Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead

by S. thomas Russell

  Hayden unfolded the paper, and there, in a very beautiful hand, was written:

  Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

  Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

  Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

  And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.

  Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

  And often is his gold complexion dimmed

  And every fair from fair sometime declines,

  By chance or nature’s changing course untrimmed;

  But thy eternal summer shall not fade

  Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st.

  Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade

  When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st.

  So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

  So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

  “So Mr Percival gave this poem to Mr Maxwell, claiming it to be of his own making . . . to impress our young midshipman with his poetic skills?”

  Archer shifted uncomfortably and then said in a very low voice, “I believe it was to impress him with his ardour, sir.”

  “Ahh . . .” Hayden felt suddenly as though he had been thrown into a part of the ocean he had not swum before. “And how is it you are certain of that?”

  “It is a love poem written by Shakespeare to a young man, sir.”

  Hayden glanced at the poem. “I see no indication here that this poem was written to a man rather than a woman.”

  “I believe it was dedicated to and first presented to the Earl of Southampton.”

  “By Shakespeare . . .”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Shakespeare the playwright.”

  “The very one, Captain.”

  “I am . . . somewhat . . . dumbfounded.” Hayden looked at Archer again. “Our Shakespeare?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The things they neglected to teach me in school . . .”

  “I can say the same, Captain.”

  “How did you learn of this, then?”

  “My brother, sir.”

  “The barrister?”

  “The very one, sir. He belongs to a Shakespeare society.”

  “I did not know such a thing existed.”

  “It would appear there is at least one.”

  Hayden glanced at the scrap of paper again. “He is quite certain this sonnet was written to a young man?”

  “Quite, sir. It is but one of many, a fact apparently well known among scholars, sir.”

  “Well, they have kept it rather a secret from the rest of us.” Hayden glanced again at the poem he still held. “I shall never view Shakespeare’s plays in the same way again.”

  “It does give them a certain slant, sir.”

  “Yes. But to the matter at hand . . . How has Maxwell taken all of this?”

  “He came to me rather embarrassed, sir. In fact, I should say he felt somewhat ashamed. He asked my advice on how best to proceed, not wishing to offend a cousin of the admiral’s wife.”

  “Hmm. Does anyone else know of this?”

  “Mr Wickham, sir; he sent Maxwell to me.”

  “Let us try to keep it among the four of us.”

  “I agree, sir, but I am not quite certain how to deal with it. I suppose I could give Mr Percival a copy of the Articles of War . . . ?”

  “But he is a civilian and only governed by them at the extreme. When does the midshipmen’s reading society next meet?”

  “Tomorrow, sir.”

  “Do you still attend?”

  “Whenever duty allows, Captain. I intend to be at the next meeting.”

  Hayden passed the poem back to Archer. “Excellent. Invite Mr Percival to your meeting, then produce this poem, saying that he has brought it to the attention of the group, read it aloud, and discuss it. Be certain to inform everyone who Mr Shakespeare wrote it for. Mr Maxwell will have no more troubles with Mr Percival after that, I trust.”

  Archer looked immensely relieved. “Thank you, sir. I believe that is an excellent plan.”

  Hayden hoped he was right. Best to save everyone embarrassment in this matter—not least the captain. “How is Mr Wickham getting on?” Hayden asked, as much to change the subject as anything.

  “I do not believe he has gained any more use of his hand since he came back aboard, sir. He remains one-and-a-half-handed, though I believe he is determined to make the best of it, all the same.”

  “He would not let anyone know any different, no matter how he felt.”

  “I believe that is true, sir.”

  “Do keep your eye on him, Mr Archer, and inform me immediately if you see signs of melancholy. The young . . . they never imagine that they will not heal, but when they discover they have injuries that will stay with them all their days . . . Well, I have seen more than one youth struggle with this realisation.”

  “I will observe him most carefully, sir. You may rely on me entirely.”

  “I already do, Mr Archer. Is there anything else?”

  “The small cutter has a touch of rot in the transom, sir. Mr Hale is seeing to it.”

  “Are you happy with your new carpenter?”

  “I am, sir. I shall miss Mr Chettle, but the new carpenter seems a good sort, if you can overlook his bawdy humour.”

  “I have overlooked greater things.” Hayden nodded to his first lieutenant. “Mr Archer.”

  “Captain.” Archer touched his hat and let himself out, allowing Hayden to return to his accounts.

  “Shakespeare,” he muttered. “Who would have thought it?”

  Over the sounds of sea and breeze Hayden heard a cry and turned away from his paperwork. By the time he had risen to his feet and pulled on a coat, there was a knock on his door. He opened it to find his marine guard and one of the younger hands standing just beyond—the sailor out of breath.

  “The lookouts have spotted a boat, sir,” the boy said, making a knuckle. “Mr Ransome has sent me, sir, requesting your presence on deck.”

  “You do mean a boat, Jackson, not a ship?”

  “Most definitely a ship’s boat, sir. Appears to be only a handful in it, Captain.”

  By the time Hayden emerged into the damp evening, dusk had darkened the sea and only a dim glow remained in the west, the sunset retreating rapidly.

