Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead (18 page)

As they had but left port that day, supper was a rather grand affair—though grand in the English way, as Rosseau had remained behind. The meal, however, was not jolly and the conversation was, at best, strained with unusual and slightly awkward silences. It was not until the servants had cleared away and port had been brought out that the diners were left alone.

“It
was
Aldrich, then?” Griffiths asked quietly, with an anxious glance at the open gallery windows.

“You may speak freely—though softly—Doctor,” Hawthorne informed him. “I have a trusted marine on the quarterdeck ensuring our privacy.”

“Yes, Dr Griffiths,” Hayden said, “it was Aldrich.”

“Does he not realise he could sink us all?” Griffiths almost hissed. “Surely, he must.”

“I had only the briefest moment alone with him,” Hayden explained, “and he excused his foolishness with the claim that he had no other trade.”

“Be that as it may,” Griffiths said, still distressed, “he has spent much of his life in the Navy and served aboard who knows how many ships . . . He has very likely been aboard British vessels that stopped and searched neutrals, so he comprehends how commonly this occurs. There must be hundreds of British seamen who would know him by sight. This is a very great risk he is taking.”

“And not just to himself,” Hawthorne added.

“Where was he bound?” Griffiths asked.

“Barbados, Doctor,” Wickham replied.

“Barbados!” Griffiths all but reared back in horror. “Will he go ashore?”

“He will if the ship's master sends him there.”

Griffiths pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. “We take substantial risk to preserve his life, and this is how he repays us? By placing us all in even greater danger! I wish I had him here; I would skin him, I swear!”

“I understand your passion, Doctor,” Hayden answered, “but I do not think there is much we can do about it, other than to hope he does not give us up in the event that he is recognised and taken back to England.”

“Would he not face a court-martial here, in Barbados?” Wickham asked thoughtfully.

“It is an excellent question, Mr Wickham,” Hawthorne replied pushing his mouth into a sour, thoughtful rose. “What think you, Captain?”

“I am no barrister . . . but I suppose Caldwell might very well decide, since many of the principal witnesses to the events are present, that we could try the matter here.”

“And this could be to our very great advantage,” Griffiths said.
“Without Landry or Hart to spread their slander and defame him, there would only be the opinion of the officers, and we all believed he had no part in the mutiny.”

“He did run,” Hawthorne observed, “which does make him look less innocent, I think.”

“He did not so much run as he was pushed—by us,” Hayden answered him, “but even certain captains of the panel thought it very likely he would be found guilty—and falsely so. We acted to preserve his life.”

“Desertion is a far less serious offence, especially as he was facing persecution and possible execution.”

There was a moment of very contemplative silence, and then Wickham said softly, “My concern is this. Mr Aldrich has always had a most trusting nature. It is entirely possible that, under close questioning by a panel of captains, he might—without ever meaning to—reveal who helped him escape. Even if it were only a single name . . . that would be enough to condemn one of us. And I do not know what the punishment would be for aiding the escape a man who faced court-martial.”

The four looked one to the other, then Hawthorne surmised with surprising calm, “Such a thing might be without precedent in the history of courts-martial. Officers would not commonly take such a risk for an able seaman.”

“Aldrich was unusual in almost every way,” Hayden remembered. “I have never known a hand to be addressed as ‘Mister,' even occasionally by officers, but somehow Aldrich garnered such respect. And he was falsely accused by Hart, who never cared for him because the men respected him so while Captain Hart had the respect of no one.”

“Old Faint Hart—I do so miss him,” Hawthorne declared.

“What is to be done about Fowler?” Griffiths wondered. “He claimed, and rightly so, that he found the late Peter Aldrich alive and hale aboard an American transport. He is not likely to change his mind, and even less likely to keep his peace.”

“I will deal with Fowler,” Hawthorne assured the others.

“Fowler is not the wisest man aboard our ship,” the surgeon pointed
out, “or certainly he would have comprehended that revealing Aldrich's identity could send him to the gallows.”

