Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead (7 page)

“Mr Archer!” Hayden called down to his first lieutenant.

“Sir?” Archer shaded his eyes and looked up.

“Sail, off the larboard bow, just on the horizon.”

Hayden raised his glass again. The lookout, whom Hayden had sent down to give himself a moment of privacy aloft, came scrambling up.

“Lambert!” Hayden called to him as he climbed.

“Sir!”

“See our guest reaches the deck safely, if you please.”

“Aye, Captain. That I will.”

Hayden lifted his glass and quizzed the distant sail once more.

“Can you tell anything of her, sir?” Archer called up.

But Hayden could not . . . A ship, nothing more, so distant as to be invisible from the deck. “I cannot, Mr Archer. We will alter our course to intercept. Call the sail handlers, if you please.”

“Aye, sir,” came up from the deck.

Hayden lingered a few moments more, his mind torn in two directions at once—wanting to consider the remarkable conversation he had just held with Percival, and drawn to this strange sail.

He forced his mind to his duty and went down the back-stay, hand over hand.

Archer stood waiting for him.

“Shall we beat to quarters, Captain?”

“The moment we have altered course, Mr Archer. Where is Mr Wickham? Send him aloft. Let us see if he can make out this ship.”

The sail handlers hurried to their stations, but there was no panic, no pushing, despite the palpable excitement. Mr Wickham appeared and went up the mainmast, a gaggle of off-duty midshipmen tailing behind, their shiny new glasses slung over their shoulders in imitation of Lord Arthur.

Wickham did not stop at the main-tops but climbed on until he sat astride the top-gallant yard. The ship was put on her new course, picked up her skirts and went surging over the trade-driven seas, which now struck the
Themis
abeam, sending heavy spray sometimes high into the rigging. The gun crews went to their places, but before they had cast off their guns, a call came from aloft.

“On deck!”
Wickham twisted about to find his captain. “She appears to be under jury rig, Captain. Only a stump of one mast standing.”

Barthe had come, and stood by his captain at the rail, where they had a view of Wickham. “Is she a Navy ship, Mr Wickham?”

“I cannot be certain, Captain, but I do not believe she is. Transport, more like. No flag that I can see.”

“Keep your glass on her, if you please,” Hayden called up. “And be alert for any sign that she is not alone.”

“Aye, sir.”

Gould stood a few feet off. “Sir? Shall I send aloft our colours?”

“Not yet, Mr Gould. Have the French colours ready as well. We shall quiz this ship before we draw within range of her guns—has she any to speak of.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“Is she the other Spanish frigate, do you think, Captain?” Barthe
asked. The master stood, hands on the rail, squinting off to the sector of sea that hid this mysterious vessel.

“I cannot answer that, Mr Barthe. Where is Miguel? Mr Gould, find one of our Spanish guests, if you please.”

Gould left his flags in the care of the cherub and scurried off. A moment later he returned, herding both Angel and Miguel before him.

“The ship that struck the
Medea
,” Hayden began, trying not to stare quizzically at Angel, “was she a transport or a frigate?”

Angel looked to Miguel. “We sailed in company with other frigates, Captain, but we did not see the ship that sank us.”

“Well, we have a heavily damaged ship in the offing. I would like to know what she might be before I draw within range of her guns.”

Miguel and Angel glanced at each other again, and Angel shrugged. “I do wish we could offer more, Captain Hayden.”

“We shall discover her origin soon enough,” he replied.

It was, however, almost two hours before they could make her out. Hayden went forward, the only place from which this ship could be seen clearly on their point of sail.

Having beat to quarters, almost every hand aboard had a station, but those few who had no duties gathered on the forecastle. The doctor was there, as was Hawthorne, who might range about the ship as he was needed once he had his orders from Hayden. Smosh was there as well, minus his clerical collar, as he would aid the doctor in the cockpit, should that be required, and there was terrible superstition about priests in the sick-berth. Both the Spaniards were here, as was Mr Percival, chatting with Angel in Spanish.