  “Where away, Mr Ransome?”

  The lieutenant pointed.

  It took Hayden a moment to find it, but there, upon the breathing back of the sea, a ship’s boat rose and then dropped out of sight.

  “Heave-to, Mr Ransome, if you please. We will take them aboard.”

  Hayden put his hands on the rail cap. Wickham appeared at his side with a glass, which he fixed on the boat, distant perhaps a hundred yards. Most would hardly take notice, but the midshipman had an awkward grip with one hand—the result of the injury sustained on 1 June. He hid it well, but his friends took secret notice.

  “How many, Mr Wickham?”

  “I can make out only two, sir.” Wickham peered into the tube a moment more. “It would almost appear to be a Navy boat, Captain, but the men are not in uniform.”

  “Well, we shall soon know their story.”

  The occupants of the boat quickly revealed that the lack of uniform was not an accident. Although one shipped oars, he had only the vaguest idea of how they should be employed. He did manage, after a time, to lumber, stem first, into the Themis, causing every seaman aboard to wince noticeably. The castaways required aid to board and then collapsed on the deck, both of them an almost unhuman colour and clearly horribly ill.

  “Hoist in the boat, Mr Ransome,” Hayden ordered, and then turned his attention to the castaways.

  “You are English,” one managed, slumped down against the hammoc
k netting. “Thank God,” he said with feeling. “We feared you were French.”

  “Only in the smallest degree,” Hayden replied, and then in Spanish, for that was, by their accent, clearly their mother tongue: “How long have you been adrift?”

  Hayden half expected, by the looks on their faces, that they might not answer and instead begin to weep, but the same young man spoke.

  “One day only,” he replied in English, “but we were made terribly ill by the storm and have had almost no water or food. I am Don Miguel Campillo, Captain.” He put a hand on the shoulder of his companion. “My brother, Don Angel. We prayed and the Lord sent you. You are the hand of God, sir.”

  “I have been called many things, but that is by far the kindest. Charles Hayden, Captain of His Majesty’s Ship Themis.” He turned to one of the hands. “Water . . . and pass the word for the doctor, if you please.”

  A moment later the castaways were draining the dipper and then draining it again. Hayden thought the younger, Angel, might begin to sob and was controlling this up-welling of feeling with difficulty.

  “Will you come down to my cabin?” Hayden asked when they had drunk their fill. “I have called for the doctor.”

  Miguel struggled to his feet and balanced himself against the hammock netting. “Thank you, Captain.” His voice was noticeably less hoarse. “We have no need of a doctor. We are just ill from the sea. It will pass. You will excuse our show of feeling, I hope, but we feared we would never be found and would perish on this great desert of water. God has delivered us; He must have some purpose for us yet.”

  “At the very least, I think you should speak with the doctor. May I help you?” Hayden enquired of Angel, who remained slumped on the deck.

  “We can manage, Captain, thank you.” With some difficulty, Miguel pulled his brother to his feet and they set off along the gangway, brother supporting brother and hammock netting supporting both.

  Hayden thought them to be perhaps twenty years and sixteen or seventeen. They were not Spanish peasants, as the elder made very clear by his use of “Don.” Their dress was plain, but Miguel’s manner, though polite, showed not the least deference. His English was polished. The two were obviously related, though the older had progressed further into manhood and his face and form showed it. Dark, well made, not overly tall, serious, perhaps even wary, but then they were among strangers and had just felt the cold presence of Death lurking among the high-running seas.

  The ladder was negotiated with difficulty, and on the gun-deck they found Dr Griffiths waiting outside the door to Hayden’s cabin, a grey presence a bit more undertaker-like than Hayden believed was ideal in a surgeon. Inviting everyone to enter, Hayden introduced the doctor and then excused himself. When he emerged onto the darkened deck, the oceanic night had settled upon a restive sea.

  Ransome spotted Hayden and came over, touching his hat. “Did you learn how they came to be adrift, sir?”

  “Not yet. I thought it best Dr Griffiths see them before I made such an enquiry. I suppose it might also be polite to offer them sustenance before subjecting them to the Inquisition.”

  “Well, at least they should be familiar with inquisitions and know how to conduct themselves.” Ransome looked out over the sea. “I do not know if God preserved them, but half an hour later I doubt the lookouts would have made them out in the dark—they would have been left adrift.”

  “I agree. They are fortunate beyond anything one might have a right to expect.”

  “Such is the fickle lady, sir,” Ransome observed.

  “Lady Luck, you mean?”

  “Yes, sir. It is best to leave as little as possible to chance, I have come to think.”

  “Really, Mr Ransome? You have chosen a damned odd profession for anyone wishing to leave little to chance.” Not to mention, and Hayden didn’t, that Ransome had a reputation as something of a gamester.

  Ransome laughed. “I chose it before I grew philosophical, sir.”

  “Did not we all . . .”

  Ransome nodded towards the companionway. “The doctor, sir.”

  “If you will excuse us, Mr Ransome?”

