Under Enemy Colors (28 page)

Hayden reeled back as though struck. “Has Aldrich no sense at all?”

“He is an honest man, poor fool. Two dozen lashes he took for it. The best able seaman aboard. He’s in the care of Doctor, for his back was slashed to ribbons.”

Hayden hurried down to the orlop and into the small space partitioned off for the use of Dr Griffiths. Half a dozen cots swung here, their occupants all but invisible behind weather clothes. The surgeon’s apothecary-chest stood against one bulkhead, its locking doors ajar, squeaking softly as the ship rolled. In the dim light, Hayden could see Griffiths bent over a cot, his mate holding aloft a smoke-stained lantern.

“Doctor,” Hayden said softly, and Griffiths looked up, nodded perfunctorily, and went back to his ministrations. The mate made a knuckle with his free hand.

Drawing near, Hayden found Aldrich, stretched out upon his stomach, eyes closed and face bathed in sweat. Even in the poor light, Hayden could see Aldrich’s cheeks were crimson, almost glowing. Very gently the surgeon tugged free the dressing, revealing a back that appeared to have been slashed with a razor. Hayden recoiled from the sight, then regained his self-possession.

“May I help in any way, Doctor?” Hayden asked.

“Is that you, sir?” Aldrich asked between teeth clamped tight.

“It is, Aldrich, and terribly distressed I am to see you in such a state. It was not my doing in any way, Aldrich. I want you to know that.”

“I never thought for a moment that it could be, sir. Never for a moment…” He grunted to cover a cry of pain.

“Mr Hayden,” Griffiths said. “If you would be so kind…”

Hayden nodded, retreating quickly from the sick-berth.

For a few moments he lingered at the foot of the ladder, pacing back and forth, his rage barely under control. The doctor finally came to him, wiping his hands on a cloth.

“What is his condition, Doctor?” Hayden whispered.

“You saw, Mr Hayden,” Griffiths answered, his tone almost hostile. “Two dozen lashes. Cut near to the bone in places.” He removed his spectacles and leaned back against the ladder stringer, his anger dissolving visibly. “He is in much pain, though makes every effort to hide it.” Griffiths spoke so low Hayden could barely make out his words, and the lieutenant answered in kind.

“And this was over pamphlets that Aldrich did not even have in his possession?”

The surgeon looked up at him sharply. “You must not misunderstand this, Mr Hayden. Hart did not give a damn about Aldrich and his pamphlets. This was a message to the crew. Any who supported you will be at pains to hide it now, for Aldrich’s punishment will be fresh in their minds.” He drew a long breath. “And it is a message to you. Any man whom you befriend is in danger. That is the corner he has you in.”

“How did Hart even know about these pamphlets?”

Griffiths raised an open hand, his gaze moving just perceptibly toward the gunroom.

Hayden should not have needed to ask. “Please, keep me informed of his condition, Dr Griffiths.”

The surgeon nodded, and Hayden climbed up to the berth-deck, where the young gentlemen regarded him with troubled, silent faces. As he entered the gunroom, Hayden slammed the door behind him. He spotted Landry in his cabin, the door half-open. Barthe and Hawthorne sat either side of the table.

“I should like a word with Mr Landry,” Hayden said, and the two men scrambled up from the table, retreating quickly toward the door. “Mr Barthe? Ask the middies to find themselves some duty upon the deck.”

“I will, sir.”

Landry looked as though he would bolt after the master, but Hayden blocked his way.

“You know that Aldrich is the finest able seaman aboard this ship, and yet you had him flogged…”

Landry looked left and right, then stepped back against the wooden bulkhead. “The captain had him flogged. Not me.”

“Only because you’ve been reporting gunroom conversations to him, Landry.”

The little lieutenant drew himself up. “Sir, I am a gentleman—”

Hayden snorted. “You are an embarrassment to the service, running to the captain with every little thing that’s said, currying his favour at any cost. Have you never thought what becoming Hart’s protégé will mean to your career?” The letters to Mr Banks came unaccountably to mind—a dash of cooling rain on Hayden’s rage.

