Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead (12 page)

“Then you would ask her to convert to your religion—at risk of her mortal soul? Think of all these things. You are more experienced than she, Captain Hayden. Ask yourself if this is really what is best for my sister. That is all I ask of you.” Miguel gave a curt bow and went quickly below, leaving Hayden standing upon the quarterdeck, feeling as though he had somehow made commitments without ever meaning to do so, and yet the thought of Miguel taking Angelita away from him filled him with a terrible dismay. Above all things, he could not allow that.

G
ould and Wickham found Hayden using the gunroom table to prosecute the war on his most hated enemy—paperwork. He had commandeered this space while his own cabin had been turned into a hospital chamber.

“We have books for Angel . . . Doña Angelita,” Wickham began, proffering a small stack of volumes.

“That is very kind of you. Leave them on the table and I will see she receives them . . . and promise not to forget to inform her who it was that sent them.”

The books were stacked carefully, clear of Hayden's papers. Angelita had become the ship's “pet” since her true sex had been revealed—not that Angel had not been before. Archer would not allow the deck over the captain's cabin to be holystoned in the morning when it might disturb her rest; the hands on the quarterdeck and the helmsmen were constantly hushed. Even the poor lookouts were required to call down to the deck as quietly as possible while still being heard. Little “treats” were provided by the cook (who apparently had some foods squirrelled away that no one knew about). The gunroom officers sent both food and drink and yet more reading material.

Angelita was the talk of the ship, and at least half the men aboard
assured everyone who would listen that they had suspected—or even known—from the day she had come aboard but had said nothing for fear of ridicule. The reason that everyone had sought out Angel's company now seemed perfectly obvious and her charm easily explained. Angel Campillo was a comely young woman!

Neither of the midshipmen showed any sign of leaving, so Hayden put down his quill.

“Is there something more?” he enquired.

Gould glanced at Wickham, silently electing him spokesman. “We were wondering, sir, if you would like to join our syndicate.”

“And what syndicate would this be, Mr Wickham?”

“A group of us, sir, have decided to put our profits—or, in some cases, a portion of the profits—from the slaver towards buying the freedom of some of the slaves, sir—preferably a family, if one exists.”

“I see. And what will become of this family once you have purchased their freedom?”

“Well, sir”—Gould took up the case—“we have discussed it at some length, sir, and decided that sending them back to their homes in Africa would likely see them again fall into the hands of slavers. We do not want that, sir, so we thought it best that we write to the abolitionists in England and America and ask if they would find a position for them in either country.”

“What kind of ‘position,' Mr Gould, if I may ask?”

“I am quite certain they could be taught a trade, sir, or they might go into service. I do not really know, sir. We thought the abolitionist societies would be best able to make such a decision.”

“It is a noble idea, Mr Gould, and I am for it in principle, with the slight reservation that I fear what will become of them, cast ashore in a foreign land where they speak no English. But as I do not wish to profit from the sale of slaves myself, and have no better design for what to do with my money, you may count me in . . . for my full share.”

“That is very handsome of you, sir!”

“It is a small good set against a very great evil, but it is all I can do without becoming a criminal, which I am not prepared to do.”

Hayden went back to his paperwork for yet another hour, but as the ship's bell signalled eight bells—ship's noon—he scribbled some instructions for his writer and collected all his stores lists, mess lists, and so on, into a box and tucked it under his arm.

Very quickly he made his way up to his cabin, where Angelita rested. The cabin had been divided into three by canvas screens—Angelita to larboard, Miguel on the centre line, and Hayden to starboard.

As it was now rather impossible for them to pursue their affair, due to Angelita's injuries, a kind of peace had settled among the three—Miguel and Hayden both more concerned for Angelita's well-being than for their disagreement.

Miguel perched on the long bench beneath the open gallery windows, through which the trade came freely in. He looked up as Hayden entered, nodded, and went back to his book. He was happy to chaperone from beyond the screen, it seemed.

