Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead (10 page)

“Send our colours aloft, Mr Archer, if you please. We will see if that has any effect.”

“I do not think they will be able to make out our colours on this point of sail, sir.”

“I believe you are correct. Run them up the foremast to leeward—damn flag etiquette!”

The folded ensign was carried forward and sent aloft. Luckily, there were halyards in numerous places about the ship for sending aloft signals that were to be seen from one direction but obscured from another.

The red ensign fluttered aloft and streamed to the wind. Hayden trained his glass on the distant ship, but there was no sign that she was altering course. And then the shadows among the sails began to change shape.

“She turns, Captain,” Wickham called from above. “I believe she is coming towards us . . .” Wickham lowered his glass and looked down at his captain. “She has altered course to meet us, sir.”

“Stay aloft, Mr Wickham, and see if you can make her out as she draws near. Even if she is a Spaniard, she might not be a friend.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Mr Archer?”

“Sir?”

“Let us work our ship below this frigate. I would like to heave-to as she approaches so that we have a broadside trained upon her.”

“You will give her the weather gage, sir?”

“Yes, with this damn sea running we shall be able to open our
gunports, and she will almost certainly be taking water over the sills if she tries to do the same.”

The two ships approached each other with the wariness of pugilists meeting for the first time. Hayden was able to force his opponent up to weather, and in the running sea and filling trade, the opposing ship heeled with her deck exposed and her gunports above water only as each crest passed. By the time they were in that position, though, Hayden was quite certain she was exactly what her flag claimed—a Spanish frigate. All along her rail the crew gathered, staring silently at the British ship, which was clearly in a superior position. It occurred to Hayden that the Spanish might be in the same predicament as he—wondering if their two countries were at war and if Hayden was in possession of that knowledge before them. Upon the quarterdeck the officers were arrayed, and Hayden could see several well-dressed gentlemen among them—not in uniform.

Speaking trumpets were brought forth and pleasantries exchanged. It appeared that neither captain believed its nation to be at war with the other, and this caused a lessening of anxiety all round.

“Two of our small fleet collided in the gale,” the captain called in Spanish. “One was damaged and has limped on for Vera Cruz. We believe the other foundered. We have been searching for survivors. Have you found any—or any boats?”

Hayden cursed himself for a fool. The boat Angelita and her brother had escaped in was on his deck. “We found a dead man tangled in some flotsam, Captain, and an empty boat floating up to her gunwales . . .” He pointed at the Spanish boat. “We buried the man at sea with all our prayers.” Hayden described the drowned sailor on the off chance that someone aboard that ship might know him, but no one seemed to.

The Spanish captain nodded. “No one else, then?”

“I am sorry to say, no. Would you like us to send this boat over to you?”

“It is yours by custom of the sea . . . and I have all the boats I wish to
carry.” He pointed off towards the distant slaver. “Is she one of your ships, Captain Hayden?”

“A British transport dismasted in the gale. We have taken her in tow.”

“Has this ship found any survivors, Captain?”

“I can assure you they have not.”

The man nodded as though he had not expected to hear otherwise. “Where is it you are bound, Captain?” the Spaniard asked.

Hayden made a gesture with his free hand and shouted into the trumpet. “I am under orders from the Admiralty, Captain, and may not reveal them even to our most trusted friends.”

“I understand. Good luck to you, Captain.”

“Good luck to you in your search.”

Hayden ordered his ship underway, then wore to return to their tow. He had Wickham watch the Spanish frigate closely; she did nothing but resume her course. In an hour she was on the horizon, then gone.

About that time, Dr Griffiths emerged from below.

“I have left two frightened Spaniards down in the cockpit. I assume it is safe for them to return to the deck?”

“It is. I shall send someone down to release them.”

Griffiths looked off in the direction of the Spanish ship—the tops of her sails just visible. “So, we did not turn them over to the Spanish ship. I am quite certain there is an excellent reason for doing so . . .”

“I believe there is.” Hayden did not offer an explanation and knew Griffiths would not enquire further.

The surgeon nodded. For a moment, however, Hayden thought he
would
ask, for he seemed about to speak. Instead he said, “This might sound a little mad, Captain . . . but do you think it possible that young Angel is . . . well . . . is he not too elegantly beautiful to be a man? Could he be a young woman in disguise? You share their cabin . . .”

Hayden suddenly found himself unable to decide if he should confide in Griffiths or deny the obvious—for it was obvious . . . to him, at least.

“I can assure you, Doctor, that Angel is a young man. There is no doubt on that score.”

“Ah. Then I have sounded rather foolish, I fear.”

“Not in the least, Doctor. I am quite certain others have entertained the same thought.”

The doctor nodded and excused himself, appearing somewhat out of sorts or embarrassed. Hayden regretted lying to him but felt he had no choice—he had given his word, after all.

