Under Enemy Colors (4 page)

“He did manage some striking results with his gifted daughters,” Mrs Hertle said, gazing unselfconsciously at her cousin.

“Charles speaks a number of languages,” Robert noted. “French he had at his mother’s knee and speaks it like a native. Of course, he spent almost half his childhood there. He is also fluent in the argot of Cheap-side. The other day he said to me, ‘You’ve dropped your foggle, Robert,’ and I had not a clue what he meant.”

“Pray, what does it mean?” demanded Henrietta. “Or should a lady not inquire?”

“‘Handkerchief,’” Robert told her. “But then many men of fashion speak the
cant
these days.”

“I did not realize you were such a follower of fashion, Lieutenant,” Miss Henrietta observed, her manner a little mocking, Hayden thought.

“In truth, I’m not. I had, for a time, a servant aboard one of my ships who had been an ‘angler’—a thief who used a hooked stick to steal things through gratings and from shop windows. He and a few others aboard spoke what amounted to another language. I’m not sure why, but I found it more than a little fascinating. I even began to compile a lexicon. For instance, ‘balderdash’ is watered-down wine.”

“Tell them what ‘bachelor’s fare’ is…” Robert urged.

“Bread, cheese, and kisses.”

The ladies pretended to be shocked, but then Henrietta became quite serious.

“Do you miss it, Lieutenant?” Henrietta asked, almost solicitously. “France, I mean.”

Hayden was not quite sure how to answer. “At times I do, for I am a man terribly divided. An Englishman raised on French food, wine, and their particular variety of conversation. At the same time, I am a French-man who prefers English order, government, and rationality. The French are passionate, proud, and prone to letting emotions make their decisions—which makes me cherish my English side even more.”

“But if all the ills of France were cured tomorrow and order restored, in which country would you choose to live?” Henrietta regarded him closely, as though the answer to this question were of particular importance.

Hayden was no more given to introspection than many a young man of active temperament, nor were his brief forays into self-awareness productive of great insight, so to be questioned so closely, while wishing so to impress, had the effect of banishing all thoughts. He threw up his hands. “The truth is, when I am in France I feel like an Englishman masquerading as French. When I am here I feel like a Frenchman pretending to be English.”

“Then you are at home in neither country,” Henrietta observed softly.

Hayden was about to answer when Robert interrupted.

“He is at home upon a ship—preferably in mid-Channel between his two nations.”

But Henrietta did not smile at this. She merely regarded him gravely a moment, then looked quickly away.

“Henrietta is writing a novel, did you know?” Mrs Hertle said, as though whispering a secret.

“Now, Elizabeth, there really is such a thing as a confidence,” Henrietta chastised her friend, but Hayden thought she was not really sorry this had been brought to light.

“It is about two women,” Mrs Hertle went on mischievously, “one a woman of education—rather like Henrietta—the other of no education to speak of but much social advantage. How does it progress, Henri?”

“Despite my greatest efforts, anything one might term ‘progress’ has ceased.”

“You must keep at it. Art is not made without adversity.” Mrs Hertle turned to Hayden. “I have read a good number of pages, now, and can avouch for the author’s skill, which is very high indeed.” She smiled, including both men. “But there is a matter that cannot be decided by the authoress and I seem to have very little influence, much to my chagrin. Now, give us your most considered opinion: should not the woman of education have the happier ending? That is what we have been arguing for several months.”

“These gentlemen are not interested in novels!” Henrietta argued.

“I happen to know that Lieutenant Hayden has read Rousseau’s
Emile
,” Mrs Hertle stage-whispered behind her hand, “and Captain Hertle once indulged in a volume of Mrs Richardson’s.”

“Who do you think should have the happier ending, Miss Henrietta?” Hayden asked.

She shook her head, looking genuinely distressed. “First I believe it should be the one, then the other.”

“Certainly it must be the educated woman who achieves the happier life,” Mrs Hertle insisted, “while to the other befalls the unhappy; though, perhaps, not of her making. Not a downfall so much as a stifled kind of complacency. Just what one would expect for a person who had not thought deeply about the time allotted her.”

“But you place so much emphasis upon happiness,” Henrietta replied. “I do realize that the Americans have recently enshrined it in their Declaration, but I am not certain it is mankind’s highest calling. What think you, Captain Hertle?”

“Oh, do not ask
them
,” Mrs Hertle interrupted. “Navy men must all answer that the highest calling is ‘duty,’ like a flock of bleating, blue-coated sheep.”