Angelita lay in her cot, eyes closed, an open book pressed, pages down, upon her breast. Hayden was about to attempt a silent retreat when her eyes opened and she smiled. Her colour was better that day, he thought—perhaps a little too high—and her forehead was thinly glossed with sweat.

“Are you fevered, my dear?” he enquired, and took the chair beside her.

“No. It is just this oppressive heat. The doctor assures me that my injuries heal as they should and have not gone septic, for which I thank God hourly.” She had refused tincture of opium after one encounter with it, assuring the surgeon that she would rather endure the pain than feel
that
way again.

“Griffiths knows what he is about, and, of course, faith is the physic of the gods.”

She reached out and put her hand on Hayden's arm in the most familiar way, as though they had a perfect understanding, an understanding
that had grown up between them over some months rather than mere days. Although he thought he should find this disquieting, in fact he instead found it rather comforting. He was well aware that some of his officers worried that they were about to witness another scenario, such as had occurred with the Bourdages, but Hayden did not believe Angelita to be scheming. She and her brother were penniless and very far from family or any connexions who might offer them aid, and in that situation a convenient marriage or even a betrothal that could later be broken off would be most useful, but despite this, Hayden felt certain this was not in her mind, even in the smallest degree.

It had always been his belief that bad marriages came from couples rushing into nuptials before they had come to know each other's character—of course, this desire to wait had cost him Henrietta, so clearly circumspection in such matters could also lead to things going horribly wrong.

He felt, therefore, utterly in conflict with himself, his hopes pitted against his natural reticence in such matters. One hour he would think he was acting foolishly and he should make Angelita aware that he thought they were moving too quickly, and then he would think, No, there is always risk in matters of the heart. There is ever the chance that things will not come out well, no matter how cautiously one approaches such matters.

“You look trouble?” Angelita said.

“‘Troubled,' do you mean?”

“Yes. Troubled, my poor Charles.” She grimaced then, holding her breath tightly. And the spasm passed.

“It is just the slave ship . . . It follows me about like a difficult decision that I wish not to make.”

“The law, the expectations of your crew . . . these are at odds with your own feelings about slavery.”

“Yes. I feel I can do nothing, that, in fact, I am being forced to support an institution which I detest.”

“You must make your peace with this, Charles. It is beyond your
strength to make it different. To reprimand yourself constantly . . . this will change nothing.”

“You are right, but it is so much easier said than accomplished—at least, in my case.”

She squeezed his arm. “It is because you have such a good heart. That is what I thought from the moment we met. You have a good, pure heart.”

But I am such a coward, Hayden thought. I would more readily face cannon fire than risk bruising a girl's feelings.

They were silent a moment. And then Angelita said softly, “Are you having some regrets about what has occurred between us? Tell me if that is so . . .” Her eyes glistened suddenly, and the smallest tear trembled in the corner of one eye.

“Regrets? No. I have none. I do worry that it has all happened quickly and we have not thought it through. Your brother has pointed out, correctly, that we are of different religions.”

“But I do not care,” she whispered. “I do not believe that God judges us by the church in which we worship, but by our deeds. I will become a member of any church you name if it will allow us to marry.”

The very words “to marry” struck him like a spark in the pan. At once he felt utter apprehension and . . .
joy
. How could that be?

“I think I have frightened you, my dear Charles, with this word. I shall never say it again or broach this subject. It is now to you. If you do not speak of it again, then neither shall I. And I will understand. I do not wish you to enter into such a covenant with me if you have any doubts.”

“On deck!”
came the call down through the open skylight.
“Land, Mr Ransome! Land ho!”

Hayden rose quickly and kissed Angelita on the cheek. “You are my mermaid, discovered in the deep sea, sent to me by Poseidon. When the gods send you a mermaid . . .” He smiled at her and shrugged.

Squeezing her hand, he hurried out, feeling small and cowardly, and at the same instant, an almost serene happiness.

