Perfunctory denials, general shaking of heads, but few present met the gaze of their first lieutenant as this went on. Hayden felt his frustration build. He had no doubt that some were not telling him the truth—the very men he hoped to win over, whose trust he must gain.
The two rows of faces gazed back at him now, looks of studied blankness frozen in place. An outburst was bubbling beneath Hayden’s surface—but then understanding washed over him like a cool wave. If there were a petition, it was almost certainly to request Hart’s removal—and none of these men but Landry would oppose such a scheme. They might even secretly be encouraging it. How would that be received within the Admiralty?
“I want you to consider carefully what goes on aboard our ship,” Hayden said, struggling to keep his voice calm. “Penrith was murdered. Tawney beaten … brutally. I am not convinced that Giles did not have some help falling from the mizzen top. If there is a petition being circulated aboard the Themis, it has stirred up some rather notorious passions, and it would seem that the petitioners are determined to have it signed … no matter the cost. All of us should have learned by now that revolts can start with a list of apparently reasonable demands. Any officer who is cognisant of such a petition who does not speak up will certainly face a court-martial. If you have heard even a rumour, unsubstantiated though it may be, it is your duty to speak out, now.”
Again the heads shook, though barely.
“None, sir.”
“Not a word, Mr Hayden.”
Hayden felt utterly betrayed, his frustration waxing into a blistering anger. “Return to your duties,” he snapped, making no attempt to hide his feelings.
The men filed out rather hurriedly, leaving only the doctor, who sat at the table’s opposite end. When the room was empty he fixed Hayden with his intelligent gaze.
“You realize, Mr Hayden, that if there were a petition to remove Captain Hart, most of those men would happily add their names, would it not mean the end of their careers.”
Hayden sat down in a chair. “I do realize it.”
“Do not take this matter personally, Mr Hayden. It does not mean these men do not respect you or hold you in high regard.”
“I cannot imagine what else it could mean, Doctor.”
“Their dislike, even hatred, of Hart outweighs their loyalty to you, whom they have known only a short time. Hart they have endured for many months or even years.” The doctor swept some crumbs off the table with the flat of his hand. “Do not expend your energies defending Captain Hart, who would not do the same for you.”
What was Hayden to say to that? The First Secretary had put him aboard to bear Hart up, not to allow him to be undermined, no matter how justifiable the men’s cause.
“A man has died, Doctor. Another was beaten bloody. Whoever circulates this petition, and I assume such a document exists, deserves punishment. It does not matter how legitimate their grievances might be, their methods condemn them.”
A brief memory of a man being hauled up into the Paris night, above a throng of enraptured faces.
Griffiths nodded. “Yes. Of course, you are right.”
Hayden closed his eyes an instant to drive the image away. “You know nothing of this matter, I take it?”
“Nothing—and that is God’s truth.”
“I doubt it has come from such a high authority.” Hayden gazed up at the white overhead. “I shall be obliged to bring this matter to the attention of Captain Hart.”
This captured the doctor’s attention. “You might consider the case of McBride before doing so,” Griffiths cautioned. “Captain Hart’s idea of justice resembles firing a musket ball into a mob—he does not much care whom he strikes, believing the lesson will be that much stronger for its randomness.”
Hayden closed his eyes. For a brief moment he found himself feeling a black resentment toward Philip Stephens for placing him aboard this cursed ship.
“Then what am I to do, Doctor? If I choose not to bring this matter before Hart, hoping to protect the innocent, I will be protecting the guilty at the same time.”
“You have described my years of service under Captain Hart most accurately. It is always thus—damned no matter what course is chosen. All I might say to relieve your distress is that one grows used to it over time, even if one never learns to like it.” The ship’s bell tolled, and Griffiths nodded to Hayden. “I must look in upon my charges.” He rose to his considerable stooped height, but did not take his leave immediately, regarding Hayden seriously. “Do not be so downcast; Hart deserves whatever comes to him.”
“Perhaps,” Hayden said quietly, “but do I deserve it?”
The muffled clatter of footsteps, a knock on the door. Hobson’s round face appeared in the narrow opening.