“There are men on the lower deck, Doctor, with much greater understanding than Fowler,” Hawthorne explained to the surgeon. “I will have one of them explain to Fowler that he was very much mistaken in believing he had recognised Peter Aldrich, who is most regrettably, but certainly, dead. Do not concern yourself with Fowler a moment more. He shall realise the error of his ways this very night, I am quite certain.”

U
pon the sun rising, Hayden found that only a single frigate remained in view—that of Sir William Jones. As the moon had been all but full the previous night, this seemed near to impossible.

“Do you think, Mr Barthe,” Hayden asked the sailing master, “that they could have lost sight of us when the night had grown so clear?”

“I do not, Captain.”

“Perhaps they went in pursuit of a strange sail in the night and we did not take note of their signals?”

Mr Barthe made a growling sound in his throat. “I think the explanation will be that they did not believe Sir William quite interested enough in prize money.”

“Perhaps they will return before the day grows much older.”

“And perhaps I will begin to grow again and finally attain the stature that my circumstances merit.”

“You loom large in the opinion of all who know you, Mr Barthe,” Hayden said.

“You refer to his girth, I assume?” It was Hawthorne, making his usual entrance.

Hayden smiled. “Not at all, Mr Hawthorne. You slept well, I trust?”

“After my mind was put at ease over a certain matter, I slept like a child.” Hawthorne lowered his voice so that the sailing master, who had wandered a few paces off to stare up into the rigging, could not hear. “Fowler has admitted that he made an asinine mistake yesterday—claiming poor Aldrich had risen from the dead—and feels rather the fool for it.”

“Who among us has not made a mistake?” Hayden observed.

“On deck!”
the lookout called down. “Land ho! Land three points off the larboard bow!”

“Martinico,” Barthe announced, his attention drawn away from the rig. “The current has set us more to the west than I had allowed for, though not by a great deal.”

Hawthorne turned to the sailing master, his look quizzical. “Was I not informed that the tides in this part of the world were all but imperceptible?”

“So they are, Mr Hawthorne,” the master told him, “barely a foot or two, but there are powerful ocean currents here not caused by tides. A very strong current flows in through these very islands, but there are countercurrents along the coasts and narrow passes where the current flows north, while not so far off it flows south. Most islands have eddies behind them where the current is strong.”

“But you have been in these waters before, Mr Barthe,” Hawthorne almost insisted. “You must know these currents well.”

“Only the local men know them, Mr Hawthorne, and then commonly only in their own localities. Ships run aground in these waters with greater frequency than any place on earth, I think.”

“I shall not sleep well again, I am sure,” the marine said, and he did look distressed to a small degree.

Hayden called for his glass and went to the larboard rail. There, upon the horizon, appeared a jagged, green island beneath a bonnet of pure white cloud. In reality, Hayden knew this was the top of a tall volcano—4,600 feet, if he remembered correctly—and the great mass
of the island was below the horizon yet. He had a sudden desire to explore this place, for he dearly loved to go ashore in new lands.

“Captain?”

Hayden turned to find the surgeon emerging from the companionway in some haste.

“Doctor,” Hayden replied, “we have raised the isle of Martinico.” He offered the doctor his glass, which the doctor hardly seemed to notice.

“Might I have a word, Captain?”

“Yes, of course.” Hayden beckoned, and they crossed to the windward side and all the way aft to the transom. The two had been shipmates long enough that Hayden had learned to read the small signs of distress in the doctor's face—signs that most others did not see.

“What is it, Doctor?” he enquired quietly.

“I believe we have fever aboard, sir.”

Hayden shut his eyes for a second, as though he had felt a quick stab of pain.

“Who is it?”

“Drury and James, sir.”

“Two men!”

“I fear so.”

“How ill are they?”

“Not so bad at the moment, but Yellow Fever commonly progresses with great rapidity.”

Neither man spoke for a moment. Hayden could hardly have imagined less welcome news. Yellow Jack was almost invariably fatal.

“Let us hope it spreads no further. We have physic for this, I trust?”

“There is much that is recommended, but I have little faith that any of it will effect a cure. Bark, I believe, helps with the fever.”

“You are too honest, Doctor. Others of your profession are more prone to overstating what they can accomplish.”

