Under Enemy Colors (5 page)

“I’m sure we will.”

“How goes the deck cleaning?”

“I’ll see for myself, Mr Hayden.” The lieutenant picked his way forward, careful to get in no one’s way.

Hayden took the measure of each man as he worked. An able seaman named Aldrich was the only man who took any initiative. He clearly had been at sea long enough to have learned his trade thoroughly, and had raised a mast before. Young Wickham was everywhere, watching, studying the way tasks were managed, holding the fall of a rope, fetching a block.

The crews of his respective ships had long been Hayden’s special province of study, partly out of fascination with mankind in general but also because the crew was the instrument through which an officer accomplished the tasks bestowed upon him by the Lords Commissioners. Hayden had seen both good crews and bad, and spent much time considering how any given collection of men could become either one or the other. He’d seen bad crews evolve into the most willing under the tutelage of good officers, and he had witnessed an apparently willing crew turn sour and froward by the introduction of a single foremast hand. He thought of a crew as being like gunpowder, a mixture of elements that, in the right proportion, produced the desired effect, but in the wrong proportions was of no use whatsoever. The greater the proportion of experienced seamen, especially those who had fought in several actions, the better, for these men would be looked up to by the younger and less experienced Jacks, and their manner and habits emulated. Hayden could see few if any such men among the crew of the
Themis
, and this was a cause of some concern.

“Damn your worthless hide, Manning,” Hayden heard one of the hands mutter, “take up the strain on that line. Put your fat arse into it.”

To Hayden’s great surprise, some pushing ensued among the men, and Franks, the bosun, took up his rattan, which brought order, though the damning and muttering continued.

Stepping back, Hayden asked a servant for water, and stood observing the crew muddle through their work. It was not just the spirit of cooperation that was lacking; the men appeared to actively thwart one another, moving to impede another’s efforts, tossing a marlin spike beyond the reach of the man who required it, watching men struggle with some task that clearly required more hands, yet not jumping to and aiding where a willing crew would. Hayden also observed men labouring at some chore too great for them but never asking help—knowing none would be forthcoming, he suspected. Dark looks and glares, mouthed curses and warnings, jostling a man precariously balanced. He had never seen the like. He wondered if Philip Stephens had any idea what went on aboard this unlucky ship.

Aldrich appeared to have his acolytes—men who deferred to him, who seemed to surround him almost protectively—yet it appeared he did not desire to be placed in such a position. Gently, he turned aside all attempts to raise him up or to distinguish him in any way—a curious phenomenon to the new first lieutenant, who was quite aware that he himself had always craved responsibility and recognition.

He reminded himself that among this gathering of men, there was at least one murderer, and, witnessing the animosity that existed between the hands, it no longer surprised him.

The officers’ orders were heeded to the least degree possible—the smallest increase in disrespect and negligence would have seen the crew-men flogged, but they had found the greatest degree of insolence that the officers would tolerate and this was now their habitual manner.

Doffing his coat and hat, Hayden weighed into the fray, attempting to bring order to the confusion. Usually he enjoyed such a challenge, but among these men, and the palpable hostility, he felt like a stage actor pretending to be at ease, to relish the task at hand. In the past he had often found that his enthusiasm would spread to others, but these men did not seem to notice and treated him with suspicion if not hostility.

Hayden had detailed a large sailor to make up the lashing that bound the head of the sheers, but soon realized neither the man’s skills nor his inclination were equal to the task.

“What is your name?” Hayden asked him.

The man raised a large, pock-marked face, all nose and brow. “Stuckey, sir. Bill Stuckey.”

Hayden guessed Stuckey was fourteen and a half stone, or thereabout, and taller than he by a good three inches. Ill-fitting slops, sweat-soaked, clung to his torso, and out the end of his sleeves thrust big, turnip fists.

“I will make up the lashing with you, Stuckey, for it is, I think, a task new to you.”

