Under Enemy Colors (2 page)

P
hilip Stephens had been First Secretary of the Admiralty for thirty years. Previous to that, he had been Second Secretary. Through his delicate hands passed the correspondence of admirals and captains, First Lords, ministers, and spies. Lieutenant Charles Hayden was well aware that no one in the offices of the Admiralty was more intimate with the details of the Navy and her distant fleets than the little man who sat, mostly hidden by a writing-table, before him. That he should be aware of the existence of one Lieutenant Charles Saunders Hayden, however, was still something of a surprise.

The First Secretary bent over a letter, his spectacles refracting the dull London sunlight from the nearby window into a faint prism on his cheek. The most prominent features of the man’s face were inflamed arteries that spread, crimson, over his bulbous nose. They meandered onto his cheeks and branched into deltas beneath the rainbows from his spectacles. It was not so much a face, Hayden thought, as a landscape.

“Captain Bourne holds you in high regard,” Stephens rasped, his voice throaty and thick.

“An honour I strive to deserve.”

Stephens seemed not to hear this, but put the letter down upon his tidy table, removed his spectacles, and rather directly took Hayden’s measure. Too easily trespassed against, the lieutenant felt heat flush into his face. It was, however, not the moment to take offence; that anyone in the Admiralty building had noticed him was an opportunity not to be squandered.

Hayden had come to think of the Admiralty as a court. The First Lord was sovereign, the Lords Commissioners his ministers, all men of rank. Below him, the courtiers in their tiers, admirals, vice admirals, rear admirals, captains both high and low on the list. Far below these influential personages waited the lowly lieutenants, all desperately hoping to be appointed governor of that tiny outpost of empire known as a ship of war. Those possessing family interest and the skills of a courtier tended to rise. Certainly, the Admiralty would always need a few gifted functionaries, like Philip Stephens, to keep things running smoothly; a handful of stouthearted, fighting captains; an admiral or two who could manage a fleet action; but for the most part the courtiers succeeded and everyone else bowed their heads, smiled charmingly when noticed, and hoped to find a patron who might advance their cause. Hayden was not, by nature, a courtier, but he did his best to appear receptive and amiable, all the same.

Stephens did not seem to notice. “I have a position for you, Lieutenant.”

Hayden took a long breath and released it slowly into the small room. “I should be forever in your de—”

The First Secretary did not allow him to finish. “It is not the sort of position that puts you forever in another’s debt. Captain Josiah Hart has need of a first lieutenant.” A grim, little smile flickered across the pale lips. “I see by your face that you had hoped for a command…”

Hayden considered a tactful response, but then gave in to exasperation and perhaps disappointment. “I had hoped, by this time, to have earned greater consideration than a first lieutenant’s position…But I will not refuse it,” he added quickly.

The little man made a humming sound, produced a pocket handkerchief, and began to clean the lenses of his spectacles. “Captain Hart has at his command a new-built frigate, the
Themis
, in which he has been cruising the French coast…to damned little effect.”

Hayden feared his eyes widened at this utterance.

“Five weeks ago he lost a seaman in a gale,” Stephens continued, the linen being worked back and forth by the quick cocking of a wrist. “Man fell from the mainsail yard by night. Never found. Not an entirely uncommon occurrence, one must say. But on the morning next, when the course was set, this dropped from the bunt.” The Secretary reached down behind his table and produced a glass jar, stoppered and sealed with wax. In murky, amber fluid, a thick worm lay suspended, washing slowly forth and back. And then Hayden saw the nail.

“It is a finger!” the lieutenant blurted.

“Severed, cleanly, by a blade—or so the ship’s surgeon concluded. He saw it freshly fallen from aloft, so I must give way to his opinion. As everyone aboard had their full complement of digits, except for three men who were known to have parted with theirs sometime earlier, it was assumed that the lost man had left his second finger behind.” Stephens returned his gaze to Hayden, as though expecting a response.

“But severed by a blade, sir…”

“Yes—hardly misadventure. The unlucky man was seen that very day in dispute with a landsman known to be of evil disposition. A knife in a bloody sheath was found rolled up in the landsman’s hammock. He denies all, of course. Says he butchered some poultry—unfortunate bugger. He sits in Plymouth awaiting his date with the courts-martial.”

