Under Enemy Colours

by Sean Thomas Russell

  A moment later he was on the deck, calling for Hawthorne and Barthe. At moments like this a fierce determination came over him, and his mind seemed to focus utterly. All his years of training under able captains like Bourne came to the fore, and he made decisions with exceptional rapidity, weighing a thousand pieces of information with an uncanny kind of intuition.

  “Tell me the number of men who came away in the boats?” he asked them.

  “Fifty-one,” Hawthorne answered promptly. “But O’Connor departed this life and we put him over the side.”

  “How many can fight or work a ship?”

  Hawthorne glanced at Barthe.

  “Eight in ten, Mr Hayden,” Barthe replied, “though they are all hungry, thirsty, and in need of rest.”

  “Food and drink we have. There is no time for rest. How many were left aboard the Themis?”

  “Dr Griffiths estimated that there were thirty killed and about half again that many too injured to stand watch. You were fourteen that set out for the Lucy. By my count that leaves near to eighty able-bodied men aboard the Themis, though a good number of them landsmen.”

  “We have roughly the same numbers,” Hayden said. “Mr Barthe, will you be our sailing master?”

  The man reached up to touch his hat but had none. “If you are captain, Mr Hayden, I am your sailing master.”

  “Mr Wickham?” Hayden called.

  “Here, Mr Hayden,” the boy said, coming forward. He had been passing among the castaways, who were sprawled on the deck. Hayden realized that he had quill and paper.

  “What have you there?” Hayden asked him.

  “I’m making a list of who came away in the boats and of the men who are hurt. We’re moving the wounded down to the doctors as they can receive them, sir.”

  “Mr Wickham, if you become any more efficient you will be the next First Lord. We must arrange the crew as best we can. Feed the men from the Themis, then make up watches.” He turned to Barthe. “How far ahead do you think the Themis might be?”

  “Not so far as you might think; they were a long time arguing among themselves over what was to be done, both with the ship and with the deposed officers and loyal crew.” Barthe ran a hand through his unbound hair in thought. “Perhaps three leagues, but under reduced canvas for want of able seamen.”

  “Then it is top-gallants, Mr Barthe, and stunsails, too, if you please. We might not catch the Themis, but it will not be for lack of will. As soon as the men are fed and their places made known, we will clear for action.”

  Hayden climbed the mainmast himself and loosed the gaskets on the top-gallant. In a moment he was down to haul away on the halliard, and the men could hardly have done it without him.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” said one of Bourne’s crew, making a knuckle, “but that’s the first time I’ve hauled a top-gallant halliard home shoulder-to-shoulder with the ship’s captain.”

  “I only hope I have acquitted myself passably,” Hayden said.

  “Oh, managed most handsomely, sir,” the man assured him, to laughter from his mates.

  “What is your name?” Hayden asked.

  “John Lawrence, sir; rated able.”

  “Well, Mr Lawrence, you are captain of the main-top now. Can you manage it?”

  “I will not disappoint your confidence, sir,” the man mumbled. “That is to say, your confidence is not misapplied. Not one whit.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  A few moments later Hayden was on the quarterdeck, where he found Barthe and Wickham bent over a chart. They had sailed into the fog, which was patchy and varied in density—here thick as a sheep’s coat, a moment later thinner than gauze.

  “What see you there, gentlemen?” Hayden asked.

  Barthe looked up, touched his invisible hat, and then laid a finger on the chart. “Before we plunged into the fog, Mr Wickham and I agreed our position was in this vicinity if not precisely at the tip of my fingernail. I have estimated the position of the Themis at the time we were set adrift. She was still hove-to when we lost her in this damnable fog, so it is impossible to predict her course or speed over the bottom. It was the impression of both the doctor and myself that the faction favouring sailing into Brest Harbour and turning the ship over to the French would carry the day, and the flogging of the captain made that almost certain, I would venture. Be that as it may, the Themis cannot be far ahead, though one must admit that in this fog they could be easily missed. One could sail past them within pistol shot and not know it, if they had the common sense to stay silent.”