The man rose and stepped back. Around them the work stopped. “I’m a landsman,” the big man drawled, “taken from my chosen profession and forced aboard this bloody ship.” Stuckey eyed him insolently. “The sea is not my calling nor will I have it be…
sir
.”

Hayden faced the man full-on, despite the disparity in size, aware that everyone watched. “I am pleased to hear it, Stuckey, for I am always on the lookout for a man to perform the myriad labours that are beneath the skills of seamen. You will begin by cleaning the heads.”

Hayden turned back to the gathering of men, all of whom had stopped their work to stare silently. “Where is the bosun?” Hayden called out.

The broken-nosed bosun stood up from among the men crouched over their work.

“Mr Franks,” Hayden said evenly, “have one of your mates follow Mr Stuckey with a knotted rope. If he is not about his work with a will, he should be started, sharply.”

“For how long, sir?” the bosun asked, looking perplexed.

“As long as it takes, Mr Franks.” Hayden turned back to the big landsman. “When you are ready to learn your new trade, Stuckey, come and speak to me. Now be about your duties.” Hayden turned away as one of the bosun’s mates approached, knotting a rope.

Hayden would assign the man the most back-breaking work on the ship as well as the most demeaning. Two days would either see him come to Hayden asking to learn his trade or he would become completely insubordinate and require flogging. But Hayden had run up his flag for the men to see. Now to convince them that he was both fair and reasonable, for it was not enough to be severe, not if one was to earn the crew’s respect—and no officer could expect to govern for long without it.

The men applied themselves to their tasks with renewed energy after that, and by nightfall, the sheers were raised and guyed in place, like a great, inverted V standing on the quarterdeck. Block and tackle and brute strength saw the mast positioned, ready to be raised. Hayden was confident they would get it in before the next day was very old.

He dined that night with the gunroom mess and invited guests. Mr Franks was so fagged by his afternoon’s effort that he perpetually nodded at the table, much to everyone’s amusement.

“There was one among them that could take on any man aboard,” laughed Hawthorne, the marine lieutenant. “Laid out Smithers with a single blow. I think we should have kept her. Could lead a boarding party, that one. The French would not stand against she!”

The assembled men laughed.

“Will you not take a little wine, Mr Barthe?” Hayden asked, noting that the sailing master’s glass had not been filled.

The laughter dried up like paint in the sun, though a few half-suppressed smiles—smirks, in truth—remained.

“I hope you will forgive me if I do not, Mr Hayden,” Mr Barthe replied evenly. “You see, I have taken a vow of temperance from which, for all my honour, I dare not deviate…though it causes much amusement to certain of my messmates.” Smiles were further suppressed around the table. Barthe went on. “You need not be concerned, Mr Hayden; I will not be pressing temperance pamphlets upon you or recommending the works of Hannah More. It is entirely a personal matter. A defect in my character will not allow me to partake of strong drink, even wine or ale, without the most disastrous consequences. I hope you will forgive me, therefore, if I toast with plain water. No disrespect is meant.”

“By all means, Mr Barthe, forgive me for even bringing up the subject.”

“No need. I tell my fellows in the gunroom to make not the slightest allowance for my vow. Partake as usually you would and never for a moment worry about the effects of this upon me. To be always coddled and have our people drinking away from me would deprive me of much good company and in the end I would be only the weaker for it, for one must learn to resist temptation. One must drill just as men do at the guns. The longer I resist, the stronger I become.”

The small clatter of cutlery on china, glasses raised and returning to the table.

“Did you see much action on your recent cruise?” Hayden asked, breaking the awkward silence.

It seemed for a moment that no one would answer—or that each waited for some other to speak.

“No, sir, Mr Hayden,” Landry said quietly. “We had no luck at all.”

“It goes that way sometimes,” Hayden said. “You lost a man, all the same, I understand?”

Again, an uncomfortable moment.

“Penrith,” Hawthorne said. “Rated able. A good seaman.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. They found the man that did for him, though?”

The men glanced one to the other.

“It’s a subject of some debate, Mr Hayden,” Lord Arthur answered.

“And what do you think, Wickham?”