Robert Hertle did not look perturbed by his wife’s pronouncement. “I do not pretend to have an answer where greater minds than mine have strived and failed.”

“Certainly
lesser
minds than yours have had much to say on the subject,” Henrietta responded. “Come, you are not usually chary with your opinions…”

Robert laughed, as though embarrassed. “Happiness is certainly of great import to me, but I am putting my happiness at risk by leaving Mrs Hertle’s side and going off to war, so I must be one of those Navy men who bleat ‘duty’ by day and night.”

Henrietta Carthew considered this a moment, then turned to Hayden. “And do you agree, Lieutenant?”

“I fear a great deal has been accomplished in the world by people who make no claim to happiness or contentment of any form. I am much of two minds as regards this; like Mrs Hertle, I desire nothing more than to be contented and comfortable, and yet I wonder if I should accomplish little under such circumstances. I fear your woman of education may not have the happiest life but might make more of it.”

For the briefest second Henrietta met his eye, her gaze quickly withdrawn. “And I fear you are right. Once one has eaten of the tree of knowledge it is out of the garden and into the harsh world for all Adams and Eves.”

“You see,” observed Mrs Hertle, “there is our thoughtful Lieutenant Hayden, who hides his true nature away. Do you know, Henri, Mr Hayden is a prodigious reader—” But at that moment Mrs Hertle was called away to deal with some domestic matter, and Robert excused himself also, though only for a moment, and Hayden found himself alone with Henrietta. They were, to begin, silent—perhaps awkwardly so—but before Hayden could speak Henrietta broke the silence.

“Who is your favoured author, Lieutenant? Are you a Rousseau man? Elizabeth mentioned you had read
Emile
.”

“I suppose if I could take only one book to sea with me it would be Sterne,” Hayden answered.

To this, Henrietta appeared surprised but rather approving, he thought.

“Which?” she asked. “
Shandy
or the
Sentimental Journey
?”

“It must be
Tristram Shandy
. Do you know it?”

“I do. It is one of my father’s favourites, as well. He knew Sterne a little, but then everyone did. He was an inveterate dinner guest for many years.”

“I should have liked to have met him myself. And you, Miss Henrietta, if you will permit me to ask: what is your favoured book?”

“Well, sir, now you are delving into my intimate secrets. I don’t know if I shall permit you…” For a moment she did not continue, but the smile on her face assured him that she but teased. “
Don Quixote
is the great novel, I believe. Sadly, not written by an Englishman. Have you read it?”

“My Spanish is not up to it.”

“Motteux has done a credible translation.”

“So I am told, but in my limited knowledge, all translations are failures of one sort or another.”

“That is true, but even second-rate Cervantes is better than no Cervantes at all, I think.”

“Rather like ships,” Hayden said, “a fifth rate is better than no ship at all.”

“He has you talking ships!” Mrs Hertle said as she swept back into the room.

“Not at all. We were discussing the merits and demerits of Cervantes,” answered Henrietta.

“Ah, the Carthew family patron.” Mrs Hertle took a seat. “Did you know that Henrietta’s family gave each other the names of the characters from
Don Quixote
? It was something of a parlour game, wasn’t it, Henri? One had to find the name most befitting the persona of each sister and their father. What name would you choose for Lieutenant Hayden?”

“Don Quixote del Mar,” Henrietta answered without hesitation.

A delighted laugh escaped Mrs Hertle. “Well, there you are, Mr Hayden; you have the principal role. A high honour.”

He caught Henrietta smiling at him, amused, perhaps, at his expense.

Robert put his carriage at Hayden’s disposal after supper, the rattle of wheels over paving stones interrupted, now and again, by a prolonged hiss as they passed through irregular pools, the carriage slowing with a gentle lurch like a boat running up on sand. Darkened streets, greasy with rain, inhabited by linkmen and beau traps.

As the driver checked his team at a corner, swaying torches, smudged by the door-pane, burned through the smoky fog. Candled faces down a narrow alley, hands aloft, a shadowy gathering below. Hayden pressed back into his seat as though to hide, and then the company erupted onto the street—guildsmen upon some progress, gin-ruddy and grinning vapidly.

“Merde,”
Hayden whispered, the sight too familiar and bearing with it feelings from another place—Paris, a few years earlier.