  Hayden regarded the chart a moment. “We can do nothing, Mr Barthe, other than shape our course for Brest. If we happen upon the Themis, all the better. If not, we may pray we arrive off that harbour before the mutineers. We will hold our position there as long as we are able and await their arrival, where we’ll welcome them into the revolutionary fold with a great cannonade.”

  “You have my agreement there, Mr Hayden. They mistreated us terribly after they’d taken the ship, and killed many a good man in their bloody coup. I would like nothing better than to catch Bill Stuckey with a sharp blade, that I would.” He made another hatless salute. “If you please, sir, the fore-topsail yard is not braced to my liking.” The corpulent little master hurried forward, calling out for hands to aid him.

  “Mr Barthe is much distressed by the loss of one of his mates … and many another friend.”

  Hayden turned to find the marine lieutenant watching the master disappear forward.

  “So it would seem, Mr Hawthorne. But you can’t have more than a dozen marines remaining. I assume none of them joined the mutineers, which means you lost nigh on twenty men yourself …”

  Hawthorne nodded, his gaze drifting off toward the luminescent fog. “Yes. They caught us unawares—no rolling cannon-balls or anything like. Six bells and they jumped the men guarding the armourer’s stores and the forward magazine. One of the crew—the loyal crew—raised the cry and then it was pistols and muskets. We were driven back onto the quarterdeck and into the aft section of the ship. Landry and a few of the middies and servants held the gunroom for some time, making the bastards pay dearly, though Albert Williams and my corporal were killed. I had rushed on deck as soon as I was roused, in my night-shirt, cutlass in one hand, pistol the other. We were poorly armed or I think we might have prevailed, but the crew had pikes and hatchets and finally muskets too, and most of all they had powder, while we soon ran dry.” Hawthorne paused, swallowed, could not continue, then found his voice again. “No one shirked, though, or surrendered without a fight—excepting maybe Hart, though I can’t say what befell him in the darkness. It was a bloody business; men knocked to the deck suing for mercy were beaten to death—crewman fighting crewman—but finally it was lost and the few of us who remained on the quarterdeck threw down our arms. They herded us together like cattle and made us lie face-down on the gangways, half atop one another, while they debated what was to be done. Once the ship was taken there was little among the mutineers to make common cause—hatred of Hart, perhaps, was all that had bound them together. Some, led by Stuckey, were for sailing the ship into Brest and offering her to the French in return for asylum. Others thought they should set out for foreign parts, though there were a good many who looked deeply remorseful and dismayed by what they had done. Setting aside Hart had been their intention, with little thought to what would come after, I fear. But then Stuckey and his followers, who held the captain, lit upon the idea of flogging him, ‘on Mr Aldrich’s account,’ they claimed. Before anyone realized what went on Hart was seized up to the grating and Stuckey near tore his arm out, such was his fury. I’ve never seen such a savage flogging. Stuckey fell down to the deck afterward and couldn’t catch his breath for a few moments. And that was that—it was Brest then, for the Admiralty would spare no energy to hunt them down and they all knew it. There was talk of flogging Franks and Landry, but Aldrich came up on the deck, out of the doctor’s care, and admonished the men to d
o no more flogging, and certainly none on his account. He would have said more, but he fell in a dead swoon and was carried below.”

  “What became of him?” Hayden asked.

  “The mutineers would not give him up, saying he was one of them, though I am not sure that was true. We were much bullied as we lay there, every Jack who had a score to settle, or was still in a rage, found some helpless man to ballyrag. It was a relief when it was decided we would be put into boats, for the prospect of staying among those brutes was enough to unnerve the strongest among us.”

  “I’m surprised they did not take you with them so the French could imprison you.”

  “We were surprised as well, but Stuckey wanted us put into the boats, as though he were afraid to keep us aboard.”

  “With his mutineers divided he might well have been wise to do so—if one can call such a man wise.”

  “Yes, well, he took us by surprise.”

  “And for good reason. Stuckey was one of the men who stood against the disaffected in Plymouth.”

