Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead (4 page)

Eastern grey turned to crimson and then a rather spectacular gold. Archer sent lookouts aloft and all the midshipmen appeared with their glasses. Those not on watch went aloft as well. Hayden had often noted that anything that broke the monotony of a ship's routine—especially on passage—was taken up by the men with great zeal. There were soon men all about the ship, scrutinizing the sea at every point of the compass.

Hayden ordered the ship underway and the morning trades quickly bellied the sails. Miguel and Angel appeared then, and Hayden invited them to the windward side of the quarterdeck, along with Mr Percival, the admiral's poet-secretary. The sea, however, was uniformly empty of anything but water, though admittedly they did see petrels and a very fine specimen of the bosun bird.

The watch below soon tired of this and wandered off, a few at a time. They had all seen an empty ocean before. Hayden quizzed the sea with his glass, not so much because he thought he would find anything but because the lookouts would not want their captain to spot something from the deck before they saw it from aloft. The first lieutenant, Mr Archer, would quickly find a suitable punishment for such a failing.

The first sweep revealed nothing, but upon wearing and beginning their second sweep, flotsam began to appear—a grating, a gun carriage without its gun, a broken barrel. Standing on, they found a capsized boat, but a subsequent investigation revealed the larboard side had been stove in. All this did give Hayden some hope, however.

Just before noon, a lookout on the forward tops sang out: “
On deck!
Flotsam, two points off the larboard bow!”

Archer, who was forward, called up, “What is it, Higgins?”

“Don't know, sir,” came the reply. “Mayhap the stump of a yard, Mr Archer. Might be men, sir, but they ain't moving.”

Hayden and most of the guests went quickly forward. It took Hayden a moment to find this object in his glass, but finally he did.

Angel approached and stood beside him. “Are there men, Captain Hayden?” he asked softly.

“I cannot be certain.” Hayden handed the young man his glass.

After a moment of futile effort, Angel returned the glass to Hayden with a shrug. “I could find nothing.”

“There is a bit of a trick to it,” Hayden said. “Stare intently at the object and raise the glass to your eye without removing your gaze, even in the smallest degree. Easier said than done on a moving deck. It is one of those odd skills that, once learned, is never lost.”

Angel nodded, but Hayden could not help but think he looked unsettled, almost apprehensive.

The ship was hove-to and the cutter quickly surging over the waves, white sweeps catching the sunlight as they broke the surface then
disappeared briefly into the sea, over and over. The little boat covered the hundred yards of heaving blue in record time and brought up smartly alongside the flotsam.

Hayden turned his gaze aloft. “Mr Wickham? Can you see what they do?”

Wickham's head appeared from the tops. “I cannot, sir.” There was a murmur above; the head was withdrawn and then reappeared. “They appear to have taken aboard a man, sir.”

“Alive?”

The midshipman shrugged. “I cannot say, Captain.”

Hayden beckoned one of the hands. “Pass the word for the doctor, if you please.” And the man ran off, bare feet padding along the gangway.

The cutter was soon making its steady way back to the
Themis
, Hayden's own coxswain, Childers, at the tiller. Hands, officers, and guests gathered at the rail, staring at the boat, which was laid expertly alongside. A hammock was lowered. A moment later it came up the side, bearing the body of a young man, bits of sea grass tangled in his hair and streaming from his limbs. He was laid out on the planks, eyes closed, a stain of glittering seawater overspreading the deck about him.

“There is no need for me to examine this man,” came the doctor's voice. He had appeared at Hayden's side. “Drowned.”

“Did you know him?” Hayden asked Miguel and Angel, both of whom looked terribly grim. They stared at their own fate, lying before them, evaded by the smallest margin.

“I did not, Captain,” Miguel replied, “but the names of the crewmen were unknown to me.”

“Pedro,” Angel whispered. “His name was Pedro. His family name I did not know. He was well liked.” He turned to Hayden. “What will you do with him?”

“We have no choice but to bury him at sea. I will consult our parson as to how this should best be done. We realise, of course, that he is of your church and not ours.”

Angel nodded and turned his attention back to the man lying on the deck. “So many died without last rites. I believe God will not mind.”

In the end the man was sewn into the hammock used to lift him to the deck and slipped over the side, after Mr Smosh had intoned some suitably neutral words. The search continued, but the excitement and novelty had been extinguished by the discovery of the dead sailor. Two hundred men had almost certainly gone down into the dark depths, and it was a sobering realisation for every man aboard.