Visions of that wretched man, Doué, who, for all Hayden knew, had been innocent of all his alleged crimes. Had anyone possessed a crumb of proof that he speculated in the grain market, or that he had really joked the hungry should be fed hay? The mob did not much care for such particulars once they got hold of him.

Hayden had witnessed the man being dragged through the street to the nearest lamppost. A wreath of nettles had been clasped about his neck and a bouquet of thistles thrust into his hand by jeering
sans-culottes
. His mouth forced open and stuffed with hay until he gagged, and then they hanged him, kicking, from the lamppost.

Hayden pressed palms to his forehead. The terror upon the man’s face could never be erased from memory. As he had been dragged past, Hayden imagined that he’d looked at him—
l’Anglais
in his French coat—appealed to him, even as Hayden had heard his own voice calling out to hang the man.

Doué’s son-in-law, who had been some kind of official in Paris—an
Intendant
, perhaps—had been treated much the same, and then their heads had been severed and paraded through the streets on pikestaffs. Every now and then the slack faces had been thrust together and the crowd had called out,
“Kiss Papa. Kiss Papa,”
as though this were some terribly funny jest. Three days later Hayden had been back in England, ashamed of what he’d done, horrified to find out that even he could be drawn into a mob.

H
ayden could not remember so much bustle and noise in Plymouth Harbour. The coach delivering him to that city had been held up more than an hour by insolent drovers with a herd of bullocks for the Victualing Yard. And now that he was upon the quay, the commotion was beyond all, the great harbour awash with boats plying to and fro among the ships as His Majesty’s Navy prepared for war.

Ships brought out of ordinary were having their protective shells removed, and the sheer hulk plied among them, raising spike-like masts for the riggers to practice their arts. A powder hoy upon its rounds called out for a ship’s fires to be extinguished, and all the boatmen gave it the widest possible berth.

“Mr Hayden, sir…”

Hayden looked down to find the young lieutenant—not so far removed from the midshipmen’s berth—waving a hand in his direction. He had disappeared a few moments before, promising to carry Hayden out to his new ship. In a moment several sailors had scrambled across a noisome lugger and up onto the quay to take his baggage in hand. Hayden followed them back across the narrow deck of the fishing boat and down into the stern-sheets of the cutter. Sweeps flashed out, and they set off into the fray, the coxswain straining to see over the heads of the oarsmen, ever alert in such a crush.

“It was a stroke of luck, to find you, Mr Janes,” Hayden said to the boy, whose face had only just met the razor, Hayden was certain. “And my congratulations. Have you had your epaulettes long?”

“I passed my examination in March, Mr Hayden.”

“Well, you’ve overhauled me, Lieutenant, and I remember when you first set foot aboard ship, I think.”

Janes all but blushed. “I may have equalled you in rank, Mr Hayden, but not in skill.”

“I would not be so sure of that,” Hayden objected, and then cast his eye toward the opening of the Hamoaze. “You are sure the
Themis
is still there?”

“She won’t have gone anywhere, sir. She had but one mast standing when I passed her this morning.” Janes was silent a moment, a bit awkward in the presence of his former superior officer, now his equal, which caused them both a little embarrassment. “Have you been aboard her before, Mr Hayden?”

“I’ve never laid eyes on her. An eighteen-pounder, thirty-two, I’m told—certainly something of an anomaly.”

“They have several more in frame, sir. One, I believe to be called the
Pallas
, in Woolwich, set to be launched before year’s end. The
Themis
is a handsome little ship, sir, despite all. Some say a bit undersized to carry a full deck of eighteen-pounders, but I’ve heard she sails well and is not at all overburdened.”

“She sounds like some Admiralty scheme to save half a crown. Surely a thirty-six-or thirty-eight-gun frigate will stand a better chance against the frigates the French are building.”

“I should take a thirty-two-gun frigate manned by Englishmen over a thirty-eight manned by French…” the newly passed lieutenant clearly remembered Hayden’s parentage at that moment and coloured terribly.

They came within view of the dockyards at that moment, and Hayden began to search among the moored vessels for his new ship.

Janes raised a hand and pointed. “There, Mr Hayden, before the seventy-four that is just crossing her yards.”

And there, indeed, she lay; one hundred, thirty-five feet on her deck, Hayden guessed. Bigger than a twenty-eight, but still a small fifth rate. Janes was right: she was a handsome little ship, even missing two of her limbs. For a ship only recently commissioned, however, she looked rather the worse for wear, and Hayden hoped it was the sign of hard service and a great deal more action than his friend Robert had hinted at.