T
he island of Barbados was not blessed with a natural harbour or all-weather anchorage of any description. There was only the open roadstead off Bridgetown, which was both crowded and busy with the commerce of this small but prosperous island. This exposed anchorage had but two benefits—that of being in the lee of the island, the trades blowing from the opposite side, and of being so utterly open to the sea that sailing out, if the winds suddenly demanded it, would not be impeded by headlands or off-lying reefs.

Hayden sat upon a chair in the official room of the station's commander-in-chief—the recently installed Admiral Benjamin Caldwell—a man Hayden had met on one or two previous occasions.

The very well-turned-out and bewigged admiral sat reading Hayden's report of his Atlantic crossing through the glinting lenses of a pince-nez suspended by hand several inches before his face. He was half obscured behind a large desk of French manufacture, no doubt recently liberated from one of several French possessions the British had taken. When the admiral finished reading, he lowered both the sheaves of paper and the pince-nez and turned towards Hayden.

“A woman . . . ?” he said, rather astonished.

“Yes, sir.”

“And no one realised?”

“The doctor had mentioned his suspicion to me, but no else.”

“You were aware of her ruse, though . . .”

“I was sharing my cabin with the guests, sir.” Hayden waved a hand at the door, beyond which lay an antechamber. “I have brought the brother here in the event that you might wish to speak with him.”

“Mmm.” The admiral demurred. His left eye appeared to twitch. “It is a matter for the Spanish, I think. It is the oddest thing that they were adrift in a boat alone, though, is it not?”

“The explanation they gave—”

“I read your report, Captain.”

“Of course, sir.”

“And they lost everything?”

“Everything but the clothes on their backs . . . and their lives.”

Caldwell gave a distracted little shake of the head—almost a tremor. “There is a merchant here, a Spaniard; not an official envoy—more of a commissioner, I suppose—but he sees to the interests of the Spanish government whenever necessary. I will bring the matter of the castaways to his attention. Perhaps he can aid them on their way to Vera Cruz.” He shifted the pages of Hayden's report, as though shuffling the matter of the Spanish castaways to the bottom of the pile. He then rested his hands upon the table and leaned a little forward. “You were at the battle of the First, Hayden—in command of
Raisonnable
—were you not?”

“I was, sir.”

“But you were not in Portsmouth when the King graced the fleet with his presence?”

“No, sir. Lord Howe had dispatched me to follow the French fleet, to be certain it returned to Brest.”

“Yes . . . the
fleet
 . . . well put. The almost intact French fleet that returned to the unassailable harbour of Brest.” He rose to his feet, his colour suddenly high. “And were we recognised for our parts in this battle, Hayden?”

Hayden was uncertain how to respond, so he made a small gesture that could be interpreted in any number of ways.

“No,” Caldwell asserted, “we were not.” He paced towards the open window, then turned back to face Hayden. “Did you see the state of my ship when the battle was done? My sails and rig cut to ribbons, masts still standing only because the hand of God held them so. Thirty-one dead and many more wounded. How many men did Lord Howe lose? And you, Hayden, I saw you in
Raisonnable
come to Lord Howe's aid when he was beset by two ships, and I saw you lay your ship alongside a Frenchman with treble your weight of broadside, and did you receive a knighthood or silver plate? Or even a commemorative medal?”

Hayden made no answer—he had received such a medal but thought this an inopportune moment to mention it.