“Mr Barthe has sent to tell you our wind is fair, Mr Hayden.”
“Some good news, at least. I shall be on deck directly. Have Mr Barthe prepare to weigh.” But Hayden stopped suddenly. If the men will sail, he thought.
Despite taking the deck with some trepidation, Hayden found his fears were groundless; the men went to their stations without complaint. No delegation approached him on the quarterdeck bearing a list of demands. Of course they were only moving a half mile, the fair wind allowing them to shift their berth, from the Hamoaze out into Plymouth Sound. Hayden longed to take the Themis out of the sound and stretch her shrouds and stays, to gauge their efforts, but that exceeded his authority, so they came to anchor in the mostly open sound and hoped the wind would not veer south.
Hayden walked slowly around the deck, inspecting the ship. He had been up the masts and over every inch of the rigging. With her new paint she all but gleamed in the sun.
The master, Mr Barthe, descended the main shrouds and stopped when he reached the rail to examine the deadeyes and lanyards critically. Noticing the first lieutenant standing nearby he tipped his hat, his manner most deferential, almost fawning. Hayden suspected it was from feelings of guilt—from refusing to admit he knew of the petition.
“She looks very well, Mr Hayden,” the master ventured. “Your efforts have not been in vain.”
Hayden pressed down the desire to confront the man with his duplicity, realizing it would do no good. The officers had made their decision and would not change it now.
“I think she’s up to whatever chance might send, Mr Barthe. Are we up to it? that is what I wonder.”
The master glanced quickly away. “She’ll take all the weather Biscay can send us, I should think.”
“On deck!” came a call from aloft. “Captain approaching.”
Barthe called for his glass, and peering through the brass cylinder, he nodded. “Captain Hart,” he said, lowering the glass, and then, beneath his breath, “Damn my eyes.”
Eight
Captain Hart came over the rail, wheezing heavily from the effort. Corpulent, florid, choleric—these were Lieutenant Hayden’s first impressions. Hart’s small boots settled on the deck and he looked around angrily, as though searching for some offender. Hayden glanced at Landry, who stood frozen in place, pale as a cloud, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Realizing the second lieutenant would not introduce him, Hayden stepped forward.
“Lieutenant Charles Hayden, Captain Hart, at your service.”
Hart stared at him as though he had offered some insult, the man’s jowls quivering with barely suppressed anger.
“So you’re the Admiralty’s beached lieutenant,” he spat out, “undeserving of even a brig-sloop. Well, you can hardly be worse than the last.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “Damn his eyes …”
Hart turned away from the startled lieutenant and glanced up at the masts. “Landry?”
“Sir,” the little lieutenant said, taking half a step forward.
“Who got the masts in? You?”
“Lieutenant Hayden, Captain Hart.” Landry’s gaze dropped to the deck like a fumbled twelve-pound ball.
Hart turned back to the still-shocked Hayden. “How is it, sir, that yo
u passed for lieutenant without learning even the rudiments of rigging?”
“I can’t imagine what you mean, sir,” Hayden said through clenched jaw, all his considerable anger thrown against its restraints. “Perhaps the captain would be so kind as to explain …”
“I’m sure you don’t, sir.” Hart pointed at the shrouds. “Are they not cable-laid?”
“They are—”
“Did no one ever explain that the tails of the shrouds on the larboard side should lie forward?”
Hayden could not believe what he’d just heard. “I believe they should lie aft, Captain Hart … as they do on every ship in His Majesty’s Navy.”
“Damn your insolence, sir!” Hart thundered, spraying the deck with phlegm. “Bring me a glass,” he ordered, and in a moment a running midshipman placed a glass in his hand. Hart thrust it at Hayden and pointed at a nearby frigate. “Do me the honour, sir, of inspecting that ship’s rigging.”
Hayden raised the glass to his eye, forcing his hands, which trembled with anger, to be still.
“Do you see? The tails of shrouds on her larboard side lie forward,” Hart stated.
“You will pardon me, sir, but they lie aft. I can see it plainly—”
The glass was snatched from his hands. “Are you blind as well as simple?”
