His visit to the prize agent was not quite so cheering. The transport and its cargo had been valued below his hopes, and there was yet no word on whether the Dragoon would be bought into the service. Monies from the transport would be allocated, but he could not expect to see them for some weeks.
Upon departing his agent’s he happened upon an acquaintance who was presently first lieutenant aboard a seventy-four-gun ship. They greeted one another with plea sure, and stood for a moment in the street speaking of their recent duties, mutual friends, and exchanging other gossip of the service. There was, finally, a lull in this flow of conversation and Hayden expected the man to excuse himself for an appointment with the very prize agent he had just left, but instead the other lieutenant lowered his voice and leaned nearer.
“I am not sure if it is my place to repeat this, Hayden, but I was to the country house of friends but two nights past and who should come to dinner but Sir Josiah and Lady Hart …” He took a long breath. “Sir Josiah spent some time speaking of you in the most severe terms, disparaging your character and accomplishments in the most denigrating language. Before I might come to your defence, which I fully intended to do, that service was rendered by another—Lord Westmoor, much to every one’s surprise, for Lord and Lady Westmoor have long been friends with Sir Josiah and Lady Hart. His Lordship spoke of you in the most salutary terms, saying, ‘My son gave me a remarkably favourable report of Lieutenant Hayden’s character and detailed accounts of taking a transport in the entrance to Brest Harbour, as well as cutting out a frigate beneath the guns at Belle Île. Hayden was in command of the brig that went to Bourne’s aid, I understand, for my son was also aboard this ship and observed all that happened first-hand. A most enterprising young officer.’ As you might imagine, this was terribly humiliating to Hart and will perhaps teach him to be more circumspect in the future. I tell you this only that you might know Hart is endeavouring to blacken your character among gentlemen of influence.”
“Kind of you to tell me,” Hayden answered, feeling the heat of anger flush into his face. “I cannot say that it surprises me, but it is distressing all the same. For no reason that I know, the man hates me like no other.”
“But it must lift your spirits to know that you have a man such as Lord Westmoor in your camp. I am sure it shall quickly pass among the families of London that His Lordship made a very severe rebuttal to Hart’s claims, not to mention refusing to speak to the man the rest of the evening.”
“I don’t think Hart will be so easily put off from maligning me. He has little self-control in such matters.”
They parted there, Hayden barely aware of what went on in the street around him as he made his way back to his lodgings. He could not imagine that Hart, who had all the glory of their recent cruise, a knighthood, and a place in society, should be reduced to attacking him at dinner parties. But then, perhaps Hart was afraid that Hayden went about telling people the true story of their cruise and so was trying to blacken his character to discredit him.
A week, then ten days went by in some isolation, Hayden hoping each day to receive a note from Mrs Hertle informing him that she had returned to town with her cousin Henrietta and was once again ensconced in their lovely home, but no such letter came. The daily disappointment of his hopes had the effect of reducing his expectations a little each morning, until he would no longer allow himself to hope for such a letter at all.
On the tenth day after his arrival in London, a letter did arrive, and though he had convinced himself it would be a letter from Wickham or some other shipmate, it was not. Nor was it a letter from either Mrs Hertle or Henrietta. Instead, it proved, upon opening, to be a missive from the First Secretary of the Admiralty, requesting he meet with him at the Admiralty building.
Far too impatient to send a polite answer and await an exchange of letters arranging a time for such meeting, Hayden hurried directly to Whitehall and sent up a note to Mr Stephens requesting a date for their proposed meeting. To his surprise (but answering his secret hope), the First Secretary caused Hayden to be brought to him that instant.
There again he found Stephens sitting behind the now-familiar writing-table, spectacles carefully polished. Polite inquiries of the briefest nature, while Stephens shuffled through a neat stack of papers.
“Ah!” he pronounced. “Here it is.” But if this signified anything of import, it was not the First Secretary’s intent to reveal it immediately.
