Under Enemy Colours

by Sean Thomas Russell

  The little lieutenant touched his hat, a mechanical gesture. Even in the growing darkness Hayden could see the fear.

  Below, Hayden found Muhlhauser in the gunroom with Hawthorne and Griffiths, the surgeon, who sharpened an amputating knife upon a small stone. The marine lieutenant raised a decanter. “I am no medical man, Mr Hayden, but I believe our doctor might prescribe a small restorative …?”

  “God, yes … if the doctor recommends it,” Hayden answered, and Hawthorne filled a glass. Hayden shed his dripping coat, Perseverance taking it forward to hang by the ship’s stove.

  “A little perseverance goes a long way,” Hawthorne said as the boy disappeared.

  Hayden actually laughed as he sank down on a chair. “Well, with a little help from the ebbing tide, we weathered, and are in the Channel proper. Are your marines all with us, do you think, Mr Hawthorne? I fear there will be much recrimination and ballyragging among the hands. We don’t want it to break out into a brawl.”

  “I believe my men are loyal, Mr Hayden.”

  “Even so, put those you trust most to watch over the arms chest and the magazines.”

  “I’ve already done so, sir.”

  Hayden nodded his thanks, then turned to the civilian guest, who sat looking out of sorts and ill.

  “How are you feeling, Mr Muhlhauser?”

  “Better, sir, thank you.”

  “He fed the fishes,” Hawthorne offered, “and that set him up.”

  Finding the gunroom excessively warm after the gale on deck, Hayden excused himself and retreated to his cabin to shed his waistcoat. As he unbuttoned it, someone came into the gunroom, huffing and stamping—Barthe, Hayden assumed. The rustle of clothing being shed, and then the laboured complaint of a chair.

  “Four boards we made against a flooding tide,” he heard the master protest, “and lost ground on every one. You do not gain a crew’s confidence by such seamanship.”

  This brought an awkward silence.

  “Has Landry run to the captain to tell what transpired?” Barthe wondered aloud.

  “Be wary, Mr Barthe,” Hawthorne warned.

  “The little snitch isn’t here,” Barthe responded. “Well, Doctor, what do you say now? Did I not warn you that we would have such capers before long?”

  A whispered warning, uncertain in its source. Hayden emerged from his cabin and Barthe all but jumped in his chair at the sight of him.

  “What do you mean, ‘such capers,’ Mr Barthe?” Hayden asked directly.

  Barthe glanced around at the others as though appealing for help.

  “Mr Barthe has a theory that our crew has, for some time, been on the edge of mutiny,” the doctor said, scraping steel over stone, “just waiting their moment. Then they will murder all their officers and … and … Well, I’m not quite sure what they will do then, other than hang.”

  “And did we not just have a near-mutiny, Doctor?” Barthe demanded. Rising from his chair, the master began pacing back and forth along the length of the table opposite Hayden. The slow pitch and roll of the ship hardly seemed to matter to him, he had been so many years at sea.

  “I was below seeing to my patients, Mr Barthe. I heard no sounds of fighting. Did I somehow miss those?”

  “Mr Barthe,” Hayden interrupted, “how is it that you did not speak out when I gathered all the officers in the gunroom this very day?”

  Barthe continued his pacing, hands tucked behind his back like thin wings—his arms could not quite encircle his substantial girth. “The disaffection of the crew is no secret, Mr Hayden; you have spoken upon the subject yourself. It can be witnessed at almost any hour of the day by those who choose to see it. Perhaps I should have spoken up when you quizzed us, but I possess no more evidence than any observant man might gather himself in a few hours. It is true that for quite some time I have felt among our crew a resentment simmering, which I have at times opined might boil over into something more violent.”

  “At times …?” Griffiths wondered.

  “What do you mean, Doctor?” Hayden asked, unable to hide his annoyance that neither man had bothered to speak of this earlier. Only the fact that Barthe had supported him so strongly when they weighed in Plymouth Sound kept him from roasting the man—sailing master or not.

  “I think Mr Barthe should explain,” the doctor answered. “It is his hobby-horse.”