“Sir! I protest—”
Hart, who had begun to turn away, spun back toward him, his face now crimson, jowls ashiver. He waved the glass in the air as though he might strike Hayden with it. “You protest? You protest! Damn your insolence, sir! Aboard my ship you protest nothing! Aboard my ship you heed my orders. You do not protest. You do not offer your precious opinions unless they are asked.” He glanced to his right. “Does this amuse you, Mr Landry?”
“No, sir.”
“Then make ready to get under way. We sail with the tide.”
Captain Hart stormed below, servants scrambling to bring up his effects. Left standing in his wake was a stunned first lieutenant. Hayden had not been treated thus since he was an ignorant midshipman.
Hawthorne caught his eye and raised an eyebrow. He was suppressing a smile. “Welcome to our brotherhood, Mr Hayden,” the marine said softly. “We call ourselves ‘The Blind in Heaven,’ for our eyes have been damned to Hell with such passion and frequency that we shall certainly proceed to the Hereafter without them.” He tipped his hat, smiled, and set off about his duties.
Hayden gathered the shreds of his dignity and secluded himself on the aft-most portion of the quarterdeck, where he struggled to control his rage and to soothe his much-wounded pride. He had challenged a man to a duel for a less significant offence than he had just received from Hart! If the man had not been his commanding officer …
Almost worse than the treatment he had just received from Hart were the eyes of the crew upon him. If he glanced along the deck, members of the crew would quickly fix their attention elsewhere.
“Mr Hayden, sir?” It was Wickham, standing a few paces off, looking somewhat embarrassed. “There is a lighter alongside and a civilian asking permission to come aboard … Shall I call the captain?”
“I will find out what the man wants.”
Hayden went forward in time to meet a gentleman as he came over the rail.
“George Muhlhauser, from the Ordnance Board,” the man offered, then extended a hand and Hayden took it. “Are you the first lieutenant?” the gentleman asked softly.
“So I thought …” Hayden responded, still incredulous at the treatment he had just received.
The man looked a bit confused at this response but then went on. “No doubt Captain Hart told you I’d be along …?”
Hayden shook his head.
“I’m to sail with you to test a new gun of my own conception … Lieutenant …?”
“Hayden. Charles Hayden.” He tried to shake off the rage that still boiled inside him.
“I will require the aid of the carpenter and his mates, and likely the gunner, too. We’ll have to unship one of your present guns and put the new in its place. Not a small job, I will admit, but easily done by capable men who set about their work with a will.”
“Am I to understand, Mr Muhlhauser, that we will be testing a gun on our cruise? That that is our purpose?”
“You are to make no allowance for the new gun whatsoever, Lieutenant, but to go about your business; engage the enemy as you see fit. The benefits of the new design will very quickly become apparent. It can be traversed easily, for it sits upon a truck that has transverse wheels at its stern. It then pivots … but you will see, Mr Hayden. Let us bring the gun aboard.”
Hayden went to the rail, where a number of men had gathered to stare down into the lighter. Around him he could feel the palpable tension. A few men made efforts to conceal smirks. The new lieutenant had just received his comeuppance, pleasing the indolent no end. Hayden tried to concentrate on his task and push his recent encounter with Hart out of his mind—with only very partial success.
“Mr Barthe, rig tackles, if you please,” Hayden ordered.
A gun of novel design was hoisted aboard. It was followed by an iron carriage of a type wholly unfamiliar to Hayden. The men gathered around to stare at this oddity.
“It looks like a foreshortened eighteen-pounder Blomefield, Mr Muhlhauser,” Hayden speculated. “Is it not somewhat compressed in the chase, almost a cousin to the carronade?”
“It is a special casting, keeping all the best features of the Blomefield gun but shorter, as you say. Even so, it has most of the range of a standard eighteen, and far more than a carronade.” He patted the strange carriage. “But herein lies the real difference—like a carronade carriage but of iron and with many small advancements, as you will see.”
The second lieutenant appeared, and the bosun sent the men to their stations.