The
Themis
soon met the drifting slaver, but was forced to wait two hours before it was felt the seas had become regular enough and the trade constant. The tedious journey towards Barbados resumed.

When all the gear had been arranged to his satisfaction, Hayden repaired below to eat a late dinner. His cabin had been dismantled when the ship was cleared, but now it looked much as it had when he left it that morning, all of his belongings replaced exactly as he preferred. He had ordered his steward to feed his guests at the regular hour—noon—not wishing them to go hungry when he was otherwise engaged. As he finished his meal, Angel appeared—he still had trouble thinking of her as “Angelita,” having called her “Angel” for so long.

Hayden had his servant clear away the moment coffee appeared, and as the man retreated out of the door, Angelita leaned near and whispered, “Thank you, Charles, for not turning my brother and me over to our people . . . and for trusting me.”

“I could do no less. There were a number of Spanish civilians aboard that frigate; I saw them upon the deck.”

“Yes, they are officials being carried out to Vera Cruz. The man we distrust is very tall—half a head taller than you and certainly the tallest man among the civilians.”

“I marked him, then. Round-faced and quietly dressed. At one point he whispered something to the captain, who then asked if the slave ship had found any survivors. I assured them that she had not.”

“Do you think they believe you?”

“I do hope so. Like a fool, I forgot that we had taken aboard your
boat. I told the captain we found it drifting, all but filled with water, though empty of any people. In such a gale a boat could easily be rolled over and everyone aboard lost.”

“And we—Miguel and me—we did not know the management of a boat in such weathers. I have said it before, but it could only have been the hand of God that preserved us.”

Hayden let this pass without comment.

“They must have asked themselves if there could be any reason I would not tell them the truth . . .” This was not explicitly a question, but he did let it hang in the air.

Angelita considered this a moment and then shook her head. “They would know no reason for you not to tell them the truth. So I think they believe you.”

Hayden nodded—it was what he had hoped she would say. “There is one other matter . . . Dr Griffiths asked me if I thought it possible that you were a woman disguised.”

Angelita drew back, both hands limp upon the table. “He knows, then?”

“I assured him you were most definitely a man.”

She put a hand to her heart and let out a long breath. “No one must know,” she whispered, rather breathless of a sudden.

“I wonder if I should tell him the truth and charge him not to reveal it? Griffiths would never repeat anything I asked him not to. The man is discretion dressed and walking.”

Angelita squeezed his wrist. “I think it is better if you say nothing . . .”

“Perhaps, but as it stands he might ask the same question of others. This could set people to wondering.”

“I will endeavour to be more manly. Say nothing, Charles, I beg you. It must never be known. Miguel's life would be in danger. My life, too, might be endangerous.”

“If that is your wish.”

“How long now, until Barbados?”

“A few days, if the weather stays as it is. Three or four, perhaps.”

Angelita took this in. “I will spend less time where others might observe me. It cannot be known that I am a woman. It cannot.”

“Then we will keep up the ruse. But Angelita, what will you do when you reach Barbados?”

She shook her head, the smallest motion, her lovely mouth turning down. “I cannot say. Barbados . . . was never in our intention.”

T
he long journey to Barbados resumed, the trades carrying them along, the slaver following behind like a bad deed that could never be forgotten. Angel and Miguel were guests of the midshipmen's berth that evening and took their supper there, where it had been decided that only Spanish would be spoken, which sounded very much like a language lesson to Hayden, for only Wickham had enough Spanish to ask for the salt to be passed.

Hayden ate his dinner alone, read for an hour, then took a turn around the deck. Finding everything to his satisfaction, he descended the ladder to the gun-deck. Passing the skylight to the gunroom, he heard laughter and then the distinctive, accented English of Miguel Campillo proclaiming the superiority of Spanish wine.

Nodding to his marine sentry, Hayden entered his cabin. A lamp glowed from beyond the sail-cloth partition, but Hayden could not tell if Angelita was there or if the lamp had merely been lit by his steward. In case his guest was sleeping, Hayden made his toilet as quietly as he could.

Emerging from his quarter-gallery, he doused his own lamp and immediately saw the lovely silhouette of Angelita cast upon the partition.

“Are you there?” came her whisper from beyond the canvas.

Hayden drew nearer so that his voice would not carry to the sentry or up the skylight.

“Yes,” he whispered.

The shadowy Angelita reached out a hand and pressed it flat to the softened old cloth. For a second Hayden hesitated, and then he touched his hand to hers. The cloth was drawn taut enough that they could not grasp hands, but he could feel the heat of her palm against his.

She moved nearer and they leaned gently forward until their foreheads met. He could hear her now, jagged little gasps for breath. His own lungs had grown tight. They pressed their cheeks together.

“I do not think my mother would approve of this,” Angelita whispered.

“We are in separate rooms,” Hayden said, just as softly. “Even a priest could not complain of that.”