“Surely he will not be convicted on such evidences as that?”

Stephens shrugged. Apparently the man’s fate did not affect him overly.

“And what was a landsman doing aloft, if I may ask?”

“Half the crew were down with some malady—rancid pork, the surgeon posits. They sent boys and midshipmen aloft that same night.” Stephens waved his hand, as though brushing aside this line of conversation. “Do you know Captain Hart at all?”

“I have not had the honour.”

The First Secretary bobbed his head. “He is, how shall I say…? A man of some influence through Mrs Hart’s family.”

It was the lieutenant’s turn to nod.
Interest
was something he understood well—due to his utter lack of it. In the court of the Admiralty, having a wife related to a “minister” counted for any number of successful actions at sea.

“There is some concern about this affair on the
Themis
. Her first lieutenant invalided out at the end of the cruise. He claims to know nothing of the matter, and we pray that is so.”

Hayden felt himself straighten a little in his chair. “If there are malcontents aboard Hart’s ship, why not exchange them elsewhere?”

Stephens meticulously adjusted the position of a tidy stack of papers on his desk. “And suggest that Captain Hart cannot manage his own crew? I don’t think that would answer in this case.” He glanced up at Hayden. “But then you have dealt with a discontented crew before—most ably, I am given to understand.”

Apparently the First Secretary knew Hayden’s service record intimately. “When I was job-captain aboard the
Wren
…”

Stephens nodded once, but then a crease appeared between his meagre eyebrows. “Are you certain, Lieutenant, that you know nothing of Captain Hart? You are not being disingenuous?”

“I had not heard his name before entering this room.”

Stephens gazed at him a moment, as though gauging the truth of this statement. “Hart’s connexions within the Admiralty are of the highest order…It is, therefore, perhaps not surprising that I have received a request to place a lieutenant with…
bottom
aboard Captain Hart’s ship—after all, even the most skilled captain has need of such an officer from time to time. Do you not agree?”

“What captain would argue against competent officers?”

The First Secretary indulged another grim little smile. “What captain, indeed. It was my intention to find such an officer to serve aboard the
Themis
…but I am looking for something more. I tell you this in the strictest confidence, Mr Hayden. Is that understood?”

Hayden nodded, liking this conversation less by the moment.

“I require a man who will keep a most accurate record of Hart’s exploits. I’m sure the good captain’s modesty is such that an honest account of his endeavours has never been made known within these walls.”

Hayden sat forward a little. “I will not take this position, Mr Stephens,” he said firmly, but then added, “though I am not ungrateful of the offer.”

“But you have already accepted. Did I not hear correctly?”

Hayden tried to keep the anger from his voice, with only partial success. “That was before I knew you wished to turn me into an informant. Under such a circumstance I do not feel honour-bound.”

Neither man spoke for a moment, but Hayden feared his voice had betrayed him. Philip Stephens’ face changed ever so slightly; drawn in but a little more, it would have formed a scowl.

“Allow me to be uncharacteristically forthright, Lieutenant Hayden.” The First Secretary sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers before him. “You have little future in the King’s Navy.”

Hayden could not hide his complete and utter surprise at this statement—not because it was in the least untrue, but due to its audacity.

“Your friend…” Stephens shuffled through some papers, “the Honourable Robert Hertle, is about to make his post, as would you have, had you half his interest. Despite your manifest abilities—and I am certain Captain Bourne is too shrewd to have misjudged them—you are lodged in your present circumstances with little hope of forward movement. It does not help your cause that we are at war with France and that you are half a Frenchman.”

“I am an Englishman, sir. My mother is French.”

Stephens held up his hands. “Be at peace, Lieutenant. I have recently made the argument that your parentage weighs in your favour, for I am given to understand that you have lived in that country a good many years and speak the language as a native…”

Hayden nodded.

“You must understand, Mr Hayden, that I am your advocate, but the prejudice of others is not easily overcome. That is why I am able to offer you only this first lieutenant’s position…at this time. It is true that I am asking you to write an account of your cruise, but certainly you would keep a journal, as a matter of course. Would you not?”

“It is not quite the same thing, Mr Stephens, as you well know.”