“Mr Landry,” Hayden said, “which gun would the captain have us replace with Mr Muhlhauser’s invention?”
“I cannot say, Mr Hayden.”
“Well, could you inquire of him?”
“I could, sir, but he would just damn my eyes for not being able to make a decision on my own. Though were you to make a decision without consulting him he would berate you for overstepping your authority. You will be damned either way.”
“Then let us be damned for independence rather than being poltroons.” Hayden turned away from Landry. “Mr Muhlhauser, it is common to mount carronades on the quarterdeck and the heavier long guns below. As your gun is neither of these I am unsure where it should be placed.”
“On the gun-deck, if it is possible, Mr Hayden. It is meant to replace long guns, not carronades.”
“Then we shall mount it on the gun-deck, sir.”
The Themis did not sail on the tide that afternoon, for the wind dropped away to a sigh and then the tide turned against them. As the captain did not invite any of his officers to dine with him, even though one was new to the ship, Hayden messed in the gunroom. Had he dined with the captain, Hayden might have been tempted to mention the cartoon he had found in his pocket, but it was scant evidence. The captain would likely think it nothing more than a prank on a new officer, and certainly Hayden had no more evidence than that to show Hart, so resolved to say nothing.
Mr Muhlhauser was invited to join them, which he happily accepted. With the town of Plymouth almost within a pistol shot, they dined well that night, and would continue to do so until their fresh victuals were exhausted.
After their earlier gathering in this very cabin, when Hayden had presented the officers with the sketch discovered in his pocket, there was a general air of discomfiture, which the men did much to disguise with heightened spirits and false good-will. All were especially solicitous and respectful of the first lieutenant, perhaps to take the sting out of his upbraiding at the hands of the captain, or out of guilt at having lied to him earlier in the day, which Hayden remained convinced they had done. It mollified his doubly bruised feelings somewhat, though he wished they would not laugh so heartily at his atte
mpts at wit, as it embarrassed him more than a little—the hilarity being far more than his small jests deserved. In truth, he was still out of harmony with his messmates and had not yet recovered from the great humiliation he had received at the hands of the notorious captain.
“Naval gunnery has shown little advancement over the years,” their guest said. “The Army has made better progress in the use of artillery.”
“It is uncommon for the Army,” Hawthorne suggested, “to use their guns upon ground which is heeled, rolling, pitching, and occasionally yawing, all at once. Claret, Mr Hayden?”
“And they don’t have to work their guns crouched like monkeys,” Mr Barthe added, his eyes involuntarily following the progress of the decanter as the marine raised it toward the first lieutenant.
“What Mr Hawthorne says is true,” Hayden said, holding out his glass so that it might be refilled, “but here I must agree with Mr Muhlhauser—thank you, Mr Hawthorne—our accuracy at a distance is poor. Most actions are fought at less than a cable-length—often considerably less—where rate of fire and weight of broadside are decisive.”
“That is my thinking almost exactly, Mr Hayden!” Muhlhauser enjoined with considerable passion. “The carronade is a wonderful weapon, and magnificently effective at very short range, but the long gun … I believe, is a weapon whose day has passed. Actions fought at one hundred to two hundred yards—that is what my new design is meant to address. It is shorter, so it will be quicker to run out and altogether easier to load. It can be readily traversed, making it more effective—to some degree one can aim the gun rather than aim the ship, if you take my meaning. The gun is elevated, like a carronade, by a screw through the cascabel. The carriage of iron and wood, by careful arrangement of its constituent parts, is not as heavy as one might think, and the slide and pulley system I have devised dampens the recoil and allows the gun to be run out with alacrity. Because of the use of wood in the slide, there need be no fear of sparks, which, of course, would be disastrous. With its robust pivot below the gunport, the carriage can never topple, with the injuries that commonly ensue, nor should one ever have a loosed cannon. Small improvements, but we must begin somewhere.” He leaned forward into the lamplight, his enthusiasm for his subject clear on his face. “What I imagine will happen one day is that the cascabel will open so that the gun can be loaded from the rear.”
Under Enemy Colours Page 8