“No! Medals were reserved for His Lordship's . . .”—he searched for words—“. . .
fart catchers
!” The admiral resumed pacing. “All my dead men, dead to no purpose. And what of the grain convoy? Never intercepted! The greater part of the French fleet escaped to be repaired.
Seven prizes
we had to show for our efforts! Seven! We should have had
twenty
! The truth is, and no one will say it aloud, the lord admiral's nerve failed him at the end and the French were allowed to escape. There it is. The harsh truth, but I have said it and will not withdraw it. They are calling it ‘the
Glorious
First of June.' It should be known for all time as ‘the Infamous and Shameful First of June.' But
Howe
”—he pronounced the name with utter disdain—“has connexions in the Admiralty and is a hero. I have few, and it would seem I was not even present at the
glorious
battle. None of my men was killed or wounded, it seems, my ship untouched.” He stopped and looked over at Hayden, suddenly abashed, even embarrassed by his outburst. “Well, we are far from the Admiralty and their bumbling here, thank God,” he said more mildly. “We can prosecute our own war. And there is prize money to be had—a fortune if one is lucky and not shy . . .
and
if you can avoid the Yellow Jack. Spend as little time in port as you are able, Hayden. That is the secret.
The healthful sea air will soon cleanse your ship of the putrid diseases that are carried off from the shore.”

“I shall keep to the sea as much as I am able, then, sir.”

Caldwell returned to his chair, and for a moment it appeared as though exhaustion had swept over him. His eyes—his entire being—seemed to lose focus. And then an almost imperceptible shiver ran through him and his concentration returned. “You are no doubt aware that we have suffered reverses of late? Guadeloupe taken and then lost . . . The Saints, the same. The Army, God bless them, have not been as stalwart as I might wish. Though it must be said that the French have had numbers everywhere. If we had only intercepted the convoy transporting their army . . . but our intelligence failed us. We were not so well informed then as presently.” He considered a moment. “I awake each morning wondering if the Spanish remain allies and praying that I might learn of their betrayal before the news reaches Havana. In these waters only the French are our enemies—but if the Dons betray us . . .” He paused a moment, considering. “We take these islands at great cost, Hayden, and what does our government do? Uses them at the bargaining table when treaties are written. Who in their right mind would trade an island rich in sugar for Quebec and the surrounding French possessions? One might as well trade a few rocks and trees for silver! Yet that is what our government did.” He shook his head, shrugged, and looked up at Hayden. “I might have need of you to transport soldiers, Hayden, but I will employ you as a cruiser as often as I am able. It is a rich hunting ground, and I am informed that you are a very capable captain.”

“I do not know who informed you, sir, but I thank them.”

There was at that moment a bustle in the office beyond. A loud voice, speaking in a heavy French accent, came reverberating through the massive doors. Caldwell glanced up at the doors and then back to Hayden. The voice rumbled on, more quietly, so that Hayden could not make out the words.

“Do you know the other captains here? Jones, Oxford, and Crowley?”

“Sir William I know by reputation,” Hayden said, referring to Captain Jones.

“Who does not . . . ?” the admiral replied, and smiled.

“Oxford not at all, but Crowley I have had the pleasure of meeting on more than one occasion.”

“You shall get on with them splendidly, I am quite certain. Not one of them is the least shy. Sir William is the senior officer and prosecutes his war with the usual zeal.”

“I shall look forward to sailing alongside them, sir.”

The admiral looked suddenly more serious, his brows drawing up so that a cleft appeared between them. “Now, Hayden, am I correct in remembering that you were recently mistaken for a French officer . . . by the French themselves?”

“That is correct, sir. When we were wrecked aboard
Les Droits de l
'
Homme
.”

“So your French is very good?”

“I speak it as well as I speak the King's English, sir.”

“Excellent. Would you stay a few moments longer? I have the Comte de Latendresse waiting beyond the door, and his English is only a little better than my abysmal French.”

“I am at your service, sir, if I may be of assistance in any way.”

“Thank you.”

The admiral went to the great doors and opened one, revealing Miguel and a large, moustached man seated beyond. A word with his secretary and the moustached gentleman was brought in.

Caldwell gestured to Hayden as he rose from his chair. “I have asked Captain Hayden to remain with us. His French is excellent.”

“Where did you learn to speak French, Capitaine?” the man enquired.

“My mother was French. I spent much time in Brittany and Bordeaux when I was young.”

“Ah, my own family had estates in Burgundy—also great wine country. And how is it you have come to be in the King's Navy, if I may ask?”