Landry’s indignation dissolved visibly and he sank into one of the chairs. “I do not have a career, nor do you, Hayden. We both gave that up the day we stepped aboard the
Themis
.” His gaze flicked toward the deck beams, the captain’s cabin overhead. For a moment Hayden thought the man would weep. “He…he is the ruin of us, with his shyness and his petty tyranny. But what am I to do? No other captain will have me now. And yet the sea is all I know. I am not fit for any other life. Hart has taken everything from me, and I can do nothing now but acquiesce to his every bidding, submit to each indignity, for without him I am lost.” He glanced up at Hayden almost imploringly. “I am like a man fallen into the sea, clinging to some bit of wreckage, knowing that in but a short time even that will fail and I shall go under. And that is you, as well, Hayden, though you do not know it yet. Hart will break you. I see a crack in your pride already, where Hart applied his lash to Aldrich. The captain knows your weakness now. The crew will be held hostage, and if you dare defy him he will flog another innocent man, and yet another after that, until you come to heel. And then one morning you will gaze into your looking-glass, Mr Hayden, and find
me
staring back.”

The first lieutenant was at a loss for words. Was there a man buried deep inside Landry, after all?

He leaned closer to Landry. “Does Hart not know how close this crew is to mutiny?”

Landry shook his head. “He believes the lash protects him.”

Hayden slumped down in a chair. “Aldrich was the voice of moderation before the mast. Flog another like him and Hart will find the deck beneath his feet is paper-thin.”

Landry regarded him evenly, almost a look of sympathy, of brotherhood. “Do not overvalue the bravery of this crew, Mr Hayden. They have been forced into cowardice for so many years they no longer know where to find their courage.”

“They took the transport in the Goulet,” Hayden retorted.

“A poorly defended transport is not a frigate, Mr Hayden. Take them into a real battle and you will soon see what they’re made of.” Landry rose, bobbed his head to Hayden, and stepped toward the door. “You fight in a lost cause, Hayden. The
Themis
is full of rot. She crumbles around us, and one day will take every man Jack aboard down to the lightless depths. And we shall not be missed.” Landry went quickly out.

Hayden sat a moment, staring at the empty table, his thoughts awhirl. Was it possible that Landry had once been like him, full of zeal and the desire to make his way in the service? That the rot that spread throughout the ship had crept into him, eating away until he was but an empty shell—the Landry Hayden knew? If that were true, what would prevent it from happening to him? Certainly, if Hart flogged some innocent member of the crew every time he wished to punish Hayden the lieutenant would be brought up short. The crew would not misunderstand why these floggings were being applied and would quickly come to despise him. He would have no allies then.

During the early months of the French Revolution a number of noblemen had taken up the side of the revolutionaries, turning against their king and, in some cases, their families. Most had been farsighted men—men of conscience—but others had stood by king and caste against the voice of their conscience. Hayden felt like one of these men now—but in Hayden’s case conscience pulled him in both directions. Hart was a tyrant, but Hayden believed the English cause—officially,
Hart’s
cause—was right. The grievances of the men were legitimate—just, in many ways—but this was not the time to protest or refuse to perform one’s duties. England was at war, after all. Never in his life had Hayden felt himself so torn. His poor brain was being distorted by its inability to make peace among all the contradictions. He wanted to scream with the frustration of it.

And then there were the letters to Mr Banks…How he now wished he had let that scrap of paper lie on Philip Stephens’ desk. Better to have no ship and keep one’s honour intact—one’s future! For surely Landry was right: no captain would have him now.

He took up his hat and climbed onto the deck, into the sunshine. There were no greetings, or even a friendly face. The Jacks seemed to gaze at him blankly, distantly, as though they were condemned men and he but a bystander watching the hangman’s cart roll by.

He turned to find Hart standing by the rail, and he was gazing at Hayden as well. The captain smiled.

“Is it not a perfect day, Mr Hayden? The storm brought the rains, sweeping away all that God did not deign good, and now the world is made anew. And I…I am content with it.”

