Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead (14 page)

“I wonder if it might be possible to get Don Miguel senseless with drink this evening.”

“I wonder if it is possible to stop him, given that wine is provided; the man has not a sou to his name.” Hawthorne regarded his commander. “Does the reason for this proposed drunkenness involve a young lady?”

“Indeed. Smosh would marry Doña Angelita and myself, but her brother will not allow it.”

“Ah. It is likely not my place to question my captain, but is this a somewhat precipitous marriage?”

“Entirely . . . and I do not care. Neither does she.”

Hawthorne nodded, his face very serious. He considered only a moment. “I might have need of involving others. Mr Archer, Barthe, perhaps Wickham . . . Ransome, possibly.”

“Involve who you will, but word must not reach Miguel or our opportunity will be lost.”

“I shall exercise all care. We must have a supper in the gunroom to celebrate our successful crossing—an ancient tradition of His Majesty's Navy.”

“Ancient traditions are to be upheld at all costs.”

“I agree. Leave this matter to me, Captain. Give it not another thought.”

Hayden rose to his feet. “Mr Hawthorne, were it within my power, I would make you captain of marines.”

“If it were within my power, sir, I should make you Admiral of the Blue. But only because I have grown rather tired of red.” He glanced at his coat.

Both men laughed, and it was not at their wit.

In a few moments Hayden was pacing back and forth across the quarterdeck by the transom, his excitement barely contained. Was he really about to marry? That very evening? Given how long he had known the prospective bride, he thought he should feel some trepidation, some doubts. He felt neither. And that seemed almost as remarkable as the fact that he was about to become a husband.

Henrietta came to mind at that moment. Was this headlong rush into matrimony a result of his failed suit for Henrietta Carthew? Had he
hesitated because he had doubts about marriage to Henrietta, as his friend Robert Hertle always believed? Or had he shown wisdom then and was acting the fool now? He did not know. He was not about to let Angelita escape. He knew, somehow, that he would regret it the rest of his days if he did so. The rest of his days.

“As I regret the loss of Henrietta,” he whispered, as he stopped to look over the side. “I shall not make the same mistake a second time.”

Miguel accepted the gunroom's invitation, though Angelita deemed herself not recovered enough to attend. The gunroom's occupants were all present, as were Hayden and the senior midshipmen. It was a convivial atmosphere, though close, with only a little breath of air whispering down the gunroom skylight, which was itself under the cover of the quarterdeck.

“A toast to our crossing, gentlemen,” Mr Hawthorne proposed, holding aloft his claret glass. The marine was sitting next to Miguel and had taken on the duty of keeping the Spaniard's glass fully charged.

The toast was drunk, and it was not the first. The King's health had been toasted earlier, sitting, as was the custom in the gunroom, with its low deck-head. The health of wives and sweethearts had been drunk to, with only a few half-hidden smiles showing. The successful passing through the gale was toasted, as was Miguel and his sister's miraculous survival.

“We have not drunk to the health of our steadfast ally, the King of Spain,” Barthe offered.

That ruler's health was toasted. And then that of his Queen.

However, despite these quantities of claret, Miguel seemed terribly and inconveniently sober, as though he had sworn that very day to curb his drunkenness. Hayden was of the opinion that several of his officers were further into their cups than the Spaniard.

Griffiths glanced his way and made a small shrug with his narrow
shoulders. He rose to stoop beneath the beams. “I beg your indulgence, gentlemen, but I must take advantage of this momentary pause between courses to look in briefly on a patient.” The doctor stooped out, leaving the chair to one side of Miguel empty.

The atmosphere in the gunroom was certainly jolly, as Hayden had hoped, but it seemed to him to have a forced quality to it, an edge of anxiety, perhaps. He could not say whom Hawthorne had taken into his confidence, other than Barthe and Archer. Several others had concocted “toasts” that would not normally have been heard in the gunroom, so perhaps his secret was concealed from no one present.

The evening wore on, wine flowing with a liberality which, even safely at anchor, one seldom saw in the
Themis
' gunroom—or perhaps any other gunroom. Miguel, however, was hardly more than mildly inebriated, and nowhere near drunk enough to pass into unconsciousness, as he had more than once since being discovered drifting in the Atlantic.

Hayden's emotions swung wildly from trepidation to almost unendurable excitement and then to worry that his marriage could not take place because Miguel remained stubbornly sober.

The doctor returned, the next course served, glasses filled, conversation engaged in. A song was proposed and sung as the servants cleared away. Hayden noted the doctor filling Miguel's glass, after which Griffiths nodded to Hayden, for what reason the captain could not say.

Yet another course, after which Hayden thought Miguel looked distinctly groggy, his eyes fluttering closed and then snapping open. He slumped lower in his chair and, finally, if not for Hawthorne and the surgeon, would literally have slipped under the table.

The doctor took the Spaniard's pulse and nodded, apparently satisfied. He then pointed long fingers at Miguel's glass. “This must be disposed of, and not drunk by anyone,” he instructed.

“I will see to that, Dr Griffiths,” Wickham offered, taking up the glass with some care.

“Whatever did you put in it?” Hawthorne asked the surgeon.

“A mild soporific. He will wake in the morning refreshed and without any ill feelings.”

“Lest they be towards his new brother-in-law.” The marine turned to Hayden. “How shall we proceed?”

Hayden rose to his feet. “First I must up to my cabin to wake Angelita, if she sleeps, and then ask for her hand.”

Hawthorne almost reeled back, and everyone else froze where they stood. “You have not asked for the maiden's hand?”

“Her brother was always hanging about.”

Hawthorne glanced around at the others. “Well, what if her answer is no?”

Hayden shrugged. “Then I suppose the wedding must be called off.”