“My father was an English sea captain. I grew up in England.”

“Ah, that is the explanation.”

“I was acquainted with Captain Hayden's father,” Caldwell informed the Frenchman.

“I did not know that, sir,” Hayden said.

“I cannot claim to have known him well, but we were acquainted. He was a respected sea officer.”

Hayden felt a little softening towards the admiral at this admission.

“You may speak freely before Captain Hayden,” Caldwell assured de Latendresse. “Nothing said here will be repeated.”

They all took chairs. The Frenchman perched upon his skittishly, as though he might jump up and leap out the window at any instant.

“I have just, as you know,” de Latendresse began, “returned from a dangerous fortnight on Guadeloupe. The Jacobin forces are there in greater numbers than I previously believed—at least fifteen hundred strong, I am told, perhaps more. It was very dangerous for me to move about the island. Many of my old friends had been discovered or taken away merely because their sympathies had fallen under suspicion.” He shook his head unhappily. “It was very brave of them to stay . . . though even more it was foolish.” He looked up, his eyes infinitely sad. “But some of us must take such risks if this Jacobin madness is to be defeated and a rightful monarch restored.”

“Is there not some vulnerable point,” Caldwell asked in English, “some point where we might land our troops?”

The Frenchman looked rather confused by this, and Hayden quickly translated the question. De Latendresse puffed out his lips and considered a moment before answering.

“These revolutionaries . . . they are not so foolish. They know best where their enemies might land, and these places they have invested with cannon, and, nearby, troops have made camps. You might land a force, but to carry the island . . . it would take many men, I think, for getting ashore would be very costly.”

“And what of our own islands?” the admiral asked. “Will the Jacobins attempt them, or no?”

The Frenchman shook his head slowly. “The French have no plans for further attacks this season,” he assured them. “They have not got the ships for such adventures.”

“Will they not be reinforced from France?” Caldwell asked him.

“Not this season, Admiral.”

Even this news did not cheer Caldwell; he appeared to sink a little lower in his chair with each bit of the comte's intelligence. The conversation moved away from the strategic position of the British in that area of the Caribbean Sea and onto mundane matters, the admiral and the French nobleman enquiring about the well-being of family and friends. It seemed that the comte lived with his comtesse and several children in a large house provided by the Navy. They were without a country—castaways of a different sort—and no doubt living in fear that the French might invade Barbados.

Finally, the interview came to an end and Hayden departed, leaving Caldwell and the comte discussing who among the French exiles living in Barbados might be trusted and who might be a spy planted among them.

Hayden gathered up Miguel and the two went out into the streets of Bridgetown. The day was warm, the wind fragrant with the spicy perfume of flowers. The city itself was a-hum, tradesmen's carts and barrows passing by, planters in their carriages and gigs, dusky-skinned slaves and freemen going about their business, and then the Creoles with their nutmeg skin and striking features—to Hayden's eye, more handsome than either of the races that spawned them. In among these walked smiling sailors who made knuckles to Hayden as they passed. There was little danger of desertion on such a small island and the hands were commonly given leave to go ashore, to their great delight and the profit of local inns and bawdy houses.

It was but a short walk to the beach off of which the
Themis
lay at
anchor, the stricken slave ship nearby. Hayden could see his crew at work about the ship setting aright all the wear of a long sea crossing.

Hayden explained to Miguel that the admiral would send a letter to the Spanish merchant who acted as commissioner for his government when required, and he hoped this gentleman would aid them on their way.

Miguel took this in, watching all the while where he put his feet. This news did nothing to cheer him or put his mind at rest, Hayden thought. Indeed, it almost appeared to increase his anxiety.

“This news does not appear to have cheered you, Miguel,” Hayden ventured.

“My sister told you that two members of the crew on the Spanish frigate attempted to murder us?”

“Yes.”

“I fear that this commissioner you speak of will send word to the wrong people, revealing that we are alive, and we will be in danger again.”