  This seemed to trouble Hawthorne. “So he did, but it must now be said that Stuckey and a few others were trying to stop the petition because they had larger designs. They did not want Hart removed, for he was the greatest aid to their cause, provoking the hands so that Stuckey and the others might prey upon their indignation. Once Aldrich had been flogged without reason, the crew’s resentment was easily worked up. He made fools of us all.”

  Hayden felt enormous distress at this. He had misread the situation entirely. “You will have to put your head together with Mr Barthe and the doctor and make a list of all the men killed, on both sides, the mutineers, the men who stayed loyal to Hart, and any, like Aldrich, who were ill and could take no side.”

  “Yes, we’ll do that. There is one man who will have a list of his own—a division of one.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Giles.”

  “Young Giles? The giant?”

  Hawthorne nodded. “He fought neither for nor against the mutineers. In fact he seems to have hidden himself away, and would have come away in the boats but Stuckey would not allow it, saying a man who had murdered his crew mate had better stay among the mutineers, though he was much cuffed and kicked for not coming to the mutineers’ aid. ‘Let him come away in the boats if he wants to,’ argued Mr Barthe, but Stuckey would have none of it. ‘You don’t want him,’ old Bill says, a sneering grin on his ugly face. ‘It was him ’at killed Penrith. Him and no other, though unlucky McBride swung for it.’ ”

  This silenced Hayden for a moment. “And did you believe him?”

  “Not for a moment, but then I saw the way the boy hung his head. ‘Tell them you didn’t do it,’ one of the middies said to him, for they like the boy overly, but he couldn’t answer. ‘Oh, he did it all right,’ Stuckey said. ‘Old Penrith got Giles to put his name to the petition and when Giles came to his senses there was no taking his name off. Giles and Penrith had a little conversation up on the main yard, and Penrith went for a swim, didn’t he?’ Thought he was quite a wit, apparently. They kept Giles with them, anyway, and he looked like a guilty man.”

  Hayden felt distress lay her cold hand upon him. “Well, the boy is like not to speak up on his own behalf. I should not take the word of Bill Stuckey, who might have committed the murder himself and only blamed it on Giles.”

  Hawthorne did not look convinced by this. “Hard to imagine why he’d bother. Stuckey’s going to hang if the Navy ever lay hands on him, anyway.”

  “True enough; still, the man is a liar and a coward. The good news is, if they have elected a landsman like Stuckey as captain the ship will not be well sailed.”

  Wickham came hurrying along the deck. “Mr Hayden … Captain Hart is asking for you, sir.”

  Hayden glanced over at the marine lieutenant, who raised an eyebrow. “If you will excuse me, Mr Hawthorne …”

  Hawthorne gave a little bow of the head.

  The sick-berth had been made up on the forward gun-deck beneath the forecastle, though it would have to be moved when the ship cleared for action—a regrettable nuisance. The stench of the place struck Hayden as he descended the forward companionway: the pungent odour of alcohol and physic mixed with the meat-rotting reek of septic wounds. The cots hung in neat rows, so close the surgeons and their mates could barely make their way among them. Overhead, a grated hatch let twenty little squares of light play over the slowly swaying cots, skittering from one side to the other as the ship rolled. Lamps brought a little more light to the darker recesses, from which came inhuman moans and occasional cries of agony.

  Hayden spotted Landry forward and made his way along the row of cots, trying to smile at the men and look full of hope, hiding the horror he felt, pressing down his own desire to flee the place out into the pure sunlight and clean air.

  Hayden found Griffiths standing by the cot of Captain Hart, separated from the rest of the sick by a makeshift bulkhead of sailcloth. The surgeon applied a glistening film of some liquid, perhaps oil of olives, over the captain’s flayed back. Hart grunted and moaned at brief intervals, muttering curses and prayers that could hardly be distinguished one from the other. A pale-faced Landry moved aside to let him pass.

  Griffiths finished his application and, looking up, nodded. “Captain Hayden,” he said.

  Hart shifted so that he could bring Hayden into the corner of his vision, his usually florid face now utterly crimson. “What is this I hear, Hayden, that you intend to chase the Themis?”

  “That is correct, Captain Hart. I hope to overhaul her before she can reach the harbour of Brest.”