Hayden lay in his swinging cot, still deeply fatigued from his exertions ashore, much of his body stiff and aching. The door to his cabin was closed, and he ignored the sounds of conversation in the gunroom beyond. The slow pitching of the
Themis
as she made her way south would have soothed him had his indignation not been so inflamed. The creaking of the wooden ship as she worked in the small seas, the dull thud of a barrel rocking in the hold below—all familiar, even comforting, sounds, but there was no solace for Hayden that night.

In his hands he gripped Mr Paine’s pamphlets that had caused such trouble of late. He read
The Rights of Man.

T
he gun boomed and was thrown back, the wooden slide screaming along the iron frame, thudding to a percussive halt. Hayden put a hand on the iron frame and found it surprisingly warm.

“I’m still fearful of sparks,” the gun captain muttered unhappily. His opinion of the new gun was not in doubt.

“Never a spark!” Muhlhauser answered brightly. The little man from the Ordnance Board was so happy to see his gun finally fired that he hardly took notice of the crew’s reaction.

A good number of the watch below had gathered to witness this spectacle and stood about, shaking their heads and speaking low among themselves, a few grinning vacantly at the sheer novelty of this contraption.

“Iron is too brittle to take this battering,” Barthe observed. “It will break at last, I fear.”

“Not were you to fire a hundred rounds a day,” Muhlhauser assured him. “We have not brought it to sea without first testing it thoroughly on land. You will see, Mr Barthe, there will be no sparks, no sudden failure of the structure. And do you note how quickly it can be reloaded and run out? Faster than a standard eighteen-pounder. I shall not be surprised to see this new gun replace many of the long Blomefields in the near future.”

Before the gun could be fired again, the cry of “sail ho” propelled Hayden up onto the quarterdeck, into the golden sunlight of Biscay Bay, glass in hand, cocked hat slapped roughly in place. It was another warm fall day, as though the headlong rush of summer had gained too much momentum to be stopped by mere numbers on a calendar.

“Where away?” he asked Archer, who indicated sou-sou’east.

A small gathering of seamen aimed the Cyclops eyes of their various glasses toward that point of the compass, and Hayden joined them at the rail.

“It looks to be a brig,” Wickham suggested.

“Or a snow,” the master added as he followed Hayden to the rail.

Hayden found the angular dab of stained white among the small, cresting seas. Whether brig or snow, she was still hull-down and her colours, if they were flying, obscured.

“Do you think she’s one of ours, Mr Hayden?” Wickham asked.

“All I see, Mr Wickham, is a bit of sail. Whether the cloth is British I cannot say.”

“So near to the coast, she is very likely French,” Hart pronounced, “an outlier to a squadron, most likely.” He lowered his glass. “Mr Barthe? Alter our course to west-by-north, if she will lay it.”

“But what if she is one of ours, sir?” Barthe asked.

Hart turned on him, his volatile temper flushing crimson into his face. “Mr Barthe, when you are captain of this ship you may give the orders. Until such time the duty still falls to me. West-by-north.”

“I did not mean to question your authority, sir,” Barthe stated evenly, unwilling to be intimidated. “I’m merely suggesting that this is a bold little brig to be sailing directly for us…unless she is British, in which case she might have need of our assistance.”

“She is sailing hard,” Wickham chimed in. “She might have a Frenchie in her wake.”

“Perhaps I should go aloft,” Hayden said softly, “and see if I can make her out…”

Hart did not hide his frustration well and glanced at Landry, who looked quickly away. The captain’s officers were united against him.

“Lay aloft, then, Hayden,” the captain ordered, “but I will not endanger my ship if you are less than certain.”

Hayden touched his hat and hurried forward toward the main shrouds.

“Shall we beat to quarters?” Archer asked.

“Aye,” the captain said reluctantly. “But stand ready to alter course, Mr Barthe, and to make all sail, if required.”

Hayden went quickly up to the main-top and found Wickham already there; the boy had slipped up the starboard shrouds.

“And what do you make of her, Mr Wickham?”

The midshipman did not lower his glass but kept it fixed upon the distant sail. “I cannot tell, sir. Her hull is just now coming into view.”