Without another word they both moved forward so that Angelita's face pressed against his chest and their bodies leaned into each other.

“I cannot find my breath,” she whispered.

“Nor I,” he replied.

He swore he could feel her heart pounding—though perhaps it was his own.

“There is so little between us,” she breathed, “from a different people, a different life, your language I speak but poorly . . . yet there is only this scrap of sail keeping us apart. Or is there something more . . . ?”

Hayden attempted to control his breathing and then said ever so softly, “Foolish of me, is it not, to cling to hope when the woman in question has married another?”

“You are loyal, Charles Hayden, and you loved her deeply. It speaks well of your heart that you have not been able to let her go.” Angelita tried to gather her breath. “Is it really hope you cling to, or is it that you do not want to let go of this . . .
feeling
? Love is a precious thing, after all.”

“I want to let it go . . . and I do not. I want to feel anger towards
her . . . and I cannot. I do not want to speak more of her, because I am here with you . . . and yet I do. Am I not a sad, lovesick youth?”

“We are both young in these matters. I do not know how to banish this ghostly woman from your heart, but I do not know if you can love another until she is gone.”

Reluctantly—Hayden could feel it—Angelita stepped back, though her hand lingered a second longer on his chest, as though she were sounding the depths of his heart.

“Sleep well, Captain Hayden,” she whispered, and then she extinguished her lamp and was gone in that instant.

A moment more Hayden stood by the partition, and then he went to his cot, where he lay, attempting to calm his racing heart. Beyond the partition he could hear Angelita, so near that he could tell, by the sound of her breathing, that she did not sleep. He imagined he could feel the warmth and sense the soft scent of her body.

Even more than that, he thought he could perceive her suffering, which caused him to feel more than a little ignoble. He wondered at her apparent attachment to him. How did one distinguish fleeting infatuation from deeper, lasting feelings? It was difficult enough to tell them apart in one's own heart, let alone the heart of another.

Did I not feel strongly about Henrietta when first we met? he asked himself. Certainly, he had. And what had he done? He had dithered and been “reasonable,” and she had slipped away.

It occurred to Hayden that, once they reached Barbados, Angelita and her brother would be off to Vera Cruz at the first opportunity. He knew, once that occurred, he would never see her again. It would be as though she had died. Here, aboard ship, he could speak with her and seek her company at his pleasure, but once she was back with her family, they would never allow such a connection to continue. He was only a sea officer, after all, and not a suitable match for such a woman.

The idea, however, that she would be gone caused him more distress than he could have imagined. What, exactly, did that mean?

His usual breakfast was laid out, and as he prepared to eat, rustling sounds emanated from beyond the partition. Angelita emerged a moment later, looking wan and tired. It was now so very obvious to Hayden that she was a woman that he could not comprehend how anyone could not see it.

“I hesitate to ask if you slept well . . .” Hayden said.

“Very poorly, I fear.”

Hayden's steward served breakfast to her, and as had become her habit, she poured coffee for them both.

“I did not hear your brother return . . . ?”

“No doubt he became insensible with drink and spent the night lying in some corner of the ship.”

“Mmm.”

The rest of the meal passed in silence. When the servants had cleared away, Hayden asked that the coffee be left and released them to other duties.

“I am sorry you slept poorly,” Hayden offered, for lack of something better to start the conversation.

Angelita shrugged. A second of awkwardness, and then she whispered, “I have exposed my feelings before I should—before I knew that you shared them—because I hoped . . .” but she fell silent and wiped a sleeve across her eyes, which glistened.

“I am the one who is foolish, clinging to feelings for a woman who has chosen another.”

She reached out and put a hand on his wrist. “But you are mourning. You comprehend this, do you not? You grieve for the person you have lost. Wounds to the heart take much longer to heal than wounds to the body.”

“I fear you will be gone to Vera Cruz before I have come out of mourning. I seem to be healing more slowly than I would like.”

Angelita squeezed his wrist and met his gaze suddenly. “I should like very much to be patient and very proper and to give you all the time you need, but I fear the same. We have so little time to find if we can be content in one another. Not enough time, perhaps . . .”

“Then we must make use of the time we have.”

There was no hesitation on either part. Each leaned forward, and they kissed, turned in their chairs, and embraced, only a section of table holding them apart.

The door handle rattled at that instant and they flew apart, just as Don Miguel was let into the cabin. He was a disaster of red eyes, unkempt hair, and dull skin.

“What goes on here?” he enquired, and stopped.

Angelita, who was blushing, picked up her coffee cup and raised it to her brother. “The English call it breakfast, brother. Would you care to join us, or are you yet too ill from drink?”

“I shall break my fast later,” he said coldly, and retreated beyond the screen.

“And I should be about my duties,” Hayden said, draining his cup and rising to his feet.

Angelita glanced back once to be certain her brother could not see and then squeezed Hayden's hand before he left.