“My God, sir, I do hope you are confident of her answer.” Barthe was as incredulous as Hawthorne.

“Is one ever perfectly confident, Mr Barthe?”

Barthe shrugged, lumbered into his cabin, and quickly reappeared, bearing a package wrapped in plain paper, which he proffered to Hayden. “In the event that she accepts you . . .” he said.

“What is it?” Hayden asked, as he reached out to take the offering.

“A dress. It was meant for one of my daughters, but I think she will give it up in this cause. If it is not a proper fit, tell me; I have daughters of all heights and proportions.”

As Hayden began for the door, Hawthorne barred his way. The marine held out his hand, and upon his palm lay a plain gold ring.

“Where did you find this?”

“Some gold coins were donated—the blacksmith forged it on short notice.”

Hayden could hardly believe what he was seeing.

“You should keep it in your pocket, Mr Hawthorne. And thank you. Thank you all.”

Up the ladder to the gun-deck, past the marine, and into his cabin. He deposited the package on a chair and found Angelita in her cot, reading by lamplight.

“Captain Hayden!” she said, as always delighted to see him appear. “But where is my brother?”

“Asleep, and not likely to wake before morning. I have come to ask you a question, but I fear you must rise from your sick-bed to hear it.”

She laid her book aside with such haste it almost tumbled to the cabin sole. “If you will steady my cot and give me your hand . . .” Gingerly, but without hesitation, she swung her legs over the side and lowered herself to her feet. For a nightgown she wore one of Hayden's shirts, with the sleeves severely reefed. It fell to her knees.

“There, I am on my feet. What is this question?” she asked, and looked suddenly as frightened as a child.

Hayden took her hand and went down on one knee. Her other hand went to her mouth.

Hayden took a calming breath. “Doña Angelita, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

The tiniest little gasp, and then tears. A whispered, breathless, “
Yes
. Above all things,
yes . . .
”

Hayden rose to his feet, and she favoured him with the sweetest kiss he had ever known.

“But when?” she asked, drawing far enough away to bring his face into focus. “My brother will never allow it.”

“This very night. Mr Smosh has agreed to perform the ceremony. He will ask you two questions. Are you one and twenty or older, and are you a member of the Church of England. You must answer yes to both. Can you do that?”

“To be your wife I would tell a thousand lies. But where? Is there a church nearby?”

Hayden waved a hand around his cabin. “This will be our church. I know it is very modest, and we do not have a special licence, but we do have a licence, and within the hour, we can be man and wife.”

She looked around. “It will be a perfect church. It lacks only my family and all who are dear to me.” She turned back to Hayden. “But you will be here, and you will be my family now.”

They embraced, though with care to her injured side.

“I have something for you . . . a gift from the sailing master, Mr Barthe.”

Hayden took up the package and put it into her hands. The ribbon was quickly untied, and inside was a lovely, pale cream dress; simple yet beautiful, Hayden thought.

She held it up in the lamplight.

“Perhaps not the wedding gown of which you have always dreamed,” Hayden said softly.

“As long as you are the groom, I would wear a sack. It matters not at all. Tell Mr Barthe it is a most beautiful gown.” She grinned at Hayden. “The most beautiful I presently possess.”

She retreated to dress and put up her hair. Hayden, already in clean linen and dress coat, took up a brush and swept away any dinner crumbs. He examined himself nervously in a mirror and concluded he would do.

Angelita was not gone half of an hour but reappeared with her hair held up in the ribbon that had closed Mr Barthe's package. A knock sounded at his door, and Hayden opened it a crack to find Hawthorne, and hanging back behind him in the dim light, his steward, several midshipmen, and hands, all bearing burdens hardly discernible in the dim light.

“What is the verdict, sir?”

Hayden suspected his marine guard had overheard and the news was already known.

“The best possible, Mr Hawthorne: guilty of aspiring to matrimony and sentenced to a lifetime of it.”

The marine broke into a grin. “May I be the first to say ‘Congratulations,' sir.”

“Thank you, Mr Hawthorne.” Hayden waved at the men lingering behind. “What is all this, then?”

“Whenever it is convenient, Captain,” Hawthorne said, “we have come to ready your cabin for a wedding.”

Angelita had crept up, and peered around Hayden's shoulder.

“Are you ready for our guests?” Hayden asked of her.

She looked rather confused. “If it is the English way . . .”

Hayden beckoned the men in. In a blink, the screens were taken down, cots and furniture removed, lanterns hung and lit, flowers arranged, a simple altar created. Mr Smosh gave directions here, and Mr Hawthorne there. A constant stream of men went in and out, and beyond, on the gun-deck, Hayden could see the hands gathering and talking quietly among themselves.

“It would appear word has got out, sir.” Archer nodded to the crew collecting along the deck. “The gunroom servants must have let it slip, sir.”

Wickham came in the door at that moment. “Sir, the hands have learned you are to marry this very hour and they have charged me to ask if they will be allowed to attend the ceremony.”

“Where did they ever get such an idea?” Ransome answered before Hayden could speak. “You may inform them that they may not!”

There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Angelita said softly, “But they have all been so kind to me . . . Is it not acceptable . . . ?”

“It simply is not done,” Hayden replied, “but then, we are far from the shores of both England and Spain . . .” He hesitated a moment and then turned to his first lieutenant. “Let us take down this bulkhead, Mr Archer.”

Mr Hale and his mates had the bulkhead down in a trice, and the cabin now opened onto the gun-deck, where the men all stood, grinning and speaking quietly among themselves. Mr Smosh had a brief, whispered conversation with Angelita, which concluded happily, Hayden assumed, by the looks upon their faces. A few more moments of buzzing about, and then Mr Smosh called out for order and the hands quickly removed their hats and stood silent as penitents at the final judgement.