Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead (17 page)

Hayden returned to the
Themis
, spoke at some length with his officers about the progress in refitting their ship for sea, and then retired to his cabin, sending his writer in search of Rosseau—Hayden's cook.

The Frenchman appeared a few moments later, wiping his hands on a square of cotton. “Is the
capitaine
displeased with his food?” he asked in French.

“The captain is delighted with his food, Rosseau,” Hayden replied in the same language. “I commend you for it.”

“You are very gracious, Capitaine.”

“Have you been ashore, Rosseau?”

“I have. Your steward and I have been procuring stores at your request and instruction.”

“And I am most pleased to hear it. Did you encounter any of the French refugees while you were on land?”

“A few servants, Capitaine, in the market. I did not speak with them.”

“Have you ever heard of the Comte de Latendresse?”

Rosseau considered this a moment and then shook his head. “I have not, but there were so many noblemen . . . before the revolution.”

“Indeed there were. This particular comte is here, on Barbados, claiming to be a refugee from the revolution. I harbour some small suspicion that he is neither a comte nor a refugee.”

“The Jacobins, Capitaine, they are very cunning. They place men—and women, too—into the midst of their enemies. In France, you never know whom to trust. I have seen brother betray brother.”

“Perhaps that is true of Barbados as well. I am in need of a French native to . . . mingle with the French refugees. I would like to discover if this comte is a royalist, as he claims, or no comte at all and a Jacobin.”

“You wish to make someone a spy?” Rosseau's mouth turned down. “It could be very dangerous, Capitaine.”

“That is why I would only accept a volunteer. I would never put a man into such a situation by order.”

A protracted silence ensued, becoming increasingly awkward.

“I have been seen,” Rosseau explained, “coming and going from the ship. It is no secret who and what I am. To convince anyone I am a Jacobin—even a Jacobin spy . . . But let me go ashore and find out what I may about this man. I do not think there is any way a British captain's chef would win his trust, but he must have servants . . .”

“Do not put yourself in danger,” Hayden said firmly.

“I am already in danger. The moment I agreed to speak to this comte's servants I crossed a border into a lawless land. I will not pursue this matter at foolish risk to myself—assuming I can recognise the dangers in time. I am not like you, Capitaine—a warrior. I am merely a chef. And I am frightened.”

I
t had been with some difficulty that Hayden had parted from his new bride the previous evening to be aboard ship so that the anchor might be weighed at first light. It was the first time Hayden had gone off to sea—to war—since he had wed less than a fortnight previous, and he was not certain how his new bride would bear up to this turn of events.

To his surprise, or perhaps disappointment, she had been surprisingly stoic, saying only that she believed God would protect him. Hayden, himself, was not so certain that God approved of this or any war, but then the Old Testament was rife with battles and the perceived intervention of the deity, so perhaps he was wrong on that score.

Their orders were very simple—to cruise the French islands, as far north as twenty degrees, and to disrupt the enemy's commerce wherever this could be managed. It was, to the disgust of Jones, yet another prize-hunting cruise with the single intention of enriching the officers involved—including the admiral. The crews would never complain, because they shared in all prize monies, and the officers seemed to consider it no more than their due for braving the Yellow Jack. Crawley and Oxford were entirely pleased and prepared to execute these orders with the highest possible degree of diligence.

Both Hayden and Jones were of the opinion that their squadron's
efforts could have been much better directed in aid of the war effort, but Caldwell was yet the commander-in-chief of the Barbados station, so they had little say in the matter.

The little squadron of four crack frigates had shaped their course to the north-north-west and had hauled their bowlines the moment the trade had found them. This course would allow them to cruise out of sight of the French islands while watching for ships approaching from the west or north.

The four frigates stretched out in a line abreast, the distance between being about five English miles. The two most distant ships were then five leagues apart and out of sight to one another. Signals, however, passed quickly between the frigates and this formation allowed them to sweep the greatest area of ocean.

Hayden had been surprised to learn that the frigate captains had not entered into an arrangement to share prize money equally, which was very common on such stations. Jones, of course, did not care much for prize money but had claimed Oxford and Crawley were far too concerned with lucre. It occurred to Hayden that Jones might not approve of such arrangements, as he was only there to carry war to the French, not to enrich himself. The more Hayden considered it, the more likely this explanation seemed.

“Not a sail in sight that does not belong to a fisherman, sir,” came a voice from behind, interrupting his thoughts.

Hayden stood at the windward rail on the quarterdeck—the captain's exclusive few feet of deck. Archer, who had spoken, was by the skylight to Hayden's cabin.

“It is a sadly empty sea, Mr Archer. Let us hope it does not long remain so.”