By mid-afternoon the search was abandoned and Hayden ordered the
Themis
back on her course for Barbados. The north-east trade had returned and sped the ship along, her sails full and drawing. She rolled heavily in these conditions, but there was nothing for it.

Over supper Hayden could not help but feel his Spanish guests looked both haunted and relieved, and though the former was easily understood, the latter was not, causing him to wonder if he was not, somehow, mistaken about their feelings.

Later, Hayden ascended to the deck, where he stood by the taffrail, admiring the stars and small moon. It was a close night, for they had entered the zone of equatorial summer; soon, no doubt, they would be cursing the heat, after longing for it the previous weeks. It was as fine a night at sea as Hayden could remember. The trades had eased a little after sunset and the motion of the ship was more civilised, yet she still hurried on her way.

Hayden set out on a circuit of the deck, to stretch his legs and settle his supper. He made his way along the starboard gangway to the forecastle, where Archer intercepted him, coming the other way.

“Have you come to take a turn of the deck, Mr Archer?”

“I have come, sir, from the midshipmen's reading society.”

“Have you? And how went your meeting this evening?”

“Most instructive, Captain. Mr Maxwell produced a poem by Shakespeare which provoked the most lively discussion.”

“And was Mr Percival in attendance?”

“He was, sir, and uncommonly silent on the matter of our interest.
He retreated to his cabin the moment we drew to a close. I confess, I felt a little sorry for him.”

Hayden nodded. “Have you experienced a more lovely evening at sea, Mr Archer?”

“Hardly, sir. I can almost imagine I smell the perfume of the island flowers already.”

“You have an acute sense of smell—they are more than a sennight off yet.”

Archer accompanied Hayden back up the larboard gangway, where Hayden's eye ran over every little detail of his ship that could be made out in the dim light. It was well known among his crew that nothing amiss escaped his notice. For most of the crew it was a matter of pride that the captain would find nothing to trouble his eye. For the rest, it was a matter of angering the bosun, who was a large man, and, though Hayden believed him kindly by nature, he was not averse to doing his duty and inflicting as severe a punishment as he believed a given transgression required.

Hayden and Archer parted at the quarterdeck, Archer going below and Hayden returning for a moment to the taffrail. He stood there, admiring the night, listening to the sounds of his ship speeding across the vast ocean. A whisper reached him, coming up through the open skylight. Feeling rather ignoble, he crept silently nearer.

“No one but the English know we are alive,” Miguel said in Spanish. “To everyone else, we are dead. We may claim to be anyone we wish. Anyone at all.”

“But the English will not keep our existence a secret,” Angel replied, just as softly.

“No, but we will have time to find a ship in Barbados—to slip away.”

“And how will we pay for our passage, Miguel? Everything we possessed has gone to the bottom of the sea.”

“There will be a way. I will find it.”

“I still believe we can confide in Captain Hayden. He is a good man; I feel it.”

“No doubt you are right, but he is, above all things, dutiful. A typical Englishman.”

“Captain . . . ?” The man at the helm spoke quietly. “I believe I saw a light, sir.” He gestured to starboard.

At the sound of a voice the Spaniards went silent and Hayden crept away as stealthily as he could. When he was a dozen feet off he said clearly, “Where away?”

And damned if it was not a light! Hayden called up to the lookouts, who spotted it almost immediately. Ransome came hurrying along the deck, whence he had been overseeing the renewal of some chafing gear.

“I will deal with the lookouts, Captain . . .” he said as he mounted the quarterdeck, “. . . suitably.”

“I have no doubt of it, Mr Ransome, but what of this light?”

“On deck!” the lookout on the main-top called down. “Light a league off our starboard beam, Mr Ransome. Appears to be moving north, sir.”

“Away from us,” the lieutenant said. “I wonder if she is one of the Spaniards.”

“It would seem unlikely. They were headed for Vera Cruz.”

“Shall we alter course, sir, to close with them at first light?”

“I think we have lost enough time on this crossing, Mr Ransome. Let us continue on our way.”

“Aye, sir.” He touched his hat and turned away, calling out, “Mr Hobson? Replace the lookout on the main-top, if you please.”

“Aye, sir.”

And so Hayden was left standing at the starboard rail, watching a mysterious light rise and disappear, growing ever smaller.

No one but the English know we are alive.