“She looks as though she’s seen a bit of fighting,” Hayden observed.

Janes gave a stiff little nod and glanced over at the far shore so that his companion could not see his face.

Hayden was received aboard His Majesty’s Ship
Themis
without ceremony, met as he came over the rail by a single officer.

“Second Lieutenant Herald Landry, sir, at your service.” Lieutenant Landry was a man of small stature, perhaps five and twenty, of unremarkable appearance but for an abundance of freckles and a chin so small that one had to look twice to find it. He tipped a hat that, in contrast, appeared comically large. “You are the new first, I take it—Lieutenant Hayden?”

“Charles Hayden. Good to make your acquaintance, Mr Landry.”

“I shall introduce you to the other officers, Mr Hayden, then show you to your cabin.”

“I should like an audience with Captain Hart; as soon as is convenient to him, of course.”

“Captain’s ashore, sir. We don’t expect him to return much before we sail.”

“I see.” Hayden stopped a moment and surveyed the deck, which was in the most ungodly disarray he had ever witnessed aboard a ship that had not recently been raked by enemy fire. The deck itself was squalid, tobacco-stained, and fouled by gulls. There was but one mast standing: the foremast. Two others, obviously new, lay upon the deck like fallen giants. Men lounged here and there, eying him with suspicion. From the gun-deck he could hear a fiddle playing, and the laughter of what might be called the “fairer sex,” had he not met such women before.

“What orders did the captain leave you, Mr Landry?”

“To prepare the ship for sea.”

“Well, then we have a great deal to do. Assemble the officers, young gentlemen, and warrant officers on the quarterdeck, and ask the lieutenant of the marines to muster his men.”

“Aye, sir.” Landry swept off, not hiding a look of alarm.

A corpulent man made his way through the clutter and sailors on deck.

“Able Barthe, Mr Hayden, sailing master. Welcome aboard the
Themis
, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr Barthe.”

The master, hatless, his colour high, stood catching his breath, as though he’d been running. A man of indeterminate years, Mr Barthe had hair the red of new brick, though mixed with grey—ashes among the flames.

“I apologize for the state of the ship, sir,” the man went on, “with both captain and first lieutenant gone…” The sentence was never completed, and the man shrugged in embarrassment.

Men began appearing from out of the gangways, and emerging from the waist, where the merriment did not falter or even miss a note. Hayden followed the sailing master onto the quarterdeck. In a moment, Lieutenant Landry reappeared, accompanied by another man in a lieutenant’s uniform. The young officer was clearly trying to shake himself awake.

“Third Lieutenant Benjamin Archer, Mr Hayden,” Landry said, presenting the man, who was somewhat less than presentable. “Mr Barthe you have met, I see. And…Where is Mr Hawthorne?”

“Forward, sir. Mrs Barber had need of his attentions.”

“Our goat,” Barthe explained, seeing the look on Hayden’s face. “Mr Hawthorne is quite an authority on animal husbandry. Mrs Barber has taken ill.”

“Ah, Mr Hawthorne…our new first, Mr Hayden.”

Dressed in dirty sailor’s slops, Hawthorne looked anything but a senior officer of marines. Despite his dress, he made a graceful leg and swept off what was apparently a hat. “Your servant, sir. My company shall be ready for inspection at your pleasure, Mr Hayden.” He did not appear the least embarrassed by his dress—one would think, by his attitude, that the man wore his scarlet marines’ coat, the straps all pipe-clayed an immaculate white.

“The midshipmen,” Landry continued. “Lord Arthur Wickham, Mr Hayden.” A dimpled youngster tipped his hat, appearing for all the world like a cheerful schoolboy. “James Hobson, and Freddy Madison. There are three other middies, sir, all given leave to go ashore and visit their families.”

“Where are the bosun and the carpenter?” Hayden asked, making an effort to keep his voice even.

“Coming directly,” the master offered.

A brawny, broken-nosed man led another onto the quarterdeck, and was subsequently introduced as the bosun. The carpenter was an ancient seaman who appeared to have been constructed of wood himself—all angles and heavily sparred. His clothes hung limp, like sails in a calm. Landry named them Franks and Chettle, respectively.

“What is the hour, Mr Landry?” Hayden asked.

“About half-two, I should think.”

“Then the day is yet young. Send all women ashore. There will be no women aboard by day, and none aboard at night if I am not satisfied with the day’s efforts.”

