“Perhaps it helped that particular cause, but the Americans had a better chance of success—most mutinies end with the perpetrators hanging from the yard.”
Wickham considered this. He had the rather emotionless affect of a child when he deliberated—it was impossible to tell what he was thinking or feeling from his too-innocent countenance. “Then we should let the matter be, Mr Hayden? Say nothing?”
Having recently gone to the captain to report the insubordination in Plymouth, he was reticent to take him these pamphlets. Hart was likely to berate him as anything else. He glanced at the midshipman, wondering why the boy had brought this matter to him.
Perhaps Wickham had not forgotten what befell McBride—he’d been the only one to speak up on the man’s behalf—and was afraid of such a thing occurring again. Hayden, however, had responsibilities. It was not the first lieutenant’s place to keep secrets from his captain, nor was it within his authority to be dealing with possible sedition. At the same time, he was afraid of what Hart might do. After all, Aldrich was the best of the able seamen—diligent in the performance of his duties. Hardly the stuff of a mutineer.
“I will speak with Aldrich,” Hayden heard himself say. “It is only a pair of pamphlets, after all, even if the author has been charged with seditious libel.”
Wickham nodded and gave him a tight-lipped smile that revealed some relief: the matter was out of his hands and he hadn’t had to report it to the captain.
“Can we keep this between ourselves, Mr Wickham?”
“I shall never repeat a word of it, sir.” But the boy still stood in the door, and Hayden had a sudden fear of what he might reveal next. “It is strange, is it not, Mr Hayden, that a few words should be perceived as such a threat to the King? That a little pamphlet such as that could stir up such a fever for revolution?”
“I am of the opinion that ideas are born that fit their age, and this is the age of republican ideas—liberty and the rights of men. We have only to look across the Channel to see what ideas can do.”
“Though helped along by a great incompetence of governance,” Wickham said thoughtfully. “I don’t believe there can be revolution where there is a just government, Mr Hayden.” He waved a hand at the pamphlet. “That is but a seed, sir. It must land on fertile ground to grow, don’t you think?”
Hayden was reluctant to admit anything of his beliefs to this young nobleman whom he did not really know. “Many would agree, Lord Arthur. Many would agree.”
“Have you been to America, sir?” the midshipman asked.
“I have. My mother lives there, in Boston.”
“She’s American, then—your mother?”
“She married an American … some years ago.”
“Then your mother is English?”
“French, actually.”
“Is that why you speak it so well?”
Hayden nodded.
“I speak it a little, as well,” Wickham said in French. “I had a French nursemaid when I was a boy.”
“Commendable accent, Wickham. Very commendable.”
“Thank you, sir. You’ve been to France?”
“Many times.”
“Then why have they turned so murderous, sir? Mr Aldrich says it is a thousand years of pent up resentment.”
Hayden felt a sudden oppression settle over him. It was a question that often haunted him late at night. “With all due respect to Aldrich, it is more complex than that. Have you ever witnessed a mob in motion, Wickham?”
The boy shook his head. “I have not, sir.”
“It is not a sight you soon forget.” Hayden drew in a long breath. “Mobs are lawless by nature, almost by definition. It is impossible to know who the mob might turn against, for its mood is both violent and volatile. Fear is what drives the people, I have come to believe. Once you are swept up in the pack you are in danger. To prove that you belong, a person must win the approval of the others—at any cost—and to accomplish this one must stand out, be seen performing some act more violent than the last. If one man breaks a shop window, someone else must steal the goods, another sets the building afire. And thus it escalates, each actor claiming his place in the mob. The shop owner and his family are dragged into the street. Someone kicks the owner, another strikes him with a club. Bodies are disfigured, men and women murdered. It escalates from acts that are lawless to atrocities, even abominations—drinking your victims’ blood, eating their organs. Nothing is taboo.”
“I read about what was done to the prisoners … in Paris,” Wickham whispered, his face terribly serious. He hesitated, went to speak, stopped, and then finally asked hoarsely: “Do you think the hands feel such resentment toward us, Mr Hayden?”