  “You will do nothing of the sort!” Hart stormed. “Do you want to see us all killed? We few were lucky to get away with our lives. You will proceed to Plymouth with all speed.”

  “With all respect,” Hayden said evenly, “it is my intention to chase down the mutineers and, if it is at all possible, either sink or take their ship.”

  “Damn your impudence, sir!” Hart thundered. “I am your superior officer. You will take my orders or I will have you removed from your post.”

  “You put me under the command of Captain Bourne, sir, who granted me command of this vessel. You are my guest, and in no state to take command or even the deck, were it your place to do—”

  “Damn your eyes, sir! Mr Landry, you will assume command of this ship and proceed to Plymouth, forthwith.”

  Landry squared up his narrow shoulders and cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, Captain Hart, but I believe Mr Hayden is in the right—we are guests aboard his ship. Castaways rescued and under his protection. To attempt to seize control, were it possible, would be mutiny … sir.”

  “Blast you to hell, Landry!” the captain said, shifting about so that he fixed his clouded eye upon his second lieutenant. “I will see you court-martialled with Mr Hayden, broken of rank, and drummed out of the service!”

  “Perhaps you will, sir,” Landry said mildly, “but even that will hardly be more harm than has been done by my past years of service. I will do my duty and support Mr Hayden’s attempt to retake the Themis.” The little lieutenant made a stilted bow and disappeared behind the sailcloth wall, where his shadow could be seen walking stiffly away.

  “Landry!” Hart called, but there was no answer.

  The captain let out a moan of pain, and then, shifting about so that his squinty eye fixed upon Hayden, he whispered, “You cannot even imagine the harm I shall do you, Hayden. When we return to England—”

  But Hayden interrupted. “Threatening the captain of a ship, sir; I might caution you that it contravenes the Articles of War. Good day to you.”

  Hayden could hear Hart cursing and crying out in pain as the acting captain made his way back among the wounded, all of whom had heard every word that had been said. There would be no lack of witnesses to his refusal to obey Hart’s orders … but Hayden had taken all the orders from that man he could stomach, and refusing to take more was like throwing a carcas
s off his back.

  As he mounted the steps he heard himself mutter “Fucking Englishman!” and was rather taken aback.

  Landry stood waiting for him as he emerged onto the deck, diffuse sunlight throwing faint shadows onto the worn planks. The second lieutenant touched his hat.

  “I am not certain, Landry, the Admiralty will agree that Bourne’s commission overrides Hart’s authority. You would be safer not to throw in your lot with me.”

  “Mr Hayden, after what has happened, I have no doubt that this will be my last voyage aboard a ship of His Majesty’s Navy. As a last act, I would dearly like to retake the Themis, a ship lost due to incompetence of command, in which I played no small part. I have done nothing to earn your confidence, Mr Hayden, but if you will allow it I will endeavour to change that.” The little man looked so earnest, so needing of his approval that Hayden felt some part of his dislike for the lieutenant melt away.

  “Come, Mr Landry,” Hayden said. “We have much to do.”

  On the quarterdeck Hayden called all his officers together: Barthe, Landry, Archer, and Franks, as well as the midshipmen.

  “Where is Mr Wickham?” Hayden asked.

  “He’s only just found out about Williams, sir,” Madison answered.

  “Ah … a terrible loss,” Hayden said softly, a strange tightness across his chest.

  “I’ll fetch him,” Hobson offered, disappearing down the companionway.

  In a moment a sober and red-eyed Wickham arrived on the deck, attempting mightily to regain his acting-officer dignity. “Captain,” he said, touching his hat, “now that you have two commissioned lieutenants aboard I must give up my position as acting first lieutenant.”

  “I’m afraid you must, Mr Wickham,” Hayden agreed with real regret. “I will make you acting third lieutenant. Mr Landry and Mr Archer will be first and second officers. Mr Barthe, sailing master. Franks, bosun. Have we watches set?”

  “Aye, sir.” Wickham withdrew a folded sheet of paper from his jacket and tactfully gave it to Landry to pass on.