The ship was not a mile distant, and Hayden could plainly see that she had only thirty feet of her foremast standing and had used spare spars or recovered yards to jury-rig a mast that crossed but one yard.

“On deck!” came the call from Wickham. “I can make her out, Captain . . . She's a slaver.”

I
t was not just caution that had the
Themis
hove-to a hundred yards to windward—the horrifying stench of slavers was notorious. Even the brisk trade could not carry this odour away. Hayden had sent Archer across to the slave ship, and now he returned with the ship's master in his cutter.

All along the deck the men stared at the drifting ship, which was stuffed to the gunwales with a cargo of Africans—men, women, and children. The slavers had allowed a few of these poor creatures out onto the deck to stand upright and take the ocean air—not from compassion, Hayden guessed, but in an attempt to bring a greater portion of their cargo to market alive and in a condition to be sold. These dusky men, all but naked, stared back at the crew of the Navy ship, perhaps uncertain if they were saviours or presented an even greater danger.

“Poor buggers,” Barthe pronounced by Hayden's elbow, though whether he meant the men being carried into slavery or the crew of the stricken ship he could not say.

Smosh was positioned at the rail beside the master. “These men trade in souls,” he declared.

Percival glanced at him. “You do not believe, Mr Smosh, that the inferior races were put here to serve men?”

“I do not believe any race was put upon this earth to be worked and sold like cattle.”

The cutter came alongside at that moment and the master of the slaver—a ship out of Bristol—clattered up the side, Archer at his heels.

Archer touched his hat. “Richard LeClerc, Captain Hayden, Master of the
Orion
.”

Hayden shook the man's hand. “Are you the owner, Captain LeClerc?”

“No, sir. She's owned by a syndicate. All Bristol men of good standing.” The man looked over at Archer, clearly unsettled. “We lost our masts in the gale, Captain. No doubt you went through it yourselves . . . though you fared better than we. I can likely make port under jury, sir—not Port Royal, where I was bound, but some port—the problem is I won't have half a cargo when I arrive, for I didn't set out with water or victuals for such a slow crossing.”

“I can tow you into Barbados, to which port I am bound,” Hayden offered. “It will not be fast, but quicker than you are sailing now and you shall not end up on a reef—I will see to that. Have you stores for a fortnight?”

The master shifted from one foot to the other, creases wrinkling up his forehead and appearing around his eyes.

“A fortnight . . . mayhap. We will be on tight rations, though. I cannot grant you salvage rights—not when there is the least chance I can make port on my own. I
can
offer you a portion of the profits, sir.”

“There are seldom ‘profits' when such arrangements are entered into, Captain LeClerc.”

“A portion of the sale of my cargo, then. Five percent,” the master said. “We have seven hundred alive yet, and I expect to have nearly that many when we arrive.”

Hayden wished he were anywhere but on his deck having this discussion, for he wanted nothing to do with this man's trade, but he could not leave a ship to sail on under her scrap of canvas, all but unmanageable, a sea of reefs and islands before her, not to mention her shortage of victuals and water. The human suffering would be beyond comprehension.

Behind the slaver, Barthe was making small motions with his head and half gestures with limp hands.

“Allow me to consult with my officers, Captain LeClerc.”

Barthe and Hayden immediately retreated to a place where they could speak privately.

“That man is offering half what we should be due,” Barthe whispered. “He is in a fix, Captain, for he could lose half his cargo, even if he did bring his ship into a port—which we both know would be a feat of seamanship that would see the man a legend.”

“We are talking about a large number of lives, Mr Barthe. And I do not mind saying that the entire business . . . unsettles me.”

“I do realise we are speaking of lives, and I am of the same opinion as you, sir: trade in human souls is revolting, but . . . There is right and wrong, sir, and five percent of the sale of his slaves is an insult, sir. We should not take less than ten percent, and half that again would not be unfair, sir.”

Hayden could feel the eyes of his officers upon him, for they would all share, should the ship be considered salvage. Even if they settled on a commission to tow the slaver into port, they would certainly expect—and deserve—a portion of the monies.

The Reverend Smosh came and hovered two yards distant, his doughy face drawn and dark.