“It certainly isn’t if you choose to believe it is not. And I do admire your loyalty to the captain under whom I have proposed you serve, but sometimes loyalty to one’s own cause is not such a terrible evil. Captain Hart, you should know, has a very good understanding of this distinction.” He spread a little rectangle of paper on the table. “This is the address of one Thomas F. Banks, Esquire. My name should never appear on your letters in any way, but I will receive them all the same.”

Hayden eyed the scrap of paper disdainfully but made no move to pick it up.

“That is not just an address resting on my table, Lieutenant. It might be better to think of it as representing your future in the Navy. You may take it up…or you may leave it lie. I will allow you the evening to consider, but I shall require an answer by tomorrow, noon. At such time the position will be offered elsewhere.” He leaned forward and slid the paper closer to Hayden. “In case you decide in favour of a career in the Navy.”

Hayden rose without taking the offered paper, but then found himself hesitating, hovering, as it were, over the table, eyeing the little rectangle of white overwritten in a spare hand. He knew if he left that room without it he would remove his uniform that day for the final time. His career in the Navy would be over—a decision not to be hastily made. His left hand reached out and took up the paper, slipping it quickly into a pocket. Philip Stephens had returned to his papers and appeared not to notice.

L
ieutenant Hayden stood with his back to the hearth, his sodden hose steaming like kettles. The little withdrawing room—Mrs Hertle’s “Chinese Room”—seemed a bastion of warmth and good cheer that night. Outside, a summer rain battered at the pane. A gust rattled the sash. Mindful of the ancient vase, Hayden rested a damp elbow on the mantle, where a small puddle immediately formed.

“This will set you up, Charles.” Robert Hertle passed his friend a steaming glass, the perfume of hot brandy filling the air. “Let me find you some dry hose.”

“No, no, Robert—don’t trouble yourself. The fire will dry me presently.”

Robert appeared unconvinced by this argument, Hayden could see, but kept his peace. The two had known each other while still in the nursery, for their fathers had been close friends. It was, in this case, not an exaggeration to say they were like brothers, though they could hardly have been less alike despite identical years—four and twenty. Hayden was as dark as Hertle was fair.

Hayden raised his glass. “We must have a toast. To Post Captain Robert Hertle.”

Hertle smiled modestly, pleased by his friend’s kindness, and by the gratifying warmth the words seemed to spread through his entire being. “It is undeserved, as you well know.”

“It is richly deserved. Think of all the deadwood that made their post before you—though the Lords Commissioners set them upon the quarterdeck instead of beneath the stern, where deadwood belongs.”

Robert laughed. “What I was trying to say was that I am not as deserving as you.”

“Well, I won’t hear any of that talk,” Hayden enjoined, trying, for his friend’s sake, to mask his bitterness and disappointment.

“You shall hear it, I fear, and not just from me.” Robert gestured to a chair. “Please, Charles, be at ease.”

“As soon as I am dry.”

Robert rang a little silver bell and a maid hurried in. She curtsied to the gentlemen. “Anne, can you find a blanket to lay over the chair? Lieutenant Hayden was caught by a squall with all his canvas up.” He set his snifter on the mantle and peeled off his friend’s coat. “It must be dried,” he admonished. “I’ll find you a frock-coat for supper.”

The dripping coat went out with Anne, and a thick blanket came quickly back to be draped over a chair. Charles settled himself, suppressing a shiver.

“You must tell me all the particulars,” Charles said. “What ship have they given you?”

“Just a little brig until a frigate comes off the stocks. My commission will be granted then.” He was trying not to sound too pleased with his situation, Charles could tell; no doubt out of consideration for him.

“Now,” Robert said, taking the seat opposite, “tell me about your visit to the Admiralty.”

“How in this world did you know of that?”

Robert smiled, enjoying this small triumph. “You were observed, sir. Observed ascending to the First Lord’s chambers. I have not been still all afternoon in anticipation of good news.” Robert waited a moment. “Well, don’t keep me in uncertainty,” he said when Hayden offered nothing. “Did they give you a ship?”

“No. Nothing like it. A first lieutenant’s position only—aboard a frigate.”

Robert closed his eyes a moment and his face went pale with anger. “How can they treat you so? You’ve had command of a brig-sloop.”

Hayden rose and paced back and forth before the fire. “Yes, well, apparently job-captains are abundant and command little respect in Whitehall Street.”