  Barthe stopped to take a drink of penitent water a servant had fetched him, then glanced at Hayden, clearly uneasy with his situation. “No doubt you have felt the same things as I, Mr Hayden. I cannot offer you names, but I believe there is an element among the fore mast Jacks—not all of them, by any means, but a good number—who have the other men cowed, frightened of them. Penrith’s murder was at their hands, I believe.”

  “Ah … Penrith’s murder …” the doctor intoned theatrically.

  “I have heard the whispering among the crew!” Barthe said passionately, turning on the doctor for an instant. “And seen how quickly they fell silent when an officer or even another crewman drew near. You were not upon the deck just now, Doctor, but if Mr Hayden had not acted so decisively we should have had a mutiny, I’m certain of it.”

  “Now, Mr Barthe—you overstate matters,” Hawthorne cautioned. “The crew might have refused to sail—were on the verge of it, I think—but that is not quite a mutiny in the sense that you mean. I don’t think it would have come to violence.”

  “But we have already had violence,” Barthe sputtered. “Penrith murdered. Tawney beaten.”

  “Were the same men responsible for both, Mr Barthe?” Hayden asked.

  Barthe shook his head. “I—I know not. As I say, I cannot offer you names, but that does not mean I am not right. You saw what happened this night.”

  “I did, though it was difficult to make out who took what side. Stuckey and Cole clearly pressed men forward and supported my efforts, for which I have not yet thanked them. A few men went to their stations as soon as they took the deck, but any number of them might have been merely waiting to see how events fell out. There appeared to be a great deal of indecision upon the part of many. But I must tell you, Mr Barthe, if it is your belief that this ship is in danger from mutineers it is your duty to report it to Captain Hart.”

  Barthe stopped walking and stared into the darkened stern, where the rudder swept squeakily back and forth. He then fixed his gaze on the first lieutenant. “Mutineers are executed, Mr Hayden. One doesn’t want to go about accusing anyone without strong, one might say incontrovertible, evidence.”

  Hayden glanced at Hawthorne, whose face remained a mask of mildness and disinterest.

  “That is true, Mr Barthe,” the first lieutenant continued, “but one might express one’s concerns to the captain in general terms without naming any particular man. It would then be upon the captain to find the truth of the matter.”

  Barthe glanced around at the others, as though looking for someone to rescue him. “After what happened to McBride, sir, I would be afraid to speak.”

  Hayden felt a shiver run through him. “Then you think McBride was innocent, as well?”

  The master shrugged. “He swung on a very slim rope, Mr Hayden, if you take my meaning. I shouldn’t like to see it happen again.” Barthe reached up and steadied himself by grasping a beam. “And what of you, Mr Hayden? Will you report what happened this evening to the captain?”

  Hayden was taken aback by this. “I have no choice but to inform the captain. It is my duty.”

  “Whereupon you will be asked to name the men who were insubordinate, or nearly so, and some or all of these men will be flogged.” Barthe stopped and turned quickly toward Hayden, surprisingly agile for a man of such girth. “Do you believe that will lessen the resentment of Hart among the hands?”

  “Are you suggesting I should say nothing, Mr Barthe?”

  “Certainly it is not my place to tell you how to execute your commission, Mr Hayden.” He glanced up at the low deckhead. “I wonder if we haven’t carried
the mainsail too long? If you’ll excuse me. Gentlemen.”

  The door clicked shut, leaving the gunroom silent but for the distant sounds of the wind, the creaking of the ship as she worked in the seaway. The smell of smoke and burning candles overlayed the odours of too many men living too close together.

  Hayden turned his gaze to the marine lieutenant. He was tempted to ask Hawthorne if he shared Barthe’s opinions, but knew full well that he dared not offend his supporters, who were too few as it was. “It seems that there are several men who don’t believe in McBride’s guilt. Did no one speak up on the unfortunate man’s behalf?”

  “Wickham did,” the doctor said, holding his amputating knife up to the light to examine its glittering edge.

  “And no one else?” Hayden asked, shocked.