“Mr Smosh,” Hayden addressed him, “do you have a question, sir?”

“I do apologise, Captain, but as the guardian of human souls, sir, I feel I must intercede on behalf of the hundreds entombed upon that ship.” He shook his hand in the slaver's direction. “I believe that to profit from the sale of these poor people will put a stain upon your ledger that can never be erased. It is a base evil, sir—and you know I am not prone to making such pronouncements.”

“It is a legal trade, Mr Smosh,” Barthe reminded him, “no matter how reprehensible one feels it might be.”

Smosh turned readily upon the sailing master. “Legal at this time. I
pray that will soon change, for it is a blot upon the character of our people.”

“What am I to do, Mr Smosh?” Hayden asked the parson. “I cannot leave this ship to drift on towards the reefs and dangers that lie ahead.”

“No, Captain, you cannot. You must not, but—”

But Barthe interrupted. “If her cargo were wool, Mr Smosh, or any other commodity you care to name, we would be entitled to a portion of her profits if we towed her into port. That is the custom of the sea. You might not approve of the theft of the poor sheep's wool, but should we then leave the ship carrying that wool to drift? Or are you suggesting we must carry it into port for no profit at all?”

“That is precisely what I am suggesting—nay, urging—Mr Barthe.”

“Well, you have not spent your life at sea, Mr Smosh,” Barthe replied testily, “and are not yet fully versed in the practises and customs. If we save this master and his cargo, we are entitled to be paid for it, and paid handsomely, no matter if he carries wool or men . . . and you will receive a portion of that money.”

Smosh drew himself both up and back half a step. “I should not take it were it a fortune, Mr Barthe. I should not allow a single piece of such lucre to cross my palm.”

“The officers shall be glad to hear of it,” Barthe informed him, “for we will happily divide up your share. Thank you.”

In truth, Hayden was largely in sympathy with Mr Smosh in this matter, but he had his officers to think of, and they—even those who bore strong feelings against the trade of slaves—would expect their share of any monies which derived from the rescue of this stricken ship.

“I cannot leave this vessel to drift and I cannot refuse the master's offer without provoking all my officers and crew, who will feel sorely cheated—cheated by me. I will not have my own men hold such feelings against me, Mr Smosh. There is little enough profit in this life as it is.”

Smosh made a little bow. “Captain, I beg you reconsider. Profiting from the sale of these poor souls—it is damnable, sir. Damnable.”

“I have little choice, Mr Smosh. It is a legal trade—though we are of one mind in this; I disapprove of it heartily.”

Smosh said nothing, but neither did he make any sign that he accepted his captain's decision. There was no doubt in Hayden's mind, though—he would rather an unhappy parson than an unhappy ship.

“Ten percent, Mr Barthe?”

The master nodded once.

Hayden crossed the deck to the slaver's master.

“Ten percent, Captain LeClerc, and we have an arrangement. Shall I have my clerk draw up an agreement?”

LeClerc hesitated, but then nodded and offered his hand to Hayden.

Hayden turned to Barthe and Archer. “Arrange gear to take this ship in tow, if you please. And Mr Archer, we no longer need to be at quarters.”

Guns were boused up against bulwarks and the crew set to arranging gear to tow. It was a common enough task, for prizes were often too damaged to sail, and after actions British ships sometimes had to be towed back to port.

Cables were arranged and a messenger line rowed over to the slaver so that a larger cable could be carried across. As well as the business was managed, it still took a good part of the forenoon. When the
Themis
was put on course again, her speed was not half what it had been.

“Barbados recedes before us, Captain,” Wickham offered as he stood by the taffrail beside Hayden, watching the slaver set her scrap of canvas to aid their efforts.

“So it would appear, Mr Wickham. I have not asked in some time, but how fares your hurt?”

“Well enough, sir. I have one finger that does not obey my commands, but the physician said I was lucky not to lose half my limb, sir. I am but four-fingered on that hand, but I count myself lucky, even so.”

“You were luckier not to bleed away your life. Griffiths preserved more than your arm.”