“It is said to be a rich cruising ground, Captain. I am certain it will not prove a disappointment.”

Hayden beckoned the lieutenant near. “I have been meaning to enquire, Mr Archer: Where have our Africans gone?”

The young officer's eyes went a little wider. “You do not know, sir?”

“I should not have asked if I had.”

Archer looked decidedly uncomfortable of a sudden. “Why, Mrs Hayden took them under her wing, sir. They are to learn English and enter service until we work out what is to be done with them.”

Hayden took hold of the rail. “They have entered service . . . in my home?”

“So I have been informed, sir.” Archer had taken a step back and was not meeting his captain's eye. “I suppose Mrs Hayden believed that servants were a matter for the lady of the house . . .”

“Indeed. I should agree, especially so as I shall be at sea much of the time, but . . . we have saved these poor people from slavery . . . so that they might act as my servants?!”

“Only very temporarily, sir.”

“And who was it approached Mrs Hayden on this matter . . . without first speaking to me?”

Archer looked positively alarmed at this question. “I—I do not know, sir.”

“Perhaps someone else does. Pass the word for Mr Wickham.”

“Aye, sir.”

The midshipman arrived a moment later, stuffing an arm into his coat as he did so, his colour high.

“I do apologise, Captain,” Wickham began before Hayden could open his mouth to speak. “I did not for a moment think Mrs Hayden would fail to mention the matter to you.”

“And how is it, Mr Wickham, that you spoke with my wife without me knowing?”

“Mr Gould and myself encountered Mrs Hayden and a maid returning from the dressmaker. She very kindly asked what had brought us ashore, and we explained our predicament, sir—finding positions for our poor Africans, sir. Not for a moment did I expect her to offer to take them on, sir, or I would never have said a word. I should always have spoken to you first, sir.”

“I believe you would, Mr Wickham. I do wish that someone had seen fit to inform me.”

“I apologise again, Captain.”

“
On deck!”
came the call from above. “Sail! Point off the larboard bow.”

“Your apology is duly accepted. Lay aloft and see if you can descry this sail, if you please.”

“Aye, sir.”

Hayden watched the boy scramble aloft, his injured hand slowing him only a little.

The Africans were serving in his house!
The Africans they had rescued from slavery!
He could only imagine trying to explain that to a member of the anti-slavery league. He should look a fool in more ways than he cared to count. How he hoped this strange sail belonged to an enemy frigate so his mind would be forced to matters other than feeling utterly foolish.

Hayden called for his glass and made his way forward. The lookout was not wrong: It was a sail and certainly no fisherman. Hayden stood at the rail, gazing through his glass while several of his officers lined the bulwark beside him, their own glasses fixed on the distant point.

“Mr Archer,” Hayden said after a moment.

“Sir?”

“Shape our course to intercept that ship. We shall beat to quarters and signal Captain Jones that we have a strange sail in sight—north by west.”

“Aye, sir.”

The ship fell off onto her new heading, with only minor shifting of yards and trimming of sails. The hands went quietly to their stations, barely controlled excitement apparent on every face. Signals were spread upon the deck and then hauled aloft, where they curled and fluttered in the enduring trade.

They were not half of the hour upon their new course when Wickham called down from aloft.

“
On deck!
They have smoked us, Captain. She is running, sir.”

Hayden ordered the course altered to intercept their quarry, then paced the deck while the distant sail grew marginally larger by the hour. By early afternoon it was apparent that they would catch the strange ship up before darkness descended. It was also clear she was a transport.

“On deck!”
the lookout cried. “American flag at the mizzen, sir.”

“Mr Archer!” Hayden called out to his first lieutenant. “If she does not heave-to we will fire a shot across her bow. Have a boat ready to launch. I will send Mr Ransome to see if they have any English hands we might press.”

“Aye, sir. I shall have the boat made ready.”

Hayden alerted the other members of his squadron that the strange ship was an American transport and then watched them return to their previous courses, leaving him to catch them up later.

Realising that the British frigate would overtake them before darkness, the transport hove-to, resigned to the inevitable. The master of the transport came to the rail and called out to Hayden as the
Themis
lost way a pistol shot to windward. “I am an American vessel engaged in legal trade, Captain!” he called out. “I protest, sir. Protest most bitterly at being searched on the open sea.”

“I am under orders, sir,” Hayden replied. “Stand by to receive a boarding party. The more quickly you comply with my lieutenant's requests, the more quickly you shall be on your way.”

The British cutter went into the water and a party of marines, midshipmen, and hands, under the command of Lieutenant Ransome, was quickly alongside the American ship. The examination of papers, cargo, and crew took the better part of two hours, and it was all but dark when the British cutter was manned again. The two ships had drifted a little apart, but Hayden could see Ransome had pressed a few men out of the transport, for they were gathered in a resentful knot in the cutter's bow.