Hayden raised his own glass as the vessel fired a cannon to starboard and ran up a hoist of flags.

“On deck,”
Hayden called down. “I believe she is one of ours, unless some Frenchman has penetrated our signals.”

Hart reluctantly altered his course to meet the brig but required Hayden remain aloft in case she turned out to be an enemy practising a bit of subterfuge. As the ship drew closer it was clear she was not being chased; she was, however, almost certainly British.

In less than an hour she ranged alongside—an old-style brig-sloop replete with raised quarterdeck—backed sails, and quickly lowered a boat. Her commander came over the rail in haste, touching his hat, hardly a moment to be civil. He was younger than Hayden by several years and wore only a lieutenant’s epaulette. Small and neat with precise movements, like a little automaton.

“Herald Philpott, at your service, Captain Hart,” he announced, “acting commander of the sloop
Lucy
. Captain Bourne has sent me to request your aid, sir. He has four transports, a brig, and a French frigate at bay in the roadstead east of Belle Île. With the wind in the sou’west, sir, no ships from L’Orient can yet come to their aid. He respectfully requests that you rendezvous with him a league north-west of Belle Île, where he endeavours to tempt the French into making a run for L’Orient. Captain Bourne believes, with your aid, some or all of these ships can be taken or destroyed before their rescue can be effected.”

“Are these Frenchmen not anchored beneath the batteries on the island?” Hart asked.

“I believe they are, sir.”

“Then what does Bourne expect me to do?” Hart demanded indignantly. “Place my ship within range of twenty-four-pounders?”

The little man’s face hardened, and his stiff manner became more so. “I’m sure Captain Bourne has weighed the risks most judiciously, Captain Hart.”

“Has he, now? Well, all events must occur once, as they say.” Hart stepped away from the visitor, turning his gaze out to sea.

“Shall I inform Captain Bourne that you refused him aid in this action, Captain Hart?”

Hayden almost smiled. Certainly Bourne had instructed the young lieutenant to say precisely this. Refusing to aid a British ship in anything but the most ill-conceived endeavour—one certain to lose an officer his command—would result in court-martial. If Bourne was even partially successful without Hart’s help, then Hart would appear shy. If Bourne failed, but could make an argument that he might have succeeded if Hart had joined the action…

“I did not say I refused,” Hart replied quietly, perhaps realizing that the young commander had chosen to have this exchange on deck, attended by numerous witnesses, not all of them in Hart’s camp. Seeing Hart receive a measure of his own physic gave Hayden great pleasure.

“I fear, Captain Hart,” the young officer stated softly, “that I must insist you do one or the other: come to Captain Bourne’s aid or refuse.”

Hart’s anger flared—the lack of respect being shown him was scandalous—but he looked quickly around like a man trapped, and then, with great self-control, nodded. “I shall meet with Bourne and try to dissuade him from pursuing such a hazardous endeavour. Mr Barthe, shape our course for Belle Île.”

Lieutenant Philpott glanced over at Hayden, revealing, for the briefest instant, a little smile of triumph. He quickly took his leave and clambered down into his boat, the toes of his polished shoes rapping against the topsides as he descended.

The deck came to life then; men were called to their stations to trim sail, yards were shifted, the helm put over. In a moment they were heeling to a healthy beam wind, and making seven knots toward the little French island that had, for several years during a previous war, been under the control of the British.

Wickham ranged up beside Hayden, who had shifted to the forecastle, largely to put the length of the deck between himself and Hart, who was at his worst when both angry and frightened.

“Have you been to Belle Île, sir?” Wickham asked.

“Twice,” Hayden said. “It is well named, for there is hardly a more charming island that I can think of.”

“Perhaps we should have kept it?”

Hayden laughed. “I don’t think its present inhabitants would welcome our return. I understand that a goodly number of them are Acadians—Canadians who would not submit to English rule. They were moved here after the Treaty of Paris, and hold no love for us, I fear.”

Hayden raised a glass. The distant horizon was awash in a white haze, and the lieutenant could not be sure if he perceived a dark mass within or if it were merely his imagination.