“Perhaps some do, at least aboard this ship. I have found that the foremast Jacks respect officers who are fair, though not lax, in the performance of their duties. A tyrant might be feared but he will never be respected. But you have nothing to fear, Mr Wickham. You are well thought of by the crew, it is quite clear.”
“Why thank you, sir, but I know I have much to learn.”
“As do we all, Mr Wickham. The sea is a harsh schoolmaster and we will never learn all that we must know. But you have made a very credible start.”
Wickham tried to smile. “Good night to you, then, sir.”
“And you, Wickham.”
The little midshipman went out the door to the gunroom as one of the servant boys stole in. Hayden slipped the pamphlets under his crew list.
“Well, well,” he muttered. Young Wickham was proving to be a more interesting charge than he had expected. Having spent his quota of years in the midshipmen’s berth, Hayden had, more often than not, found his companions to be a heedless lot and not much concerned with scholarly pursuits. But these midshipmen, in company with Third Lieutenant Archer, had formed a debating club, and read and debated every book they could acquire. And most, if not all, of these books Wickham lent to Aldrich. A strange alliance: a fore mast Jack and the son of a nobleman. Hayden thought it said much for both man and boy.
He noted that Wickham had timed his visit well—there was no one in the gunroom, only Archer, asleep in his cabin. He was no fool, young Wickham, and a good judge of character, too, it seemed—or so Hayden flattered himself. But could he live up to the boy’s obvious esteem? In truth, Wickham had put him in an awkward situation. His duty was to tell Hart about the pamphlets, but he knew now what that would lead to. He would have to deal with Aldrich himself, though he was uncertain what his course of action should be.
The lieutenant called for Perseverance and sent him to search out Aldrich. The able seaman appeared a few moments later, pressing a knuckle to his brow. It occurred to Hayden, and not for the first time, that Aldrich had the best mannerisms of a gentleman, though dressed in a seaman’s slops. He was modest in character, assured but never boastful. The men before the mast esteemed him greatly, for he was the best seaman aboard and was always helpful to those finding their way. What struck Hayden most was the keen look of intelligence in the man’s eye, as he observed all that happened around him. The high, smooth forehead, indicative of intelligence, was crowned by lank, yellow hair.
“You sent for me, Mr Hayden?”
“I did, Aldrich.” Hayden was not quite sure how to start this interview, and for a moment regarded the sailor, too tall for the low deckhead, stooped in the open cabin door. “You are a prodigious reader, I am told?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Where did you learn it?”
“From the parson upon the Russell, sir. I was his servant boy and he taught me reading and proper speech.”
“Is it true you have read all the doctor’s medical books, for so he told me?”
“Yes, sir. They were hard sailing, Mr Hayden, but I doubled all the capes of anatomy and navigated the perils of physic and bleeding.”
“Is that your desire, then, to be a surgeon’s mate?”
Aldrich looked a bit surprised by the question. “No, sir. I once ass
isted Dr Griffiths with an amputation when his mate was ill … It was a sight I hope never to witness again.” The man made a face.
Hayden almost smiled. “Yes, I don’t think it would be my calling, either. But you could be a bosun’s mate and no doubt a bosun in short order.”
“With all respect, Mr Hayden, I should never want a position where I might have to beat or flog my fellows.” He paused a second. “Nor is it my desire to have authority over others. Mr Barthe once offered to put my name forward for master’s mate, but I told him I could not accept.”
“All men are created equal?”
Aldrich nodded tentatively.
“Which brings me to these …” Hayden retrieved the pamphlets, which he had hidden a moment before. “Wickham was showing me some books he had from you, and these were lodged among them.”
Aldrich looked suddenly apprehensive, his mouth forming a tight line and a crease appearing between his eyebrows.
“This man, Thomas Paine, has recently been convicted of seditious libel and outlawed from England. I do not want to know if these are your property, or even how they came to be among Wickham’s books, which, I realize, have been read by numerous men aboard. I have only one question: are you party to any subversion of, or mutinous designs upon, this ship or her officers?”