The youthful nobleman’s dimples disappeared as he weighed the evidence, as solemn as a magistrate. “I think the man hanged was innocent, Mr Hayden.”

The other men shifted uncomfortably.

“And what say you, Mr Landry?”

“The captain believed McBride was guilty,” Landry answered, “and I’d never gainsay Captain Hart.”

“No,” Hawthorne said, “I am sure you wouldn’t.”

The look Landry gave the marine was not friendly.

“If it was not this man McBride,” Hayden said, bringing his gaze to bear on Hawthorne, “then, pray, who did for Penrith?”

“I have no proof, Mr Hayden, only my own suspicions, and it would not be fair to speak those in the event the man is innocent.”

“Do be careful, Mr Hawthorne,” the sailing master warned. “The captain would not take kindly to such criticism.”

“Certainly no one here would report gunroom conversation to the captain…” Hayden said, but the silence this brought told him that, indeed, someone would.

After servants cleared the table, Hayden found himself briefly alone while the other officers all saw to one duty or another. He hoped that the dinner had done something to acquaint the officers with his methods and outlook. There was, invariably, a brief period of uneasiness when a new first officer came aboard, and especially so in this case, with the captain away. Both crew and officers would be anxious to comprehend the standards and expectations of the new lieutenant. Many men, he well knew, would rather maintain the most disastrous situation than have change, whereas some smaller number would welcome it. His job was doubly difficult because the standards of Captain Hart were unknown to him and it was the captain of a ship who set the height of the bar that men must jump, not the first lieutenant.

Griffiths emerged from his cabin and nodded to the new lieutenant. Thin-boned and narrow-faced, the doctor stood a hand taller than Hayden, but two or three stone lighter. Prematurely grey, for he could not have been much over thirty, he appeared almost always serious, his scholarly demeanour seldom altering, even when he made a jest, which he did not infrequently.

“I feel rather foolish,” Hayden confessed, “pressing wine upon Mr Barthe when he is a temperance man.”

“No need for concern. It was the duty of his messmates to advise you, but we were remiss. Mr Barthe is not thrown out by such small things. He has been sober now these seven years, and shows no signs of returning to his former life of dissipation. You will find him a thorough, responsible officer, I believe.”

“I am certain of it.”

Griffiths regarded him a moment. “Our sailing master’s name is unknown to you?”

“Indeed, I had never heard it before stepping aboard.”

The surgeon took a seat across the table, leaning forward on arrowhead elbows that he might speak quietly. “Mr Barthe’s story is not a happy one, I fear. You see, he was once a young lieutenant of some promise in the King’s Navy, but was court-martialled. His ship was wrecked and though there was some evidence of incompetence by the captain, because some few aboard claimed Mr Barthe drunk at the time, he was convicted for dereliction of duty. He claims it is untrue. Unfortunately, at least for his family, that was not the greatest mischief that resulted from Barthe’s drinking. He had a tendency to gamble, though without a matching tendency to win. He was, at the time of his court-martial, much in debt. But not all his friends deserted him; Mrs Barthe, who must be a tower of saintly strength, did not abandon him to his dissipation but appealed to him again and again to change his ways, giving him opportunity after opportunity to redeem himself. And, surprisingly, given the history of many similar marriages, he did. A captain whom he had once served obtained him a master’s warrant and he sailed for several years with this officer until the poor man died of yellow fever. Barthe’s luck looked as though it had turned against him again, when Hart took him on, perhaps being unable to find another to fill the position.

“Mrs Barthe has a brother who has made a great success of himself in some branch of trade, and he eliminated all of Mr Barthe’s debts, allowing the sum to be paid back slowly and at no interest, which our good sailing master has been diligently doing these many years, to the great impoverishment of his family, I fear. Did you know that Barthe has six daughters? They all, very happily, have taken after their mother where it comes to their looks, and are beauties from the eldest to the youngest. Mr Barthe is at great pains to keep our good lieutenant of marines away from them.” Griffiths laughed.