The lieutenant hesitated. “That won’t be popular with the men, Mr Hayden,” he said quietly.

“It is not my custom to make decisions according to what is popular with the men. Did Captain Hart tell you when he is expected to return? When we are to go to sea? For what duty we are to prepare?”

There was an embarrassed silence. “Captain Hart doesn’t commonly take us into his confidence, Mr Hayden,” Landry confessed.

“He did tell you we’re at war with France, did he not, Mr Landry?” Hayden said, his temper getting the better of him.

The little second reddened. “Sir, we’re well aware of it.”

“Good. How long have the masts been waiting upon your deck?”

“A week, sir.”

“And what has become of the sheer-hulk?”

“The bosun of the sheer-hulk said he would get to us by and by.”

“Very kind of him. Have you not materials necessary for the work?”

The two lieutenants glanced at the bosun, who hesitated.

“Everyone seems to be looking to you, Mr Franks,” Hayden said, addressing the bosun.

The man appeared to grimace, revealing a dark gap in the row of yellowed teeth. “We have all blocks and cordage, Mr Hayden, but I’m not sure how the captain will want it done,” the bosun admitted.

“In his absence, and without specific orders, to the common practices of the Navy, Mr Franks.”

There was another awkward silence.

“What Mr Franks is trying to say, if I may be so bold,” offered Lord Arthur, “is that no matter how the work is managed, Captain Hart will find much to criticize, Mr Hayden.”

“Thank you for that, Wickham,” Hayden said, “but I assume Mr Franks can speak for himself.”

The bosun looked at the deck. “I’ve been…tarrying, Mr Hayden, for fear of the captain’s displeasure.”

“I would imagine that finding the masts on the deck when he returns will earn even greater displeasure. We shall begin with the mizzen. Have you spars we can use for sheers?”

“I do, sir.”

“Then gather your mates and begin preparation. Mr Landry, a crew will be needed to raise the sheers.”

Landry looked to the bosun, who grimaced as he spoke. “Most of the men are half seas over, Mr Hayden,” he said apologetically.

“Drunk, I assume you mean? After the women have been put into boats, take the men who are insensible and pile them in the waist. The firemen can douse them, assuming we can find anyone sober enough to man the pump. Any able seamen who can walk a single deck plank unaided, send aft to assist Mr Franks. Everyone else will set to and clean ship.” Hayden glanced around. “This deck is a disgrace, Mr Landry.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll have it scrubbed immediately.”

“No, I want to keep the quarterdeck dry so we can work. Have it swept clean, and everything properly stowed. I would like to get the sheer legs up by nightfall.” He turned to the third lieutenant. “Let us make a quick inspection of the mizzen step, Mr Archer.”

The third lieutenant and two of the mids led Hayden below, down into the darkness. The step for the mizzen proved solid, as one would expect on a ship so recently commissioned, but still something of a surprise to Hayden, given the neglect apparent everywhere. The
Themis
clearly had been honestly built to begin. Blessedly, the mast partners were also free of rot.

An ugly scene awaited them when they returned to the deck. Drunken seamen struggled with the marines as the visiting women were pried bodily from their clutches. An hour’s battle was engaged, by which time the women had been slung into the boats, and the foremast hands subdued, though not without many a hard beating. There was a moment when Hayden thought the entire thing would get out of hand, and had been on the verge of ordering the armourer to fetch pistols for the officers and warrant officers.

It took some time to subdue the mob, and then set them all to work, cleaning and stowing. The surgeon cleared his table, and the wounded were carried to him, many so drunk they did not feel their injuries and only wondered later that a seamstress appeared to have been at work upon their battered derma.

Hayden oversaw raising the sheers, and was soon aware that Mr Franks was a sad excuse for a bosun, and his hapless mates had learned their trade from him. It said much of Hart that he could not find good men to serve aboard his ship. What young Lord Arthur Wickham was doing there was a mystery, for he came from a good and influential family.

“You need a block for a girt line, Mr Franks,” Hayden said, as the bosun stood gazing dumbly at the recumbent mizzen mast, a horny finger scraping a scab on his ear. “Tail-tackles must be rigged fore and aft at the foot of the sheers, and the feet should stand on stout planks that span at least three beams, and four would be preferred. Shore the beams from below. Then a leading block must be positioned so we can take a line forward to the capstan.” He turned to find Landry, who stood looking on, unsure what to do. “We’ll need hands to man the capstan in about four hours, Mr Landry. Will we have enough sober by then?”