“Even so, it is unjust. You should have been made Master and Commander—long ago. Tell me what the First Lord said.”

“First Lord? It was the First Secretary with whom I spoke.”

“Stephens?”

“None other.”

This apparently surprised Robert, who leaned forward in his chair, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. “Pray, what did he say you?”

Hayden took a sip of his brandy by way of buying himself a moment to consider. Anger and resentment surfaced again, and he pressed them down. Hayden wanted his friend’s council, but the truth was he felt ashamed of what had transpired, of what Stephens had asked of him—and the shame fuelled a long, simmering resentment.

“Are you familiar with a thirty-two-gun frigate named the
Themis
?” he asked, exerting all his energies to compose himself.

Robert sat back in his chair as though pushed. “Not Hart’s ship?”

“The very one.” Hayden gazed at his friend, unsettled by his reaction. “I am to be Captain Hart’s first. Do you know the man?”

Robert let his gaze flow once around the room, as though it were suddenly unfamiliar. “I have met him once or twice, but his reputation precedes him. I am astonished you have not heard. Among his detractors he is known as ‘Faint Hart.’ The good captain has his command courtesy of Mrs Hart, whose family tree has more than one branch extending into the Admiralty. It would be very charitable to say that he is not held in high regard among his peers in the service.”

Hayden cursed silently. “You are deeper into the Admiralty court than I, Robert. Have you ever heard of any cause for antipathy between Mr Stephens and Captain Hart?”

“I have not, but Hart gave me the distinct impression that he had little charm to spare for those he does not consider useful to his own particular cause. Stephens is a man of immense ability, so it is easily imagined that an officer known as ‘Faint Hart’ might earn his disdain. Men like Stephens have little time for fumblers. Did the First Secretary give you some indication that he harboured a dislike of Captain Hart?”

“I was left with the impression that someone within the Admiralty was no friend to Hart.”

A small roll of the eyes by Robert. “You’ve not accepted this position, surely?”

Hayden drew in a breath and released it in exasperation. “And what other choice have I, Robert?” he asked, the edge of his anger making itself known. “Mr Stephens was at pains to point out my French parentage and made it clear that within the walls of the Admiralty building no one but he knew my name.”

Robert looked positively alarmed at this intelligence. “Is he aware of your…affairs in France, do you think?”

“If so, he was too discreet to mention them.”

Robert did not appear to be reassured by this, but also rose and went restively across the room to the window. “You’ve never told anyone what you told me?”

“No one, though any number of people know I was in France that year, even in Paris. That was never a secret.”

Robert smiled bitterly. “Then your revolutionary past is likely still buried.”

Hayden bridled at his friend’s attempted jest. “It was but a few days, caught up in the moment…like everyone there. Once I had witnessed a mob set loose, I was soon back in my right senses. You cannot know, Robert, how much I have come to regret my actions of those days, and I was all but blameless in that place—an innocent.”

“I have noted that you’ve come no nearer forgiving yourself, even so.”

Hayden felt the usual distress wash over him when this subject surfaced. “There are times when it is important
not
to forgive oneself,” he said quietly.

A look of distress crossed his friend’s face. An awkward moment, and then Robert said, “I don’t suppose Stephens mentioned if Hart had requested some other to be his first lieutenant?”

“He said nothing of it.” Hayden was happy to turn away from the subject of his sojourn in Paris.

“Then let us hope Hart did not. Imagine your position if so? I do not like this situation one bit, Charles. I’m not convinced you wouldn’t be better to refuse it.”

“Then you will not need to return my jacket when dried. I will have no further need of a uniform.”

Robert leaned back against the sill, his look pained. “Did Stephens promise you anything if you took this position? a ship, advancement?”

“Nothing. He seemed to suggest that he might be inclined to secure me a better situation in the future…but it was clear that success in the offered commission would first be required.”

Robert cursed softly. “It is unforgivable that he should offer you a situation—so beneath your gifts—and promise nothing in return.”

“That is not the worst of it. There is apparently some discontent among Hart’s crew and Mr Stephens seems to believe I will remedy it.”

“Blast the man to hell! If Hart has an understanding that you are being sent as his nursemaid you will be made most unwelcome.”