  The doctor reapplied his blade to the whetstone. “Only Lord Arthur has been granted immunity from the captain’s wrath. Where one man is accused for so little cause, can there not be two? Or three?”

  Hayden could hardly stay in his seat, and pushed it back from the table, bracing himself against the roll of the ship. “These are very serious accusations, Dr Griffiths.”

  “They are not accusations, Mr Hayden. Merely observations. I did not speak out because I had no information either for or against Mr McBride, though I believed him a man of mild disposition and unlikely to commit murder. Certainly that is no defence, as others of similar temperament have been proven guilty beyond a doubt.”

  A knock on the gunroom door preceded the face of the captain’s servant. “Captain wishes to see you, Dr Griffiths, if you please.”

  “Immediately,” the doctor answered, without looking up from his task, and then, as the door closed, he added softly, “Damn my eyes.”

  Nine

  Hayden lay in his cot, mulling over the events of the day—the near-mutiny or insurrection or whatever one was to call it. Even a refusal to sail until demands were met was, by definition, a mutinous act—though surely there had been many such cases and in most the crew’s demands had been met.

  He wondered now what the First Secretary had known about circumstances aboard the Themis. Did he realize how deep the crew’s disaffection went? Was it Stephens’ belief that Hayden could remedy it? Did the First Secretary not realize that a first lieutenant, no matter how competent, without the complete confidence and support of his captain was next to powerless? Lieutenants merely wielded the captain’s power in his place—and possessed no more authority than their superior allowed them. Hart’s upbraiding of his officers before the crew undermined what little authority they had, and made the performance of their duties doubly hard.

  What a contrast was his present situation to his position aboard the Tenacious under the able Captain Bourne. There was an officer who had not forgotten what it was to be a lieutenant! He would never criticize his officers before the crew, but instead spoke privately with them regarding any matter he felt had not been handled as it should. He guided his officers, aided them—oh, he demanded a great deal of them, but no one complained. They knew what a great service he offered. To graduate from Bourne’s school was to have a most thorough knowledge of one’s trade. Hayden had never imagined that he would ever find himself so thwarted by his own captain.

  For a long time sleep remained elusive, and Hayden fell into a reverie of Henrietta Carthew, recalling her eyes, the high colour of her face, the delicate curve of her neck. A dream swept up and enveloped him like a wave. The slow motion of the ship became the act of love—Henrietta beneath him, the soft cushion of her breasts against his chest as she rose to meet each cresting sea. All around them water, warm, infinite, breathing, breathless.

  Ten

  The south-west gale freshened throughout the night, veering to west-sou’ west, which ended all progress on their desired course. At first light, Hart ordered the ship into the shelter of Torbay, where the captain remained below, still laid low by the stone that would not pass. All through the squalling night, the surgeon had been in and out of Hart’s cabin, plying him with physic that appeared to do little but mollify the pain.

  Through the doctor, Hayden requested an audience with the captain upon a matter of some urgency. After being left standing for three quarters of an hour outside the captain’s cabin before an increasingly embarrassed marine sentry, he was admitted into the sick-room.

  Despite the greyness of the day, the cabin was darkened by curtains and a tarp covering the skylight on deck. Hart lay in his cot, barely swaying in the calm. His face appeared swollen, eyes narrow and glazed.

  Griffiths stood to one side and favoured Hayden with a slight nod.

  “What is it, Mr Hayden, that is so urgent?” the captain snapped, his voice a rasping whisper.

  “I felt it my duty to inform you, Captain Hart, that yesterday, when we took the ship from anchor, there was a moment when I feared the men would refuse to obey the officers’ orders. It appeared that a significant faction of the crew had some half-formed plan to refuse to sail.”

  “Is that so?” Hart pressed a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes in apparent pain. “Well, I am not greatly surprised. No doubt, in my absence, and without experienced officers to govern them, the crew formed many strange notions. I must tell you, I am amazed, sir, that you would come in here to inform me of events that do nothing but reflect badly upon you. Let me assure you, Lieutenant, that had I been on the deck, the men would have gone about their business with a will. Do not disturb me with such trivialities again. I am ill and do not wish to be plagued by confessions of your incompetence. Now leave me in peace, sir.”