  Hayden motioned for the doctor to accompany him back to the taffrail, where they might find some privacy. Here the wake of the speeding ship stretched astern, pale, jagged, apparently endless.

  “I do hope it is seasickness and not some pestilence?” Hayden began.

  “I believe it is nothing more, though neither gentleman would allow me to examine him more closely. They assured me there was no illness aboard their ship other than the common varieties.”

  “Did they tell you how they came to be adrift in the middle of a rather large ocean?”

  “They did not volunteer any information, Captain, and I felt I should leave all such enquiries to you.” Griffiths looked at Hayden. “What shall we do with them?”

  “Carry them to Barbados. I suppose I shall have to hang cots for them in my cabin, though it will be a bloody nuisance.”

  “Is there not some other arrangement could be made?”

  “The midshipmen’s berth, I suppose, but my impression is that they are rather above such rough and tumble.”

  “Yes, I quite agree.”

  “I will go down and have an explanation with them. Should I offer them any specific foods, Doctor?”

  “Nothing salted—I fear they drank a little seawater.”

  “Nothing salted?” Hayden replied, incredulous. “Are we not on a ship at sea? Salt is the major portion of our diet.”

  “Well, do the best you can,” the doctor called after him.

  Miguel Campillo rose from his seat when Hayden entered, and then Angel took note and followed suit.

  “Please, sit,” Hayden said, “by all means. How fare you now?”

  Neither looked in the least recovered from their ordeal, and they slumped back down on the bench that ran beneath the gallery windows, side by side, elbows on knees. Before each stood a bucket, no doubt called for by the doctor.

  “Excuse us, Captain Hayden,” Miguel said hoarsely. “It was the motion of the small boat. We were forced to bail for our lives during the height of the storm, and that exhausted our reserves.”

  Angel looked up at Hayden and whispered, “If I could but lie down . . . ?”

  “I have ordered cots for you both. They should be carried up immediately. I hope you do not mind sharing my cabin? There really is no other place at the moment.”

  Angel glanced at his brother, who nodded. “Thank you, Captain. Wherever you choose to quarter us . . .”

  A quiet knock on the door and Hayden called for it to be opened. The marine sentry’s face appeared. “Your cots, sir,” he said.

  “Bring them in, if you please,” Hayden ordered.

  There were eye-bolts in the beams in various places throughout the cabin where cots had been slung at different times and in different weathers, or simply away from occasional leaks in the deck-head.

  “I shall let you rest and recover,” Hayden told them, “but first, I must know if we should be searching for other survivors. Can you tell me quickly from what ship you were cast adrift and what happened?”

  Miguel shook his head sadly. “I doubt very much there are others, Captain. We sailed from Cádiz aboard a Spanish frigate, the Medea. The captain was a friend of my late father’s. He carried us to Vera Cruz, to our uncle. Last night, our ship was running under reduced sail. In that state it was struck by another ship, staving in her stern. The two ships clung together for an instant and then were wrenched apart by the seas. There was no saving the ship; it began to sink immediately. The captain put us, with a sailor, in the first boat to be launched. Others were then to climb down and join us, but the boat was torn free of the ship and the sailor cast into the sea. We could not save him, nor had we strength enough to row back to the ship. I do not know if other boats were la
unched. I pray Captain Andreu survived, for he was dear to us.”

  Hayden nodded. “You were driven then by the waves and wind without recourse to sail or oar?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And at what time did the collision take place?”

  “After the supper hour. We had gone forward for the evening prayer or would have been in the captain’s cabin and certainly swept out to sea.”

  “I will heave-to until morning and make a search at dawn.”

  “We will pray for the others, Captain.”

  “Rest. Use the leeward quarter-gallery.” Hayden pointed to be sure there would be no misunderstanding. “My servant will slip in later to hang my cot, and I will come to sleep not so long after.”

  Hayden bid them good night and returned to the deck.

  Ransome was still officer of the watch, and Hayden sent for him immediately. Mr Barthe, the sailing master, appeared at Ransome’s side at the same instant.

  “We will remain hove-to and attempt to hold station as best we can until dawn. It appears, Mr Barthe,” Hayden said, “that they escaped a Spanish frigate sunk by collision. Their boat was torn free of the ship with only one other aboard, and he was lost over the side at the same instant. Come daylight, we will make what search we can.” Hayden turned his attention to the sailing master. “If their boat was blown dead downwind from sometime around ten last night, where do you think the ship would have sunk?”

  Barthe pressed his lips into a sour line. “Difficult to say, Captain. We have had strong winds and have been making twenty miles of current a day. If I might consult my charts and ponder it a moment, sir?” He looked up at his captain, round face barely visible in the dark. “What of the other ship?”

  “I do not know. It would appear she stove in the transom of the frigate and then the two ships were torn apart.”

  “At the very least, she would have lost her bowsprit, and perhaps her foremast as well. Even if her hull remained undamaged, it might have been some time before she could sort that out.” Barthe touched his brow as though in sudden pain. “A stove-in transom . . . She would not swim long, sir. Perhaps only minutes.”