“In the ebb and flow of men’s fortunes, it appears, Mr Hayden, that you have had a change of tide. Despite the efforts of certain persons, the Lords Commissioners have taken notice of your recent enterprises. I don’t know quite how this occurred, but they have seen fit to raise you to the rank of master and commander.”
Stephens smiled happily at Hayden’s surprise.
“May I be the first to offer my compliments upon this happy occurrence.”
Hayden was so overwhelmed that all he managed was a stammered reply, hardly equal to the occasion.
“I have your commission here. But that is not the end of good news, or so I hope you will judge it. You have a ship,” he said, his eyes darting down to a piece of paper before him. “The Kent—a ship-sloop of ancient vintage, I fear.”
“I know that ship,” Hayden replied. “Many’s the time I have shared a harbour with her. A pretty little thing with a raised quarterdeck and forecastle. A deck of six-pounders, and swivels on the quarterdeck.”
“Carronades, now, I understand. An experiment by the Admiralty. More successful than the last you participated in, I hope. Poor Muhlhauser, he had such hopes for his new gun-carriage.” A second of wool-gathering. “Your ship is en route to Plymouth as we speak, and should make that harbour tomorrow or the day next.” Stephens rose and extended a hand. “I wish you great success in her, Mr Hayden.”
Hayden took the offered hand. “I don’t know how to thank you, sir …”
“In deeds, Mr Hayden, but I am certain the First Lord’s confidence has not been misplaced.” Stephens reached toward another small hillock of paper. “Lest I forget … Certainly you should have these, I think.”
A little bundle tied up in string was dropped into Hayden’s hand, and it took him a second to realize what it was: his collected letters to Mr Banks.
“Thank you, sir,” Hayden said, some little feeling creeping into his voice.
“I’m not in the habit of apologizing, Mr Hayden …”
That unwavering, disinterested gaze fell upon him and Hayden mumbled something he hoped was polite.
He was on the street in a moment and almost run down by a hackney coach the next, such was his distraction. He almost sprinted the distance to his inn. A quick note to Mrs Hertle, sharing the news, and asking that she remember him to both Robert and Henrietta. A second to Wickham’s father, regretting that he must quit London by the morning mail coach. A missive to his prize agents, alerting them to his new stature, followed by a letter of gratitude to Philip Stephens, and, finally, a letter bearing the good news to his mother, which would not be read for some weeks.
The carriage ride to Plymouth was oddly solitary, as the others stationed outside with him were all strangers one to the other and little given to speech. He missed Wickham’s voluble presence, and in this forced reflection traversed an emotional landscape almost as varied as the terrain through which the mail coach passed. He was, for a time, elated at his good fortune. Master and commander at last! And then he felt a sudden deflation, realizing that others of similar length of service had command of post ships, and this chariness caused a certain disgust with himself, his ingratitude to the world revealing his overweening pride.
He would then turn from this to the subject of Henrietta. For a time he would believe that she cared for him still and that their understanding must surpass any small hesitation upon his part. Surely she would realize that they had, in truth, spent little time together—too little for either of them to enter into a plan to marry. Her common sense and reason, he told hi
mself, were too great to mistake his intentions. Half an hour later, however, he was sunk in misery at his own folly, convinced that she felt he had rebuffed her when she had given him every opportunity to speak. He imagined her now the object of some gentleman of large property and even greater understanding. It occurred to him that he would be very unlikely to meet a woman more suited to his temperament. He would then enumerate her many qualities, a considerable list, only to increase his misery tenfold.
Thus passed the thirty-six hours of his journey to Plymouth.
Upon his arrival, he learned that his new command had not yet reached port, and he took a room overlooking the sound, still too excited to feel much disappointment. He sent a note to Lady Hertle, and received in return an invitation to visit.
At four o’clock he knocked on her door and was shown up to the drawing room, where he found Lady Hertle swathed in a thick shawl and huddled near to the hearth. She greeted him with great affection, and called for coffee.