  With barely a glance at the doctor, Hayden swept out of the cabin in such a fury that the sentry stepped back from him in no small alarm. Unwilling to meet his messmates in such a rage, Hayden climbed up into the air, where he paced across the quarterdeck before the taffrail, trying to master his anger. He had almost certainly saved Hart from being relieved of his command. And this was the thanks he received!

  A fine, misting drizzle formed a glistening haze upon his coat, and chilled his face and neck. His temper, however, was not so easily cooled. An hour he paced until a deluge forced him below, where he secluded himself in his cabin and tried to smother his feelings in a forced reading of Don Quixote.

  The anchorage at Torbay was crowded with an Atlantic-bound convoy forming, along with its escort of three frigates and two brigs. There was also a seventy-four-gun ship at anchor, having sought refuge to repair some damage to her bowsprit and jib-boom. The Themis had found a berth among the crowd, and settled down to await a fair wind, or at least the cessation of the present gale.

  Hayden sat writing at the tiny table in his cabin. Even on the berth-deck, the howl of wind in the rigging could not be ignored, and now and then a blast of wind would strike the ship on either bow and she would sheer ponderously to one side or the other before regaining her proper attitude, head to wind.

  Hayden examined two lists that had been delivered to him: the first, the sick-and-disabled list for the night of Penrith’s murder, delivered to him by the doctor; the second, an enumeration of the crew. He began by writing names of men who were not ill on the night of Penrith’s murder. With a crew of two hundred six, this took a little time, but finally he had a list of men who had escaped illness on the night in question. This list he compared with the men who had appeared to be considering refusing to sail, though this was a rather uncertain roll.

  After some time spent in contemplation, he decided there was no clear correlation between these lists that he could see. Stuckey, he noted, had not been ill the night of the murder, but nor had someone as noble of nature as Giles—the foremast giant. Smithers had been well, as had Smyth, Price, Starr …

  “Mr Hayden, sir?”

  Wickham stood in the doorway to his cabin, a number of books in hand. Were it not for the uniform, he would have looked like nothing so much as a cherubic schoolboy, curly flaxen hair and all.

  “Mr Wickham.”

  “If I am not
interrupting, sir. There is a matter upon which I would ask your counsel.”

  “As long as it isn’t marriage, Wickham. I know nothing of women—who, despite men’s observations about ships’ feminine qualities, I have found to be rather unlike ships.”

  Wickham did not smile but looked instead rather troubled. “No, sir, it is about these …” From beneath one of the books he took two worn pamphlets, and looking around quickly at the empty gunroom, passed them to Hayden.

  To his surprise, the lieutenant found himself holding copies of Common Sense and The Rights of Man, penned by Thomas Paine.

  “I found these among some books that Mr Aldrich returned to me.” The boy bit his lip. “I was not sure what to do with them, sir.”

  Hayden gazed at the stained paper, and took a long, deep breath. Would there be no end of this? Holding up Common Sense, he asked, “Do you know what this is?”

  “A pamphlet, sir, that criticizes the King and the English form of government.”

  “Aye, it is that and more. This little tract was read by almost every literate person in America when it was published. It inflamed a great deal of resentment toward the crown.”

  Wickham nodded. “I think Mr Aldrich gave them to me by accident, sir.”

  “I dare say, you are an unlikely convert to revolutionary ideals. You read them … all the way through?”

  Wickham nodded again. “Do you think Mr Barthe is right, Mr Hayden? That there are radicals among the crew, who are mutinous?”

  “I don’t know, Wickham. You witnessed what happened so recently in Plymouth. The captain is of the opinion that it was the result of the ship being left in command of incompetent officers. But mutiny …” He glanced down at the pamphlet in his hand. “It takes a great deal of disaffection to drive a crew along that road, for more often than not it ends badly for the seamen involved. I don’t think a little pamphlet will lead a crew to mutiny.”

  “It led a colony to revolt, sir.”