Even in the warm lamplight Aldrich appeared ghostly pale, stooped in the doorway. For a moment he regarded the cabin sole, and then raised his head and met Hayden’s eyes.
“I’m not a mutineer, sir.”
Hayden felt a little wave of relief. There was something in Aldrich’s tone, in the way he carried himself, that would not brook disbelief. “No, I don’t expect you are …”
“I must, to be fair, tell you, Mr Hayden, that I do believe even a lowly sailor has the right to protest his treatment if it is manifestly unjust.”
Hayden closed his eyes. “Please tell me that it is not you, Aldrich, circulating this petition.”
Aldrich lifted his head a little until it made gentle contact with the deckhead.
“I withdraw that question,” Hayden enjoined quickly. “Do not answer it. I hope, however, that this crisis has passed and there will be no trouble when next we weigh …”
“I doubt there will, sir. The men seem resigned to their situation, if no less resentful.”
“There is no petition circulating presently?”
Aldrich hesitated, a struggle clear upon his face. “None presently,” he said under his breath.
“Aldrich, I must caution you: the Jacks esteem you greatly, and if you go about promoting the ideas of Mr Paine or circulating petitions it could put you in grave danger. More than one of the officers believe that Penrith was murdered by subversive elements aboard the Themis. A pamphlet like this could get a man flogged—or worse.”
“I do not preach mutiny, sir. But only common sense. Our own ship proves the point: you are the most capable officer aboard, yet you are not the captain. Where is the sense in that, sir?”
Hayden raised a hand. “Mr Aldrich, if you please, sir! There is talk that I cannot countenance as an officer of His Majesty’s Navy.”
Aldrich gave a quick bow of the head. “I’m sorry, sir. I misspoke myself.”
For a moment Hayden was at a loss for what to say. “If you do not desire a master’s warrant, then what is your wish?”
A look of almost happy contentment came over the man’s face. “When this war is over, and I pray it will be soon, I would, upon my discharge, find a ship and work my passage to America, sir. There I might become a farmer, Mr Hayden, or a lawyer …” He shrugged, a little embarrassed at this fancy.
“Have you been to America, Aldrich?”
“Not upon the land, sir, but in the harbour of New York.” The man’s eyes shone a little, as though he spoke of a sweetheart.
Hayden hesitated. “Well, I hope you land there one day. Until then, I might caution you to show great prudence. I fear there might be trouble aboard the Themis yet, and I would regret it most profoundly if you in some way were caught up in it.”
Aldrich nodded.
“You may return to your duties.”
Aldrich put a knuckle to his brow. “Thank you, sir.”
Hayden sat at his little writing-table, staring at the letter he had begun. What a ship I am on, he thought. The captain is a coward and tyrant. The midshipmen are all parliamentarians, and the most able seaman is a philosophe. And someone aboard is a murderer. He stoppered his ink bottle and cleaned his quill. He was not sure how to explain all that to the First Secretary. He was not sure how to explain it to himself.
A knock on the gunroom door, and a boy put his head in. “If you please, sir,” he said, “I have been sent to remind you that you are to supper in the midshipmen’s berth.”
“Thank you. I shall be along directly.”
Eleven
The gale did not show any signs of abating, and the ship rode uneasily to her cable, rain battering down upon the swelling planks, like a drummer beating to quarters. The midshipmen were hosting the three lieutenants and the doctor for supper, and putting on their best for it. A rather passable claret had been procured—from smugglers, Hayden expected—and the main course of mutton, pease (boiled), and boiled potatoes was wholesome if not inspiring. The claret was the highlight of the meal.
Hayden looked around the crowded table. Beside Wickham was seated Mr Archer, then an unusually pensive Dr Griffiths, Freddy Madison, James Hobson, Landry, and the two other mids who had rejoined the ship a few days before Hart’s return. Their names were Tristram Stock and Albert Williams. Trist and Bert, they were called by their fellows, who were forever after finding nicknames for the crew—most of which they could not use to the men’s faces. Hayden thought it would be better not to know what they had christened him.