“I hope you will pardon me, Mr Hayden, I have been beset by an autumnal cold and am only now on the mend. Henrietta has caught it from me and is abed with it yet.”
“Miss Henrietta … is here?”
“She set out for Plymouth some few days ago upon learning I was ill, dear girl.” She shook her head gently. “As if I had not had a cold before. I am not so old and fragile that a sniffle will put me in my grave. She attended me dutifully, and now her good deed has been repaid by contracting the same illness that she so ably nursed me through. Poor child.” From a table, Lady Hertle retrieved a carefully folded letter. “Henrietta asked me give you this, Mr Hayden, when she learned you were coming to visit.” Lady Hertle rose stiffly. “You might read it, if you like. I must excuse myself a moment.”
Hayden was left alone, and had just broken the seal on Henrietta’s letter, when he heard footsteps. Looking up, he was met by the sight of a pale, unhappy-looking Henrietta Carthew, eyes red and puffy, the fingers of her right hand kneading a handkerchief.
“Miss Henrietta,” Hayden said, rising from his chair. “I am so terribly sorry to find you ailing.”
“A trifle, Mr Hayden. Hardly worthy of notice.” Her eyes travelled to the letter he held. “You have read my letter?”
Seeing in her what he thought could be only extreme distress, a sudden dread came over him. “I have but broken the seal.”
She came quickly forward, extending a hand, which trembled ever so slightly. “May I ask the great favour of returning my letter, unread, Mr Hayden? I fear I wrote it in a distressed state of mind, and it is a foolish letter, describing perceptions that were fleeting and perhaps groundless.”
Hayden offered up the letter immediately, which she all but snatched from his hand. She then sat down quickly and covered her face with delicate hands, the letter still caught in her fingers and rustling faintly.
“I have caused you distress, I fear.” Hayden sat down on the same sofa, half-turned toward her.
She shook her head, and then whispered. “It is just this wretched cold. It has deprived me of sleep and frayed my nerves.” She dabbed her eyes with a hanky, and forced herself to sit up. “I’m recovered,” she lied, and tried to smile.
Hayden glanced at the door, expecting Lady Hertle to return at any time.
There was a moment of indecision, his breath suddenly absent. Then he recognized his hesitation and resolved to overcome it at last. “Not knowing the content of your letter, I trust to your good nature to stop me if what I say is rendered senseless by what you have written.”
But Henrietta raised her hand, gazing into his eyes as she did so, an anxious, questioning look upon her face. “I suspect you have received as much ‘advice’ from Robert, and perhaps others as well, as I have from dear Elizabeth and my other cousins. All well-meaning, I am sure, but we must find our own way through this. That is what I have realized.”
Hayden sat back a little, nodding his head. “Yes, Robert told me that I must doubt my attachment as I did not speak when last you were in Plymouth, but I do not doubt it. I have not spoken becau—”
“Because you are not ready,” she said, placing a hand upon his chest and then quickly drawing it away. “Our acquaintance has been brief and I do not want you to speak until you are certain. I do not care what Elizabeth and Robert think. What do they know of our hearts?”
“Yes. Yes, exactly so. Then my hesitation has not injured you?”
“I was told it should. For a time I even half-believed it, but no, I think you were right. I should like to know you better, as well. Just because two people are good and kind does not mean they will make a success of life together. It is a great decision and we may make it in our own time.”
“I cannot tell you how relieved I am to hear you say this. When you fled Plymouth, I believed …” but Hayden was not sure what he meant to say and fell silent.
Henrietta reached out shyly and touched his hand. “You need say no more. We are of one mind in this. Are we not?”
“Entirely of one mind.”
She smiled, and for an instant her small illness was banished. And then … she sneezed. “Is this not romantic? Just like a novel? The heroine shivering with fever, eyes puffy, her voice reduced to a vulgar croak?”