“So he did, sir, and I shall never forget it.”

The two stood awkwardly a moment. Hayden realised that Wickham now bore a reminder of his mortality with him—into every action, every cutting-out expedition, into every storm even. He would never be free of it. The service did this to the young gentlemen—brought them to maturity before their time.

Wickham went off about his business, leaving Hayden at the taffrail watching their tow, gauging the skill of her helmsmen, for if she were not steered well she would sheer and part the tow cable—and anyone upon Hayden's quarterdeck would be in mortal danger should the cable whip back before it fell into the smothering sea. He decided that the master of the ship must know his business, for the men at the helm were keeping her steady before the seas.

“Did you expect to enter the slave trade on this voyage, Captain?” It was Angel, appearing at his elbow, and his conversation with Mr Percival on the main-top came back to Hayden.

Have you not noticed, Captain Hayden, that Angel is often in your company?

“I did not, but then neither did I expect to be dressed as a French captain, upon a French ship, chasing English mutineers . . . but that occurred, as well.”

“You seem always to be somewhat at war with yourself, Captain,” Angel observed. “Your French side at odds with your English. Your feelings about slavery at odds with your desire to save the lives of these unfortunates—not to mention keeping your avaricious crew happy.”

“I should not call them avaricious,” Hayden answered firmly. “Do you know how few opportunities these men will have
in their lives
to possess more money than they require to but meet their daily needs? Prize money can mean the difference between their children going hungry or having food upon their table. Do not judge them for this desire.”

“I do not judge them,” Angel said with emotion. “I lost everything I possessed when the
Medea
went down. I understand their situation better than most might imagine.”

Hayden turned to regard the young Spaniard. “But surely you have family, Angel. The uncle you go to . . . ?”

Angel seemed to hesitate, but then nodded. “Yes, my situation is not the same as your sailors'. I did not mean to compare my lot to theirs.” He said nothing a moment, and Hayden found himself gazing at the young Spaniard's face. Was he indeed a woman in disguise? Or could Percival have merely decided to create some mischief by telling Hayden this story?

“I have been thinking, Captain Hayden,” Angel said, so no other might hear, “that I overstepped the boundaries of . . . politeness. I should never have suggested that you failed in some way to speak as you should with the woman you courted. I could not know what was in her mind, and it was not my place to speak as I did. I apologise.”

“You have no need of doing so,” Hayden replied. “I fear your insight was entirely correct but came too late. I should have spoken but did not comprehend my situation. If only I had known to say, ‘I shall give up the sea and make my way ashore, for a life without you shall be but half a life.' Perhaps that would have won her heart.”

“It would win the heart of many a woman, Captain,” Angel said with surprising feeling, and then turned, hurried to the companionway, and disappeared below without so much as a nod or a “by your leave.”

Hayden stared at the deck-opening down which the Spaniard had retreated. He could not have been more astonished or confused had Angel slapped his face.

Either Percival is correct, he thought, or Angel is of the same persuasion as Percival himself. Certainly, Angel's response to the declaration Hayden
should
have made to Henrietta would never have been expected of a young man with the common desire for women. Hayden shook his head, his thoughts in a tangle of confusion.

Was it possible that Percival had seen something that no other man aboard could see? Hayden turned to stare aft. He was beginning to feel Percival was not wrong. There was a young woman living in his cabin and he seemed to have attached her feelings without even being aware of her sex!

Inexplicably, thoughts of Henrietta came to mind—Henrietta, who was, by now, married; Henrietta, who had chosen another over him.

Hayden shook his head. Somehow, he had secretly hoped she would undergo a change of heart. And so, here he was, yearning for her yet.

I am the captain of a machine of war, he thought—not some lovesick youth. If she can make a life without me, I can do the same without her.
Pining
is overly romantic, if not puerile.

He gazed at the confused wake trailing along behind and, at the distant end of the long tow rope, the slaver.

Too many regrets trailed behind him and would not release their grip.

He wondered again at Angel's response to his words. What had he said?
“I shall give up the sea and make my way ashore, for a life without you shall be but half a life.”