He wondered how a captain such as Hart had come by such a fine crop of middies. Certainly he did not deserve them … nor did they deserve him. But then Hart’s wife was so well-connected it was perhaps not to be wondered at.
Hayden was answering questions about his service, and was a little embarrassed by the way the midshipmen hung on his every word. “After I passed for lieutenant, I was Third aboard a sixty-four.”
“I’ve never been aboard a sixty-four,” Madison said. “Was she crack, did you think?”
Landry looked up from his food, a dab of gravy upon his tiny chin almost lost among the freckles. “Everyone knows the sixty-fours are all crank, Madison,” he said sourly. “A seventy-four is the ship you want to serve aboard.”
“Is that true, Mr Hayden?” Madison asked, earning him a foul look from the second lieutenant.
“What Mr Landry says is true of many of the old sixty-fours, which is why they have been given such a poor character. But the ships built to the draught of the Ardent—the Agamemnon is one—they are fine sailers. Almost as handy as a frigate, but with a greater weight of broadside, of course, for they have a full deck of twenty-fours as well as a deck of eighteens. They lie-to very close, do not pitch overly, and almost never gripe or yaw. I don’t remember ever missing stays if there was even a breath of wind. All in all, fine ships.”
“Why, then, does the Admiralty not order more of them to be built?” Landry asked, gazing at him darkly.
“Well, Mr Landry, that is a good question. I believe it is because they are not really heavy enough to stand in the line of battle, unlike the seventy-four, which makes them very high-priced frigates. I have been told that one can build two frigates for the cost of a sixty-four-gun ship, so that is your answer. I have often thought the natural employment for a sixty-four would be to carry a commodore’s flag in a frigate squadron. Three or four frigates and a sixty-four would make a formidable little fleet—fast and deadly.”
The midshipmen glanced at one another, all of them now persuaded of the admirable qualities of a sixty-four. Landry went sullenly back to his meal.
“If you please, Mr Hayden, tell them the story you told me,” Archer said, a little sm
irk appearing. “About the man on the mizzen gaff …”
Hayden had to smile himself, for the thought always amused him. “I was a middy at the time,” Hayden said. “On the North American station.”
“During the American War?” Wickham asked.
“In ’eighty-two. I was on the quarterdeck, and we were about to get under way with other ships of our squadron. Aboard a twenty-eight named the Albemarle, we all saw a man climbing out to the end of the mizzen gaff, apparently to clear a flag pendant. A visitor on the quarterdeck asked what the man was about and a lieutenant proposed that he was preparing to protect the flag with his own life, to which a wit responded, ‘It must be Nelson.’ ”
The middies laughed.
“Who is Nelson?” Stock asked, though he had joined in the mirth.
“Captain Horatio Nelson,” Archer said, rolling his eyes. “It is all well and good to have your faces stuck in books, but you should pay attention to events within your own service!”
“He is a fine officer,” Hayden said, “but known to be a little … zealous at times. He has a sixty-four now, I’ve been told.”
“Who is the finest captain you ever served with?” Williams asked.
“Bourne, without question,” and then Hayden quickly added, “not to disparage Captain Hart, whom I have only served for a day. We used to say that if the men aboard his ship had been allowed to elect their captain from among all the souls aboard, they would choose Bourne without a dissenting vote, he was that well-loved. You have never seen such a seaman, nor a braver man in action. I believe I learned the greater part of my trade from him, and one could not ask for a better master.” Hayden thought it was time to turn the conversation away from himself. “And you, Mr Landry … what was your favourite ship?”
“My service has been small compared to many: I was a reefer aboard an ancient seventy-four to begin, but she was condemned after my first real voyage, and later broken up; then I was aboard the Niger, a thirty-two-gun frigate; a little brig named the Charlotte; a ship-sloop; and our present ship. The Themis is by far the best, though I much liked the little brig as she was so very handy, and she bore us through a frightful winter storm in the Atlantic. We all lavished great love and care on her after that.”
Under Enemy Colours Page 11