We may claim to be anyone we wish. Anyone at all.

It would appear that Mr Barthe would be proven right; there was something peculiar about these two brothers. And Hayden thought it best he find out what—perhaps also typical of an Englishman.

T
here were, aboard his ship, a number of men Hayden trusted utterly. Indeed, he had trusted them with his very life on more than one occasion. However, it was not merely a question of trust that caused Hayden to choose Dr Griffiths, Lord Arthur Wickham, and Lieutenant of Marines Hawthorne as his confidants. The certainty that they would not betray a confidence was every bit as important. Finding a place to speak privately, however, on so small a ship was almost a greater difficulty than deciding who should be included in the conversation.

Normally, Hayden would have arranged such meetings in his cabin, but as he now had two guests, and they were the subject he wished to discuss, he had been forced to look elsewhere. The foretops would have been ideal for his purpose—send the lookout down and they would have all the privacy one could ask for—but the good doctor did not like climbing to heights. In the end, Hayden led his companions down to the orlop, where, outside the door to the forward powder magazine, they held their discussion, standing but a spark away from utter destruction. As quietly as he was able, Hayden related what he had overheard the previous night while lingering by the skylight.

Immediately Griffiths asked, “If they are not who they claim to be, then who are they?”

Hayden shook his head. “I do not know.”

“It does sound like they are running from something,” Wickham observed. “I wonder what it might be?”

“The law?” Dr Griffiths suggested.

“They do not seem like criminals to me,” Hawthorne replied thoughtfully. He crouched between the beams, steadying himself with one hand.

“True, Mr Hawthorne,” the surgeon said, “but that is the business of certain criminals—appearing
not
to be what they are.”

“They seem rather young for that game,” Hawthorne replied, a little defensively.

“I am certain we could speculate until we reach our old age,” Hayden told them, “and conclude nothing. I am asking your aid in discovering who our guests might be and what their intentions are. Mr Wickham, you are near the age of Angel, so perhaps you could make some effort to befriend him. He might have need of a confidant. Your particular charm, Mr Hawthorne, could be put to good use in our cause.”

“Ah, if only these Spaniards were señoritas,” Griffiths said, and grinned. “They would soon be telling our good lieutenant their most intimate secrets.”

“And, of course, you, Doctor,” Hayden continued, “who knows what they might let slip in conversation—for who does not trust their doctor?”

Griffiths gave a small shrug.

“And I am sharing my cabin with them and so might glean a fact or two. We shall see. If they are lying about their identity, what else might they be hiding? Did their ship really founder after collision? Why was there blood on Angel's clothing?”

“I should keep a close eye on my valuables, Captain,” Griffiths cautioned. “They sound desperate for money.”

“I have so few valuables. Turning me over would hardly be worth the effort.”

Wickham looked thoughtfully at Hayden. “I do not suppose, sir, it
would be possible simply to confront these brothers with your doubts about their story?”

“Only if one is prepared to fight a duel,” Hawthorne replied cheerfully. “These Spaniards . . . they do not take anyone traducing their honour very kindly.”

“Perhaps not a good idea, then,” Wickham allowed quietly.

“It would seem to me,” Griffiths offered, “that young Angel believes that you, Captain, can be trusted with their secret—whatever it might be. I suggest our best hope of finding out who these young men are lies with you.”

“I will do all I can,” Hayden assured him.

“I am not certain why we care,” Hawthorne observed. “What is it to us? Undoubtedly, the Spanish authorities might want to know who these two gentlemen are, but unless there is a reward offered for their apprehension I cannot see why it should matter to us in the least.”

Hayden was rather taken aback by this. “The Spanish Navy will certainly want to speak to what appear to be the only two survivors from a crew of some two hundred souls—and that is if only one ship sank. It was a collision; we do not know what became of the other ship. They are keeping back some information—I do not know what.”

This caused a moment of silence, but Hawthorne's objection had taken root; Hayden felt it as well. What was this matter to them? Why did he care if the Spaniards were lying?

“It seems to me,” Wickham offered quietly, “that if Angel was suggesting they confide in you, Captain, they can hardly be criminals. No, there is some other reason they do not want it known that they have survived. Perhaps we might learn their story by offering them our aid?”

“A difficult bargain to make until you know what it is they are hiding,” Griffiths stated.

“Nor is time our ally in this matter. We are but a week out from Barbados.”

It was on this uncertain note that their gathering adjourned.