With mock delicacy, she applied a hanky to her nose, and then laughed. Again she touched his hand. “I am content to be patient, as long as I know I have not lost your attentions altogether.”
“I am as fascinated by you as ever, and that is saying a great deal.” Hayden raised her hand to his lips.
“Lieutenant Hayden! You take great liberties.”
“But I am lieutenant no longer. I have been made master and commander, given a ship, and upon my quarterdeck I shall be called ‘Captain.’”
She smiled again. “Captain Hayden,” she pronounced, as though appraising the sound of it. “Did I not predict this happy event?”
Hayden had forgotten. “Indeed, you did. And what do you predict today, I wonder?”
“I shall not press my luck in this. The gods might feel I have overstepped myself as oracle. No, I predict nothing. I will be patient and see what comes. To learn that my friends were wrong, as I knew in my heart they were, is enough.”
They were silent a moment, sitting near to one another on the sofa. “But I do not wish to contemplate too much on the future,” Henrietta said thoughtfully. “Even when it turns out happily it is seldom what one expects.”
“That is true.”
“You see? We are of one mind.”
Hayden could not help but smile, he felt so thoroughly content, joy coursing through him like a great sea. “Now let us discover if we are of one heart.”
“Yes,” she murmured, “let us discover that.”
History and Fiction
The War of the French Revolution and the Napoleonic Wars have been fodder for novelists from the outset, and novels set in the British Navy of that era have long been a species of their own. If anyone can lay claim to having invented the type, it would likely be Frederick Marryat (whose books appeared between 1829 and 1847). His novels were immensely popular and surprisingly highly regarded; he counted Dickens among his fans. Marryat actually served in the Royal Navy during the period, so we must assume he got the details right, although with the caveat that “realism” as a literary movement was still many years in the future.
To set off into these same waters is to invite comparison, if not accusations of imitation. It can’t be helped. Reviews of the early Patrick O’Brian novels compared them to C. S. Forester’s Horatio Hornblower books and generally found Jack Aubrey came off second.
People always want to know, when reading a historical novel, what part is fact and what part is fiction. If the novel, as has been said, is about truth rather than fact, I think the question should be asked, “What part is fact and what part truth?”
As to the facts, in writing Under Enemy Colors, I made every attempt to get the history right, to be accurate regarding the details, and to re
create the atmosphere to the best of my ability. In this I have been much aided by having spent most of my life by the water (I grew up in a house on a beach) and having sailed for thirty-five years. I am not, however, a trained historian. I am a novelist and I’m sure I have made some mistakes. My apologies to the experts among you.
Almost all the main characters are fictional, with the exception of the First Secretary of the Navy, Philip Stephens (later Sir Philip). Various historical personages are referred to but do not appear (Admiral Howe and Tom Paine, for instance). None of the fictional characters are based on specific historical figures, though I must say that Captain Bourne was influenced by the many great frigate captains of the era, Henry Blackwood being my personal favorite. All of the events could have happened, and in some cases similar events did happen. The characters in this book were so numerous that I reduced the size of the gunroom mess to essential members, which meant as important a figure as the purser was never seen. If I have taken some liberties with historical detail, it is in the court-martial, where accuracy has been slightly compromised for dramatic reasons. In every other way, I have tried to make the book as authentic as available resources would allow.
The Themis is a fictional ship and conforms to no class of frigate, though she would have been similar to the Pallas class. In fact, her existence in 1793 is slightly problematic, as the first eighteen-pounder thirty-twos (to the best of my knowledge) were not commissioned until 1794. I thought Captain Hart would have a thirty-two-gun frigate, because he had too much influence to be sent into a twelve-pounder twenty-eight, but his detractors would have prevented him from being given a larger thirty-six-or thirty-eight-gun frigate. The thirty-two seemed to suit him perfectly, and I wanted a battery of eighteen-pound guns so that she could feasibly take on the larger French frigates. Thus the Themis was slightly ahead of her time.
Under Enemy Colours Page 51