Wickham looked quickly around, then stepped a bit nearer, saying quietly, “What will Hart do? He cannot tell Bourne that they are not French ships, or that they are three deckers we dare not engage.”

“Oh no,” Hayden whispered. “Bourne will not let Hart wriggle free, as he knows full well Hart will attempt to do. No, he has set the hook deep, and our good captain can do nothing but flop up onto the deck. It’s the fish room for him.”

Boot-steps from behind ended the conversation and Hayden turned to see who approached.

“Mr Muhlhauser. Were you satisfied with your trial, sir?”

“Most satisfied, Mr Hayden, though it would have been even better had we had the opportunity to fire another two dozen rounds. But now I am given to understand there is some small chance my gun might finally get an honest trial?”

“Honest trials are rare in this age, Mr Muhlhauser, but we shall soon see. How is your gun crew? Are you pleased with their efforts?”

Muhlhauser looked like a man asked a most embarrassing question. “Well, Mr Hayden, if they do not mutiny I think they will answer.”

“What do you mean, sir? Have you cause to doubt their loyalty?” Hayden asked.

“No more cause than I have to doubt any of the Jacks, but that leaves reason enough, don’t it?”

“I’m afraid you’re right, Mr Muhlhauser. Perhaps I shall see you issued a pistol.”

“I have a brace in my cabin, thank you.” The man said this without bluster; in fact he looked a little frightened.

“Then you are well set up. We shall trust in Mr Hawthorne and his marines to assure the devotion of the crew, and all go about our duties.”

Muhlhauser nodded.

Another joined them on the forecastle then.

“Dr Griffiths, how fares Mr Aldrich?” Muhlhauser asked.

“As well as a man can be who has had his flesh torn to ribbons.”

This brought an unhappy silence to the forecastle, but then Muhlhauser spoke up, raising his hand to indicate a bird that hung in the air not distant from the frigate’s side, almost motionless on some eddy caused by the sails. “What species of bird might that be, Doctor? Can you tell?”

“Why, it is
Avis albi
, Mr Muhlhauser,” Griffiths answered. “Very common in this part of the world.”

“Ah,” Muhlhauser responded. “I had wondered…” He then crossed the forecastle at the behest of the gunner, to see to one of the chase guns.

“
Avis albi
, Doctor?” Hayden repeated quietly.

“Is it not a bird, Mr Hayden? Was I not correct?”

“It is indeed a bird.”

“And is it not white? for so it appears to my eye.”

“White as a ship’s wake, Doctor.”

“Then
Avis Albi
would seem to be an accurate description, would it not?”

“I cannot deny it, and it is my hope that our guest will always find this description satisfactory.”

The doctor gave a small bow and quit the foredeck.

Hayden had not forgotten Muhlhauser’s reaction when he had believed himself mocked by Mr Hawthorne; how would he respond when he found out Griffiths was practising upon him?

Not ten minutes later Hayden overheard Muhlhauser speaking to Mr Barthe.

“Do you see this white bird…?” Muhlhauser asked.

“I do,” Mr Barthe answered.

“
Avis albi
it is called.”

“Well, I know not what the Romans named it,” the sailing master replied, “but we ignorant seamen call it a gannet.”

Sometime later Griffiths reappeared and stood by Hayden. For a moment he regarded the eastern horizon, as many did aboard the
Themis
that afternoon. “So, your friend Bourne will draw us into an action?”

“It seems likely.”

“Is he as rash as the men say?”

Hayden shook his head. “In all of his endeavours, he thinks first how he might preserve the lives of his crew. His actions only seem rash to those who do not have his imagination, for he perceives weaknesses in the enemy others do not and devises the most ingenious methods to exploit them. No, if Bourne has a plan it will be thoroughly thought out.”

“But what will he do about the shore batteries?”

“Oh, Bourne is not much concerned about shore batteries. Once we have laid our ship alongside a Frenchman they will be unable to fire for fear of killing their own. As long as there is wind to keep us moving we shall pass through their cannonade in short order, though not without some damage. Although you would hardly know it aboard the
Themis
, it is a war. A little risk cannot be avoided.”