“It would appear we have some new members of our crew, sir,” Archer noted.

“I do hope Ransome has found us some prime seamen, and not troublemakers.”

The coxswain brought the boat alongside, and Hayden went forward through the gloom to see what Ransome had uncovered. The lieutenant came over the side, touched his hat to Hayden.

“General cargo, sir.” He offered Hayden a sheet of paper. “Cotton and cotton goods, sir. Some lumber.”

“You found us some
recruits
, I think?”

Ransome smiled. “Yes, sir. And most peculiar, Captain . . . Fowler swears he recognises one of them. He says the man was an able seaman aboard this ship but was believed drowned, sir.”

“That is more than peculiar. Does this man have a name?”

“Aldrich, sir. Peter Aldrich.”

If Ransome had taken a pistol from his pocket and shot at him, Hayden could not have been more surprised . . . or horrified! He made every effort to hide his reaction to this news, but Wickham, who stood but a yard distant, actually twitched, he was so alarmed.

“Do you recognise the name, sir?” Ransome asked.

“Mmm. Let me see this man.” Hayden turned to Archer. “Have the American hold her station until I have had a look at these men.”

The newly pressed seamen came over the rail, looking very downcast, if not truculent, and, to Hayden's distress, there among them was Peter Aldrich, a man once falsely accused of mutiny and aided in his escape by Hayden and some of his officers.

A few men began to gather about the pressed men. “Be about your business,” Hayden ordered them, rather peevishly, and they hastened off to their stations. “Which one is said to be Aldrich?”

A man was pushed forward, his head down so that his face was barely visible in the failing light. Even so, Hayden had no doubt of the man's identity. It was Peter Aldrich, a man Hayden had warned never to go to sea again.

“What is your name, sir?” Hayden asked.

“Watson, sir. Archy Watson, second mate aboard the
Mystic
.”

“And from where do you hail, Watson?”

“Boston, sir. I was born there.”

Hayden beckoned Wickham nearer, hoping to God that the boy's wit had not deserted him. “Mr Wickham, you were familiar with the late Peter Aldrich, were you not?”

“Very familiar, sir.”

“Do you recognise this man?”

Wickham, to Hayden's relief, did not hesitate. “No, sir,” he replied, “I do not. He does bear a strong resemblance to Aldrich, sir, but it is no more than that.”

“I would concur . . . if I were allowed to give my opinion.” This was Hawthorne, appearing out of the gloom. “He does look a good deal like the late Peter Aldrich—could be his brother—but I have seen such things before. I once met a man who I mistook to be my cousin and was utterly astonished when he was not. There was not a hair difference between them.”

“Mr Wickham, take charge of the cutter, if you please, and return this man to his ship.” Hayden turned to Ransome. “See these new men settled on the lower deck. I will speak with them in the morning. The rest of you, about your business. We shall make sail the moment the cutter has been taken aboard.”

As the boat crew climbed down the side, Hayden beckoned Aldrich near. “I do apologise for the misunderstanding, Mr Watson, but you do resemble our late shipmate to a remarkable degree.” Hayden looked quickly around to be certain they were alone, then whispered, “Did I not warn you never to go to sea again?”

“You did, sir,” Aldrich replied, his voice shaking, “but I have no other trade, Captain.”

“British ships search American ships all the time, as you well know. If this happens again and you are recognised, you will be returned to England, where it is very likely you will be hanged, sir. I should think the life of a common labourer preferable to that.”

“Yes, sir.” Aldrich hung his head like a truant schoolboy.

“Climb down, sir. And do not ignore my warning twice.”

Aldrich went quickly down the ship's side and into the boat, which was immediately away over the dark, restive sea. Hawthorne appeared at Hayden's side. “That was unlooked for,” he said quietly.

“I shall invite Wickham and the doctor to dine with me this night, Mr Hawthorne. Might you join us?”

“I should be delighted to, sir.”

“Until then,” Hayden replied, and walked aft. He braced himself on the transom rail and for a moment closed his eyes, as though in pain. There had never been any doubt in his mind that Peter Aldrich was naive, but he had never thought him to lack wit. Yet here he was, returned to his former trade, where not only was he taking the great risk of being recognised as one of the
Themis
' accused mutineers, he was putting Hayden and the others who had arranged his escape in almost equal danger. It could be more than their careers brought to an abrupt conclusion.

The cutter returned quickly from its errand and was lifted directly aboard. A course was set that would see the frigate catch the other ships up in a few hours. Hayden took a turn about the deck, then repaired below, where he measured the small distance across his cabin again and again, like a caged beast.