“Let us hope he does not comprehend that.” Hayden shrugged and placed an elbow on the mantle, finding the small puddle he had left earlier. “Such is the state of my career, Robert, that a refusal will see it ended. So I am for the
Themis
. I see no other course. Perhaps a few successful actions will place me in better circumstances.”

But Robert did not even make an effort to agree with this.

“She never retires to her chamber, no matter the hour, but wanders about the house with a pack of dogs in train, and sleeps for two hours, now and again, upon a sofa or ottoman; any place it might please her. The consternation of the servants, who come to clean the rooms in the small hours, cannot be hidden. When they find the countess asleep amid her pack, they must tiptoe out and leave the room ashamble.” Miss Henrietta Carthew laughed; a charming tinkling, Hayden thought, like water in a raceway. “I have come upon her myself, at two of a morning, amid a swarm of candles, her face buried in a book, her feet propped up on a sleeping hound she has christened Boswell.” They all laughed at this.

Mrs Hertle glanced Hayden’s way and he hastily withdrew his gaze from the fair speaker. They were seated around the table in the Hertles’ dining room, the sound of horses’ hooves, like dripping water, passing by on the comparatively quiet street outside. The bustle of London was a distant hum, not even remarked by anyone at table—as unnoticed as one’s own heartbeat.

Hayden had heard many stories about the charms of Miss Henrietta Carthew, but had never expected to respond to her presence as he did. She should not be called beautiful, if the truth were to be admitted. Or perhaps it would be more true to say he had never met a woman in whom the line between “beautiful” and “peculiar-looking” was so fine. Considered individually, the features of her face were all beyond criticism, but taken as a whole there was something amiss, as though the elements were disparate, dissonant. Her nose, though straight and finely formed, appeared to have been made for a different face. The eyes, brown, bottomless, and flecked with amber, were just slightly too wide apart. But then she would smile, and all that appeared disharmonious would be swept away and he would understand why she was thought so handsome. The overall effect was utterly unknown to Hayden—he struggled not to stare.

“I don’t know why you visit that madhouse,” Robert observed, breaking into Hayden’s reverie.

Henrietta appeared surprised. “There is no place like it. The beauty of the countryside is unrivalled, and you are left to your own devices from morning until dinner, Lady Endsmere arranging no amusements during the day. It is near to Heaven in that alone…”

Her voice drew Hayden’s eyes back again: pearl-smooth skin, hair the colour of new-sawn mahogany: auburn, chestnut, copper, bronze.

“…at night, the same disregard for convention is apparent. The conversation around the dinner table is of politics and art, natural philosophy and poetry. All the ladies take their cue from Lady Endsmere and freely offer their opinions upon any subject. There is no other house like it in all of England, I think. Only the most substantive gentlemen and ladies visit. The table is not decorated with those frivolous ‘wits’ so valued in London—”

“There is very little wit at our table,” Mrs Hertle interrupted. “Are we fashionable?”

“You are quite the thing, my dear,” Henrietta assured her, a smile like a cresting wave on a sunny day.

Another glance Hayden’s way from Mrs Hertle, making him wonder if she realized how Henrietta’s voice pierced right to his core. But how could it not? musical, nuanced, assured, able to subtly colour the meaning of words, reveal shades of feeling, or hide them utterly.

In her presence he felt as though he stood upon a cliff edge. The height stole his breath away, his head spun. But even so, he could not will himself to step away from the edge. Some unseen force drew him nearer.

Henrietta lifted a fork to her lovely mouth. “This is exquisite. Have you a new cook?”

“Did I not tell you? Charles found us a French cook who had served a noble family before all the troubles began in that country.”

“I approve of your taste, Lieutenant Hayden,” Henrietta pronounced.

“Charles has many such areas of specialized knowledge,” Robert interjected. “Tell me what you think of the claret, Charles? From Spain, I was assured…”

“It is not from Spain, as you well know,” Hayden stated, seeing his friend suppress a smile.

“Where is it from, pray?” Robert asked innocently.

“It is a finely smuggled wine from the French Pyrenees,” Hayden said. He turned to the other guest. “Do your family keep a house in London, Miss Henrietta?”

“No longer, though my father did for many years. We are so close to town, it is hardly worth all the trouble and expense. Forgive me for changing the subject, Mr Hayden, but how do you know this claret is from the French Pyrenees and not Spain? Surely the two nations are but a border apart in that region.”