“I should never say as much to the crew, sir, but I thought you would prefer the truth.”

“I do, and I thank you for revealing it. Let us hope that these men heal apace.”

Griffiths nodded but said nothing. He touched his hat and returned to the companionway, where he disappeared down to the secret decks below.

Hayden crossed to the leeward rail, where he stood for a long time, observing the distant green hill, made dramatic by sunlight and shadows. How this drew him, as though it were some promised, mystical isle where man lived at peace with both nature and himself. An isle free of war and disease, and even death itself.

He shook his head. The rest of that long day he found himself glancing often towards the companionway, wondering if the surgeon would emerge again with news. The crew were unsettled to learn that the Yellow Jack had crept aboard, but the older hands kept assuring the others that after a week at sea the fever would be gone—it came out to the ship from the land and clung to it for only so long. Several times over the course of the day Hayden wondered if he was sweating unnaturally. Each time he decided it was only the heat and nothing more, but even so, he was as unsettled as his crew, even if he was at pains to hide it. The invisible terror, which chose its victims by some process men could not fathom, was as frightening to an educated officer as it was to an illiterate seaman.

Perhaps two hours before darkness fell there was a sudden call from aloft.

“
On deck!
Sail! Sail, dead ahead!”

Hayden took up his glass and hurried forward, where he found several officers gathered around Midshipman Wickham, who was standing at the barricade, a glass to his eye.

“A little two-sticker, I think, Mr Ransome,” he said, not realising Hayden was there.

Ransome looked rather uncomfortable. “Mr Wickham believes it to be a small brig, Captain.”

Wickham quickly lowered his glass and touched his hat. “My apologies, Captain, I did not know you were there.”

“It is quite all right, Wickham. I am certain you meant no disrespect. Is she an armed brig or a transport?” Hayden asked.

“I cannot say, sir. She is too distant yet.”

Hayden raised his own glass just to be certain they were not looking at one of the missing British frigates. “Make the signal for strange sail to the north, if you please,” Hayden ordered. “Mr Ransome, I believe she will take more sail.”

“I agree, sir. There is not as much weight in this trade, as we have often seen.” Ransome turned and began calling out orders.

“Could you make out her point of sail, Mr Wickham?”

The midshipman shook his head. “I could not, sir, but perhaps from the foretop I might see more . . .”

“Then lay aloft, Mr Wickham, with all speed.”

Wickham clambered up the ratlines with two of the newer middies at his heels. They were soon all in the foretop, where only Wickham showed the sense to sit and clap on while he used his glass, the other two bouncing about like excited children.

“On deck!”
Wickham called down. “I should think she is making for Guadeloupe, Captain, and crowding on sail.”

“How distant is she, Mr Wickham?”

Wickham raised his glass again, then looked down to Hayden. “Two leagues, or a little less.”

“Mr Ransome!” Hayden called out, setting off towards the quarterdeck. “We will shape our course to intercept.”

A gun was fired and signals run aloft. Almost immediately,
Inconstant
altered her course to converge with Hayden's at some not-too-distant point. There was a great deal of murmuring around the deck and the watch below came streaming up to see this strange sail. Nothing excited the crew more than the promise of prize money with little or no danger involved, for even an armed brig was no match for a
thirty-two-gun frigate and would almost certainly strike if she could not escape.

This was the distraction that all aboard needed. Thoughts of the Yellow Jack were pushed to the rear, and all hands looked forward to the promise of excitement.

When the
Themis
had up all the canvas that she would bear—courses, topsails, top-gallants, and royals—Ransome came hurrying aft.

“Shall we beat to quarters, sir?”

“Let us wait a little yet, Mr Ransome. We will know how many guns she boasts in an hour or two. With two frigates upon her, her master would be very foolish not to strike.”

During the course of two hours, the three ships drew nearer the point where they would all converge. The brig, it became clear, was armed and, as she was running towards Guadeloupe, almost certainly French. To the crew of the
Themis
, this meant only one thing—prize money. They fixed their eyes and hopes upon the distant vessel, constantly gauging their speed against that of the chase.

