hours. It is true that for quite some time I have felt among our crew a resentment simmering, which I have at times opined might boil over into something more violent.”

“At times…?” Griffiths wondered.

“What do you mean, Doctor?” Hayden asked, unable to hide his annoyance that neither man had bothered to speak of this earlier. Only the fact that Barthe had supported him so strongly when they weighed in Plymouth Sound kept him from roasting the man—sailing master or not.

“I think Mr Barthe should explain,” the doctor answered. “It is his hobby-horse.”

Barthe stopped to take a drink of penitent water a servant had fetched him, then glanced at Hayden, clearly uneasy with his situation. “No doubt you have felt the same things as I, Mr Hayden. I cannot offer you names, but I believe there is an element among the foremast Jacks—not all of them, by any means, but a good number—who have the other men cowed, frightened of them. Penrith’s murder was at their hands, I believe.”

“Ah…Penrith’s murder…” the doctor intoned theatrically.

“I have heard the whispering among the crew!” Barthe said passionately, turning on the doctor for an instant. “And seen how quickly they fell silent when an officer or even another crewman drew near. You were not upon the deck just now, Doctor, but if Mr Hayden had not acted so decisively we should have had a mutiny, I’m certain of it.”

“Now, Mr Barthe—you overstate matters,” Hawthorne cautioned. “The crew might have refused to sail—were on the verge of it, I think—but that is not quite a mutiny in the sense that you mean. I don’t think it would have come to violence.”

“But we have already had violence,” Barthe sputtered. “Penrith murdered. Tawney beaten.”

“Were the same men responsible for both, Mr Barthe?” Hayden asked.

Barthe shook his head. “I—I know not. As I say, I cannot offer you names, but that does not mean I am not right. You saw what happened this night.”

“I did, though it was difficult to make out who took what side. Stuckey and Cole clearly pressed men forward and supported my efforts, for which I have not yet thanked them. A few men went to their stations as soon as they took the deck, but any number of them might have been merely waiting to see how events fell out. There appeared to be a great deal of indecision upon the part of many. But I must tell you, Mr Barthe, if it is your belief that this ship is in danger from mutineers it is your duty to report it to Captain Hart.”

Barthe stopped walking and stared into the darkened stern, where the rudder swept squeakily back and forth. He then fixed his gaze on the first lieutenant. “Mutineers are executed, Mr Hayden. One doesn’t want to go about accusing anyone without strong, one might say incontrovertible, evidence.”

Hayden glanced at Hawthorne, whose face remained a mask of mildness and disinterest.

“That is true, Mr Barthe,” the first lieutenant continued, “but one might express one’s concerns to the captain in general terms without naming any particular man. It would then be upon the captain to find the truth of the matter.”

Barthe glanced around at the others, as though looking for someone to rescue him. “After what happened to McBride, sir, I would be afraid to speak.”

Hayden felt a shiver run through him. “Then you think McBride was innocent, as well?”

The master shrugged. “He swung on a very slim rope, Mr Hayden, if you take my meaning. I shouldn’t like to see it happen again.” Barthe reached up and steadied himself by grasping a beam. “And what of you, Mr Hayden? Will you report what happened this evening to the captain?”

Hayden was taken aback by this. “I have no choice but to inform the captain. It is my duty.”

“Whereupon you will be asked to name the men who were insubordinate, or nearly so, and some or all of these men will be flogged.” Barthe stopped and turned quickly toward Hayden, surprisingly agile for a man of such girth. “Do you believe that will lessen the resentment of Hart among the hands?”

“Are you suggesting I should say nothing, Mr Barthe?”

“Certainly it is not my place to tell you how to execute your commission, Mr Hayden.” He glanced up at the low deckhead. “I wonder if we haven’t carried the mainsail too long? If you’ll excuse me. Gentlemen.”

The door clicked shut, leaving the gunroom silent but for the distant sounds of the wind, the creaking of the ship as she worked in the seaway. The smell of smoke and burning candles overlayed the odours of too many men living too close together.

Hayden turned his gaze to the marine lieutenant. He was tempted to ask Hawthorne if he shared Barthe’s opinions, but knew full well that he dared not offend his supporters, who were too few as it was. “It seems that there are several men who don’t believe in McBride’s guilt. Did no one speak up on the unfortunate man’s behalf?”

“Wickham did,” the doctor said, holding his amputating knife up to the light to examine its glittering edge.

“And no one else?” Hayden asked, shocked.

The doctor reapplied his blade to the whetstone. “Only Lord Arthur has been granted immunity from the captain’s wrath. Where one man is accused for so little cause, can there not be two? Or three?”

Hayden could hardly stay in his seat, and pushed it back from the table, bracing himself against the roll of the ship. “These are very serious accusations, Dr Griffiths.”

“They are not accusations, Mr Hayden. Merely observations. I did not speak out because I had no information either for or against Mr McBride, though I believed him a man of mild disposition and unlikely to commit murder. Certainly that is no defence, as others of similar temperament have been proven guilty beyond a doubt.”

A knock on the gunroom door preceded the face of the captain’s servant. “Captain wishes to see you, Dr Griffiths, if you please.”

“Immediately,” the doctor answered, without looking up from his task, and then, as the door closed, he added softly,
“Damn my eyes.”

H
ayden lay in his cot, mulling over the events of the day—the near-mutiny or insurrection or whatever one was to call it. Even a refusal to sail until demands were met was, by definition, a mutinous act—though surely there had been many such cases and in most the crew’s demands had been met.

He wondered now what the First Secretary had known about circumstances aboard the
Themis
. Did he realize how deep the crew’s disaffection went? Was it Stephens’ belief that Hayden could remedy it? Did the First Secretary not realize that a first lieutenant, no matter how competent, without the complete confidence and support of his captain was next to powerless? Lieutenants merely wielded the captain’s power in his place—and possessed no more authority than their superior allowed them. Hart’s upbraiding of his officers before the crew undermined what little authority they had, and made the performance of their duties doubly hard.

What a contrast was his present situation to his position aboard the
Tenacious
under the able Captain Bourne. There was an officer who had not forgotten what it was to be a lieutenant! He would never criticize his officers before the crew, but instead spoke privately with them regarding any matter he felt had not been handled as it should. He guided his officers, aided them—oh, he demanded a great deal of them, but no one complained. They knew what a great service he offered. To graduate from Bourne’s school was to have a most thorough knowledge of one’s trade. Hayden had never imagined that he would ever find himself so thwarted by his own captain.

For a long time sleep remained elusive, and Hayden fell into a reverie of Henrietta Carthew, recalling her eyes, the high colour of her face, the delicate curve of her neck. A dream swept up and enveloped him like a wave. The slow motion of the ship became the act of love—Henrietta beneath him, the soft cushion of her breasts against his chest as she rose to meet each cresting sea. All around them water, warm, infinite, breathing, breathless.