“She'll pass before us,” one man would claim.

“Never will she,” another would declare with equal certainty.

“She has more wind than we.”

“No, it makes here and takes off there.”

And so they argued as the sun slipped towards the west.

The officers were little better, speculating upon whether the brig carried any cargo, how swiftly she sailed, how experienced was her crew. When Hayden could bear it no more, he climbed to the foremast top himself. He found Mr Wickham there, dining on bread and cheese.

“Have I interrupted your meal, Mr Wickham?”

Wickham looked positively alarmed. “No, sir. I am sorry, sir. I had no supper, Captain, as I was up the mast.”

“Do not rise, Mr Wickham,” Hayden told the boy. “You are as much deserving of food as any other man. Let me keep the watch for a short while.”

Wickham began to bolt down his meal so quickly that Hayden was
certain it would result in dyspepsia. Hooking an arm around a shroud, Hayden fixed his gaze on the brig. He then stepped back and lined it up with a shroud. Very slowly, the brig inched to the left of it.

“She is going to pass before us!” Hayden declared.

“She must have caught a gust, sir,” Wickham suggested. “That was not the case a quarter of an hour past.”

“Let us hope it is only that,” Hayden agreed. But his own observation belied this and after half an hour he leaned over and called down to the deck. “Pass the word for Mr Barthe, if you please.”

The sailing master soon appeared below, gazing up at Hayden, from that angle looking more than a little like a dumpling in a hat and coat.

“I believe she is going to pass ahead of us, Mr Barthe,” Hayden called down.

“Never will she, Captain,” the sailing master assured him, but in not fifteen minutes Barthe's own observation concurred with his captain's.

Hayden went hand over hand down a stay and found Barthe and Archer awaiting him on the deck.

“I wouldn't advise more sail, sir,” Barthe said, and Archer nodded in agreement.

“We will alter our course to larboard, Mr Barthe, but I think our chase might make Guadeloupe before we can fire a gun to bring her to.”

The master scratched absentmindedly at a spot on his cheek. “Our bottom must be somewhat foul, sir,” he offered. “We might be forced to careen, Captain.”

“Let us hope not.”

The ship's helm was put up a little, and the yards braced and sails trimmed to draw every tenth of a knot from the frigate. Sir William's ship was yet some distance off and would soon be in the
Themis
' wake, Hayden thought. When Barthe was done trimming sails, he and Hayden repaired below to quiz the chart.

Guadeloupe was actually two islands separated by a narrow channel. At either end of this channel lay a good-sized bay, both well guarded by
batteries. Off-lying islands lay to port, but Hayden did not think the brig was headed there. Barthe put a finger on the chart.

“She is making for Gosier, Captain, or somewhere in the bay, I would wager.” Barthe made a rough measurement using his thumb and forefinger. “She will make the bay on the last light, but it will be dark when we arrive.”

“Do we dare follow?”

Barthe pressed his lips together and a deep crease appeared between his brows. “There are shoals and coral near the entrance and throughout the bay, Captain, not to speak of the batteries that command much of the bay. I should think it a great risk, sir.” Barthe looked up at his commander. “Do you think Sir William will attempt it?”

“He might have more local knowledge than we . . . and he is known to be audacious.”

Barthe lowered his voice. “Some would say ‘imprudent,' sir. If he goes in after the brig, will we follow?”

“I cannot very well let him go in alone, now, can I, Mr Barthe?”

“No, sir. It would be impolitic.”

“Let us hope even Sir William would judge it too great a risk.”

Hayden took a last look at the chart, committing all the major features to memory, and then he and the sailing master mounted the ladder to the quarterdeck, where dusk was quickly turning to night, the sunset fading behind the nearby island.

Archer was standing behind the binnacle, sighting over the compass to the now not-so-distant brig.

“What think you, Mr Archer?” Hayden asked. “Will she be ours, or no?”

“She will not, Captain. I have readied the forward chase pieces in case we might bring her to.” He pointed at the distant vessel. “We believe they heaved their guns over the side, sir, and pumped their water, too.”